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

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

Author: Charlotte M. Yonge


        
Release date: August 1, 2004 [eBook #6331]
                Most recently updated: January 20, 2014

Language: English

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Credits: E-text prepared by Sandra Laythorpe and revised by Clare Graham and Marc D'Hooghe (http://www.freeliterature.org) using page images generously made available by the Google Books Library Project (http://books.google.com) HTML version prepared by Clare Graham and Marc D'Hooghe


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Note: Project Gutenberg has the other volume of this work.
      Volume II: see https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/44721





THE PILLARS OF THE HOUSE;

Or,

Under Wode, Under Rode.

by

CHARLOTTE M. YONGE

Author of 'The Heir of Redclyffe,' etc.

In Two Volumes.

VOL I.







London:
Macmillan and Co.
1875.




CONTENTS TO VOL. I.

        I. THE BIRTH-DAY GIFT
       II. THE PIC-NIC
      III. FORTUNATUS' PURSE
       IV. TWILIGHT AND DAWN
        V. WORKING FOR BREAD
       VI. THE CACIQUE
      VII. THE CHESS-PLAYER'S BATTLE
     VIII. THE HOME
       IX. THE THIRTEEN
        X. THE FAMILY COBWEB ON THE MOVE
       XI. THE CHORAL FESTIVAL
      XII. GIANT DESPAIR'S CASTLE
     XIII. PEGASUS IN HARNESS
      XIV. WHAT IT MAY LEAD TO
       XV. WHAT IT LED TO
      XVI. THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT
     XVII. MIDSUMMER SUN
    XVIII. BY THE RIVER
      XIX. THE HOUSE WITHOUT PILLARS
       XX. VALE LESTON
      XXI. A KETTLE OF FISH
     XXII. THE REAL THING AND NO MISTAKE
    XXIII. SMOKE-JACK ALLEY





THE PILLARS OF THE HOUSE;

OR,

UNDER WODE, UNDER RODE.




CHAPTER I.

THE BIRTH-DAY GIFT.

     'O I've got a plum-cake, and a feast let us make,
        Come, school-fellows, come at my call;
      I assure you 'tis nice, and we'll all have a slice,
        Here's more than enough for us all.'
                                    _Jane Taylor._


'It is come! Felix, it is come!'

So cried, shouted, shrieked a chorus, as a street door was torn open
to admit four boys, with their leathern straps of books over their
shoulders. They set up a responsive yell of 'Jolly! Jolly!' which
being caught up and re-echoed by at least five voices within, caused
a considerable volume of sound in the narrow entry and narrower
staircase, up which might be seen a sort of pyramid of children.

'Where is it?' asked the tallest of the four arrivals, as he soberly
hung up his hat.

'Mamma has got it in the drawing-room, and Papa has been in ever since
dinner,' was the universal cry from two fine complexioned, handsome
girls, from a much smaller girl and boy, and from a creature rolling on
the stairs, whose sex and speech seemed as yet uncertain.

'And where's Cherry?' was the further question; 'is she there too?'

'Yes, but--' as he laid his hand on the door--'don't open the letter
there. Get Cherry, and we'll settle what to do with it.'

'O Felix, I've a stunning notion!'

'Felix, promise to do what I want!'

'Felix, do pray buy me some Turkish delight!'

'Felix, I do want the big spotty horse.'

Such shouts and insinuations, all deserving the epithet of the first,
pursued Felix as he entered a room, small, and with all the contents
faded and worn, but with an air of having been once tasteful, and
still made the best of. Contents we say advisedly, meaning not merely
the furniture but the inmates, namely, the pale wan fragile mother,
working, but with the baby on her knee, and looking as if care and toil
had brought her to skin and bone, though still with sweet eyes and a
lovely smile; the father, tall and picturesque, with straight handsome
features, but with a hectic colour, wasted cheek, and lustrous eye,
that were sad earnests of the future. He was still under forty, his
wife some years less; and elder than either in its expression of wasted
suffering was the countenance of the little girl of thirteen years old
who lay on the sofa, with pencil, paper, and book, her face with her
mother's features exaggerated into a look at once keen and patient, all
three forming a sad contrast to the solid exuberant health on the other
side the door.

Truly the boy who entered was a picture of sturdy English vigour,
stout-limbed, rosy faced, clear eyed, open, and straightforward
looking, perhaps a little clumsy with the clumsiness of sixteen,
especially when conscience required tearing spirits to be subdued to
the endurance of the feeble. It was, however, a bright congratulating
look that met him from the trio. The little girl started up: 'Your
sovereign's come, Felix!'

The father showed his transparent-looking white teeth in a merry laugh.
'Here are the galleons, you boy named in a lucky hour! How many times
have you spent them in fancy?'

The mother held up the letter, addressed to Master Felix Chester
Underwood, No. 8, St. Oswald's Buildings, Bexley, and smiled as she
said, 'Is it all right, my boy?'

'They want me to open it outside, Mamma!--Come, White-heart, we want
you at the council.'

And putting his arm round his little sister Geraldine's waist, while
she took up her small crutch, Felix disappeared with her, the mother
looking wistfully after them, the father giving something between a
laugh and a sigh.

'Then you decide against speaking to him,' said Mrs. Underwood.

'Poor children, yes. A little happiness will do them a great deal more
good than the pound would do to us. The drops that will fill their
little cup will but be lost in our sea.'

'Yes, I like what comes from Vale Leston to be still a festive matter,'
said Mrs. Underwood; 'and at least we are sure the dear boy will never
spend it selfishly. It only struck me whether he would not enjoy
finding himself able to throw something into the common stock.'

'_He_ would, honest lad,' said Mr. Underwood; 'but, Mamma, you are very
hard-hearted towards the rabble. Even if this one pound would provide
all the shoes and port wine that are pressing on the maternal mind, the
stimulus of a day's treat would be much more wholesome.'

'But not for you,' said his wife.

'Yes, for me. If the boy includes us old folks in his festivity, it
will be as good as a week's port wine. You doubt, my sweet Enid. Has
not our long honeymoon at Vale Leston helped us all this time?' Her
name was Mary, but having once declared her to be a woman made of the
same stuff as Enid, he had made it his pet title for her.

Mrs. Underwood's thoughts went far away into the long ago of Vale
Leston. She could hardly believe that nine years only had passed since
that seven-years' honeymoon. She was a woman of the fewest possible
words, and her husband generally answered her face instead of her voice.

Vale Leston had promised to be an ample provision when Edward Underwood
had resigned his fellowship to marry the Rector's niece and adopted
daughter, his own distant cousin, with the assurance of being presented
to the living hereafter, and acting in the meantime as curate. It
was a family living, always held conjointly with a tolerably good
estate, enough to qualify the owner for the dangerous position of
'squarson,' as no doubt many a clerical Underwood had been ever since
their branch had grown out from the stem of the elder line, which had
now disappeared. These comfortable quarters had seemed a matter of
certainty, until the uncle died suddenly and with a flaw in his will,
so that the undesirable nephew and heir-at-law whom he had desired to
exclude, a rich dissipated man, son to a brother older than the father
of the favourite niece, had stepped in, and differing _in toto_ from
Edward Underwood, had made his own son take orders for the sake of the
living, and it had been the effort of the young wife ever since not to
disobey her husband by showing that it had been to her the being driven
out of paradise.

        ASSISTANT CURACY.--A Priest of Catholic opinions is needed
        at a town parish. Resident Rector and three Curates. Daily
        Prayers. Choral Service on Sundays and Holy-days. Weekly
        Communion.--Apply to P.C.B., St. Oswald's Rectory, Bexley.

Every one knows the sort of advertisement which had brought Mr.
Underwood to Bexley, as a place which would accord with the doctrines
and practices dear to him. Indeed, apart from the advertisement,
Bexley had a fame. A great rubrical war had there been fought out by
the Rector of St. Oswald's, and when he had become a colonial Bishop,
his successor was reported to have carried on his work; and the beauty
of the restored church, and the exquisite services, were so generally
talked of, that Mr. Underwood thought himself fortunate in obtaining
the appointment. Mr. Bevan too, the Rector, was an exceedingly
courteous, kindly-mannered man, talking in a soft low voice in the most
affectionate and considerate manner, and with good taste and judgment
that exceedingly struck and pleased the new curate. It was the more
surprise to him to find the congregations thin, and a general languor
and indifference about the people who attended the church. There was
also a good deal of opposition in the parish, some old sullen seceders
who went to a neighbouring proprietary chapel, many more of erratic
tastes haunted the places of worship of the numerous sects, who swarmed
in the town, and many more were living in a state of town heathenism.

It was not long before the perception of the cause began to grow upon
Mr. Underwood. The machinery was perfect, but the spring was failing;
the salt was there, but where was the savour? The discourses he heard
from his rector were in one point of view faultless, but the old
Scottish word 'fushionless' would rise into his thoughts whenever
they ended, and something of effect and point was sure to fail; they
were bodies without souls, and might well satisfy a certain excellent
solicitor, who always praised them as 'just the right medium, sober,
moderate, and unexciting.'

In the first pleasure of a strong, active, and enterprising man, at
finding his plans unopposed by authority, Mr. Underwood had been
delighted with his rector's ready consent to whatever he undertook,
and was the last person to perceive that Mr. Bevan, though objecting
to nothing, let all the rough and tough work lapse upon his curates,
and took nothing but the graceful representative part. Even then,
Mr. Underwood had something to say in his defence; Mr. Bevan was
valetudinarian in his habits, and besides--he was in the midst of a
courtship--after his marriage he would give his mind to his parish.

For Mr. Bevan, hitherto a confirmed and rather precise and luxurious
bachelor, to the general surprise, married a certain Lady Price, the
young widow of an old admiral, and with her began a new _régime._

My Lady, as every one called her, since she retained her title and
name, was by no means desirous of altering the ornamental arrangements
in church, which she regarded with pride; but she was doubly anxious
to guard her husband's health; and she also had the sharpest eye to
the main chance. Hitherto, whatever had been the disappointments and
shortcomings at the Rectory, there had been free-handed expenditure,
and no stint either in charity or the expenses connected with the
service; but Lady Price had no notion of taking on her uncalled-for
outlay. The parish must do its part, and it was called on to do so
in modes that did not add to the Rector's popularity. Moreover, the
arrangements were on the principle of getting as much as possible out
of everybody, and no official failed to feel the pinch. The Rector
was as bland, gentle, and obliging as ever; but he seldom transacted
any affairs that he could help; and in the six years that had elapsed
since the marriage, every person connected with the church had changed,
except Mr. Underwood.

Yet, perhaps, as senior curate, he had felt the alteration most
heavily. He had to be, or to refuse to be, my Lady's instrument in her
various appeals; he came in for her indignation at wastefulness, and
at the unauthorised demands on the Rector; he had to feel what it was
to have no longer unlimited resources of broth and wine to fall back
upon at the Rectory; he had to supply the shortcomings of the new staff
brought in on lower terms--and all this, moreover, when his own health
and vigour were beginning to fail.

Lady Price did not like him or his family. They were poor, and she
distrusted the poor; and what was worse, she knew they were better
born and better bred than herself, and had higher aims. Gentle Mrs.
Underwood, absorbed in household cares, no more thought of rivalry
with her than with the Queen; but the soft movement, the low voice,
the quiet sweep of the worn garments, were a constant vexation to my
Lady, who having once pronounced the curate's wife affected, held to
her opinion. With Mr. Underwood she had had a fight or two, and had not
conquered, and now they were on terms of perfect respect and civility
on his side, and of distance and politeness on hers. She might talk of
him half contemptuously but she never durst show herself otherwise than
civil, though she was always longing to bring in some more deferential
person in his place; and, whenever illness interfered with his duties,
she spoke largely to her friends of the impropriety of a man's
undertaking what he could not perform.

One of her reductions had been the economising the third curate, while
making the second be always a neophyte, who received his title for
Orders, and remained his two years upon a small stipend.

The change last Easter, which had substituted a deacon for a priest,
had fallen heavily on Mr. Underwood, and would have been heavier still,
but that the new comer, Charles Audley, had attached himself warmly
to him. The young man was the son of a family of rank and connection,
and Lady Price's vanity was flattered by obtaining his assistance;
but her vexation was proportionably excited by his preference for the
Underwood household, where, in truth--with all its poverty--he found
the only atmosphere thoroughly congenial to him in all the parish of
St. Oswald's.

Speedily comprehending the state of things, he put his vigorous young
shoulder to the wheel, and, full of affectionate love and admiration
for Mr. Underwood, spared himself nothing in the hope of saving him
fatigue or exertion, quietly gave up his own holidays, was always at
his post, and had hitherto so far lightened Mr. Underwood's toil, that
he was undoubtedly getting through this summer better than the last,
for his bodily frame had long been affected by the increased amount of
toil in an ungenial atmosphere, and every access of cold weather had
told on him in throat and chest attacks, which, with characteristic
buoyancy, he would not believe serious. He never deemed himself aught
but 'better,' and the invalid habits that crept on him by stealth,
always seemed to his brave spirit consequent on a day's extra fatigue,
or the last attention to a departing cough. Alas! when every day's
fatigue was extra, the cough always depart_ing_, never depart_ed_.

Yet, though it had become a standing order in the house, that for
an hour after papa came in from his rounds, no one of the children
should be in the drawing-room, except poor little lame Geraldine,
who was permanently established there; and that afterwards, even on
strong compulsion, they should only come in one by one, as quietly as
possible, he never ceased to apologise to them for their banishment
when he felt it needful, and when he was at ease, would renew the
merriment that sometimes cost him dear.

The children had, for the most part, inherited that precious heirloom
of contentment and elasticity, and were as happy in nooks and corners
in bed-room, nursery, staircase or kitchen, as they could have been in
extensive play-rooms and gardens.

See them in full council upon the expenditure of the annual gift that
an old admiral at Vale Leston, who was godfather to Felix, was wont to
send the boy on his birth-day--that third of July, which had seemed
so bright, when birth-days had begun in the family, that no name save
Felix could adequately express his parent's feelings.

Mr. and Mrs. Underwood had fancies as to nomenclature; and that
staircase-full of children rejoiced in eccentric appellations. To begin
at the bottom--here sat on a hassock, her back against the wall, her
sharp old fairy's face uplifted, little Geraldine, otherwise Cherry,
a title that had suited her round rosiness well, till after the first
winter at Bexley, when the miseries of a diseased ankle-joint had
set in, and paled her into the tender aliases of White-heart, or
Sweet-heart. She was, as might be plainly seen in her grey eyes, a
clever child; and teaching her was a great delight to her father, and
often interested him when he was unequal to anything else. Her dark
eyebrows frowned with anxiety as she lifted up her little pointed
chin to watch sturdy frank-faced Felix, who with elaborate slowness
dealt with the envelope, tasting slowly of the excitement it created,
and edging away from the baluster, on which, causing it to contribute
frightful creaks to the general Babel, were perched numbers 4, 6,
7, and 8, to wit, Edgar, Clement, Fulbert, and Lancelot, all three
handsome, blue-eyed, fair-faced lads. Indeed Edgar was remarkable, even
among this decidedly fine-looking family. He had a peculiarly delicate
contour of feature and complexion, though perfectly healthy; and there
was something of the same expression, half keen, half dreamy, as in
Geraldine, his junior by one year; while the grace of all the attitudes
of his slender lissome figure showed to advantage beside Felix's more
sturdy form, and deliberate or downright movements; while Clement was
paler, slighter, and with rather infantine features, and shining wavy
brown hair, that nothing ever seemed to ruffle, looked so much as if
he ought to have been a girl, that Tina, short for Clementina, was his
school name. Fulbert, stout, square, fat-cheeked, and permanently rough
and dusty, looked as if he hardly belonged to the rest.

The four eldest were day-scholars at the city grammar-school; but
Lancelot, a bright-faced little fellow in knickerbockers, was a pupil
of whoever would or could teach him at home, as was the little girl
who was clinging to his leg, and whose name of Robina seemed to have
moulded her into some curious likeness to a robin-redbreast, with her
brown soft hair, rosy cheeks, bright merry eyes, plump form, and quick
loving audacity. Above her sat a girl of fifteen, with the family
features in their prettiest development--the chiseled straight profile,
the clear white roseately tinted skin, the large well-opened azure
eyes, the profuse glossy hair, the long, slender, graceful limbs, and
that pretty head leant against the knees of her own very counterpart;
for these were Wilmet and Alda, the twin girls who had succeeded Felix,
and whose beauty had been the marvel of Vale Leston, their shabby dress
the scorn of the day school at Bexley. And forming the apex of the
pyramid, perched astride on the very shoulders of much-enduring Wilmet,
was three years old Angela--Baby Bernard being quiescent in a cradle
near mamma. N.B. Mrs. Underwood, though her girls had such masculine
names, had made so strong a protest against their being called by
boyish abbreviations, that only in one case had nature been too strong
for her, and Robina had turned into Bobbie. Wilmet's second name being
Ursula, she was apt to be known as W. W.

'Make haste, Felix, you intolerable boy! don't be so slow!' cried Alda.

'Is there a letter?' inquired Wilmet.

'Yes, more's the pity!' said Felix. 'Now I shall have to answer it.'

'I'll do that, if you'll give me what's inside,' said Edgar.

'Is it there?' exclaimed Cherry, in a tone of doubt, that sent an
electric thrill of dismay through the audience; Lance nearly toppling
over, to the horror of the adjacent sisters, and the grave rebuke of
Clement.

'If it should be a sell!' gasped Fulbert.

'Suppose it were,' said Felix gravely.

'Then,' said Edgar, 'you can disown the old rogue Chester.'

'What stuff!' interposed Clement.

'I'd cut him out of my will on the spot,' persisted Edgar.

'But it is all right,' said Cherry, looking with quiet certainty into
her brother's face; and he nodded and coloured at the same time.

'But it is not a pretty one,' said little Robina. 'Last year it was
green, and before that red; and this is nasty stupid black and white,
and all thin crackling paper.'

Felix laughed, and held up the document.

'What!' cried Fulbert. 'Five! Why, 'tisn't only five shillings! the
horrid old cheat!'

'It's a five-pound note!' screamed Cherry. 'I saw one when Papa went to
the bank! O Felix, Felix!'

A five-pound note! It seemed to take away the breath of those who knew
what it meant, and then an exulting shout broke forth.

'Well,' said Edgar solemnly, 'old Chester is a brick! Three cheers for
him!'

Which cheers having been perpetrated with due vociferation, the cry
began, 'O Felix, what will you do with it?'

'Buy a pony!' cried Fulbert.

'A rocking-horse,' chirped Robina.

'Punch every week,' shouted Lance.

'A knife apiece,' said Fulbert.

'How can you all be so selfish?' pronounced Clement. 'Now a harmonium
would be good to us all.'

'Then get some cotton, for our ears into the bargain, if Tina is to
play on it,' said Edgar.

'I shall take the note to mother,' said the owner.

'Oh!' screamed all but Wilmet and Cherry, 'that's as bad as not having
it at all!'

Maybe Felix thought so, for it was with a certain gravity and solemnity
of demeanour that he entered the drawing-room, causing his father to
exclaim, 'How now? No slip between cup and lip? Not infelix, Felix?'

'No, papa, but it's _this;_ and I thought I ought to bring it.'

The dew at once was in the mother's eyes, as she sprang up and kissed
the boy's brow, saying, 'Felix, dear, don't show it to me. You were
meant to be happy with it. Go and be so.'

'Stay,' said Mr. Underwood, 'Felix will really enjoy helping us to this
extent more than any private expenditure. Is it not so, my boy? Well
then, I propose that the sovereign of old prescriptive right should
go to his _menus plaisirs_, and the rest to something needful; but he
shall say to what. Said I well, old fellow?'

'Oh, thank you, thank you!' cried Felix ardently.

'Thank me for permission to do as you will with your own?' smiled Mr.
Underwood.

