Under St Paul's: A Romance
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CHAPTER III.
IN THE CHURCHYARD
'As you people live here in England,' said Nevill, next morning at breakfast, 'this meal is the gloomiest, dinner is the solemnest, and supper is the sleepiest of the day. I can always understand a man being gloomy in the morning, but why people should be solemn at dinner and sleepy at supper I never could make out. The only way I can come near accounting for a man being solemn at dinner is because it is the most expensive meal of the day, and there is no way in the world so good for knocking the fun out of John Bull as to bleed him. But why people should look sleepy at supper licks me hollow!' 'Perhaps, sir,' said the solid-looking man, 'it is because the people are sleepy.' 'From what I know of Mr Nevill,' said Miss Gordon, 'I don't think he will be satisfied with a straightforward answer like that.' 'This very straightforwardness is the curse of the English character,' answered Nevill. 'To tell the plain truth, right out, is the impulse of a savage. To conceal all that is unpleasant, because it may give pain to others, is the perfection of culture. Why on earth should straightforwardness or any other virtue come stamping on my corns? I know, for instance, that my nose is not Roman. But that is no reason why Mr Straightforwardness should come and say to me, "Sir, you have a snub nose, not to say a cocked nose." No, Miss Gordon; give me the man who uses his wits to make those around him pleasant.' 'Do you,' asked Miss Gordon, 'practise what you preach?' 'In a humble way,' with a bow. 'And do you think you are adding to the pleasure of a company of English men and women, by attacking the character of the whole nation?' 'Undoubtedly.' 'But how?' 'A lady who has been a great traveller like you, Miss Gordon, must know that all our pleasures, or nearly all, are derived from thinking of other people or things; all our pains arise from thinking of ourselves. A comedy, a tragedy, a marriage, or an execution amuses us equally, because it makes us forget ourselves. But when we are compelled to think of ourselves by debt or pain, we are no longer happy. The debt or pain of other people is a source of diversion to us.' 'But, sir,' said the solid-looking man, 'I can't see how that is a reply to Miss Gordon's question.' 'It is not a direct reply, I own. But you may, sir, deduce the reply from it.' 'I confess I can't.' 'Well, you are an Englishman. I attack your race. That takes your mind off yourself by making it turn towards your race, and making you individually hate me.' 'That is not an ordinary theory.' 'Ordinary theories are, sir, never sound.' 'Mr Nevill,' said Miss Gordon, 'you are a great traveller.' 'Yes, I have been about a bit; but I'm not old, and I intend doing better before I die.' 'Are you a good linguist?' 'No. Don't speak a word of any language but English.' 'There is a general theory that linguists have prominent eyes. Now you have no talent for languages, and your eyes are not prominent.' There was a general laugh, in which he joined. 'Don't you think, sir,' said the solid-looking man, 'that when foreigners are travelling in out-of-the-way places, where they can find no one who speaks their language, they are grossly imposed on by the hotel-keepers?' 'I daresay many are imposed upon; but I, never.' 'And,' said Miss Gordon vivaciously, 'how do you manage to escape?' 'My mode is one few would care to adopt; but it is most effectual: 'Before I make signs to them I want the bill, I become erratic for awhile. Then I show them I wish to pay. Then I become moody. When they hand me the bill, I take out a revolver, and begin chanting the multiplication in English. I have tried cursing and swearing at them, but nothing is half so good as the multiplication chanted in a low voice. The effect is weird and confounding. They don't know whether I am going to shoot one of them or myself; they don't know whether I am sane or mad. They are sure of only one thing-that they wish I'd go. When I have treated them to about ten minutes of this, I put the revolver in my pocket, and tender them what I think fair. If they show hesitation, I go back to my old device, and starve them out.' 'You are joking,' said Mrs Barclay, from behind the tea-urn. 'Not at all, Mrs Barclay; and if there are any irregularities in your account, I'll treat you to a specimen of my method. If you have a doubt of the matter, ask Mr Osborne. He has seen me do the thing a thousand times.' Miss Gordon smiled, and said, – 'As Mr Nevill never met Mr Osborne until yesterday, I don't think you need, Mrs Barclay, be in great dread, if you cannot believe without his evidence.' 