When the relatives of the dead woman entered the gloomy study, Felix, seeing a tender girl among them, offered Lily a chair. She bowed without looking into his face, and although she did not sit down, she rested her hand upon the chair, as if she needed support. If the thoughts which animated the minds of the five persons in that sombre study had been laid bare, the strangest of contrasts would have been seen. There sat the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell; behind him was his son. They were at variance with one another, and each felt himself so much in the other's way, that if it had not been for the tie of kinship that bound them, their opposing natures would have led to the plain expression of scorn and contempt on the one side, and of harsh and bitter condemnation on the other.
There stood the delicate girl, whose nerves during the last few days had been strung to the highest point of which her nature was capable. A pure and tender lily indeed, as graceful as the flower from which she derived her name, and whose white bells, as they arch among the vivid leaves of green, tremble in the lightest breath from zephyr's mouth. It was so with Lily at this time. A harsh word would have caused her to quiver with pain. The effect which the suddenness of her mother's death, and the terrifying dreams that followed, had produced upon her had not passed away. Like the lily she stood there, dependent upon surrounding things almost for very life itself; kind looks and sweet words gladdened her and helped to make her strong, as kind sunshine and sweet breezes gladden and make strong the flower. And like the flower, the light in which she stood seemed to come from inward brightness and purity.
Her brother Alfred stood by her side. What was stirring in his mind? Well, it was the day on which the Northumberland Plate was run for at the Newcastle-upon-Tyne races. The race was over by this time. Had Christopher Sly won? He trembled to think that it might have been beaten-had come in second, perhaps; had lost "by a head." If it had, there was woe in store for him. If he were in London, he would know; this uncertainty was torturing. Now he was in the depth of misery: Christopher Sly had lost, and he had to pay money, and to make money good, out of an empty purse. Now he was in the height of gladness: the horse could not lose-every one of the prophets had said so; Christopher Sly had won, and everything was right. It was like a reprieve from death.
Lastly, the grandfather. What his thoughts were will be shown in words. A strange and unexpected trouble had been added to his grief, and his handsome thoughtful face showed traces of perplexed anxiety.
When Felix had offered Lily a chair, the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell had killed the proffered courtesy with an irritable wave of his hand, which expressed, "You will not presume to sit in my presence." In everything that Felix did he found cause for anger, and he believed that his son was animated by a distinct wish to thwart and oppose him; this very proffered courtesy to one of these persons was another argument in his mind against Felix. Marble in the hands of a sympathetic worker was more capable of tenderness and gentleness than was the face of the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell as he sat in his arm-chair and waited for the intruders to speak.
"My name, sir, is Verity," commenced the old man, in a humble and respectful voice.
"So I understand," said the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell, in a hard and cold voice.
Lily shivered as the harshly-spoken words fell upon her ears.
"These are my grandchildren," indicating Lily and Alfred.
"A gentleman," thought Felix, as he followed the courteous action of the old man.
The Reverend Emanuel Creamwell received the intimation with a scarcely perceptible nod, and a colder chill came upon Lily's sensitive spirit as she raised her eyes to the dark face of the minister.
"They are the children of my dead daughter," continued the old man, "who before she died expressed a wish to be buried in the place which had been familiar to her in her younger and happier days."
"These details are scarcely necessary, I should say. What are you here for?"
The old man's agitation was so great that he was compelled to pause before he answered; but strength seemed to come to him as he looked at the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell's stony face.
"The mother of these children is waiting in the churchyard to be buried."
"You received my message, I have no doubt."
"Some words were spoken to me as coming from you."
"Were not they sufficient?"
"I could not believe, sir, that the words which were delivered to me came from the lips of a minister of God."
A flash of something very like anger lighted up the small eyes of the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell.
"And so you come here to revile His minister?"
"I come here in all humility, sir," replied the old man.
"Do you wish me to repeat the message?"
"I wish to know, sir, that I have been mistaken. I cannot believe that what I have been told is true."
"It is the evil of the ungodly that they cannot answer straight. Do you wish me to repeat the message?"
"Yes, sir."
"It is very simple. My intimation was to the effect that I cannot perform any service over the deceased woman."
"The prayers for the dead – " exclaimed the old man imploringly.
"Are not for her!" said the minister, finishing the sentence sternly.
