Under St Paul's: A Romance
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That night George Osborne once more found himself too excited for sleep. The day had been thick with incidents, full of conflicting emotions. The anxious morning, the solemn betrothal, the peace following it, the sharp shock of meeting Parkinson once more, the introduction to that man by his sweetheart, the strange feeling of reassurance and peace which had come upon him during the early part of his visit to Parkinson's house, the subsequent despair, followed by the cry that went up from him when he heard the plea for mercy sung by that superb voice, and the later discovery that this voice was Marie's-all crowded into one day, had left him nervous and tremulous and wakeful. He walked heavily to the window, drew back the curtains, raised up the blind, and looked out. Beneath him lay miles of dark roofs lit by the broad full moon. Fantastic gables and weird-looking vanes broke up the dull monotony of the view. Here and there deep chasms of shadow stretched right and left, leading to large pools of intense darkness where the streets broadened into squares. High above the plain of roofs and gables and vanes, like fair white spars, rose the steeples and towers and spires of a thousand churches. The peaceful beauty of the night melted his heart and soothed his troubled brain like an anodyne. All was peace abroad; and whose peace could it be but God's? How the white moonlight swept worry and doubt and tumult away! In the light of day man might lift impious eyes to heaven, for he was drunk with a foolish sense of security and importance. In the dark of night man was exposed to a thousand unmanly fears. But who could look upon the moonlight and not feel the assurance that God was near, and was the friend of man? Moonlight was the white altar-cloth of earth, and when it was spread the heart of man must send up the incense of worship. Now was not the hour to sing Miserere but Laudamus. Here was no oppressive consciousness of sin, no abject pleading for mercy. Here were simple worship and confidence. No repining, no doubt, no superstitious fears or vague misgivings; no arrogance, but a full quiet sense of protection and future advancement, and of worship and love. Much has been said about the moonlight and lovers, but it seemed more fit for solitary commune between man and his Maker. Why was not life all moonlight? Why had we ever the fiery heat and passion of noon? What fools men are to allow themselves to be dragged this way and that at the beck of every passion, at the call of every party, at the decree of every sect? Were not this world here around, this beautiful moon, and the all-just God in heaven above, enough for the heart and soul of man? Ample. What could be added to these three things? After all, there may be much in the quietist's ideas. A man might do worse, provided he had no home ties, than spend his life in the vineyards and on the olive-clad slopes of Mount Athos. It was late when Osborne pulled down the blind, drew the curtains, and faced his room once more. The gas was burning brightly: its flame had warmed the room. Still he felt no inclination to go to bed. There was an old-fashioned elbow-chair by the dressing-table, and on one side of the dressing-table the books lent him by Nevill; on the other side those lent him that night by Parkinson. He took the latter pile, consisting of five books, and, holding them pressed together between his right and left hand, he read the backs carefully. He should never be able to look through these books with more unconcern than this night, the night of the betrothal, a scathless visit to Parkinson, that calm and peaceful commune with God above the moonlit city. Three o'clock struck, and he read on. Four, five, six, and still he did not rise from that chair. At seven he had finished the book, and at seven he rose, went to the window, and once more pulled back the curtains and drew up the blind. The moon had set. The sun had not yet risen. 'All is dark,' he thought, 'all is dark. This is my second vigil within a few days. My second vigil. All is dark. I suppose Marie is sleeping still. The city is slowly waking. I can hear the mutter of traffic, but I can see nothing, for all is dark. 'I wonder where the song is Marie sung last night? Quenched in this dense darkness. How strange to stand here and listen to the waking notes of this vast city! Gog and Magog are turning in their dreams. What a wonderful city this is! Its wakening cries are louder than the noonday voice of Stratford; but I miss the delicate tones of the river. 'The birds are still sleeping in the trees around our house at Stratford, and mother and Alice are sleeping too. In Stratford now you could not hear a sound but the soft secret lispings of the Avon. An hour before the dawn a river speaks as at no other time of day or night. Often in coming home from fishing I have stood to listen to the river beginning to speak. The first voice after sunset does not come from near where you stand, but from round a bend or some part you are not looking at. You think it is a late bird until you weigh the sound in your ear, and then you find no bird could touch so delicate a note, reach so weird a meaning. Then all at once a hundred soft whispers steal along the shore and from the surface of the stream, and you wait and listen minute after minute in the hope or fear the whisperings will shape themselves in some human speech. You wait until disappointment yields to despair. Then you turn to go. You have taken only one step, when you hear the river saying distinctly, "Stay, stay." You remain immoveable for awhile, only to be tantalised by whisperings and mutterings less unlike human speech than before. 