THE END OF THE EVENING.
What specially delighted me during the evening, was the marked attention,
and the serious look in the eyes, with which Roger listened. It was not
often that he did look serious. He preferred, if possible, to get a joke
out of a thing; but when he did enter into an argument, he was always fair.
Although prone to take the side of objection to any religious remark, he
yet never said any thing against religion itself. But his principles, and
indeed his nature, seemed as yet in a state of solution,--uncrystallized,
as my father would say. Mr. Morley, on the other hand, seemed an insoluble
mass, incapable of receiving impressions from other minds. Any suggestion
of his own mind, as to a course of action or a mode of thinking, had a good
chance of being without question regarded as reasonable and right: he was
more than ordinarily prejudiced in his own favor. The day after they thus
met at our house, Miss Clare had a letter from him, in which he took the
high hand with her, rebuking her solemnly for her presumption in saying,
as he represented it, that no good could be done except after the fashion
she laid down, and assuring her that she would thus alienate the most
valuable assistance from any scheme she might cherish for the amelioration
of the condition of the lower classes. It ended with the offer of a yearly
subscription of five pounds to any project of the wisdom of which she
would take the trouble to convince him. She replied, thanking him both, for
his advice and his offer, but saying that, as she had no scheme on foot
requiring such assistance, she could not at present accept the latter;
should, however, any thing show itself for which that sort of help was
desirable, she would take the liberty of reminding him of it.
When the ladies rose, Judy took me aside, and said,--
"What does it all mean, Wynnie?"
"Just what you hear," I answered.
"You asked us, to have a triumph over me, you naughty thing!"
"Well--partly--if I am to be honest; but far more to make you do justice to
Miss Clare. You being my cousin, she had a right to that at my hands."
"Does Lady Bernard know as much about her as she seems?"
"She knows every thing about her, and visits her, too, in her very
questionable abode. You see, Judy, a report may be a fact, and yet be
untrue."
"I'm not going to be lectured by a chit like you. But I should like to have
a little talk with Miss Clare."
"I will make you an opportunity."
I did so, and could not help overhearing a very pretty apology; to which
Miss Clare replied, that she feared she only was to blame, inasmuch as
she ought to have explained the peculiarity of her circumstances before
accepting the engagement. At the time, it had not appeared to her
necessary, she said; but now she would make a point of explaining before
she accepted any fresh duty of the kind, for she saw it would be fairer to
both parties. It was no wonder such an answer should entirely disarm cousin
Judy, who forthwith begged she would, if she had no objection, resume her
lessons with the children at the commencement of the next quarter.
"But I understand from Mrs. Percivale," objected Miss Clare, "that the
office is filled to your thorough satisfaction."
"Yes; the lady I have is an excellent teacher; but the engagement was only
for a quarter."
"If you have no other reason for parting with her, I could not think of
stepping into her place. It would be a great disappointment to her, and my
want of openness with you would be the cause of it. If you should part with
her for any other reason, I should be very glad to serve you again."
Judy tried to argue with her, but Miss Clare was immovable.
"Will you let me come and see you, then?" said Judy.
"With all my heart," she answered. "You had better come with Mrs.
Percivale, though, for it would not be easy for you to find the place."
We went up to the drawing-room to tea, passing through the study, and
taking the gentlemen with us. Miss Clare played to us, and sang several
songs,--the last a ballad of Schiller's, "The Pilgrim," setting forth the
constant striving of the soul after something of which it never lays hold.
The last verse of it I managed to remember. It was this:--
Thither, ah! no footpath bendeth;
Ah! the heaven above, so clear,
Never, earth to touch, descendeth;
And the There is never Here!"
"That is a beautiful song, and beautifully sung," said Mr. Blackstone; "but
I am a little surprised at your choosing to sing it, for you cannot call it
a Christian song."
"Don't you find St. Paul saying something very like it again and again?"
Miss Clare returned with a smile, as if she perfectly knew what he objected
to. "You find him striving, journeying, pressing on, reaching out to lay
hold, but never having attained,--ever conscious of failure."
"That is true; but there is this huge difference,--that St. Paul expects to
attain,--is confident of one day attaining; while Schiller, in that lyric
at least, seems--I only say seems--hopeless of any satisfaction: _Das Dort
ist niemals Hier._"
"It may have been only a mood," said Miss Clare. "St. Paul had his moods
also, from which he had to rouse himself to fresh faith and hope and
effort."
"But St. Paul writes only in his hopeful moods. Such alone he counts worthy
of sharing with his fellows. If there is no hope, why, upon any theory,
take the trouble to say so? It is pure weakness to desire sympathy in
hopelessness. Hope alone justifies as well as excites either utterance or
effort."
"I admit all you say, Mr. Blackstone; and yet I think such a poem
invaluable; for is not Schiller therein the mouth of the whole creation
groaning and travailling and inarticulately crying out for the sonship?"