'You will choose, then, Felix?' said his mother wistfully, her desires
divided between port wine for Papa, and pale ale for Geraldine.

'Yes, mamma,' was the prompt answer. 'Then, please, let Wilmet and Alda
be rigged out fresh for Sundays.'

'Wilmet and Alda!' exclaimed Mamma.

'Yes, I should like that better than anything, please,' said the boy.
'All our fellows say they would be the prettiest girls in all Bexley,
if they were properly dressed; and those horrid girls at Miss Pearson's
lead them a life about those old black hats.'

'Poor dears! I have found Alda crying when she was dressing for
church,' mused Mrs. Underwood; 'and though I have scolded her, I could
have cried too, to think how unlike their girlhood is to mine.'

'And if you went to fetch them home from school, you would know how bad
it is, Mamma,' said Felix. 'Wilmet does not mind it, but Alda cries,
and the sneaking girls do it the more; and they are girls, so one can't
lick them; and they have not all got brothers.'

'To be licked instead!' said Mr. Underwood, unable to help being amused.

'Well, yes, Papa; and so you see it would be no end of a comfort to
make them look like the rest.'

'By all means, Felix. The ladies can tell how far your benefaction will
go; but as far as it can accomplish, the twins shall be resplendent.
Now then, back to your anxious clients. Only tell me first how my kind
old friend the Admiral is.'

'Here's his letter, Father; I quite forgot to read it.'

'Some day, I hope, you will know him enough to care for him personally.
Now you may be off.--Nay, Enid, love, your daughters could not have
lived much longer without clothes to their backs.'

'Oh, yes, it must have been done,' sighed the poor mother; 'but I
fancied Felix would have thought of you first.'

'He thought of troubles much more felt than any of mine. Poor children!
the hard apprenticeship will serve them all their lives.'

Meantime Felix returned with the words, 'Hurrah! we are to have the
sovereign just as usual; and all the rest is to go to turn out Wilmet
and Alda like respectable young females.--Hollo, now!'

For Alda had precipitated herself down-stairs, to throttle him with her
embraces; while Cherry cried out, 'That's right! Oh, do get those dear
white hats you told me about;' but the public, even there a many-headed
monster thing, was less content.

'What, all in girls' trumpery?' 'That's the stupidest sell I ever heard
of!' 'Oh, I did so want a pony!' were the cries of the boys.

Even Robina was so far infected as to cry, 'I wanted a ride.'

And Wilmet reproachfully exclaimed, 'O Felix, you should have got
something for Papa. Don't you know, Mr. Rugg said he ought to have a
respirator. It is a great shame.'

'I don't think he would have let me, Wilmet,' said Felix, looking up;
'and I never thought of it. Besides, I can't have those girls making
asses of themselves at you.'

'Oh no, don't listen to Wilmet!' cried Alda. 'You are the very best
brother in all the world! Now we shall be fit to be seen at the break
up. I don't think I could have played my piece if I knew every one was
looking at my horrid old alpaca.'

'And there'll be hats for Cherry and Bobbie too!' entreated Wilmet.

'Oh, don't put it into their heads!' gasped Alda.

'No, I'll have you two fit to be seen first,' said Felix.

'Well, it's a horrid shame,' grumbled Fulbert; 'we have always all gone
shares in Felix's birth-day tip.'

'So you do now,' said Felix; 'there's the pound all the same as usual.'

That pound was always being spent in imagination; and the voices broke
out again.

'Oh, then Papa can have the respirator!'

'Felix, the rocking-horse!'

'Felix, do get us three little cannon to make a jolly row every
birth-day!'

'Felix, do you know that Charlie Froggatt says he would sell that big
Newfoundland for a pound? and that would be among us all.'

'Nonsense, Fulbert! a big dog is always eating; but there is a
concertina at Lake's.'

'Tina--tina--concertina! But, I say, Fee, there's White-heart been
wishing her heart out all the time for a real good paint-box.'

'Oh, never mind that, Ed; no one would care for one but you and me; and
the little ones would spoil all the paints.'

'Yes, resumed Wilmet, from her throne, 'it would be the worry of one's
life to keep the little ones off them; and baby would be poisoned to a
dead certainty. Now the respirator--'

'Now the concertina--'

'Now Punch--'

'Now the dog--'

'Now the rocking-horse--'

'Now the cannon--'

'I'll tell you what,' said Felix, 'I've settled how it is to be. We'll
get John Harper's van, and all go out to the Castle, with a jolly cold
dinner--yes, you, Cherry, and all; Ed and I will carry you--and dine on
the grass, and--'

A chorus of shouts interrupted him, all ecstatic, and rendered more
emphatic by the stamping of feet.

'And Angela will go!' added Wilmet.

'And Papa,' entreated Cherry.

'And Mamma too, if she will,' said Felix.

'And Mr. Audley,' pronounced Robina, echoed by Clement and Angela. 'Mr.
Audley must go!'

'Mr. Audley!' grunted Felix. 'I want nobody but ourselves.'

'Yes, and if he went we could not stay jolly late. My Lady would make
no end of a row if both curates cut the evening prayers.'

'For shame, Edgar!' cried the three elder girls.

While Wilmet added, 'We could not stay late, because of Papa and the
little ones. But I don't want Mr. Audley, either.'

'No, no! Papa and he will talk to each other, and be of no use,' said
Geraldine. 'Oh, how delicious! Will the wild-roses be out? When shall
it be, Felix?'

'Well, the first fine day after school breaks up, I should say.'

'Hurrah! hurrah!'

And there was another dance, in the midst of which Mr. Underwood opened
the door, to ask what honourable member was receiving such deafening
cheers.

'Here! here he is, Papa!' cried Alda. 'He is going to take us all out
to a pic-nic in the Castle woods; and won't you come, Papa?'

'O Papa, you will come!' said Felix. And the whole staircase bawled in
accordance.

'Come! to be sure I will!' said his father; 'and only too glad to be
asked! I trust we shall prove to have found the way to get the maximum
of pleasure out of Admiral Chester's gift.'

'If Mamma will go,' said Felix. 'I wonder what the van will cost, and
what will be left for the dinner.'

'Oh, let us two cook the whole dinner,' entreated the twins.

'Wait now,' said Felix. 'I didn't know it was so late, Father.' And he
carefully helped his father on with his coat; and as a church bell made
itself heard, set forth with him.

When the service was musical, Felix and his two next brothers both
formed part of the choir; and though this was not the case on this
evening, Felix knew that his mother was easier when he or Wilmet could
watch over Papa's wraps.

And Mamma herself, with one at least of the twins, was busy enough in
giving the lesser ones their supper, and disposing of them in bed, so
that the discreet alone might remain to the later tea-drinking.

And 'Sibby' must be made a sharer of the good news in her lower region,
though she was sure to disbelieve in Alda and Wilmet's amateur cookery.

Sibby was Wilmet's foster-mother. Poor thing! Mr. Underwood had found
her in dire need in the workhouse, a child herself of seventeen, with
a new-born babe, fresh from the discovery that the soldier-husband, as
she thought, and who had at least 'gone before the praste with her,'
and brought her from her Kilkenny home, was previously husband to
another woman. She was tenderly cared for by Mr. Underwood's mother,
who was then alive, and keeping house for the whole party at the
Rectory; and having come into the Vale Leston nursery, she never left
it. Her own child died in teething, and she clung so passionately to
her nursling, that Mrs. Underwood had no heart to separate them, Roman
Catholic though she was, and difficult to dispose of. She was not the
usual talking merry Irishwoman; if ever she had been such, her heart
was broken; and she was always meek, quiet, subdued, and attentive;
forgetful sometimes, but tender and trustworthy to the last degree with
the children.

She had held fast to the family in their reverses, and no more thought
of not sharing their lot than one of their children. Indeed, it would
not have been much more possible to send her out to shift for herself
in England; and her own people seemed to have vanished in the famine,
for her letters, with her savings, came back from the dead-letter
office. She put her shoulder to the burthen, and, with one small scrub
under her, got through an amazing amount of work: and though her great
deep liquid brown eyes looked as pathetic as ever, she certainly was
in far better spirits than when she sat in the nursery. To be sure,
she was a much better nurse than she was a cook; but as both could not
be had, Mrs. Underwood was content and thankful to have a servant so
entirely one with themselves in interests and affections; and who had
the further perfection of never wanting any society but the children's;
shrinking from English gossips, and never showing a weakness, save for
Irish tramps. Moreover, she was a prodigious knitter; and it was her
boast that not one of the six young gentlemen had yet worn stocking or
sock, but what came from her needles, and had been re-footed by her to
the last extremity of wear.

Meantime, Felix and Clement walked with their father to the church.
There it was, that handsome church; the evening sun in slanting beams
coming through the gorgeous west window to the illuminated walls, and
the rich inlaid marble and alabaster of the chancel mellowed by the
pure evening light. The east window, done before glass-painting had
improved, was tame and ill-executed, and there was, even æsthetically,
a strange unsatisfactory feeling in looking at the heavy, though
handsome, incrustations and arcades of dark marble that formed the
reredos. It was all very correct; but it wanted life.

Mr. Bevan was not there, he had gone out to dinner, and the
congregation consisted of some young ladies, old men, and three little
children. Mr. Audley read all, save the Absolution and the Lessons; and
the responses sounded low and feeble in the great church, though there
was one voice among them glad and hearty in dedicating and entrusting
the new year of his life with its unknown burthen.

Felix had heard sayings and seen looks which, boldly as his sanguine
spirit resisted them, would hang in a heavy boding cloud over his mind,
and were already casting a grave shadow there.

And if the thought of his fivefold gift swelled the fervour of his
'Amen' to the General Thanksgiving, there was another deep heartfelt
Amen, which breathed forth earnest gratitude for the possession of such
a first-born son.

'That is a very good boy,' the father could not help saying to Mr.
Audley, as, on quitting the churchyard, Felix exclaiming, 'Papa, may I
just get it changed and ask about the van?' darted across the street,
with Clement, into a large grocer's shop nearly opposite, where a brisk
evening traffic was going on in the long daylight of hot July; and he
could not but tell of the birth-day gift, and how it was to be spent.
'_Res angusta domi_,' he said, with a smile, 'is a thing to be thankful
for, when it has such effects upon a lad.'

'You must add a small taste of example to the prescription,' said Mr.
Audley. 'Is this all the birth-day present Felix has had?'

'Well, I believe Cherry gave him one of her original designs; but
birth-days are too numerous for us to stand presents.'

The other curate half sighed. He was a great contrast--a much smaller
man than his senior, slight, slim, and pale, but with no look of
ill-health about him; brown eyed and haired, and with the indefinable
look about all his appointments and dress, that showed he had lived
in unconscious luxury and refinement all his days. His thoughts went
back to a home, where the only perplexity was how to deal with an
absolute glut of presents, and to his own actual doubts what to send
that youngest sister, who would feel slighted if Charlie sent nothing,
but really could not want anything; a book she would not read, a jewel
could seldom get a turn of being worn, a trinket would only be fresh
lumber for her room. Then he revolved the possibilities of making Felix
a present, without silencing his father's confidences, and felt that
it could not be done in any direct manner at present; nay, that it
could hardly add to the radiant happiness of the boy, who rushed across
the road, almost under the nose of the railway-omnibus horses, and
exclaimed--

'He will let us have it for nothing, Father! He says it would be hiring
it out, and he can't do that: but he would esteem it a great favour
if we would go in it, and not pay anything, except just a shilling to
Harris for a pint of beer. Won't it be jolly, Father?'

'Spicy would be more appropriate,' said Mr. Underwood, laughing, as the
vehicle in question drew up at the shop door, with Mr. Harper's name
and all his groceries inscribed in gold letters upon the awning.

'I'm so glad I thought of Harper's,' continued Felix. 'I asked him
instead of Buff, because I knew Mamma would want it to be covered. Now
there's lots of room; and we boys will walk up all the hills.'

'I hope there is room for me, Felix,' suggested Mr. Audley.

'Or,' suggested Mr. Underwood, 'you might, like John Gilpin, "ride on
horseback after we."'

'Felix looks non-content,' said Mr. Audley. 'I am afraid I was not in
his programme. Speak out--let us have it.'

'Why,' said Felix, looking down, 'our little ones all wanted to have
you; but then we thought we should all be obliged to come home too
soon, unless you took the service for Papa.'

'He certainly ought not to go to church after it,' said Mr. Audley;
'but I can settle that by riding home in good time. What's the day?'

'The day after the girls' break-up, if you please,' said Felix, still
not perfectly happy, but unable to help himself; and manifesting quite
enough reluctance to make his father ask, as soon as they had parted,
what made him so ungracious.

'Only, Papa,' said Felix frankly, 'that we know that you and he will
get into some Church talk, and then you'll be of no use; and we wanted
to have it all to ourselves.'

'Take care, Felix,' said Mr. Underwood; 'large families are apt to get
into a state of savage exclusiveness.'

Felix had to bear the drawback, and the groans it caused from Wilmet,
Edgar, and Fulbert: the rest decidedly rejoiced. And Mr. Underwood
privately confided the objection to his friend, observing merrily that
they would bind themselves by a promise not to talk shop throughout the
expedition.

It was a brilliantly happy week. Pretty hats, bound with dark blue
velvet, and fresh black silk jackets, were squeezed out of the four
pounds, with the help of a few shillings out of the intended hire of
the van, and were the glory of the whole family, both of those who were
to wear them and those who were not.

On Saturday evening, just as the four elder young people were about
to sally forth to do the marketing for their pic-nic, a great hamper
made its appearance in the passage, addressed to F. C. Underwood,
Esq., and with nothing to pay. Only there was a note fastened to the
side, saying, 'Dear Felix, pray let the spicy van find room for my
contribution to your pic-nic. I told my mother to send me what was
proper from home.--C. S. A.'

Mrs. Underwood was dragged out to superintend the unpacking, which
she greatly advised should be merely a surface investigation. That
was quite enough, however, to assure her that for Felix to lay in any
provision, except the tea and the bread she had already promised, would
be entirely superfluous. The girls were disappointed of their cookery;
but derived consolation from the long walk with the brothers, in which
a cake of good carmine and a lump of gamboge were purchased for Cherry,
and two penny dolls for Robina and Angela. What would become of the
rest of the pound?

On Sunday, the offertory was, as usual on ordinary occasions, rather
scanty; but there was one half-sovereign; and Mr. Underwood was
convinced that it had come from under the one white surplice that had
still remained on the choir boys' bench.

He stayed in the vestry after the others to count and take care of
the offerings, and as he took up the gold, he could not but look at
his son, who was waiting for him, and who flushed all over as he met
his eye. 'Yes, Papa, I wanted to tell you--I did grudge it at first,'
he said hoarsely. 'I knew it was the tithe; but it seemed so much
away from them all. I settled that two shillings was the tenth of my
own share, and I would give that to-day; and then came Mr. Harper's
kindness about the van; and next, when I was thinking how I could
save the tenth part without stinting everybody, came all Mr. Audley's
hamper. It is very strange and happy, Papa, and I have still something
left.'

'I believe,' said Mr. Underwood, 'that you will find the considering
the tithe as not your own, is the safest way of keeping poverty from
grinding you, or wealth from spoiling you.'

And very affectionately he leant on his son's shoulder all the way
home; while Mr. Audley was at luncheon at the Rectory with my Lady, and
her twelve years old daughter.

'Mamma,' said Miss Price, 'did you see the Underwoods in new hats?'

'Of course I did, my dear. They were quite conspicuous enough; but when
people make a great deal of their poverty, they always do break out in
the most unexpected ways.'

'They are pretty girls,' said the Rector, rather dreamily, 'and I
suppose they must have new clothes sometimes.'

'You will always find,' proceeded Lady Price without regard, 'that
people of that sort have a wonderful eye to the becoming--nothing
economical for them! I am sorry for Mr. Underwood, his wife is bringing
up a set of fine ladies, who will trust to their pretty looks, and be
quite above doing anything for themselves.'

'Do you think Wilmet and Alda Underwood so very pretty, Mr. Audley?'
inquired Miss Price, turning her precocious eyes upon him.

'Remarkably so,' Mr. Audley replied, with a courteous setting-down tone
that was the only thing that ever approached to subduing Miss Price,
and which set her pouting without an answer.

'It is a great misfortune to girls in that station of life to have that
painted-doll sort of beauty,' added my Lady; 'and what was it I heard
about a pic-nic party?'

'No party, my dear,' replied the Rector, 'only a little fresh air for
the family--a day in Centry Park. Felix spends his birth-day present
from his godfather in taking them.'

'Ah! I always was sure they had rich friends, though they keep it so
close. Never let me hear of their poverty after this.'

Answers only rendered it worse, so my Lady had it her own way, and not
being known to the public in St. Oswald's Buildings, did not trouble
them much. Yet there was a certain deference to public opinion there,
when Alda was heard pouting, 'Felix, why did you go to that horrid
Harper? Just fancy Miss Price seeing us!'

'Who cares for a stuck-up thing like Miss Price?' growled Felix.

'I don't care for her,' said Edgar; 'but it is just as well to have
some notion of things, and Felix hasn't a grain. Why, all the fellows
will be asking which of us is pepper, and which Souchong? I wouldn't
have Froggatt or Bruce see me in it at no price.'

'Very well, stay at home, then,' said Felix.

'You could have had the waggonet from the Fortinbras Arms,' said Alda.

'Ay--for all my money, and not for love.'

'For shame, Alda,' said her twin sister; 'how can you be so ridiculous!'

'You know yourself, Wilmet, it is quite true; if any of the girls see
us, we shall be labelled "The Groceries."'

'Get inside far enough, and they will not see you.'

'Ay, but there'll be that disgusting little Bobbie and Lance sitting in
the front, making no end of row,' said Edgar; 'and the whole place will
know that Mr. Underwood and his family are going out for a spree in old
Harper's van! Pah! I shall walk.'

'So shall I,' said Alda, 'at least till we are out of the town; but
that won't do any good if those children will make themselves so
horridly conspicuous. Could not we have the thing to meet us somewhere
out of town, Felix?'

'And how would you get Cherry there, or Mamma? Or Baby?--No, no, if you
are too genteel for the van, you may walk.'




CHAPTER II.

THE PIC-NIC.

     'There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid
      A damask napkin, wrought with horse and hound;
      Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home,
      And, half-cut down, a pasty costly made,
      Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay,
      Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks
      Imbedded and injellied; last, with these
      A flask of cider from his father's vats,
      Prime which I knew;--and so we sat and ate.'
                                                _Tennyson._


No. 8, St. Oswald's Buildings was a roomy house, which owed its
cheapness to its situation, this being neither in the genteel nor the
busy part of Bexley. It was tall and red, and possessed a good many
rooms, and it looked out into a narrow street, the opposite side of
which consisted of the long wall of a brewery, which was joined farther
on to that of the stable-yard of the Fortinbras Arms, the principal
hotel, which had been much frequented in old posting days, and
therefore had offices on a large scale. Only their side, however, was
presented to St. Oswald's Buildings, the front, with its arched 'porte
cochère,' being in the High Street, as it was still called, though it
was a good deal outshone by the newer part of the town.

The next-door neighbours of No. 8 were on the one hand a carpenter's
yard, the view of which was charming to the children, and the noises
not _too_ obnoxious to their parents; and on the other the Rectory
garden, which separated them from the churchyard, now of course
disused. It had no entrance towards their lane; and to reach the
church, it was necessary to turn the corner of the wall, and go in
through the south porch, which opened close upon the High Street.

In this old street lay the two buildings that chiefly concerned the
young Underwoods, _i.e._ the two schools. That for boys was an old
foundation, which had fallen into decay, and had been reformed and
revivified in nineteenth-century fashion, to suit the requirements
of the town. The place, though in the south of England, had become
noted as a pottery, owing partly to the possession of large fields
of a peculiar clay, which was so bad for vegetable growth, as to
proclaim its destiny to become pots and pans, partly to its convenient
neighbourhood to the rising seaport of Dearport, which was only an hour
from it by railway. The old St. Oswald's school had been moulded under
the influence of new comers, who had upset the rules of the founder,
and arranged the terms on the broadest principles of liberality,
bringing, instead of the drowsy old clerical master, a very brisk
and lively young layman, who had a knack of conveying instruction of
multifarious kinds such as had never occurred to his predecessor.

