UNDER THE STARS.
What could Rose do in that den of wild men and wilder women, the like of
which was to be seen in no other country under heaven, licensed by Act of
Parliament, past which bishops drove down on their way to make speeches
at Exeter Hall on behalf of the Bible Society, or of the Society for the
Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts?
Again and again she wished she were veil out of that _inferno_, where she
was stared at on every side.
‘Surely you will dance, miss,’ said the master of the ceremonies,
approaching her respectfully. ‘Allow me to introduce you to Lord ---’
Again Rose declined, much to the annoyance of a debauched, sickly youth,
who was ‘my lord,’ and reverenced as such accordingly. My lord revived
his spirits with an S. and B., and was soon whirling round the room with
another in his arms.
Under the influence of drink a man approached the corner where Rose was
sitting, caught hold of her arm, and with an oath attempted to drag her
off her seat. Her scream brought a crowd around, but not before her
assailant had been knocked down by a gentleman, who was one of the
wall-flowers watching the dancers, pretending to enjoy themselves.
The affrighted proprietor of the place rushed up. If there was a row he
might lose his license. The police were outside. He brought with him
his chuckers-out, and order was restored.
In the confusion attending its restoration Rose managed to find her way
to the door, her defender walking by her side.
‘Outside,’ she exclaimed joyfully, ‘thank God!’
‘Ah,’ said her companion, ‘how came you there? That was not the place
for you.’
‘No, no,’ she said passionately; ‘I was wretched and I went in; but,’ she
added, ‘you—how came you there?’
‘What! do you know me?’
‘Of course I do. You came to Sloville, and you made a speech at the
Chartist meeting. You were a minister then, I think.’
‘You are right,’ said Wentworth, for it was he; ‘I was hoping to be a
minister then. You may well ask how I came to be in yon place. Know,
then, that I am a minister no longer—that illusion is past—that I am now
a writer for the press and a man about town.’
‘Oh, I am so sorry,’ said the girl. ‘I thought you made such a good
speech at the Chartist meeting, and hoped that you would do a great deal
of good in the town. Are you happier now than you were then?’
‘Happier, no!’
‘Wiser?’
‘Yes, much, and gayer a great deal.’
‘Ah then, your experience is something like my own. We are all alike.
As soon as Adam and Eve had eaten of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge
of Good and Evil they ceased to be happy. I don’t believe there is such
a thing as happiness in the world. I was so wretched that I crept in yon
den for warmth and shelter, and out of curiosity to see if that sort of
thing was happiness.’
‘And what did you think?’
‘Why, that a costermonger’s wife has a happier lot.’
‘“Foolish soul,”’ continued Wentworth, ‘“what Act of Legislature was
there that thou shouldst be happy? A little while ago thou hadst no
right to be at all. What if thou wert born and predestined not to be
happy, but to be unhappy?”’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Rose. ‘You did not speak to the
people in that way at Sloville.’
‘Ah, no! I had not read my Carlyle then. I am quoting you out of
“Sartor Resartus.” Behold in me a philosopher.’
‘Well,’ said Rose, with a smile, ‘I can’t say the sight is particularly
brilliant or overpowering.’
Just at that moment up comes the policeman—the London policeman, whose
chief occupation seems to be to watch men and women when they stop in the
streets for a talk, and to keep out of the way when he is wanted to prop
up the inebriate, or to lay hold of a pickpocket, or a burglar, or a
rough.
‘We must be off,’ said Wentworth, ‘or we shall be run in. Which way are
you walking? May I see you home?’
Gradually he was being interested in his companion. Gradually he began
to recall to himself the long-lost vision of her lovely face. He had
never forgotten it, and here, where he could have least expected, it had
come to him once more. Fate had once more thrown her in his way. Was he
to miss his chance? he asked himself. ‘Certainly not,’ was the reply of
the inward monitor; ‘you would be a fool if you did.’ As he watched her
the light seemed to fade out of her countenance, and over it came a
cloud.
‘I am afraid you are tired,’ said he; ‘let me offer you some
refreshment.’
‘No, no; I can’t eat anything.’
‘Well, then, let me see you home?’
The question recalled Rose to herself. She had no home. She had rushed
away in sorrow, and anger, and despair. In all that wilderness of bricks
and mortar she had no home. She stood there homeless, friendless, and
alone. She hardly felt safe. As they stood talking, men from the clubs,
the theatre and dinner-party passed and repassed, staring at her
impudently all the while. As soon as Wentworth left her she felt they
would seek her, as the lion does his prey.
At length she said in a saddened tone: ‘I have no home—no friends. I
know not where to go.’
Wentworth was shocked.
And then she told him her story. She felt that she was safe, that London
life had not corrupted him, that there was a true manhood in him, after
all.
There was a quiet hotel just by; he took the poor girl there, but the
landlady objected. They did not take in single young ladies there who
had no luggage, that guarantee of respectability, and who had no
recommendation. Had she been known to any of the families who had been
in the habit of using her hotel, the case would have been different. As
it was they had not an apartment to spare.