At these dreadful words Felix started forward to Lily's side; the young girl was trembling, and he feared she was about to fall. Indeed she would have fallen, but for his helping hand. Inward fire possessed the soul of the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell at the action of his son and his wrath was expressed in his face. Felix saw it, but did not heed it; his lips were firmly set as he yielded Lily to her grandfather's arms, who, as he bent over her, murmured,
"I would have spared you the pain, my darling! But I thought that your helplessness and your innocent face would have pleaded for us."
Then he turned to the minister. "Why do you refuse to perform the last rites over the body of my daughter?"
"I am mistaken if you have not been informed. Her parents were members of the Wesleyan Methodist body, and the woman was not baptized in the Church of England. Therefore I cannot say prayers over her."
"Is that God's law?"
"It is mine!" replied the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell, with inconsiderate haste. If, when he heard the rejoinder, he could have caused the old man to fall into dust at his feet, he would have done so.
"You say truly, sir," said the old man, in a tone of bitter calmness. "It is not God's law; it is yours."
The Reverend Emanuel Creamwell shaded his face with his hand; he did not choose that the feeling there expressed should be seen. He knew, by his son's sympathetic movement towards Lily, that Felix had gone over to the enemy, and a consciousness possessed him that Felix was not displeased at his discomfiture. Still it was his duty to assert himself, and he did so accordingly in severe measured terms, and in tones utterly devoid of feeling.
"I have already told you that you came here to revile-to revile God through His minister. It is such as you who set men's minds afire, and drive them into the pit."
But the old man interrupted him with,
"Nay, sir, do not let us argue; I at least have no time. A dead woman is waiting for me. I must go and seek a minister who will say prayers over the poor clay. Come, my children."
"To seek a minister!" echoed the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell. "What minister?"
"A Methodist minister, as that is your will."
"Presumptuous!" exclaimed the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell, in wrath so pious that a colour came to his usually pale face. "No Methodist minister can be allowed to pray in my churchyard!" – with a protecting look and motion of his fingers towards the ground where the dead lay-a look which said, "Fear not! My lips have blessed you; my prayers have sanctified you. Ye shall not be defiled!"
"How, then, is my daughter to be buried?" asked the old man, with his hand to his heart.
"The woman must be buried in silence," replied the minister.
As if in sympathy with the words, a dark cloud passed across the face of the sun, and the sunbeam, with its myriad wonders, vanished on the instant, while the truant flashes of light that were playing in the corners of the room darted gladly away to places where light was.
The old man bowed his head, and the words came slowly from his trembling lips.
"Cruel! Unjust! Wicked!" he said. "Bitterly, bitterly wicked! Do we not all worship the same God? What has this innocent clay done, that holy words may not fall upon the earth that covers her? What have we done, that the last consolation of prayer shall be denied to us?" Then looking the minister steadily in the face, he said in a firm voice, "According to your deserts may you be judged! According to your deserts may you, who set your law above God's, and call yourself His priest, be dealt with when your time comes!"
Turning, he was about to go, when the voice of the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell stopped him.
"Now that you have done your reviling, attend to me for a few moments. You lived in this parish once?"
"Twenty years ago," replied the old man. "All my life up to that time-I and my poor daughter. There will be some here who will remember me."
"I remember you myself. You had a son?"
"No; I had but one child, she who lies yonder."
"Psha! it is the same-you had a son-in-law – "
The old man looked up with apprehensive eagerness, and Alfred, who had hitherto been perfectly passive-having indeed for most of the time been engrossed in torturing himself about Christopher Sly and the Northumberland Plate-made a sudden movement forward. The old man laid his hand upon his grandson's arm, cautioning him to silence.
"The father of these young persons," continued the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell. "Where is he?"
"Alfred," exclaimed the old man, "take Lily away. It is too close for her here. I will join you presently outside."
Indeed, Lily was almost fainting. The long weary ride, the abstention from food for so many hours, and the sufferings she had experienced during the dialogue between her grandfather and the minister, had been too much for her strength. Seeing her weak state, Felix stepped forward to assist Alfred, and presently they were in the porch.
"Stay one moment, I pray," exclaimed Felix hurriedly; "only a moment."
He darted into the house, and brought out a chair.
"There!" he said. "Let her sit here for a minute or two. It will do her good. The sun is the other side of us."
It is a fact that Felix, with quick instinct, had selected this place as being likely to revive the girl. They were out of the glare of the sun.
"Now, if you will oblige me and not let her move," he said in the same hurried eager tone, "you will lay me under an obligation that I shall never be able to pay."
The words were scarcely out of his mouth before he was upstairs, in his own room, tearing open his valise; he scattered the things wildly about, and came flying down again, with a fine white handkerchief and a bottle of Cologne water in his hand. He poured the liquid upon the handkerchief, and, with a delicate consideration, handed it to Alfred.