Mr. Underwood had a certain liking for the man, and when tolerably
well, enjoyed the breaking a lance with him over his many crude
heterodoxies; but he did not love the school, and as long as he was
able had taught his boys himself, and likewise taken a few day-pupils
of the upper ranks, who were preparing for public schools. But when his
failure of health rendered this impracticable, the positive evil of
idleness was, he felt, greater than any possible ones that might arise
from either the teaching or the associations of the town school, and he
trusted to home influence to counteract any such dangers. Or perhaps
more truly he dreaded lest his own reluctance might partly come from
prejudice in favour of gentlemen and public schools; and he believed
that where a course seemed of absolute necessity, Providence became
a guard in its seeming perils. Indeed, that which he disapproved in
Mr. Ryder's school was more of omission than commission. It was that
secularity was the system, rather than the substance of that secularity.

So Felix and Edgar went to school, and were in due time followed by
Clement and Fulbert; and their bright wits, and the educated atmosphere
of their home, made their career brilliant and successful. Mr. Ryder
was greatly pleased to have got the sons of a man whom he could not but
admire and respect, and was anxious that the boys should be the means
of conquering the antiquated prejudices in favour of exclusiveness at
school.

Felix and Edgar were neck and neck, carrying off all the prizes of
the highest form but one--Felix, those that depended on industry and
accuracy; Edgar, those that could be gained by readiness and dexterity.
Both were to be promoted to the upper form; and Mr. Ryder called upon
their father in great enjoyment of their triumph, and likewise to
communicate his confident certainty that they would do him and Bexley
credit by obtaining the most notable scholarships of the University.
Mr. Underwood was not a little delighted, grateful for the cordial
sympathy, and he fully agreed that his own lads had benefited by the
clear vigorous teaching they had received; but though he smiled and
allowed that they had taken no harm, he said good-humouredly that 'Of
course, he must consider _that_ as the proof of his own powers of
counteraction.'

'Exactly so,' said the schoolmaster. 'All we wish is, that each home
should exercise its powers of counteraction. We do the teaching, you
form the opinions.'

'Oh! are we parents still to be allowed to form the opinions?'

'If you _will_. Your house is your castle, and the dungeons there may
be what you will.'

'Well, I cannot have a quarrel with you to-day, Ryder! As long as I
can show up my boys as tokens of God's blessing on their home, you are
welcome to them as instances of wits well sharpened by thorough good
instruction.'

Mrs. Underwood had likewise had a congratulatory visit that was very
gratifying. The girls' school, a big old red house, standing back from
the road at the quietest end of the town, was kept by two daughters of
a former clergyman, well educated and conscientious women, whom she
esteemed highly, and who gave a real good grounding to all who came
under their hands, going on the opposite principle to Mr. Ryder's, and
trying to supply that which the homes lacked.

And they did often succeed in supplying it, though their scholars came
from a class where there was much to subdue; and just at present their
difficulties had been much increased by their having been honoured
by the education of Miss Price. Seven governesses in succession had
proved incapable of bearing with Lady Price; and the young lady had
in consequence been sent to Miss Pearson's, not without an endeavour
on her mother's part to obtain an abatement in terms in honour of the
_éclat_ of her rank.

There her airs proved so infectious, that, as Miss Pearson said, the
only assistance she had in lessening their evil influence was the
perfect lady-likeness of the Underwood twins, and the warm affection
that Wilmet inspired. Alda headed a sort of counter party against
Caroline Price, which went on the principle of requiting scorn with
scorn; but Wilmet's motherly nature made her the centre of attraction
to all the weak and young, and her uprightness bore many besides
herself through the temptation to little arts. Both sisters had prizes,
Alda's the first and best; and Miss Pearson further offered to let
Wilmet pay for her own studies and those of a sister, by becoming
teacher to the youngest class, and supervisor during the mid-day
recreation, herself and her sister dining at school.

It was a handsome offer for such a young beginner, and the mother's
eyes filled with tears of pleasure; and yet there was a but--

'Not come home to dinner!' cried the children. 'Can't it be Alda
instead of Wilmet? We do always want Wilmet so, and Alda would do just
as well at school.'

Alda too was surprised; for was not she more regular and more forward
than her twin sister, who was always the one to be kept at home when
any little emergency made Mamma want the aid of an elder daughter?
And the mother would almost have asked that Alda might be the chosen
governess pupil, if Mr. Underwood had not said, 'No, my dear, Miss
Pearson must have her own choice. It is a great kindness, and must be
accepted as such. I suppose Robina must be the new scholar. My little
pupil will not leave me.'

Geraldine only heard of the alternative, to say, 'I'll be nobody's
pupil but yours, Papa.'

While Robina was proportionably exalted by her preferment, and took to
teasing every one in the house to hear her spelling and her tables,
that she might not fulfil Edgar's prediction by going down to the
bottom of the baby-class; and up and down the stairs she ran, chanting
in a sing-song measure--

     'Twenty pence are one and eightpence,
      Thirty pence are two and sixpence,'

and so on, till her father said, smiling, 'Compensations again, Mother:
the less you teach them the more they are willing to learn.' The mother
shook her head, and said the theory was more comfortable than safe, and
that she did not find Lancelot an instance of it.

But there was a general sense of having earned the holiday, when the
grocery van came to the door, on a morning of glorious sunshine. Edgar
and Alda, true to their promise, had walked on so far ahead as to
avoid being seen in the town in connection with it; and Fulbert had
started with them to exhale his impatience, but then had turned back
half-way, that he might not lose the delicious spectacle of the packing
of the vehicle. A grand pack it was: first, the precious hamper; then a
long sofa-cushion, laid along the bottom; then Geraldine lifted in by
Sibby and Felix, and folded up with shawls, and propped with cushions
by Mamma, whose imagination foresaw more shaking than did the more
youthful anticipation; then Mamma herself, not with 'little baby,' but
with Angela on her lap, and Angela's feet in all manner of unexpected
places; then a roll of umbrellas and wraps; then Wilmet, Fulbert,
Lance, and Robina--nowhere in particular; and lastly Papa, making room
for Clement between himself and the good-humoured lad of a driver, who
had not long ago been a member of the choir; while Felix, whom nothing
could tire on that day, dived rapidly down a complication of alleys,
declaring he should be up with the walkers long before they were
overtaken by the van.

Next appeared Mr. Audley, with his pretty chestnut horse, offering
in the plenitude of his good-nature to give Lance a ride, whereupon
vociferous '_me toos_' resounded from within the curtains; and the
matter was compounded on ride and tie principles, in which the
Underwood juniors got all the ride, and Mr. Audley all the _tie_--if
that consisted in walking and holding the bridle.

By the time the very long and dull suburbs of Bexley were passed, with
their interminable villas and rows of little ten-pound houses--the
children's daily _country_ walk, poor things!--the two elder boys and
their sister were overtaken, the latter now very glad to condescend to
the van.

'Oh, how nice to get beyond our tiresome old tether!' she said,
arranging herself a peep-hole between the curtains. 'I am so sick of
all those dusty black beeches, and formal evergreens. How can you stare
at them so, Cherry?'

But Geraldine was in a quiet trance of delight; she had never spoken a
word since she had first found a chink in the awning, but had watched
with avid eyes the moving panorama of houses, gardens, trees, flowers,
carriages, horses, passengers, nursemaids, perambulators, and children.
It was all a perfect feast to the long-imprisoned eyes, and the more
charming from the dreamy silence in which she gazed. When Felix came up
to the slit through which the bright eyes gleamed, and asked whether
she were comfortable and liked it, her answer was a long-drawn gasp
from the wells of infinite satisfaction, such as set him calculating
how many drives in a Bath-chair the remnant of his birth-day gift would
yet produce.

But there were greater delights; corn-fields touched with amber, woods
sloping up hills, deep lanes edged with luxuriant ferns, greenery that
drove the young folk half mad with delight, and made them scream to
be let out and gather--gather to their hearts' content. Only Mamma
recommended not tiring themselves, but trusting that Centry Park would
afford even superior flowers to those they passed.

They reached the lodge-gate at last. They were known, for the Castle
had been long untenanted, and they, like other inhabitants of Bexley,
had from time to time enjoyed themselves in the Park; but to-day there
was a shadow of demur. The gentleman who was going to buy the place was
looking over it--but surely--

Horror began to spread over the inmates of the van.

'But did you come by appointment, sir?' added the gatekeeper's wife,
coming out; 'the gentleman's name is Mr. Underwood.'

Mr. Underwood was obliged to disclaim any appointment; but he looked
round at the children's blank faces, and saw lips quivering, and eyes
gazing wistfully into the paradise of green shade, and added, 'If the
gentleman has not actually bought it, he could not object. We do not
wish to go near the house.'

Maybe Mr. Audley, who was standing near the gate, added another more
substantial argument, for 'Oh, certainly, sir,' at once followed; and
the van was allowed to turn down a gravelled road, which skirted an
extensive plantation.

Every one now left it, except Mrs. Underwood, Cherry, and Angela; and
the children began to rush and roll in wild delight on the grassy
slope, and to fill their hands with the heather and ling, shrieking
with delight. Wilmet had enough to do to watch over Angela in her
toddling, tumbling felicity; while Felix, weighted with Robina on his
back, Edgar, Fulbert, Clement, and Lance, ran in and out among the
turf; and Alda, demurely walking by her papa, opined that it was 'very
odd that the gentleman's name should be Underwood.'

'Less odd than if it was Upperwood,' said her father, as if to throw
aside the subject; and then, after a few moments' thought, and an odd
little smile, as if at some thought within himself, he began to hand
in flowers to Cherry, and to play with little Angela. Mr. Audley had
gone to put up his horse at the village inn, and did not join the party
again till they had reached what the children called Pic-nic Hollow--a
spot where a bank suddenly rose above a bright dimpling stream with a
bed of rock, the wood opening an exquisite vista under its beech trees
beyond, and a keeper's lodge standing conveniently for the boiling of
kettles.

Here the van was disposed of, the horses taken out and provided with
food, Cherry carried to a mossy throne under a glorious beech-tree,
and the hampers unpacked by Mamma and Wilmet, among much capering and
dancing of the rest of the family, and numerous rejected volunteers of
assistance. Felix and Alda were allowed to spread the table-cloth and
place the dishes, but Edgar was only entreated to keep the rest out of
the way.

Meanwhile, Geraldine sat under the silvery bole of her beech-tree,
looking up through its delicate light green leaves to the blue sky,
not even wanting to speak, lest anything should break that perfection
of enjoyment. Her father watched the little pale absorbed countenance,
and as Mr. Audley came up, touched him to direct his attention to the
child's expression; but the outcry of welcome with which the rest
greeted the new-comer was too much for even Cherry's trance, and
she was a merry child at once, hungry with unwonted appetite, and
so relishing her share of the magnificent standing-pie, that Mrs.
Underwood reproved herself for thinking what the poor child would be if
she had such fare and such air daily, instead of ill-dressed mutton in
the oppressive smoke-laden atmosphere.

And meantime, Lance was crowing like a cock, and the other boys were
laughing at Robina for her utter ignorance of the white-fleshed biped
she was eating.

'No, Clem, chickens have got feathers and wings, and their long necks
hang down! This can't be one of them.'

'Perhaps it is a robin-redbreast,' said Felix.

'No, nobody kills robin-redbreasts, because they covered the poor
little children with leaves.'

'Will you cover me with leaves, if I am lost, Bobbie?' said Mr. Audley;
but as soon as she found that his attention was gained, she returned to
the charge.

'Please, did it come from your own home? and what is it, really?'

'Why, Bobbie, I am hardly prepared to say whether it is a Hamburg or
a Houdan, or a more unambitious Dorking. Cannot you eat in comfort
without being certified?'

'The species will be enough for her without the varieties,' said her
father. 'You have given us a new experience, you see, Audley, and we
may make a curious study of contrasts--not of Audley and myself, Mother
dear, but of the two Underwoods who seem to be in this place together
to-day.'

'Who is it?' was of course the cry; and the inquiry was in Mrs.
Underwood's eyes, though it did not pass her quiet lips. It was to her
that he answered, 'Yes, my dear--Tom; I have little doubt that it is
he. He was a very rich man when last I heard of him.'

'Is that the man at Vale Leston?' whispered Alda to Felix. 'Oh, I hope
he is not coming here to insult us.'

'Bosh!' said Felix; 'that man's name is Fulbert. Listen, if you want to
hear.'

'Twenty years ago,' continued Mr. Underwood, 'I thought myself a
prodigiously fine fellow--with my arms full of prizes at Harrow,
and my Trinity scholarship--and could just, in the plenitude of my
presumption, extend a little conceited patronage to that unlucky dunce,
Tom Underwood, the lag of every form, and thankful for a high stool at
old Kedge's. And now my children view a cold fowl as an unprecedented
monster, while his might, I imagine, revel in '_pâtés de foie gras_.'

'O Papa, but we like you so much better as you are!' cried Geraldine.

'Eh, Cherry!' said Mr. Underwood, 'what say you? Shouldn't you like me
better if I were buying that king beech-tree, and all the rest of it?'

Cherry edged nearer, mastered his hand, and looked up in his face with
a whole soul of negation in her wistful eyes. 'No, no, no--just as you
are,' she whispered.

Some mood of curiosity had come over him, and he turned an
interrogative look elsewhere.

Alda spoke. 'Of course, it would be horrid not to be a clergyman; but
it is a great shame.'

'No,' said Wilmet, 'it can't be a shame for this cousin Tom to
have earned a fortune fairly--if he has; but'--and she pressed her
hands tightly together as she looked at the thin worn faces of her
parents--'one can't help wishing. Why do things always go hard and
wrong?' and the tears dimmed her bright eyes.

'Because--they _don't_,' said her father, with a half-serious
quaintness that vexed her, and forced her to turn away to let the tear
drop.

Clement said, in his calm voice, 'How can you be all so repining and
foolish!'

And Mr. Underwood, almost in lazy mischief, pursued his experiment.
'Eh, Felix, you are the party most concerned--what say you?'

'Most concerned?' Felix looked up surprised, then recollected himself.
'I don't care,' he said, with an appearance of gruff sullenness;
but his father could not content himself without continuing in a
semi-teasing tone, 'Don't care--eh? Why, this Centry Underwood once
belonged to our family--that's the reason Tom is after it. If I had
not scouted old Kedge, you would be prancing about here, a Harrovian,
counting the partridges.'

'Don't!' broke in Felix, with a growl.

'Never fear, Fee,' cried Edgar, with his hand on his brother's
shoulder; 'if one man got on in life, another may. If one only was
grown up, and had the start----' and his blue eyes sparkled.

'I did not know Care's clutch had been so tight,' sighed Mr. Underwood,
half to himself, half to his wife. 'It is not safe, my gentle Enid, to
try such experiments. Eh!' rousing himself, 'what's that? Have the mob
there a right to any sentiments?'

'Only,' cried Clement, shouting with laughter, 'Lance thought you were
wanted to hold a high stool for Jack Ketch.'

'For a green goose!' shouted Lance, indignantly.

'Oh!' cried Robina, in the tone of one who had made a scientific
discovery, 'did the goose have a high stool to lay the golden eggs?'

'A most pertinent question, Bobbie, and much more reasonable than
mine,' said Mr. Underwood; while his colleague gravely answered, 'Yes,
Bobbie, golden eggs are almost always laid by geese on high stools.'

'I've got a picture of one! It has got a long neck and long legs,'
quoth Bobbie.

'It is only a flamingo, you little goose yourself,' cried Clement.

'Here is the golden egg of the present,' said Mr. Underwood,
replenishing the boy's plate with that delicious pie. 'What's that
beverage, Wilmet? Any horrible brew of your own?'

'No; it is out of Mr. Audley's hamper.'

'The universal hamper. It is like the fairy gifts that produced
unlimited eatables. I dreaded cowslip wine or periwinkle broth.'

'No, no, Papa,' sighed Alda, 'we only once made cowslip tea at Vale
Leston.'

'Vale Leston is prohibited for the day.--Master Felix Chester
Underwood, your good health; and the same to the new Underwood of
Centry Underwood.'

'Shall we see him, Papa?' asked Alda.

'If either party desires the gratification, no doubt it will come
about.'

'Shall not you call on him, Papa?'

'Certainly not before he comes. Mother, some of the wonderful
bottle--ay, you covetous miser of a woman, or I'll make a libation of
it all. Audley, it must have wrung your father's butler's heart to have
thrown away this port on a pic-nic. What did you tell him to delude
him?'

'Only what was true--that I was to meet a gentleman who was a judge of
the article.'

'For shame!' he answered, laughing. 'What right had you to know that I
knew the taste of Cape from Roriz?'

But his evident enjoyment of the 'good creature' was no small pleasure
to the provider, though it was almost choking to meet the glistening
glance of Mrs. Underwood's grateful eyes, knowing, as she did, that
there were three more such bottles in the straw at the bottom of
the hamper. And when baby Angela had clasped her fat hands, and, as
'youngest at the board,' 'inclined the head and pronounced the solemn
word,' her father added, '_Gratias Deo_, and _Grazie a lei_. We must
renew our childhood's training, dear Mary--make our bow and curtesy,
and say "Thank you for our good dinner."'

'Thank Felix for our pleasant day,' said Mr. Audley. 'Come, boys, have
a swing! there's a branch too good not to be used; and Ful has already
hung himself up like a two-toed sloth.'

Then began the real festivity--the swinging, the flower and fern
hunting, the drawing, the racing and shouting, the merry calls and
exchange of gay foolish talk and raillery.

Mr. Underwood lay back on a slope of moss, with a plaid beneath him,
and a cushion under his head, and said that the Elysian fields must
have been a prevision of this beech-wood. Mrs. Underwood, with Felix
and Wilmet, tied up the plates, knives, and forks; and then the
mother, taking Angela with her, went to negotiate kettle-boiling at
the cottage. Geraldine would fain have sketched, but the glory and the
beauty, and the very lassitude of delight and novelty, made her eyes
swim with a delicious mist; and Edgar, who had begun when she did,
threw down his pencil as soon as he saw Felix at liberty, and the two
boys rushed away into the wood for a good tearing scramble and climb,
like creatures intoxicated with the freedom of the greenwood.

After a time they came back, dropping armfuls of loose-strife,
meadow-sweet, blue vetch, and honey-suckle over delighted Cherry;
and falling down by her side, coats off, all gasp and laughter, and
breathless narrative of exploits and adventures, which somehow died
away into the sleepiness due to their previous five-mile walk. Felix
went quite off, lying flat on his back, with his head on Cherry's
little spreading lilac cotton frock, and his mouth wide open, much
tempting Edgar to pop in a pebble; and this being prevented by tender
Cherry in vehement dumb show, Edgar consoled himself by a decidedly
uncomplimentary caricature of him as Giant Blunderbore (a name derived
from Fee, Fa, Fum) gaping for hasty pudding.

'That's a horrid shame!' remonstrated Geraldine. 'Dear old Fee, when
the whole treat is owing to him!'

'It is a tidy little lark for a Blunderbore to have thought of,' said
Edgar. ''Tis a good sort of giant after all, poor fellow!'

'Poor!' said Cherry indignantly. 'Oh, you mean what Papa said--that he
is the greatest loser of us all. I wonder what made him talk in that
way? He never did before.'

'I am sorry for _him_,' said Edgar, indicating his brother. 'He is
famous stuff for a landlord and member of parliament--plenty of wits
and brains--only he wants to be put on a shelf to be got at. Wherever
he is, he'll go on there! Now, a start is all I want! Give me my one
step--and then--O Gerald, some day I'll lift you all up!'