They tried other establishments equally in vain. Rose began to realize
at last all the dangers and horrors of her situation. There are
disadvantages connected with our refined and highly-developed system of
civilization. Out on the prairie she might have found shelter for the
night in the rude Indian hut, but in Christian London what can a poor
girl do? Is it not a fact that a pretty girl cannot walk down Regent
Street in broad daylight alone without being insulted by some hoary old
debauchee or other?
At length a happy thought came to Wentworth. His laundress, he knew, let
lodgings. She lived in one of the small streets at the back of
Clifford’s Inn, and he would take his charge there for the night. The
woman was glad to oblige him, though she thought it vastly queer; but
that was no concern of hers, or of anyone else, she thought, as long as
she got the rent. ‘Mr. Wentworth,’ she remarked to her husband as he
attempted, as is the manner of men, some deprecating criticism, ‘is a
gentleman, and will behave himself as such;’ and she was right, though
Wentworth in town had altered a great deal from the Wentworth of the
Sloville meeting-house: the man seemed not quite so hopeful, not quite so
raw and inexperienced. The laundress had a heart that could feel for
another, and she had connections that could aid her. By her help Rose
was introduced to an establishment where her services, as a clever hand
at dressmaking, were speedily recognised and in the consciousness that
she was honestly earning her living, and in the daily routine of duty,
she soon forgot the bitterness of her past. She was herself again,
perhaps a trifle more serious, but a good deal more wise.
Wentworth went down to Sloville, and brought back Rose’s mother, and she
was happy and content. The mother could find no fault with her girl, as
she saw how bravely she had trampled on her past follies, how steadily
she worked for her happiness, and her cup of joy was full. It had almost
killed her when Rose ran away. What she suffered then she could hardly
say, as the dull days and the long nights were spent in anxious watching
and waiting for the well-known step at the door. Now she could but
thankfully say to herself, ‘This, my precious one, was dead, but is alive
again; was lost, but is found.’ Happy the father or the mother who can
say as much!
It was a pleasure to Rose to earn her own living; she was a very clever
needle-woman, and got good wages in one of the grand emporiums of
commerce in Regent Street. It was a pleasure to her to make her mother
happy, and they never seemed as if they could do enough for one another.
The mother never knew why her daughter, of whose beauty she was so proud,
had run away from home, or why she refused to go back to the old home.
Rose was young, and in due time recovered from what, for the time, was a
crushing blow. She heard of the Baronet occasionally, for his family
seat was near Sloville, and her mother loved to gossip of the place and
people. He had married a rich wife, and paid all his debts. One son had
been the result of the marriage, but that had died in a somewhat
mysterious manner. The lady, whose health was very bad, chiefly resided
at Elm Court, while her lord and master had returned to his evil courses
in town—as a sow that had been washed, as the Bible coarsely puts it, to
her wallowing in the mire.
Fortunately, Rose never saw anything of him, and he was nothing to her
now. Her mother was a little prying and inquisitive, but Rose, gentle
and tender-hearted, had a way of keeping her mouth shut—somewhat rare in
her sex—and when she had made up her mind to be silent, no power on earth
could make her talk. The old lady got about her in time some of her old
friends, with the male part of whom the daughter was as popular as ever,
in spite of her mysterious exit from Sloville.
All the young shopmen in the neighbourhood were ready to fall in love
with her, but Rose gave them no encouragement, much to the grief of her
mother, who was really anxious to see her daughter settled in life. Rose
said she was quite comfortable as she was, and her mother had to give
way. It was soon clearly understood that Rose was not in the matrimonial
market at all, and admiring swains said no more. Rose, as we have seen,
was of gentle birth, and that will assert itself in the blood.
Successful tradesmen have little time to study the graces of life, and
Rose liked refinement; it had come to her hereditarily, as we all know it
does. It was not her fault that she turned up her nose at vulgar
commonplace admirers, however well off they might be as regards this
world’s goods.
It is needless to say that Rose, with her bright face, made many friends.
A leading theatrical, in search of attractions for his theatre, got hold
of her, and found how full she was of dramatic power. Rose had always
been fond of the stage, even as it appeared in such a humble form as that
in which it was revealed to her at Sloville, and the finished acting of
the London theatre gave her immense satisfaction. At first the pay was
small, and her work was hard; excellence on the stage, as excellence
everywhere, is not to be won without steady work, but she was an apt
learner, and made rapid progress. One day she had, as all of us have at
some time or other, a chance. One of the principal actresses was taken
ill, and Rose had suddenly to perform her part. Her success was as
complete as it was gratifying and unexpected.
As a critic, Wentworth had to record her triumph, and it not a little
astonished him to find in the Miss Howard, the new star of the theatre,
an old acquaintance. The meeting was mutually gratifying. If in her
distress and poverty she needed his protection, much more did she need it
in the hour of her triumph. If he admired her as a rustic beauty, much
more did he admire her as she shone radiant on the stage.
