Books: Modern Broods
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Charlotte Mary Yonge >> Modern Broods
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"Oh, Maidie!" she said, "I do not think there can be any life so good
or so happy as being really given up to our Lord and His work among
the sick and poor."
"My dear, He can be served if you are in the world, provided you are
not OF the world, and if you keep yourself from the evil."
"Yes; but why should I run into the world? It is not evil, I know,
so far as you and all your friends can manage; but it stirs up the
evil in one's self."
"And so would a Sisterhood. That is a world, too."
"I suppose it is, and that there would be temptation; but there is a
great deal to help one to keep right. And, oh! to have one's work in
real good to Christ's poor, or in missions, instead of in all these
outside silly nonsensical diversions that one doubts about all the
time. If you would only let me go back with dear Sister Beata and
Sister Elfleda as a probationer!"
"You could not be any more yet," said Magdalen; "but I will think
about it, and talk it over with Sister Angela. You know your friend
Sister Mena, as she called herself, does not mean to be a Sister, but
a governess."
"Yes; she wrote to me. She has never seen or known anything outside
the Convent, and it is all new and turns her head," said Paulina,
wisely. "I know she helped me to be all the more silly about Vera
and poor Hubert Delrio."
Magdalen promised to talk the matter over with Sister Angela.
"I should call it a vocation," said Angela. "I have watched her ever
since I have been here, and I am sure her soul is set on these best
things, in a steady, earnest way."
"She has always been an exceedingly good girl ever since I have had
to do with her," said Magdalen. "I have hardly had a fault to find
with her, except a little exaggeration in the direction of St.
Kenelm's."
"A steady, not a fitful flame," said Angela.
"But she is so young."
"If you will believe me, Magdalen, such a home as that Dearport
Sisterhood is a precious thing--I have not been worthy of it. I have
been a wild colt, carried about by all manner of passing excitements.
Oh, dear! love of sheer fun and daring enterprise, and amusement, in
shocking every one, even my very dearest, whom I loved best. I have
done things too dreadful to think of, and been utterly unreasonable
and unmanageable, and proud of it; but always that Sisterhood has
been like a cord drawing me! I never quite got free of it, even when
I sent back my medal, and fancied it had been playing at
superstition. I was there for a month as almost a baby, and the
atmosphere has brought peace ever since. That, and my brother, and
Sister Constance, and Bishop Fulmort, have been the saving of me, if
anything has. I mean, if they will have me, to spend a little time
at Dearport after all this perplexity is over, and I know how it is
with Lena, and I could see how it is with Paula if you liked."
Magdalen accepted the suggestion, perhaps the more readily because of
a fleeting visit from Hubert Delrio, who had finished his frescoes at
the American Vale Leston, and came for a day or two to Mr. Flight's.
She had sometimes doubted whether the supposed love of Vera had not
been a good deal diffused among the young ladies, and might not so
far awaken in Paulina as to render her vocation doubtful; but there
were no such symptoms. Paula was quiet and cheerful, with a friendly
welcome, but no excitement; but it was Thekla, now fifteen, who was
all blushes whenever Hubert looked or spoke to her, all her
forwardness gone; and shyness, or decidedly awkwardness, set in,
resulting chiefly in giggle.
Hubert looked more manly and substantial, and he had just had an
order for an important London church, which pleased him much, and
involved another journey to Italy to study some of the designs in the
Lombardic churches.
Not that there was any chance of meeting Vera. Mr. and Mrs. White
had spent the last summer at Baden; and Vera, who had many pretty
little drawing-room talents, and was always obliging, had been very
acceptable there. This winter an attack of rheumatism had made them
decide on trying Algiers, with a view to the Atlas marbles, and then
German baths again might claim them for the summer.
In fact, the fear of infection had rendered Rock Quay a deserted
place during the Easter vacation. Fergus Merrifield might not come
near Primrose and Lily, and was charmed to accept an invitation from
his friend and admirer, Adrian Vanderkist, to Vale Leston, where he
would be able to explore the geology of Penbeacon, to say nothing of
the coast; while his sister Felicia, who had been one of the victims,
remained to be disinfected with Miss Mohun. Dolores was at Vale
Leston Priory, and Agatha Prescott with her, so as to have a clean
bill of health for her return to Oxford for her last term.
The Holy Week was calm and grave; and the two girls, with Anna
Vanderkist and her little sisters, were very happy over their
primroses and anemones on Easter Eve, with the beautiful Altar Cross
that no one could manage like Aunt Cherry, whose work was confined to
that, and to the two crosses on the graves.