'What's that?' said Felix, waking as the enthusiastic voice was raised.
'Edgar lifting us all! What a bounce we should all come down with!'

'We were talking of what Papa said at dinner,' explained Cherry. 'What
did you think about it, Fee?'

'I didn't think at all, I wished he hadn't,' said Felix, stretching
himself.

'Why not?' said Cherry, a little ruffled at even Felix wishing Papa had
not.

'There's no use having things put into one's head.'

'O Felix, you don't want to change?' cried Cherry.

'No,' he said; but it was a 'no' in a tone she did not understand. The
change he saw that hardship was working was that from which he recoiled.

'That's like you, Blunderbore,' said Edgar. 'Now, the very reason I am
glad not to be born a great swell, but only a poor gentleman, is that
so much is open to one; and if one does anything great, it is all the
greater and more credit.'

'Yes,' said Felix, sitting up; 'when you have once got a scholarship,
there will be the whole world before you.'

'Papa got a scholarship,' said Cherry.

'Oh yes!' said Edgar; 'but every one knows what happens to a man that
takes Orders and marries young; and he had the most extraordinary
ill-luck besides! Now, as Ryder says, any man with brains can shine.
And I am only doubting whether to take to scholarship or art! I love
art more than anything, and it is the speediest.'

The conversation was broken, for just then Wilmet was seen peering
about with an anxious, careful eye.

'What is it, my deputy Partlet?' asked her father. 'Which of your brood
are you looking for?'

'I can't see Robina,' said Wilmet anxiously. 'She was swinging just
now, but neither she nor Lance is with the big boys.'

'Flown up higher,' said Mr. Underwood, pretending to spy among the
branches. 'Flapsy, come down! Bobbie, where are you?'

A voice answered him; and in another moment Robina and Lance stood in
the glade, and with them a girl newly come to her teens, whom they
pulled forward, crying, 'She says she's our cousin!'

'Indeed,' said Mr. Underwood: 'I am sure you are very much obliged to
her.'

'I am Mary Alda Underwood,' said the girl abruptly; 'and I'm sure there
must be a very naughty boy here. He had put these poor little things up
a tree, and run away.'

'No, no! He only put us up because Tina bothered about it!' screamed
Lance and Robina at once; 'he wasn't naughty. We were being monkeys.'

'Black spider-monkeys,' added Robina.

'And I swung about like a real one, Father,' said Lance, 'and was
trying to get Bobbie down, only she grew afraid.'

'It was ten feet from the ground,' said Mary Alda, impressively, 'and
they had lost their way; but they told me who they were. I'm come down
with my father to see the place.'

Mr. Underwood heartily shook hands with her, thanked her, and asked
where her father was.

'Gone out with the man to see a farm two miles off,' she said. 'He told
me I might stay in the house, or roam where I liked, and I saw you all
looking so happy; I've been watching you this long time.'

'Indeed!' said Mr. Underwood, 'till you captured two of us! Well, we
are obliged for the introduction, especially if you are to be our
neighbour.'

'And my cousins will be friends with me,' continued Mary Alda. 'I'm all
alone, you know.'

'No, I did not know,' said Mr. Underwood. 'Are you the only child?'

'Yes,' she said, looking wistfully at the groups around her; 'and it is
very horrid--oh dear! who is that pretty one? No, there's another of
them!'

Mr. Underwood laughed heartily. 'I suppose you mean Wilmet and
Alda,' he said. 'Come, girls, and see your new cousin--Mary, did you
say?--Your name backward, Alda Mary.'

'Mary,' she repeated. 'Papa calls me Mary, but Mamma wants it to be
Marilda all in one word, because she says it is more distinguished; but
I like a sensible name like other people.'

Mr. Underwood was much amused. He felt he had found a character in
his newly-discovered cousin. She was Underwood all over in his eyes,
used to the characteristic family features, although entirely devoid
of that delicacy and refinement of form and complexion that was so
remarkable in himself and in most of his children, who were all, except
poor little Cherry, a good deal alike, and most of them handsome.
There was a sort of clumsiness in the shape of every outline, and a
coarseness in the colouring, that made her like a bad drawing of one of
his own girls; the eyes were larger, the red of the cheeks was redder,
the lips were thicker, the teeth were irregular; the figure, instead
of being what the French call _élancé_, was short, high-shouldered,
and thick-set, and the head looked too large. She was over-dressed,
too, with a smart hat and spangled feather, a womanly silk mantle and
much-trimmed skirt, from which a heavy quilling had detached itself,
and was trailing on the ground; her hands were ungloved, and showed
red stumpy fingers, but her face had a bright open honest heartiness
of expression, and a sort of resolute straightforwardness, that
attracted and pleased him; and, moreover, there was something in the
family likeness, grotesque as it was, that could not but arouse a
fellow-feeling in his warm and open heart, which neither neglect nor
misfortune had ever chilled.

'I think I should have known you,' he said, smiling. 'Here! let me
introduce you; here is our little lame white-hearted Cherry, and the
twins, as like as two peas. Wilmet, Alda--here!'

'Shall I mend your frock?' was Wilmet's first greeting, as she put her
hand in her pocket, and produced a little housewife.

'Oh, thank you! You've got a needle and thread! What fun!'

'The little ones are very apt to tear themselves, so I like to have it
ready.'

'How delicious! And you mend for them? I wish I had any one to mend
for. Please show me, and let me do it. I tried to tear the nasty thing
off, but it would not come. I wish Mamma would let me wear sensible
print like yours.'

'Are you laughing at us?' said Wilmet rather bluntly.

'No, indeed, not a bit,' said Marilda, or Mary Alda, eagerly. 'If you
only knew how tiresome it all is.'

'What is?'

'Why, being fine--having a governess, and talking French, and learning
to dance, and coming down into the drawing-room. Then Grandmamma Kedge
tells me how she used to run about in pattens, and feed the chickens,
and scrub the floor, and I do so wish I was her. Can you scrub, and do
those nice things?'

'Not a floor,' said Wilmet; 'and we live in the town.'

'So have we done till now; but Papa is going to get this place, because
he says it is family property; and I hope he will, for they will
never be able to screw me up here as they do at home. I say, which is
Fulbert? Won't your father punish him?'

'Oh, no! You should not have told, Marilda. We never tell Papa of
little tricks of the boys.'

'But the little darling might have broken her neck.'

'Oh! life in a large family is made up of _might haves_,' said Alda.

'Why, I do declare there's a smaller still! What a little duck!' and
she pounced upon Angela.

'We have a smaller than that,' said Wilmet--'Bernard, only we left him
at home.'

'Tell me all your names!' cried Marilda, delighted.

She was perfectly happy, and chattered on in great delight in her
downright voice, as much at ease as if she had known them all her life.
She shared their tea, and wanted Mr. Underwood to come and see her
father at the house; but as she could not promise his early return, and
it was necessary to get the van under weigh before five, this could not
be.

However, she would not leave them till they were all packed into the
van, and then only parted with repeated kisses and auguries of many
future meetings; so that the children looked down a vista of unlimited
enjoyment of Centry Park. Edgar, little gentleman as he was, saw her as
far back on the way as he could venture.




CHAPTER III.

FORTUNATUS' PURSE.

     'Out, base mechanical churl!'--_Shakespeare._


Weeks went on, and nothing more was heard of 'Marilda' except the
wishes and wonderings of the children. Alda decided that she was one
of the heartless fine ladies one heard of in books--and no wonder,
when her father was in trade, and she looked so vulgar; while Wilmet
contended against her finery, and Cherry transferred the heartlessness
to her cruel father and mother, and Robina never ceased to watch for
her from the window, even when Felix and Edgar for very weariness had
prohibited the subject from being ever mentioned, and further checked
it by declaring that Marilda looked like a cow.

There was plenty besides to think of; and the late summer and early
autumn rolled cheerily away. The wonderful remnant of Felix's birth-day
gift was partly applied to the hire of a chair for Geraldine upon every
favourable evening; and as the boys themselves were always ready to
act as horses, they obtained it on moderate terms, which made the sum
hold out in a marvellous manner. And not only were these drives delight
unimaginable to the little maid, but the frequent breaths of pure air
seemed to give her vigour; she ate more, smiled more, and moved with
less pain and difficulty, so that the thought of a partial recovery
began to seem far less impossible.

The children trooping about her, she used to be drawn to the nearest
bit of greensward, tree, or copse, and there would occupy herself
with the attempt to sketch, often in company with Edgar; and with a
few hints from her father, would be busied for days after with the
finishing them, or sometimes the idealizing them, and filling them with
the personages she had read of in books of history or fiction. She was
a sensitive little body, who found it hard not to be fretful, when told
that it was very ill-natured to object to having her paints daubed over
her drawings by Lance, Robina, and Angel--an accusation often brought
against her by rough, kindly Sibby, and sometimes even by Wilmet in an
extremity; while Mamma's subdued entreaty, that she would do something
to please the little ones, if it could be without mischief to herself,
always humiliated her more than anything else, and made her ready to
leave all to their mercy, save for deference to Edgar, and gratitude to
Felix. Robina would look on soberly enough in admiration; but Lance's
notions of art were comic, and Fulbert's were arbitrary, and both were
imperiously carried out with due contempt for the inferior sex, and
were sure to infect both the little sisters.

Then, of course, so many holiday boys were hard to keep in order.
Clement had a strong propensity in that direction; he was a grave,
quiet boy, without much sense of the absurd, and was generally the
victim of Edgar's wit; but, on the other hand, he was much in the
habit of objecting to anything Edgar or Fulbert proposed, and thereby
giving forbidden or doubtful amusements double zest. He was never _in_
mischief, and yet he was never an element of peace.

All this, however, was mitigated when the holidays ended, and Lance
was allowed to follow his brothers to school, while Bobbie importantly
trotted in the wake of her sisters. Mamma and Cherry felt it no small
comfort to have no one at home who did not sleep away two or three of
the morning hours; and the lessons that the little girl delighted to
prepare for her father went on in peace--the arithmetic, the French,
the Latin, and even the verses of Greek Testament, that he always said
rested him.

And he was 'quite well,' he said himself; and though his wife never
confirmed this reply, he was everywhere as usual--in church, in schools
of all kinds, in parish meetings, by sick-beds, or in cottages, as
bright and as popular as ever, perhaps the more so that he was more
transparently thin, and every stranger started at the sound of his
cough; though the Bexley people had grown weary of repeating the same
augury for four or five years, and began, like 'my Lady,' to call it
'constitutional.'

So came the autumn Ember Week; and Mr. Audley had to go to receive
Priests' Orders, and afterwards to spend the next fortnight with his
parents, who complained that they had not seen him once since he had
settled at Bexley. The last week was the break-up of summer weather,
and Mr. Bevan caught cold, and was rheumatic; there were two funerals
on wet and windy days, and when Mr. Audley, on Lady Price's entreating
summons, wrenched himself from a murmuring home, and, starting by an
early train, arrived half through the St. Michael's Day Service, it was
to see Mr. Underwood looking indeed like some ethereal ascetic saint,
with his bright eyes and wasted features, and to hear him preach in
extempore--as was his custom--a sermon on the blessedness of angel
helps, which in its intense fervour, almost rapture, was to many as if
it came from a white-winged angel himself. Mr. Audley glided into his
own place, and met Felix's look of relief. The sermon was finished,
and the blessing given; but before he could descend the steps, the
cough had come on, and with it severe hæmorrhage. They had to send
one startled boy for Mrs. Underwood, and another for the doctor, and
it was an hour before he could be taken home in a chair. No one ever
forgot that sermon, for it was the last he ever preached. He was very
ill indeed for several days, but still hopeful and cheerful; and as the
weather mended, and the calm brightness of October set in, he rallied,
and came downstairs again, not looking many degrees more wan and hectic
than before, with a mind as alert as usual, and his kind heart much
gratified by the many attentions of his parishioners during his illness.

During the worst, Mrs. Underwood had been obliged to keep one of the
elder girls at home--Wilmet at first, both by her own desire and that
of Alda; but it was soon made a special matter of entreaty by Miss
Pearson, that the substitution might not take place; the little class
was always naughty under Alda, and something the same effect seemed to
be produced on Angela and Bernard. They made so much less disturbance
when entrusted to Cherry, that the mother often sent Alda to sit by
papa, even though she knew he liked nothing so well as to have his
little pupil's soft voice repeating to him the Latin hymns she loved to
learn on purpose. Alda read or sang to him very prettily, and they were
very happy together; but then Wilmet could do that as well, and also
mind the babies, or do invalid cookery, and supplement Sibby's defects,
and set the mother free for the one occupation she cared for most--the
constant watching of that wasted countenance.

But all was better. He had been able to collect his children for
their evening's Bible lesson and Sunday Catechism, and to resume the
preparation of Edgar and Geraldine for their Confirmation, though it
was at least a year distant, and even had spoken of sending for others
of his catechumens. Wilmet and Alda were both at school, the two
babies out with Sibby, Mamma at work, Papa dreaming over a Comment on
the Epistle to the Philippians, which was very near his heart, and he
always called his holiday work, and Geraldine reading on her little
couch when there was a sharp ring at the bell, and after an interval,
the girl who daily came in to help, announced 'Lady Price.'

Even my Lady had been startled and softened by the reality of Mr.
Underwood's illness, and remorseful for having coddled her husband at
his expense; she had sent many enquiries, some dainties, and a good
many recipes; and she had made no objection to Mr. Bevan's frequent and
affectionate visits, nor even to his making it obvious that however
little his senior curate might do that winter, he would not accept his
resignation for the present.

It was enough to make Mr. Underwood feel absolutely warm and grateful
to his old tormentor, as he rose, not without some effort, held out
his hand to her, and cheerily answered her inquiries for his cough.
She even discussed the berries in the hedges, and the prospects of a
mild winter, in a friendly, hesitating tone; and actually commended Mr.
Underwood's last pupil-teacher, before she began--'I am afraid I am
come upon a disagreeable business.'

Mr. Underwood expected to hear of his own inefficiency; or perhaps
that Mr. Audley had adopted some habit my Lady disapproved, or that
the schoolmaster was misbehaving, or that some Christmas dole was
to be curtailed, and that he would have to announce it because Mr.
Bevan would not. He was not prepared to hear, 'Are you aware that--in
short--perhaps you can explain it, but has not your son Felix been
spending a good deal of money--for him, I mean--lately?'

'Felix had a present from his godfather,' said Mr. Underwood, not at
all moved, so secure was he that this must be an exaggeration.

'Last summer, I heard of that. It was laid out on a pic-nic,' said Lady
Price, severely.

'It was intended to be so spent,' said the curate; 'but people were
so good-natured, that very little actually went that way, and the
remainder was left in his own hands.'

'Yes, Mr. Underwood, but I am afraid that remainder has been made to
cover a good deal of which you do not know!'

Mrs. Underwood flushed, and would have started forward. Her husband
looked at her with a reassuring smile. My Lady, evidently angered
at their blindness, went on, 'It is a painful duty, Mr. Underwood,
especially in your present state; but I think it due to you, as the
father of a family, to state what I have learned.'

'Thank you. What is it?'

'Have you reckoned the number of times the chair has been hired?'
and as he shook his head, 'That alone would amount to more than a
pound. Besides which, your daughters have been provided with books and
music--fruit has been bought--all amiable ways of spending money, no
doubt; but the question is, how was it procured?'

'Indeed,' said Mr. Underwood, still pausing.

'And,' added the lady, 'the means can, I am afraid, be hardly doubted,
though possibly the boy may have done it in ignorance. Indeed, one of
his sisters allowed as much.'

'What did she allow, Lady Price?'

'That--that it was won at play, Mr. Underwood. You know Mr. Froggatt
gives his boy an absurd amount of pocket-money, and when she was taxed
with this, your daughter--Alda is her name, I believe--allowed that--'

'Papa, Papa!' breathlessly broke out Cherry, who had been forgotten
on her little sofa all this time, but now dashed forward, stumping
impetuously with her crutch--'Papa, it's all Alda, how can she be so
horrid?'

'What is it, my dear?' said Mr. Underwood. 'You can explain it, I see.
Tell Lady Price what you mean, Geraldine,' he added gravely, to compose
the child, who was sobbing with excitement and indignation.

'O Lady Price!' she cried, facing about with her hair over her face,
'he earned it--he earned every bit of it! How could any one think he
did not?'

'Earned it? What does that mean, little girl?' said Lady Price, still
severely. 'If he did the boy's exercises for him--'

'No, no, no,' interrupted Geraldine, 'it was old Mr. Froggatt. He asked
Felix to look over the papers he had to print for the boys' work at the
Grammar School, because it is all Latin and Greek, and Charles Froggatt
is so careless and inaccurate, that he can't be trusted.'

The faces of the father and mother had entirely cleared; but Lady Price
coughed drily, saying, 'And you did not know of this arrangement?'

Geraldine's eyes began to twinkle with tears. 'I don't know what Felix
will say to me for telling now,' she said.

'It must have come to light some time, though concealment is always a
proof of shame,' began Lady Price in a consoling tone that filled the
little lame girl with a fresh passion, drawing up her head.

'Shame! Nobody's ashamed! Only Mamma and Felix and Wilmet never will
bear that Papa should know how terribly we do want things sometimes.'

And Geraldine, overpowered by her own unguarded words, ran into her
mother's arms, and hid her face on her shoulder.

'Thank you, Lady Price,' said Mr. Underwood gravely. 'I am glad my
little girl has been able to satisfy you that Felix has honestly earned
whatever he may have spent.'

'If you are satisfied,' returned the lady, 'it is not my affair; but I
must say I should like to know of such transactions among my children.'

'Sometimes one is glad to have a boy to be perfectly trusted,' said Mr.
Underwood.

'But you will speak to him?'

'Certainly I shall.'

Lady Price felt that she must go, and rose up with an endeavour to
retract. 'Well, it is a relief to Mr. Bevan and me to find your son not
consciously in fault, for it would have been a most serious thing. And
in such a matter as this, of course you can do as _you_ please.'

To this Mr. Underwood made no reply, as none was necessary, but only
saw her out to the door in that extremely polite manner that always
made her feel smallest; and then he dropped into his chair again, with
a curl of the lip, and the murmur, 'Not consciously!'

'O Papa, Papa!' cried Cherry.

'Dear Felix!' said the mother, with tears in her eyes; 'but what can
Alda have been saying?'

Cherry was about to speak again, but her father gently put her aside.
'A little quietness now, if you please, my dear; and send Felix to me
when he comes in. Let me have him alone, but don't say anything to him.'

There was no need to send Felix to his father, for he came in of his
own accord, radiant, with a paper containing a report of a public
meeting on Church matters that his father had been wishing to see.

'Thanks, my boy,' said Mr. Underwood; 'where does this come from?'

'From Froggatt's, father. It was only fourpence.'

'But, Felix, repeated fourpences must exhaust even that Fortunatus'
purse of Admiral Chester's.'

Felix coloured. 'Yes, Papa, I wanted to tell you; but I waited till you
were better.'

'You will hardly find a better time than the present,' said Mr
Underwood.

'It is only this,' said Felix, with a little hesitation. 'You
know there's a good deal of printing to be done for the school
sometimes--the questions in Latin and Greek and Algebra, and even
when Mr. Ryder does have the proofs, it wants some one who really
understands to see that the corrections are properly done. Old Smith
used to do it, by real force of Chinese accuracy, but he has been ill
for some time, and Mr. Froggatt can't see to do it himself, and Charlie
won't, and can't be trusted either. So one day, when I was reading in
the shop, Mr. Froggatt asked me to see if a thing was right; and it
went on: he asked me after a time to take anything I liked, and I did
get some school books we all wanted; but after that, just when you
were ill, I could not help telling him I had rather have the money. O
Father!' cried the boy, struck by a certain look of distress, 'did I do
wrong?'

'Not in the least, my boy. Go on; what does he give you?'

