THE SUPREME MOMENT.
It was a beautiful morning in June when Agnes started from the House
with her little charge, who was going to the Convent Sanatorium at
Limpet Bay. She scarcely knew so soon as the porteress did, who had thus
fortunately warned the eager lover--for Sister Mary Jane had thought it
best to screen Agnes from all risks, and informed her only upon the day
before the expedition.
‘You want a little change; it will do you good,’ the Sister Superior
said, pinching the girl’s pale cheek. ‘I thought we should have had to
send you home; but a little breath of sea air will do you good.’
‘Oh, I do not require to be sent home!’ Agnes said, with a sudden flush
of fright. To go home was far from being what she desired. Indeed, she
did not quite like to leave the House and the girls’ procession even for
one day. The pale little girl who was her companion was excited and
noisy with joy; but as she took her seat in a corner of a second-class
carriage Agnes felt less exhilarated than depressed, though there was a
curious jumble of feelings in her mind. The motion was pleasant, the
fresh air--after the languid breezes of London--revived and refreshed
the country-born girl. Ah! green fields still looked just so, the birds
sang as of old, only there was something in the breeze and the sunshine
and the birds which she never had known before--something--which
suggested a want, a void, and yet a hope. She would not say to herself
what that void was, but yet felt that it was strange, looking out from
the window of the carriage, not to see one face which she always saw
when she looked out. Very strange--and yet, when she reminded herself,
so much more strange would it have been had she seen it. It was quite
early when they started; the fresh morning lights, still so soft in
their early brightness, caught the dews lying still here and there in
the corners. The child prattled on for an hour or so, then got tired,
and leaned her head against Agnes, and went to sleep. Agnes was glad. It
saved her from the necessity of answering, and allowed her to plunge
into all the sweet enchantment of dreams. There is a time in most lives
when one’s own thoughts are more entertaining, more absorbing, than the
highest fiction, and when poetry is nothing to the vague glory of musing
which envelopes the young soul like an atmosphere of its own. This was
what Agnes had come to now. She supposed she was thinking, but she was
no more thinking than the pale child, whose soft little sickly cheek
leant up against her shoulder with such confiding ease. The child slept,
being sick and weakly; the girl dreamed, being young, and feeling the
sweetness of life to her very fingertips. There was nobody to disturb
them, nothing but the wind of their rapid going, the rush of motion, the
vision of green fields and trees flitting past, the clouds in the sky
sailing over them. In such circumstances even a dusty railway journey
grows poetical. The black poke bonnet and the conventual cloak did not
make it less so, though, alas! they made those thoughts, when she
suddenly woke up to a consciousness of them, very guilty and dreadful to
Agnes. But for this morning at least, once in a way, she had escaped
from the duties of life, and the soft haze which crept over her seemed
more allowable during this interval in which it was evident she could do
nothing else. She had her duty with her in the shape of the little
invalid by her side, to whom Providence had sent this soothing medicine
of sleep: then was not Agnes free? Something as subduing as sleep
itself, and more sweet than dreams, brought a film over her soft eyes.
It was only a second-class carriage on a dusty railway, but one wonders
if in any human paradise ever dreamt by poets there could be anything
more sweet.
In the same train there was another traveller by no means sharing in
this soft trance of enchantment. Oswald, you may be sure, was travelling
first-class. His morning dress had all the easy perfection which belongs
to an English gentleman’s morning toilette; he was the very
impersonation of that simple luxury which pleases our insular vanity,
which costs the utmost possible with the least possible show. And he was
delighted with his adventure, with his own cleverness in bringing this
adventure to so prosperous a point, with the chance of seeing Agnes and
having her to himself; but anxious, and turning over a hundred plans in
his mind as to how he was to manage it all.
