STRAYING
The Enderbys were at Brighton during the autumn. Mr. Enderby only
remained with them two or three days at a time, business requiring his
frequent presence in town. Maud would have been glad to spend her
holidays at some far quieter place, but her mother enjoyed Brighton,
and threw herself into its amusements of the place with spirits which
seemed to grow younger. They occupied handsome rooms, and altogether
lived in a more expensive way than when at home.
Maud was glad to see her mother happy, but could not be at ease herself
in this kind of life. It was soon arranged that she should live in her
own way, withholding from the social riot which she dreaded, and
seeking rest in out-of-the-way parts of the shore, where more of nature
was to be found and less of fashion. Maud feared lest her mother should
feel this as an unkind desertion, but Mrs. Enderby was far from any
such trouble; it relieved her from the occasional disadvantage of
having by her side a grown-up daughter, whose beauty so strongly
contrasted with her own. So Maud spent her days very frequently in
exploring the Downs, or in seeking out retired nooks beneath the
cliffs, where there was no sound in her ears but that of the waves. She
would sit for hours with no companion save her thoughts, which were
unconsciously led from phase to phase by the moving lights and shadows
upon the sea, and the soft beauty of unstable clouds.
Even before leaving London, she had begun to experience a frequent
sadness of mood, tending at times to weariness and depression, which
foreshadowed new changes in her inner life. The fresh delight in nature
and art had worn off in some degree; she read less, and her thoughts
took the habit of musing upon the people and circumstances about her,
also upon the secrets of the years to come. She grew more conscious of
the mystery in her own earlier life, and in the conditions which now
surrounded her. A sense which at times besets all imaginative minds
came upon her now and then with painful force; a fantastic unreality
would suddenly possess all she saw and heard; it seemed as if she had
been of a sudden transported out of the old existence into this new and
unrealised position; if any person spoke to her, it was difficult to
feel that she was really addressed and must reply; was it not all a
mere vision she was beholding, out of which she would presently awake!
Such moments were followed by dark melancholy. This life she was
leading could not last, but would pass away in some fearful shock of
soul. Once she half believed herself endowed with the curse of a
hideous second-sight. Sitting with her father and mother, silence all
at once fell upon the room, and everything was transfigured in a
ghostly light. Distinctly she saw her mother throw her head back and
raise to her throat what seemed to be a sharp, glistening piece of
steel; then came a cry, and all was darkened before her eyes in a rush
of crimson mist. The cry she had herself uttered, much to her parents'
alarm; what her mother held was in reality only a paper-knife, with
which she had been tapping her lips in thought. A slight attack of
illness followed on this disturbance, and it was some days before she
recovered from the shock; she kept to herself, however, the horrible
picture which her imagination had conjured up.
She began to pay more frequent visits to her aunt Theresa, whom at
first she had seen very seldom. There was not the old confidence
between them. Maud shrank from any direct reference to the change in
herself, and Miss Bygrave spoke no word which could suggest a
comparison between past and present. Maud tried once more to draw near
to the pale, austere woman, whose life ever remained the same. She was
not repelled, but neither did any movement respond to her yearning. She
always came away with a sad heart.
One evening in the week she looked forward to with eagerness; it was
that on which Waymark was generally expected. In Waymark's presence she
could forget those dark spirits that hovered about her; she could
forget herself, and be at rest in the contemplation of strength and
confidence. There was a ring in his voice which inspired faith;
whatever might be his own doubts and difficulties--and his face
testified to his knowledge of both--it was so certain that he had power
to overcome them. This characteristic grew stronger in him to her
observation; he was a far other man now than when she first knew him;
the darkness had passed from his eyes, which seemed always to look
straight forward, and with perception of an end he was nearing. Why
could she not make opportunities of speaking freely with him, alone
with him? They were less near to each other, it seemed, after a year of
constant meeting, than in the times when, personally all but strangers,
they had corresponded so frankly and unconventionally. Of course he
came to the house for her sake; it could not but be so; yet at times he
seemed to pay so little attention to her. Her mother often monopolised
him through a whole evening, and not apparently to his annoyance. And
all the time he had in his heart the message for which she longed;
support and comfort were waiting for her there, she felt sure, could he
but speak unrestrainedly. In herself was no salvation; but he had
already overcome, and why could she not ask him for the secret of his
confidence? Often, as the evening drew to an end, and he was preparing
to leave, an impatience scarcely to be repressed took hold upon her;
her face grew hot, her hands trembled, she would have followed him from
the room and begged for one word to herself had it been possible. And
when he was gone, there came the weakest moments her life had yet
known; a childish petulance, a tearful fretting, an irritable misery of
which she was ashamed. She went to her room to suffer in silence, and
often to read through that packet of his letters, till the night was
far spent.
