THE PERUGINO.
Oswald Meredith had a new direction given to his thoughts. He was not,
as may be easily divined, so clever as Cara gave him credit for being,
nor, indeed, as his family supposed, who knew him better than Cara did;
but he was full of fancy and a kind of gay, half-intellectual life which
might be called poetic so far as it went. His head was full of the
poets, if not of poetry; and a certain joyous consciousness of existence
and of well-being which made his own pursuits and enjoyments beautiful
and important to him, was in all he did and said. He was not so much
selfish as self-occupied, feeling a kind of glory and radiance about his
youth, and conscious freedom and conscious talents which elated him,
without any absolute vanity or self-love. Naturally all the people who
were equally self-occupied, or whose temperaments ran counter to
Oswald’s, took it for granted that he was vain and selfish; and those
who loved him best were often impatient with him for this happy
contentment, which made him pleased with his own aimless ways, and
indifferent to everything that demanded any exertion which would
interfere with the smooth current of his enjoyable and enjoying life.
For himself he was too good-natured to criticise or find fault with
anyone--having no ideal himself to derange his satisfaction with his own
circumstances and behaviour, he had no ideal for others, and was quite
content that they, too, should enjoy themselves as they pleased, and
find each for himself the primrose paths which suited him best; but he
did not inquire into the primrose paths of others. He was so pleased
with his own, so ready to tell everybody how delightful it was, how he
enjoyed it, what pretty fancies it abounded in, and pleasant
intercourse, and merry sunshiny ways. For Edward, who worked, he had the
kindest toleration, as for an odd fellow who found his pleasure that
way; and his mother, who sympathised with everybody, he regarded also
with half-laughing, satisfied eyes as one whose peculiar inclinations
laid her open to a charge of ‘humbug,’ which, perhaps, was not quite
without foundation. Let everybody follow their own way: that was the way
in which, of course, they found most pleasure, he said to himself, and
in the lightness of his heart had no idea of any other rule. Cara had
brought in a new and very pleasant element into his life; he liked to go
to her and tell her what he was doing and receive that ready sympathy
which was to him something like the perfume of flowers--a thing for
which it was quite unnecessary to make any return, but which was
delightful to receive, and which added a something more exquisite and
delicate to the very atmosphere in which this young demi-god lived,
caressed by gods and men. What more could he do for Cara or anyone but
communicate his own satisfaction to her, make her a sharer in the
pleasure he felt in himself and his life? He was ‘very fond’ of Cara.
He would not, for a moment, have permitted anyone to take her
companionship and sympathy from him. To tell Cara, was not that the
first thing that occurred to him when anything happened, any new
gratification or success? As for hearing from her in return what
thoughts came into her little head, what happened in her quiet
life--that did not occur to Oswald. To talk of himself seemed so much
more natural and so much more interesting, to Cara as well as to
himself. Was it not really so? He was a man, three-and-twenty, at the
very most triumphant period of life, free to go anywhere he pleased, to
do anything he liked, strong, clever, handsome, sufficiently rich. Could
any circumstances be more delightful, more satisfactory? No woman, let
alone a little girl, without freedom of action, could be so well off, so
consciously at the ‘high top-gallant’ of mortal pleasantness. The sense
of this suffused, so to speak, his whole being. It was not selfishness,
any more than happiness is selfishness; there was even a kind of
spontaneous unconscious gratitude in it for all the pleasant things in
his lot.
It was with this feeling strong in his mind that he had walked along the
streets the day of the accident to the little schoolgirl. It had been
just his luck to meet with a true Perugino face. Little processions of
school-children are the commonest things in the world, but you might
have passed a hundred of them before you came upon anything like the
soft Umbrian glow of that complexion, that tender roundness of the soft
form, the devout, sweet eyes. The incident itself, it was true, was
something of a break upon the general felicity; but Oswald was able to
hope that the little girl whom he had carried with the utmost care and
kindness to the hospital, with a sympathetic pallor on his handsome
face, would turn out to be not so much hurt, or at least would mend
rapidly and be none the worse. He felt very sorry for the poor little
thing, yet felt there was a certain luck in the accident, for otherwise
he could only have looked at the Perugino, not spoken to her as he did
now. He found out the name of the house to which she belonged, and asked
permission of the Sister who had been in charge of the procession to go
and inquire for the little sufferer. ‘Alas, I am afraid for a long time
inquiries must be made at the hospital,’ she said, but gave him her
name, Sister Mary Jane, with natural pleasure in the kindness of so
handsome a young man, and one who looked so _comme il faut_, so
thoroughly a gentleman. It is just as good in an ugly and common person
to be kind, but somehow nobody thinks so, and Oswald’s anxiety to hear
of the child’s progress seemed exceptional virtue in the mind even of
the good Sister. ‘Never say the upper classes are indifferent to other
people’s welfare,’ said Sister Mary Jane. ‘I don’t believe a working man
could have shown half so much feeling.’ And young Agnes, the teacher,
said nothing against this, but admired secretly and wondered why he had
looked at her so, and whether by any chance they might ever meet again.