'I suppose a man never had a better mother or better sister than I. Nothing in the world keeps a man so clear of that most vulgar of all mental vices, cynicism, as a good mother and good sisters. It is good women who keep men in well-ordered mind. Men are not afraid of telling their weaknesses to other men, but it hurts and degrades a man when evil news of him come to ears at home. There is one sure way of making any man careless of his conduct: make his mother and sisters believe he is not what he should be. A man's wife is theoretically his equal; but in practice who ever saw this theory hold? She must govern him or he her. 'There's Jim Truscot at Stratford. He is a hunchback and lame, and eight years younger than I. I have known him all my life. When he was a boy and I a lad, I used to watch him as he looked at the other boys playing cricket. He would clap his hands and shout when a ball was well hit or a player well stumped. No one had such judgment or knowledge of the game as poor Jim Truscot, and yet he could never swing a bat or bowl a ball. Often have I watched the boy, and grieved for him, until the tears would run into my eyes; and I would have handed the boy the bat and given up the game, if poor Jim might play one game. Jim is at home in Stratford now, hardly awake yet. Yes, poor Jim is no doubt lying asleep now in Stratford, his deformed withered legs stretched out, his misshapen breast heaving quickly! Poor Jim! perhaps now he does not care for cricket as much as formerly. Perhaps the spirit that inhabited the poor tenement has now fallen down in worship before some young girl of pastoral and woodland Warwickshire. If this were so with the man, what had been the boy's sorrow? A passing cloud compared to a life-long gloom. 'Far away there, under the pall of lingering darkness, ran the little river, now whispering as it had never whispered at any other time. The sounds came closer together, there was a hurry, a confusion in the tones. The sounds were tremulous and the accents full of fear. They came nearer to speaking a human tongue. The river seemed anxious to communicate some secret of vital importance. It appeared to make a final effort to render itself intelligible before dawn came in the broad east and silenced the voice of the river. 'Now I listen once more to these whispers. I have found the key to the tongue they speak, I know now what they have tried to say and could not. It was, – '"Fools! Fools, you men! You think you are of some importance to the Creator. You are nothing. You are like us, merely the result of the great current of life striking the shore. While the river flows by banks, you have voice, as we. But in the great ocean beyond the shores of time you shall be like us, dumb. You are no better than we, or these rushes here, in anything you can show, except that you enjoy more privileges. Fools, why should you not be content? Is it not much to be lords of earth, without aspiring to be peers of heaven?" 'Has it all come to this? Has it all come to this at last? Mother and Alice away in Stratford, are they nothing more than ripples on the stream of life? If my mother does not get a reward on earth for all her goodness, will she get no reward for it hereafter? Monstrous thought! Will poor Jim Truscot go into his coffin, and find in his coffin nothing but nothingness? Was that poor misshapen creature brought into the world merely to be the sport of Fate? No, no; this cannot be. I will not believe it.' The cold grey dawn of midwinter was now in the east. 'And here, under this roof, sleeps my gentle sister Kate, and all the good and kindly people of the place. Are they all but ripples on the stream? 'And she, my Marie, she who is dearer than all the world beside, is she to be to me only for the span of this poor vulgar world, wherein love and time are broken up by the round of petty daily cares? Am I to clasp her in this world only to lose her in the next? I, who spent all my youth in visions of perfected love hereafter! I who held that we were sent on earth merely to learn love, that we might hereafter enjoy it in the peace as unencumbered souls!' He paused awhile, drew back from the window. He put his hand to his head in a bewildered way. He took down his hands, crying out, in a low, resolute voice, – 'No, no. No, no, no. That is absurd. Quite absurd. I must be losing my reason. Staying up at night is bad, everyone says, and everyone is always right. You may stay up a night now and then, but not two nights in such quick succession as these two. 'I can't sleep, and I don't want to read or to think. What should I do? 'Go out for a walk and get the jaded look off my face before my love, my Marie, comes down. Yes; that is a good idea.' He changed his clothes, stole quietly down the stairs, took his overcoat off the hall rack, and went out. The morning was damp, and raw, and cold. He had no definite intention. He wandered about the streets aimlessly. He did not know whither he went. He did not care what road he took. He simply wanted to kill time and thought by walking. The streets had not awoke yet. Life beat in languid pulses at the crossings where great courses of traffic crossed one another. Odd cabs rolled by, carrying figures, well muffled up, to and from early trains. The 'All hot!' men still lingered in important thoroughfares. London would not be awake for an hour. London would not be at work for two. At the usual hour the breakfast-bell rang. Shortly afterwards it was found Mr Osborne and Mr Nevill had gone out and had not returned, and that the latter had left word he should not be back for the day.