It had cost her much to leave London. She feared lest, during her
absence, something should occur to break off the wonted course of
things, and that Waymark might not resume his visits on their return.
After the feverish interval of those first weeks, she tried sometimes
to distract her thoughts by reading, and got from a library a book
which Waymark had recommended to her at their last meeting--Rossetti's
poems. These gave her much help in restoring her mind to quietness.
Their perfect beauty entranced her, and the rapturous purity of ideal
passion, the mystic delicacies of emotion, which made every verse gleam
like a star, held her for the time high above that gloomy cloudland of
her being, rife with weird shapes and muffled voices. That Beauty is
solace of life, and Love the end of being,--this faith she would cling
to in spite of all; she grasped it with the desperate force of one who
dreaded lest it should fade and fail from her. Beauty alone would not
suffice; too often it was perceived as a mere mask, veiling horrors;
but in the passion and the worship of love was surely a never-failing
fountain of growth and power; this the draught that would leave no
bitter aftertaste, its enjoyment the final and all-sufficient answer to
the riddle of life. Rossetti put into utterance for her so much that
she had not dared to entrust even to the voice of thought. Her spirit
and flesh became one and indivisible; the old antagonism seemed at an
end for ever.
Such dreamings as these naturally heightened Maud's dislike for the
kind of life her mother led, and she longed unspeakably for the time of
her return to London. They had been at Brighton already nearly a month,
when a new circumstance was added to her discomfort. As she walked with
her mother one day, they met their acquaintance, Mr. Rudge. This
gentleman dined with them that evening at Mrs. Enderby's invitation,
and persuaded the latter to join a party he had made up for an
excursion on the following day. Maud excused herself. She did not like
Mr. Rudge, and his demeanour during the evening only strengthened her
prejudice. He was unduly excited and fervent, and allowed himself a
certain freedom in his conversation with Mrs. Enderby which Maud
resented strongly.
When they were once more in London, Maud did not win back the former
quiet of mind. Waymark came again as usual, but if anything the
distance between him and herself seemed more hopeless. He appeared
preoccupied; his talk, when he spoke with her, was of a more general
kind than formerly; she was conscious that her presence did not affect
him as it had done. She sank again into despondency; books were
insipid, and society irritated her. She began the habit of taking long
walks, an aimless wandering about the streets and parks within her
reach. One evening, wending wearily homewards, she was attracted by the
lights in a church in Marylebone Road, and, partly for a few minutes'
rest, partly out of a sudden attraction to a religious service, she
entered. It was the church of Our Lady of the Rosary. She had not
noticed that it was a Roman Catholic place of worship, but the
discovery gave her an unexpected pleasure. She was soothed and filled
with a sense of repose. Sinking into the attitude of prayer, she let
her thoughts carry her whither they would; they showed her nothing but
images of beauty and peace. It was with reluctance that she arose and
went back into the dark street, where the world met her with a chill
blast, sleet-laden.
