IN THE ‘HOUSE.’
Roger had not renewed his visit to Cara for some weeks. He had been too
much cast down and discouraged by that first Sunday for which he had
prepared so elaborately, and looked forward to with so much eagerness.
But discouragement, like everything else, wears out, and when he had
gone round the circle from anger to disapproval, from disapproval to
contempt, from contempt to pity, Roger found himself with some surprise
back at his original point, longing to see Cara, and ready to believe
that anything that had come between them had been accidental. The two
Merediths would not be there for ever, and Cara no doubt, poor girl,
must be pining for someone from her old home, and would be glad to see
him, and hear all that everybody was doing. He was sorry he had said a
word to his mother about what happened in the Square; indeed he had done
nothing but regret ever since the indiscretion which tempted him to
complain; for Mrs. Burchell was one of those inconvenient persons who
never forget the indignant criticisms of injured feeling, but continue
to repeat and harp upon it long after that feeling has sunk into
oblivion or changed into contempt. Very soon the softening influences of
his early love, and the longing he had after the object of it, made
Roger forgive Cara all her imagined sins against him; but his mother
could not forget that he had been slighted, and punished his betrayal of
his wound by incessant reference to the evils in the Square. This of
itself helped on his recovery, since to find fault yourself with those
to whom you are attached is a very different thing from hearing them
assailed by others. The process ended by a serious quarrel with Mrs.
Burchell, who would not give up this favourite subject, and taunted her
son with his want of proper pride, and inclination to put up with
anything, when she heard of his intention to go back. ‘If I had been so
treated anywhere, I would never go near them again. I would not invite
people to trample upon me,’ cried the Rector’s wife. ‘I might forgive,
but I should never forget.’ ‘My dear,’ the Rector had said, ‘Roger has
himself to look to: we are not able to do very much for him; and Cara
will be a kind of heiress. I should not mind any trifle of that sort, if
he has serious views.’ ‘What do you call serious views?’ cried Roger,
ashamed and wretched, and he plunged out of the house without waiting
for an answer, and betook himself to those wintry woods of which Agnes
was thinking at the ‘House,’ and which even in winter were sweet. Roger
had no sordid intentions, which was what his father meant by ‘serious’
views; and though he was well enough satisfied with his daily work, and
not, like Agnes, troubled by any ideal, yet he felt, like his sister,
the wretched downfall of existence into misery and meanness, between his
mother’s prolonged and exaggerated resentment and his father’s serious
worldliness. That boyish love of his was the highest thing in the young
man’s mind. If nothing else that was visionary existed in his nature,
his semi-adoration of Cara, which had lasted as long as he could
recollect, was visionary, a touch of poetry amid his prose, and to hear
it opposed, or to hear it sordidly encouraged alike shocked and revolted
him. He resolved never to mention Cara’s name again, nor to make any
reference to the Square, to shut up his sentiments about her in his own
bosom, whether these were sentiments of admiration or of offence.
Supposing she was cold to him--and it would be very natural that she
should be cold, as he had never gone back to her, nor visited her but
once--he would bear it and make no sign; never again would he subject
her name to comments such as these. Fathers and mothers do badly by
their children when they force them to such a resolution. Roger kept his
word all through the weary Sunday, and did not say even that he would
not return home for the next; but he made his arrangements all the same.
