JULIET'S CHAMBER.
After tea, Mr. Drake and Dorothy went out for a walk together--a thing
they had not once done since the church-meeting of acrid memory in which
had been decreed the close of the minister's activity, at least in
Glaston. It was a lovely June twilight; the bats were flitting about
like the children of the gloamin', and the lamps of the laburnum and
lilac hung dusky among the trees of Osterfield Park.
Juliet, left all but alone in the house, sat at her window, reading. Her
room was on the first floor, but the dining-room beneath it was of low
pitch, and at the lane-door there were two steps down into the house, so
that her window was at no great height above the lane. It was open, but
there was little to be seen from it, for immediately opposite rose a
high old garden-wall, hiding every thing with its gray bulk, lovelily
blotted with lichens and moss, brown and green and gold, except the
wall-flowers and stone-crop that grew on its coping, and a running plant
that hung down over it, like a long fringe worn thin. Had she put her
head out of the window, she would have seen in the one direction a
cow-house, and in the other the tall narrow iron gate of the garden--and
that was all. The twilight deepened as she read, until the words before
her began to play hide and seek; they got worse and worse, until she was
tired of catching at them; and when at last she stopped for a moment,
they were all gone like a troop of fairies, and her reading was ended.
She closed the book, and was soon dreaming awake; and the twilight world
was the globe in which the dream-fishes came and went--now swelling up
strange and near, now sinking away into the curious distance.
Her mood was broken by the sound of hoofs, which she almost immediately
recognized as those of the doctor's red horse--great hoofs falling at
the end of long straight-flung steps. Her heart began to beat violently,
and confident in the protection of the gathering night, she rose and
looked cautiously out toward the side on which was the approach. In a
few moments, round the furthest visible corner, and past the gate in the
garden-wall, swung a huge shadowy form--gigantic in the dusk. She drew
back her head, but ere she could shape her mind to retreat from the
window, the solid gloom hurled itself thundering past, and she stood
trembling and lonely, with the ebb of Ruber's paces in her ears--and in
her hand a letter. In a minute she came to herself, closed her window,
drew down the blind, lighted a candle, set it on the window-sill, and
opened the letter. It contained these verses, and nothing more:--
My morning rose in laughter--
A gold and azure day.
Dull clouds came trooping after,
Livid, and sullen gray.
At noon, the rain did batter,
And it thundered like a hell:
I sighed, it is no matter,
At night I shall sleep as well.
But I longed with a madness tender
For an evening like the morn,
That my day might die in splendor,
Not folded in mist forlorn--
Die like a tone elysian,
Like a bee in a cactus-flower,
Like a day-surprised vision,
Like a wind in a summer shower.
Through the vaulted clouds about me
Broke trembling an azure space:
Was it a dream to flout me--
Or was it a perfect face?
The sky and the face together
Are gone, and the wind blows fell.
But what matters a dream or the weather?
At night it will all be well.
For the day of life and labor,
Of ecstasy and pain,
Is only a beaten tabor,
And I shall not dream again.
But as the old Night steals o'er me,
Deepening till all is dead,
I shall see thee still before me
Stand with averted head.
And I shall think, Ah sorrow!
The _might_ that never was _may!_
The night that has no morrow!
And the sunset all in gray!
Juliet laid her head on her hands and wept.
"Why should I not let him have his rosy sunset?" she thought. "It is all
he hopes for--cares for, I think--poor fellow! Am I not good enough to
give him that? What does it matter about me, if it is all but a vision
that flits between heaven and earth, and makes a passing shadow on human
brain and nerves?--a tale that is telling--then a tale that is told!
Much the good people make out of their better faith! Should _I_ be
troubled to learn that it was indeed a lasting sleep? If I were dead,
and found myself waking, should I want to rise, or go to sleep again?