'Exactly at the rate he gave Smith for doing the same work,' said
Felix: 'it always was an extra for being so troublesome. It was seven
shillings last week--generally it comes to three or four and sixpence.'

'And when do you do it?'

'I run in after I come out of school for half an hour. Last Saturday
I corrected a sheet of the Pursuivant, because Mr. Froggatt had to go
out, and that made it more. And, Father, Mr. Froggatt says that poor
old Smith will never be fit for work again.'

'Then I suppose these welcome earnings of yours will end when he has a
successor?'

Felix came nearer. 'Papa,' he said, 'Mr. Froggatt told me that if
Charlie would only have taken to the work, he would have done without
another man in Smith's place, and got him gradually into editing the
paper too. He said he wished I was not a gentleman's son, for if I
had not been so I should have suited him exactly, and should be worth
a guinea a week even now. And, Father, do not you really think I had
better take it?'

'You, Felix!' Mr. Underwood was exceedingly startled for the moment.

'You see,' said Felix rather grimly, leaning his head on the
mantelshelf, and looking into the fire, 'any other way I can only be an
expense for years upon years, even if I did get a scholarship.'

His face was crimson, and his teeth set. Mr. Underwood lay back in his
chair for some seconds; then said in a low voice, 'I see you know all
about it, Felix; and that I am going to leave you as heavy a burthen as
ever lad took on willing shoulders.'

Felix knew well enough, but his father had never uttered a word of
despondency to him before, and he could only go on gazing steadfastly
into the fire with an inarticulate moan.

Mr. Underwood opened the first leaf of a volume of St. Augustine,
beside him, a relic of former days, the family shield and motto
within--namely, a cross potent, or crutch-shaped, and the old English
motto, 'Under Wode, Under Rode.'

'Under wood, under rood,' he repeated. 'It was once but sing-song to
me. Now what a sermon! The load is the Cross. Bear thy cross, and thy
cross will bear thee, like little Geraldine's cross potent--Rod and
Rood, Cross and Crutch--all the same etymologically and veritably.'

'Don't call them a burthen, pray!' said Felix, with a sense both of
deprecation and of being unable to turn to the point.

'My boy, I am afraid I was thinking more of myself than of you. I am
an ungrateful fool; and when a crutch is offered to me, I take hold of
it as a log instead of a rood. I did not know how much pride there was
left in me till I found what a bitter pill this is!'

Felix was more crimson than ever. 'Ought I not--' he began.

'The _ought_ is not on your side, Felix. It is not all folly, I hope;
but I had thought you would have been a better parson than your father.'

There were tears in the boy's eyes now. 'There are the others; I may be
able to help them.'

'And,' added Mr. Underwood, 'I know that to be a really poor priest,
there should be no one dependent on one, or it becomes, "Put me into
one of the priest's offices, that I may eat a piece of bread." It is
lowering! Yes, you are right. Even suppose you could be educated,
by the time you were ordained, you would still have half these poor
children on your hands, and it would only be my own story over again,
and beginning younger. You are right, Felix; but I never saw the
impossibility so fully before. I am glad some inward doubt held me back
from the impulse to dedicate my first-born.'

'It shall be one of the others instead,' said Felix in his throat.

Mr. Underwood smiled a little, and put his finger on the verse in his
beloved Epistle--'Look not every man on his own things but every man
also on the things of others.'

'You really wish this. Do you consider what it involves?' he said.

'I think I do,' said Felix in a stifled voice.

'This is not as if it were a great publisher,' continued Mr. Underwood,
'with whom there would be no loss of position or real society; but a
little bookseller in a country town is a mere tradesman, and though a
man like Audley may take you up from time to time, it will never be on
an absolute equality; and it will be more and more forgotten who you
were. You will have to live in yourself and your home, _depending_ on
no one else.'

'I can stand that,' said Felix, smiling. 'Father, indeed I thought of
all that. Of course I don't like it, but I don't see how it is to be
helped.'

'Sit down, Felix: let us go over it again. I suppose you don't know
what our subsistence is at present.'

'I know you have £250 a year from Mr. Bevan.'

'Yes, I had £200 at first, and he added the £50 when the third curate
was given up. That goes with me, of course, if not before. On the other
hand, my poor good uncle, the wisest thing he ever did, made me insure
my life for £5000, so there will be £150 a year to depend on, besides
what we had of our own, only £2,350 left of it now. I have had to
break into it for the doctor's bills, but at least there are no debts.
Thank God, we have been saved from debt! I think,' he continued, 'that
probably it will have to be brought down to twenty-two hundred before
you have done with me. On the whole, then, there will be about £180 a
year for you all to live upon. Are you understanding, Felix?'

For the boy's anxious look had gone out of his face, and given place to
a stunned expression which was only dispelled with a sudden start by
his father's inquiry. 'Yes, yes,' he said recalling himself.

'I have left it all absolutely to your mother,' said Mr. Underwood.
'She will depend more and more on you, Felix; and I have made up my
mind to expect that no help will come to you but from yourselves.
Except that I hope some of you may be educated by clergy orphan
schools, but you are too old for that now. Felix, I believe it may be
right, but it is very sore to break off your education.'

'I shall try to keep it up,' said Felix, 'in case anything should ever
turn up.'

'A guinea a week!' said Mr. Underwood, thoughtfully. 'It would make you
all not much worse off than you are now, when I am out of the way. And
yet--' A violent cough came on. 'We must wait, Felix,' he said, when he
had recovered himself. 'I must have time to think; I will speak to you
to-morrow.'

Felix left him, very grave and subdued. He buried himself in his tasks
for the next day, hardly looked up or smiled at little Bernard's most
earnest attempts at a game of play, and had not a word for even Cherry,
only when Wilmet begged anxiously to know if he thought Papa worse, he
answered that he believed not particularly so.

Alda was sent to carry some tea to her father that evening. As she
set it down on the table before him, he said gently, 'My dear, I want
to know what has been passing among you and your school-fellows about
Felix.'

'Oh, nothing, Papa,' said Alda rather hastily. 'Some nonsense or other
is always going on.'

'Very true, no doubt; nor do I wish to be informed of general nonsense,
but of that which concerns you. What have you been saying or hearing
said about Felix?'

'Oh, it's nonsense, Papa. Some of the girls will say anything
disagreeable.'

'You need not have any scruples on Felix's account, Alda; I know
exactly what he has done. I want you to tell me what is being said--or
you have allowed to be said--about it.'

'That horrible Miss Price!' was all the answer he got.

He sat upright--laid on Alda's wrist a long bony burning hand, whose
clasp she did not forget for weeks, and forcing her to look at him,
said, 'Did you allow it to be believed that your brother Felix was a
gambler?'

'Papa! I never said so!' cried Alda, beginning to sob.

'Command yourself, Alda; I am not fit for a scene, and I may not be
able to speak to you many times again.'

These words--far more new and startling to Alda than to her
brother--appalled her into quietness.

'What did you say, Alda? or was it the deceit of silence?'

She hung her head, but spoke at last.

'I only said boys had ways and means! They did tease and plague so.
I do believe Carry Price counts every grape that goes into this
house--and they would know how I got my new music--and little Robina
would tell--and then came something about Mr. Froggatt; and if they
knew--'

'If they knew what?'

'Papa, you have no idea how nasty some of them are.'

'My poor child, I am afraid I have some idea by seeing how nasty they
are making you! Gambling more creditable than honest labour!'

Alda had it on the tip of her tongue to say winning things was not
gambling, but she knew that argument would be choked down; and she also
knew that though she had spoken truth as to her words, she had allowed
remarks to pass without protest, on the luck and licence that the model
boy allowed himself, and she was bitterly displeased with the treachery
of Miss Price.

'These old rags of folly don't look pretty on other folk,' he sighed
pleasantly. 'Alda, listen to me. What I have heard to-day gives me more
fears for you than for any one of my children. Did you ever hear that
false shame leads to true shame? Never shuffle again! Remember, nothing
is mean that is not sin, and an acted falsehood like this is sin and
shame both--while your brother's deed is an honour.'

Alda was obliged to go away murmuring within herself, 'That's all true:
it is very good of Felix, and I should not have equivocated, I know;
but those stupid girls, how is one to live with them?'

Felix was not quite dressed the next morning when his mother came to
the door of the attic that he shared with Edgar and Fulbert.

'He wants to speak to you before church, Felix. It has been a very bad
night, and the sooner this is settled the better.'

'O Mother, I am very sorry--'

'It can't be helped, my dear boy. I think it will really be a great
relief to him.'

'And you, Mother, do you mind?'

'Dear Felix, all _minding_, except to have you all well, and fed and
clothed, was worn out of me years ago. I can't feel anything in it but
that it will keep you by me, my dear good helpful boy.'

Felix's heart leapt up, as it had not done for many a long day; but it
soon sank again. The children had never been admitted to their father's
room in the early morning, and Felix thought he must be suddenly worse
when he saw him in bed propped by pillows, pale and wearied; but the
usual bright smile made him like himself.

'All right, old fellow,' he said brightly. 'Don't come up to me. I'm
_incog._ till I'm up and dressed. Are you in the same mind?'

'Yes, Father.'

'Then ask Mr. Froggatt to do me the favour of coming to speak to me any
time after eleven o'clock that may suit him. I must understand what he
offers you. The nonsense is conquered, Felix; more shame for me that it
has followed me so far; but the sense remains. I must try to be sure
that this sacrifice of yours is a right one to be accepted. Any way, my
boy, I thank and bless you for it, and God will bless such a beginning.
There's the bell, be off,' he concluded.

And, Papa,' blurted out Felix suddenly, 'would you _please_ be
photographed. I have the money for it. _Pray--_'

Mr. Underwood smiled. 'Very well, Felix; that is, if I am ever capable
of getting up all the stairs to Coleman's sky-parlour.'

'Oh, thank you!' and Felix ran away.

Mr. Froggatt came in due time. He was an elderly portly man, well
shaven and smooth-faced, intensely respectable, having been brought
up to inherit an old hereditary business as bookseller, stationer,
and publisher of a weekly local paper, long before Bexley had broken
out into its present burning fever of furnaces. He was a very good
religious man, as Mr. Underwood well knew, having been his great
comforter through several family troubles, which had left him and his
wife alone with one surviving and woefully spoilt son, who hated the
trade, and had set his heart upon being a farmer--chiefly with a view
to hunting. Mr. Froggatt was conscious of having been too indulgent,
but the mother and son were against him; and the superior tone of
education that the son had received at the reformed grammar school had
only set him above the business, instead of, as had been intended,
rendering him more useful in it.

Good Mr. Froggatt, an old-fashioned tradesman, with a profound feeling
for a real gentleman, was a good deal shocked at receiving Mr.
Underwood's message. He kept a reading-room, and was on terms of a
certain intimacy with its frequenters, such as had quite warranted his
first requests for Felix's good-natured help; and it had been really
as a sort of jesting compliment that he had told the young gentleman
that he wished he would take Smith's place, little expecting to see how
earnestly the words were caught up, how the boy asked whether he really
meant it; and when, on further consideration, he allowed that it might
be possible, begging him to wait till his father could be spoken to.

Poor as he was, Mr. Underwood had never lost general respect. Something
there was in his fine presence and gentlemanly demeanour, and still
more in his showing no false shame, making no pretensions, and never
having a debt. Doctors' bills had pressed him heavily, but he had
sacrificed part of his small capital rather than not pay his way; and
thus no one guessed at the straits of the household. Mr. Froggatt had
never supposed he would entertain for a moment the idea of letting his
eldest son, a fine clever and studious lad, undertake a little country
business, and yet the old bookseller had come to wish it very much on
his own account. As he explained to Mr. Underwood, he loved his old
business, and knew that with more education he should have been able
to make more of it. His elder son had died just as intelligence and
energy were opening up plans that would have made both the shop and the
newspaper valuable and beneficial; while Charles's desertion left them
to decline with his father's declining years, and in danger of being
supplanted by some brisk new light. Felix Underwood was indeed very
young, but he had already proved his power of usefulness, and a very
few years would make him capable of being a right hand to the old man,
and he might in time make a position for himself. Mr. Froggatt would
otherwise ere long be forced by his own infirmity, to dispose of the
business at a disadvantage, and this would, he confessed, go to his
heart. Mr. Underwood felt greatly reconciled to the project. There was
real usefulness in the work, great means of influencing men for good,
and though there would be much of mechanical employment, for which it
was a pity to give up the boy's education, yet it was a stepping-stone
to something better, and it gave present and increasing means of
maintenance. There was less temptation in this way of life than in
almost any that could be devised, and it would give Mrs. Underwood the
comfort of a home with him. The great difficulty for the future was,
that Felix was never likely to have capital enough to purchase, or
become partner in, the business; but Mr. Froggatt explained that if he
gained experience in the editing of the Pursuivant, he would be always
able to obtain profitable employment, and that it was possible that
he might eventually take the business, and pay an annual sum out of
the profits to the Froggatt family, unless, indeed, something should
turn up which would keep him in his natural station. Such was the hope
lurking in the father's heart, even while he thankfully closed with the
offer; and Felix was put in the way of studying book-keeping till the
New Year, when he was to enter upon his duties and his salary.

Mr. Audley was greatly troubled. It was with incredulous vivacity that
he inquired of Mr. Underwood if it were indeed true that Felix had
accepted such prospects.

'Quite true,' said Mr. Underwood. 'You need not argue it with me,
Audley; my own mind has said all you could say seven times over.'

'I should not venture on interference; but could you not let me try to
do--something?'

'And welcome, my dear fellow: there are so many to be done for, that it
is well one can do for himself.'

'But Felix--Felix out of them all!'

'As the voice I want to silence has said a thousand times! No; Felix
seems capable of this, and it is not right to withhold him, and throw
his education upon the kind friends who might be helping the other
boys--boys whom I could not trust to fend for themselves and others, as
I can that dear lad.'

'What he might be--'

'Who knows whether he may not be a greater blessing in this work than
in that which we should have chosen for him? He may be a leaven for
good--among the men we have never been able to reach! My dear Audley,
don't be a greater ass about it than I was at first!'

For the young curate really could not speak at first for a rush of
emotion.

'It is not only for Felix's sake,' said he, smiling at last, 'but the
way you take it.'

'And now, I am going to ask you to do something for me,' added Mr.
Underwood. 'I have left this magnificent estate of mine entirely to my
wife, appointing her sole guardian to my children. But I have begun
to think how much has been taken out of her by that shock of leaving
Vale Leston, and by that wonderful resolute patience that--that I shall
never be able to thank her for. I scarcely dare to let her know that I
see it. And when I look on to the winter that is before her,' he added,
much less calmly, 'I think she may not be long after me. I must add a
guardian. Once we had many good friends. We have them still, I hope,
but I cannot lay this on them. Our cousin Tom Underwood does not seem
disposed to notice us, and his care might not be of the right kind. Our
only other relation is Fulbert Underwood.'

'Who drove you from Vale Leston?'

'Who did what he had every right to do with his own,' said Mr.
Underwood. 'But he is not the style of man to be asked, even if I could
saddle him with the charge. Probably twelve children to bring up on
seven thousand pounds--a problem never put before us at Cambridge.'

'Do you honour me by--' asked the younger man, much agitated.

'Not by asking you to solve that problem! But let me add your name.
What I want is a guardian, who will not violently break up the home and
disperse the children. I believe Felix will be a competent young head
if he is allowed, and I want you to be an elder brother to him, and let
him act.'

'You cannot give me greater comfort.'

'Only, Audley, this must be on one condition. Never let this
guardianship interfere with any higher work that you may be called to.
If I thought it would bind you down to Bexley, or even to England, I
should refrain from this request as a temptation. Mind, you are only
asked to act in case the children should lose their mother, and then
only to enable Felix to be what I believe he can and will be. Or, as it
may be right to add, if he should fail them, you will know what to do.'

'I do not think he will.'

'Nor I. But there are ways of failing besides the worst. However, I do
not greatly fear this illness of mine taking root in them. It has not
been in the family before; and I am nearly sure that I know when I took
the infection, four or five years ago, from a poor man in Smoke-jack
Alley, who would let no one lift him but me. They are healthy young
things, all but dear little Cherry, and I hope they have spirits to
keep care from making them otherwise. You will say a kind word to my
little Cherry sometimes, Audley. Poor little woman, I am afraid it may
fall sorely on her, she is of rather too highly strung a composition,
and perhaps I have not acted so much for her good as my own pleasure,
in the companionship we have had together.'

So the will was altered, though without the knowledge of anyone but
Mrs. Underwood and the witnesses; and Mr. Audley felt himself bound
to remonstrate no further against Felix's fate, however much he might
deplore it.

Nobody was so unhappy about it as Edgar. The boy was incredulous at
first, then hotly indignant. Then he got a burnt stick, and after
shutting himself up in his attic for an hour, was found lying on the
floor, before an awful outline on the whitewash.

'What is it, old fellow?' asked Felix. 'What a horrid mess!'

'I see,' said Lance. 'It is Friday grinning at the savages.'

'Or a scarecrow on the back of a ditch,' said Felix. 'Come, Ed, tell us
what it is meant for.'

Edgar was impenetrable; but having watched the others out of the house,
he dragged Geraldine up to see--something--

'Oh!' she cried. 'You've done it!'

'To be sure! You know it?'

'It is Achilles on the rampart, shouting at the Trojans! O Edgar--how
brave he looks--how his hair flies! Some day you will get him in his
god-like beauty!'

'Do you think he has not got any of it, Cherry?' said Edgar, gazing
wistfully. 'I did see it all, but it didn't come out--and now--'

'I see what you mean,' said Cherry, screwing up her eyes; 'it is in him
to be glorious--a kind of lightning look.'

'Yes, yes; that's what I meant. All majesty and wrath, but no strain. O
Cherry--to have such things in my head, and not get them out! Don't you
know what it is?' as he rolled and flung himself about.

'Oh, yes!' said Cherry from her heart. 'Oh! I should so like to do one
touch to his face, but he's so big! You did him on a chair, and I could
not stand on one.'

'I'll lift you up. I'll hold you,' cried Edgar.

The passion for drawing must have been very strong in the two children;
for Geraldine was most perilously, and not without pain, raised to a
chair, where, with Edgar's arms round her waist, she actually worked
for ten minutes at Achilles' face, but his arm she declined. 'It is not
right, Eddy! look--that muscle in his elbow can never be so!'

'I can't see the back of mine, but you can,' said Edgar, lifting her
down, and proceeding to take off his coat and roll up his shirt-sleeve.

'That's the way. Oh! but it is not such an angle as that.'

'Achilles' muscles must have stood out more than mine, you know. I'll
get a look at Blunderbore's. O Cherry, if I were but older--I know I
could--I'd save Felix from this horrible thing! I feel to want to roar
at old Froggy, like this fellow at the Trojans.'

'Perhaps some day you will save him.'

'Yes; but then he will have done it. Just fancy, Gerald, if _that_
picture was as it ought to be--as you and I see it!'

'It would be as grand as the world ever saw,' said the little girl,
gazing through her eye-lashes at the dim strokes in the twilight. 'O
Edgar, many a great man has begun in a garret!'

'If it would not be so long hence! Oh! must you go down?'

'I heard some one calling. You will be a great artist, I know, Edgar!'

It was pleasanter than the other criticism, at bed-time.

'Hollo! Man Friday does not look quite so frightful!' said Felix.

'I'm sure I won't have him over my bed,' said Fulbert, proceeding to
rub him out; and though, for the moment, Achilles was saved by violent
measures of Edgar's, yet before the end of the next day, Fulbert and
Lance had made him black from head to foot, all but the whites of his
eyes and his teeth; Robina and Angela had peeped in, and emulated the
terror of the Trojans, or the savages; and Sibby had fallen on the
young gentleman for being 'so bold' as to draw a frightful phooka
upon their walls, just to frighten the darlints. Indeed, it was long
before Angela could be got past the door at night without shuddering,
although Achilles had been obliterated by every possible method that
Felix, Clement, or Sibby could devise, and some silent tears of Cherry
had bewailed the conclusion of this effort of high art, the outline of
which, in more moderate proportions, was cherished in that portfolio of
hers.