When the next Sunday came the heart of the aunt at Notting Hill was once
more gladdened by the sight of him; and in the afternoon he duly set out
for the Square. Perhaps his dress was not so elaborate nor his necktie
so remarkable as when he first went there. He had sworn to himself that
he would form no special expectations and make no grand preparations,
and on the whole he was happier on his second visit. Miss Cherry, whom
he found at the Square, was very glad to see him, and Mr. Beresford
spoke to him kindly enough, and Cara was sweet and friendly. But they
treated his visit as a call only; they did not ask him to dinner, which
was a disappointment. They offered him a cup of tea, which Roger did not
care for, being scarcely fashionable enough to like five o’clock tea,
and let him go when they went to dinner, forlorn enough, turning him out
as it were upon the streets full of people. To be sure Roger had his
aunt at Netting Hill, who was very glad to see him, who would give him
supper and make him very comfortable. Still, as he had hoped perhaps to
be asked to stay, to spend the evening with Cara, it gave him a very
forlorn sensation, when they bade him cheerfully good-by at the sound of
the dinner-bell. He went out into the evening streets, where many people
were going to church, and many coming back from their afternoon walk,
going home to their families in twos and threes. Scarcely anyone seemed
to be alone but himself. Still he said to himself he had no right to
grumble, for they had been kind--and next Sunday he would go again; and
with this melancholy yet courageous resolution he made a little pause at
the corner of the street, asking himself where he should go now? His
aunt would have taken tea and gone to evening church before he could get
to Netting Hill. So he changed his direction and went manfully the other
way, to the ‘House,’ to visit his sister, arguing his disappointment
down. Why should they have asked him to dinner? Besides, he did not go
for dinner, which would have been mercenary, but for Cara--and he had
seen Cara, without those Merediths thrusting themselves into his way;
and she had been very kind, and Miss Cherry had been kind, and there was
no reason why he should not go again next Sunday afternoon. So why
should he be discouraged? There was Agnes, whom he had not seen since
she had gone into this ‘House,’ as they called it. It was only right
that a man should go and look after his own sister, even if he did not
approve of her. So Roger employed his undesired hour of leisure in the
way of duty, and went to see Agnes, gradually calming himself down out
of his disappointment on the way.
The Burchells were not what is called a family devoted to each other.
They were good enough friends, and took a proper brotherly and sisterly
interest in what happened to each other, especially as every new piece
of family news brought a certain amount of enlivenment and variety and a
new subject for conversation into the monotonous family life; but they
were prosaic, and Agnes was the one among them whom the others did not
understand much, and not understanding, set down bluntly as fantastic
and incomprehensible. Had she fallen in love with somebody or had a
‘disappointment,’ they would have entered to a certain degree into her
feelings, and even now Roger could not quite divest himself of the
thought, that, though he knew nothing of it, something of this kind must
be at the root of her withdrawal from home. An ideal life, what was
that? Neither Roger nor any of the rest understood what she could mean,
or really believed that there was any sincerity in such a pretext; and
he indeed was one of those who had been most opposed to her purpose;
asking scornfully what advantage she supposed she was to get by going
among strangers? Was she better than the other girls, that she could not
make herself comfortable at home? Was there not plenty to do there, if
that was what she wanted? Was there not the parish, if she wanted more
work? Roger had been alike indignant and astonished. But the thing was
done, and he was in town, not very far off from where she was, with an
hour or two to spare. He went with a secret antagonism against
everything he was likely to see. The very name of the place nettled him.
The ‘House!’ as if it was a penitentiary or shelter for the destitute,
which _his_ sister had been obliged to find refuge in. He was admitted
on giving full particulars as to who he was, and ushered into the bare
little room, covered with dusty matting, with religious prints of the
severest character on the walls, and bookshelves full of school-books.
St. Monica was emblazoned on the door of it, which name offended him
too. Could not the foolish people call it the brown room, or the matted
room, or by any common appellation, instead of by the name of a saint,
whom nobody had ever heard of? Agnes came to him, not in the dress which
she wore out of doors, but in a simple black gown, fortunately for her,
for what avalanche of objections would have tumbled upon her head had
she come in to him in her cape and poke-bonnet! He was pleased to see
his sister and pleased by her delight at the sight of him, but yet he
could not smooth his brow out of displeasure. It gave him an outlet for
the subdued irritation with which he had received his dismissal from the
Square.
‘Well, Agnes,’ he said, ‘so here you are in this papistical place. I had
an hour to spare, and I thought I would come and see you.’