'What are you going to do to-day, Osborne?' asked Nevill. 'I think I shall spend the day in St Paul's.' 'Spend the day in St Paul's! Why, bless my soul, man, you don't mean to say they have still the power of doing that sort of thing here?' 'What sort of thing?' asked Osborne. 'The power of sending a man to a church for a whole day. Are you to sit on a stool of repentance, with a white sheet around you and a lighted candle in your hand?' 'Do you really intend spending a whole day over St Paul's?' asked Miss Gordon, with a look of interest. 'I do,' answered Osborne. Mrs Barclay glanced at the girl, and asked, – 'Would you like to go?' 'Very much indeed.' 'Then perhaps you will take her, Mr Osborne?' He grew red and uncomfortable, and stammered out, – 'Certainly, with great pleasure.' 'What! Miss Gordon!' cried Nevill, in amazement. 'You promised me last night to come and have a look at Brighton with me to-day!' 'I prefer going to St Paul's.' 'And you break your agreement with me?' 'Yes.' With a sigh and a laugh close together. 'Upon my word, that is too bad. I never was so badly treated in all my life. Aren't you ashamed of yourself?' 'Not in the least; because, you see, I prefer going to St Paul's. I should be very much ashamed of going to Brighton when I wanted to go to St Paul's, and could go.' 'Miss Gordon, may I ask you how old you are?' 'Certainly. I am four-and-twenty. Why do you ask?' 'What a remarkable woman you will be when you are forty-eight?' 'In what way do you think I shall be remarkable? 'In strength of mind, and all that. Tell me, do you go in for woman's rights?' 'I think women ought not to be fools.' 'Why?' 'Because it is ridiculous to be a fool.' 'But fools are often more happy then wise people.' 'Yes; but happiness is a brute quality, and I care for nothing but intellect.' Nevill shook his head, and laughed good-humouredly. 'Miss Gordon, take my word for it, you will be an ornament to the woman's rights' platform before you are fifty years of age.' While this dialogue was going on George Osborne thought to himself: 'What an awkward position she places me in! I would much sooner be alone. Then this rattle-pated Nevill is certain to think this is of my contrivance, and that, too, in the face of his confiding to me he was going to make love to her. He will surely consider me a dishonourable man; and certainly I have no intention of being dishonourable, and no wish to be considered dishonourable, and no wish to be with her. 'Fancy one of my sisters, fancy my sweetheart, if there were such a person, behaving in this bold way! Absolutely asking a strange man to take her to a place, in the face of another arrangement with a second strange man to go to another place! I never heard of such a thing in all my life. It is scandalous. It is indelicate. It is improper. 'I have told her I intended spending all day in the cathedral; but I need not go till late, and I will come away at dusk. 'I wonder will she talk and laugh loud, and whistle in the church, and disgrace herself?' He raised his eyes wistfully to her face. She was smiling at Nevill. Such an intoxicating smile. 'Yes, physically she is perfect; spiritually she is monstrous. She is Dead-Sea fruit. She is no woman. She is neither man nor woman, but a monstrous development of over-quick civilisation. She is the most beautiful being I have ever seen.' When breakfast was over he threw himself into an easy-chair, and thought, as he took up The Times, – 'I shall sit here for an hour or an hour and a half before starting.' He had not read a column when a foot approached him, and a soft voice said, – 'Well, Mr Osborne, I am ready.' He looked up and saw her standing before him dressed for walking. He did not notice anything she wore but the hat. It was velvet, a full vermilion, with black lace. Such a hat would catch the eye at any distance. It was shamefully bright. No sister of his, no sweetheart of his, should ever wear such a brazen thing. Why, all the people would stare at her! Ah, and well they might stare too, and stare till dark, and find no blemish in that oval face, that rounded, lithe figure. How at a second look the bold colour in the hat triumphed over one's repugnance! He would not dare to let his sister or his sweetheart wear such a thing; they were, or would be, dear to him, and this woman was a mere stranger; in a few days she would pass away out of his sight for ever. Meanwhile, the hat suited the face, and the face suited-heaven. 