CHAPTER VIII.
DERELICT WOMEN
'Good gracious!' cried white-haired Mrs Barclay from the top of the table, 'what can have happened to the two? They must have gone out together. Gone out a raw wretched morning like this without breakfast! I never heard of such a thing. Miss Osborne, have you any notion of what has become of your brother?' 'No, Mrs Barclay, not the least. He said nothing about it last night, and he left no message. Perhaps he got a letter or telegram this morning obliging him to go out early.' 'Maybe so. Maybe so! I'll ring and ask. Without his breakfast such a morning! Why, it's enough to give him his death.' A servant answered. 'Did you take the letters out of the box this morning?' 'Yes, ma'am.' 'Were there any for Mr Osborne?' 'No, ma'am.' 'Nor a telegram?' 'No, ma'am.' 'Well, I'm sure I never heard of such a thing. They must have gone out together. But it is strange that Mr Nevill should have said nothing about going out. Miss Osborne, are you sure there is nothing the matter? You are looking very white.' 'I am quite well,' answered Kate. She felt perplexed about her brother, and confused about Nevill. She had passed a wakeful night. Two or three times before a man had seemed to court her society, but upon the introduction of anything like sentiment she had immediately and resolutely drawn back, and given the candidate wooer to understand she desired him to abandon the pursuit. Nevill had of late amused and diverted her. At first she had stood in mortal terror of that rattling tongue which dealt so freely with everyone, everything. Of late that feeling had worn away, and she could listen to his nonsense with a relish. She had never met anyone like him before; and when the shock of novelty had been overcome by time, she felt no repulsion from him or his rodomontade. She had never thought of the possibility of his falling in love. He was, she imagined, the last man in the world likely to marry and settle down. She had no more thought of his falling in love with her than of the Archbishop of Canterbury asking her to run away with him. What he had said when they were alone yesterday struck her as being peculiar, nothing more. It perplexed, puzzled, distressed her, that was all. It had, to her, no more indicated love than a polite bow indicates a proposal of marriage. All it had meant to her was that insensibly she had given him cause of disquietude. She would have been glad to remove that uneasiness by any assurance or proof she could give; but he had clung to the delusion with the greatest pertinacity until he turned over a new leaf of his mysterious book, and confessed he had been only playing at being hurt! He had, he said, invented a grievance to try an experiment, the nature of which he would not then divulge. She had tried to guess what that experiment could be, but failed. She had felt surprised and alarmed to think this man had been, unknown to her, trying experiments on her; but whether these experiments had been in repartee or mesmerism, she could not say. She had had no clue whatever to his meaning. Now she held the clue, but what an extraordinary, what an unlooked-for one it was! Although she had the clue to the experiment, she did not know what the experiment was. The clue was, he loved her! Could anything be more extraordinary than that he who had been over half the world, had seen girls of every degree of accomplishments and beauty, should single out her as the woman he would make his wife? She could not believe he was in earnest. She would again read the letter over after breakfast. When she found herself in the privacy of her own room, she took the letter out of her pocket and read it twice over carefully. Beyond all doubt, he was in earnest. Besides, no man of ordinary feeling plays at such matters. He asked for an immediate reply, and there was every reason for answering him at once. What should she say? What should she say? The position was one of the greatest difficulty. George was gone away. That was extraordinary enough. Even Marie did not know where George had gone. How awkward! No doubt Mr Nevill had gone out and taken George with him, to break to him what he had done, and to hear his opinion. What should she do? It was plain this letter ought to be answered in some way at once. George was out, and there were no means of learning when he would be back. What should she do? It was very awkward and depressing. What should she do?' There was no one she could talk to but Marie. She would go to Marie and tell her of this thing. Marie was now almost her sister, and having had such great experience in the world, no doubt she could