"Bathe her forehead with it; place it on her forehead, so. Now blow gently-gently. Let me!"
He blew upon the handkerchief, and the deliciously cool breeze revived the fainting girl. She looked gratefully into his face, which turned crimson beneath her gaze. But his task was not yet completed, it seemed. He took from his pocket a flask, which he had also found in his valise. There was a little silver cup attached to the flask, and he poured a golden liquid into it.
"Taste this; it will do you good. Nay, put your lips to it; there's no harm in it. Your brother will drink first to show you how reviving it is."
His voice was like a fountain; there was something so hearty, and frank, and good in it, that it refreshed her. Alfred emptied the silver cup, and her eyes brightened.
"Take a little, Lily," he said; "it will do you good."
She drank a little, and felt stronger at once.
"Where's grandfather?" she asked then.
"He will be with you presently," replied Felix. "I am going into him. I will tell him to come to you. But before I go," and here his voice faltered, and became more earnest, "I want you to say that you forgive me for any pain that you may have felt in-in there," pointing in the direction of the room they had left.
"Forgive you!" said Lily, in surprise. "Why, you have been kind to us It was not you who said those dreadful words to grandfather. There is nothing to forgive in you."
"There is much to forgive," said Felix impetuously; "much, very much, if it be true that the sins of the father shall be visited on the children. I am in that state of remorse that I feel as if I had been the cause of your suffering and your pain."
"Nay, you must not think that," she said, in a very gentle voice; "I am not well, and we have come a long, long way."
"Well, but humour my whim," he persisted; "it will please me. Say, 'I forgive you.'"
"I forgive you," she said, with a sad sweet smile.
"Thank you," he said gravely, and touched her hand: and as he walked into the house again, and into the study where his father and old Wheels were, Lily's sad smile lingered with him, and made him, it may be presumed, more unreasonably remorseful.
While this scene was being enacted outside the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell's house, the conversation between the minister and old Wheels was proceeding. When Lily was out of the room, the old man said,
"Will you please detain me here as short a time as possible, sir, as we have much to do and far to go?"
"I will not detain you long," said the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell, in the tone of a man who is about to smite his enemy on the hip; "possibly you would not have remained, had you not been curious to know what I have to say respecting your son-in-law."
"Possibly not, sir; you may guess the reason why I wished the tender girl who was here just now not to be present while you spoke."
"Because I might say something unpleasant. Well, it is not a creditable story. Searching among the papers of a deceased man, having warranty to do so, his effects being the property of my son, I came upon this paper. It recites a singular story of an embezzlement, which took place-let me see; ah, yes-which took place nearly eighteen years ago. You know the story, probably?"
"There are so many stories of embezzlement. Is my name mentioned?"
"Otherwise I should not have spoken of the matter to you. After reciting the manner of the embezzlement and the name of the criminal, it speaks of intercession by you on his behalf, and how, somewhat out of compassion and somewhat out of policy, criminal proceedings were withheld. You undertook to repay the money, and after the payment of one large sum, dates are set down on which smaller sums were paid on account from time to time."
"Anything to deny?" asked the minister.
At this point Felix entered the room.
"Nothing to deny. The story is true."
"And you," exclaimed the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell loftily, "the father of a criminal who should be expiating his crime in prison, presume to lift your voice against me! Truly, I should but be doing my duty to society if I were to make the matter public."
"Do I understand that the man from whom the money was embezzled is dead?"
"He is dead."
"There is a balance still due," said old Wheels; "one hundred pounds. Has he left the claim to any one?"
"My son is heir to the property," said the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell.
"Your son!" There were traces of disappointment in the old man's voice as he looked at Felix. "Is this he?"
"This is he."
"You shall be repaid, sir," said the old man humbly to Felix, "to the last farthing." Felix, who had stood before the old man with head inclined, turned away abruptly at these words, and looked out of window. "It is but just," continued the old man in firm and gentle tones, "that you and he should know, that no one was to blame but the unfortunate man who committed the crime-for crime it was undoubtedly, although the law judged it not. The children who were here awhile ago were babes at the time, and it was to save all of us from shame and misery that I undertook to repay the money. I have been all my life paying it, as you may see by the statement in your hand. I did not know that such a document was in existence. I have a signed quittance for the money at home, and have had from the time I paid the first instalment, which, as you see, was large enough to wipe off at once three-fourths of the debt. But the moral claim remained and remains. It is my pride to think that some part of my dear granddaughter's earnings have gone towards the clearing of her father's shame, of which, up to the present moment, she has never heard. Depend upon it, sir, the balancer that remains shall be faithfully paid. Have you anything farther to say to me?"
