What met Brian.
A winter’s day in London, more especially when that winter’s day happens
to be raw, damp, drizzling and foggy, is one, I think, of the most
depressing ordeals through which a human being can be called to pass—a
day when the streets are sloppy; when the pavements are greasy; when the
passing omnibuses are full of wet men, and wetter women; when people
poke you in the eyes with their umbrellas; when more people poke you in
the ribs, and jostle you into the middle of another set of people, who
shove you back again and probably anathematize you into the bargain;
when there is no business doing in shops, where the gas is lighted, nor
in offices, where the gas is lighted likewise; when if you are out
collecting money, nobody will pay you; when if you owe any person any
money, everybody makes a point of boring you (in the gaslight), and
saying they felt sure of finding you within; when the apples in the
costermongers’ carts look damp and dirty; when there is a dull yellow,
leaden sky above, and an atmosphere you can taste around you; when
London Bridge looks as much like water as the Thames; when you do not
feel as if there ever had been any fine weather on earth; when you are
quite certain there will never be any fine weather again;—this, I say,
is the kind of day to try a man’s equanimity, and to put his
cheerfulness to the test.
There was one man however who, having been set down by an omnibus coming
from the Borough at the corner of Mansion House and Princes Streets,
walked along, careless of the weather, careless of the passers-by,
careless of the dull leaden sky, of the greasy pavements and the sloppy
horse-roads. He looked neither to right nor left as he strode away after
his business; he was evidently thinking of something pleasant, carrying
his sunshine along with him, as some country-people carry lanterns: that
man was Brian Drewitt; he had just come from Paris, and he was bound for
Austinfriars.
He wanted to see Mr. Gyton before he left the City, and as it was
getting on for three o’clock he hurried his pace and dashed on towards
Austinfriars as though he were walking for a wager.
If you do not know Austinfriars, reader, you are not acquainted with one
of the queerest nooks that the march of modern improvement and the
heartlessness of railway companies has left us. Before some new
extension gets its bill passed, I should recommend you to go and see
that curious spot, where, in 1253, says Pennant, “was erected by
Humphrey Bohun, Earl of Hereford, the house of the Augustins, for friars
eremites of that order.” Until very recently, one of the oldest churches
in London (built before 1361) stood about the centre of Austinfriars;
the external walls still, I believe, remain, but the interior was,
unhappily, destroyed by fire some few years since.
In it were laid great people: Edmund Guy de Meric, who, it is stated,
incited Richard II. to the murder of the Duke of Gloucester; Lucie,
daughter of Barnaby, Lord of Milan; the great Earl of Arundel, beheaded
on Tower Hill, in 1397; the Earl of Oxford, who suffered a similar fate
in 1463; Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, in 1521; while,
twenty-five years afterwards, this church was filled with herrings, by
order of Henry VIII., who used Grey Friars, at the same period, as a
warehouse for wine.
There are fewer historical records of Austinfriars than of almost any
other spot about the City. In a map of London, A. D. 1563, the old house
of the Augustines is not even marked; yet some gleams of the olden glory
still lie here and there—in its out-of-the-way courts—in its
old-fashioned houses—under the stones of its ancient church—for the
curious in such matters to note, as they pass by.
Some time, it may be, that I shall ask you, reader who have so often
before this, strayed with me into world-forgotten corners—into silent
and deserted nooks—to turn aside from the bustle and din of the City
streets, and spend a few minutes with me in Austinfriars; but that day
must not be now, when Brian Drewitt is hurrying along to catch the head
of the great house of Gyton, Lark, Munday, Hatfield, and Company, before
he takes his portly person westward.
Very cheerfully, Brian Drewitt pursued his way. He knew that he had
accomplished the business on which he was sent abroad satisfactorily.
He felt certain he should receive the praise of his employers for the
manner in which he had performed his mission. It had been intimated to
him more than once, that in being sent abroad he was also being put on
his trial, and that if he stood the test of the negotiation entrusted to
him, his salary would be at once increased, and every facility afforded
him for pushing his way up to the very top of the tree.
