ROGER.
Roger Burchell had set his mind steadily, from the moment of Cara’s
translation to her father’s house, upon spending those Sundays, which he
had hitherto passed at home, with his aunt at Notting Hill. But the rest
of the world has a way of throwing obstacles in the path of heroes of
twenty in a quite incredible and heartless manner. It was not that the
authorities at the Rectory made any serious objections. There was so
many of them that one was not missed--and Roger was not one of the more
useful members of the family. He had no voice, for one thing, and
therefore was useless in church; and he declined Sunday-school work, and
was disposed to be noisy, and disturbed the attention of the little
ones; therefore he could be dispensed with at home, and nobody cared to
interfere with his inclinations. Neither had the aunt at Notting Hill
any objection to Roger--he was a friendly boy, willing to take a quiet
walk, ready to be kind to those who were kind to him--and to have
somebody to share her solitary Sunday’s dinner, and make her feel like
other people when she went to church, was pleasant to her. He was a boy
who never would want to shirk morning church, or keep the servants from
it, to get him a late breakfast, like so many young men. But accident,
not evil intention, came in Roger’s way. His aunt fell ill, and then
something went wrong at the Engineering College, and leave was
withheld--entirely by caprice or mistake, for Roger of course was sure
of being entirely innocent, as such youthful sufferers generally are.
The upshot was, that his first Sunday in London did not really occur
until Cara had been a whole month in her new home. How he chafed and
fretted under this delay it is unnecessary to tell. It seemed to him an
age since that October afternoon when the sun was so warm on the Hill,
and Cara stood by his side looking over the country in its autumn tints,
and watching the shadows fly and the lights gleam over St. George’s.
What a long time it was! the mellow autumn had stolen away into the fogs
of winter; November is but the next month, yet what a difference there
is between its clammy chills, and the thick air that stifles and chokes
you, and that warmth and sunny glow with which red-breasted October
sings the fall of the leaves and the gathering-in of the fruit! And in
that time how much might have happened. Had it been dreary for her all
by herself in London, separated from her friends? or had she found new
people to keep her cheerful, and forgotten the friends of her youth?
These were the questions the lad asked himself as he went up to town
from Berkshire, on the evening of Saturday, the 25th of November. All
that he had heard of since she left had been from a letter which Miss
Cherry had read to his sister Agnes, and from which it appeared that
Cara felt London lonely, and regretted her friends in the country. ‘How
I wish I could have a peep at all of you or any of you!’ she had said.
Agnes had been pleased with the expression, and so was he. ‘All of us or
any of us,’ he said to himself for the hundredth time as the train flew
over the rain-sodden country. He thought, with a thrill at his heart,
that her face would light up, as he had seen it do, and she would be
glad to see him. She would put into his that small hand, that seemed to
melt in his grasp like a flake of snow; and perhaps there would come
upon her cheek that faint crimson, which only things very pleasant
brought there--the reflection of a sweet excitement. What an era that
would be for Roger! he dreamt it out moment by moment, till he almost
felt that it had occurred. Sometimes a dream of the other kind would
start across him--a horrible fancy that he would find her happy among
others, making new friends, forgetting the old; but this was too painful
to be encouraged. He thought the train as slow as an old hackney coach,
when at last, after all these delays, he got away and found himself
actually on the road to London and to her, and thought of a story he had
heard of someone in hot haste, as he was, who had jumped out of his
carriage and pushed it on behind to arrive the sooner. Roger felt
disposed to do so, though his train was an express, and though he knew
he could not go to the Square that evening to see her. But he was so
much nearer her when he got to Notting Hill. She was on one side of the
Park and he on the other. Next day he would walk across, through all the
Sunday people, through the yellow fog, under the bare-branched trees,
and knock at her door. There was still a moment of suspense, still a
long wintry night--and then!
His aunt thought very well of the young man when he got to Notting Hill.