'Do you like my hat?' she asked, as he rose. 'It is very striking.' 'But do you think it is too violent?' 'No. It is daring-and successful.' 'I am glad you like it. I put it on expressly for you.' 'For me! How could you tell I should like it?' 'Oh, very simply. You are a very transparent man.' 'But how did you find out I should like such a hat?' 'Well, you know that there are two kinds of ways of looking at a picture. The man who has a good eye for drawing looks at a picture bit by bit. The man who has a good eye for colour looks at the picture vaguely. You looked at the pictures here vaguely. Then I knew you had colour. My portrait has never been painted; but they tell me when I wear this hat I am a painting after one Giovanni Bellini, in Venice. Bellini's colour is always right; so a good copy of his ought to be right. I always have a hat like this with me, and when I want to be peculiarly killing I put it on. Does that explain all?' 'May I ask why you wish to be particularly-' He paused. He did not like to use her own word, and he did not like to rebuke her by using another. 'Killing to-day.' She finished the sentence for him. 'Because I am going out with a very handsome man, and I hate playing second fiddle.' She had taken his breath away, and he stared at her in silent wonder. What was she really? There was one obvious answer-the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. 'Come,' she said, briskly, 'we are losing time, and I am in a hurry to be there.' When they got out, she took his arm without his offering it. After a while she stopped at the window of a furniture shop, to admire a sideboard. 'What a beautiful sideboard!' she exclaimed. 'Yes,' he said, 'it is very handsome.' 'And what a beautiful pair!' 'Pair of what?' 'Of human beings in the glass.' He raised his eyes and saw the reflection of a tall, squarely-made, light-haired man, with square-cut face and pale, broad forehead, and by the man's side a tall, beautiful woman, after the Giovanni Bellini. 'Are you always so candid, Miss Gordon?' he asked, gravely. 'Yes,' she answered. 'It saves time, and it keeps men from making love or being impertinent. I have been a good deal about, and no man has ever dared to be impertinent to me. If you like, I'll tell you now all about myself; where and when I was born, where I have spent my time, how I was brought up, how I was educated, all about my family and fortune, my likes and dislikes, and my love-secrets.' Once more he stared at her. There was something confounding in finding one's-self so close to such a spirit in such a body. Mentally he drew back from her. That a young and beautiful woman such as she should offer to him, an utter stranger, the record of her inner thought, was distressing. Not for all the world would he lift a corner of the veil. This was a new power of torture. It was distressing to think that girl by his side was willing at any moment to throw aside the padding and expose to his view the bare skeleton of her individuality. He answered, 'I am not at all, not in the least, curious.' 'Then why, if you are not in the least curious, did you ask me if I was always so candid?' This puzzled him. He did not know what to say. He looked at her and smiled vacantly. She saw his predicament, and said, in her offhand way, – 'Well, there, don't bother to answer; I am not in the least curious.' There was a long pause. She broke it with, – 'Do you know, I can be awfully well-behaved when I like.' 'I am sure you are always well-behaved,' he said, warmly. 'Oh, but I mean stupid, and dull, and proper, like you.' He smiled a little sadly and said nothing. 'Oh, but I can; and I mean to be stupid, and dull, and proper, like you all day.' 'Why?' he asked, looking in perplexity at her. 'Same reason as for the hat; because you are stupid, and dull, and proper, and I hate to play second fiddle.' They walked on in silence until they arrived at the cathedral. 'Service is going on,' said Osborne, in the porch. 'Would you like to attend portion of it?' 'No. Take me round and let me look at the shops. I do not go to church.' 'You are a Roman Catholic, no doubt?' 'No. I was brought up in the Church of England; but I have given up going to church. I am not profane enough to treat the service as a spectacle or a musical performance, and I am not sincere enough to treat it on higher grounds.' 'I am exceedingly sorry to hear you say so.' 'I have worn off most of my faith with travel and change.' 