Another notion soon occupied them. There was a vague idea that a
sort of convalescent or children's hospital might be established for
the training of women intending to study medicine or nursing, chiefly
at Miss Arthuret's expense, and Dolores was anxious to consider the
possibility of placing it in the sweet mountain air, tempered by the
sea breezes of Penbeacon.
It was an idea to make Mrs. Grinstead shudder; but neither she nor
her niece, Anna Vanderkist, could forget Gerald's view that Penbeacon
was not only to be the playground of Vale Leston, and they always
felt as if Dolores had a certain widow's right to influence any
decision. So she cheerfully acquiesced in what, in her secret heart,
seemed only a feeble echo of the past, though, to the young
generations it was a very happy hopeful present when all the youthful
party, under the steerage of Mary and Anna, and the escort of Sir
Adrian and Fergus, started off with ponies, donkeys, cycles and
sturdy feet to picnic on Penbeacon, if possible in the March winds--
well out of the way of the clay works.
How Fergus divided his cares between the strata and Dolores' kodak,
how even his photography could not spoil Aunt Alda; how charming a
group of sisters Dolores contrived to produce; how Adrian was the
proud pioneer into a coach adorned with stalactites and antediluvian
bones; how Anna collected milkwort and violets for Aunt Cherry; how a
sly push sent little Joan in a headlong career down a slope that
might have resulted in a terrible fall, but did only cause a tumble
and great fright, and a severe reprimand from the elder sisters; how
Agatha was entranced by the glorious view in the clearness of spring,
how they ate their sandwiches and tried to think it was not cold; how
grey east wind mist came over the distance and warned them it was
time to trot down,--all this must belong to the annals of later Vale
Leston; and of those years of youth which in each generation leave
impressions as of sunbeams for life. And on their return, Dolores
found a letter which filled her with a fresh idea. It was from her
father in New Zealand, telling her that there was an opening for her
to come and give a course of lectures on electricity at Canterbury,
Auckland and the other towns, and proposing to her to come out with
her lady assistant, when she might very probably extend her tour to
Australia.
"Would you come, Naggie?" asked Dolores.
"Oh! I should like nothing half so well. If you could only wait
till my turn is over, and the exam!"
"Of course! Why, we shall not have finished the correspondence till
after the examination! How capital it will be! My father will like
your bright face, and you will think him like Fergus grown older.
Will your sister consent?"
"Oh! Magdalen will be glad enough to have me off on a career. We
will write and prepare her mind. I believe I am not to go home, so
as to bring a clean bill of health to St. Robert's."
"I really think," added Dolores, "that Magdalen would make an
admirable head matron, or whatever you call it!"
"Dear old thing! She is very fond of her Goyle."
"True, but Sophy's engineer husband tells us that a new line is
projected to Rock Quay, through the very heart of the Goyle, Act of
Parliament, compulsory sale and all."
"Well! work might console her for being uprooted, and she is quite
youthful enough to take to it with spirit."
"Besides that she would greatly console Clement and Cherry for the
profanation of their Penbeacon. I declare I will suggest it to
Arthurine!"
So the two young people resolved, not without a consciousness that
what was to them a fresh and inspiring gale, to the elder generation
was "winds have rent thy sheltering bowers."
CHAPTER XXVII--A SENTENCE
"What should we give for our beloved?"
- E. B. BROWNING.
No sooner had the visitors departed than the others now out of
quarantine appeared at Vale Leston. Angela was anxious to spend a
little time there, and likewise to have Lena overhauled by Tom May.
The child had never really recovered, and was always weakly; and
whereas on the journey, Lily, now in high health, was delighted with
all she saw, though she could not compare Penbeacon to Adam's Peak,
Lena lay back in Sister Angela's arms, almost a dead weight, hardly
enduring the bustle of the train, though she tried not to whine, as
long as she saw her pink Ben looking happy in his cage.
Angela was an experienced nurse, and was alarmed at some of the
symptoms that others made light of. Mrs. Grinstead had thought
things might be made easier to her if the Miss Merrifields came to
meet her and hear the doctor's opinion; and Elizabeth accepted her
invitation, arriving to see the lovely peaceful world in the sweet
blossoming of an early May, the hedges spangled with primroses, and
the hawthorns showing sheets of snow; while the pear trees lifted
their snowy pyramids, and Lily in her white frock darted about the
lawn in joyous play with her father under the tree, and the grey
cloister was gay with wisteria.