She was his mother’s sister, a widow, and without children, and Roger
had been named after her husband, the late Captain Brandon, whose
portrait hung over her mantelpiece, and whose memory was her pride. She
thought her nephew was like her side of the house, not ‘those
Burchells,’ and felt a thrill of pride as he came in, tall and strong,
in his red-brown hair and budding moustache, with a touch of autumn
colour about him in the heavy despondency of the November day.
‘What weather!’ she said, ‘what weather, Roger! I daresay it is a little
better in the country; but we have nothing else to expect in November,
when the wind blows up the smoke out of the city.’
Roger hastened to assure her that the country was a great deal worse,
that the river was like a big, dismal ditch, full of mists and rains,
and that town, with its cheerful lights and cheerful company, was the
only place. Aunt Mary let herself be persuaded. She gave him a nice
little dish of cutlets with his tea. She asked him questions about his
mother and sister, and whether his papa’s opinions were not getting
modified by experience and by the course of events.
‘Hasn’t he learnt to take warning by all this Romanising?’ she asked,
and shook her head at Roger’s doubtful reply. She differed so much in
ecclesiastical opinion from her brother-in-law, that she very seldom
went to the Rectory. But she was glad to hear all about her godchild,
little Mary, and how Philip was getting on at Cambridge. And how
pleasant it was to have someone to talk to, instead of sitting all alone
and melancholy, thinking, or reading the newspaper. She made much of
Roger, and told him he would always be welcome; he was to come as often
as he pleased.
‘I shall see her to-morrow,’ Roger said to himself, as he laid his head
upon his pillow. The thought did not stop him from sleeping; why should
it? but it suggested a string of dreams, some of which were terribly
tantalising. He was just putting out his hand to take hers, just about
to hear the answer to some momentous question, when he would wake
suddenly and lose it all; but still even the disappointment only
awakened him to the fact that he was to see her to-morrow; he was to see
her to-morrow; nay, to-day, though this yellow glimmer did not look much
like daylight. He got up the moment he was called, and dressed with
much pains and care--too much care. When his toilet was careless Roger
looked, as he was, a gentleman; but when he took extra pains, a Sunday
look crept about him, a certain stiffness, as of a man occupying clothes
to which he was unaccustomed. His frock-coat--it was his first--was
uglier and squarer than even frock-coats generally are, his hat looked
higher, his gloves a terrible bondage. Poor boy! but for Cara he never
would have had that frock-coat; thus to look our best we look our worst,
and evil becomes our good. But his aunt was much pleased with his
appearance when he went to church with her, and thought his dress just
what every gentleman ought to wear on Sunday.
‘But your gloves are too tight, my dear,’ she said.
Roger thought everything was tight, and was in twenty minds to abandon
his fine clothes and put on the rough morning suit he had come in; but
the frock-coat carried the day. He could not eat at Mrs. Brandon’s early
dinner. She was quite unhappy about him, and begged him not to stand on
ceremony, but to tell her frankly if it was not to his mind. ‘For if you
are going to spend your Sundays with me it is just as easy to buy one
thing as another,’ Aunt Mary said, good, kind, deceived woman. She was
very glad he should take a walk afterwards, hoping it would do him good.
‘And I think perhaps I had better call at the Square and see Miss
Beresford. Her aunt is sure to ask me when I see her,’ he said.
‘Do, my dear,’ said the unsuspecting woman. And he set off across the
park. It was damp enough and foggy enough to quench any man’s courage.
The Sunday people, who were out in spite of all disadvantages, were
blue, half with the cold and half with the colour of the pitiless day. A
few old ladies in close broughams took their constitutional drive slowly
round and round. What pleasure could they find in it? still, as it is
the ordinance of heaven that there should be old ladies as well as young
men of twenty, it was a good thing they had comfortable broughams to
drive about in; and they had been young in their time, Roger supposed,
feeling it hard upon everybody not to have the expectations, the hopes,
that made his own heart beat. How it beat and thumped against his
breast! He was almost sorry, though he was glad, when the walk was over
and the tall roofs of the houses in the Square overshadowed him. His
heart jumped higher still, though he thought it had been incapable of
more, when he got to the house. ‘Doors where my heart was used to beat.’
