AN AUTUMN MORNING.
Fain would I but I dare not; I dare and yet I may not;
I may although I care not, for pleasure when I play not.
You laugh because you like not; I jest whenas I joy not
You pierce although you strike not; I strike and yet annoy not.
--The Shepherd's Description of Love.
The Palace clock takes up the echo of the Old Church steeple, the
sun-dial is pointing with its hooked nose to the Roman figures on its
copper face--eleven o'clock says the Palace clock. People go crossing
and re-crossing the distant vistas of Kensington Gardens; the children
are fluttering and scampering all over the brown turf, with its autumnal
crop of sandwich-papers and orange-peel; governesses and their pupils
are walking briskly up and down the flower-walk that skirts Hyde Park.
There is a tempting glitter of horsemanship in the distance, and the
little girls glance wistfully towards it, but the governesses for the
most part keep their young charges to the iron railings and the varied
selection of little wooden boards, with Latin names, that are sprouting
all along the tangled flower-beds; the gravel paths are shaken over with
fallen leaves, old, brown, purple--so they lie twinkling as the sun
shines upon them.
One or two people are drinking at the little well among the trees where
the children are at play.
'Hoy! hugh! houp!' cries little Betty, jumping high into the air, and
setting off, followed by a crew of small fluttering rags. What a crisp
noise the dead leaves make as the children wade and splash and tumble
through the heaps that the gardeners have swept together. The old place
echoes with their jolly little voices. The children come, like the
leaves themselves, and disport year after year in the sunshine, and the
ducks in the round pond feed upon the crumbs which succeeding
generations bring from their tables. There are some of us who still know
the ducks of twenty years apart. Where is the gallant grey (goose) that
once used to chase unhappy children flying agonized before him? Where is
the little duck with the bright sparkling yellow eyes and the orange
beak? Quick-witted, eager, unabashed, it used to carry off the spoils of
the great grey goose itself, too busy careering upon the green and
driving all before it, to notice the disappearance of its crusts,
although the foolish floundering white ducks, placidly impatient in the
pond, would lift up their canary noses and quack notes of warning. One
would still be glad to know where human nature finishes and where ducks
begin.
Overhead the sky lies in faint blue vaults crossed by misty autumnal
streamers; the rooks sweep cawing and circling among the tree-tops; a
bell is going quick and tinkling: it comes from the little chapel of the
Palace hard by. The old royal bricks and windows look red and purple in
the autumn sunlight, against gold and blue vapours, and with canopies of
azure and grey.
All the people are coming and going their different ways this October
morning. A slim girl, in black silk, is hurrying along from the wide
door leading from the Palace Green. She stops for an instant to look at
the shadow on the old sun-dial, and then hurries on again; and as she
goes the brazen hour comes striking and sounding from across the
house-roofs of the old suburb. A little boy, playing under a tree,
throws a chestnut at the girl as she hurries by. It falls to the ground,
slipping along the folds of her black silk dress. At the same moment two
young men, who have met by chance, are parting at the end of one of the
long avenues. The girl, seeing them, stops short and turns back
deliberately and walks as far as the old sun-dial before she retraces
her steps.
How oddly all our comings and goings, and purposes and cross-purposes
combine, fulfil, frustrate each other. It is like a wonderful symphony,
of which every note is a human life. The chapel bell had just finished
ringing, as Rhoda (for it is Rhoda) turned in through the narrow door
leading to the garden, and John Morgan, with Dolly beside him, came
quickly across the worn green space in front of the barracks.
'I'm glad I caught you up,' panted good old John, tumbling and flying
after Dolly. 'So this is your birthday, and you are coming to church! I
promised to take the duty for Mr. Thompson this morning. I have had two
funerals on, and I couldn't get home before. We shall just do it. I'm
afraid I'm going too quick for you?'
'Not at all,' said Dolly. I always go quick. I was running after Rhoda.
She started to go, and then Aunt Sarah sent me after her. Do you know,'
Dolly said, 'George, too, has become so very--I don't know what to call
it----? He asked me to go to church more often that day he came up.'