Our Lady of the Rosary received her frequently after this. But there
were days when the thought of repose was far from her. At one such
time, on an evening in November, a sudden desire possessed her mind;
she would go out into the streets of the town and see something of that
life which she knew only in imagination, the traffic of highway and
byway after dark, the masque of pleasure and misery of sin of which a
young girl can know nothing, save from hints here and there in her
reading, or from the occasional whispers and head-shakings of society's
gossip. Her freedom was complete; her absence, if noticed, would entail
no questions; her mother doubtless would conclude that she was at her
aunt Theresa's. So she clad herself in walking attire of a kind not
likely to attract observation, and set forth. The tumult which had been
in her blood all day received fresh impulse from the excitement of the
adventure. She had veiled her face, but the veil hindered her
observation, and she threw it back. First into Edgware Road, then down
Oxford Street. Her thoughts pointed to an eastern district, though she
feared the distance would be too great; she had frequently talked with
Waymark of his work in Litany Lane and Elm Court, and a great curiosity
possessed her to see these places. She entered an omnibus, and so
reached the remote neighbourhood. Here, by inquiry of likely people,
she found her way to Litany Lane, and would have penetrated its
darkness, but was arrested by a sudden event characteristic of the
locality.
Forth from the alley, just before her, rushed a woman of hideous
aspect, pursued by another, younger, but, if possible, yet more foul,
who shrieked curses and threats. In the way of the fugitive was a
costermonger's stall; unable to check herself, the woman rushed against
this, overturning it, and herself falling among the ruin. The one in
pursuit, with a yell of triumph, sprang upon her prostrate enemy, and
attacked her with fearful violence, leaping on her body, dashing her
head against the pavement, seemingly bent on murder. In a moment there
was a thick crowd rushing round, amid which Maud was crushed and swayed
without possibility of disengaging herself. The screams of the one
woman, and the terrific objurgations of the other, echoed through the
street. From the words of those about her, Maud understood that the two
women were mother and daughter, and that it was no rare occurrence for
the younger woman to fall just short of killing her parent. But only
for a moment or two could Maud understand anything; horror and physical
oppression overcame her senses. Her fainting caused a diversion in the
crowd, and she was dragged without much delay to the nearest doorstep.
She was not long unconscious, and presently so far recovered as to know
that she was being helped to enter a cab. The cab began to drive off.
Then she saw that some one was sitting opposite her. "Who is it?" she
asked, trying to command herself, and to see clearly by the light of
the street lamps. At the sound of the voice which answered, she
started, and, looking again, at length recognised Waymark.
"Do you feel better?" he asked. "Are you able to go on homewards?"
"Quite able," she answered, leaning back again, and speaking with
strange calmness.
"What on earth is the meaning of this?" was Waymark's next inquiry.
"How came you here at this time?"
"Curiosity brought me," Maud answered, with the same unnatural
composure.
"Had you been there long?"
"No; I had asked my way to Litany Lane, and all at once found myself in
the crowd."
"Thank goodness I happened to be by! I had just been looking up a
defaulting tenant. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw you lying in
that doorway. Why didn't you ask me to come with you, and show you
these places?"
"It would have been better," she said, with her eyes closed. Waymark
leaned back. Conversation was difficult in the noise of the vehicle,
and for a long time neither spoke.
"I told the man to drive to Edgware Road," Waymark said then. "Shall he
go on to the house?"
"No; I had rather walk the last part."
They talked brokenly of the Lane and its inhabitants. When at length
Maud alighted Waymark offered his arm, and she just laid her hand upon
it.
"I have seen dreadful things to-night," she said, in a voice that still
trembled; "seen and heard things that will haunt me."
"You give too much weight to the impressions of the moment. That world
is farther removed from yours than the farthest star; you must forget
this glimpse of it."
"Oh, I fear you do not know me; I do not know myself."
He made no reply, and, on their coming near to the house, Maud paused.
"Mother's sending you a note this evening," she said, as she held out
her hand, "to ask you to come on Thursday instead of to-morrow. She
will be from home to-morrow night."
"Shall you also be from home?"
"I? No."
"Then may I not come and see you?--Not if it would be troublesome."
"It would not, at all."
"It is good of you. I will come."