Perhaps the cup was broken here,
That Heaven’s new wine might show more clear.
E. B. BROWNING.
“No. 14, Huron St., Jonesville, Ohio,
“July 19.
“MY DEAR MADAM,
“You were so kind as to tell me to write to your ladyship if we were in any difficulty or distress, and I have often longed to do so, but my brother always said that we had no right to trespass on your goodness. Now, however, things are at such a pass that I think you will hear of us with true compassion. I do not know whether he told you that we met my poor mother on board a steamer upon this lake. Her husband had been drowned in a wreck while crossing, and she was reduced to great poverty, and had also, from exposure, contracted disease of the lungs, which, the doctor said, must terminate fatally in a few months. My brother took charge of her, and has supported us ever since, now four months, by working at the editorship of the Lacustrian Intelligencer, with such small assistance as I could give by music lessons. It involved severe labour at desk work and late hours, and his health has latterly given way, his back and lower limbs being gradually affected, and last Monday even his hands proved helpless. My poor mother broke another blood-vessel on Sunday, and died ten minutes later. My brother desired me to sell his dear violin and his watch to pay the funeral expenses, but after that I know not what we can do, as he is quite helpless, and can hardly be left even for the sake of my small earnings. Dear Lady Travis Underwood, pray help us, as I know you and Sir Ferdinand love my poor dear generous brother, and will not think him ungrateful for having declined your kindness while he could support himself and us. No doubt we shall get help from England, but not for some time, so I dare to ask you.
“I remain, your humble servant,
“LUDMILLA.
“P.S.—Everybody knows him as Jerry Wood. We are at Mr. MacMahon’s, 14 Huron Street.”
This sad letter, in Lida’s neat pupil-teacher’s hand, came enclosed within a longer letter from Marilda.
“Grand National Hotel, Jonesville.
“July 23rd.
“MY DEAR GERALDINE,
“You will believe that this letter from poor Lydia made Fernan telegraph at once to her, and hurry off as soon as we could reach the train. We found things quite as bad or worse than we expected. The poor children were living in two rooms in a wretched little house of an Irish collier, who with his wife happily has been very kind to them, and says that nothing could surpass their goodness to that poor mother of theirs, who, she tells me, ‘made a real Christian end’ at last. I am sure she had need to do so.
“The burial was happily over, conducted by the French priest, as the woman was a Roman Catholic to the last. Gerald was sitting up by the window, so changed that we should not have known him, except for the wonderful likeness to Felix that has come upon him. It seems that he had not only all the writing of that horrid paper to do, but all the compositor’s work, or whatever you call it. The people put upon him when they saw how well he could do it, and he could not refuse because his mother needed comforts, and he durst not get thrown out of employment. He went on, first with aching back, then his legs got stiff and staggering, but still he went on, and now it has gone into his hands; he cannot hold a pen, and can hardly lift a tea-cup. But he is so cheerful, almost merry. The doctor says it is a paralytic affection, and that overwork has developed the former disease from the old injury to the spine, which seemed to have passed off, and there is intermittent fever about him too, a not uncommon thing in these low-lying lake districts. We have moved him to this Grand National Hotel, a big, half-inhabited place, but better than the MacMahons’ house, though the good woman cried over him and Lydia at their farewells, and said she never should see such a young gentleman and lady again with hearts so like ould Ireland. She would hardly take the money that Fernan offered her; she said they had brought a blessing on her house with their tender, loving ways.
“Fernan is gone to Milwaukee to get further advice and more comforts for Gerald, and we mean, as soon as he can be moved, to take him home with us, since the air of the Rockies will revive him if anything will. This place is fearfully hot and oppressive; the bay seems to shut out air from Lake Erie, and I cannot bear to think what that poor boy must have gone through in that close little den, with the printing-press humming and stamping away close to him; but he says it is his native element, and that when he is better he must go to Fiddler’s Ranch. He sends his love, and fears that you have missed his letters, but he could hardly write them, and thought Lydia might alarm you. He is a very dear boy, and I do hope we make him comfortable; he is so thankful for the little we can do for him, and so patient. He tells me to give special love to Francie, and say he is glad that Mona’s game of chess was played out with a good substitute for Ferdinand. These are his words, which no doubt she will understand. We think of moving next week, but much depends on the doctor’s verdict. My love too to the dear Francie; she will be a great lady, quite beyond our sphere. Perhaps she may be able to give Emily some amusements, though I fear they will only make her more discontented with our humdrum ways. I never thought hospital work would suit her. Gerald says there is nothing like trying one’s theories, and that having to exaggerate his own has made him sick of a good deal of them, though not of all. Poor dear boy, I hope he will live to show the benefits he says he has derived from this sad time. It shall not be for want of anything we can do. He is as near our hearts as ever his dear father was, and Lydia is a dear little girl.
