The Pillars of the House; Or, Under Wode, Under Rode, Vol. 1 (of 2) Read online

  CHAPTER IV.

  TWILIGHT AND DAWN.

  'Two Angels, one of Life and one of Death, Passed o'er the village as the morning broke; The dawn was on their faces; and beneath The sombre houses capped with plumes of smoke.' _Longfellow._

  'Don't, Ful!'

  'That's nothing to you, Clem.'

  'I say, this won't do. I must have some light.'

  'Indeed, Ed, we must not light a candle before five o'clock.'

  'Pish!'

  'Oh please, Edgar, don't stir the fire. If you knew how few coals thereare!'

  'Stuff!'

  'No, I won't have it done if Wilmet says not;' and Felix reared up inthe gloom, and struggled with his brother.

  'Felix--Edgar--Oh, don't.'

  'Hsh--sh-- Now you girls are worse than all, screaming in that way.'A few moments' silence of shame. It had been a weary, long, wet day,a trial under any circumstances to eleven people under seventeen, onthe 4th of January, and the more oppressive in St. Oswald's Buildings,because not only had their father been in a much more suffering statefor some days past, but their mother, who had hoped to keep up for someweeks longer, had for the last two days been quite unlike herself. Inthe sick-room she was as tender and vigilant as ever in her silentway, but towards her children a strange fretful impatience had set in,almost a jealousy of their coming near their father, and an intoleranceof the least interruption from them even for the most necessary cause.Moreover, the one friend and helper who had never failed them before,Mr. Audley, had not been seen since he had looked in before earlyservice; and altogether the wretchedness and perplexity of that dayhad been such, that it was no wonder that even Felix and Wilmet hadscarcely spirits or temper for the only task that seemed at presentleft them, the hindering their juniors from making themselves obnoxious.

  'Wilmet, do you think we shall go to the party at Centry Park?'reiterated Fulbert.

  'Do hold your tongue about that. I don't believe there's the leastchance,' said Alda fretfully.

  'And I don't know how you can think of such a thing,' added Cherry.

  'I want to see Cousin Marilda's Christmas tree,' whined Robina.

  'Do ask Mamma again,' entreated another voice.

  'I shall do no such thing,' said Wilmet, with absolute crossness in hertone.

  Robina began to cry.

  'Come here, Bobbie,' said Cherry's voice in the dark end of the room;'I'll tell you a story.'

  'I know all Cherry's stories, and they're rubbish,' said Fulbert.

  'This is quite a new one. There was once a little match-girl--'

  'Bosh! I know that little brute, and I hate her,' broke in Fulbert.

  'Hold your tongue,' said Clement; 'but--'

  'Oh no, don't let us have the match-girl,' cried several voices.

  'Why can't you be good? There was once an old giant that lived in acave--'

  'I hate old giants,' said Cherry's critical public; and her voice grewmelancholy.

  'But this one had but one eye. Come, _do_ listen; papa told me. He wasin an island--' but the voice grew mournful, and was broken by a cry.

  'Oh! Fulbert hurt me!'

  'Fulbert, for shame! What is it, Angel dear?'

  'I only laid hold of her pudding arm,' growled Fulbert. 'Oh! I say,Felix, that's too bad!'

  'Hold your row, I say,' said Felix, after his application of fist law.'Hollo! what's that?' and he sprang to his feet with Angela in hisarms, as the door was opened by a hand groping, and Mr. Audley's voicesaid, 'Darkness visible.'

  There was a general scrambling up all over the floor, and Edgar rushedacross to light a candle. Wilmet alone had not stirred, as Bernard layasleep across her lap. The flash of the match revealed a mass of lightdisordered heads, and likewise a black figure in the door-way.

  'Here is a kind helper for you, Wilmet,' said Mr. Audley, 'from St.Faith's, at Dearport. You must call her Sister Constance.'

  Wilmet did rise now, in some consternation, lifting her little brother,whose hand was still in the locks, the tangling of which had been hissolace. There was a sweet warm kiss on her brow, and her lost net waspicked up, her hair coiled into it by a pair of ready tender hands, butshe faltered, 'Oh, thank you. Does Mamma know?'

  'She was there when I got a sort of consent from your father,' said Mr.Audley.

  'She has not said a word,' said Alda, half resentfully. 'We have hardlybeen in all day except just to fetch and carry.'