tell her exactly what to do. Marie was greatly puzzled by George's absence. She thought it almost careless of him to leave no word when he was going out that he would not be back for breakfast. The people at the place now knew something was going on between them, and leaving in this way aroused remark and drew eyes upon her. When saying good-night last night, he had been most affectionate, had thanked her for that song, and blessed God his sweetheart had a voice that was better than a sermon. She wasn't in the least angry with him. Who could be angry with George? Her George! her master! her lord! What they were to do to-day she did not know. Nothing had been settled yesterday. How she wished George would come back! Breakfast had been so lonely and dreary without him. She had never been in love before. It was infinitely delightful, but it was hard to bear when he was away. Love was peace and rest and security when he was by; but when he was away it was a sick, sad yearning, a growing want. How often at breakfast that morning she felt when the door-handle moved she could see his face through the door. When the door did open and admitted a servant or some stout guest, she had felt first as if she wished that person dead, and then as if she would like to go up to her room and cry. Of course George had an excellent reason for going out and staying away; but what was the use of reason when she wanted to see George? It was all very well saying, 'He has a good reason; he has a good reason.' You might go on saying that with your mind or your lips as long as you liked, but the minute you stopped, your heart called out twice as loud, 'I want George. I want my love.' 'O'Connor, is that you?' 'The same, if it be pleasing to you, Miss Gordon.' 'Why are you so very stately, O'Connor?' 'Out of regard to what is on your third finger, Miss Gordon. You are now the next thing to a married lady, and of course it's only right and proper you should have more respect from me now than before.' 'O'Connor.' 'Yes, Miss Gordon.' 'Have you had your breakfast?' 'Yes, Miss Gordon.' 'I think your month was up last Saturday. 'Yes, miss.' 'Well, you have often expressed a wish to leave me. You can do so now, if you wish.' 'Child, do you mean it?' 'Yes, I mean it.' 'Why? What have I done?' 'Did you not come into this room now with the intention of annoying me?' 'Of course I did.' 'Well, I can have no more of this.' 'But you didn't let me. You stopped me before I began.' 'I saw what was coming. I might have borne it, only for the very circumstance of which you spoke. I gave you full scope before, but now I can no longer allow you to speak of my private affairs in an ill-tempered way; you would be sure and say something I could not endure. You must go, O'Connor. I'll pay you what I owe you and three months' wages. You can go back to Cork, and no doubt it will be for your benefit.' 'Child, what way are you talking?' 'I mean what I say, all of it, O'Connor.' 'And you're turning me away really, after all this time, for saying what you never let me say? Is that fair or reasonable?' 'I am letting you go because you would be quite sure to annoy me beyond endurance in a few days, and I will not run that risk.' 'But maybe I wouldn't, child. Maybe you'd stop me then as you did now.' 'No, O'Connor. We must part.' 'When I gave you impudence before, you always told me not to say I'd go away to Cork; and now, before I give you any impudence at all, you tell me to go. Child!' 'Yes, I am listening.' 'Let me say what I was going to say, child, and if I say anything about going back to Cork, stop me and tell me to go away for a foolish girl, and forgive me, child, forgive me this once. Let it be like the old time, before any man came between us. Do, child, do. For the love of heaven don't send me away like that. There, child, you're crying as bad as I am myself. Don't break our two hearts. I'll be foolish no more. There, child, forgive me this once. You know I'd die for you. You know I worship the ground you walk on. It's only when my love gets out of my heart into my head I forget myself and all I owe you. Child, do not send me away. Give me one more chance. The time is cold enough without sending me away. There, child, don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. Is it I made you cry? Oh, misfortune on me, is it I made her cry? God above, forgive me. Child, child, is it because I am staying, not going, as you told me, you are crying? Is it? tell me, and I'll go at once. Tell me, child, is it because I am staying when you tell me to go that you are crying?' 'No.' 