'Then I would recommend you to rest from travel and change until your faith comes back again.' He had paused and was looking down earnestly into her face. An accent of solicitude in the man's voice arrested the girl's attention. For the first time her face was turned to his without a smile, and she looked up gravely to him. She spoke, after a short pause, – 'What you say interests me more than you might think, for I am not nearly so happy or quiet in my mind as when I went-' she pointed to the cathedral, in the shadow of which they were standing. 'Nor will you ever be. So long as we are in the great hurry and bustle of life, we do not feel the necessity strong upon us. But each one of us has to go out of life alone. That is the terrible thought-alone. The future is of the utmost consequence to us. It can be made as valid a certainty as this great church under which we stand. Look up, and think of that church alone. That noble pile is the symbol of a nation's faith. All over the world St Paul's is known. It is the loftiest point in all these miles that make up London. Four millions of Christian men and women are clustered round its feet, draw breath and kneel in worship in sight of its cross. This is the greatest church built by the most practical race. When we consider that the most practical race on earth built this monument of faith, the opinion of the individual ought to be hushed before such a proof of devotion. Sceptics, scientists, and voluptuaries may rail as they will, there is the great fact hung by our nation between London and heaven.' He had forgotten whom he was speaking to. He looked down, coloured quickly, and said, – 'I beg your pardon, Miss Gordon; I forgot you wished to see the shops. Let us go.' She did not move. She was looking up with a new sweet gravity in her face. 'I don't care about the shops. The things are all faded. Let us walk round the cathedral; I want to have a good look at it.' The expression of her face changed. She sighed, and a soft light of hopefulness came into her eyes. It was a quiet light, like the morning light in a wood. 'You look your loveliest now,' he said. He thought, – 'Mad or drunk, or mad and drunk, what can I do?' 'You will take me round the cathedral?' 'Yes, when the service is over.' 'And you will tell me all about it?' 'Yes, as far as I know,' he answered. 'Mad or drunk, no matter which,' he thought. 'And you will treat me as a woman capable of respecting things that deserve respect?' 'Certainly.' He was not paying attention to what she was saying, his whole being was centred upon what she was looking. Mentally he said, – 'Drunk or mad, or-love? No matter!' 'Fools have made me flippant,' she said. 'And nature has made you divine.' 'Mr Osborne?' 'Yes.' 'Suppose I made up my mind to take a rest, and think seriously of serious things, would you advise me to settle in the country or town?' He stopped suddenly, raised his right arm, and made a slow gesture round. 'What place can you find better than here?' Throwing up his arm to its full height from his shoulder, he added, – 'Under St Paul's?'
CHAPTER IV.
'OH, PERHAPS.'
'O'CONNOR, you are to do my hair plain to-day,' said the mistress dreamily, as she sat before her glass. 'Plain, miss! Plain!' exclaimed the maid, in astonishment. 'Are you going to sit in your room all day?' 'No. I am going down to breakfast, and after breakfast I am going to see Westminster Abbey,' said Miss Gordon, with a sigh. 'I will wear my light-blue silk. O'Connor groaned. 'And my pearl-grey hat with the blue feathers.' O'Connor sat down and looked uneasily at her mistress. After a few seconds she asked, – 'And wouldn't you like to put green paint on your eyebrows and a blue stripe down your nose?' 'Come, O'Connor, and do my hair, or I shall be late.' 'I'll have no hand, act, or part in it,' said the maid quietly, as she folded her arms and stared with scrupulous sincerity at the window. 'Come at once, I say, O'Connor; no more nonsense. You really must learn to do what I tell you at once, or you and I shall part.' For a moment the maid remained immoveable. Suddenly she rose to her feet, turned round, and placed herself between her mistress and the glass, and said excitedly, – 'I often helped to make you look what you are-the loveliest lady I ever saw. And I will not now help you to make a fool of yourself. You know your hair plain does not suit you; you know that dress you never wore, for it does not suit you; you know that hat only made you laugh when you put it on. You can dress as you like and do your hair as you like; but if you think I'll do what you say, you're mistaken.' 