Why should not I too dare to hope for an endless rest? Where would be
the wrong to any? If there be a God, He will have but to wake me to
punish me hard enough. Why should I not hope at least for such a lovely
thing? Can any one help desiring peace? Oh, to sleep, and sleep, and
wake no more forever and ever! I would not hasten the sleep; the end
will surely come, and why should we not enjoy the dream a little
longer--at least while it is a good dream, and the tossing has not
begun? There would always be a time. Why wake before our time out of the
day into the dark nothing? I should always want to see what to-morrow
and to-morrow and to-morrow would bring--that is, so long as he loved
me. He is noble, and sad, and beautiful, and gracious!--but would
he--could he love me to the end--even if--? Why should we not make the
best of what we have? Why should we not make life as happy to ourselves
and to others as we can--however worthless, however arrant a cheat it
may be? Even if there be no such thing as love, if it be all but a
lovely vanity, a bubble-play of color, why not let the bubble-globe
swell, and the tide of its ocean of color flow and rush and mingle and
change? Will it not break at last, and the last come soon enough, when
of all the glory is left but a tear on the grass? When we dream a
pleasant dream, and know it is but a dream, we will to dream on, and
quiet our minds that it may not be scared and flee: why should we not
yield to the stronger dream, that it may last yet another sweet,
beguiling moment? Why should he not love me--kiss me? Why should we not
be sad together, that we are not and can not be the real man and woman
we would--that we are but the forms of a dream--the fleeting shadows of
the night of Nature?--mourn together that the meddlesome hand of fate
should have roused us to consciousness and aspiration so long before the
maturity of our powers that we are but a laughter--no--a scorn and a
weeping to ourselves? We could at least sympathize with each other in
our common misery--bear with its weakness, comfort its regrets, hide its
mortifications, cherish its poor joys, and smooth the way down the
steepening slope to the grave! Then, if in the decrees of blind fate,
there should be a slow, dull procession toward perfection, if indeed
some human God be on the way to be born, it would be grand, although we
should know nothing of it, to have done our part fearless and hopeless,
to have lived and died that the triumphant Sorrow might sit throned on
the ever dying heart of the universe. But never, never would I have
chosen to live for that! Yes, one might choose to be born, if there were
suffering one might live or die to soften, to cure! That would be to be
like Paul Faber. To will to be born for that would be grand indeed!"
In paths of thought like these her mind wandered, her head lying upon
her arms on the old-fashioned, wide-spread window-sill. At length, weary
with emotion and weeping, she fell fast asleep, and slept for some time.
The house was very still. Mr. Drake and Dorothy were in no haste to
return. Amanda was asleep, and Lisbeth was in the kitchen--perhaps also
asleep.
Juliet woke with a great start. Arms were around her from behind,
lifting her from her half-prone position of sorrowful rest. With a
terrified cry, she strove to free herself.
"Juliet, my love! my heart! be still, and let me speak," said Faber.
His voice trembled as if full of tears. "I can bear this no longer. You
are my fate. I never lived till I knew you. I shall cease to live when I
know for certain that you turn from me."
Juliet was like one half-drowned, just lifted from the water, struggling
to beat it away from eyes and ears and mouth.
"Pray leave me, Mr. Faber," she cried, half-terrified, half-bewildered,
as she rose and turned toward him. But while she pushed him away with
one hand, she unconsciously clasped his arm tight with the other. "You
have no right to come into my room, and surprise me--startle me so! Do
go away. I will come to you."
"Pardon, pardon, my angel! Do not speak so loud," he said, falling on
his knees, and clasping hers.
"Do go away," persisted Juliet, trying to remove his grasp. "What will
they think if they find us--you here. They know I am perfectly well."
"You drive me to liberties that make me tremble, Juliet. Everywhere you
avoid me. You are never to be seen without some hateful protector. Ages
ago I put up a prayer to you--one of life or death to me, and, like the
God you believe in, you have left it unanswered. You have no pity on the
sufferings you cause me! If your God _be_ cruel, why should you be cruel
too? Is not one tormentor enough in your universe? If there be a future
let us go on together to find it. If there be not, let us yet enjoy what
of life may be enjoyed. My past is a sad one--"
Juliet shuddered.
"Ah, my beautiful, you too have suffered!" he went on. "Let us be angels
of mercy to each other, each helping the other to forget! My griefs I
should count worthless if I might but erase yours."
"I would I could say the same!" said Juliet, but only in her heart.