Another work of art--the photograph--was safely accomplished. The
photographer caught at the idea, declaring that he had been so often
asked for Mr. Underwood's carte, that he had often thought of begging
to take it gratis. And he not only insisted on so doing, but he came
down from his studio, and took Mr. Underwood in his own chair, under
his own window--producing a likeness which, at first sight, shocked
every one by its faithful record of the ravages of disease, unlightened
by the fair colouring and lustrous beaming eyes, but which, by-and-by,
grew upon the gazer, as full of a certain majesty of unearthly beauty
of countenance.

The autumn was mild, and Mr. Underwood rallied in some measure, so as
sometimes even to get to church at mid-day services on warm days.

It was on St. Andrew's Day that he was slowly walking home, leaning
on Felix's arm, with the two elder girls close behind him, when Alda
suddenly touched Wilmet's arm, exclaiming, 'There's Marilda Underwood!'

There indeed was the apparition of Centry Park, riding a pretty pony,
beside a large and heavily-bearded personage. The recognition was
instantaneous; Marilda was speaking to her companion, and at the same
moment he drew up, and exclaiming, 'Edward! bless me!' was off his
horse in a moment, and was wringing those unsubstantial fingers in a
crushing grasp. There was not much to be seen of Mr. Underwood, for
he was muffled up in a scarf to the very eyes, but they looked out of
their hollow caves, clear, blue, and bright, and smiling as ever, and
something like an answer came out of the middle of the folds.

'These yours? How d'ye do!--How d'ye do!--Mary, you don't get off till
we come to the door!--Yes, I'll come in with you! Bless me! bless me!
Mary has been at me ever so many times about you, but we've been had
abroad for masters and trash, and I left it till we were settled here.'

It was not many steps to the door, and there Wilmet flew on to prepare
her mother and the room, while Alda stood by as her cousin was assisted
from her horse by the groom, and the new-comer followed in silence,
while Felix helped his father up the steps, and unwound his wraps,
after which he turned round, and with his own sunny look held out his
hand, saying, 'How are you, Tom? I'm glad to see you--How d'ye do, Mary
Alda? we are old friends.--Call your mother, one of you.'

The mother was at hand, and they entered the drawing-room, where, as
the clergyman sank back into his arm-chair, the merchant gazed with
increasing consternation at his wasted figure and features.

'How long has this been going on?' he asked, pointing to him and
turning to Mrs. Underwood, but as usual her husband answered for her.

'How long have I been on the sick list? Only since the end of
September, and I am better now than a month ago.'

'Better! Have you had advice?'

'Enough to know how useless it is.'

'Some trumpery Union doctor. I'll have Williams down before you are a
day older.'

'Stay, Tom. Thank you, most warmly, but you see yourself the best
advice in the world could tell us no more than we know already. Are you
really master of old Centry Underwood? I congratulate you.'

'Ay. I'm glad the place should come back to the old name. Mrs.
Underwood and myself both felt it a kind of duty, otherwise it went
against the grain with her, and I'm afraid she'll never take to the
place. 'Twas that kept us abroad so long, though not from want of
wishes from Mary and myself. The girl fell in love with yours at first
sight.'

'To be sure I did,' said the young lady. 'Do let me see the little
ones, and your baby.'

'Take your cousin to see them in the dining-room, Alda,' said the
mother; the order that Alda had been apprehending, for the dining-room
was by many degrees more shabby than the drawing-room; however, she
could only obey, explaining by the way that little Bernard, being
nearly two years old, was hardly regarded as a baby now.

Wilmet was in effect making him and Angela presentable as to the hands,
face, hair, and pinafore, and appeared carrying the one and leading the
other, who never having closely inspected any one in a riding-habit
before, hung back, whispering to know whether 'that man was a woman.'

Marilda was in raptures, loving nothing so well as small children, and
very seldom enjoying such an opportunity as the present; and the two
babies had almost the whole of the conversation adapted to them, till
Alda made an effort.

'So you have been on the Continent?'

'Oh yes; it was such a horrid bore. Mamma would go. She said I must
have French masters, and more polish, but I don't like French polish. I
hope I'm just as English as I was before.'

'That is undeniable,' said Felix, laughing.

'Didn't you care for it? Oh! I should like it so much!' cried Alda.

'Like it? What, to hear French people chattering and gabbling all round
one, and be always scolded for not being like them! There was a poor
dog at the hotel that had been left behind by some English people, and
could not bear the French voices, always snarled at them. I was just
like him, and I got Papa to buy him and bring him home, and I always
call him John Bull.'

'But wasn't it nice seeing places, and churches, and pictures?' asked
Geraldine.

'That was the most disgusting of all, to be bothered with staring at
the stupid things. Mamma with her Murray standing still at them all,
and making me read it out just like a lesson, and write it after, which
was worse! And then the great bare shiny rooms with nothing to do. The
only thing I liked was looking at a jolly little old woman that sold
hot chestnuts out in the street below. Such dear little children in
round caps came to her! Just like that,'--endeavouring to convert her
pocket-handkerchief into the like head-gear for Robina.

'I have always so wanted to come here,' she continued, 'only I am
afraid Mamma won't like the place. She says it's dull, and there's no
good society. Is there?'

'I am sure we don't know,' said Wilmet.

'Lots of people are coming to stay with us for Christmas,' added
Marilda, 'and you must all of you come and have all the fun with us.'

'Oh, thank you! how charming!' cried Alda. 'If Papa will but be well
enough; he is so much better now.'

'He must come for change of air,' said Marilda. 'You can't think how
pleased my father was to hear I had met you. He talked all the way home
of how clever your father was, and how wickedly Cousin Fulbert at Vale
Leston had served him, and he promised me when I came here I should
have you with me very often. I would have written to tell you, only I
do so hate writing. This is much better.'

Marilda seemed to have perfectly established herself among them before
the summons came to her; and as the children herded to the door, her
father turned round and looked at the boys inquiringly. 'There,' said
Mr. Underwood, 'this is Felix, and this is Edgar, sixteen and fourteen.'

'Bless me, what a number, and as much alike as a flock of sheep,'
again exclaimed the cousin. 'One or two more or less would not make
much odds--eh, Edward?--Mary, what kissing all round?--D'ye know them
all?--I'll look in to-morrow or next day, and you'll give me your
answer, Edward.'

They were off, and at Mr. Underwood's sign Felix followed him into
the sitting-room, to the great excitement of the exterior population,
who unanimously accepted Alda's view, that one of them was going to
be adopted. Their notion was not so much out as such speculations
generally are, for Mr. Underwood was no sooner alone with Felix and
his mother, than he said, 'You are in request, Felix; here's another
offer for one of you--the very thing I once missed. What say you to a
clerkship at Kedge Brothers?'

'For one of us, did you say, Father?'

'Yes; the answer I am to give to-morrow is as to which. You have the
first choice.'

'Do you wish me to take it, Father?'

'I wish you to think. Perhaps this is the last time I shall have any
decision to make for you, and I had rather you should make your own
choice; nor, indeed, am I sure of my own wishes.'

'Then,' said Felix decidedly, 'I am sure I had better not. Edgar would
not, and must not, go to my work; there would be nothing coming in for
ever so long, and it would be a shame to throw old Froggy over.'

'I rather expected this, Felix. I told Tom you were in a manner
provided for, but when he found you had a turn for business, he was the
more anxious to get you.'

'I've got no turn that I know of,' said Felix, rather gloomily; 'but we
can't all of us set up for gentlemen, and Edgar is the one of us all
that ought to have the very best! Such a fellow as he is! He is sure
of the prize this time, you know! I only don't think this good enough
for him! He ought to go to the University. And maybe when Mr. Underwood
sees--'

'Not impossible,' said the sanguine father, smiling; 'and, at any
rate, to get put in the way of prosperity early may make his talents
available. It is odd that his first name should be Thomas. Besides,
I do not think your mother could get on without you. And, Felix,' he
lowered his voice, 'I believe that this is providential. Not only as
securing his maintenance, but as taking him from Ryder. Some things
have turned up lately when he has been reading with me, that have
dismayed me. Do you know what I mean?'

'A little,' said Felix gravely.

'I know Ryder would be too honourable consciously to meddle with a
boy's faith; but the worst of it is, he does not know what is meddling,
and he likes Edgar, and talks eagerly to him. And the boy enjoys it.'

'He does,' said Felix, 'but he knows enough to be on his guard. There
can't be any harm done.'

'Not yet! Not but what can be counteracted, if--Felix, you cannot
guess how much easier it makes it to me to go, that Edgar will not be
left in Ryder's hands. As to the younger ones, such things do not come
down to the lower forms. And they will be eligible for clergy orphans.
Audley spoke of a choristership for Clement in the clergy-house at
Whittingtonia. Was there ever such a raising up of friends and helpers?
I am glad to have seen Tom Underwood, hearty, kindly--sure to be always
a good friend to you all. What did you think of the girl, Felix?'

'She is a jolly sort of girl,' said Felix; 'not like ours, you know,
Father, but not half a bad fellow.'

Mr. Underwood smiled thoughtfully, and asked, 'Have you seen enough of
her to judge how she is brought up?'

It was treating his son so much more as a friend than as a boy, that
Felix looked up surprised. 'I should think her mother wanted to make
her no end of a swell,' he said, 'and that it would not take.'

Mr. Underwood lent back thoughtfully. In truth, his cousin had, in his
outburst of affection and remorse at long unconscious neglect, declared
his intention of taking home one of the girls to be as a sister to his
Mary, and then, evidently bethinking himself of some influence at home,
had half taken back his words, and talked of doing something, bringing
his wife to see about it, &c.

And when Mr. and Mrs. Underwood were again alone, they discussed the
probabilities, and considered whether if the offer were made they would
accept it. Mr. Underwood had only seen his cousin's wife once, in his
prosperous days, when he had been at the wedding, and his impression
was not that of perfect refinement. There was reason to think from the
words of her husband and daughter that there was a good deal of the
_nouveau riche_ about her, and Mrs. Underwood did not know how to think
of trusting a daughter in a worldly, perhaps irreligious, household.
But Mr. Underwood was a good deal touched by his cousin's warmth and
regret; he believed that the family kept up religious habits; he
thought that Providence had brought him friends in this last hour, and
his affectionate sanguine spirit would not hesitate in accepting the
kindness that provided for another of the children he was leaving. She
trusted him as sure to know best; and, after her usual mode, said no
more, except 'Wilmet would be safest there.'

'You could spare her least.'

'Yes, indeed, it would be losing my right hand; but poor Alda--'

'Poor Alda! but consider if there is not worse evil in keeping her
among girls who hurt her, if they do not Wilmet. Beauty and wounded
vanity are dangerous in a place like this.'

'Dangerous anywhere!'

'Less so in a great house, with that good honest Mary Alda, and Tom,
who will look after her in the main, than here, or as a governess, with
an inferior education.'

'It may be so. I know I can spare her better than her sister.'

'Wilmet is doing something for herself too--as Alda cannot, it seems.
Justice settles the point, dearest, as it did between the boys--that
is, if we have the offer.'

Perhaps the mother still had a lurking hope that the offer would not be
made. Her instinct was to keep all her brood round her; but, silent and
deferential woman that she was, she said nothing, and resolved to be
thankful for what so eased her husband's mind.

The handsome carriage tore up to the door, and violet velvet and
feathers descended, Mary Alda sprang after, and then came her father,
and hampers on hampers of game, wine, and fruits ensued; while Marilda
seized on Alda, and turned of herself into the dining-room, bearing a
box of sweets. 'Where are the little ones? Little Bobbie, here; and all
the rest.'

Not many calls were needful to bring a flock to share the feast, with
cries of joy; but Marilda was not yet satisfied.

'Where's the other of you?' she said to Alda. 'I don't know you well
apart yet.'

'Wilmet's in the kitchen,' thrust in Lancelot, 'ironing the collars for
Sunday.'

'Lance!' uttered Alda indignantly.

'Oh! what fun! do let me go down and see! I should so like to iron.'

'But, Marilda--your Mamma--'

'Oh nonsense, come along, show me the way. That's right, Robins, only
your hands are so sticky. What, down here!--Oh, Wilmet, how d'ye do?
what delicious work! do you always do it?'

'Generally, if Sibby is busy.'

'Do let me try.'

And she did try for ten minutes, at the end of which the mother's voice
was heard calling for Edgar, who, turning crimson, went upstairs,
leaving the others standing about the tidy kitchen, fresh sanded for
Saturday.

'What, not you!' said Marilda, pausing in her smoothing operations, and
looking at Felix.

'No,' said he. 'I have got my work.'

'Oh! don't talk of it,' said Alda. 'I can't bear it. I didn't think he
was in earnest, or that Papa would let him.'

Marilda turned full round. 'What, you won't go and be my father's
clerk, and be one of Kedge and Underwood, and make a fortune?'

Felix shook his head.

'And what is your work instead?'

'Printing,' said Felix stoutly. 'It gives present payment, and we can't
do without it.'

Both Marilda's hands seized on his. 'I like you!' she said. 'I wish I
were you.'

They all laughed, and Felix coloured, more abashed than pleased.
Lance--to make up for his ignominious rescue at their last
meeting--performed a wonderful progress, holding on by his fingers and
toes along the ledge of the dresser; and Marilda, setting her back (a
broad one) against the ironing-board, went on talking.

'And do you know what besides?' looking round, and seeing they did
not. 'One of you girls is to come and live with me, and be my sister.
I wanted to have this little darling Angela to pet, but Mamma wouldn't
have her, and I did so beg for Geraldine, to let her have a sofa and a
pony-carriage! I do want something to nurse! But Mamma won't hear of
anybody but one of you two great ones, to learn and do everything with
me; and that's not half the use.'

'But is it really?' cried Alda.

'Yes, indeed! You'll be had up for her to choose from--that is, if she
can. How exactly alike you are!'

'She won't choose me,' said Wilmet. 'Hark, there's Edgar coming down.'

Edgar ran in, with orders to the twins to go into the drawing-room.
Wilmet hung back. 'I will not be the one,' she said resolutely. 'Let
Alda go alone.'

'No,' said Felix, 'it is what you are told that you've got to do now.
Never mind about the rest! Let us all come out of this place.' And it
was he who took off his sister's ironing apron as they went up to the
dining-room together, while Marilda cried eagerly, 'Well, Edgar?'

'Well,' said Edgar, not in the enchanted voice she expected; 'it is
very good of your father, and what must be must.'

'Don't you like it?' said Marilda, half hurt; and Edgar, always a boy
of ready courtesy, answered, 'Yes, yes, I'm no end of grateful. I'll
get rich, and go abroad, and buy pictures. Only I did hope to paint
them.'

'Paint pictures!' cried Marilda. 'What, rather than be a merchant! Do
such stupid useless things, only to bother people with having to stare
at them, when you could be making money?'

'There's no reason one should not make money with pictures,' said
Edgar; 'but I'd rather make delight! But it can't be helped, and I am
very glad to have done with this horrid place.'

Meantime Wilmet and Alda found themselves before a large, florid,
much-dressed lady, with a most good-natured face, who greeted them with
'Good morning, my dears! Just as Marilda told me, so much alike as to
be quite romantic. Well, no doubt it is a pity to separate between you,
but my Marilda will be a true sister. She has spoken of nothing else.
Are you willing, either of you, my dears?'

'Ay!' chimed in Mr. Thomas Underwood; 'we'll make you happy whichever
it is! You shall be in all respects like our own child; Mary would see
to that, if we didn't.'

'As to choice,' said the lady, 'there's none that I can see--pretty
genteel girls both, that will do us credit, unless it is their own
fault. Excellent governess, London masters--you may be assured
everything shall be done for her.'

'Shall we toss up which it shall be?' laughed her husband.

'No,' said Mr. Underwood gently. 'We think that this one,' laying his
hand on Alda's arm, 'will value these advantages, and is not quite such
a home-bird as her sister. I hope you will find a grateful good child
in Alda Mary, and a kind sister to Mary Alda.'

The tears came into Alda's eyes, as her father seemed thus making her
over; a great rush of affection for all at home, and contempt for Mary
Alda in comparison with her own twin, seemed to take away any elation,
as Mr. and Mrs. Tom Underwood kissed her, and welcomed her, and
declared they should like to take her home at once.

'You shall have her soon,' said Mr. Underwood. 'Let me keep her for
Christmas Day.'

And for Christmas Day he did keep her, though at the bottom of Alda's
heart there were strong hopes of invitations to join the festivities
at Centry Underwood. Indeed, such a party was insisted on by Marilda,
one that was to include all the little ones, and make them happier than
ever they had been in their lives. It was to be on Twelfth Day, but
Mrs. Underwood hinted to the twins that they had better not talk to the
younger ones about it, for she scarcely believed they would go. She
had never before spoken out that conviction which had long crushed her
down, and Wilmet's whole soul seemed for the moment scared away by this
fresh intimation of the condition in which their father stood; while
Alda vehemently repeated the old declaration that he was better. He
said he was better. Alas! such a better as it always was.

'How well you ought to be!' said Mr. Audley one day at the reiteration,
'better every day!'

'Yes, and best of all at last!' was the reply, with a sweet smile.

For he was very happy. The partial provision for the four eldest
children, two by their own exertions, two through friends, had
evidently been received by him as an earnest of protection and aid
for the rest, even to the babe whom he scarcely expected ever to
see in this world. He said it would be ungrateful not to trust, and
he did trust with all his heart, cheered as it was by the tardy
cordiality of his cousin, and the indefinable love of kindred that
was thus gratified. Thomas Underwood poured in good things of
all kinds on the invalid and his house, fulfilled his promise of
calling in further advice, and would have franked half the family
to Torquay--Nice--Madeira--if the doctors had given the slightest
encouragement. It could be of little ultimate avail; but the wine
and soup did give support and refreshment bodily, and produced much
gratitude and thankfulness mentally, besides lightening some of Mrs.
Underwood's present cares.

No one was more anxious to help than Mr. Ryder; he had been assiduous
in his inquiries and offers of service ever since the attack at
Michaelmas; and it was evident that he really venerated the Curate,
while he was a severe and contemptuous judge of the Rector. But when,
after a brilliant examination, he became aware that he was to lose
both the elder Underwoods at once, his mortification was great; he
came to call, and Mr. Underwood had again to undergo an expostulation
on Felix's prospects, and an offer of keeping him free of expense.
The school-fee was a mere trifle, but Mr. Ryder would willingly have
boarded and lodged the boy himself--for the benefit of his authority,
as he said, over younger boarders.

'I am afraid,' said Mr. Underwood, kind and grateful as usual, 'that
there are too many younger boarders here for Felix to be spared. No,
thank you; I am sincerely obliged to you, but the hard cash is a
necessary consideration.'

'And you can sacrifice such a boy's prospects--'

'Bread and cheese _must_ be earned, even at the cost of prospects. He
cannot afford to wait to make his labour skilled.'

'Forgive me, Mr. Underwood, but I cannot think it is right to throw
away his abilities.'

'You can allow that it is a less wrong than to leave the rest to debt
or starvation.'

'You should trust--'

'I do trust; but I can do so better when I humble what is nothing
but pride and vanity in me, after all. I was foolish enough about it
at first, but I am quite content now that my boy should do his duty,
without being curious as to where it is to be done.'

'You will tell me a schoolmaster's vanity is concerned; and I allow it
is, for I looked to your sons to raise the reputation of the school;
but perhaps it is only put off a little longer. Will you let me have
Clement or Fulbert, on the terms I proposed for Felix?'

'No, Ryder; with many, many thanks, much feeling of your generous
kindness--it cannot be.'

'You do not trust me.' This was said with as much indignation as could
be shown to a man in Mr. Underwood's condition.

