It was the afternoon of a brilliant summer day, and the Thames was full
of water-parties going home, full of frolic and merriment, and pretty
ladies in fine dresses, and men in flannels, in that _négligé_ which
Englishmen alone know how to make agreeable and pleasant to behold. The
sight of all that pleasure had a pleasurable effect upon the parson’s
wife, though she had no share in it. And the charm of the scene--the
river, struck full by the level sunshine which made it blaze, the colour
and movement of the continually passing boats, the more tranquil
river-people about--fishermen in their punts, who had sat there all day
long, and looked ’as steadfast as the scene,’ immovable like the trees
that overhung the water--was delightful to Joyce, who had so soon
acquired associations with that river, and to whom her two expeditions
upon it were the most delightful of her life. She was leaning upon the
bridge, looking over, watching the measured movement of the oars, as a
party of small boats together swept down the stream, and thinking, not
of them, but of her own water-party, and the strange enchantment in
it--when she suddenly saw in one of the passing boats a figure which
made her heart jump with sudden excitement. It was Captain Bellendean,
who was standing up in the stern of the boat behind a gay party of
ladies, steering, which was a difficult operation enough at that moment.
He was too much absorbed in his occupation to look up, but Joyce had no
difficulty in identifying him. His outline, his attitude, would have
been enough for her quick eyes; his face was almost stern in the
intentness with which he was surveying the river, guiding the
deeply-laden boat through the dangers of that passage, amid a crowd of
other boats, many of them manned by very unskilful boatmen,--and
entirely unconscious of her observation.
The sight of him gave the sensitive girl a curious shock. She knew very
well that his life was altogether apart from hers, that he must be
engaged in many scenes and many pleasures with which she had nothing to
do, and that the point at which their two lives came in contact at all
was a very narrow one. She knew all this as well as it was possible to
know such an evident matter of fact; and yet, somehow, this sudden proof
of it, and sight of him passing her by, unconscious of her existence, in
the society to which, and not to her, he belonged, had an effect upon
Joyce altogether out of proportion to the easiness of the incident.
Where had he been? Who were the people who were with him? Had it been as
delightful to him as when he had made it a scene of enchantment and
delight to her? She did not ask herself these questions. She only
recognised in one swift moment that there he was in his own life,
altogether unaware of, and unconcerned by, hers. The shock, the
recognition, the instant identification of all these facts, were
complete in a moment--the moment which it took the boat, propelled by
four strong pairs of arms, to shoot within the shadow of the bridge--and
no more.
‘Why! wasn’t that your friend, Captain Bellendean, standing up steering
that big boat?’ Mrs. Sitwell said.
Joyce had a curious sensation as if she were standing quite alone,
separate from all the world, and that this was some ‘airy tongue that
syllables men’s names’ echoing in her ears. She heard herself murmur as
if she too were but a voice, ‘Yes, I think so’--while the glowing river
and the drooping trees, and all the gleams of mingled colour, melted and
ran into each other confusedly like the mists of a dream.
‘I am sure it is. What a wonderful thing when one has all sorts of
things to do, to watch those people who have nothing to do but amuse
themselves! He has been philandering about with his ladies all day, and
probably he will be out at half-a-dozen parties, or lounging in his club
half the night--and the same thing to-morrow and to-morrow. Well, on the
whole, you know I think it must be dull, and not half so good as our own
hard-working life,’ Mrs. Sitwell said; but she sighed. Then turning upon
Joyce with a sudden laugh-- ‘I forgot you were one of the butterflies
too.’
‘Oh no,’ said Joyce, ‘only twice’--thinking of those enchanted
afternoons upon the water, and having only half emerged from the curious
haze of enlightenment, of realisation, if such a paradox may be, which
had surrounded her. She thought, but was not sure, that her companion
laughed at this inconsequent reply. Only twice! How strange it was that
these two frivolous water-parties--mere pleasure, meaning
nothing--should have taken such a place in her life, more than all the
hard work of which Mrs. Sitwell (with a sigh) asserted the superiority!
The school, the labours in which Joyce had delighted, her aspirations,
her Shakespeare class, had all melted away and left no trace; while the
Thames with its pleasure-boats, the mingled voices of the rowers and
their companions, the tinkle of the oars, the sunshine on the water,
appeared to her like the only realities in the haze of her present life.
They came back to her with the most astonishing distinctness when this
sudden glimpse, which felt like a revelation, but was not--how could it
be so?--rather the most ordinary circumstance, the most natural
accident, befell her. It was at least a revelation to her; for it showed
her how distinctly she remembered every incident, every detail, every
word that had been spoken; how the Captain had handed her into the boat;
how she had been placed near him, her father on the other side; how he
had bent over his oar, speaking to her from time to time; how the others
had called to him by the name of Stroke--which at first Joyce had
supposed to be a playful nickname, not knowing what it meant--to mind
his business, to take care what he was about. Joyce did not know why,
but had a curious dazzled sense of his eyes upon her face, of his
attention to her every movement, of the curious change in everything
when she was drawn into the other boat on the way back, and the cloud
that had come over his eyes. All these things were as a picture or a
dream to her, not things she remembered as having been, but which seemed
to go on and continue and be, like an enchanted world, which, having
once come into existence, could never cease.