  'Never mind,' said the Sister, 'it is much better that she did notthink about it. Now, my dear, don't! I won't have anything done for me.You don't know how we Sisters sleep on nothing when we do sleep.'

  'But you'll have some tea,' said Alda, the only smooth-haired one ofthe party.

  'When you do, perhaps, thank you. Will you come to me, my dear?'relieving Felix from Angela. 'What is your name?' and the child, thoughordinarily very shy, clung to her at once; while she, moving over toCherry, found her in tears, shook up her cushion, arranged her rug,and made her comfortable in a moment. A sense came over them all thatthey had among them a head on whom they might rest their cares; and asthe black bonnet and veil were taken off, and they saw a sweet fairmotherly face beaming on them from the white plain-bordered cap, theygathered round with an outpouring of confidence, small and great, whileMr. Audley went upstairs to announce what he had done. He presentlyreturned, saying, 'All right! Perhaps you had better come up at once.'

  There they sat, on either side of the hearth, he pillowed up and in adressing-gown, more entirely the sick man than he had ever before givenup himself to be. Mrs. Underwood rose, and with tears in her eyes,mutely held out her hand, while her husband at once recognised SisterConstance as Lady Herbert Somerville, the wife of the late rector ofDearport. He had last met her when, some six or seven years before,he had been invited to preach at festivals at Dearport, and had seenher the sunbeam of her house. He knew that her husband, who was aconnection of Mr. Audley's, had since died of the same malady as hisown, and had left her, a childless widow, together with all else he hadto leave, to the Sisterhood they had already founded in the seaporttown. But his greeting was, 'This is _very_ good in you; but surely itmust be too painful for you.'

  'The Superior saw how much I wished it,' she said.

  'You are like Alexandrine de la Ferronays,' he said, remembering herlove for tending a consumptive priest for her husband's sake.

  'I am always wishing that I were!' she said.

  So they perfectly understood each other; and poor Mrs. Underwood, whohad, in her new and extraordinary petulance, fiercely resisted thedoctor's recommendation of a nurse, found herself implicitly relyingon and trusting Sister Constance with a wonderful sense of relief--arelief perhaps still greater to the patient himself, who had silentlyendured more discomforts, and made more exertions than she knew, ratherthan tire her or vex her by employing even son or daughter, and who wasbesides set free from some amount of anxiety.

  Indeed the widow had too perfect a sympathy to interfere with thewife's only comfort. When it could safely be done, she left the twoalone together, and applied herself to winning the hearts and soothingthe spirits of the poor children downstairs, and suggesting andcompounding new nourishing delicacies.

  She even persuaded Mrs. Underwood to go to the next room for a night'srest while she sat up, and learnt--what the silent wife had never toldany one--how trying the nights were even to that spirit! At first thepatient liked to talk, and drew out much of the hidden treasure ofher spirit respecting her husband, who, though ailing for years, hadfinally passed away with only the immediate warning of a week--thefinal cause being harass from the difficulties from those above andbelow him that beset an earnest clergyman of his way of thinking.

  What struck her, as it did all, was Mr. Underwood's perfect absence ofall care, and conviction that all the burthen was taken off his hands.Her own husband had, as she could not help telling him, found it hardto resign himself to leaving his plans half carried out to in
strumentswhich he had but half formed. He had wished with all his might tolive, and though he had resigned himself dutifully, it had been with areal struggle, and a longing for continued service rather than rest,a hope that he should more efficiently serve, and much difficulty inrefraining from laying all about him under injunctions for the future.

  Mr. Underwood half smiled. 'I am neither head nor principal,' he said.'Plans have been over long ago. I am only tired out, too tired to thinkabout what is to follow. If I live three days longer I shall have justhad my forty years in the wilderness, and though it has blossomed likea rose, I am glad to be near the rest.'

  And then he asked for the Midnight Office; and afterwards camefitful sleep, half dreamy, half broken by the wanderings of slightfeverishness and great weakness; but she thought her attendance wouldnot be very brief, and agreed mentally with what Mr. Audley hadtold her, that the doctor said that the end might yet be many weeksaway. When in the dark winter's morning the wife crept back again toher post, and all that could be done in those early hours had beeneffected, Sister Constance went to the half-past seven o'clock servicewith Felix and Clement, imparting to them on the road that the Superiorof St. Faith's was expecting to receive some of the least of thechildren in the course of the day, to remain there for the present.

