The task of the Reverend Arthur Sterne was weary, and one that might
have made him sigh had he known no other troubles. Work, work, work, of
the most disheartening character for the most part; and it was only in
rare instances that he could feel in his own heart that his labours had
been of any avail. Here he would listen to a hypocritical tale of woe,
there to a story of real sorrow; now his task would be to try and point
out some foolish reckless piece of extravagance; then to call to account
for folly and idleness. Everywhere there was the same display of live
to-day, and let to-morrow take care of itself. Forethought and
providence seemed to know no home in Bennett's-rents and the
neighbourhood, perhaps because hope had often been so long deferred that
the sickened hearts believed in it no more. Dirt everywhere,
drunkenness frequently, vice often, with their followings of sorrow,
repentance, disease, and death. Years, however, had made him to be
looked upon as a friend, and his step was always welcomed, while,
effecting what good he could, he toiled patiently on; fearing no fever,
dreading no epidemic, but ever ready, he visited the bedside of the
stricken--the vilest or the most unfortunate--ready to join his prayers
to theirs for pardon--to point out the long neglected road that should
have been taken--to teach the ignorant the words they had never known,
or perhaps forgotten years upon years before. His was a task that knew
but little earthly recompense, save the knowledge of duty done; but many
a parting soul blessed him with lips soon to be motionless for ever, or
thanked him with those glazing eyes from which the wild despairing look
had faded, as he knelt in intercession for one whose opportunity for
better things had never come, but who, born into the misery and
wretchedness of a great town, had passed in it the life now about to be
given up at the stern call that knows no refusal.
It was a weary task amidst so poor and wretched a flock; but could the
curate have been at rest, he would have been happy in the good he
effected, and the simple confidence now placed in him by those he
visited. Even Bill Jarker had of late taken to pulling off his fur-cap
and picking it when they met; and there was no hypocrisy in the
salutation, for it was wrung from him by the genuine respect he felt.
But then the curate was not at rest, for he had now thoroughly awakened
to the germs which had rooted themselves in his heart, growing more and
more till his very life was interlaced with the strong fibres. Now, he
would deliberately try to eradicate the growth, tearing and lacerating
himself in his efforts to rid himself of the unbidden guest; but the
progress he made was slow in comparison with the growth he fought
against. Blindly, though, he would tell himself that he had conquered,
that the last root was torn out, and the door of his heart closed
against further entrance. And then, in the pride of his believed
victory, he would tell himself of how he had been about to lavish riches
upon one beneath him, and unworthy, when his heart would reply that love
was a leveller, and laugh to scorn the subtle distinctions of caste;
reminding him, too, that this maiden had grown up as it were beneath his
eye, that he had watched her for years, while she was as well born,
perhaps, as he. And then, in his heart, there would shoot forth a tiny
green blade, then there was the opening leaf, and soon again the
blossom; while roots spread here and there lacing and interlacing
stronger and stronger than ever, as if he had been by his efforts merely
preparing the soil for a richer growth of the ever-verdant clinging
plant that he sought in vain to tear away.
So wearily on, day after day, passed the curate's life, a struggle
between the natural affection and self-imposed duty, while night after
night in his sleepless hours he heaped up reproaches upon himself for
work neglected, and the dreamy musings into which he was wont to fall.
Self-deceiving, he had gone on taking more and more interest in the
Hardon family, blinding himself to his real sentiments, until now that
the veil had been so rudely snatched from his eyes he writhed hourly,
maddened almost, that he should have allowed his peace to have been
disturbed for what he fiercely told himself was worthless.
It was not a long walk from the Bennett's-rents region to Surrey-street,
where he had rooms in a gloomy wilderness of a house, which he shared
with a solicitor, an accountant, and a company that seemed to be
composed of a small secretary and a large heap of prospectuses. Here he
would seek for the rest he could not find, anxious and worn, day after
day, since his last visit to the Hardons, much to the discomposure of
Aunt Fanny, who dwelt with him in the double capacity of housekeeper and
companion.