“Your ever affectionate cousin,
“MARY ALDA TRAVIS UNDERWOOD.”
It was a great shock, though mitigated by hearing that Gerald was in such hands as those of his first friend, and kind Marilda; but there was great surprise at no notice being taken of the tidings that secured Gerald’s position. John Harewood had telegraphed them, but it only now fully broke on him that he ought to have sent them to Jerry Wood instead of Gerald Underwood, so that Italian telegrams were not to blame.
On one thing Clement ventured, being nearly certain that the reaction of Gerald’s mind would not include the preventing of all Penbeacon works. He encouraged young Bramshaw to set about the plans so as to make the washings as innocuous as possible, being persuaded that this was the only way to prevent more obnoxious erections on ground just beyond. Moreover, this gave the lovers hope, and Alda had, under Clement’s persuasion and rebukes, withdrawn her opposition to the engagement, so that Sophy was free to wander about Penbeacon with her Philip, and help to set up his theodolite, and hold the end of his measuring-tape.
Her mother could not well stand out on the score of unequal birth, when Mr. Ferdinand Brown, whose father had swept out the office, came down and was accepted with calm civility, it could not be called delight, even by Emilia.
But he was a worthy young man, and well educated, and it was for his sake that Clement and Geraldine had stayed on at the Priory, giving the Harewoods and their curates holidays in turn; though even this amount of work was enough to leave with Clement a dread conviction that his full share of St. Matthew’s would be fatal to him, insomuch that he had written to the patron, the Bishop of Albertstown, seriously to propose resignation.
Fresh letters arrived from America, the first slightly more cheery, but the next was dated from Violinia, to the general surprise, and it was very short, from Sir Ferdinand.
“DEAR CLEMENT,
“We have the telegram, a relief to the poor lad’s mind, but he has not spoken much since. It came just as we were starting in an invalid Pullman, fitted with every comfort; but the jars of these lines are unavoidable and unspeakable, and he suffered so terribly, as well as so patiently, that we had to give up our intention of taking him to Underwood. The one thing he begged for was that we would take him to Fiddler’s Ranch. You know there is a mission-station here, so we have him in the clergyman’s house, and the place is so advanced that he has every comfort. But I doubt whether the dear boy will ever move again. He is perfectly helpless, but his brain quite clear, and his spirits good.
“Ever yours,
“F. A. TRAVIS UNDERWOOD.”
There followed a long letter, dictated by Gerald himself, and partly written by Lida, partly by Marilda, at several different times.
“DEAREST, MOST DEAREST CHERIE, AND ALL—
“I should like to be able to sign my name to my thanks to all, if only to feel that I have a name, and one so honoured, but these fingers of mine will not obey me, so you must take the will for the deed, and believe that you have made me very happy, and completed all I could wish. I fear you never will believe how jolly it is to lie here, the pain all gone, since having done with that terrific train, and the three tenderest, most watchful of slaves always round me, while my Cherie is spared the sight of the wreck.—(L.)
“You know that good old Fernan established a missionary station here, building a church, and getting the ground consecrated where my father lies. I can just see the top of the cross, and there he promises that I shall lie. You will be able to put my name in the cloister under my father’s, as no impostor.
“Don’t grieve, my Cherie, it is best as it is; my brains were full of more notions than you ever quite guessed, and of which I have seen the seamy side out here, though there is much that I should feel bound to work out, and that might have grieved you. I was not tough enough for the discipline that was needed to strike the balance. (He is thinking aloud, dear fellow.—M. A.) I am afraid I have often vexed you in my crudeness and conceit, but I know you forgive. I am very thankful for this year, and for the way in which my poor mother was given into my hands at last. Fernan has helped me to make a short will, to save confusion and difficulty.
“I have left everything to Clement, knowing that you and he will provide for all. Fernan and Marilda will care for Lida. (That we will.—M. A.) I cannot leave her to be a tax on Vale Leston. Give my books and MSS. to Dolores, and please be kind to her. My violin, which Fernan redeemed for me, the eponym (How do you spell it?—M. A.), by the way, of this place, my father’s own fiddle, give to Lance for his pretty Ariel; Anna, my good sister, should have my music, which will be a memory of happy evenings. Emmie may like the portfolio of drawings that I made for the mission-house; dear old Sibby the photograph in my room of the ‘Ecce Homo.’ I have it in my eye now.—(M. A.)
“Everything is such a comfort, Fernan and Marilda are the best of nurses and helpers, and I mourn for the folly that chaffed about them and boredom. Tell Emmie so. Fernan has made this place a little oasis round my father’s grave, and his parson, who has a mission among the remains of the Sioux, is with me every other day, and does all that Clement could desire for me. So do—do believe that it is all for the best, dear people.—(L.)