Angela was sitting in the boat, safely moored, with a book in her
hand, the pink cockatoo on the gunwale, nibbling at a stick, and the
girl lying on a rug, partly on her lap. Phyllis and Anna, who had
come out on the lawn, made Elizabeth pause.
"That's the way they go on!" said Phyllis. "All day long Angela is
reading to the child either the 'Water Babies' or the history of
Joseph."
"Or crooning to her the story of the Cross," said Anna; "and as soon
as one is ended she begins it again, and Lena will not let her miss
or alter a single word."
"They go on more than half the night," added Phyllis. "Bear sat up
long over his letters and accounts, and as he went up he heard the
crooning, and looked in; and the very moment Angela paused, there
came the little plaintive voice, 'Go on, please.' 'Women are
following'--"
"But is not that spoiling her?" asked Bessie.
A look of sad meaning passed between her two companions. Phyllis
shook her head slightly, and, instead of answering, conducted Bessie
on to the bank, when Angela looked up and made a sign that she could
not move or speak, for the child was asleep. The yellow head was
shaded by Angela's parasol, the thin hair lying ruffled on the black
dress, and the small face looked more pinched than when the aunt had
last seen it, nearly a year previously. She had watched the decay of
aged folks, but she was unused to the illnesses of children; and she
recoiled with a little shock, as she looked down at the little wasted
face, with a slight flush of sleep. "Recovery from measles," she
said.
Phyllis smiled a little pitifully as her own little girl, all radiant
with health and joy, came skipping up, performing antics over her
father's hand. "Take care, Lily, don't wake poor little Lena," was
murmured quietly.
"Northern breezes--" began Bessie, but the voices had broken the
light slumber; and as Angela began, "See, Lena, here is Aunt Bessie,"
the effect was to make her throw herself over Angela's shoulder and
hide her face; and when her protector tried to turn her round and
reason her into courtesy, she began to cry in a feeble manner.
"She has had a bad night," said motherly Phyllis; "let her alone."
"May not I get down into the boat?" asked Lily. "I'll be very good."
There would have been a little hesitation, but at the voice Lena
looked up and called "Lily, Lily!" Bernard lifted his small daughter
down, Elizabeth was not sorry to be led away for the present, and
when, after a turn in the rose garden, she came back, the two
children were sitting with arms round one another, holding a
conversation with Ben, the cockatoo, and making him dance on one of
the benches of the boat, under Angela's supervision, lest he should
end by dancing overboard. The rich fair hair, shining dark blue
eyes, and plump glowing cheeks of Lily were a contrast to the wan
wasted colouring of her little cousin; but Lena was more herself now
than when just awake, and let Lily lead her up and introduce her, as
it might be called, to Cousin Bessie as Lily called her, a less
formidable sound than "Aunt Elizabeth." They were both kissed, and
she endured it. Angela was, as her brothers and sisters said, "very
good," and scrupulously abstained from absorbing the child all the
evening, letting Elizabeth show her pictures and tell her stories, to
which, by Lily's example, she listened quietly enough and with
interest.
When the two children went off, hand in hand, to their beds,
Elizabeth said, "Really, Magdalen is improved. If you leave Lily
with her, Phyllis, I think we should get on beautifully. The bracing
air will do wonders for them both."
"Thank you," said poor Phyllis forbearingly; "we have not made our
plans about Lily yet."
But Elizabeth thought out a beautiful scheme of discipline and study
in the long light hours of the morning, and began to feel herself
drawn towards her delicate little niece, feeling sure that the little
thing would soon be Susan's darling, if Susan could be brought to
endure the cockatoo walking loose about the house.
Early in the day Professor May appeared, and was hailed as an old
friend by all the Underwoods. He rejoiced to see Clement looking
well and active; and "as to this fellow," he said, looking at
Bernard, "it shows what development will do."
"Not quite the young Bear of Stoneborough," said Clement, leaning
affectionately on his broad shoulder; "our skittish pair are grown
very sober-minded. But you have not told us of your father."
"My father is very well. He walks down every day to sit with my
wife, and visits a selection of his old patients, who are getting few
enough now. This is not my patient, I suppose?"
"Unless you are ready to prescribe only laughing and good Jersey
cows' milk," said Bernard, pulling the long silky brown hair.
"Where's mother, little one?"
"Mother sent me to say Aunt Angel is ready, if Dr. May will come up
to Aunt Cherry's room. Lena is frightened, and they did not like to
leave her."