'O'Connor, I will have no more of your impertinent nonsense. Do what I tell you!' 'Is that the way you treat me after all I've done for you? Give me what you owe me and I'll go back to Cork.' 'Leave the room at once!' cried Miss Gordon excitedly. 'Not till you give me my money,' replied the girl vehemently, at the same time holding out her hand. 'Leave the room, I say, at once. How dare you stay when I tell you to go?' 'I am waiting for my money. I want to go back to Cork before you disgrace me.' 'O'Connor, I will take no further notice of you. Your conduct is unpardonable. Go, or I shall have to ring the bell.' 'Ring the bell! Ring the bell! Is that what you say after all I've done and suffered for you, and all the outlandish victuals I have eaten, and all the outlandish gibberishes I have listened to-is that my thanks?' 'If you don't go at once, I'll ring.' 'Pay me my money and I'll go.' Miss Gordon rose and went towards the bell. 'Pay me my money, or I'll call in the police.' Miss Gordon rang the bell. All at once the manner of the maid changed. Her lips trembled, she put her hand before her face, walked towards the door, and left the room sobbing. The chambermaid appeared in a few minutes. To her Miss Gordon said, – 'I shall be late for the table d'hôte breakfast. Get me a little for myself in about three-quarters of an hour.' When the chambermaid came down to the kitchen she found Judith O'Connor moving about the place restlessly. 'What did my mistress ring for?' asked Judith. 'To say she'd want breakfast for herself in three-quarters of an hour.' 'She did not say anything else?' 'No.' Judith sat down and sighed. In a few moments she said to the chambermaid, – 'Isn't my missis beautiful?' 'She is.' 'The most beautiful lady you ever saw here?' 'We've had no one so good-looking lately.' 'You never had,' said Judith firmly. 'Oh yes; there's Mrs Loftus.' 'Yes, I know what Mrs Loftus is like, all frills and tuckers, and frizzed hair and paint.' 'Mrs Loftus didn't wear frills or tuckers; she wears her hair flat: and as to paint, well, I never saw any sign of it about her. Did you?' 'No; and I don't want to see Mrs Loftus, or any other missis but my own. Mrs Loftus may be a very handsome lady-and I am sure she is when you say it-but there isn't a finer missis in all England than mine.' 'How do you mean? Mrs Barclay is as good a missis as any servant could have.' 'Yes; but my missis doesn't know she's a missis at all.' As Miss Gordon had predicted, she was late for breakfast that morning. All the guests had left the table, and Mrs Barclay had risen and gone out of the room. Two gentlemen were seated on the couch farthest from the table, looking at newspapers. As Miss Gordon entered, each lowered his newspaper, looked at the girl for a moment, and resumed reading without breaking silence. One was the solid-looking gentleman, the other George Osborne. The light in the room was dull. Miss Gordon, too, kept silence. Her breakfast was soon over; she rose and left the room. In a few minutes the solid-looking man went out also, and George Osborne was left to himself. He looked at the clock on the chimney-piece. He looked at his watch. He put away The Times, and walked slowly up and down the room. He sat down, took up The Times again, and thought resolutely to himself, – 'I'll read a column, and make myself think of it. That will pass away the minutes until she comes. It is sickening to be looking at the door every time it opens, and see the way blocked by commonplace people seeking something or other, or expressing wonder as to what they shall have for dinner.' The door opened twice, but he kept his resolution. It was hard to be obliged to look down at this white sheet and these dark words, and try to fix the mind on the dreary drone of a leading article, when raising the eyes might reveal to him a feast of colour and a charm of grace that would make the heart rich and life a poem. The door opened a third time. A light, swift footstep approached where he sat. He deliberately waited to finish reading the sentence before looking up. He had been in haste as long as there was doubt; now that he was certain he delayed. He had been a poor man, anxiously expecting wealth; now he was opulent, and squandered recklessly to convince himself his fortune was real. He could feel the beauty of her presence surrounding him and intoxicating him. The moment he raised his eyes he started to his feet with an exclamation of displeased surprise. 