“One thing good is, that I shall not bring any bad blood into the Underwood inheritance. By the bye, tell them—(Continued by Marilda) Mr. Gracchus Van ——— suddenly arrived here, greatly shocked at Gerald’s state, and actually wanting to marry Lydia on the spot—which of course she declined. But Fernan was pleased with him, and he told him he had never met any one to hold a candle to ‘Jerry Wood,’ so ‘smart’ and ‘chipper,’ as he saw at first, and then cheerful, good-humoured, and kindly, whatever happened. None of your Britisher’s airs, but ready to make the best of any fixings. I don’t think dear Gerald meant me to tell all this, but think of the difference from the fastidious fine gentleman he used to be! He is dozing now, I fear he is getting weaker; but he is ever so sweet and good, and I quite long to beg his pardon for having called him your spoilt boy. Mr. Fraser, the clergyman here, is very much struck with him, and Fernan remembers the time when he baptized him as he lay unconscious. Dear Cherry, it will grieve you, but I think there will be comfort in the grief.
“Your affectionate cousin,
“M. A. T. U.”
There were long letters to Dolores, dictated to Lida—all in the same spirit. One of them said, “Go bravely on, my Dolores; though we do not live together in our bicycle-roving castles. You will do good work if you uphold the glory of God and the improvement of man, all through creation and science. I should like to talk it over with you. Things are plainer to me than in the days of my inexperience and cocksureness. Short as the time was, in months, it showed me much more, especially my own inefficiency to deal with the great problems of these times, perhaps of all times. Remember this, but go on—if we do but put grains of sand into the great Edifice.”
More was written, but these were the most memorable extracts, before the letter that told that something like a fresh stroke had come, and taken away the power of distinct speech, then that the throat had failed, and there was only one foreboding more to be told, and soon realized. The young ardent spirit, trained by so short a discipline, had passed away in peace. And they laid him beside his father, whose better spirit he had unconsciously evoked, and whom he had loved so deeply. The doctors said that the real cause of his death had been the Indian bullet, inflicting injury on the spine, which the elasticity of youth had for the time overcome, but which manifested itself again under overstrain. Ferdinand, when he awoke the child back to life, had given him years not spent in vain for himself or for others.
It would have been utter desolation to the little sister save for the motherly tenderness of Marilda, who took her to the home in the Rocky Mountains, and would fain have adopted her, but that Lida, acting perhaps on advice from her brother, only begged to be so educated as to fit her to be independent, and to be given a start in life. It would be shown in a year or two whether her vocation should be musical or scholastic.
Gerald had his meed of tears at home, but not bitter ones. Nay, those that had the most quality of bitterness were Emilia’s, shed in secret lest interpretations should be put on those that had the quality of remorse, as she recollected the high aspirations that had ended so differently in the two cousins.
Dolores dried hers, to feel a consecration on her studies and her labours as she grew forward to the fulfilment of her purpose of being a leading woman in the instruction and formation of young minds, working all the better for the inspiriting words and example, and the more gently and sympathizingly for the love that was laid up in her heart.
She and his “Cherie” came to have a great affection and understanding of each other, and discussed what Dolores called “ethics” with warm interest, the elder lady bringing the old and sacred lights to bear on the newer theories.
Clement was the undoubted owner of Vale Leston, and the John Harewoods had decided on leaving the Priory. Just at the same time, when the acceptance of Clement’s resignation of St. Matthew’s had arrived, William Harewood was offered a canonry at Minsterham, with the headship of the theological college. The canonry had been the summit of his ambition when a boy, and there was no one fitter than he for the care of a theological college. He was pre-eminently a scholar, and his fifteen years of parish experience made good preparation for training young clergy.
So Clement could decide on presenting himself to the living of Vale Leston, with a staff of curates, and Geraldine to be his home sister, making the Priory a resting-place for overworked people, whether clergy, governesses, or poor, or mission-folk at home. It was a trust to be kept for Lancelot and his boy, who would make the summer home of the family there, to Dr. May’s great content. It was a peaceful home, and to every one’s surprise, Alda decided to remain at hand, chiefly to keep her boy under his uncle’s influence, which thus far was keeping him well in hand, and as he would go to a public school with little Felix, might be prolonged.
It was a comfort and encouragement to feel that hereditary dangers and temperament could be subdued and conquered in Gerald; and if the sins of parents had their consequence in the children, the scourge might become a palm. When the commemorative brass in the cloister was to be put up, Geraldine said—
“I should like to put ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found the piece that was lost.’”
“He never was lost.”
“Oh no, no, my dear boy. But his work was so like the finding the stained, tarnished piece of silver, cast aside, defaced, dust-marked, and by simple duty and affection bringing her back.”
“I see! Let us have the inscription in Greek. Then none can apply it to himself! It was a wonderful work, and it is strange that having fulfilled it, he who brought the child from his father’s arms should lay him to his rest beside his father.”
THE END
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