He did not know any poetry to speak of, and these words did not come to
him. He felt that she must be glad to see him, this dull, damp Sunday
afternoon, the very time when heaven and earth stood still, when there
was nothing to amuse or occupy the languid mind. No doubt she and her
father would be sitting together, suppressing two mutual yawns, reading
two dull books; or, oh, blessed chance! perhaps her father would have
retired to his library, and Cara would be alone. He pictured this to
himself--a silent room, a Sunday solitude, a little drooping figure by
the chimney-corner, brightening up at sight of a well-known face--when
the drawing-room door opened before him, and his dream exploded like a
bubble, and with a shock of self-derision and disappointment more bitter
than honest Roger had ever felt in all his simple life before. There
were several people in the room, but naturally Roger’s glance sought out
the only one he was interested in, the only one he knew in the little
company. She was standing in front of one of the windows, the pale
wintry light behind making a silhouette of her pretty figure, and the
fine lines of her profile; but curiously enough, it was not she, after
the first glance, who attracted Roger’s gaze, but the other figure which
stood beside her, close to her, young, and friendly, in all the
confidence of intimacy. It was Oswald Meredith who was holding a book in
which he was showing Cara something--she, holding the corner of it with
one hand, drew it down to her level, and with a raised finger of the
other seemed to check what he was saying. They made the prettiest group;
another young man, sitting at the table, gazing at the pair, thought so
too, with an envious sentiment, not so strong or so bitter as Roger’s,
but enough to swear by. Oswald had all the luck, this young fellow was
saying to himself: little Cara, too! Behind was Mrs. Meredith, sitting
by the fire, and Mr. Beresford, gloomy and sombre, standing by her. It
was the first time he had been in this room, and the visit had been made
expressly for the purpose of dragging him into it. He stood near his
friend, looking down, sometimes looking at her, but otherwise never
raising his eyes. This, however, was a side scene altogether
uninteresting to Roger. What was it to him what these two elder people
might be feeling or thinking? All that he could see was Cara and ‘that
fellow,’ who presumed to be there, standing by her side, occupying her
attention. And how interested she looked! more than in all the years
they had known each other she had ever looked for him.
Cara started at the sound of his name. ‘Mr. Burchell? oh, something must
be wrong at home!’ she cried; then, turning round suddenly, stopped with
a nervous laugh of relief. ‘Oh, it is only Roger! what a fright you gave
me! I thought it must be your father, and that Aunt Charity was ill.
Papa, this is Roger Burchell, from the Rectory. You remember, he said he
would come and see me. But, Roger, I thought you were coming directly,
and it is quite a long time now since I left home.’
‘I could not come sooner,’ he said, comforted by this. ‘I came as soon
as ever I could. My aunt was ill and could not have me; and then there
was some trouble at the College,’ he added, hurriedly, feeling himself
to be getting too explanatory. Cara had given him her hand; she had
pointed to a chair near where she was standing; she had given up the
book which Oswald now held, and over which he was looking, half-amused,
at the new-comer. Roger was as much occupied by him, with hot instinct
of rivalry, as he was with Cara herself, who was the goddess of his
thoughts; and how the plain young engineer, in his stiff frock-coat,
despised the handsome young man about town, so easy and so much at home!
with a virulence of contempt which no one could have thought to be in
Roger. ‘Do you bite your thumb at me, sir?’ he was tempted to say,
making up to him straight before the other had time to open his lips.
But of course, being in civilised society, Roger did not dare to obey
his impulse, though it stirred him to the heart.
‘You don’t introduce us to your friend, Cara,’ said Oswald, smiling, in
an undertone.
The fellow called her Cara! Was it all settled, then, and beyond hope,
in four short weeks? Oh, what a fool Roger had been to allow himself to
be kept away!