Oswald, for his part, went away from the hospital with his head full of
that new ‘poem’ which he had begun on the spot even before the
_rapprochement_ of the accident--
From old Pietro’s canvas freshly sprung,
Fair face!----
That was all the length he got; he discarded the other line and a half
which I have already recorded, and went about all day saying over that
‘fair face!’ to himself. It made a suggestive break in the verse which
was delightful to him, and gave him a point of pleasure the
more--pleasure, and piquant suggestion of other sweetness to come.
Next day he went, as he felt it his duty to do, to the hospital to
inquire for the child; and in the waiting-room he found to his wonder
and delight the Perugino herself, waiting meekly for news, but
accompanied by a somewhat grim personage who would have been the
lay-sister of a Roman Catholic sisterhood, but whom Oswald did not know
(nor do I) how to classify in the spick and span new conventual system
of Anglicanism. She kept apart with humility, but she kept her eye from
under the poke-bonnet fixed upon the young lady whom she attended, so
that Oswald was able to exchange only a few words with her. The little
girl had her leg broken; which was very serious; but she had passed a
good night and was going on well; which was more cheerful and restored
the smiles to the young faces of the inquirers, to whom it was further
intimated that on a certain day her friends might be admitted to see the
little patient. ‘Oh, thanks! I will come,’ cried Agnes; and then she
explained, with a blush, that poor little Emmy was an orphan and had no
friends out of the ‘House.’ ‘But everybody is fond of her there,’ she
added. Perhaps it was the coming in of some new feeling into his mind
that made Oswald as effusive and sympathetic as his mother herself could
have been. ‘Then God bless the House,’ he said, ‘for taking such care of
the friendless.’ Agnes looked at him gratefully with humid eyes.
‘Then you are not one of the people who disapprove of it?’ she said.
‘Indeed, they do things there we could not do staying at home.’
‘Ah,’ said Oswald, with a smile, ‘I can see you are wanted to stay at
home--and I don’t wonder.’
The girl shrank back a little. ‘I am not a Sister,’ she said, with
youthful dignity. ‘I am not good enough. I only teach. We must go back
now.’
He stood aside, with his hat in his hand, to let them pass, and even the
lay Sister, not used to courtesies, was moved by the politeness in which
her humble person had a share. ‘I never saw a more civil-spoken
gentleman,’ she said as they went towards the ‘House.’ Agnes in her
private heart felt that he was more than a civil-spoken gentleman. How
tenderly he had carried the child, and how good it was to take the
trouble of going to inquire after her; and what kind enthusiasm was in
his face when he bade God bless the ‘House’ for taking care of the
friendless. Ah, that was how it ought to be thought of! The bread and
butter of the little orphans was somehow more noble than that bread and
butter which had disgusted her at home when all her little brothers and
sisters were squabbling for it, and mamma scolding the elder girls for
letting them make such a noise, and the whole house filled with
insubordination and confusion. Her work now was more satisfactory, and
Louisa, who did not mind, and who scolded back again when there was
scolding going on, was quite enough for all that was wanted; but still
Agnes felt very glad that ‘the gentleman’ had set her present life
before her thus anew as help to the friendless. In reality, taking the
facts of the case, it was always the bread and butter, though that was
noble when given to orphans and the friendless, which was but
commonplace when dispensed to one’s brothers and sisters. Yet life, take
it how you will, in a vulgarish common Rectory, full of children, or in
a ‘House’ devoted to the help of one’s fellow-creatures, is an unheroic
sort of affair at the best. There is no making up to that ideal that
flies from you further and further as life goes on. Does not everything
turn into commonplace as one’s hands touch it, as one executes it, the
great imagination gliding ever further and further off, mocking you from
the skies? So Agnes felt as she went back to the House to go on with the
lessons of the little orphans, in their somewhat dingy schoolroom, all
the afternoon.
As for Oswald he pursued his walk, more and more delighted with this new
adventure.