"Nothing farther. You can go."
The old man lingered as though he were wishful to say a word to Felix; but that young gentleman, standing with his back to him, gave him no opportunity, and he left the study in silence. Then the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell rose and, paced the room, indulging in bitter meditations. It had been an unfortunate afternoon for him; everything but this last small triumph had gone wrong with him; he had been crossed, almost defied, at every turn. First, his son; then, this presumptuous old man, whose words were still burning in his mind. And his son's silence now irritated him. Every moment added to his irritation. Felix, standing with his face to the window, looking out upon the churchyard, and upon the figures of the old man and his grandchildren walking towards the grave, showed no disposition to move or to speak. In the eyes of his father this implied disrespect. He was not destitute of a certain decision of character, and in harsh tones he called upon Felix, to speak.
"I have been considering, sir," said Felix. "I ask your pardon for keeping you waiting."
"Considering what?" demanded the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell.
"The proposition you made to me before these persons intruded upon us. You offered me a shelter here, until I determined upon a profession.
"On the express understanding that you conform to my rules."
"I do not forget, sir. Those were your very words. Will you permit me?" He took from the table the document which had been referred to in the conversation that had lately taken place. "And this old man has been all his life paying a debt for which he was not liable! There is hope yet for human nature, sir." A queer smile came upon his lips as he uttered these words in a half-gentle, half-bantering tone.
"Speak plainly," was the stern rejoinder of the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell.
"I will try to do so. My uncle left a request that all his papers should be burnt, and I am my uncle's heir. Why was this preserved?"
"You have heard: for your good. It is worth money to you. The man admits the claim."
"Money!" exclaimed Felix, with a light laugh, in which there was bitterness: "But the dead must be obeyed."
He went to the fireplace, struck a match, and applied the light to the paper. The Reverend Emanuel Creamwell, with face white with anger, watched the burning of the paper. Felix let the ashes fall into the fender, and tapped his fingers lightly together, with the air of one wiping away a soil.
"So!" he said. "I wash my hands of that."
"You know what you have done?" said the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell, placing his hand upon the table to steady himself.
"Yes, sir," answered, Felix gravely; "I shall never trouble you again."
Then he left the room quietly and sadly.
CHAPTER XI
FELIX, DISSATISFIED WITH THE REALITY, SETS UP AN IDOL, AND WORSHIPS IT
In the passage Felix was confronted by the colourless housekeeper. He had a kindly feeling for her. She had been his father's housekeeper ever since he could remember. She was a young woman and well-looking when he was a little child. When he came home, a man, she had addressed him in the old familiar way, and he was surprised at the change in her; but he soon recognised that living all her life within the influence of his father's house had made her what she was. Now, as, she confronted him, he gave her a kind nod, and would have passed her: but she laid her hand upon his arm to detain him.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Into the churchyard," he answered.
"Where, after that?"
"A subtle question, Martha. Who knows where he goes to after he gets into the churchyard?"
"Where, after that?" she repeated.
"Ask the worms," he replied; and added, somewhat bitterly, "or the preachers."
"Answer me, Felix," she said.
"I can't;" and again he attempted to pass her.
"Nay," she said, almost entreatingly; "let me speak to you for a minute or two."
"Come outside, then; I cannot speak to you here."
She followed him into the porch. The chair which he had brought for Lily was there, but Lily was gone. The fragrance of the scented water he had sprinkled upon his handkerchief lingered in the air. He placed his hand upon the chair, and in his fancy the sweet air became associated with the tender girl who had rested there awhile ago. He smiled, half gladly, half sadly, as the fancy came upon him. The housekeeper watched him earnestly, as if striving to read his thoughts.
"Now, Felix, where are you going afterwards?"
"I can't tell you, Martha," he replied-softly, for he was thinking of Lily. "My plans are unformed."
"When do you return?"
"Never; unless something dearer than life brings me back."
"You have had a quarrel with your father?"
"You are a witch," he said lightly, "and ought to be burnt."
"You have had a quarrel with your father," she repeated, showing no temper at his light manner, but even seeming to take pleasure in it.
"Something like that. We don't agree. There are not two rights, are there, Martha?"
"I am not sure; there may be."