When he reached the top, he had then his vague designs of vengeance to
gratify; but upon the lower branches were hanging sweet home fruits,
that Brian longed to gather. He wanted to prevail on his mother not to
live with Geraldine; to live near, but not with her; to have her all to
himself, to provide with the little luxuries that her delicate health
required—that it would he a pleasure and a pride to him to place around
her.
If she went with Geraldine, it would be Frank Gyton, and not Brian
Drewitt, whose money might anticipate her wants, and outspeed her very
wishes. No one knew better than Brian how both he and she had saved, and
pinched, to pay the expenses attendant on Harold’s trial—on their
removal to London—on his long sickness—on his early death. Even
Geraldine never fully understood all her mother had denied herself, so
that Harold might not suffer for lack of anything he desired. And now,
hungrily and greedily, the son who did comprehend everything, longed to
have his mother, who had suffered so much, all to himself, that he might
make her life a happy one at last, and render the evening of her days
the calmest, the brightest, the peacefulest portion of her existence.
There are some men who, from their youth upwards, need to have something
to love—something upon which to pour out all their affection, all their
devotion. It may be father, brother, sister, mother, child, that they
gather into their heart, and keep there: whatever the object may be, it
is love they give, rather than love they receive. It is necessary to
their very existence to be planning, thinking, working, for some one;
and during the entire of his short life, Brian Drewitt had been
planning, thinking, working, for others rather than himself.
He could scarcely remember the time when the love he felt for his mother
was not a species of idolatry. Instinctively, perhaps, even from
childhood, the stronger nature knew that the weaker had need of it; and
as years went by, and the child became a boy, and the boy a man, this
feeling grew stronger and stronger, till at last Brian came to
understand that whatsoever his mother stood in need of, if it were in
the power of a human being to procure it, she should have her wish
gratified.
And at last he felt that it would soon be in his power to make his
mother’s life comfortable and happy, and to free it from care.
Comfortable and happy—did I not say once before, that was not to be in
this world for ever?
Onwards he sped; eager, sanguine, triumphant. Mr. Gyton, senior, was not
gone; and with his snuffbox on the table, with his bandana ready for
use, with his coat thrown well back, and his thumbs stuck in the
arm-holes of his superfine black cloth waistcoat, he listened to Brian’s
narration with every sign of approval visible in his face.
When Brian had quite finished he said—
“We did not expect you home until to-morrow; but now that you are here I
believe my son has something to say to you. Meantime, I may add that you
can draw your salary at the rate of two hundred and fifty pounds per
annum from to-morrow.”
Mr. Gyton had a way of uttering those two words “per annum” which always
seemed to give money its true value in the listener’s ears; and
accordingly, Brian Drewitt thanked him very heartily for the advance,
and had just reached the middle of a neatly-turned sentence when Mr.
Gyton, junior, entered.
“Don’t stand wasting your time here, Brian,” he said; “but go home at
once. There’s something up there. Geraldine sent here this morning to
know your address, and telegraphed for you.”
“What is it?” Brian asked: he stretched out his one hand and seized the
table tightly as he spoke.
“Your mother is very ill, I believe; don’t turn so white, Brian; it may
be nothing to signify. I have told them to get you a cab. Should you
like me to go with you?”
“No, thank you,” Brian answered; “no—no.” Even then he wanted to have
her all to himself, and he blindly made his way out of Mr. Gyton’s
presence-chamber, and across the clerks’ office, and down the stairs,
and so out into the court, at the entrance to which a hansom was waiting
for him.
“Drive fast!” that was all he could say; but the man obeyed his
instructions literally. Up the City Road, round by Duncan Terrace, out
across the Lower Road, and then up Upper Street, till they were close to
Canonbury Tower.
“Set me down here,” Brian said, pushing up the little trap-door, and the
driver pulled up instantly.
“Your fare?” was the next question; and Brian counted him out a sum,
which even the man’s conscience pricked him for demanding, without a
remonstrance, but stupidly, and as though he were drunk.