  Both boys declared it would be an infinite relief, but they doubtedexceedingly whether either father or mother would consent to lose sightof them, since the former never failed to see each child, and give ita smile and kiss, if no more. If they were to be sent, Felix supposedthere was no one but himself to take them; nobody with whom they wouldbe happy could be spared, nor did he show any repugnance to the notionof acting _pere de famille_ to three babies on the railway.

  It was quickly settled. Mr. Underwood at once confessed the exceedingkindness, and declared it to be much better for everybody. 'Do you notfeel it so, Mother?'

  She bent her head in assent, as she did to all he said.

  'Having them back will be good for you,' he added persuasively;and again she tried to give a look of response. So they werebrought--Robina, Angela, and Bernard--and each stood for a moment ona chair at his bed-side. The two little ones he merely kissed andblessed; but to Robina he said a few more words about being good, andminding Mamma and Felix.

  'Oh yes, papa! And they'll have a Christmas tree! and I'll save all mybon-bons to make your cough well.'

  He watched wistfully as the bright heads passed out of sight, and thelong struggling cough and gasping that followed had all the pangs ofparting to add to their burthen. Half the family escorted Felix and hischarge to the station; and in the quiet that followed, Sister Constancehad a good sleep on Wilmet's bed, as much, she said, as she everrequired; and she came from it all freshness and brightness, making thedinner-time very charming to all the diminished party, though Wilmetfelt greatly lost without the little ones; and afterwards she earnedthe warmest gratitude from Edgar and Geraldine by looking over theirdrawings and giving them some valuable hints--nay, she even devisedthe new and delightful occupation of ship-building for those threeinconvenient subjects, Clement, Fulbert, and Lancelot. Upstairs ordown, all was gentle cheerfulness and patience wherever she went.

  Felix came home about five o'clock, and his mother was persuadedto go to lie down while he amused his father with the account ofthe children's exemplary behaviour, and of their kind welcome atSt. Faith's, where he had been kept to dine, feeling, as he said,'uncommonly queer' at first, but at last deciding, to the greatdiversion of his father, that the sisters were a set of jolly oldgirls, but not one equal to '_our_ Sister Constance.' Then he hadseen the church, and was almost bewildered with the beauty of thedecorations; and Mr. Underwood, though saying little, evidently muchenjoyed his boy's refreshment and pleasure. He certainly seemed noworse, and Mr. Audley was allowed, what he had often asked before, tosit up with him.

  But there was much to render it a long, anxious, restless night ofa sort of semi-consciousness, and murmuring talk, as if he fanciedhimself at Vale Leston again. However, when Felix crept in, about fouro'clock in the morning, anxious at the sounds he heard, he found himasleep, and this lasted for two or three hours; he woke refreshed, andpresently said, 'Epiphany! put back the curtain, that I may see thebright and morning star.'

  The morning star was shining in the delicate dawn full in view, and helooked at it with quiet pleasure. 'Mother,' he said, then recollectinghimself; 'ah, she is resting! Thank you, Audley.'

  At that moment a little cry through the thin wall made him start andflush.

  'Is it so?' he murmured; 'thank God! That is well!' But his chestheaved grievously as he panted with anxiety, and his two watchershesitated what to do, until the door was slightly opened, and beforethe intended sign could be made to Felix, the breathless exclamation,'How? what?' brought Sibby's half-scared mournful countenance forward.

  'How is she, Sibby? don't fear to say,' he said, more collectedly.

  'Nicely, sir, as well as can be expected; but--'

  'The baby? Alive--I heard--'

  'Yes, sir; that is--O Sir, it is two; and it would be a mere mercy ifthey are taken, as they look like to be--twins, and coming like this!'Perhaps Sibby was a little more lamentable, because, instead of lookingshocked, he clasped his hands in eager thanksgiving, as he lookedupwards.

  Sister Constance followed at the same moment, saying in a far moreencouraging voice, 'She is doing very well.'

  'It is another great mercy,' he said. 'Much better than longer waitingon me. Will these Twelfth-day gifts live? Or do I take them with me? Atleast, let me baptize them--now at once,' he spoke earnestly. 'My fulltwelve, and one over, and on Twelfth-day.'

  Sister Constance had better hopes of the babes than Sibby, but thiswish of his was one not to be withstood for a moment; and she went tomake ready, while Mr. Audley went down for the little Parian font,and Felix and Sibby arranged the pillows and coverings. Mr. Underwoodlooked very bright and thankful. 'Birth-day gifts,' he said, 'what arethey? You have not told me, Sibby.'