It was a long visit, after Phyllis had come down; and, walking up and
down the cloister with Bessie Merrifield, listened to her schemes of
education for the little maidens. Lily she liked and admired, and
she was convinced that Magdalen's weak health and spirits were the
result of the spoiling system. Phyllis trembled a little as she
heard of the knocking about, out-of-doors ways that had certainly
produced fine strong healthy frames and upright characters, but she
forbore to say that if her little girl had to be left, it would be to
her mother and Mysie.
By and by Tom came down, and finding Geraldine alone in the drawing-
room, he answered her inquiry with a very grave look. "Poor little
thing! You do not think well of her! Is it as Angel feared?"
"Confirmed disease, from original want of development of heart.
Measles accelerated it. I doubt her lasting six months, though it
may be longer or less."
"Have you told Angel?"
"She knew it, more or less. She is ready to bear it, though one can
see how her soul is wrapped up in the child, and the child in her."
"One thing, Tom, will you tell Miss Merrifield yourself, and alone,
and make her feel that it is an independent opinion? It may save
both the poor child and Angel a great deal."
"Are you prepared to keep her here?"
"Of course we are. It is Angel's natural home. Clement and I could
think of nothing else"
"I knew you would say so. If I understand rightly there is something
like a jealousy of her case in the Merrifields, prompted greatly by
their wish to expiate any neglect of her father."
"That is what I gather from what Phyllis tells me."
"What a lovely countenance hers is in expression! No wonder Bernard
has softened down. There is strength and solidity as well as
sweetness in her face. Ah, there they are!"
"I will call Phyllis in. Bessie Merrifield has almost walked her to
death by this time."
So Phyllis was called and told. What she said was, "I only hope he
will make her understand that it could not be helped, and it was not
Angela's fault."
Tom May had wisdom enough to make this clear in what was a greater
shock to Elizabeth than it was to Angela, who had suspected enough to
be prepared for the sentence, and had besides a good deal of hospital
experience, which enabled her thoroughly to understand the
Professor's explanations. So, indeed, did it seem to Elizabeth at
the time he was speaking; but she had lived a good deal in London,
and had a great idea that a London physician must be superior to a
man who had lived in the country, and, moreover, whom all the
household called Tom, and she asked Mrs. Grinstead if he were really
so clever.
"Indeed, I think he is; and I have seen a great deal of his
treatment. You may quite trust him. He lives down here at
Stoneborough for his father's sake, or he would be quite at the head
of his profession."
"Superior to the two Doctors Brownlow?"
"I should not say superior, but quite equal."
"The Brownlows," said Clement, looking up from his paper, "helped me
through an ordinary malarial fever. John Lucas is a brilliant
specialist in such cases, but certifying an affection of the heart.
Tom May latterly has treated me better. As far as I understand the
case of your little niece, I should say both that it was more in the
line of Tom May, and likewise that it would be very hurtful to her to
take her about and subject her to more examinations."
"Poor little thing! no doubt it would be a terrible distress,"
acquiesced Bessie; "but still, if it is bracing that she needs--
northern air might make all the difference."
Clement sighed a little hopelessly over making a woman understand or
give way, and returned to his newspaper; while Geraldine tried to
argue that air could not make much difference, speaking in the
interest of the child herself and of her sister. Elizabeth listened
and agreed; but there was in the Merrifield family a fervour of
almost jealous expiation of their neglect of Henry, inattention to
his daughter, and desire to appropriate her, and to restore her to
health, strength, and wisdom, in spite of her would-be stepmother.
"They hate me as much as if I were her stepmother!" cried Angela. "I
wish I was, to have a right to protect her! No, Clem; I'll not break
out, if I can help it, as long as they don't worry her; and I think
Bessie does see the rights of it."
Yes; the peaceful, thoughtful atmosphere of Vale Leston, unlike the
active bustle of Coalham, had an insensible influence on Elizabeth's
mind; and she saw that Angela's treatment of the child, always
cheerful though tender, was right, and that it would be sheer cruelty
to separate them. She promised to use all her power to prevent any
such step, and finally left Vale Leston, perfectly satisfied that it
was impossible to take Lena with her.
But her family did not see it thus, especially Mrs. Samuel
Merrifield, the child's guardian. She insisted that it was her
husband's duty to bring the little one to London for advice, and to
remove her from all the weakening, morbid influences of Vale Leston.
CHAPTER XXVIII--SUMMONED
"What would we give to our beloved?"
- E. B. BROWNING.
"I wish they all would not go so very fast," said little Lena, hiding
her face against him from the whirl of cabs and omnibuses.
"They bewilder us savages," said Angela, smiling. "Remember we are
from the wilds."