‘I am so glad to see you, Roger. I was just thinking of them all at
home.’
‘At home! You were anxious enough to get away from home. I wish anyone
knew why. I can’t fancy anything so unnatural as a girl wishing to leave
home, except on a visit, or if she is going to be married, or that sort
of thing--but to come to a place like this! Agnes, I am sure there is no
one belonging to you who knows why.’
‘Yes,’ said Agnes, quietly, ‘because I wanted to do something more, to
do some duty in the world, not to be like a vegetable in the garden.’
‘That is just the slang of the period,’ said wise Roger. ‘You can’t say
there is not plenty to do with all the children to look after; and one
never can get a button sewed on now.’
‘Louisa and Liddy were quite able to do all and more than all--why
should there be three of us sewing on buttons? And what were we to come
to--nothing but buttons all our lives?’
‘Why, I suppose,’ said Roger, doubtfully--‘what do girls ever come to?
You would have been married some time.’
‘And that is such a delightful prospect!’ cried Agnes, moved to sarcasm.
‘Oh, Roger, is it such an elevated life to jog along as papa--as we have
seen people do, thinking of nothing but how to get through the day, and
pay the bills, and have a good dinner when we can, and grumble at our
neighbours, the children running wild, and the house getting shabby?’
said Agnes, unconsciously falling into portraiture, ‘and talking about
the service of God? What is the service of God? Is it just to be
comfortable and do what you are obliged to do?’
‘Well, I suppose it is not to make yourself uncomfortable,’ cried Roger,
shirking the more serious question. ‘Though, as for that, if you wished,
you could be quite uncomfortable enough at home. What do they mean by
calling a room after a woman, St. Monica? and all these crucifixes and
things--and that ridiculous dress--I am glad to see you have the sense
not to wear it here at least.’
‘I wear it when I go out; it is not ridiculous; one can go where one
pleases, that is, wherever one is wanted, in a Sister’s dress, and the
roughest people always respect it,’ said Agnes, warmly. ‘Oh, Roger, why
should you be so prejudiced? Do you know what kind of people are here?
Poor helpless, friendless children, that have got no home, and the
Sisters are like mothers to them. Is that no good? What does it matter
about the name of the room, if a poor destitute baby is fed and warmed,
and made happy in it? Children that would starve and beg and rob in the
streets, or die--that would be the alternative, if these Sisters with
their absurd dresses and their ridiculous ways, that make you so angry,
did not step in.’
‘Well, I suppose they may do some good,’ said Roger, unwillingly. ‘You
need not get so hot about it; but you might do just as much good with
less fuss. And why should you shut yourself up in a penitentiary as if
you had done something you were ashamed of? Why should you slave and
teach for your living? We are not so poor as that. If the brothers all
work,’ said Roger, with a not unbecoming glow of pride, ‘there ought
always to be plenty for the sisters at home.’
‘But I must live my life too, as well as my brothers; and do what I can
before the night comes,’ said Agnes, with a little solemnity, ‘when no
man can work.’
Roger was subdued by the quotation more than by all her reasons. He
could not, as he said to himself, go against Scripture, which certainly
did exhort every man to work before the night cometh. Did that mean
every woman too?
‘The short and the long of it is,’ he said, half sulkily, half melted,
‘that you were never content at home, Agnes. Are you contented here?’
That was a home question. Agnes shrank a little and faltered, avoiding a
direct reply.
‘You do not look very contented yourself. Have you been to see Cara?’
she said. ‘How is she? I have not heard a word of her since I came
here.’
‘Oh, Cara is well enough. She is not like you, setting up for eccentric
work. She is quite happy at home. Miss Cherry is there at present,
looking after her. It is a handsome house, choke full of china and
things. And I suppose, from all I hear, she has a very jolly life,’ said
Roger, with a certain shade of moroseness creeping over his face,
‘parties and lots of friends.’