He never could tell what feeling possessed him to stop the cab and walk
quietly up the street where was his home. He never knew how he got from
the cab to the door opposite his own door, where he paused and looked
across the way.
Every blind in the house was down.
He saw a gentleman coming out; a gentleman whose carriage stood waiting
for him to enter. Brian crossed the street and asked him what was the
matter.
“A poor lady has done with all suffering,” was the reply.
“Mrs. Drewitt?”
“Yes; are you her son?”
It was too much, the reaction was too great; and Brian would have fallen
on the pavement, but that he staggered by chance against the doctor’s
brougham.
“Come in,” said the doctor, “and I will go in with you.”
“I won’t,” answered Brian; and he turned and walked back down the
street, like one in a dream.
For hours and hours he walked about before he could face the house
again. With his clothes soaked through, with his hair damp and wet,
shivering with the cold, heartbroken and miserable, Brian Drewitt at
last made up his mind to face the inevitable, and retraced his steps
towards home.
It was late in the evening when he approached the door; the street-lamps
had long been lighted; the shops in Upper Street were all brilliantly
illuminated as he passed by; the pavements were crowded with people,
well-dressed, lively, happy, thoughtless; with women going to make their
purchases; with women only curious to look through the windows at the
goods displayed within; with men on their way from the City to Holloway
and Highbury; with the husbands, and the brothers, and the lovers of the
females, who were going shopping, or window-gazing, with idlers and
loungers of all descriptions—amongst whom Brian made his way, with a
dull, stupid sorrow tearing at his heart, with a conviction that he was
going home to meet something very dreadful—something that he still
doubted whether he should have strength of mind to meet.
He lifted his hand to the knocker, and rapped hesitatingly for
admittance. When the servant opened the door she put her apron to her
eyes, and said, “Oh! sir——”
“I have heard,” Brian interrupted, sharp and stern, and walked straight
into the parlour.
There sat Geraldine—her eyes red with weeping, her cheeks pale with
watching. Mrs. Gyton was holding one hand, and Frank the other, while a
man whom Brian had never seen before was standing with his back to the
fire, talking vehemently and positively.
At sight of Brian, he stopped short, and while Geraldine, with a cry,
ran towards her brother, he stooped down and inquired of Mr. Gyton who
the new comer might be.
“Her brother,” was the answer; and when Brian came forward into the
room, he found his hand clasped in that of the stranger, who said—
“It is a poor welcome home for you, this—but we did all for her we
could.”
“May I ask your name?” Brian’s tone was as quiet as though nothing
unusual were lying in the house.
“Murphy—at your service. It is many a year since I saw you; and it is
just the same time since I saw your poor mother. God help her! she must
have gone through an awful lot of trouble. I can remember her as
young-looking as your sister is now, with her hair as soft and dark
every bit as yours, Miss; but there is one comfort, she can feel no more
sorrow where she is gone: women’s heads are not turned grey with grief
there. Just let him be,” he whispered to Francis Gyton. “You know he
must feel it, so do not try to get him to put on a face before you.”
Brian had sat down at the table and rested his head on his hand. All at
once he looked up, with no dimness in his eye, with no hesitation in his
voice—
“I should like to see her,” he said; “may I go up stairs?”
Geraldine rose to go with him, but Mr. Murphy gently pushed her aside.
“With your permission,” he observed, taking one of the candles off the
table, and he and Brian left the room.
“Did you attend her?” Brian asked.
“No, I was only called in last night. She had a very good doctor,
though—very good. The whole College of Surgeons could not have saved
her, nor all the physicians in London to the back of that.”
“It was sudden, I suppose?” Brian scarcely spoke above a whisper, and he
drew Mr. Murphy nervously into the drawing-room, still evidently
unwilling to look upon the dead.
“Towards the last, very; but these cases always are sudden. She must
have known how it would end for a considerable time past.”
“Can you tell me if she had been long under treatment?”
“Twelve months, her doctor says; but your sister never knew a syllable
of what was the matter with her. She does not appear to have told a
living soul belonging to her a word about her disease.”
“And was it incurable from the first?”
“Yes.”