'Well,' said John, looking at her kindly, and yet a little troubled,
'for myself, I find there's nothing like it; but then I'm paid for it,
you know: it is in my day's work. I hope George is keeping to his?'
'Oh, I hope so,' said Dolly, looking a little wistful.
'H'm,' says John, doubtfully; 'here we are. Go round to the left, where
you see those people.' And he darts away and leaves her.
The clock began striking eleven slowly from the archway of the old
Palace; some dozen people are assembled together in the little Palace
chapel, and begin repeating the responses in measured tones. It is a
quiet little place. The world rolls beyond it on its many chariot-wheels
to busier haunts, along the great high-roads. As for the flesh and the
devil, can they be those who are assembled here? They assemble to the
sound of the bell, advancing feebly, for the most part skirting the
sunny wall, past the sentry at his post, and along the outer courtyard
of the Palace, where the windows are green and red with geranium-pots,
where there is a tranquil glimmer of autumnal sunshine and a crowing of
cocks. Then the little congregation turns in at a side-door of the
Palace, and so through a vestibule, comes into the chapel, of which the
bell has been tinkling for some week-day service: it stops short, and
the service begins quite suddenly as a door opens in the wall, and a
preacher, in a white surplice, comes out and begins in a deep voice
almost before the last vibration of the bell has died away. As for the
congregation, there is not much to note. There are some bent white
heads, there is some placid middle-age, a little youth to brighten to
the sunshine. The great square window admits a silenced light; there are
high old-fashioned pews on either side of the place, and opposite the
communion-table, high up over the heads of the congregation, a great
square-curtained pew, with the royal arms and a curtained gallery. It
was like Dugald Dalgetty's hiding-place, one member of the congregation
thought. She used to wonder if he was not concealed behind the heavy
curtains. This reader of the _Legend of Montrose_ is standing alone in a
big pew, with one elbow on the cushioned ledge, and her head resting on
her hand. She has a soft brown scroll of hair, with a gleam of sunlight
in it. She has soft oval cheeks that flush up easily, grey eyes, and
black knotted eyebrows, and a curious soft mouth, close fixed now, but
it trembles at a word or a breath. She had come to meet her friend. But
Rhoda, who is not very far off, goes flitting down the broad walk
leading to the great summer-house. It used to stand there until a year
or two ago, when the present generation carried it bodily away--a
melancholy, stately, grandiose old pile, filling one with no little
respect for the people who raised so stately a mausoleum to rest in for
a moment. There was some one who had been resting there many moments on
this particular morning: a sturdy young man, leaning back against the
wall and smoking a cigar. He jumped up eagerly when he saw the girl at
last, and, flinging his cigar away, came forward to meet her as she
hurried from under the shade of the trees in which she had been keeping.
'At last, you unpunctual girl,' he cried, meeting her and pulling her
hand through his arm. 'Do you know how many cigars I have smoked while
you have been keeping me waiting?'
She did not answer, but looked up at him with a long slow look.
'Dear George, I couldn't get away before; and when I came just now there
was some one talking to you. Your aunt came, and Dolly, and they stayed,
oh, such a time. I was so cross, and I kept thinking of my poor George
waiting for me here.'
She could see George smiling and mollified as she spoke, and went on
more gaily.
'At last, I slipped away; but I am afraid Dolly must have thought it so
strange.'
'Dolly!' said George Vanborough, impatiently (for, of course, it was
George, who had come up to town again with another return-ticket); 'she
had better take care and not keep you from me again. Come and sit down,'
said he. 'I have a thousand things to say to you....'
'Oh George! it must only be for a moment,' said Rhoda hesitating; 'if
anybody were to----'
'Nonsense!' cried George, already agitated by the meeting, and
exasperated by his long waiting; 'you are always thinking of what people
will say; you have no feeling for a poor wretch who has been counting
the minutes till he could see you again--who is going to the devil
without you. Rhoda! I cannot stand this much longer--this waiting and
starving on the crumbs that you vouchsafe to scatter from your table.
What the deuce does it matter if they _don't_ approve? Why won't you
marry me this minute, and have done with it? There goes a parson with an
umbrella. Shall I run after him and get him to splice us off-hand?'