'Miss Gordon! Miss Gordon, pray excuse me! I did not recognise you until now. You have altered your appearance so-' 'So much for the worse,' she concluded the sentence, smiling. 'Well, I cannot say I see an improvement.' 'I did not intend you should think it an improvement.' 'Why?' he asked, contracting his brows, and looking at her in a puzzled way. 'You said yesterday you wanted to look your best; you say you do not want to look your best to-day, although-' He paused. She added, – ' Although I am going out with you to-day also. Well, I have altered my mind since. I am jealous of that hat and dress and tunic. You did nothing yesterday but stare at my hat.' 'Miss Gordon-' 'Silence! You did nothing, I say, yesterday, but stare at my hat, and I won't have that. I have put on all the most hideous things in my baggage, to see if you will give poor me a look to-day.' 'I not look at you?' he cried. 'What do you mean?' He did not know what he meant by asking this question. He did not care what he meant. He meant nothing at all, but to look at that warm young face now, and lose his mind in the alluring depths of those dark soft eyes. 'Mad or drunk or love,' he thought. 'God keep me thus a little while, and I shall die content.' 'What are you looking at now?' she asked. 'At you,' he answered. 'Ah,' she laughed,' is this to compensate for your neglect yesterday?' 'It would compensate me,' he said, 'for a whole life of labour and pain.' 'Let us go,' she said, 'or you will be proposing to me, and I am weary of that kind of thing-that is, unless you have a great novelty. I am glad you intend to be better behaved to-day than yesterday, and give me some of your attention. But do you know even to-day you have not said good-morning to me? I change my dress and do up my hair in a different way from yesterday, and when I come down to breakfast you do not know me. Then when you do recognise me, you do not even hold out your hand and say good-morning. Ah, it is all very well when I remind you of it,' she added, placing her hand in his. Why, why was she flippant when he wanted to be calm and quiet, or rash and mad-anything but flippant? Why did she undo the spell of her beauty by the triviality of her words and ways? Such words and ways profaned the sanctuary of her loveliness as riot would a church. He not take her hand! If he dared, he would hold it and place it on his breast, and cover it with both his hands, and cherish it there for ever. Or cherish it until he could no longer hold it, but let it go to clasp that marvel to his breast, and cry into her ear the passion that shook him. She took her hand away and said briskly, – 'I think it's time for us to go if we are to walk along the Embankment and do the Abbey.' They left Mrs Barclay's and moved south. 'Mind,' she said, as she took his arm and they turned out of Peter's Row, 'I am not going to be dull and stupid and proper to-day, like you.' 'Why not to-day?' he asked, with a weary smile. This struggle was trying. 'It is only when I wear my prettiest things I can afford to be proper. You can't expect me to be a guy and a frump at the same time. It's not reasonable of you to expect that of me.' 'I assure you I do not expect it of you.' 'Then what do you expect of me?' 'A little mercy,' he said, looking gravely, sadly at her. 'Well, let us have a truce. It won't last long, I know. Tell me, which do you prefer me, as a guy or a frump?' 'I have not thought of it.' 'Look and think, and tell me.' 'I think I prefer the grey sober style of yesterday.' 'And the hat?' 'And the Bellini hat.' 'Do you intend taking me out to see any tombs or vaults, or crypts or catacombs, or anything lively tomorrow?' 'You will make me very happy if you will let me.' 'Very good. I want to try another experiment.' 'With what view?' he asked wearily. 'With a view to getting your opinion. You are the only poet I ever met, and I am curious to know what poets think.' 'You have already got more than my opinion; you have got all my-' 'What!' she exclaimed, interrupting him. 'On the Thames Embankment, before luncheon, and with the thermometer at ten degrees of frost! I never heard of such a thing. As you are a poet I'll forgive you this time. But the next time you want to say anything pretty or sentimental to me, be more careful. You are a poet, and ought to know you should not make love except when the birds are singing and the flowers blowing. The only thing that's blowing here is the east wind and the penny steamer. For shame, sir!' 'But when the flowers have come, you will have gone away?' Silence. 'You will have gone away, Miss Gordon?' Silence. 'Will you not?' 'Oh, perhaps.'