Only twice! but remaining always--so that she could go back at her
pleasure, and float again upon the enchanted stream, and hear again the
merry mingled voices, the one of deeper tone sounding through. She
recognised with a strange confusion that this sudden, unexpected sight
of Captain Bellendean steering another boat, with another crew,
disturbed the previous image in her mind in some unexplainable way. It
was like the sudden plunge of a stone into the midst of a still water
full of reflections, breaking up the reflected images, spreading vague
circles of confusion through the lovely unreal world that had been
there. It was unreal altogether, everything, both that which had been
before and that which now was.
Joyce walked back very soberly by Mrs. Sitwell’s side, vaguely listening
to the lively strain of talk, which conveyed scarcely any idea to her
mind--hearing, answering, knowing nothing, feeling as if the many-sided
practical life in which her companion was so busy, was an unfortunate
and troublesome unreality, breaking into experiences so far more vivid
and true. She was glad to be rid of Mrs. Sitwell for a moment when they
reached the house, where Joyce was to be entertained at tea.
While its mistress flew about seeing that all was ready, Joyce sat down,
thankful to be alone, very happy to find silence and stillness round
her, even in the little shabby sitting-room, with the faded ornamental
desk and the mystery of the photographs at the other end. She wanted to
think, to make it all out, to realise what had happened. What had
happened! and yet nothing had happened at all. She had seen a boat
floating down, with a score of others, passing under the bridge; and
what was that to her or to any one? A boat passing, a water-party going
down the river, and nothing more. But this was not how it appeared to
Joyce: thinking is one thing and seeing another. Whatever she might say
to herself, what she continued to see was the Captain standing up in the
stern of the long boat, with the steerage-ropes in his vigorous hands,
with that pretty group of ladies in the shadow of his erect
figure,--another world, another life of which she knew nothing at all.
Norman Bellendean had by no means neglected his new friends. Only two
days before he had appeared in the afternoon, and had filled the place
with that something which Joyce did not understand--that influence and
personality which seemed to soften all tones and warm all tints, and
charm the common day into miraculous brightness. She said to herself
that this was society--that interchange of thoughts and feelings which
had always appeared to her the most desirable thing in the world. That
she should have found the charm in the sole possession of a cavalry
officer--who was, it is true, at the same time, a country gentleman, and
the lord and superior of the place which had been her early home, and in
which everybody regarded him with an interest half feudal, half
friendly--did not surprise her, though a cooler head might have found it
a very surprising thing. Joyce believed that Mrs. Bellendean produced
the same charmed atmosphere around her. They were the symbols of all
higher intelligence and finer breeding, and she was not as yet in any
way undeceived, nor suspected any other influence in the delightfulness
of the Captain’s visits--a delight which had begun with the very first
of them, and which had never failed. It was not, therefore, any kind of
jealousy which had sprung up in her mind, even unconsciously. She did
not suspect among the ladies in that boat some special one who might
have all his best looks and words aside. Her mind was not at all in
that conscious phase. She only realised with a curious consternation
that he lived his life in another world--that the days when he was
absent were to him the same as other days, though to her lost in mystery
and the unknown. Where he spent them, with whom he was, mattered
nothing. She was not even curious as to who his companions were. The
wonder, the shock, consisted in the fact that his life had another side
to her absolutely unknown.
In all this there was no pang of jealous love. She was unaware that
there was love in it, or anything save wonder and disappointment, and a
strange realisation of difference and separation. She did not know where
he had been, or who were with him: he might have passed her very
door--the other side of the hedge--and she would have been none the
wiser. She knew him so well, and yet not at all. Something of the
astonishment with which the primitive traveller recognises the existence
of a hundred circles of human creatures altogether beyond his ken, who
must have gone on living for all those years totally outside of his
knowledge, filled her now. The thought affected her with fantastic pain,
and yet she had not a word to say against it. Her heart made a claim all
unconsciously upon those people who had first awakened its sympathies;
and to pass him on the road, as it were, like this, he not even seeing
her, unexpectant of her appearance, like two strangers, out of reach of
even a passing salutation, was more strange, more overpowering, more
enlightening, than anything, she thought, that had ever happened before.