Rhoda looked seriously alarmed. 'George, don't talk like this,' she
said, putting her slim hand on his. 'You would never speak to me again
if I consented to anything so dishonourable; Lady Sarah would never give
you her living; she would never forg----'
'My aunt be hanged!' cried George, more and more excited. 'If she were
ever so angry she could not divide us if we were married. I am not at
all sure that I shall take her living. I only want to earn enough bread
and butter for you, Rhoda. _Now_, I believe she might starve you into
surrender. Rhoda, take me or leave me, but don't let us go on like this.
A woman's idea of honour, I confess, passes my comprehension,' said he,
somewhat bitterly.
'Can't you understand my not wanting to deceive them all?' Rhoda said.
'Deceive them all?' said George. 'What are we doing now? I don't like
it. I don't understand it. I am ashamed to look Dolly in the face when
she talks to me about you. Rhoda, be a reasonable, good, kind little
Rhoda.' And the young fellow wrung the little hand he held in his, and
thumped the two hands both down together upon the seat.
He hurt her, but the girl did not wince. She again raised her dark eyes
and looked fixedly into his face. When she looked like that she knew
very well that George, for one--poor tamed monster that he was--could
never defy her.
'Dearest George, you know that if I could, I would marry you this
moment,' she said. 'But how can I ruin your whole future:--you, who are
so sensitive and ill able to bear things? How could we tell Lady Sarah
just now, when--when you have been so incautious and unfortunate----?'
'When I owe three hundred pounds!' cried George, at the pitch of his
voice: 'and I must get it from my aunt one way or another--that is the
plain English, Rhoda. Don't be afraid; nothing you say will hurt my
feelings. If only,' he added, in a sweet changing voice--'if only you
love me a little, and will help a poor prodigal out of the mire----But
no: you virtuous people pass on with your high-minded scruples, and
leave us to our deserts,' he cried, with a sudden change of manner; and
he started up and began walking up and down hastily in front of the
summer-house.
The girl watched him for an instant--a hasty, stumpy figure going up and
down, and up and down again.
'George! George!' faltered Rhoda, frightened--and her tears brimmed over
unaffectedly--'haven't you any trust in my love? won't you believe me
when I tell you, I--I----you _know_ I would give my life for you if I
could!'
George Vanborough's own blue eyes were twinkling. 'Forgive me, darling,'
he said, utterly melting in one instant, and speaking in that sweet
voice peculiar to him. It seemed to come from his very heart. He sank
down by her again. 'You are an angel--there, Rhoda--a thousand thousand
miles away from me, though we are sitting side by side; but when you are
unhappy, then I am punished for all my transgressions,' said George, in
his gentle voice. 'Now I will tell you what we will do: we will tell
Dolly all about it, and she will help us.'
'Oh! not Dolly,' said Rhoda, imploring; 'George! everybody loves her,
and she doesn't know what it means to be unhappy and anxious. Let us
wait a little longer, George: we are happy now together, are we not? You
must pass your examination, and take your degree, and it will be easier
to tell them then. Come.'
'Come where?' said George.
'There are so many people here,' said Rhoda, 'you mustn't write to me
again to meet you. You had much better come and see me at the house.'
'I will come and see you there, too,' said George. 'I met Raban just
now. He will be telling them I am in town; he says my aunt wants to see
me on business. Confound him!'
'Was that Mr. Raban?' said Rhoda, opening her eyes. 'Oh! I hope he will
not tell them.' She led him across the grass, into a quiet place, deep
among the trees, where they were safe enough; for where so many come and
go, two figures, sitting on a felled trunk, on the slope of a leafy
hollow, are scarcely noticed. The chestnuts fell now and then plash into
the leaves and grasses, the breezes stirred the crisp leaves, the brown
sunset of autumn glow tinted and swept to gold the changing world: there
were still birds and blue overhead, a sea of gold all round them. George
was happy. He forgot his debts, his dreams, the deaths and doubts and
failures of life--everything except two dark eyes, a soft harmony of
voice and look beside him.
'You are like Mendelssohn's _Songs without Words_, Rhoda,' said George.
Rhoda didn't answer.
'George, what o'clock is it?' she said.