"I am sure. My father's right and mine are as the north and the south pole. If I am right, I must not stay here and vex him: it would be unfilial. If he is right, I must sit in sackcloth and ashes, and pray for fresh blood and bone and brain before we can meet again. Any way I must go; that is settled."
"Who settled it?"
"He, or I, or both of us. Are you not witch enough to guess for yourself? It came, somehow. That is enough. If you entertain the idea that the difficulty is to be smoothed over – "
"I do not," she interrupted. "I know your father."
"And me-do you think you know me?"
"I think I do."
"Therefore you must see how impossible it is that he and I, having disagreed upon a vital point-it is vital, to my thinking-can live together. I have a fancy in my head, Martha; I'll tell it to you. To have a father and not have a father-as is the case with me-is dreadful. For father and son to disagree is dreadful also. So I shall imagine a father, and as he is sure to agree with me, we shall be the best of friends. I shall picture him tender, and good, and kind; tolerant, yet conscientious; merciful, yet just. I can see him, and I love him already!"
Light as his words were, there was a vein of seriousness in his tones that showed how deeply his feelings had been stirred.
"When I left the Continent," he continued, "I had a friend with me who also had been absent from home for years. At intervals during our journey, he spoke with enthusiasm of home delights and of the happiness in store for him when he and his family came together. He showed me letters from them which made me think. We crossed from Paris to Dover, and there he met his father, who had travelled a hundred miles to welcome his son the moment he set foot on English soil. They threw their arms round each other, like boys, and laughed to keep away the tears. When I came to the railway station here-just half a mile from where we stand-I looked about me with a dim hope that my father had come that distance to welcome his son home. But there are fathers and fathers, Martha. Now, if I had been wise, and had set up my imaginary father before the train stopped, I should have seen him waiting for me on the platform; I should have been able to throw my arms round his neck, to press him to my heart, and to see in his eyes a kindly welcome; I should have been able to grip his hand, and to say, 'Bravo, dear old fellow! I love you!' But I was not wise, and to be forewarned by my fears was not with me to be forearmed. It is not too late, though-it is never too late. Away, you shadows!"
He flicked his handkerchief in the air, as if the reality oppressed him with a phantom presence, and said in a mock-serious tone, in which earnestness struggled not vainly for a place:
"Here I raise a father whom I love. I kiss his hand, and vow to pay him all respect. He shall go with me, and we shall live together."
There was nothing in the housekeeper's appearance to denote that freaks of the imagination would find favour in her eyes, and yet gleams of pleasure-all the more strange because she sought to suppress them-brought light to her dull white face as Felix with fantastic grace stooped to kiss the hand of the shadow he had raised. But these signs faded away as soon as Felix had finished speaking, and her face resumed its usual dulness of expression.
"Those persons who have just gone, Felix-had they anything to do with your quarrel with your father?"
"I never saw them before," he replied.
"Had they anything to do with the quarrel with your father?" she persisted.
"There's something of the bull-dog in your nature, Martha," he said, laughing. "You never leave a subject until it is settled."
"I would not hurt you, Felix," she said, softly.
"I don't believe you would. Well, yes, they had something to do with the immediate cause of my leaving-though it would have come to the same thing without them. We were on the verge of the precipice as they entered. I must go and see how they are getting along, and if I can be of any use to them; but I shouldn't wonder if they shrunk from me and looked upon me as an unclean thing. Are you surprised at all this, Martha?"
"No," she replied tranquilly. "This is no house for sunshine. I knew when you came that you would not be here long."
"You can do me a service. I shall soon look my last on this place; will you pack up such things as are mine, and give them to a messenger I shall send?"
"Yes; they shall be ready this evening."
"Then that is all, and the world is before me for me to open. Where is my oyster-knife?" He felt in his pockets with a comical air. "Ah, it is here," and he touched his forehead confidently. "So now good-bye, Martha."
She did not relinquish the hand he held out to her, but clasped it firmly in hers.
"You will let me know where you live, Felix?"
"O, yes; I will let you know."
"I have but little money of my own, unfortunately – "
"Stop, stop, stop!" he cried, with his fingers on her "Enough has been said, and I must go. Good-bye."
"Good-bye; I think you do right to leave, Felix."
"I should be compelled to leave, sooner or later," he replied; "I could not live without love or sympathy. The cold austerity of this house is enough to turn heart and face to stone. I pity you, Martha. I have sometimes wondered how you could have stood it so long."
"I earn money here, Felix. Your father pays me liberally-for him-because I suit him; and I am not entirely without love. I have something to work for, thank God. Good-bye. May every good fortune be yours!"