'ONLY GEORGE.'
Nicht mitzuhassen, mitzulieben bin ich da.
--Antigone.
Thoughts seem occasionally to have a life of their own--a life
independent; sometimes they are even stronger than the thinkers, and
draw them relentlessly along. They seize hold of outward circumstances
with their strong grip. How strangely a dominant thought sometimes runs
through a whole epoch of life!
With some holy and serene natures, this thought is peace in life; with
others, it is human love, that troubled love of God.
The moonlight is streaming over London; and George is not very far away,
driven by his master thought along a bright stream that flows through
the gates and by the down-trodden roads that cross Hyde Park. The skies,
the streets, are silver and purple; abbey-towers and far-away houses
rise dim against the stars; lights burn in shadowy windows. The people
passing by, and even George, hurrying along in his many perplexities,
feel the life and the echo everywhere of some mystical chord of nature
and human nature striking in response. The very iron rails along the
paths seemed turned to silver. George leaps over a silver railing, and
goes towards a great sea of moonlight lying among the grass and
encircled by shadowy trees.
In this same moonlit stream, flowing into the little drawing-room of the
bow-windowed house in Old Street, sits Rhoda, resting her head against
the pane of the lantern-like window, and thinking over the events of the
last two days.
On the whole, she feels that she has acted wisely and for the best. Lady
Sarah seemed to think so--Uncle John said no word of blame. It was
unfortunate that Aunt Morgan's curiosity should have made her insist
upon reading George's letter; but no harm had come of it. Dolly, of
course, was unreasonable. Rhoda, who was accustomed to think of things
very definitely, began to wonder what Frank Raban would think of it all,
and whether Uncle John would tell him. She thought that Mr. Raban would
not be sorry to hear of what had occurred. What a pity George was not
more like Mr. Raban or Robert Henley. How calm they were; while he--he
was unbearable; and she was very glad it was all over between them. Lady
Sarah was evidently deeply offended with him.
'I hope she will leave him _something_,' thought Rhoda. 'He will never
be able to make his way. I can see that; and he is so rough, and I am
such a poor little thing,' and Rhoda sighed. 'I shall always feel to him
as if he were a brother, and I shall tell Mr. Raban so if----'
Here Rhoda looked up, and almost screamed out, for there stood George,
rippling with moonlight, watching her through the window from the
opposite side of the street. He looked like a ghost as he leant against
the railings. He did not care who noticed him, nor what other people
might think of him. He had come all this way only to see Rhoda once
more, and there she was, only separated from him by a pane of glass.
When Rhoda looked up, George came across and stood under the window. The
moonlight stream showed him a silver figure plain marked upon the
darkness. There she sat with a drooping head and one arm lightly resting
against the bar. Poor boy! He had started in some strange faith that he
should find her. He had come up all the way only to look at her once
more. All his passionate anger had already died away. He had given up
hope, but he had not given up love; and so he stood there wild and
haggard, with pulses throbbing. He had scarcely eaten anything since the
evening before. He had gone back to Cambridge he knew not why. He had
lain awake all night, and all day he had been lying in his boat hiding
under the trees along the bank, looking up at the sky and cursing his
fate.
Rhoda looked up. George, with a quick movement, pointed to the door, and
sprang up the steps of the house. He must speak to her now that she had
seen him. For what else had he come? She was frightened, and did not
move at first in answer to his signs. She was alone. Aunt Morgan and the
girls were drinking tea at the schools, but Uncle John was in the study.
She did not want him to see George. It would only make a fuss and an
explanation--there had been too much already. She got up and left the
window, and then went into the hall and stood by the door undecided; and
as she stood there she heard a low voice outside say, 'Rhoda! let me
in.'
Rhoda still hesitated. 'Let me in,' said the voice again, and she opened
the door a very little way, and put her foot against it.
'Good-night, George,' she said, in a whisper. 'Good-night. Go home.
Dolly is so anxious about you.'
'I have come to see you,' said George. 'Why won't you let me in, Rhoda?'