The tea after this was bewildering and rather tedious to Joyce. She
wanted to get away to think over her new discovery by herself, and
instead she was compelled to share in an evening of lively wit and
laughter, solidified by much parish talk. A churchwarden, who was no
more than a local tradesman--though one of the ‘best people’--and much
overawed by finding himself there--and good Miss Marsham, were of the
party. Mrs. Sitwell’s voice ran through the whole like the _motif_ of a
piece of music, never lost sight of. ‘You must sing, Mr. Bright, as soon
as you have recovered your voice a little after tea. Eating, we all
know, is very bad for the voice: we will give a little time for tired
nature to restore herself, and then the songster must be heard. Miss
Hayward has never heard you, don’t you know.’
‘I am not very much to hear. Miss Hayward would not lose much if she
remained in that state of deprivation.’
‘Oh, we don’t think so,--do we, Mr. Cosham? What would the choir do
without him? By the way, that dear boy of yours is coming on famously.
He must have a solo in the anthem on our Saint’s day. He is quite like a
cherub in his white surplice. That is one thing the Canon envies us. He
would give his little finger to have a surpliced choir--but they won’t
let him! Though he is so tyrannical to us, he has to knock under to all
the old women who sit upon him. They call it sitting under him, but I
don’t. Do you, Mr. Cosham?’
‘Really, ma’am,’ said the churchwarden, with his mouth full, ‘you put it
so funnily, one can’t help laughing;’ and with humility, putting up his
hand to conceal it, he indulged in an apologetic roar.
‘Oh, let’s laugh a little--it does nobody any harm,’ said the parson’s
wife. ‘What I should delight in would be to have a band for the
festival: it might be amateur, you know; there are so many amateurs
about the world that want nothing for it--that are too glad to be
allowed to play.’
‘And oh, so badly,’ said Mr. Bright.
‘Not always so very badly--especially when it is strings. Don’t you
think we might have a band, Mr. Cosham, so long as it was strings? it
would be such an attraction--with a solo from your dear little boy.’
‘I think it would be a great attraction; what do you think, sir?’ said
the churchwarden, looking towards the chief authority. Mr. Sitwell shook
his head.
‘Perhaps we think too much of outside attractions when our minds should
be set upon higher influences; but if you think the people would like
it----’
‘It helps a deal with the collection--does a band,’ said the
churchwarden. ‘There’s a church I know where they have the military
band, and the place is crowded, with people standing outside the doors.’
‘Not from the best of motives, I fear,’ said the parson, still shaking
his head; ‘but to get them to come is something, by whatever means.’
‘That’s what I think--like Mrs. Sitwell; and a brass band----’
‘Oh no, Mr. Cosham!--strings! strings!’ cried the lady. ‘A brass band is
a deal too noisy.’ She turned upon the unsuspecting man eyes which had
suddenly become dull round orbs like his own, and spoke with the very
echo of his voice. ‘It would drown Johnny’s voice, bless him!’ the
little mimic cried. Mr. Cosham, good man, thought there was something a
little strange and thick in this utterance; but he did not understand
the convulsion of suppressed laughter on the curate’s face, nor the
smile that curled about the corners of Mr. Sitwell’s mouth. These signs
of merriment disturbed him a little, but he did not suspect how. He
turned to the ladies, who were quite grave, and replied with much
sincerity----
‘That’s quite true, ma’am--it’s wonderful how you do see things; it
_would_ drown Johnny’s voice--and he’s got a sweet little pipe of his
own, and pleased and proud his mother would be to hear him in church.’
‘The boys’ voices are like angels,’ said Miss Marsham; ‘they’re
sometimes naughty little things, but their voices are like heaven. But I
can’t help saying, though I don’t like to disagree with you, that I’m
not fond of a band in church.’
‘What! not strings?’ cried Mrs. Sitwell, with such an air of ingenuous
and indeed plaintive surprise, that the tender-hearted woman was moved
in spite of herself.
‘Well--perhaps strings are different,’ she answered, with hesitation.
‘We never thought of anything else: when our kind friend said brass, it
was only a slip of the tongue. You meant violins all the time, Mr.
Cosham, didn’t you?’ said the parson’s wife, with her appealing gaze,
which made the churchwarden blush with emotion and pleasure.
‘I believe I did, ma’am,’ he said doubtfully. ‘I’m sure that’s what’s
right if you say so: for naturally being so musical yourself, you know
about these things better than me.’
‘Dear,’ said Mrs. Sitwell, addressing Joyce, whom she no longer called
Miss Hayward, but whom she did not yet venture, in sight of a certain
dignity of silence and reserve about that young woman, to call, except
in her absence, by her Christian name,--‘you never give us your opinion
on anything. Do give us your opinion; we have all said our say.’
‘Indeed I don’t know anything at all,’ said Joyce--‘nothing at all. I
was never used to music--of that kind, in the church.’