A prim, pleasant old dame, proud of her great age, and of her bright
silver hair, smoothed in bands beneath her quaint old widow's cap;
sitting or standing, ever with her arms crossed over her black
corded-silk apron, while a mitten-covered hand clasped each elbow. A
prim, pleasant-looking old dame, always dressed in lavender poplin,
whose stiff plaits seemed to have been carved out of the solid, as she
stood at the window watching for the coming of her boy. For "Arty"
always had been, and doubtless always would be, a boy in her pleasant
old eyes--eyes that spoke the truth of her tender old heart; though
there was one point upon which Aunt Fanny would err, and that was her
age. Unlike ladies of a certain time of life, she was proud of her
years, and, doubtless from some haziness in her arithmetic, she was
given to adding to them, so that more than once in her arguments
respecting points of time, she somewhat upset her calculations.
"Why, aunt," the curate would say, "you cannot be so old as you say by
eight years."
"Nonsense, my dear boy, how can you know anything about it? I'm
eighty-two."
"Then," he would say loudly, "you must have been thirty when you were
married."
"Nonsense, child; how can you be so silly! And you need not shout so.
I was twenty-two when your poor uncle led me to the altar." And then
she would fall to smoothing her black apron, and arranging the folds of
her dress, with hands that trembled in an agitated manner, a tear
standing in one of the still bright eyes, as the old recollections
sprang up, when, ceasing the discussion, her nephew would tenderly kiss
her hand, and sit affectionately gazing in her handsome old face.
Indeed time had paid a certain respect to Aunt Fanny, so that she looked
years younger than she really was, while all her faculties save one were
bright as ever; for proud though she was of the fine stitching placed
with her own needle round Arty's shirt-fronts--stitching aided by no
spectacles--and ignorant though she was of her failing, yet Aunt Fanny
was terribly deaf.
But she hardly felt the affliction, speaking of it as a slight weakness
which affected her when she had a cold, always remaining unconscious
that what she looked upon as a whisper was a conversation carried on in
a loud key. Poor Aunt Fanny could not hear very well from her pew in
the gallery, right in front of the organ, for the thing would make, she
said, such a terrible buzzing sound; so a seat was provided for her just
beneath the pulpit, which she found necessary, for clergymen were not
what they used to be. On the following Sunday, her nephew had ascended
to his place, spread out the black-velvet case she had made for his
sermons, prayed, and given out his text twice, when, before the first
words of the sermon were uttered, Aunt Fanny began to mutter to herself,
though her muttering was so loud that everyone present in the little
church must have heard it, her nephew himself being overwhelmed with
confusion.
"Dear, dear, dear!" she exclaimed; "it's of no use, and I can't hear a
bit. I might just as well have stayed where I was. O Arty, Arty, you
sad boy, why will you mumble so?"
Arty did not mumble any more that evening, but dashed headlong into his
discourse; so that when they returned, Aunt Fanny thought she rather
liked the new seat the better of the two. Still it was of no avail; the
old lady could never hear well in that church; for rector and curate had
both got into a bad habit of speaking in a low tone, and drawling out
their words. But Aunt Fanny's pity was sublime in the case of a friend
also troubled with deafness; though he knew it, and did not scruple to
make an ear-trumpet of his hand, though this was needless when Aunt
Fanny was the speaker; for her sentences were always perfectly audible.
"Poor Edwards!" she would say, as she smoothed down her apron, "what a
nice man you would be if you weren't so deaf! It's a pity--a great
pity!" And then she would sigh, in profound ignorance that "poor
Edwards's" confusion was caused by her habit of thinking aloud.
And this was the companion of Arthur Sterne's solitude; but there were
pleasant smiles to welcome him, and beneath their sunny rays the
deeply-cut lines that seamed his forehead grew less marked, while the
light of the pleasant old sunny face was reflected in his own.
Aunt Fanny had seen the change that had come over her nephew, and waited
patiently for his complaints, which came not; and after many days,
unable to contain her anxiety, she crossed to where the curate was
sitting, and, taking his hand, frowned severely as she felt his pulse.
"Well, aunty, and how is it?" he said, smiling at the earnest
countenance beside his.
But Aunt Fanny was too much occupied with her thoughts to speak, and
only nodded, and then shook her head, as, in her own mind, she went over
her long catalogue of simples suited to the various ills of human life,
till at last she settled upon camomile-tea as being the most efficacious
remedy for her nephew's complaint, which she settled to be disorder of
the liver, produced from over-work, and not a word would she hear to the
contrary.
"Now, don't shout, my dear; I'm not deaf. You know you do too much; and
if you won't petition the bishop for a change, I shall. What do you say
to a pleasant curacy in some pretty country place?"