'No. Your very kindness would make the tone I regret in you more
perilous. Do not think Felix ungrateful, Ryder; the desire is mine--and
remember, it is that of a man who is dying, and who really loves and
values you greatly. It is that the younger boys should, as soon as may
be, go to schools where older systems prevail.'

Mr. Ryder was exceedingly mortified, and though he tried hard to
conceal the full extent of his annoyance, he could not help saying,
'You know how I respect your motives; but let me say that I doubt your
finding any place where the ideas you deprecate are not to be found.
And--pardon me--may not the finding their progress obstructed by your
scruples, the more indispose your sons to them?'

'I hope not,' said Mr. Underwood, calmly. 'I hope it may show them
how strong the approach of death makes that faith--nay, rather
assurance--with which your party are tampering.'

'You are not doing me justice, Mr. Underwood. You know that my faith
and hope are at the core the same as your own. All our question is what
outworks are untenable.' Again he spoke hotly, but Mr. Underwood's
gentleness seemed to silence him.

'And that there should be any such question proves--alas!--the utter
difference between our belief. Ryder, you are a young man, and as I
believe and trust verily in earnest; and some day, I think, you will
understand what faith is. Meantime, your uncertainties are doing more
mischief than you understand--they pervade all your teaching more than
you know. I dread what they may do to such as have not your moral
sense to restrain them and bring them back, as I pray--I hope ever to
pray--it may be with you. Thank you for all your kindness, actual and
intended, to my boys.'

Then rising from his chair, while Mr. Ryder remained uncertain how
to speak, he signed to him to remain still while he sought in his
book-case and returned with a small old copy of Jeremy Taylor's 'Holy
Living and Dying;' then sitting down again, wrote the schoolmaster's
name in it, above his own 'Under-wode, Under-rode' stamp. 'Keep it,
Ryder! I do not say that you will care for it now, but some day I think
you will, and if I am allowed to know of it, it will be joy.'

Mr. Ryder could only wring the hand that held it out to him, and with a
great effort say, 'Thank you.' He saw that Mr. Underwood was too much
tired to prolong the conversation; but he wrote a note of warm thanks
that evening, promising to do whatever lay in his power for the boys,
that their father would not think dangerous for them; and he added,
that whatever he should for the future think or say, such an example
as he had now seen was a strong weight on its own side. It was warmly
and tenderly put, and like everything that befell him, gratified Mr.
Underwood.

A very happy man he had been, as he sincerely told those who would have
grieved over him, and not without some remorse.

'Yes,' as he said to Mr. Audley, who watched him like a son, 'it is
indeed the Lord who hath led me all my life through. I never had a want
or a care unfulfilled till nine years ago. Then, just as I had become
sluggish and mechanical in fixed habits of easy country work, came
this thorough change, break, and rousing. I tell you, I can never be
thankful enough for the mercy. Not to leave them all provided for, as
the saying is, would I go back to be such a priest as I was becoming.
Happy--yes, I have been much happier here, since no choice was left me
but working up to my strength.'

'And beyond it,' said Mr. Audley, sadly.

'If so--well; so much the better!' he said. 'It is a blessing to be
allowed to be spent in that service. And for the children, I wish only
for work and goodness for them--and for that I may well trust my good
Master.'




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 there
are!'

'Stuff!'

'No, I won't have it done if Wilmet says not;' and Felix reared up in
the 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, on
the 4th of January, and the more oppressive in St. Oswald's Buildings,
because not only had their father been in a much more suffering state
for some days past, but their mother, who had hoped to keep up for some
weeks longer, had for the last two days been quite unlike herself. In
the sick-room she was as tender and vigilant as ever in her silent
way, but towards her children a strange fretful impatience had set in,
almost a jealousy of their coming near their father, and an intolerance
of 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 early
service; and altogether the wretchedness and perplexity of that day
had been such, that it was no wonder that even Felix and Wilmet had
scarcely spirits or temper for the only task that seemed at present
left 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 least
chance,' 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 her
tone.

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 a
cave--'

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

'But this one had but one eye. Come, _do_ listen; papa told me. He was
in 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 his
arms, as the door was opened by a hand groping, and Mr. Audley's voice
said, 'Darkness visible.'

There was a general scrambling up all over the floor, and Edgar rushed
across to light a candle. Wilmet alone had not stirred, as Bernard lay
asleep across her lap. The flash of the match revealed a mass of light
disordered 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 his
solace. There was a sweet warm kiss on her brow, and her lost net was
picked up, her hair coiled into it by a pair of ready tender hands, but
she 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 hardly
been in all day except just to fetch and carry.'

'Never mind,' said the Sister, 'it is much better that she did not
think 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 of
the 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, though
ordinarily very shy, clung to her at once; while she, moving over to
Cherry, found her in tears, shook up her cushion, arranged her rug,
and made her comfortable in a moment. A sense came over them all that
they had among them a head on whom they might rest their cares; and as
the black bonnet and veil were taken off, and they saw a sweet fair
motherly face beaming on them from the white plain-bordered cap, they
gathered round with an outpouring of confidence, small and great, while
Mr. Audley went upstairs to announce what he had done. He presently
returned, 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 a
dressing-gown, more entirely the sick man than he had ever before given
up himself to be. Mrs. Underwood rose, and with tears in her eyes,
mutely held out her hand, while her husband at once recognised Sister
Constance as Lady Herbert Somerville, the wife of the late rector of
Dearport. He had last met her when, some six or seven years before,
he had been invited to preach at festivals at Dearport, and had seen
her the sunbeam of her house. He knew that her husband, who was a
connection of Mr. Audley's, had since died of the same malady as his
own, and had left her, a childless widow, together with all else he had
to leave, to the Sisterhood they had already founded in the seaport
town. But his greeting was, 'This is _very_ good in you; but surely it
must 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 her
love 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, who
had, in her new and extraordinary petulance, fiercely resisted the
doctor's recommendation of a nurse, found herself implicitly relying
on and trusting Sister Constance with a wonderful sense of relief--a
relief perhaps still greater to the patient himself, who had silently
endured more discomforts, and made more exertions than she knew, rather
than tire her or vex her by employing even son or daughter, and who was
besides set free from some amount of anxiety.

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

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

What struck her, as it did all, was Mr. Underwood's perfect absence of
all 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 hard
to resign himself to leaving his plans half carried out to instruments
which he had but half formed. He had wished with all his might to
live, and though he had resigned himself dutifully, it had been with a
real struggle, and a longing for continued service rather than rest,
a hope that he should more efficiently serve, and much difficulty in
refraining 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 think
about what is to follow. If I live three days longer I shall have just
had my forty years in the wilderness, and though it has blossomed like
a rose, I am glad to be near the rest.'

And then he asked for the Midnight Office; and afterwards came
fitful sleep, half dreamy, half broken by the wanderings of slight
feverishness and great weakness; but she thought her attendance would
not be very brief, and agreed mentally with what Mr. Audley had
told her, that the doctor said that the end might yet be many weeks
away. When in the dark winter's morning the wife crept back again to
her post, and all that could be done in those early hours had been
effected, Sister Constance went to the half-past seven o'clock service
with Felix and Clement, imparting to them on the road that the Superior
of St. Faith's was expecting to receive some of the least of the
children in the course of the day, to remain there for the present.

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

It was quickly settled. Mr. Underwood at once confessed the exceeding
kindness, and declared it to be much better for everybody. 'Do you not
feel 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 were
brought--Robina, Angela, and Bernard--and each stood for a moment on
a chair at his bed-side. The two little ones he merely kissed and
blessed; but to Robina he said a few more words about being good, and
minding Mamma and Felix.

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

He watched wistfully as the bright heads passed out of sight, and the
long struggling cough and gasping that followed had all the pangs of
parting to add to their burthen. Half the family escorted Felix and his
charge to the station; and in the quiet that followed, Sister Constance
had a good sleep on Wilmet's bed, as much, she said, as she ever
required; and she came from it all freshness and brightness, making the
dinner-time very charming to all the diminished party, though Wilmet
felt greatly lost without the little ones; and afterwards she earned
the warmest gratitude from Edgar and Geraldine by looking over their
drawings and giving them some valuable hints--nay, she even devised
the new and delightful occupation of ship-building for those three
inconvenient subjects, Clement, Fulbert, and Lancelot. Upstairs or
down, all was gentle cheerfulness and patience wherever she went.

Felix came home about five o'clock, and his mother was persuaded
to go to lie down while he amused his father with the account of
the children's exemplary behaviour, and of their kind welcome at
St. Faith's, where he had been kept to dine, feeling, as he said,
'uncommonly queer' at first, but at last deciding, to the great
diversion of his father, that the sisters were a set of jolly old
girls, but not one equal to '_our_ Sister Constance.' Then he had
seen the church, and was almost bewildered with the beauty of the
decorations; and Mr. Underwood, though saying little, evidently much
enjoyed his boy's refreshment and pleasure. He certainly seemed no
worse, and Mr. Audley was allowed, what he had often asked before, to
sit up with him.

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

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

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

'Is it so?' he murmured; 'thank God! That is well!' But his chest
heaved grievously as he panted with anxiety, and his two watchers
hesitated what to do, until the door was slightly opened, and before
the 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 if
they are taken, as they look like to be--twins, and coming like this!'
Perhaps Sibby was a little more lamentable, because, instead of looking
shocked, he clasped his hands in eager thanksgiving, as he looked
upwards.

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

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

Sister Constance had better hopes of the babes than Sibby, but this
wish of his was one not to be withstood for a moment; and she went to
make ready, while Mr. Audley went down for the little Parian font,
and Felix and Sibby arranged the pillows and coverings. Mr. Underwood
looked very bright and thankful. 'Birth-day gifts,' he said, 'what are
they? 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,' he
answered brightly. 'See, Sibby, can't you be thankful, like me, that
your mistress is sheltered from what would try her? I can bear it all
better without her to see.'

Sibby's only reply was a gush of tears, and presently all was made
ready; Geraldine was quietly helped into the room by Edgar, and placed
in her usual station by the pillow, and the boys stood against the
wall, while the two babes, tiny and scarcely animate things, were
carried, each by one of the elder pair; and the father, as whitely
robed as if he had been in his surplice, held out his hands, and smiled
with 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 were
the children of joy--these are the children of sorrow,' murmured
Wilmet, 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 as
hard to control as Wilmet's had been. Then Wilmet held her charge close
to her father, for, almost inappreciable as the weight was, he could
only venture to lay one arm round that grasshopper burthen, as with his
long thin fingers he dashed the water. 'Theodore Benjamin, I baptize
thee.' Alda brought the other. 'Stella Eudora.' Then the two hands were
folded 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 him
as 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, that
his 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, and
it 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 to
you 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 with
love 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 a
blessing--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 quest
of ice where they might behold skating, and practise sliding; and
Wilmet, with a view to quiet, actually ventured on the extravagance of
providing 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 to
hold the Epiphany Feast in the sick chamber, her father asked for Edgar
and Geraldine, and looked disappointed that the boy was gone. But he
murmured, 'Maybe it is best!' and when the little girl came in, flushed
and awe-struck, he took her hand, and said, 'May not I have this little
one--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 her
eyes.

There could be no denial, and his judgment at such a moment could only
be accepted by the Rector; and the child herself durst not say one word
of her alarm and awe. Papa knew. And never could she forget that he
held her hand all the time that she leant--for she could not kneel--by
his bed. Her elder brother and sisters were there too, and he kissed
and blessed each tenderly afterwards, and Sister Constance too knelt
and asked his blessing. Then he thanked Mr. Bevan warmly, and called it
a most true day of brightness. They heard him whispering to himself,
'Arise, shine, for thy Light is come;' and the peaceful enjoyment
seemed 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 an
increase of the distress and oppression of breath, which he thought
might be more bearable in his chair; and Mr. Audley, who had just come
in, began with Felix to dress him, and prepare to move him. But just as
they were helping him towards the chair, there was a sort of choke, a
gasping struggle, his head fell on Felix's shoulder, the boy in terror
managed to stretch out a hand and rang the bell; but in that second
felt that there was a strange convulsive shudder, and--

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

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

'Felix,' she said, understanding all, 'you must go to her. She
heard--she is calling you. You cannot conceal it; be as quick and quiet
as 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. He
stood by the bed-side; his mother looked into his white face, and held
out her hands; then as he bent down, clasped both round his neck. 'He
trusted you,' she said.

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

Presently after, Felix was sitting in the large arm-chair in the
dining-room, with his sister Geraldine on his lap, his arms round her,
her arms tightly clasped round his neck, her hair hanging loosely
down over his shoulder, her head against him, his face over her, as
he rocked himself backwards and forwards with her, each straining the
other closer, as though the mechanical action and motion could allay
the pain. The table was all over baby-things, which numerous neighbours
had sent in on the first news of the twins that morning, and which
the girls had been inspecting; but no one--nothing else was to be
seen--when Mr. Thomas Underwood, on his way from the station, finding
his 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 his
sister 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. 'Quite
suddenly. Not very long ago,' he began, but he felt unable to guess for
what space of time he had been rocking Cherry there.

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

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

He groaned. 'Poor Edward! Well,' and he was forced to put his
handkerchief to his eyes. He spoke more gently after that. 'Well, this
is 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 be
with 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 Felix
spring forward with an instinct to silence them; but at the threshold
the sight of his face brought conviction to Edgar; and with a loud
uncontrollable cry, tired and hungry as he was, he seemed to collapse
into his brother's arms, and fainted away.

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

Felix and Clement were, poor children! used enough to illness to
attend to their brother with a collectedness that amazed their cousin;
and without calling for help, Edgar came shuddering and trembling
to himself, and then burst into silent but agonising sobs, very
painful to witness. He was always--boy as he was--the most easily
and entirely overthrown by anything that affected him strongly; and
Mr. Thomas Underwood was so much struck and touched by his exceeding
grief, especially now that he looked on him as his own property, that
after putting in some disjointed sentences of 'There--there--You'll
always have a father in me--Don't, my boy--I tell you, you are my son
now,'--which to Felix's mind made it more intolerable, he said, 'I'll
take 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, but
I'll do my best to make up to you. It will be much the best way for
you to come out of this,' he added, glancing round the dreary fireless
room, 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 can
I 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. Audley,' he added, as another trying grunt
at 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 explained
the sudden termination as what he had of late not thought improbable,
and further shown that it had been most merciful, since there might
otherwise have been weeks, if not months, of much severer suffering. He
had just looked in at the wife, but she had hardly noticed him, and he
saw no dangerous symptoms about her, except an almost torpid calmness.

Mr. Thomas Underwood saw Mr. Bevan, and made it clearly understood that
he made himself responsible for all expenses, including mourning for
the 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 no
state to be asked, and the children shrank from the removal, so it was
decided that Edward Underwood should sleep among those for whom he had
spent his life, and where his children's lot for the present would be
cast.

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

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

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

Mr. Audley took those words for his text on the Sunday, and, not
without breaking down more than once, read as much of the comment as
there was time for, as the happy-hearted message of the late pastor,
for whom indeed there were many tears shed. It seemed to suit with
that solemn peace and nobleness that seemed like the 'likeness of the
Resurrection face,' bringing back all the beauty of his countenance as
he lay robed in his surplice, with a thorny but bright-fruited cross of
holly on his breast, when his children looked their last, ere parting
with what remained of that loved and loving father.

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

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

She missed him more really than any of them, she had been so much his
companion; and she was the more solitary from the absence of Edgar,
who had always been her chief partner in her pursuits. His departure
had seemed like a defection; and yet she had reproached herself for so
feeling it when he had run upstairs, on arriving with Mr. Underwood,
looking paler, more scared and miserable, than any of them; and he
was sobbing so much when he took his place in the procession, that
Wilmet had made Felix take Alda, that she might support him. None of
his mother's steady reserve and resolute stillness had descended to
him, he was all sensibility and nervousness; and Geraldine, though
without saying this to herself, felt as if 'poor Edgar' might really
have been nearly killed by the last few days of sadness, he could bear
depression so little. She could hardly have gone through them but for
Sister Constance's kindness, and that rocking process from Felix,
which she and he called 'being his great baby.' And now, when her
mother looked up at her, held out a hand, and called her Papa's dear
little Cherry, drawing her to lay her cheek by hers on the pillow,
there was much soothing in it, though therewith the little girl felt
a painful doubt and longing to know whether her mother knew what was
passing; and even while perfectly aware that she must not be talked to
nor disturbed, was half grieved, half angry, at her dropping off into
a slumber, and awakening only upon little Stella's behalf. Those few
words to Geraldine had been the only sign that day of perception of any
existence in the world save that of the twins.

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

Geraldine found her four elders and the three little boys all together
in 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 on
purpose--the sobbing people, and the wreaths of camellias and of holly,
that loving hands had made, and laid upon the coffin. And then the last
hymn had been so sweet and beautiful, they all seemed refreshed and
comforted except Edgar, who, coming fresh back to the desolation of the
house, 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 came
on, which made the other children stand round rather appalled; while
Felix, hesitating, said,

'It is no good going on in this way, Edgar. Father would say it was not
right; and you are upsetting poor little Cherry.'

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

'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 next
time--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 something
to 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 for
us; but they are going to try for the Clergy Orphan for one of you two
little 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 with
her; and I think you'll beat Marilda, for she knows nothing, and won't
learn.'

'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 jarred
on her, and was glad of a summons upstairs.

Mr. Thomas Underwood saw Alda before he returned home, told her she was
his other daughter, and should join them on their way to London; and he
further made arrangements about the christening, contingent, of course,
on the mother's consent, and on the possibility of taking the very
small delicate babies to the church. He made very extensive promises of
patronage for the future, with a full and open heart, and looked as if
he 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.





CHAPTER V.

WORKING FOR BREAD.

    'Parson's lass 'ant nowt, an' she weant 'a nowt when 'e's dead;
     Mun be a guvness, lad, or summut, an' addle her bread.'
                                                   _Tennyson_.


'Tell, little one,' said Mr. Rugg, the doctor, as he found Geraldine
on the landing-place outside her mother's room, and spoke to her in
a voice that to her reluctant ears, as well as to those of Sister
Constance, who followed him, sounded all the more vulgar because it was
low, wheedling, and confidential; 'you are always about the house, you
know everything--what accident has your mamma met with?'

Cherry's face grew set.

'She has, then,' said the doctor, looking at Sister Constance. 'I
thought so. Now, be a good child, and tell us all about it.'

'I cannot,' she said.

'Come, don't be silly and sulk. No one will punish you; we know it was
an accident; out with it.'

'My dear,' said Sister Constance, 'this is a pity. Much may depend on
your speaking.'

Cherry began to cry very piteously, though still silently.

'Yes, yes, we see you are sorry,' said Mr. Rugg, 'but there's nothing
for it now but to let us hear the truth.'

She shook her head violently, and brow and neck turned crimson.

Mr. Rugg grew angered, and tried a sharper tone. 'Miss Geraldine, this
is regular naughtiness. Let me hear directly.'

The flush became purple, and something like 'I won't' came from behind
the handkerchief.

'Leave her to me, if you please,' said Sister Constance gently; 'I
think she will tell me what is right to be told.'

'As you please, Lady Somerville,' said Mr. Rugg, who, since he had
discovered her title, was always barbarously misusing it; 'but the
thing must be told. It is doing Mrs. Underwood a serious injury to let
childish naughtiness conceal the truth.'

Constance put her arm round the little girl, a tiny weight for thirteen
years old, and took her into the room where she had last seen her
father. She was sobbing violently, not without passion, and the more
distressingly because she carefully stifled every sound, and the poor
little frame seemed as if it would be rent to pieces. 'Cherry, dear
child, don't,' said Constance, sitting down and gathering her into her
arms; 'do try and calm yourself, and think--'

'He--he--I won't tell him!' sobbed the child. 'He's a bad man--he tells
stories. He said he would not hurt me--when he knew he should most
terribly. Papa said it was very wrong. Papa was quite angry--he called
it deceiving, he did! I won't tell him!'