  'Boy and girl, sir,' she said, 'poor little dears!'

  'Jealous for your old twins, Sibby?' he said, smiling.

  'Ah! sir, they came in a better time.'

  'Better for them, no doubt; but this is the best for these,' heanswered brightly. 'See, Sibby, can't you be thankful, like me, thatyour mistress is sheltered from what would try her? I can bear it allbetter without her to see.'

  Sibby's only reply was a gush of tears, and presently all was madeready; Geraldine was quietly helped into the room by Edgar, and placedin her usual station by the pillow, and the boys stood against thewall, while the two babes, tiny and scarcely animate things, werecarried, each by one of the elder pair; and the father, as whitelyrobed as if he had been in his surplice, held out his hands, and smiledwith his kindly lips and clear shining blue eyes full of welcome.

  'Has your mother any wishes about names?' he asked. 'Wilmet--what--?'

  'No, Papa, I think not;' but her eyes were brimming over with tears,and it was plain that something was suppressed.

  'My dear, let me hear; I am not to be hurt by such things.'

  'It is--it is only--she did say, when we came for them, that we werethe children of joy--these are the children of sorrow,' murmuredWilmet, uttering the words with difficulty.

  'I thought so,' he said; then after a brief pause, 'Now, Audley--'

  For Mr. Audley said all the previous prayers, though with a voice ashard to control as Wilmet's had been. Then Wilmet held her charge closeto her father, for, almost inappreciable as the weight was, he couldonly venture to lay one arm round that grasshopper burthen, as with hislong thin fingers he dashed the water. 'Theodore Benjamin, I baptizethee.' Alda brought the other. 'Stella Eudora.' Then the two hands werefolded over his face, and they all knelt round till he moved and smiled.

  'Give them to me again,' he said.

  It was for the father's kiss and blessing now.

  'They look life-like,' he said. 'You will keep them. Now mind me.Charge
_her_ never to think of them as children of sorrow, but of joy.She will remember how nearly you were called Theodore, Felix. Take himas God's gift and mine--may he be a son of your right hand to you.'

  The boy did take the babe, and with a deep resolve in his heart, thathis duty to these helpless ones should be his first thought on earth.He did not speak it, but his father saw the steadfast wistful gaze, andit was enough.

  Alda ventured to ask, 'Is Eudora a gift too, Papa?'

  'Yes. A happy gift. For so she is! Let her be a little Epiphany Star toyou all! Tell Mother that I call them a double joy, a double comfort!Poor little maid!' and he kissed her again, 'will no one welcome her,but the father who is leaving her?'

  'O Papa! You know how we will love them,' sobbed Wilmet.

  'I think I do, my dear;' and he smoothed the glossy hair; 'but withlove comes joy, you know.'

  'It is very hard now,' broke from the poor girl.

  'Very,' he said tenderly; 'but it will if you make the burthen ablessing--the cross a crutch--eh, my Cherry? Now, a kiss each, and go,I am tired.'

  He was tired, but not apparently worse.

  Edgar and his three juniors started off directly after church in questof ice where they might behold skating, and practise sliding; andWilmet, with a view to quiet, actually ventured on the extravagance ofproviding them with a shilling, that they might forage for themselves,instead of coming home to dinner.

  She regretted Edgar's absence, however, for when Mr. Bevan came in tohold the Epiphany Feast in the sick chamber, her father asked for Edgarand Geraldine, and looked disappointed that the boy was gone. But hemurmured, 'Maybe it is best!' and when the little girl came in, flushedand awe-struck, he took her hand, and said, 'May not I have this littleone--my last pupil--to share the feast with me? Willing and desirous,'he smiled as he held her, and she coloured intensely, with tears in hereyes.

  There could be no denial, and his judgment at such a moment could onlybe accepted by the Rector; and the child herself durst not say one wordof her alarm and awe. Papa knew. And never could she forget that heheld her hand all the time that she leant--for she could not kneel--byhis bed. Her elder brother and sisters were there too, and he kissedand blessed each tenderly afterwards, and Sister Constance too kneltand asked his blessing. Then he thanked Mr. Bevan warmly, and called ita most true day of brightness. They heard him whispering to himself,'Arise, shine, for thy Light is come;' and the peaceful enjoymentseemed so to soothe him, that he was not, as usual, eager to get up.