'And is it because you are sending me away you are crying? Tell me, child. Is it because you are sending me away you are crying?' 'It is.' 'There, now. There, now, don't cry any more. Don't cry any more. Why, child, do you think if it makes you cry for me to leave you that any mortal body could ever make me go? Not he. Why, yourself couldn't. The foolishness of your sending me away and making yourself cry when you can keep me and dry up your tears! There, there, now, dry up your eyes. You needn't be in the least afraid I'll go. Nothing in the world would make me go now. I did often think of leaving you, but now I won't speak of it again. Dry up your eyes now, child, and say no more about it. I'm not a bit put out. I'm not indeed. That's right. Now you're looking yourself again. When Cork catches a hold of me never mind. You mustn't let Mr Osborne see your eyes red like that; for if he found out that I did that, he'd turn cross on me and want me to go away, which of course I couldn't do. Here's the rose-water and the glass. That's it. There, now. Sit back and rest yourself. I'll go away. You don't want me. Won't you ring, child, if you want me? I'll sit on the stairs. Who's there? Miss Osborne!' 'Marie, I want a little chat with you, if you have time.' 'Come over and sit down, Kate,' said Miss Gordon, as Judith O'Connor left the room, shutting the door after her. 'Marie,' said Kate, standing over the other, 'you have been crying because George went out without telling you he was going. I can tell you why he is gone, although I don't know where.' 'No, Kate, I have not been crying about George. I am quite satisfied with him. I know he has good reason for everything he does. O'Connor has been annoying me.' 'O'Connor ought not to be borne with. Why don't you send her about her business? You tell me she is always threatening to leave you. Why don't you let her go?' 'I told her to go this morning.' 'Well?' 'And she refused.' 'Why not make her go?' 'She won't go. I told her most plainly, but she said nothing would ever make her leave me. I know I shall carry her with sorrow to the grave. Let us not bother about O'Connor, dear. You said you knew why George had gone away. If you like, you may tell me.' 'I don't like to tell you. But I fear I must.' 'Fear you must! Is it very bad?' asked Marie, looking up with alarm in her eyes. 'Oh no. Not bad that way,' said Kate, moving towards the window, and looking out to conceal a marked rise of colour. 'Then bad what way? What is it about?' 'About me.' 'And what is it about you, Kate?' 'Mr Nevill-' 'Oh, I see. Mr Nevill has spoken out at last, has he?' 'No.' 'Well, then, I'm at a loss. I don't know what else could have happened. Are he and George gone out together?' 'I think so.' 'Rut why on earth all this mystery on their part?' Why didn't George know last night?' 'Didn't know what?' 'Why, Kate, you are as mysterious as the men.' 'That Mr Nevill had written to me.' 'Write, did he? Oh, I see-I see. And what did he say?' 'He said he likes me.' 'Well, that is not a very remarkable thing. Now, if he said he didn't, I'd answer his letter by telling him I thought him very original; but as it is, Kate, you cannot say anything more complimentary than that you have every reason to believe his judgment in this matter is perfectly sound.' 'And-and he says he'd like I'd like him.' Marie rose and went to the window, and put her arm silently round the other girl's waist and drew her softly towards her. 'And I think,' went on Kate, averting her head, 'he must have gone to George's room early this morning and taken George with him.' Marie said nothing, but drew Kate still closer to her. Kate went on, – 'And I am in a great difficulty, for this letter ought to be answered at once; and George is out, and I don't know what to say, so I have come to you for advice.' 'Do, Kate, whatever you think best.' 'If I was to do what I should like, I'd call a cab and drive to the railway station, and go home at once, without answering the letter at all.' 'But that would be cruel to him, and I suppose he has not done anything to annoy or offend you.' 'Oh no, he has been most kind. I do not mean to do anything of the sort. I mean to answer his letter at once, but I don't know what to say.' 'The only way I can help you is to suggest that you write him such a letter as you would have wished me to write if George had written to me. Can't you do that?' 'I'll try!' Marie kissed Kate, and Kate sobbed awhile, and then went back to her own room to answer Nevill's offer of love. That evening late she posted the following letter to Nevill, addressed to the care of Messrs Stainsforth & Co., Lombard Street: -