Since then a couple of years had passed, to both of them precious ones.
It is true they had seen little of each, other in the meanwhile; when he
had walked with her under the stars from the dancing saloon, he was bent
on realizing what pleasure, if any, is to be found in a life of gaiety
and dissipation. He had fought his doubts and gathered strength; duty,
not pleasure, was to be his aim. The utter dreary formalism of the
old-fashioned Evangelical drove many a bold lad into dissipation. Youth
fancies that sort of thing attractive, and especially does it come with a
tenfold power to all who have lived in a strict home, and amongst
strait-laced people. The game is hardly worth the candle. Solomon found
it to be so in his time, when he tried the experiment on the most
expensive scale, but youth does not care much for Solomon, and has
over-weening confidence in self.
But Wentworth had seen in the rottenness of the surface gaiety, in the
bitterness of its Dead Sea apples, in the hideousness of that laughter
which is as the crackling of thorns under a pot, that it was not in that
round of drunken revelry that happiness was to be found, or that man was
to be elevated to his true sphere. The longer he lived in it the more
intolerable it seemed. In his despair he became a cynic and a pessimist.
With what bitterness did he write against society and the world! It was
all out of joint, he said, as writers of his class ever will, forgetting
that it was he who was out of joint. But one day there came to him a
change; he thought in his wretchedness—for a man of pleasure is always
wretched—of the prodigal son. The parable seemed to have a new meaning
for him—to open his eyes to the fact that God is a God of love, full of
pity for the sinner, ready to save to the utmost, and that in the person
of Jesus Christ we have a revelation and a realization of Divine love and
power. The call, ‘Come unto Me, all ye that are weary and heavy-laden,’
sounded to his ear like that of a brother. Old Bunyan writes how when
Christian escaped out of the Slough of Despond there came to him a man
named Help, who drew him out. It was the great God Himself to whom
Wentworth owed his escape. As the scales left his eyes, he saw in the
heaven above, not an angry Jehovah, but a God of love—a Father, not a
Judge. So it was with the great American preacher Ward Beecher, who,
though studying for the ministry, was for awhile in doubt, in difficulty
and despair. ‘I think,’ he writes, ‘when I stand in Zion and before God,
the brightest thing I shall look back upon will be that blessed morning
in May when it pleased God to reveal to my wondering soul that it was His
nature to love a man in his sins for the sake of helping him out of them.
He did not do it out of compliment to Christ, to a law or plan of
salvation, but from the fulness of His great heart. That He was not made
angry by sin, but sorry; that He was not furious with wrath toward the
sinner, but pitied him; in short, that He felt toward me as my mother
felt toward me, to whose eyes my wrong-doing brought tears, who never
pressed me so close to her as when I had done wrong, and who would fain
with her yearning heart lift me out of trouble.’ And the change was as
beautiful as sudden. All earth seemed fresher to Wentworth, the sun more
bright, the earth more green, the flowers more fair, the songs of birds
more musical, and life infinitely more great and grand. How hard and
distasteful seemed his old idea of religion! how cold and dry and apart
from ordinary life and daily duty! A mere matter of words, a performance
to be carried on on Sunday, and chiefly by unpleasant men and women who
held that the world was a waste, howling wilderness given over to the
devil, and that heaven was only for the elect, as they deemed themselves
to be. They said God would set aside the laws of nature—the laws He had
made—and work miracles on their behalf; that they would prosper and
become fat if they made a profession of religion. It was their intense
selfishness which alienated him. Hell-fire was the lot of the sinners,
and they became religious, not that they had the least idea of a God of
mercy and love, but that they might not be sent to hell. Their religion
was a kind of fire-escape, that was all. He hated such blasphemy and
such selfishness. When they sang,
‘Lord, what a wretched land this is
That yields us no supplies!’
or,
‘My thoughts on awful subjects roll,
Damnation and the soul;’
or,
‘Lord, we’re a garden walled around,
Planted and made peculiar ground,’
he was alike distressed and shocked.
Once upon a time an old divine met Dr. Doddridge, of pious memory, as he
was going to preach.
‘I wish for you the presence of God in the chapel,’ said the good doctor
in his unctuous style.
‘My dear doctor,’ said the old divine, ‘we have always the presence of
God everywhere.’
That was the feeling that came at length to Wentworth—that God is
everywhere present with us as a Father and a Friend. It was that that
filled his heart with joy. It was enough for him that he was there to
pity and succour and bless.
It was in a similar spirit that the actress had learned to realize the
Divine presence and power.
And once more they are under the stars as he sees her to her comfortable
home, where an aged mother with a bright smile awaits her coming. That
walk of theirs under the stars had been the turning-point of their lives.
It was the girl trembling and sorrowful by his side who had helped to
recall him to his better self. She had achieved success, and so had he.
Outcasts as they were in the eyes of the Church, they were children
crying, and not in vain, for the light.
* * * * *
END OF VOL. I
* * * * *
* * * * *
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.