"Whatever they may have been," he continued, "my highest ambition shall
be to make you forget them. We will love like beings whose only eternity
is the moment. Come with me, Juliet; we will go down into the last
darkness together, loving each other--and then peace. At least there is
no eternal hate in my poor, ice-cold religion, as there is in yours. I
am not suffering alone, Juliet. All whom it is my work to relieve, are
suffering from your unkindness. For a time I prided myself that I gave
every one of them as full attention as before, but I can not keep it up.
I am defeated. My brain seems deserting me. I mistake symptoms, forget
cases, confound medicines, fall into incredible blunders. My hand
trembles, my judgment wavers, my will is undecided. Juliet, you are
ruining me."
"He saved my life," said Juliet to herself, "and that it is which has
brought him to this. He has a claim to me. I am his property. He found
me a castaway on the shore of Death, and gave me _his_ life to live
with. He must not suffer where I can prevent it."--She was on the point
of yielding.
The same moment she heard a step in the lane approaching the door.
"If you love me, do go now, dear Mr. Faber," she said. "I will see you
again. Do not urge me further to-night.--Ah, I wish! I wish!" she added,
with a deep sigh, and ceased.
The steps came up to the door. There came a knock at it. They heard
Lisbeth go to open it. Faber rose.
"Go into the drawing-room," said Juliet. "Lisbeth may be coming to fetch
me; she must not see you here."
He obeyed. Without a word he left the chamber, and went into the
drawing-room. He had been hardly a moment there, when Wingfold entered.
It was almost dark, but the doctor stood against the window, and the
curate knew him.
"Ah, Faber!" he said, "it is long since I saw you. But each has been
about his work, I suppose, and there could not be a better reason."
"Under different masters, then," returned Faber, a little out of temper.
"I don't exactly think so. All good work is done under the same master."
"Pooh! Pooh!"
"Who is your master, then?"
"My conscience. Who is yours?"
"The Author of my conscience."
"A legendary personage!"
"One who is every day making my conscience harder upon me. Until I
believed in Him, my conscience was dull and stupid--not half-awake,
indeed."
"Oh! I see You mean my conscience is dull and stupid."
"I do not. But if you were once lighted up with the light of the world,
you would pass just such a judgment on yourself. I can't think you so
different from myself, as that that shouldn't be the case; though most
heartily I grant you do your work ten times better than I did. And all
the time I thought myself an honest man! I wasn't. A man may honestly
think himself honest, and a fresh week's experience may make him doubt
it altogether. I sorely want a God to make me honest."
Here Juliet entered the room, greeted Mr. Wingfold, and then shook hands
with Faber. He was glad the room was dark.
"What do you think, Miss Meredith--is a man's conscience enough for his
guidance?" said the curate.
"I don't know any thing about a man's conscience," answered Juliet.
"A woman's then?" said the curate.
"What else has she got?" returned Juliet.
The doctor was inwardly cursing the curate for talking shop. Only, if a
man knows nothing so good, so beautiful, so necessary, as the things in
his shop, what else ought he to talk--especially if he is ready to give
them without money and without price? The doctor would have done better
to talk shop too.
"Of course he has nothing else," answered the curate; "and if he had, he
must follow his conscience all the same."
"There you are, Wingfold!--always talking paradoxes!" said Faber.
"Why, man! you may only have a blundering boy to guide you, but if he is
your only guide, you must follow him. You don't therefore call him a
sufficient guide!"
"What a logomachist you are! If it is a horn lantern you've got, you
needn't go mocking at it."
"The lantern is not the light. Perhaps you can not change your horn for
glass, but what if you could better the light? Suppose the boy's father
knew all about the country, but you never thought it worth while to send
the lad to him for instructions?"
"Suppose I didn't believe he had a father? Suppose he told me he
hadn't?"
"Some men would call out to know if there was any body in the house to
give the boy a useful hint."
"Oh bother! I'm quite content with my fellow."
"Well, for my part I should count my conscience, were it ten times
better than it is, poor company on any journey. Nothing less than the
living Truth ever with me can make existence a peace to me,--that's the
joy of the Holy Ghost, Miss Meredith.--What if you should find one day,
Faber, that, of all facts, the thing you have been so coolly refusing
was the most precious and awful?"