‘And yet,’ said Mr. Sitwell, ‘the Scottish Church has a fine ceremonial
of her own, where she has not been deadened by contact with Dissent. I
have always heard there were things in her service which went further
and were more perfect than anything attempted here--until quite
recently. But of course there is always a tendency to be deadened by the
atmosphere of Dissent.’
The party all listened very respectfully to this, which had almost the
weight of an oracular statement. Joyce, for her part, was more
bewildered than ever. The words he used bore to her a completely
different meaning, and she was not sufficiently instructed to be aware
of that which he intended to express. She understood the Canon when he
asked her if she was a horrid little Presbyterian, but she had no
comprehension of what Mr. Sitwell meant. She was wise enough, however,
to be silent, and keep her ignorance to herself.
‘But we all believe the same in the chief points, after all,’ said Miss
Marsham, laying her thin hand caressingly on Joyce’s arm. This kind lady
could not bear the girl to be distressed if, perhaps, she might happen
to be one of those who had been deadened by the atmosphere of Dissent.
‘Well, now that this great question is settled, and we are to have the
band and Johnny’s solo--and mind you keep him in good voice, Mr.
Cosham--let us go upstairs and have “Angels ever Bright and Fair.” We
are so fond of “Angels ever Bright and Fair,"--aren’t we, Austin?’ cried
the parson’s wife, putting her hand through her husband’s arm and
looking up in his face. He laughed and put her away with a little pat.
‘You are incorrigible, Dora,’ he said. Mr. Bright lifted his eyebrows
and looked at the others, asking why.
And then there followed songs and sallies, and bits of that involuntary
mimicry of everybody in turn which the lively mistress of the house
seemed to be unable to keep under. Joyce saw her assume a serious
aspect, with a grave face and a little movement about her lips, as she
said something in slow and soft tones, at which Miss Marsham did not
laugh, but once more laid her thin hand tenderly upon Joyce’s arm, while
the gentlemen did,--the churchwarden bursting out in a short abashed
roar, while Mr. Bright went off to a corner, and Mr. Sitwell hid his
face with his hand. This little pantomime perplexed Joyce much, but it
was not till after that she realised how she herself had been ‘taken
off’ for the amusement of her friends.
She got home at last in the dusk of the summer night, feeling as if the
world were full of a babble of voices, and of jests, and of calculations
and little intrigues, and attempts to do something unnamed by means of
something else. Joyce had not been altogether unaware that all was not
perfectly straightforward and true in the world before. She had been
fully acquainted with the extraordinary little deceptions and stories
made up by children to save themselves from punishment, or to procure
some pleasure, or even for nothing at all--out of pleasure apparently in
the mere invention; but these little falsities were of altogether a
different kind, and her brain throbbed with the contact of so many
unaccustomed trifles which were like the buzz of the flies in the air.
The piquancy of mimicking an individual in his own presence, though she
was not insensible to the fact, was strange to her serious soul: it
helped to increase the queer unreality of this world in which she found
herself, where there were droll little plays going on on all sides upon
somebody’s weakness, from the silly correspondents of the _Pictorial_ to
the rich soap-boiler who was to be wheedled by praise of his house, and
the humble churchwarden who was bound hand and foot in reverential
servility by praise of his boy--and people who were to be brought to
church by the attraction of a band as being better than not going at
all. And what was it for? For the parsonage? Joyce was not so hard a
critic as to believe this. She saw the good parson tired with his day’s
work, and she had seen that kind mischievous little woman as good as an
angel to the poor people. Their meaning at the bottom was good, and the
parsonage only an incident in the strong desire they both had to make
the district of St. Augustine’s as near perfection as possible, and
chase all sorrow and sickness and trouble out of it, and set up a
beautiful service, and steal the people’s hearts with angelic voices in
the choir and celestial thrilling of violin-strings--to steal their
hearts, but only for God, or for what they thought God,--for the Church
at least. This part of it Joyce but faintly comprehended, yet more or
less divined.
And then from the conception she dimly attained of this real and great
motive, her mind came down again to the laughter and the mimicry and the
photographs, and that perplexing utterance about an atmosphere deadened
by Dissent. What a strange world it was! making good things look bad by
dint of trying to get good out of evil! Joyce wondered whether it would
not succeed better to reject the artifices, and try what simple means
would do. And then having shaken off that coil, her mind suddenly
returned with a spring to what was for herself the central event of this
day--the Captain standing up in that boat among those unknown people, in
that other world. Strange! and he was her friend--but yet belonged to
her no more than the river itself flowing on its way, with so many other
lawns to reflect besides that little bit of green which Joyce, watching
the stream go by, had begun to think of as her own. But it was not hers,
and neither was he. Bellendean had been hers, and her old people,
and---- Joyce hurried her steps to get refuge in her father’s house from
that shadow which began to start up in her path and look at her, and
filled her with alarm--a shadow demure and serious, with no thought of
other worlds or other influences strong enough to eclipse his own.