RABAN MEETS THE SHABBY ANGEL.
Christ hath sent us down the angels,
And the whole earth and the skies
Are illumed by altar-candles,
Lit for blessed mysteries.
And a Priest's hand through creation
Waveth calm and consecration....
--E. B. B.
Sometimes winter days come in autumn, just as hours of old age and
middle age seem to start out of their places in the due rotation of life
and to meet us on the way. One October evening in the following year a
damp fog was spreading over London, the lights from the windows streamed
faintly upon the thick veils of vapour. Many noisy shadows were out and
about, for it was Saturday night, and the winding Kensington
thoroughfare was almost blocked by the trucks and the passers-by. It was
only six o'clock, but the last gleam of light had died away behind the
western chimney-tops; and with the darkness and notwithstanding the fog,
a cheerful saturnalia had begun. A loitering, a clamouring through the
clouds of mist, witches with and without broomsticks, little imps
darting through the crowd, flaring trucks drawn up along the road,
housewives bargaining their Sunday dinners. It seemed a confusion of
darkness, candles, paper-shades, oranges, and what not. Now and then
some quiet West End carriage would roll by, with lamps burning, through
the mist, and horses trampling steadily. Here and there, a bending head
might be seen in some lighted window--it was before the time of Saturday
half-holidays--the forge was blazing and hard at work, clink clank fell
the iron strokes, and flames flashed from the furnace.
Beyond the church, and the arch, and the forge, the shop-lights cease,
the fog seems to thicken, and a sudden silence to fall upon everything;
while the great veils spread along the road, hiding away how many faces,
hearths, and home-like rays. There are sometimes whole years in one's
life that seem so buried beneath some gloomy shadow; people come and go,
lights are burning, and voices sound, but the darkness hangs over
everything, and the sun never seems to rise. A dull-looking
broad-shouldered young man with a beard had come elbowing his way
through the crowd, looking about him as he came along. After a moment's
hesitation he turned up a side lane, looming away out of the region of
lamps. It was so black and silent that he thought at first he must have
been mistaken. He had been carefully directed, but there seemed no
possibility of a house. He could just make out two long walls; a cat ran
hissing along the top of one of them, a wet foggy wind flickered in his
face, and a twig broke from some branch overhead. Frank Raban, for it
was he, wondered if the people he was in search of could be roosting on
the trees or hiding behind the walls this damp evening.
He was turning back in despair when suddenly a door opened, with a flash
of light, through the brickwork, and a lantern was held out.
'Good-night,' said a loud, cheerful voice; 'why, your street lamp is
out; take my arm, Zoe. Go in, Dorothea, you will catch cold.' And two
figures, issuing from the wall like apparitions in the _Arabian Nights_,
passed by hurrying along--a big, comfortable great-coat and a small dark
thing tripping beside it. Meanwhile, the person who had let them out
peeped for an instant into the blackness, holding the lantern high up so
as to throw its light upon the lane. There came a sudden revelation of
the crannies of an old brick wall; of creeping, green ivy, rustling in
the light which seemed to flow from leaf to leaf; and of a young face
smiling upon the dim vapours. It was all like the slide of a
magic-lantern passing on the darkness. Raban almost hesitated to come
forward, but the door was closing on the shining phantasmagoria.
'Does Lady Sarah Francis live here?' he said, coming up.
The girl started--looked at him. She, in turn, saw a red beard and a
pale face appearing unexpectedly, and with a not unnatural impulse she
half closed the door. 'Yes,' she said, retreating a step or two towards
the house, which Raban could now see standing ghost-like within the
outer wall. It was dimly lighted, here and there, from the deep windows;
it seemed covered with tangled creepers; over the open hall door an
old-fashioned stone canopy still hung, dripping with fog and overgrown
with ivy.
The girl, with her lantern, stood waiting on the steps. A blooming
maiden, in a dark green dress, cut in some quaint old-fashioned way, and
slashed with black. Her dress was made of coarse homely stuff, but a
gold chain hung round her neck; it twinkled in the lantern light. Her
reddish-brown hair was pinned up in pretty twists, and some berries
glistened among its coils.
'If you want to _see_ Lady Sarah,' she said, a little impatiently, 'come
in, and shut the garden door.'
He did as he was bid. She ran up the steps into the house, and stood
waiting in the old hall, scanning him still by her lamplight. She had
put the lantern on a corner of the carved chimney-sill, from whence its
glimmers fell upon oaken panels and black-and-white flags of marble,
upon a dark oak staircase winding up into the house.
'Will you go in there?' said the girl, in a low voice, pointing to an
open door.
Then she quickly and noiselessly barred and fixed the heavy bolts; her
hands slid along the old iron hasps and hooks. Raban stood watching her
at work; he found himself comparing her to an ivy plant, she seemed to
bloom so freshly in the damp and darkness, as she went moving hither and
thither in her odd green gown. The next minute she was springing up the
staircase. She stopped, however, on the landing, and leaned over the
banisters to point again, with a stiff quick gesture, to the open door.