Limpet Bay was a very small place on the banks of the Thames, just where
the river becomes sea, and had to be reached by a branch from a
junction whence trains only went at very awkward hours. This was why it
had been necessary to start so early. The question was where and how he
was to show himself, so as not to alarm too much the shy object of his
pursuit, and at the same time to take full advantage of this propitious
moment. Oswald’s mind was busy with this subject all the way to the
junction. He had no time for the dreams which wrapped Agnes in a
delicious stillness of thought; he had to debate this important question
with himself. If he showed at once, she might think it right to shut
herself up in the Sanatorium until the time came for her return. Even if
she did so he had still all the chances of the journey in his favour,
but these were limited, and subject to interruption; whereas, if he kept
concealed, who could doubt that Agnes would stray out upon the sands, or
to the little pier, or about the low rocks on the beach to taste the
salt breezes coming strong and cheery over the sea? He resolved at last
to deny himself, and trust to this after certainty, notwithstanding that
the temptations to premature self-discovery were strong. Fortunately the
carriages in which they were seated went through, and there was no
change made at the junction, which must have betrayed him; and there he
sat, his heart beating, his mind exhilarated and in lively action,
pleased with himself and his plans and his prospects, as well as
delighted with the thought of so soon meeting her. It was an emotion
altogether different from that of Agnes--less poetical, less spiritual,
less entrancing. He knew what he wanted, and would in all probability
get it; but what she wanted was that vague infinite which no soul ever
gets, in this universe at least. To him the moments when he should have
met her, when he should have persuaded her into saying anything or
everything that a shy maiden could say, when he should carry her off
triumphantly and marry her, and make her his own, were all quite
distinct, and better than this moment, when he held himself in
leash--waiting and impatient; but to her would any moment ever be equal
to that hour of dreams? Thus they swept along, each alone,
characteristically occupied, making progress, conscious or unconscious,
out of the sweet preface and overture of existence into life.
It came about as Oswald had foreseen. The day was one of the loveliest
days of early June, the foliage still fresh in its spring livery, the
earth still downy in soft green of the springing corn and softer velvet
of the grass; the daisies and buttercups, simplest of delights, were
still a wonder to behold, the wild roses sweet on all the hedgerows,
lighting up the country with delicate flushes of colour. Then as they
neared the sea came the greyer greenness of the downs, soft undulations,
yellow stretches of sand, surrounded by the blue glory of the salt
water, broken and cheerful with white wavelets, not big enough to
trouble anything save in elvish mischief, the nearest approach to
laughter that is in nature. The red roofs of the village, the
fishing-boats, even the half-built chaos of a Marine Parade, by means of
which Limpet Bay meant to tempt visitors one day or other, were
beautiful to Oswald as they approached, and wove themselves like a
picture into Agnes’s fancies. Her little charge woke, and was clamorous
with pleasure. Was that the sea? were those the sands where Emmy went to
play? were these brown things rocks? Her questions were innumerable. A
Sister of the same order, a mild-eyed woman, made half-beautiful by the
close white cap and collar, which threw up the healthful tints of her
face, met them, and conducted them to the Sanatorium, or
Convalescent-home of the sisterhood, which rose, with its peaked roofs,
in the semi-ecclesiastical cottage-Gothic which Anglicanism has
appropriated to itself, a little apart from the village. Oswald,
watching anxiously from his window, kept himself out of sight till the
little party had gone with their boxes and baskets. He was the only
first-class passenger who had come that day, or for many days, to Limpet
Bay, and the population, so much as there was, received him with
excitement. It seemed possible that he might be going to stay, and what
a success for the place to have a gentleman--_a gentleman!_--so early in
the year. Two or three loungers volunteered to show him the inn, others
to carry his things, though he had nothing to carry, others to guide him
to the port. A _bourgeois_ family might be more profitable in the long
run, but it is not so exciting to the imagination as a gentleman--a real
gentleman, generally supposed to be a creature to whom money is
absolutely indifferent, and whose pockets are full for everybody’s
benefit. He shook them all off, however, and went through the village to
the sands, where he sat down under a rock to wait. There was nobody
there, not even little Emmy and her convalescent companions, nothing
but a boat or two on the shore, a fisher-boy or so, half in half out of
the water. And the little waves leaped and laughed and gurgled, and the
big ones rolled softly in with their long hus--sh on the warm sands.
Scenery there was none to speak of--a blue sea, a blue sky, the one
flecked with wavelets, the other with cloudlets; a brownish-yellow slope
of sand, a grey-green shoulder of velvety mossy down, a few low
fantastic rocks, a rude brown-red fishing coble; yet with what a sense
of beauty and pleasantness those nothings filled the mind! mere air and
sunshine and summer sounds, and simplest life--nothing more.
Oswald sat and waited, not very patiently, behind the bit of rock.
Sometimes he forgot himself for a moment, and mused almost like Agnes,
but with thoughts more active. If he could but get her into one of those
boats and take her out upon the blue silence of the sea, where no one
could interfere with him, no one interrupt his love-tale, not even her
own scruples! Now the decisive moment of his life (he said to himself)
was at hand. Never again would he have such an opportunity--everything
must be settled to-day. It was the last day of this sweet clandestine
romance which pleased his fancy so much more than serious wooing. After
this it would be necessary to descend to the precautions of ordinary
life, to see her family, to ask the consent of her father and mother, to
arrange horrible business, and fall into the groove like ordinary men.