'I am afraid,' said Rhoda.
'You need not be afraid, Rhoda,' he said, going back a step. 'Dear, will
you forgive me for having frightened you?' and he came nearer again.
'I can't--go, go,' cried Rhoda, hastily. 'Here is some one,' and
suddenly, with all her might, she pushed the door in his face. It shut
with a bang, with all its iron knobs and locks rattling.
'What is it?' said John Morgan, looking out of his study.
'I had opened the door, Uncle John,' said Rhoda. Her heart beat a
little. Would George go away? She thought she heard footsteps striking
down the street. Then she felt more easy. She told herself once more
that it was far better to have no scenes nor explanations, and she sat
down quietly to her evening's task in a corner of her uncle's study. She
was making some pinafores for the little Costellos, and she tranquilly
stitched and tucked and hemmed. John Morgan liked to see her busy at her
womanly work, her little lamp duly trimmed, and her busy fingers working
for others more thriftless.
And outside in the moonlight George walked away in a new fury. What
indignity had he subjected himself to? He gave a bitter sort of laugh.
He had not expected much, but this was worse than anything he had
expected. Reproaches, coldness, indifference, all these he was prepared
for. He knew in his heart of hearts that Rhoda did not care for him; and
what further wrong could she do him than this injury that people inflict
every day upon each other? She had added scorn to her indifference; and
again George laughed to himself, thinking of this wooden door Rhoda had
clapped upon his passion, and her summary way of thrusting him out.
At one time, instead of banging the door, she used to open it wide. She
used to listen to him, with her wonderful dark eyes fixed on his face.
Now, what had happened? He was the same man, she was the same woman, and
nothing was the same. George mechanically walked on towards his own
home--if Church House could be so called. He went across the square, and
by a narrow back street, and he tried the garden gate, and found it
open, and went in, with some vague idea of finding Dolly, and calling
her to the bench beside the pond, and of telling her of all his trouble.
That slam of the door kept sounding in his ears, a sort of knell to his
love.
But George was in no vein of luck that night. The garden was deserted
and mysterious, heavy with sweet scents in the darkness. He went down
the dark path and came back again, and there was a rustle among the
trees; and as he walked across the lawn towards the lighted window of
the oak room, he heard two voices clear in the silence, floating up from
some kitchen below. He knew Sam's croak; he did not recognise the other
voice.
'Mademoiselle is gone to dance. I like to dance too,' it said. 'Will you
come to a ball and dance with me, Mr. Sam?'
Then followed old Sam's chuckle. 'I'll dance with you, Mademoiselle,' he
said.
George thought it sounded as if some evil spirit of the night were
mocking his trouble. And so Dolly was dancing while he was roaming about
in his misery. Even Dolly had forgotten his pain. Even Rhoda had turned
him out. Who cared what happened to him now?
He went to the window of the oak room and looked in. Lady Sarah was
sitting there alone, shading her eyes from the light. There were papers
all round about her. The lamp was burning behind her, and the light was
reflected in the narrow glass above her tall chimney-piece.
He saw her put out her hand and slowly take a paper that was lying on
the table, and tear it down the middle. Poor Aunt Sarah! she looked very
old and worn and sad. How ill he had repaid her kindness! She should be
spared all further anxiety and trouble for him. Then he put out his two
hands with a wild farewell motion. He had not meant her to see him, but
the window was ajar and flew open, and then he walked in; and Lady
Sarah, looking up, saw George standing before her. He was scarcely
himself all this time: if he had found Dolly all might have ended
differently.
'George?' said Lady Sarah, frightened by his wild looks, 'what has
happened, my dear?'
'I have come to say good-by to you,' he wildly cried. 'Aunt Sarah, you
will never have any more trouble with me. You have been a thousand
thousand times too good to me!' And he flung his two arms round her neck
and kissed her, and almost before she could speak he was gone....
A few minutes later Marker heard a fall, and came running upstairs. She
found Lady Sarah lying half-conscious on the ground.