Nothing. What could he say, when he had wakened to the fact that, in
spite of pride and doubts, that court was all the world to him?
Appeal was useless; so, yielding with as good a grace as he could, the
curate suffered himself to be doctored for his complaint, turning to his
books for rest at every reprieve. If it had not been for the heat of
the next few days, he would not have been allowed to stir out without
the thick muffler that had been aired for his throat; while the many
appellants who visited the lodging of a morning were answered by Aunt
Fanny herself; for many came to ask advice and comfort of the curate,
more especially from amongst the poor Irish; but though they came
ostensibly for spiritual, they generally managed to explain that a
little solid help would be most acceptable.
Till now, living in their quiet, simple way, the relations between them
being more like those existent with mother and son, Arthur Sterne had
had no secret from the dame; but now, when he would gladly have eased
his burdened heart by confidence, he shrank from laying bare its
secrets, even though he was in that state when men are most prone to be
confidential. But there was to him something repugnant in the idea of
shouting words that seemed to demand that they should be whispered in
the twilight of some calm eve, when the reassuring pressure of that
time-marked hand would have been loving and tender. For she had been to
him as a mother, taking that duty on herself when he had been left an
orphan, and now there seemed ingratitude in keeping back any of the
troubles of his life. He had no doubts respecting Aunt Fanny. Did he
but bring there a wife, and say, "I love this woman," she would take her
to her heart and believe in her; for, saving the mumbling in his speech,
Arthur Sterne could not, in her eyes, do wrong. Still the secret was
kept--feverishly kept--and brooded over in the sleepless nights, or in
those dark watches, when, impatiently quitting the pillow that brought
no rest, he walked the streets of the sleeping city, alone, or in
company with some policeman; when mostly his steps would lead him to the
end of the court, where, in Septimus Hardon's window, generally
glimmered a feeble light--one whose purpose he often asked himself.
At times he would determine to flee the place, and in some far-off
country retreat try again to root out the love that had taken hold on
him; for here he felt that he could not reason with himself. In vain he
conjured up visions of a calm, pale face, whose marble cheek he had once
kissed, an hour before it was laid in the grave; in vain he told himself
that he was faithless to that old love, and failing in his duty. There
still was the sweet, gentle face of Lucy Grey haunting him ever; and
though he recalled the words of the old Frenchwoman, and her sinister
meaning--the meeting in the Lane, and, above all, the look of shame and
confusion--there was the same sense of love beating down all else. But
he had made a resolve at last; and that was, to see and question the
woman he had seen in Lucy's company; he would see her, and then seek for
rest somewhere, since the idol he had unconsciously set up was sullied
and broken.
Twice over he had met this woman, but now his efforts to see her seemed
in vain. He called at the Jarkers' again and again; but, in place of
her coming, as Mrs Jarker said, to see her child and leave the weekly
payment for its support, week after week, as if she knew that she was
watched, she came not, but sent money-orders by post. He shrank from
speaking to Mrs Jarker concerning her connection with Lucy; while Lucy
herself he had not seen. Watching seemed useless, for the woman came
not; and at last, almost in despair, he had determined to undertake that
which his heart shrank from--the questioning of Lucy herself.
At last, after a long and busy day, as now had become his wont, he
wandered through the streets for hours, apparently feeling no fatigue,
till, late in the night, he stopped by the Rents, walked slowly up the
deserted court, lit by its solitary flickering lamp, whose broken glass
made the flame dance and tremble, while when an extra puff of wind
passed down the court it was but extinct. There was the faint light,
though, in one of the rooms occupied by the Hardons, and after standing
watching it for some time he hurried away, calling himself foolish,
romantic, boy, madman. It was but a passing fancy, he told himself,
such a one as might have moved him in his youth; but his heart would not
harbour the belief, and mockingly cast it forth.
He was angry and half-maddened to feel how helpless he was, and what a
sway the impulse now moving him had obtained; to think that he--the
minister of religion, the teacher of others--should have so little power
over self that he should be swayed here and driven there helplessly; the
whole current of his quiet life turned from its course, and that too in
spite of the way in which he had battled, while the doubts that assailed
him only added to his misery.