From old Pietro’s canvas freshly sprung,
The gentle form disclosing to my heart,
Of that dear image, sweet and fair and young,
Image beloved of art;
Which in all ages represents the dream
Of all perfection----
Here he broke down; there was nothing fitly rhyming to ‘dream’ which
would suit his subject, unless it was something about a ‘wondrous
theme,’ which would be commonplace. Here accordingly he stuck, with
other monosyllables rushing about hopelessly in his head, in the pleased
excitement of a rhymester with a new source of inspiration. Better than
staying at home! What would be better than staying at home would be to
take this Perugino away to see the other Peruginos in the world, to
carry her off to the loveliest places that could be thought of, to
wander with her alone by riversides and in green woods and by summer
seas. Italy! that would be better than staying at home, better than the
‘House’ with its orphans. Such an idea as this had never crossed
Oswald’s mind before. He had thought that he had been in love--indeed,
he was in love (was not he?) with Cara even now, and could not be
content without her sympathy. But never before had he felt it necessary
to think of the other, of the individual he was in love with, first
before himself. Now, however, that it had come to him to do this, he did
it in his characteristic way. How sweet it would be to carry her off
from all these vulgar scenes, to show her everything that was beautiful,
to show himself to her as the very source of felicity, the centre of
everything! A teacher in a charity school, of course she was poor. He
would like to make her rich, to clothe her beautifully, to give her the
half of all his own delights. How sweet it would be! and how grateful
she would be, and how those liquid brown eyes would look, full of
eloquent thanks! He laughed at himself as he went on. Why, this was
something new, another delight added to the pleasures of his life, a
delight of generosity which he had never known before. To be sure it was
all in imagination, but is not imagination the better part of life?
On the visitors’ day Oswald went back again to the hospital, and found
out there exactly the length of time that the visitors were allowed to
stay. She would remain to the last, he felt sure, to comfort the little
patient. And his plan was successful. At the last moment, when the doors
were almost closing, she came running through the great hall,
apologising to the porter for being so late, the ladyhood of her light
figure and soft step showing very distinctly after the crowd of good,
honest, anxious women, mothers or wives of the patients, who had come
out before her. Agnes was by herself, for the ‘House’ was not far off,
and her dress was a sufficient protection to her. It was not a
protection, however, against Oswald, who came eagerly up with a pretence
of being just too late to inquire, which delighted himself as the
cleverest expedient. ‘How is she?’ he asked quite anxiously, and Agnes
gave her report with the greatest gravity. The little girl was making
quite satisfactory progress. She was very well cared for, and quite
comfortable, though she had cried when her visitor left her. ‘That was
not so wonderful,’ Agnes said seriously, ‘for I was like a sight of home
to her, you know.’
‘I don’t think it was at all wonderful,’ said Oswald, with equal
gravity. ‘Had it been me I should have cried too.’
She looked at him suspiciously, with rising colour; but Oswald looked
innocence itself. He went on quietly walking by her side as if it were
the most natural thing in the world. ‘Are your pupils all orphans,’ he
asked, ‘or are others received?’ with the air of a philanthropist who
had troops of poor children to dispose of. This was what Agnes thought,
and the ‘House’ was in want of funds, as where is the ‘House’ that is
not? She answered with some eagerness:
‘I think if they have lost one parent--I know we have widows’ children;
and they are very glad if kind people will send children to be paid
for,’ she said. ‘But perhaps that was not what you meant?’
‘I have not got any children to send; but I should like to subscribe to
such an excellent institution. Charities are often so unsatisfactory,’
he said in his most solemn tone, with a gravity which was sublime.
‘Yes. I suppose so,’ she said doubtfully. ‘I do not know very much about
charities, but I am sure the Sisters would be very glad; they have more
to do than they have money for, I know. They are always wanting to do
more.’
‘I suppose I might send my offering,’ said Oswald clumsily, ‘to Sister
Mary Jane?’ Then he paused, perceiving a further advantage. ‘If you will
kindly show me where the convent is, I will see her at once.’
‘It is close by,’ said Agnes--then looked at him again, with a shade of
doubt on her face. He was not like the sort of person to visit Sister
Mary Jane; still if he brought subscriptions, had she any right to stop
him? She went along by his side for another moment, demure and quiet. As
for Oswald, between his terror of awakening her suspicions and his
desire to laugh at his own dissimulation, his usual readiness quite
failed him. He, too, walked by her as grave as a judge. He dared not
look at her lest he should laugh, and he dared not laugh lest he should
destroy his chances once and for all.
‘I have seen convents abroad,’ he said at last, ‘but none in England.
Forgive my curiosity; are the same rules observed? Is there a Lady
Superior, Abbess, or Prioress, or----, don’t be angry with me if I show
my ignorance.’
