THE RECTORY.
The curate and his wife had a good deal of talk about Juliet as they
drove home from Nestley. Much pleased with herself, they heard from
their hostess what she had learned of her history, and were the more
interested. They must find her a situation, they agreed, where she would
feel at home; and in the meantime would let her understand that, if she
took up her abode in Glaston, and were so inclined, the town was large
enough to give a good hope of finding a few daily engagements.
Before they left Nestley, Helen had said to Mrs. Bevis that she would
like to ask Miss Meredith to visit them for a few days.
"No one knows much about her," remarked Mrs. Bevis, feeling responsible.
"She can't be poison," returned Helen. "And if she were, she couldn't
hurt us. That's the good of being husband and wife: so long as you are
of one mind, you can do almost any thing."
When Faber called upon Juliet in the evening, nothing passed between
them concerning the situation at which he had hinted. When he entered
she was seated as usual in the corner of the dingy little couch, under
the small window looking into the garden, in the shadow. She did not
rise, but held out her hand to him. He went hastily up to her, took the
hand she offered, sat down beside her, and at once broke into a full
declaration of his love--now voluble, now hesitating, now submissive,
now persuasive, but humblest when most passionate. Whatever the man's
conceit, or his estimate of the thing he would have her accept, it was
in all honesty and modesty that he offered her the surrender of the very
citadel of his being--alas, too "empty, swept, and garnished!" Juliet
kept her head turned from him; he felt the hand he held tremble, and
every now and then make a faint struggle to escape from his; but he
could not see that her emotion was such as hardly to be accounted for
either by pleasure at the hearing of welcome words, or sorrow that her
reply must cause pain. He ceased at length, and with eyes of longing
sought a glimpse of her face, and caught one. Its wild, waste expression
frightened him. It was pallid like an old sunset, and her breath came
and went stormily. Three times, in a growing agony of effort, her lips
failed of speech. She gave a sudden despairing cast of her head
sideways, her mouth opened a little as if with mere helplessness, she
threw a pitiful glance in his face, burst into a tumult of sobs, and
fell back on the couch. Not a tear came to her eyes, but such was her
trouble that she did not even care to lift her hand to her face to hide
the movements of its rebellious muscles. Faber, bewildered, but, from
the habits of his profession, master of himself, instantly prepared her
something, which she took obediently; and as soon as she was quieted a
little, mounted and rode away: two things were clear--one, that she
could not be indifferent to him; the other, that, whatever the cause of
her emotion, she would for the present be better without him. He was
both too kind and too proud to persist in presenting himself.
The next morning Helen drew up her ponies at Mrs. Puckridge's door, and
Wingfold got out and stood by their heads, while she went in to call on
Miss Meredith.
Juliet had passed a sleepless night, and greatly dreaded the next
interview with Faber. Helen's invitation, therefore, to pay them a few
days' visit, came to her like a redemption: in their house she would
have protection both from Faber and from herself. Heartily, with tears
in her eyes, she accepted it; and her cordial and grateful readiness
placed her yet a step higher in the regard of her new friends. The
acceptance of a favor may be the conferring of a greater. Quickly,
hurriedly, she put up "her bag of needments," and with a sad, sweet
smile of gentle apology, took the curate's place beside his wife, while
he got into the seat behind.
Juliet, having been of late so much confined to the house, could not
keep back the tears called forth by the pleasure of the rapid motion
through the air, the constant change of scene, and that sense of human
story which haunts the mind in passing unknown houses and farms and
villages. An old thatched barn works as directly on the social feeling
as the ancient castle or venerable manor-seat; many a simple house will
move one's heart like a poem; many a cottage like a melody. When at last
she caught sight of the great church-tower, she clapped her hands with
delight. There was a place in which to wander and hide! she thought--in
which to find refuge and rest, and coolness and shadow! Even for Faber's
own sake she would not believe that faith a mere folly which had built
such a pile as that! Surely there was some way of meeting the terrible
things he said--if only she could find it!
"Are you fastidious, Miss Meredith, or willing to do any thing that is
honest?" the curate asked rather abruptly, leaning forward from the back
seat.
"If ever I was fastidious," she answered, "I think I am pretty nearly
cured. I should certainly like my work to be so far within my capacity
as to be pleasant to me."
"Then there is no fear," answered the curate. "The people who don't get
on, are those that pick and choose upon false principles. They
generally attempt what they are unfit for, and deserve their
failures.--Are you willing to teach little puds and little tongues?"
"Certainly."
"Tell me what you are able to do?"
"I would rather not. You might think differently when you came to know
me. But you can ask me any questions you please. I shan't hide my
knowledge, and I can't hide my ignorance."
"Thank you," said the curate, and leaned back again in his seat.
After luncheon, Helen found to her delight that, although Juliet was
deficient enough in the mechanics belonging to both voice and
instrument, she could yet sing and play with expression and facility,
while her voice was one of the loveliest she had ever heard. When the
curate came home from his afternoon attentions to the ailing of his
flock, he was delighted to hear his wife's report of her gifts.
"Would you mind reading a page or two aloud?" he said to their visitor,
after they had had a cup of tea. "I often get my wife to read to me."
She consented at once. He put a volume of Carlyle into her hand. She had
never even tasted a book of his before, yet presently caught the spirit
of the passage, and read charmingly.
In the course of a day or two they discovered that she was sadly
defective in spelling, a paltry poverty no doubt, yet awkward for one
who would teach children. In grammar and arithmetic also the curate
found her lacking. Going from place to place with her father, she had
never been much at school, she said, and no one had ever compelled her
to attend to the dry things. But nothing could be more satisfactory than
the way in which she now, with the help of the curate and his wife, set
herself to learn; and until she should have gained such proficiency as
would enable them to speak of her acquirements with confidence, they
persuaded her, with no great difficulty, to continue their guest.
Wingfold, who had been a tutor in his day, was well qualified to assist
her, and she learned with wonderful rapidity.
The point that most perplexed Wingfold with her was that, while very
capable of perceiving and admiring the good, she was yet capable of
admiring things of altogether inferior quality. What did it mean? Could
it arise from an excess of productive faculty, not yet sufficiently
differenced from the receptive? One could imagine such an excess ready
to seize the poorest molds, flow into them, and endow them for itself
with attributed life and power. He found also that she was familiar with
the modes of thought and expression peculiar to a certain school of
theology--embodiments from which, having done their good, and long
commenced doing their evil, Truth had begun to withdraw itself,
consuming as it withdrew. For the moment the fire ceases to be the life
of the bush in which it appears, the bush will begin to be consumed. At
the same time he could perfectly recognize the influence of Faber upon
her. For not unfrequently, the talk between the curate and his wife
would turn upon some point connected with the unbelief of the land, so
much more active, though but seemingly more extensive than heretofore;
when she would now make a remark, now ask a question, in which the
curate heard the doctor as plainly as if the words had come direct from
his lips: those who did not believe might answer so and so--might refuse
the evidence--might explain the thing differently. But she listened
well, and seemed to understand what they said. The best of her
undoubtedly appeared in her music, in which she was fundamentally far
superior to Helen, though by no means so well trained, taught or
practiced in it; whence Helen had the unspeakable delight, one which
only a humble, large and lofty mind can ever have, of consciously
ministering to the growth of another in the very thing wherein that
other is naturally the superior. The way to the blessedness that is in
music, as to all other blessednesses, lies through weary labors, and the
master must suffer with the disciple; Helen took Juliet like a child,
set her to scales and exercises, and made her practice hours a day.