The Pillars of the House, V1

by Шарлотта Мэри Йондж

  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 reinvigorated 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 3d, 1838.

  Wilmet Ursula )

  Alda Mary ). . . " Aug. llth, 1839.

  Thomas Edgar. . . . " Oct. 6th, 1840.

  Geraldine. . . . . " Oct. 25th, 1841.

  Edward Clement . . . " Nov. 23d, 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 2d 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.