But to-day! was there not anything wild, adventurous, out of the usual
jog-trot, that they could do to-day? Her dress was the chief thing that
restrained Oswald. He could have carried off a girl in the habiliments
of ordinary life, could have persuaded her into a boating expedition (he
thought), in defiance of all the conventional rules of society; but a
girl in a convent dress, a girl in a close cap and poke bonnet! She only
looked the fairer for that rim of solid white which made the warm tints
of her complexion tell so powerfully; but the cap was a visible sign of
separation from the world which daunted the boldness of the youth.
Nevertheless the laughing brightness of the water and the tempting
nearness of the boat made Oswald restless. He called the owner to him,
who was stolidly lounging about, from time to time looking at his
property, and hired it, then sent for a little basket of provisions from
the inn, enough for luncheon. Was it possible that he might be able to
beguile her to go out with him? He went back to his rock, and sat, with
his heart beating, to wait.
Before long a little band of the small convalescents came trooping on to
the sands. Oswald felt that he was lost if he was discovered by these
small women, or at least by Emmy, who was among them, and he stole round
to the other side of his rock, hiding himself till they passed on. There
was a little donkey-chair, with two who were still invalids, tenderly
driven along the smooth sands by the mild-eyed Sister whom he had seen
receiving Agnes at the railway. They went on, passing him to a further
point, where shells and seaweed were to be found; and the voices and
laughter of the children sounded sweetly from that distance upon the
fresh breeze from the sea. If they had been nearer he would not have
found them so musical. Finally there appeared a solitary figure in black
robes, intercepting the light. She was gazing at the sea, so that Oswald
could not see her face. It seemed to him that he knew her step though it
was noiseless; that no one could mistake her; but still it was not
absolutely certain it was she. She came along slowly, her footsteps
altogether undirected by her eyes, which were fixed on the sea. It was
not the maiden meditation of the poet. Her eyes were with her heart, and
that was far away. She had kept behind, happily, while the Sister took
out her little band, and now came alone, moving softly over the long
stretch of beach, now and then stopping to look at the sea. It was
during one of these pauses that Oswald rose from his place of partial
concealment, and went along the sands to meet her. His steps were
inaudible upon that soft footing, and it was impossible to say what
influence it was which made Agnes turn round suddenly and meet him
straight, face to face. The start she gave made every line of her
figure, all shrouded in the black cloak, tremble. She uttered a little
cry unawares, and put up her hands in alarm and wonder. You would have
said he was the last person in the world whom she expected to see; and
yet she had done nothing but think of him every step of the way as she
came along; and the last person she wished to see--though even the
thought of him, which accompanied her wherever she went, made the world
a changed place to Agnes. But to be thinking of an individual whom you
believe to be far off, and entirely separated from you, and then to turn
round and see him at your elbow, is startling, even when the sentiment
is less intense than that which was in the girl’s mind.
‘You are surprised to see me,’ he said, hastening to her side.
‘Yes,’ she said; ‘very much surprised.’ Then trying to regain her
composure, ‘I did not know--it is a coincidence--this is such a very
quiet place----’
‘Very quiet, and how lovely! I have been sitting under that rock’ (Agnes
turned round to look at it) ‘waiting for you.’
‘Waiting--for me!’
‘Why should I make believe,’ said Oswald; ‘or why should you wonder?
What should I come here for but to see you? to watch over you at a
distance, and--I confess it, though it may seem selfish--to speak to you
when I could find an opportunity----’
‘Indeed, indeed!’ she said, clasping her hands, ‘you ought not--you must
not! I have said so before.’
‘Do you think it likely,’ said Oswald, with fine seriousness, ‘that I
should have followed you like your shadow for so long, and leave off all
at once, without explanation, without reason? Agnes, here we are safe
and quite out of the reach of interruption. Here you may listen to me
without shocking--yourself, or anyone. Hear me first. The poorest beggar
in the street you will give a hearing to, why not to me? Let me tell you
everything. Let me ask you what I _must_ ask--let me know my fate.’
‘Mr. Meredith,’ she said, speaking very low and quickly, ‘these are not
words to be used to me. I--I do not know you----’
‘Not know me!’ he repeated with ingenuous wonder.
‘I mean--of course I have seen you a great many times. Of course I--but
I ought not to know you,’ she went on, with a little vehemence. ‘I
have--nothing to do with you.’
‘How unkind, how unkind you are!’
This reproach silenced her. She gave him a hasty look, with a sudden,
half-supplicating movement of her hands.