Faber had had more than enough of it. There was but one thing precious
to him; Juliet was the perfect flower of nature, the apex of law, the
last presentment of evolution, the final reason of things! The very soul
of the world stood there in the dusk, and there also stood the foolish
curate, whirling his little vortex of dust and ashes between him and
her!
"It comes to this," said Faber; "what you say moves nothing in me. I am
aware of no need, no want of that Being of whom you speak. Surely if in
Him I did live and move and have my being, as some old heathen taught
your Saul of Tarsus, I should in one mode or another be aware of Him!"
While he spoke, Mr. Drake and Dorothy had come into the room. They stood
silent.
"That is a weighty word," said Wingfold. "But what if you feel His
presence every moment, only do not recognize it as such?"
"Where would be the good of it to me then?"
"The good of it to you might lie in the blinding. What if any further
revelation to one who did not seek it would but obstruct the knowledge
of Him? Truly revealed, the word would be read untruly--even as The Word
has been read by many in all ages. Only the pure in heart, we are told,
shall see Him. The man who, made by Him, does not desire Him--how should
he know Him?"
"Why don't I desire Him then?--I don't."
"That is for you to find out."
"I do what I know to be right; even on your theory I ought to get on,"
said Faber, turning from him with a laugh.
"I think so too," replied Wingfold. "Go on, and prosper. Only, if there
be untruth in you alongside of the truth--? It might be, and you are not
awake to it. It is marvelous what things can co-exist in a human mind."
"In that case, why should not your God help me?"
"Why not? I think he will. But it may _have_ to be in a way you will not
like."
"Well, well! good night. Talk is but talk, whatever be the subject of
it.--I beg your pardon," he added, shaking hands with the minister and
his daughter; "I did not see you come in. Good night."
"I won't allow that talk is only talk, Faber," Wingfold called after him
with a friendly laugh. Then turning to Mr. Drake, "Pardon me," he said,
"for treating you with so much confidence. I saw you come in, but
believed you would rather have us end our talk than break it off."
"Certainly. But I can't help thinking you grant him too much, Mr.
Wingfold," said the minister seriously.
"I never find I lose by giving, even in argument," said the curate.
"Faber rides his hobby well, but the brute is a sorry jade. He will find
one day she has not a sound joint in her whole body."
The man who is anxious to hold every point, will speedily bring a
question to a mere dispute about trifles, leaving the real matter, whose
elements may appeal to the godlike in every man, out in the cold. Such a
man, having gained his paltry point, will crow like the bantam he is,
while the other, who may be the greater, perhaps the better man,
although in the wrong, is embittered by his smallness, and turns away
with increased prejudice. Human nature can hardly be blamed for its
readiness to impute to the case the shallowness of its pleader. Few men
do more harm than those who, taking the right side, dispute for personal
victory, and argue, as they are sure then to do, ungenerously. But even
genuine argument for the truth is not preaching the gospel, neither is
he whose unbelief is thus assailed, likely to be brought thereby into
any mood but one unfit for receiving it. Argument should be kept to
books; preachers ought to have nothing to do with it--at all events in
the pulpit. There let them hold forth light, and let him who will,
receive it, and him who will not, forbear. God alone can convince, and
till the full time is come for the birth of the truth in a soul, the
words of even the Lord Himself are not there potent.
"The man irritates me, I confess," said Mr. Drake. "I do not say he is
self-satisfied, but he is very self-sufficient."
"He is such a good fellow," said Wingfold, "that I think God will not
let him go on like this very long. I think we shall live to see a change
upon him. But much as I esteem and love the man, I can not help a
suspicion that he has a great lump of pride somewhere about him, which
has not a little to do with his denials."
Juliet's blood seemed seething in her veins as she heard her lover thus
weighed, and talked over; and therewith came the first rift of a
threatened breach betwixt her heart and the friends who had been so good
to her. He had done far more for her than any of them, and mere loyalty
seemed to call upon her to defend him; but she did not know how, and,
dissatisfied with herself as well as indignant with them, she maintained
an angry silence.