Raban at last remembered that he had not given his name. 'Will you
kindly say that----'
But the green dress was gone, and Raban could only walk into the dark
room, and make his way through unknown passes to a smouldering fire
dying on the hearth. On his way he tumbled over a growl, a squeak. Then
a chair went down, and a cat gave a yell, and sprang into the hall. It
was an odd sort of place, and not like anything that Raban had expected.
The usual proprieties of life have this advantage, that people know what
is coming, and pull at a wire with a butler or a parlour-maid at the
other end of it, who also know their parts and in their turn correspond
with an invisible lady upstairs, at the right-hand corner of the drawing
room fire-place. She is prepared to come forward with a nice bow, and to
point to the chair opposite, which is usually on castors, so that you
can pull it forward, and as you sit down you say, 'I daresay you may
remember,' or 'I have been meaning to,' or, &c.
But the whole machinery seemed wanting here, and Frank Raban remained in
the dark, looking through the unshuttered black windows, or at the
smouldering ashes at his feet. At first he speculated on the ivy-maiden,
and then as the minutes went by and no one came, his mind travelled back
through darkness all the way to the last time he had met Lady Sarah
Francis, and the old sickening feeling came over him at the thought of
the past. In these last few years he had felt that he must either fight
for life or sink for ever. It was through no merit of his own that he
had not been utterly wrecked; that he was here to-night, come to repay
the debt he owed; that, more fortunate than many, he had struggled to
shore. Kind hands had been held out to help him to drag safe out of the
depths. Lady Sarah's was the first; then came the younger, firmer grasp
of some of his companions, whom he had left but a year or two ago in the
old haunts, before his unlucky start in life. It was habit that had
taken him back to these old haunts at a time when, by a fortunate
chance, work could be found for him to do. His old friends did not fail
him; they asked no questions; they did not try to probe his wounds; they
helped him to the best of their ability, and stood by him as men stand
by each other, particularly young men. No one was surprised when Mr.
Raban was elected to one of the tutorships at All Saints'. He had taken
a good degree, he had been popular in his time, though now he could not
be called a popular man. Some wondered that it should be worth his while
to settle down upon so small an inducement. Henley, of St. Thomas's, had
refused it when it was pressed upon him. Perhaps Raban had private
means. He had lived like a rich man, it was said, after he left college.
Poor Frank! Those two fatal years had eaten up the many lean kine that
were to follow. All he had asked for now was work, and a hope of saving
up enough to repay those who had trusted him in his dismay. His
grandfather had refused to see him after his marriage. Frank was too
proud a man to make advances, but not too proud to work. He gratefully
took the first chance that came in his way. The morning he was elected
he went to thank one or two of his supporters. He just shook hands, and
said 'Thank you;' but they did not want any fine speeches, nor was Frank
inclined to make them.
Three years are very long to some people, while they are short to
others. Mrs. Palmer had spent them away from her children not
unpleasantly, except for one or two passing differences with the
Admiral, who had now, it was said, taken to offering up public prayers
for Philippa's conversion. Lady Sarah had grown old in three years. She
had had illness and money troubles, and was a poor woman comparatively
speaking. Her hair had turned white, her face had shrunk, while Dolly
had bloomed into brightness, and Frank Raban had grown into middle age,
as far as hope and feeling went. There he sat in the warm twilight,
thinking of the past--ah, how sadly! He was strong enough for to-day,
and not without trust in the future; but he was still almost hopeless
when he thought of the past. He had not forgiven himself. His was not a
forgiving nature, and as long as he lived, those two fatal years of his
life would make part of his sorrowful experience. Once Sarah Francis had
tried to tell him--(but many things cannot be understood except by those
who have first learnt the language)--that for some people the only
possible repentance is to do better. Mere repentance, that dwelling upon
past misery and evil doing, which people call remorse, is, as often as
not, madness and meaningless despair.
Sometimes Frank wondered now at the irritation which had led him to
rebel so furiously at his fate. Poor, gentle fate! he could scarcely
understand his impatience with it now. Perhaps, if Emma had lived----
We often, in our blindness, take a bit of our life, and look at it apart
as an ended history. We take a phase incomplete, only begun, perhaps,
for the finished and irrevocable whole. Irrevocable it may be, in one
sense, but who shall say that the past is completed because it is past,
any more than that we ourselves are completed because we must die? Frank
had not come to look at his own personal misdoings philosophically (as
what honest man or woman would), or with anything but shrinking pain, as
yet; he could bear no allusion to those sad days.
'You know Paris well, I believe Mr. Raban,' said some young lady. 'How
long is it since----'
He looked so odd and angry that she stopped quite frightened. Dark
fierce lines used to come under his heavy eyes at the smallest attempt
to revive what was still so recent and vivid. If it was rude he could
not help it.