  It was only towards the early dusk that a restlessness came on, and anincrease of the distress and oppression of breath, which he thoughtmight be more bearable in his chair; and Mr. Audley, who had just comein, began with Felix to dress him, and prepare to move him. But just asthey were helping him towards the chair, there was a sort of choke, agasping struggle, his head fell on Felix's shoulder, the boy in terrormanaged to stretch out a hand and rang the bell; but in that secondfelt that there was a strange convulsive shudder, and--

  'Felix!' Mr. Audley's low voice sounded strange and far away. 'I dobelieve--'

  The figure was entirely prone as they lifted it back to the bed. Theyneeded not the exclamation of Sibby to reveal the truth. It _was_ onlyan exclamation, it would have been a shriek if Felix had not graspedher wrist with a peremptory grasp. But that bell had been enough; therehad been a sound of dismay in the very tinkle, and Sister Constance wasin the doorway.

  'Felix,' she said, understanding all, 'you must go to her. Sheheard--she is calling you. You cannot conceal it; be as quick and quietas you can,' she added, as the stunned boy went past her, only hearing,and that as through a tempest, the feeble voice calling his name. Hestood by the bed-side; his mother looked into his white face, and heldout her hands; then as he bent down, clasped both round his neck. 'Hetrusted you,' she said.

  He sank on his knees as she relaxed her grasp, and hid her head beneaththe clothes. A few holy words of commendation of the soul departedsounded from the other room; then at Sister Constance's touch of hishand, he quitted the room.

  Presently after, Felix was sitting in the large arm-chair in thedining-room, with his sister Geraldine on his lap, his arms round her,her arms tightly clasped round his neck, her hair hanging looselydown over his shoulder, her head against him, his face over her, ashe rocked himself backwards and forwards with her, each straining theother closer, as though the mechanical action and motion could allaythe pain. The table was all over baby-things, which numerous neighbourshad sent in on the first news of the twins that morning, and whichthe girls had been inspecting; but no one--nothing else was to beseen--when Mr. Thomas Underwood, on his way from the station, findinghis knock unheard, and the door ajar, found his way to the room.

  'What is this? How is your father?'

  Felix raised his face, still deeply flushed, and rising, placed hissister in the chair.

  'What, worse! You don't say so,' said Mr. Underwood, advancing.

  'He is gone!' said Felix, steadily, but in an unnatural voice. 'Quitesuddenly. Not very long ago,' he began, but he felt unable to guess forwhat space of time he had been rocking Cherry there.

  'Dead! Edward Underwood! Bless me!' said Mr. Underwood, taking off hishat, passing his hand over his forehead, and standing horror-struck. 'Ihad no idea! You never sent over to say he was worse.'

  'He was not; it came on just now,' said Felix, holding by themantelpiece.

  He groaned. 'Poor Edward! Well,' and he was forced to put hishandkerchief to his eyes. He spoke more gently after that. 'Well, thisis a sudden thing, but better than lingering on. Your poor mother,would she like to see me?'

  'She was confined last night.'

  'Bless me! bless me! What a state of things! Have you got any one to bewith you?'

  'Yes; a lady from Dearport,' said Felix.

  'Humph. Which are you? not _my_ boy?'

  'No, I am Felix. Oh, poor Edgar!' he added, still bewildered.

  And it was at this moment that trampling steps were heard, making Felixspring forward with an instinct to silence them; but at the thresholdthe sight of his face brought conviction to Edgar; and with a louduncontrollable cry, tired and hungry as he was, he seemed to collapseinto his brother's arms, and fainted away.

  '_My_ poor boy!' exclaimed his cousin, coming to Felix's help, andhimself lifting Edgar to the sofa. Of the other boys, Clement ran forwater, Fulbert rushed out of sight, and Lancelot laid his head on achair choking with tears.

  Felix and Clement were, poor children! used enough to illness toattend to their brother with a collectedness that amazed their cousin;and without calling for help, Edgar came shuddering and tremblingto himself, and then burst into silent but agonising sobs, verypainful to witness. He was always--boy as he was--the most easilyand entirely overthrown by anything that affected him strongly; andMr. Thomas Underwood was so much struck and touched by his exceedinggrief, especially now that he looked on him as his own property, thatafter putting in some disjointed sentences of 'There--there--You'llalways have a father in me--Don't, my boy--I tell you, you are my sonnow,'--which to Felix's mind made it more intolerable, he said, 'I'lltake him home now--it will be all the better for him and for every one,poor lad! So many--'

  'The three younger ones were sent to Dearport yesterday,' said Felix;'but Edgar--'

  'To Dearport! Eh! To whom?'