“Could money have kept her with us a little longer? had anxiety any
share in hastening her death?”
“I do not know; I cannot tell. Anxiety always aggravates sickness, as a
rule; and money also, as a rule, alleviates it; but in this particular
case I cannot say. I do not know how she has lived; I can only guess how
she must have suffered.”
There was a moment’s silence; then Mr. Murphy said, “Are you ready?” and
Brian bent his head in answer.
The bed-chamber opened off the drawing-room with folding-doors: as Mr.
Murphy turned the handle of one of these, Brian put his hand on the
surgeon’s and held it so tight that he could not shoot back the lock.
“Shall we wait a while?” he asked.
“No—no;” and Brian relaxed his grasp and put up his right hand to his
head, as though, fancying he had on his hat, he was going to remove it.
The bed was made, and unoccupied; there was a fearful formality in the
arrangement of the furniture; something terrible in the prim, frigid
neatness which pervaded the apartment.
There had been a space cleared in the centre, and there on trestles
stood the shell.
Mr. Murphy laid his hand on the lid, and looked inquiringly at his
companion.
Brian nodded, and the surgeon pushed the lid aside.
There she lay; there she slept the sleep that on this side eternity
knows no waking. She had been tossed by the billows; she had been amid
the waves; she had been buffeted by the winds; she had been beaten
hither and thither by the world’s storms; she had crossed the ocean of
suffering; she had been out in seas of trouble; she had felt the deeps
go over her head, and passed through torrents of tribulation—but it was
all over now—the voyage, the fear, the struggle, the misery—for the Lord
had taken her, after much weariness, unto Himself to rest, and she was
at last brought by Him “unto the haven where she would be.”
There she lay, with the wrinkles smoothed out of her face; with the
lines care had written erased from her forehead; with the beauty of her
youth almost restored to her—so unlike what she had been in her later
life, so different to what he could remember her, that Brian Drewitt
looked in Mr. Murphy’s face incredulously.
“That is not my mother?” he said; and he drew back a step.
“It is all you will ever again see for your mother here,” was the reply,
uttered slowly and thoughtfully.
Brian stooped over the coffin. Mr. Murphy always believed he was
listening to hear if she breathed; but he was only touching her lips
with his lips—only silently whispering words of tenderness—of passionate
sorrow—that he had a vague feeling she might understand, though she
could never answer.
“Would you mind leaving me for a minute?” he said, at last. “Would you
go into the next room and wait for me?—if you go down stairs some of
them will be coming up.”
Without uttering a syllable, Mr. Murphy placed the candle on the
chimneypiece, and left Brian, closing the folding-doors after him.
The surgeon thought that very likely Brian wanted to have a good cry
unnoticed—unpitied. He had seen as strong natures weeping in their agony
and despair. He knew the blow must have been heavy—the wound sharp; and
he knew, likewise, that at such times sorrow must have its way in some
form or other: for all of which reasons, he left Brian willingly, and,
walking to one of the windows in the drawing-room, lifted a corner of
the blind and looked out.
Had he been able to see what was passing in the inner chamber, he would
scarcely have remained contemplating the wet street and the flickering
gas-lamps for so long.
At the head of his mother’s coffin Brian stood erect; one arm was
stretched out over the dead, and he was swearing an oath, to himself,
full of vengeance and of hate. Beside her coffin he was pouring out
imprecations on all who had ever caused her misery—just as Maxwell had
said the peasants sat beside their desolate hearths, cursing the men who
had taken the roofs off their heads, and left them without a shelter
from the storm.
There were no tears in Brian Drewitt’s eyes—there was no softness in
Brian Drewitt’s heart. We had best come out and close the door, and
leaving him alone; for the days were nigh at hand when he repented him
of his blasphemy—when he covered his face, and acknowledged his sin, and
bowed his head, while that angel of the Lord,—which teaches unto men all
manner of good things—suffering—showed him how God’s ways are not as
man’s ways—how they are eternally wise and eternally just, although, to
our short-sightedness, they may oftentimes seem indeed inscrutable and
past finding out.