"She shall have her tea, and a good rest," said Marilda; "and then I
have asked her uncle and aunts to meet you at dinner, and Fernan
hopes to bring home another old friend. Whom do you think, Angel?"
"Oh! Not our Bishop?"
"Yes, the Bishop of Albertstown! He is actually in town; Fernan saw
him yesterday at the Church House."
"Oh! that is joy!" cried Angela; and Lena raised her head, with, "Is
it mine--mine own Bishop?"
"Mine own, mine own Bishop and godfather, my sweet!" said Angela;
"more to us in our own way than any one else. Oh! it is joy! How
happy Clement will be!"
It was with much feeling, almost akin to shame, that Bessie wrote to
Angela this decision of her brother, that a London authority must be
consulted--not Dr. Brownlow, but one whom Mrs. Sam had heard highly
spoken of.
"That man!" cried Angela. "I have heard of him! He is a regular
mealy-mouthed old woman of a doctor! And she is so well just now!
How horrid to shake her up again! Oh, Bear! if I could only sail
away with her to Queensland!"
"You would if it was ten years ago," said Bernard.
"Yes! Is it the way of the world, or learning resignation, that
makes one know one must submit? Giving up an idol is a worse thing
when the idol is made of flesh and blood."
Bernard wanted to see Sir Ferdinand, so made it an excuse for helping
his sister on the way; and he did so effectively, for his knee and
broad breast were Lena's great resting-place; and his stories of
monkeys and elephants were almost as good as kangaroos. Was there
not a kangaroo to be seen in London, which she apparently thought
would be a place of about the size of Albertstown?
Lady Underwood had insisted on receiving the travellers from Vale
Leston in her house in Kensington; and there was her broad, kindly
face looking out for them at the station, and her likewise broad and
kindly carriage ready to carry them from it. How natural all looked
to Angela, with all her associations of being a naughty, wild,
mischievous schoolgirl, the general plague and problem!
"But always a dear," said Marilda, with her habit of forgetting
everybody's faults. "Why didn't you bring your wife, Bernard, and
your little girl for this darling's playfellow?"
"She is her best playfellow," said Angela; "Adela's Joan is too
rough, and fitter for Adrian's companion."
"She is my playfellow," said Bernard, holding her up. "Look out,
Lena. Here's Father Thames to go over."
"And Fernan is so glad," added Marilda.
For Bishop Robert Fulmort had, when Vicar of St. Wulstan's, been the
guide and helper of Ferdinand Travis's time of trial and
disappointment, as well as the spiritual father of Clement Underwood;
he had known and dealt with Angela in her wayward girlhood, and aided
her bitter repentance; and in these later days in Australia had been
her true fatherly friend, counsellor and comforter in the trials and
perplexities that had befallen her. Bernard read, in her lifted head
and brightened eye, that she felt the meeting him almost a
compensation for the distress and perplexity of this journey to
London.
Bernard carried the little girl up to the room and laid her down to
sleep off her fatigue, while Marilda waited on her and Angela with
her wonted bustling affection, extremely happy to have two of her
best beloved cousins under her roof.
Bernard went off to find Sir Ferdinand at his office, and quiet
prevailed till nearly dinner time, when Lena awoke and would not be
denied one sight of her godfather. So Angela dressed her in her
white frock, and smoothed her thin yellow hair, and took her down to
the great stiff handsome room that all Emilia's efforts had never
made to look liveable. Emilia Brown was there, very fashionably
attired, but eager for news of Vale Leston, and the Merrifields soon
arrived with, "Oh! here she is!" from the Captain, "Well! she looks
better than I expected!"
"Poor little dear!" observed his wife, dressed in a low dress and
thin fringe on her forehead in honour of what, to the country mind,
was a grand dinner party, at which Angela's plain black dress and
tight white cap were an unbecoming sight. Elizabeth was there,
kissing Angela with real sympathy; and Lena, who had grown a good
deal more accustomed to strange relations, endured the various
embraces without discourtesy.
But when the door opened and the grey-headed Bishop came in there was
a low half scream of "Oh! oh!" and with one leap she was in his arms,
as he knelt on one knee, and clasped her, holding out a hand to
Angela, whose eyes were full of tears of relief and trust. Marilda
gave a glad welcome, but they were startled by perceiving that the
joy of meeting had brought on a spasm of choking on Lena, who was
gasping in a strange sort of agony. Angela took her in her arms and
carried her out of the room. Marilda presently following, came back
reporting that the little girl had been relieved by a shower of
tears, but was still faint and agitated, and that Angela could not
leave her, but begged that they would not wait dinner.
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