‘When a man loves a woman,’ said Oswald, with anxious art, ‘they are
almost always strangers to each other. Do you blame him if he takes
every means to introduce himself, to try to get her to know him, to
believe in him, to reply to him? You are not at home; not in
circumstances to allow this. What could I do? I would have brought my
mother; but I told you what happened to us, and the trouble my mother is
in. And, besides, pardon me if I had a hope that you, who were not a
common girl like others, would understand me, would let me speak without
all the vulgar preliminaries----. We are not like two nobodies, two
butterflies of whom no one knows anything,’ he said, with a vague
flourish of trumpets.
Agnes made him no reply; she was without words. Indeed, she was a little
overawed by this explanation--‘not like two nobodies, of whom no one
knows anything.’ Who was he? what had he done to lift him to the rank of
those whom other people knew?
‘At all events,’ he said, after a pause, ‘will you not give me my chance
now? We are here, with no one to say a word, nobody to interfere with
us, no one to think we are doing wrong. Let me have my chance now. If
you condemn me I promise to go away, I shall have no heart to trouble
you longer,’ he said, in a pathetic tone, which made poor Agnes tremble.
Had she the heart to condemn him? Oh, how little he knew! She yielded,
saying to herself that it was the shortest way; that anything else would
be foolish; and gave her consent, without looking at him, with a grave
little movement of her head. He led her to the rock where he had been
sitting waiting for her, and where she now followed him without a word.
How their hearts were beating, both of them, though all was so still!
She sat down on the smooth rock, he half kneeling on the sand by her
side. The soft summer air surrounded them; the sea, dropping out of its
morning smiles, fell into a hush of listening, and stilled everything
about that the tale might not be disturbed. ‘Hus--sh,’ said the soft,
long waves as the tide stole in. A few soft clouds flitted over the sun,
softening his mid-day radiance: the hush of noon fell upon earth and
sea. And there Agnes sat, throned in that momentary judgment-seat of her
womanhood, with his fate, as he said, in her hands. The words had a
deeper meaning than Oswald thought of. The fate of other lives hung on
that decision--of her own more than of his. But neither of them thought
of that. Would she accept him? it was incredible that she could refuse
him. This was the real conviction in his heart; and yet he trembled
too.
Neither of them knew how long they sat there, while Agnes on her throne
listened--trembling, blushing, weeping, hiding soft gleams of
sympathetic looks, keeping back kindred confessions that stole to her
own lips. She heard the story of Oswald’s love. It did not lose in the
telling, and yet it was true. Though his poetry was not of a very
elevated kind, as the reader knows, it gave him a command of words, it
gave him skill enough to know how that story should be told. He paused
for no instant reply, but went through the record from beginning to end.
Never had the girl heard such a tale. Romance, even in books, was little
known to her; she had been brought up upon matters of fact; and lo, here
was a romance of her own, poetry living and breathing, stealing the very
heart out of Agnes’s bosom. She resisted as long as she could, hiding
her tears, hiding the quivering of her mouth, keeping her eyes down that
no chance look might betray her, marshalling all her forces to do battle
against this subtle influence. After all, those forces were not great;
devotion to her work--but, alas, for weeks past the insidious foe had
been undermining her walls, whispering of other duties more natural,
more gracious, pointing out all the defects in that work to eyes which
could not refuse to see them: regard for the prejudices of conventional
life, the want of proper introduction, &c., a formidable horror to the
girl’s inexperienced mind, and yet with no real force in it, for had not
she, too, broken the bonds of society? Eventually the strength ebbed
away from her as she listened. Last of all her routed forces took refuge
in the last yet frailest citadel of all--her dress. It was that, too,
that Oswald had thought of. In the absence of all real objections to
this mutual understanding, this little barrier of _chiffons_ erected
itself. How could she in that garb of self-sacrifice choose personal
happiness, her own way, and all the brightnesses instead of all the
sadnesses of existence? This thought gave her a little temporary
strength.
‘Agnes,’ he said, with agitation, ‘those wretched children are coming
back again. I must go away unless you will acknowledge and receive me.
Agnes! think; can all this go for nothing, all this chapter in our
lives? Can it end and be as if it had not been! Oh, look at me! Speak to
me! Don’t say no with your voice. I will not believe it. Let me see your
face----’
She turned to him slowly, her mouth quivering, flashes of flying colour
going and coming, her eyelids--which she could not lift--heavy with
tears, every line in her face moving and eloquent with feeling. ‘What
can I say?’--her voice was so low and hurried that he had to bend
forward to hear her--‘in this place, in this dress. Is it right? Oh, why
should you ask me? What can I say----?’
‘Look at me, Agnes!’
With an effort, as if she could not help it, she slowly lifted her eyes.
There were two great tears in them, oceans of unspeakable meaning,
veiling yet magnifying the truth below. One moment and then she covered
her face with her hands. There was no more to say.