Now as he hurried on he would meet some policeman, who turned to watch
him; now it would be some drunken reveller, or a wretched homeless being
just started from some corner where he had been sleeping, and compelled
to wander the streets till daybreak; but ever and again he would
encounter the flauntingly--dressed outcast humming the snatch of a
popular air with a wretched attempt at gaiety, which lasted till she had
passed, and then almost broke into a wail. But he managed that they
should always meet face to face beneath some gas-lamp, when he would
sigh and pass on, for not one that he met during his search was the
woman of the Lane.
Mrs Jarker did not know her name, nor yet where she lodged; but the
little girl was to be called Agnes. That was all the information the
curate could obtain; and at times he would frown, bite his lips, and
give up the search, but only to take it up once again for what he always
told himself was the last time. Then he would play the hypocrite, and
tell himself that his motives were unselfish; that to marry a girl in
Lucy's position of life would be folly--absurd: he was only anxious for
her well-being and future life.
But these fits lasted only for a short time, and then, smiling bitterly,
he would, as upon this night, betake himself to the search once more.
And yet it was not on his account she came not to Bennett's-rents, for
Agnes Hardon knew not of his quest; she had other reasons, though the
visits to her child and Lucy were the only bright spots in her wretched
life. Lucy heard from her from time to time through old Matt, who bore
her notes always under protest, but still obediently, though Lucy was
the only one who knew the poor creature's secret, and she dared not make
it known to Septimus lest he should forbid their meetings; for,
abandoned by all, hopeless, and in misery, Agnes Hardon clung to her
connection with Lucy as the only hope left on earth for self and child.
Her appeals to Somesham remaining unanswered, she had ceased to send,
and, removing from lodging to lodging, any attempt upon Mrs Hardon's
part to find her would have been vain. She had shrunk from the keen
searching glances of the curate when they had met, seeing in everyone
now an enemy whose object was to break her intimacy with Lucy, whom she,
therefore, saw only by stealth. Her heart bled for the misery of the
family, for she learned all from time to time at their meetings; while,
knowing full well that there was a will made, to which she had signed
her name as witness, yet could she not declare her knowledge, from a
shrewd suspicion that the doctor had made away with it, and she told
herself that she had already brought sorrow and shame enough upon her
home.
And to meet her, night by night stole Arthur Sterne through the streets,
ever hating himself for his madness, ever resolving that each search
should be the last, and still weakly yielding to the one great anxiety
that troubled him. Now he would be seeing Lucy's candid face
reproachfully gazing at him, and directly after would come again the
bitter, spiteful countenance of the Frenchwoman, and he seemed to hear
her words, "Our beauty, some of us;" and at such times all faith in the
girl had gone. "Our beauty, some of us!" How the words seemed to ring
in his ears; they were borne to him in the echo of the far-off vehicle,
chimed by the clocks; the very air seemed alive with the words, till he
hurried on through street after street again to try and thoroughly wear
himself out, that sleep might come, and with it rest from the mental
anxiety and doubt he suffered.
At last he stood on one of the bridges, leaning against the parapet and
gazing down at the hurrying river, feeling the soft sweet breeze of
early dawn sweep up with the tide, whispering of the moaning sea and
far-off reaches where the green reeds sighed and rustled, and the wide
green marshes were spread out. There was a faint light coming in the
east, and the stars were paling, as the gas grew sickly-hued and dim.
All was still and peaceful, so that he could hear the lapping of the
water far below as it seemed to whisper peace to his perturbed spirit,
telling of the far-off sea and its mysteries, the hopes and fears there
buried, and then of the many lost whom the river had borne down, when,
from perhaps where he then stood, they had taken the last fearful
plunge. And who were they? he asked himself; who were they that plunged
daringly into the rushing river? and for reply the faint breeze seemed
to whisper, and the tide to sigh, "Our beauty, some of us!" And then
trembling he leaned his hot brow against the cold stone balustrade,
fighting with the thoughts that oppressed him, with duty, religion, the
world, till, with almost a groan, burst from his lips:
"Save her? My God! yes, as I hope to be saved!"
The early untainted breeze breathed upon his fevered lips as it rode
upon the breast of the coming tide; the stars paled more and more, the
faint pearly light in the east became roseate; and at last Arthur Sterne
stood gazing up towards the glowing cross of the great cathedral,
glittering as it was in the morning sun, while now, weary and jaded, he
turned to seek his home, but only to gaze with doubting eyes, for he
stood face to face with the woman he had sought through the night.
Volume Two, Chapter X.