‘Mr. Roger Burchell--Mr. Meredith--Mr. Edward Meredith,’ said Cara, with
a slight evanescent blush. ‘Roger is almost as old a friend at the Hill
as you are at the Square. We have all been children together;’ and then
there was a pause which poor little Cara, not used to keeping such
hostile elements in harmony, did not know how to manage. She asked
timidly if he had been at the Hill--if he had seen----?
‘I came direct from the College last night,’ he said; and poor Roger
could not keep a little flavour of bitterness out of his tone, as who
should say, ‘A pretty fool I was to come at all!’
‘The--College?’ said Oswald, in his half-laughing tone.
‘I mean only the Scientific College, not anything to do with a
University,’ said Roger, defiant in spite of himself. ‘I am an
engineer--a working man’--and though he said this as a piece of bravado,
poor fellow! it is inconceivable how Sundayish, how _endimanché_, how
much like a real working man in unused best raiment, he felt in his
frock-coat.
‘Oh, tell me about that!’ said Mrs. Meredith, coming forward; ‘it is
just what I want to know. Mr. Roger Burchell, did you say, Cara? I think
I used to know your mother. I have seen her with Miss Cherry Beresford?
Yes; I thought it must be the same. Do you know I have a particular
reason for wishing to hear about your College? One of my friends wants
to send his son there if he can get in. Will you tell me about it? I
know you want to talk to Cara----’
‘Oh, no; not if she is engaged,’ said Roger, and blushed hot with
excessive youthful shame when he had made this foolish speech.
‘She will not be engaged long, for we are going presently,’ said the
smiling gracious woman, who began to exercise her usual charm upon the
angry lad in spite of himself. She drew a chair near to the spot where
he still stood defiant. ‘I shall not keep you long,’ she said; and what
could Roger do but sit down, though so much against his will, and allow
himself to be questioned?
‘Your friend from the country is impatient of your other friends,’ said
Oswald, closing the book which he held out to Cara, and marking the
place as he gave it to her. ‘Do you want to get rid of us as much as he
does?’
‘He does not want to get rid of anyone, but he does not
understand--society,’ said Cara, in the same undertone. Roger could not
hear what it was, but he felt sure they were talking of him, though he
did his best to listen to Mrs. Meredith’s questions. Then the other one
rose, who was not so handsome as Oswald, and went to her other side,
completely shutting her out from the eyes of the poor fellow who had
come so far, and taken so much trouble to see her. The College--what did
he care for the College! about which the soft-voiced stranger was
questioning him. He made her vague broken answers, and turned round
undisguisedly, poor fellow! to where Cara stood; yet all he could see of
her was the skirt of her blue dress from the other side of Edward
Meredith, whose head, leaning forward, came between Roger and the girl
on whom his heart was set.
‘Mr. Burchell, Cara and her father are dining with my boys and me.
Edward is only with me for a few hours; he is going away by the last
train. Will not you come, too, and join us? Then Cara can see a little
more of you. Do you stay in town to-night?’
Two impulses struggled in Roger’s mind--to refuse disdainfully, or to
accept gratefully. In the first case he would have said he had dined
already, making a little brag of his aunt’s early hours--in the
second--a calculation passed very quickly through his mind, so quick
that it was concluded almost before Mrs. Meredith’s invitation.
‘I could,’ he said, faltering; ‘or, perhaps, if your son is going I
might go, too, which would be best----’
‘Very well, then, it is a bargain,’ she said, putting out her hand with
a delightful smile. He felt how warm and sweet it was, even though he
was trying at the moment to see Cara. This was the kind of mother these
fellows had, and Cara living next door! Surely all the luck seems to be
centred on some people; others have no chance against them. He stood by
while Mrs. Meredith got up, drawing her sons with her. ‘Come, boys, you
can carry on your talk later,’ she said. ‘Good-by for the moment, Cara
mia.’ Then she turned to Mr. Beresford, who stood gloomily, with his
eyes bent on the fire. ‘You are not sorry you have broken the spell?’
she said, with a voice which she kept for him alone, or so at least he
thought.