'My dear child, is there anything to tell? Don't think about him, think
about what is good for your mother.'

'She told me not,' sobbed Cherry, but not with the anger there had been
before. 'No, no, don't ask me; she told me not.'

'Your mother? My dear little girl, whatever it is, you ought to say
it. Your dear mother seems to be too ill and confused to recollect
everything herself, and if it is not known whether she has been hurt,
how can anything be done for her?'

Cherry sat upon her friend's lap, and with a very heaving chest said,
'If Felix says I ought--then I will. Papa said we should mind Felix--
like him.'

'I will call Felix,' said Sister Constance.

Mr. Rugg looked very impatient of the delay; but Felix, who had just
come in to dinner, was summoned. He came at once, and was soon standing
by Geraldine's chair.

'Yes, Geraldine, I think you ought to tell,' he said, as the loyal
little thing gazed up at her new monarch. 'What did happen?'

'It was on the day after New Year's Day,' said Geraldine, now speaking
very fast. 'You were all at church, and she came out of--this room
with Bernard in her arms--and called to me that I might come and sit
with--him, because she was going down to the kitchen to make some
beef-tea. And just then she put her foot into a loop of whip-cord, and
fell. She could not save herself at all, because of Bernard; but she
went backwards--against the steps.'

'Did she seem hurt at the time?'

'I did not think so. She pulled herself up by the baluster before I
could get up to help her, and she never let Bernard go all the time--he
did not even scream. She only said, "Now mind, Cherry, do not say one
word of this to Papa or anybody else," and she told me she wasn't hurt.
Oh! was she really?' as the Sister left the room.

'I wonder whose the string was,' said Felix vindictively.

'Oh, never mind! He'll be so sorry! Oh! I hope she won't be very much
vexed at my telling!'

'She will not mind now!' said Felix; 'it was only not to frighten Papa.'

And Felix had his little sister in that one position where she felt
a sort of comfort--like a baby in his arms to be rocked--when Sister
Constance returned with the doctor. He spoke without either the anger
or the persuasive tone now, and Cherry could bear it better, though she
slipped off her brother's lap instantly, and stood up in dignity.

'So your Mamma told you to conceal this mishap. That is some excuse.
Now, tell me, how far did she fall?'

'Not more than four steps, I am sure--I think three.'

'And backwards?'

'Yes.'

'Do you think she struck her head?'

'Yes, the back of it.'

'Ah! And she spoke and moved at once, not like one stunned?'

'Oh no, not at all. She got up and made the beef-tea.'

'The 2nd of January! That must have been about the time you began to
observe that change of manner--the irritability your sister remarked,'
said the doctor, turning to Felix.

He nodded, angry as he had been with Alda for remarking it.

All that the doctor further said was, that he must have another
examination now that he knew a little more about the case; and he went
away with Sister Constance, saying to her, 'Mrs. Underwood is a lady of
wonderful fortitude and resolution, and really they are the worst kind
of patients.'

It was now more than a fortnight since that 6th of January which
saw the birth of the twins and the death of their father, and Mrs.
Underwood still lay quiet and almost torpid in her bed, seldom
speaking, hardly ever originating anything, and apparently taking no
interest whatsoever in anything outside her room; and yet there was no
symptom unfavourable to her recovery to be detected. Within the last
day or two they had tried to rouse her; papers had been brought to her
to sign, and she did so obediently, but she did not follow the subject:
she did not refuse, but did not second, any proposal for her beginning
to sit up; and this was the more remarkable, as, being a woman of much
health and energy in her quiet way, she had always recovered rapidly,
and filled her place in the family alarmingly soon. The nurse had begun
to suspect that besides the torpor of mind there was some weakness of
limb; and with the new lights acquired, Mr. Rugg had no difficulty in
coming to the conclusion that there was a slight concussion of the
spine, causing excitement at first, and now more serious consequences;
and though he did not apprehend present danger, he thought complete
recovery very doubtful.

'So they are almost worse than orphans,' said Sister Constance, when
the Curate went down from reading to the invalid, and she could tell
him the verdict.

'Do they know?'

'The fact? There is no need to lay the future on the shoulders of the
present.'

'A very dark present. I feel as if a great bright sun, warming and
invigorating, had gone out of my life. Yet I knew him but two years.'

'I can understand it, though I knew him but two days.'

'I hope he may have been the making of me,' sighed Mr. Audley. 'He
ought to be.'

'I think he has been,' said she, smiling. 'There is some difference
between you and the boyish young deacon that came here two years ago.'

'Who thought life without shooting barely endurable by the help of
croquet! I trust so! He was very patient and tolerant--made holidays
for me that first summer which it cuts me to recollect.'

'To live and share in a great sorrow does make a great step in life,'
said Constance, thoughtfully looking at the much graver and more
earnest brow of her husband's young cousin; 'and you were a comfort to
them all as no one else could be.'

'Must you go?' he said. 'I wanted to consult you. I am thinking of
giving up my present lodgings to this Mowbray Smith, who is coming as
curate, and coming here.'

'Here! My dear Charles!'

'I thought I had heard legends of twelve foot square?'

'Not with thirteen children. Besides, we were seasoned!'

'Stay; you don't understand. There are three rooms on this floor. Poor
Mrs. Underwood will hardly want to occupy these two just yet. I take
them, and put in some furniture--live to myself, but let them board and
lodge me. They may as well have what is to be made by it as any one
else.'

'But can they? And, forgive me, Charles, are you prepared for the
cookery here? Really, some of those children have appetites so small,
that I can't bear to see them at dinner.'

'That's the very point. They all say the invaluable Sibby is as good a
nurse as she is bad as a cook. Now, if they have no help, Wilmet _must_
stay at home to look after her mother and the twins; and that is not
fit for such a young girl. Now, my coming might enable them to get some
one who knows the use of meat and fires, and would send upstairs the
only woman who would undertake such a charge as that must be.'

'I don't like to say a word against it. It seems excellent for them.'

'I would not live with them, but I should be there to help. I could
keep Felix up in his Latin, and--'

'Only one suggestion more, Charles. If you do not stay here long?'

'Well--if not, every week I am here is so much tided over; and just at
this time the charge must be heaviest. Those boys may be disposed of
after a time.'

'I wish we could keep those two little girls at St. Faith's, but there
is no place yet for children of their class. I am wanted there this
day week, and I cannot say but that I shall be glad to leave you here.
Only, I recollect your mother's feelings.'

'Mothers must draw in the horns of their feelings when their sons are
ordained,' he said, laughing. 'I shall consult that notable person,
Wilmet.'

Wilmet started and blushed with pleasure. It would be so much less
dreary; and, poor girl! she was feeling as if she were half rent
asunder at the thought of Alda's going. So good for Felix, too. Only
she must ask Mamma. And she did ask Mamma, and, to her great pleasure,
Mrs. Underwood listened, and said, 'It is very kind.'

'And shall it be, Mamma?'

'I shall like for you to have some one in the house. Yes, my dear, I
think--' then she paused. 'My dear, you and Sibby and Sister Constance
had better talk it over. I do not seem able to consider it. But Sister
Constance will tell you. My dear Wilmet, I am afraid you must have a
great deal laid on you.'

'Oh, never mind, Mamma; I like doing things. Besides, you are so much
better.'

'I'll try to help you more,' added Mrs. Underwood wistfully. 'Which
room did you say?'

And she listened, and even made a few suggestions, as Wilmet explained
how she thought of making a sitting-room upstairs, and giving the two
downstairs front ones to Mr. Audley, using the back room for the boys
and children; she was altogether so much more open to comprehension,
and ready to speak, that Wilmet was full of hope and assurance that she
was really mending.

When Sister Constance came in, the readiness to converse continued.
She consulted her friend on the scheme, and its expedience for Mr.
Audley, saying that she feared he would be uncomfortable; but she could
not reject so great a help for her children. She had even thought of
the advantage of keeping Sibby upstairs to attend on the babies and
herself--work not fit to rest entirely on Wilmet, though the good girl
had fully counted on giving up her work at school.

It was evident that the examination by the doctor and Wilmet's
consultation had thoroughly roused her, and she was as clear-headed
as ever. Indeed, it seemed to Sister Constance that she was a little
excited, and in that mood in which the most silent and reserved people
suddenly become the most unreserved.

She was asked at last what Mr. Rugg thought of her, and Sister
Constance in reply asked whether she remembered her accident. She
thought a little. 'Why--yes--I believe I did slip on the stairs; but it
did not hurt me, and I forgot it. Does he think anything of it?'

'I think he fears you gave yourself a shock.'

'Not unlikely,' she said in an indifferent tone, and did not speak
again for some minutes; then said, 'Yes, I see! I am thankful it did
not tell on me sooner,' and her look brought the tears into Constance's
eyes.

'It told more than you did,' said Constance, endeavouring at a smile.

'Not on the babies,' she said; 'and he never knew it, so there is no
harm done! Thank God!'

She lay a little longer, and Constance thought her going into her usual
state of torpor; but she roused herself to say, 'Would you kindly look
into that desk? You will find a green book.'

'Yes.'

'Please tear out the leaves, and burn it for me. I would not have one
of the children see it on any account.'

Constance began to obey, and saw that it was a diary. 'Are you sure it
ought to be done?' she asked. 'Might it not be better to wait till you
are better?'

'I cannot tell that I shall be much less helpless. I know how things
like this go,' she said.

Constance was still reluctant, and Mrs. Underwood added, 'I will tell
you. It is nothing good, I assure you. When we drove from the door at
Vale Leston, the home of all our lives, _he_ turned to me and said,
"Now, Mary, that page is shut for ever. Let us never speak a word to
make the children or ourselves feel turned out of paradise." And I
never did; but, oh! I wrote it. There are pages on pages of repinings
there--I could not let them see it!'

'Nay, but you were resigned.'

'Resigned! What of that? I held my tongue! It was all I could do! I
never knew things could be worse till I saw it was killing him, and
then all I could do was still to keep silence.'

There was an agony in her voice that Constance had never heard there
before.

'Silence was, no doubt--as things were--an exceeding kindness to him,'
said Constance, 'and one that must have cost you much.'

'Once--once, so tenderly, with tears in his eyes, he did beg me as a
favour not to complain, or talk of Fulbert Underwood! I did not; but
I never _could_ be the companion I was before to him. He was always
happy, he did believe me so; but I could often only smile. If I talked,
it could only have been of his health and our cares.'

'You kept him happy by taking the weight so entirely to yourself.'

'Perhaps; if he had only known how miserable it made me, we might have
moved to a healthier place; but after that one time, I never could vex
him or trust myself. To hear him console me and grieve for me, was
worst of all.'

Constance began to see how the whole woman, brought up to affluence,
had been suddenly crushed by the change; and almost the more so for
her husband's high and cheerful resolution, which had forced back
her feelings into herself. Her powers had barely sufficed for the
cares of her household and her numerous family, and her endurance had
consisted in 'suffering, and being still.' No murmur had escaped, but
only by force of silence. She had not weakened his energies by word
or look of repining; but while his physical life was worn out by toil
and hardship, her mental life had almost been extinguished in care,
drudgery, and self-control; and all his sweetness, tenderness, and
cheerfulness had not been able to do more than just to enable her to
hold out, without manifesting her suffering. Enid had been a very
suitable name for her; though without a Geraint in any respect to blame
for what she underwent, she had borne all in the same silent and almost
hopeless spirit, and with the same unfailing calm temper: but outside
her own house, she had never loved nor taken real interest in anything
since the day she drove from the door of Vale Leston; she had merely
forced herself to seem to do so, rather than disappoint her eager
husband and children.

And now, how much of her torpor had been collapse, how much the effect
of the accident, could not be guessed. She herself was greatly roused
for the present, dwelt on the necessity of trying to get up the next
day, and was altogether in a state excitable enough to make the Sister
anxious.

Other troubles too there were that evening, which made all feel that
even though Mr. Audley was to live to himself, his presence in the
house would be no small comfort.

Fulbert, never the most manageable of the party, had procured a piece
of wood from the good-natured carpenter, and was making a sparrow-trap
on an improved plan, when Wilmet, impatient to have the room clear
for Mr. Audley to come for the final decision--as he was to do in the
evening--anxious to clear away the intolerable litter, and with more
anxiety for Fulbert's holiday task than for the sparrows, ordered him
to bed--ten minutes too early, and in too peremptory a tone.

Fulbert did not stir.

'Fulbert, I say, clear up that litter, and go to bed.'

'Don't you hear, Fulbert?' said Felix, looking up from his book.

Fulbert gave a pull to the newspaper that was spread under his works on
the table, and sent all his chips and saw-dust on the ground.

'O Fulbert! how naughty!' broke out Alda.

'Fulbert, are you going to mind?' asked Wilmet. 'Please remember.'

'I shall go in proper time,' growled Fulbert.

'That is not the way to speak to your sister,' interposed Felix, with
authority.

Fulbert eyed him defiantly all over.

Felix rose up from his chair, full of wrath and indignation. There
was quite difference enough in their size and strength to give him
the complete mastery, for Fulbert was only ten years old; but Wilmet,
dreading nothing so much as a scuffle and outcry, sprang up, imploring,
'O Felix! remember, Mamma is wide awake to-night. Let him alone--pray,
let him alone.'

Felix was thoroughly angry, and kept his hands off with exceeding
difficulty. 'Little sneak,' he said; 'he chooses to take advantage.'

'He always was a sneak; his nose is the shape of it,' said Edgar.

As Felix and Wilmet had the sense to let this amiable observation drop,
Edgar contented himself with making some physiognomical outlines of
sneaks' noses on a slate; and silence prevailed till the church clock
struck the half-hour, when Clement got up, and taking the slate, where
he had been solacing himself with imitating Edgar's caricatures, he was
about to make it an impromptu dust-pan, and went down on his knees to
sweep up Fulbert's malicious litter, but was rewarded with a vicious
kick on the cheek. It was under the table, out of sight; and Clement,
like a true son of his mother, made no sign, but went off to bed like a
Spartan.

'Fulbert,' said Lance, rising to follow his example, 'it is time now.'

He still sat on; and Felix, in intolerable wrath and vexation, found
himself making such deep bites into a pencil, that he threw it from him
with shame, just as Mr. Audley's bell sounded, and he ran down to let
him in.

'Now, Ful,' said Wilmet coaxingly, 'please go--or Mr. Audley will see.'

'Let him.'

Mr. Audley was there in a moment, and the next, Alda, in all the ruffle
of offended dignity, was telling him that Fulbert was in one of his
tempers, and would attend to nobody. Fulbert's back looked it. It
evidently intended to remain in that obstinate curve till midnight.

'I am sorry,' said Mr. Audley, 'I thought no one would have added to
the distress of the house! What is it, Fulbert?' he added, laying his
hand on his shoulder, and signing to Alda to hold her peace.

'They bother,' said Fulbert, in the sulky tone; but still, as he
regarded the new-comer as less of an enemy than the rest--'I'd have
gone at half-past eight if they would let a fellow alone.'

'Then the fellow had better give them no right to bother,' said
Mr. Audley. 'Come, Fulbert, no ship can sail unless the crew obey.
No mutiny. Here's your captain ready to shake hands and wish you
good-night.'

Fulbert could not face Mr. Audley's determined look, but he was not
conquered. He took up his tools and his trap, gave a final puff to
spread his sawdust farther, and marched off without a single good-night.

'He has the worst temper of us all,' cried Alda.

'You should be very cautious of provoking him,' said Mr. Audley.

'I am afraid it was my fault,' sighed Wilmet.

'Nonsense,' said Felix; 'he is an obstinate little dog. I wish I was
licking him. I hope he is not pitching into Clem!'

'Clem is the biggest,' said Alda.

'Yes, but he is much the meekest,' added Wilmet.

'Tina's meek sauce is aggravation, itself,' observed Edgar. 'I should
hope he was catching it!'

'He is certainly not slow to put in his oar,' said Mr. Audley; 'did you
hear of his performance in the vestry the other day?'

'No. I hope he did not make an unusual ass of himself,' said Felix.

'He and Mowbray Smith had last Tuesday's Evensong nearly to themselves,
when Master Clem not only assisted Smith in putting on his hood, but
expressed his doubts as to the correctness of it (never, of course,
having seen any bachelor's but Oxford or Cambridge), and further gave
him some good advice as to his manner of intoning.'

'I hope he won't go on in that way at St. Matthew's!' exclaimed Wilmet.

'It is lucky he is going so soon,' said Mr. Audley. 'I doubt if Mowbray
Smith will ever get over it!'

'Regular snob that he is,' said Edgar; 'just one of my Lady's sort!
What did he do? Go crying to her?'

'O Edgar!' remonstrated Wilmet.

'Well, Mettie, if even our spiritual pastors will be snobs, one must
have the relief of expressing one's opinion now and then.'

'I should say it was better to keep any such fact out of one's mind as
much as might be,' said Mr. Audley, feeling himself unable to deny what
had been so broadly expressed.

'And we, at any rate, had better drop talking of snobs,' said Felix.

'Hollo, Felix! I am sure you for one would not be a snob if you had
turned chimney-sweeper, and let Tom Underwood nail me to his office;
he'll never make one of me!'

'I trust so,' said Felix; 'but it is not the way to keep from it to
throw about the word at other folks.'

'What's that?' cried Alda. 'Really, that boy must be falling upon some
of them.'

It was Lance, in great deshabille, who, opening a crack of the door,
called cautiously, 'Wilmet, please come here.'

Wilmet hastily obeyed, saying anxiously, as the door was shut, 'Never
mind, dear Lance, he's in a horrid mood; but do bear it, and not make
Felix more in a rage.'

'Bosh about Ful,' said Lance unceremoniously. 'It is Cherry; she is
crying so upstairs, and Clem and I can't get a word out of her.'

Cherry, though older than the boys, had to precede them in vanishing
for the night, as her undressing was a long operation dependent
upon Sibby. Wilmet ran up in haste, and did indeed find poor little
Geraldine with her face smothered under the clothes in an agony of
weeping, very serious for so frail a little creature.

'Cherry! Cherry, dear, don't! Are you feeling solitary? Are you missing
_him?_ Oh, don't! Yes, dear, 'tis so sad; but we all do love you so.'

Wilmet would have kissed and fondled her, but the child almost thrust
her away.

'Not that. Oh, not that! I wish it was.'

'My dear Cherry, you can't have been naughty!'

'Yes, yes! indeed I have. And now--'

'I can't think--O Cherry, if you would only tell me what you mean!'
cried Wilmet, aghast.

And with agonised sobs, Cherry whispered, 'Mr. Rugg--O Mettie--such
things as I said about him to Sister Constance--I made sure I had
forgiven--long ago--and now--now, after _that_.'

If Wilmet had not known how deeply both Geraldine and her father had
resented what Mr. Rugg had meant as a little friendly gloss to save
terror before a painful operation, she would have been utterly at a
loss. And now, she found herself incapable by any argument or caress of
soothing her sister's sense of heinous offence; for that rite, of which
she had partaken with her father, had required charity with all men,
and now she found she had been deceitful--she hated Mr. Rugg all the
time. Oh, what should she do! how could she be so wicked!

Wilmet tried to tell her that she had not known how it was at the time,
but this seemed no comfort; and it was plain that that day's solemnity
had lessened the inequality between the two girls so much, that for
Wilmet to console her as a child was vain; and indeed, her invalid
state and constant companionship with her father had rendered her
religious feeling much more excitable, and more developed, than were as
yet Wilmet's; and meantime, this piteous sobbing and weeping was doing
great bodily harm.

Wilmet at last, hearing a door open as if the nurse were taking Sister
Constance's place, ran down to take counsel with that kind friend on
the way. She whispered her trouble on the stairs, and the Sister was
soon kneeling over the little bed; but her comfort was not persuading
the child to think less of the fault, but promising that she should
tell all to Mr. Audley to-morrow.

Nay, seei

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