‘I daresay she does not forget the people she used to like, for all
that,’ said Agnes, more kind than he was, and divining the uncontent in
his face.
‘Oh, I don’t know. There are some people who never leave her alone, who
pretend to be old friends too,’ said Roger, ruefully. ‘And they live
next door, worse luck; they are always there. Other old friends have no
chance beside these Merediths.’
‘Oh!--is their name Meredith?’
‘Yes; do you know them? There is one, a palavering fellow, talks twenty
to the dozen, and thinks no end of himself--a sneering beggar. I don’t
mind the other so much; but that Oswald fellow----’
‘Oh!--is his name Oswald?’
‘I believe you know him. Do swells like that come a-visiting here?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Agnes, anxiously smoothing down suspicion; ‘there is a
name--much the same--in Sister Mary Jane’s list of subscriptions. Oh,
yes; and the gentleman carried a poor child to the hospital so very
kindly. I noticed the name, because--because there is a poet called
Oswald, or Owen, or something, Meredith. I wondered,’ said Agnes,
faltering, telling the truth but meaning a fib, ‘whether it could be the
same.’
‘Quite likely,’ said Roger; ‘the very kind of fellow that would write
poetry and stuff--a sentimental duffer. To tell the truth,’ he added,
with immense seriousness, ‘I don’t like to have little Cara exposed to
all his rubbishing talk. She is as simple as a little angel, and
believes all that’s said to her; and when a fellow like that gets a girl
into a corner, and whispers and talks stuff----’ Roger continued,
growing red and wroth.
Agnes did not make any reply. She turned round to examine the
school-books with a sudden start--and, oh me! what curious, sudden pang
was that, as if an arrow had been suddenly shot at her, which struck
right through her heart?
‘Cara should not let anyone whisper to her in corners,’ she said at
last, with a little sharpness, after her first shock. ‘She is too young
for anything of that sort; and she is old enough to know better,’ she
added, more sharply still. But Roger did not notice this contradiction.
He was too much interested to notice exactly what was said.
‘She is too young to be exposed to all that,’ he said, mournfully; ‘how
is she to find out at seventeen which is false and which is true? There
now, Agnes, see what you might have done, had not you shut yourself up
here. Nothing so likely as that Cara would have asked you to go and pay
her a visit--and you could have taken care of her. But you know how
romantic poor dear Miss Cherry is--and I should not be a bit surprised
if that child allowed herself to be taken in, and threw herself away.’
And would this be the fault of Agnes, who had shut herself up in the
House, and thus precluded all possibility of being chosen as the
guardian and companion of Cara? She smiled a little to herself, not
without a touch of bitterness; though, indeed, after all, if help to
one’s neighbour is the chief thing to be considered in life, it was as
worthy a work to take care of Cara as to teach the orphans their A B C.
This news of Roger’s, however, introduced, he did not well know how, a
discord in the talk. He fell musing upon the risk to which his little
lady was exposed, and she got distracted with other thoughts. She sat
beside him, in her plain, long black gown, every ornament of her
girlhood put away from her; her hands, which had been very pretty white
hands, loosely clasped on the table before her, and showing some signs
of injury. It is only in romances that the hands of women engaged in
various household labours retain their beauty all the same. Agnes had
now a little of everything thrown in her way to do, and was required not
to be squeamish about the uses she put these pretty hands to; and it
could not be denied that they were a little less pretty already. She
looked down upon them in her sudden rush of thought and perceived this.
What did it matter to the young handmaid of the poor whether or not her
hands were as pretty as usual? but yet, with an instantaneous
comparison, her mind rushed to Cara, who had no necessity to soil her
pretty fingers, and to the contrast which might be made between them.
What did it matter that it was wicked and wrong of Agnes, self-devoted
and aspiring to be God’s servant, to feel like this? The wave of nature
was too strong for her, and carried her away.