He gave his shoulders a hasty shrug. ‘We can talk of that later. I am
going to see you to the door,’ he said, giving her his arm. The boys
lingered. Oswald was patting his book affectionately with one hand. It
was Edward who was ‘making the running’ now.
‘You are still coming to dine, Cara?’ he said. ‘Don’t turn me off for
this friend. He cannot be such an old friend as I am; and I have only a
few hours----’
‘So has he,’ said Cara; ‘and he told me he was coming. What am I to do?’
‘There are three courses that you can pursue,’ said Oswald, ‘Leave him,
as Ned recommends; stay with him, as I certainly don’t recommend; or
bring him with you. And which of these, Cara, you may choose will be a
lesson as to your opinion of us. But you can’t stay with him; that would
be a slight to my mother, and your father would not allow it. The
compromise would be to bring him.’
‘Oh, how can I do that, unless Mrs. Meredith told me to do it? No;
perhaps he will go away of himself--perhaps----’
‘Poor wretch! he looks unhappy enough,’ said Edward, with a sympathy of
fellow-feeling. Oswald laughed. The misery and offence in the
new-comer’s face was only amusing to him.
‘Cara,’ he said, ‘if you are going to begin offensive warfare, and to
flaunt young men from the country in our faces, I for one will rebel. It
is not fair to us; we were not prepared for anything of the sort.’
‘My mother is calling us,’ said Edward, impatiently. Two or three times
before his brother had irritated him to-day. Either he was in a very
irritable mood, or Oswald was more provoking than usual. ‘I have only a
few hours,’ he continued, aggrieved, in a low tone, ‘and I have scarcely
spoken to you, Cara; and it was you and I who used to be the closest
friends. Don’t you remember? Oswald can see you when he pleases; I have
only one day. You won’t disappoint us, will you? I wish you’d go’--this
was to his brother--‘I’ll follow. There are some things I want to speak
to Cara about, and you have taken her up all the afternoon with your
poetry. Yes, yes; I see, there is _him_ behind; but, Cara, look here,
you won’t be persuaded to stay away to-night?’
‘Not if I can help it,’ said the girl, who was too much embarrassed by
this first social difficulty to feel the flattery involved. She turned
to Roger, when the others went downstairs, with a somewhat disturbed and
tremulous smile.
‘They are our next-door neighbours, and they are very kind,’ she said.
‘Mrs. Meredith is so good to me; as kind as if she were a relation’
(this was all Cara knew of relationships). ‘I don’t know what I should
do without her; and I have known the boys all my life. Roger, won’t you
sit down? I am so sorry to have been taken up like this the very moment
you came.’
‘But if they live next door, and you know them so well, I daresay you
are very often taken up like this,’ said Roger, ‘and that will be hard
upon your country friends. And I think,’ he added, taking courage as he
found that the door remained closed, and that not even her father
(estimable man!) came back, ‘that we have a better claim than they have;
for you were only a child when you came to the Hill, and you have grown
up there.’
‘I like all my old friends,’ said Cara, evasively. ‘Some are--I mean
they differ--one likes them for different things.’
The poor boy leaped to the worse interpretation of this, which, indeed,
was not very far from the true one. ‘Some are poorer and not so fine as
others,’ he said; ‘but, perhaps, Cara, the rough ones, the homely ones,
those you despise, are the most true.’
‘I don’t despise anyone,’ she said, turning away, and taking up Oswald
Meredith’s book.
By Jove! even when he was gone was ‘that fellow’ to have the best of it
with his confounded book? Roger’s heart swelled; and then he felt that
expediency was very much to be thought of, and that when a man could not
have all he wanted it was wise to put up with what he could get.
‘Cara, don’t be angry with me,’ he said. ‘I shall like your friends,
too, if--if you wish me. The lady is very nice and kind, as you say. She
has asked me to go there to dinner, too.’
‘You!’ Cara said, with (he thought) a gleam of annoyance. Roger jumped
up, wild with rage and jealousy, but then he sat down again, which was
certainly the best thing for him to do.