‘I never was abroad,’ said Agnes. ‘There is a Sister Superior, that is
all.’
‘Then I suppose the Abbesses exist only in books,’ he said, with an
insinuating smile.
‘I have not read many books.’ Then she thought she was perhaps uncivil
to a man who was coming with a subscription. ‘Papa did not approve of
light books, and I have not much time for reading now.’
‘You have not been there long? Is the routine severe? Don’t think I am
asking from mere curiosity,’ said Oswald; ‘indeed I have a motive in
wishing to know.’
‘Oh, no, not severe; there is a great deal to do. We have to attend to
all the children. If you are fond of children it is not at all hard; but
what one wishes for is to be quiet sometimes,’ said Agnes, ‘That is not
so easy when the place is so full.’
‘Ah! I know a girl who has too much quiet, who would like to be in a
full house and hear other people’s voices.’
‘Lots are very different in this world,’ said Agnes, with gentle wisdom;
‘one cannot tell which to choose; the only safe thing is to do one’s
best; to aim at something good.’
‘Or to make the best of what we have,’ said Oswald.
A flush of sudden colour came to her face. ‘It is surely best to aim at
something above us,’ she said, with some confusion; ‘just to be content
cannot be the highest good, if what we have by nature is nothing but
what others can do just as well; is not that a reason for taking the
matter into one’s own hands and trying something better?’
Special pleading! He could see in her eyes, in her every expression,
that this was her own case which she was arguing with such warmth, and
that indeed there was some doubt in her mind as to this highest idea
which she had followed. And in the fervour of the self-argument she had
forgotten that she did not know him, and that he had no right to be
walking thus familiarly by her side.
‘The worst is,’ he said, ‘that when we follow an ideal, the result is
sometimes disappointment. Have you not found it so?’
She blushed very deeply, and cast a wondering glance up at him,
astonished at his penetration. ‘I did not say so,’ she cried. ‘I am not
disappointed--only one did not think of all the details. Real things are
never so beautiful as things are in your imagination, that is all.’
‘Is it always so?’ he said, stealing always a little further on. ‘For
then this world would be a sadly unsatisfactory place, and life would
not be worth living.’
‘Ah, everybody says so,’ cried Agnes; ‘that is what I always rebel
against. Because one thing disappoints you, why should everything? They
say the world is so bad, all full of delusion; but God made it--it
cannot be so bad if we took pains enough to find out what is best.’
Oswald’s heart was touched; by the eagerness in her face and the beauty
of its dimples--but a little by the contrast between this young
creature’s abstract purpose and his own want of any purpose at all. ‘I
am not good enough to keep up such an argument,’ he said ingenuously
enough; ‘I am afraid I am content to get along just as it happens from
day to day. You make me blush for myself.’
When he said this an overpowering blush covered the face which was
turned towards him under the poke-bonnet. ‘Oh, what have I been
saying?’ she cried, crimson with shame and compunction. How she had been
talking to a stranger, a man, a person whose very name she did not know!
What would the Sisters say, what would mamma say if she knew? Would not
this heinous offence against all the proprieties prove everything they
had ever said against her independent outset in the world? And he, what
could he think? Agnes wished the pavement might open and swallow her
up--as it had done once or twice before at very great crises of history.
She could not run away from him, that would be a worse folly still,
especially as the ‘House’ was already in sight. But she shrank away from
him as far as the narrow pavement would permit, and did not dare to look
at him again.
‘You have said nothing but what it was good to say,’ he said hurriedly.
‘Do not be angry with yourself for having spoken to me. I am not
unworthy of it. It will do me good, and it cannot have harmed you. I do
not even know your name’--here he made a slight pause, hoping she might
tell him--‘mine is Oswald Meredith. I am not much good, but if anything
could make me better it would be hearing what you have said. Life is
perhaps too pleasant to me--and I don’t take thought enough of what is
best; but I will think of you and try,’ said Oswald, with a little
innocent, honest, natural hypocrisy. He meant it for the moment though
he did not mean it. A little glow of virtuous feeling rose in his
breast. Yes, to be sure, he, too, would think of what was best in life
and do it--why not? it would be good and right in itself, and agreeable
to her. To be sure he would do it. The resolution was very easy and gave
him quite a warm glow of virtue and goodness. He had no secret
wickedness to give up, or struggles with favourite vices to look forward
to. He would be good, certainly, and made up his mind to it with all the
bland confidence and light-hearted certainty of a child.
And then he went across the street to the ‘House’ and put down his name
for such a subscription as made the heart leap within the sober bosom of
Sister Mary Jane.