  'The Sisters,' said Felix.

  A gruff sound followed. 'Come, come, my dear lad, 'tis bad enough, butI'll do my best to make up to you. It will be much the best way foryou to come out of this,' he added, glancing round the dreary firelessroom, which his entrance had reminded Felix to darken.

  'Thank you,' began Felix, not in the least supposing Edgar could go;'but now--'

  'It is not like a stranger,' added his relation. 'Be a sensible lad.One out of the way is something under the circumstances. Stay--whom canI see? I will give orders for you,' he added.

  'Mr. Audley and Sister Constance are seeing about things, thank you,'said Felix. 'I'll fetch Mr. Aud
ley,' he added, as another trying gruntat the other name fell on his ear, and he put his arm round Geraldine,and helped her away.

  Mr. Audley came, having just parted with the doctor, who had explainedthe sudden termination as what he had of late not thought improbable,and further shown that it had been most merciful, since there mightotherwise have been weeks, if not months, of much severer suffering. Hehad just looked in at the wife, but she had hardly noticed him, and hesaw no dangerous symptoms about her, except an almost torpid calmness.

  Mr. Thomas Underwood saw Mr. Bevan, and made it clearly understood thathe made himself responsible for all expenses, including mourning forthe whole family. He even offered to have the funeral at Vale Leston,'if it were only to shame Fulbert Underwood;' but the wife was in nostate to be asked, and the children shrank from the removal, so it wasdecided that Edward Underwood should sleep among those for whom he hadspent his life, and where his children's lot for the present would becast.

  The cousin carried Edgar back to Centry with him; the boy seemed toounhappy not to be restless, and as if he were ready to do anything toleave his misery behind him.

  The others remained with their preparations, and with such consolationas the exceeding sympathy and kindness of the whole town could affordthem. Their mother remained in the same state, except when roused byan effort; and then there was an attention and presence of mind abouther that gave anxiety lest excitement should be bringing feverishness;but she always fell back into her usual state of silence, such that itcould be hardly told whether it were torpid or not.

  They looked out that half-finished comment on the Epistle to thePhilippians. It stopped at the words--'Yea, and if I be offered uponthe sacrifice and service of your faith, I joy, and rejoice with youall.'

  Mr. Audley took those words for his text on the Sunday, and, notwithout breaking down more than once, read as much of the comment asthere was time for, as the happy-hearted message of the late pastor,for whom indeed there were many tears shed. It seemed to suit withthat solemn peace and nobleness that seemed like the 'likeness of theResurrection face,' bringing back all the beauty of his countenance ashe lay robed in his surplice, with a thorny but bright-fruited cross ofholly on his breast, when his children looked their last, ere partingwith what remained of that loved and loving father.

  Poor little Geraldine spent that worst hour of her life sitting by hermother's bed. She had been helped by Felix to that Feast which had beenspread for the mourners in the church in early morning; but afterwardsshe was forced to remain at home, while the white-robed choir, thebrother clergy of all the neighbourhood, and the greater part of theparish met their pastor for the last time in the church.

  There the first part of the service took place; and then--Cherry couldjust fancy she could hear the dim echo of the _Dies Irae_, as it wassung on the way to the cemetery. It was a very aching heart, poorchild! full of the dull agony of a longing that she knew could never besatisfied again, the intense craving for her father.

  She missed him more really than any of them, she had been so much hiscompanion; and she was the more solitary from the absence of Edgar,who had always been her chief partner in her pursuits. His departurehad seemed like a defection; and yet she had reproached herself for sofeeling it when he had run upstairs, on arriving with Mr. Underwood,looking paler, more scared and miserable, than any of them; and hewas sobbing so much when he took his place in the procession, thatWilmet had made Felix take Alda, that she might support him. None ofhis mother's steady reserve and resolute stillness had descended tohim, he was all sensibility and nervousness; and Geraldine, thoughwithout saying this to herself, felt as if 'poor Edgar' might reallyhave been nearly killed by the last few days of sadness, he could beardepression so little. She could hardly have gone through them but forSister Constance's kindness, and that rocking process from Felix,which she and he called 'being his great baby.' And now, when hermother looked up at her, held out a hand, and called her Papa's dearlittle Cherry, drawing her to lay her cheek by hers on the pillow,there was much soothing in it, though therewith the little girl felta painful doubt and longing to know whether her mother knew what waspassing; and even while perfectly aware that she must not be talked tonor disturbed, was half grieved, half angry, at her dropping off intoa slumber, and awakening only upon little Stella's behalf. Those fewwords to Geraldine had been the only sign that day of perception of anyexistence in the world save that of the twins.