‘Well, I must be going,’ said Roger, with a sigh. ‘I am glad that I have
seen you, and found you--comfortable. There does not seem much here to
tempt anyone; but still if you like it--I am coming back next Sunday.
Aunt Mary is pleased to have me, and they don’t seem to care at home
whether one goes or stays. I shall probably look in at the Square. Shall
I tell Cara about you? She knows you have gone away from home, but not
where you are. She might come to see you.’
‘I don’t want any visitors,’ said Agnes, with a little irritation of
feeling, which, with all the rest of her misdeeds, was laid up in her
mind to be repented of. ‘We have no time for them, for one thing; and
half-measures are of little use. If I do not mean to give myself
altogether to my work, I had better not have come at all. Do not mention
my name to Cara. I don’t want to see anyone here.’
‘Well, I suppose you are right,’ said Roger. ‘If one does go in for this
sort of thing, it is best to do it thoroughly. What is that fearful
little cracked kettle of a bell? You that used to be so particular, and
disliked the row of the children, and the loud talking, and the bad
music, how can you put up with all this? You must be changed somehow
since you came here.’
‘I ought to be changed,’ said Agnes, with a pang in her heart. Alas, how
little changed she was! how the sharp little bell wore her nerves out,
and the rustle of the children preparing for chapel, and the clanging of
all the doors! She went with Roger to the gate, which had to be
unlocked, to his suppressed derision.
‘Have you to be locked in?’ the irreverent youth said. ‘Do they think
you would all run away if you had the chance?’
Agnes took no notice of this unkind question. She herself, when she
first arrived, had been a little appalled by the big mediæval key,
emblem, apparently, of a very tremendous separation from the world; and
she would not acknowledge that it meant no more than any innocent latch.
When Roger was gone she had to hasten upstairs to get her poke-bonnet,
and rush down again to take her place among her orphans for the evening
service in the chapel, which the House took pleasure in calling
Evensong. She knelt down among the rustling, restless children, while
the cracked bell jangled, and a funny little procession of priests and
choristers came from the vestry door. They were all the most excellent
people in the world, and worthy of reverence in their way; but no
procession of theatrical _supers_ was ever more quaintly comic than that
which solemnly marched half-way round the homely little chapel of the
House, chanting a hymn very much out of tune, and ending in the best of
curates--a good man, worthy of any crowning, civic or sacred, who loved
the poor, and whom the poor loved, but who loved the ceremonial of these
comic-solemn processions almost more than the poor. With a simple,
complaisant sense of what he was doing for the Church, this good man
paced slowly past the kneeling figure of the young teacher, motionless
in her black drapery, with her head bent down upon her hands. No
mediæval Pope in full certainty of conducting the most impressive
ceremonial in the world could have been more sincerely convinced of the
solemnising effect of his progress, or more simply impressed by its
spiritual grandeur; and no mediæval nun, in passionate penitence over a
broken vow, could have been more utterly bowed down and prostrate than
poor Agnes Burchell, guilty of having been beguiled by the pleasant
voice and pleasant looks of Oswald Meredith into the dawn of innocent
interest in that mundane person: she, who had so short time since
offered herself to God’s service--she, who had made up her mind that to
live an ideal life of high duty and self-sacrifice was better than the
poor thing which vulgar minds called happiness. The cracked bell
tinkled, and the rude choristers chanted, and all the restless children
rustled about her, distracting her nerves and her attention. All this
outside of devotion, she said to herself, and a heart distracted with
vulgar vanities within! Was this the ideal to which she had vowed
herself--the dream of a higher life? The children pulled at her black
cloak in consternation, and whispered, ‘Teacher, teacher!’ when the
service began, and she had to stumble up to her feet, and try to keep
them somewhere near the time in their singing. But her mind was too
disturbed to follow the hymn, which was a very ecstatic one about the
joys of Paradise. Oh, wicked, wicked Agnes! what was she doing, she
asked herself--a wolf in sheep’s clothing amid this angelic band?