"Unconsciously, then. He does not know what he wants."
"_Apparently_, not. Neither does the creation. Neither do we. We do know
it is oneness with God we want; but of what that means we have only vague,
though glowing hints."
I saw Mr. Morley scratch his left ear like a young calf, only more
impatiently.
"But," Miss Clare went on, "is it not invaluable as the confession of one
of the noblest of spirits, that he had found neither repose nor sense of
attainment?"
"But," said Roger, "did you ever know any one of those you call Christians
who professed to have reached satisfaction; or, if so, whose life would
justify you in believing him?"
"I have never known a satisfied Christian, I confess," answered Miss Clare.
"Indeed, I should take satisfaction as a poor voucher for Christianity.
But I have known several contented Christians. I might, in respect of
one or two of them, use a stronger word,--certainly not _satisfied_.
I believe there is a grand, essential unsatisfaction,--I do not mean
dissatisfaction,--which adds the delight of expectation to the peace of
attainment; and that, I presume, is the very consciousness of heaven. But
where faith may not have produced even contentment, it will yet sustain
hope: which, if we may judge from the ballad, no mere aspiration can. We
must believe in a living ideal, before we can have a tireless heart; an
ideal which draws our poor vague ideal to itself, to fill it full and make
it alive."
I should have been amazed to hear Miss Clare talk like this, had I not
often heard my father say that aspiration and obedience were the two
mightiest forces for development. Her own needs and her own deeds had been
her tutors; and the light by which she had read their lessons was the
candle of the Lord within her.
When my husband would have put her into Lady Bernard's carriage, as they
were leaving, she said she should prefer walking home; and, as Lady Bernard
did not press her to the contrary, Percivale could not remonstrate. "I am
sorry I cannot walk with you, Miss Clare," he said. "_I_ must not leave my
duties, but"--
"There's not the slightest occasion," she interrupted. "I know every yard
of the way. Good-night."
The carriage drove off in one direction, and Miss Clare tripped lightly
along in the other. Percivale darted into the house, and told Roger, who
snatched up his hat, and bounded after her. Already she was out of sight;
but he, following light-footed, overtook her in the crescent. It was,
however, only after persistent entreaty that he prevailed on her to allow
him to accompany her.
"You do not know, Mr. Roger," she said pleasantly, "what you may be
exposing yourself to, in going with me. I may have to do something you
wouldn't like to have a share in."
"I shall be only too glad to have the humblest share in any thing you draw
me into," said Roger.
As it fell out, they had not gone far before they came upon a little crowd,
chiefly of boys, who ought to have been in bed long before, gathered
about a man and woman. The man was forcing his company on a woman who was
evidently annoyed that she could not get rid of him.
"Is he your husband?" asked Miss Clare, making her way through the crowd.
"No, miss," the woman answered. "I never saw him afore. I'm only just come
in from the country."
She looked more angry than frightened. Roger said her black eyes flashed
dangerously, and she felt about the bosom of her dress--for a knife, he was
certain.
"You leave her alone," he said to the man, getting between him and her.
"Mind your own business," returned the man, in a voice that showed he was
drunk.
For a moment Roger was undecided what to do; for he feared involving Miss
Clare in a _row_, as he called it. But when the fellow, pushing suddenly
past him, laid his hand on Miss Clare, and shoved her away, he gave
him a blow that sent him staggering into the street; whereupon, to his
astonishment, Miss Clare, leaving the woman, followed the man, and as soon
as he had recovered his equilibrium, laid her hand on his arm and spoke to
him, but in a voice so low and gentle that Roger, who had followed her,
could not hear a word she said. For a moment or two the man seemed to try
to listen, but his condition was too much for him; and, turning from her,
he began again to follow the woman, who was now walking wearily away. Roger
again interposed.
"Don't strike him, Mr. Roger," cried Miss Clare: "he's too drunk for that.
But keep him back if you can, while I take the woman away. If I see a
policeman, I will send him."
The man heard her last words, and they roused him to fury. He rushed at
Roger, who, implicitly obedient, only dodged to let him pass, and again
confronted him, engaging his attention until help arrived. He was, however,
by this time so fierce and violent, that Roger felt bound to assist the
policeman.
As soon as the man was locked up, he went to Lime Court. The moon was
shining, and the narrow passage lay bright beneath her. Along the street,
people were going and coming, though it was past midnight, but the court
was very still. He walked into it as far as the spot where we had together
seen Miss Clare. The door at which she had entered was open; but he knew
nothing of the house or its people, and feared to compromise her by making
inquiries. He walked several times up and down, somewhat anxious, but
gradually persuading himself that in all probability no further annoyance
had befallen her; until at last he felt able to leave the place.
He came back to our house, where, finding his brother at his final pipe in
the study, he told him all about their adventure.