  So the time went by, and the little bustle of return was heard; SisterConstance came in, kissed Geraldine, and helped her down that she mightbe with Edgar, who was to return with the cousin, whispering to herby the way that it had been very beautiful. It was a day of brightsunshine, high wind, and scant sparkling feathery stars of snow, thatsat for a moment shining in their pure perfectness of regularity on theblack, and then vanished. 'So like himself,' Sister Constance said.

  Geraldine found her four elders and the three little boys all togetherin the dining-room; and while Wilmet anxiously asked after Mother,the others, in a sort of sad elation, told of the crowds present,the number of clergy--Mr. Ryder, too, came home from his holiday onpurpose--the sobbing people, and the wreaths of camellias and of holly,that loving hands had made, and laid upon the coffin. And then the lasthymn had been so sweet and beautiful, they all seemed refreshed andcomforted except Edgar, who, coming fresh back to the desolation of thehouse, was in another paroxysm of grief.

  'But, Edgar,' said Alda timidly, 'you like being there, don't you?'

  'As if one could like anything now!'

  'Well! but, Eddy dear, you know what I mean. It is not bad being there.'

  'Not so bad as being at home. Oh!' and a terrible fit of sobbing cameon, which made the other children stand round rather appalled; whileFelix, hesitating, said,

  'It is no good going on in this way, Edgar. Father would say it was notright; and you are upsetting poor little Cherry.'

  'It is worse for him, because he has been away,' said Cherry, fondlinghim.

  'Yes,' said Edgar between his sobs 'It did not seem _so_ there.'

  'And are they kind?'

  'Oh, yes. Marilda let me sit in the school-room, and I had books,and things to copy; such an angel, Cherry, I'll bring it to you nexttime--my copy, I mean.'

  Here there was a summons from the other room for Felix.

  'Yes,' said Edgar, a good deal re-invigorated by having somethingto tell; 'I suppose they are going to tell him what is settled. Mr.Underwood wrote to the man at Vale Leston, and he won't do anything forus; but they are going to try for the Clergy Orphan for one of you twolittle boys.'

  'Oh!' there was a great gasp.

  'And about me?' asked Alda.

  'You are to come when we all go to London--to meet us at the station.There's a new governess coming, and you will start both together withher; and I think you'll beat Marilda, for she knows nothing, and won'tlearn.'

  'I hope she won't be jealous.'

  'I don't think it is in her! She's very jolly.'

  'But I can't go till Mamma is better.'

  Wilmet felt they were falling into a gossiping kind of way that jarredon her, and was glad of a summons upstairs.

  Mr. Thomas Underwood saw Alda before he returned home, told her she washis other daughter, and should join them on their way to London; and hefurther made arrangements about the christening, contingent, of course,on the mother's consent, and on the possibility of taking the verysmall delicate babies to the church. He made very extensive promises ofpatronage for the future, with a full and open heart, and looked as ifhe should like to adopt the whole family on the spot.

  For the convenience of our readers we subjoin the first page of the family Bible.

  Edward Fulbert Underwood married August 1st, 1837--Mary Wilmet Underwood.

  Felix Chester . . . born, July 3rd, 1838. Wilmet Ursula } Alda Mary }. . . " Aug. 11th, 1839. Thomas Edgar. . . . " Oct. 6th, 1840. Geraldine. . . . . "
Oct. 25th, 1841. Edward Clement . . . " Nov. 23rd, 1842. Fulbert James . . . " Jan. 9th, 1844. Lancelot Oswald. . . " May 16th, 1846. Robina Elizabeth . . " Feb. 20th, 1848. Angela Margaret. . . " Sept. 29th, 1851. Bernard . . . . . " Dec. 1st, 1852. Stella Eudora } Theodore Benjamin}. . " Jan. 6th, 1854.