He never spoke of himself. Strangers used to think Raban odd and abrupt
when he sometimes left them in the middle of a sentence, or started away
and did not answer. His old friends thought him changed, but after a
great crisis we are used to see people harder. And this one talks, and
you think he has told you all; and that one is silent, and he thinks he
has told you nothing. And feelings come and go, the very power to
understand them comes and goes, gifts and emotions pass, our inmost
feelings change as we go on wandering through the narrow worlds that lie
along the commonest common-places and ways of life. Into what worlds had
poor Frank been wandering as he stood watching the red lights dull into
white ashes by the blue tiles of the hearth!
Presently a lantern and two dark heads passed the window.
'Where is he?' said a voice in the hall. 'Dolly, did you say Mr. Raban
was here? What! all in the dark?'
The voice had reached the door by this time, and some one came and stood
there for an instant. How well he remembered the kindly croaking tones!
When he heard them again, it seemed to him as if they had only finished
speaking a minute before.
Some one came and stood for an instant at the doorway. No blooming young
girl with a bright face and golden head, but a grey-haired woman,
stooping a little as she walked. She came forward slowly, set her light
upon the table, and then looked at him with a pair of kind shaggy eyes,
and put out her long hand as of old.
Raban felt his heart warm towards the shabby face, the thick kindly
brows. Once that woman's face had seemed to him like an angel's in his
sorest need. Who says angels must be all young and splendid; will there
not be some comforting ones, shabby and tender, whose radiance does not
dazzle nor bewilder; whose faces are worn, perhaps, while their stars
shine with a gentle tremulous light, more soothing to our aching,
earth-bound hearts than the glorious radiance of brighter spirits? Raban
turned very red when he saw his old friend. 'How could you know I was
here? You have not forgotten me?' he said; not in his usual reluctant
way, but speaking out with a gentle tone in his voice. 'I should have
come before, but I----' Here he began to stammer and to feel in his
pocket. 'Here it is,' and he pulled out a packet. 'If it hadn't been for
you I should never have had the heart to set to work again. I don't know
what I should have done,' he repeated, 'but for you.' And then he looked
at her for an instant, and then, with a sudden impulse, Raban
stooped--as he did so she saw his eyes were glistening--he stooped and
kissed her cheek.
'Why, my dear?' said Lady Sarah, blushing up. She had not had many
kisses in her life. Some people would as soon have thought of kissing
the poker and tongs.
Frank blushed up too and looked a little foolish; but he quickly sobered
down again. 'You will find it all right,' said Raban, folding her long
thin hand over the little parcel, 'and good-night, and thank you.'
Still Lady Sarah hesitated. She could not bear to take it. She felt as
though he had paid her twice over; that she ought to give it back to
him, and say, 'Here, keep it. I don't want your money, only your kiss
and your friendship. I was glad to help you.' She looked up in his pale
face in a strange wistful way, scanning it with her grey eyes. They
almost seemed to speak, and to say, 'You don't know how I want it, or I
would not take it from you.'
'How changed you are!' she said at last, speaking very slowly. 'I am
afraid you have been working too hard to pay me. I oughtn't to----' He
was almost annoyed by this wistful persistency. Why did she stand
hesitating? Why did she not take it, and put it in her pocket, and have
done with it? Now again she was looking at the money with a pathetic
look. And meanwhile Raban was wondering, Could it be that this woman
cared for money--this woman, who had forced her help upon him so
generously? He hated himself for the thought. This was the penalty, he
told himself, for his own past life. This fatal suspicion and mistrust
of others: even his benefactress was not to be spared.
'I must be going,' he said, starting away in his old stiff manner. 'You
will let me come again, won't you?'
'Come again! Of course you will come again,' Lady Sarah said, laying her
thin fingers on his arm. 'I shall not let you go now until you have seen
my Dolly.' And so saying, she led him back into the hall. 'Go in, you
will find her there. I will come back,' said Lady Sarah, abruptly, with
her hand on the door-handle. She looked quite old and feeble as she
leant against the oak. Then again she seemed to remember herself.
'You--you will not say anything of this,' she added, with a sudden
imploring look; and she opened her thin fingers, still clutching the
packet of bank-notes and gold, and closed them again.
Then he saw her take the lantern from the chimney and hurriedly toil up
the stairs, and he felt somehow that she was going to hide it away.
What would he have thought if he could have seen her safe in her own
room, with the sovereigns spread out upon the bed and the bank-notes,
while the poor soul stood eagerly counting over her store. Yes, she
loved money, but there were things she loved still more. Sarah Francis,
alone in the world, might have been a miser if she had not loved Dolly
so dearly--Dolly, who was Stan's daughter. There was always just this
difference between Lady Sarah and open-handed people. With them money
means little--a moment's weakness, a passing interest. With Lady Sarah
to give was doubt, not pleasure; it meant disorder in her balanced
schemes; it meant truest self-denial: to give was to bestow on others
what she meant for Dolly's future ease and happiness; and yet she gave.