QUI DEDIT IN MARI VIAM
FROM time to time I received a newspaper from my native town, and one
morning, looking over the advertisements, I caught sight of one which
arrested me. It was as follows:—
“A Widow Lady desires a situation as Daily Governess to little
children. Address E. B., care of Mrs. George Andrews, Fancy Bazaar,
High Street.”
Mrs. George Andrews was a cousin of Ellen Butts, and that this was her
advertisement I had not the slightest doubt. Suddenly, without being
able to give the least reason for it, an unconquerable desire to see her
arose within me. I could not understand it. I recollected that
memorable resolution after Miss Arbour’s story years ago. How true that
counsel of Miss Arbour’s was! and yet it had the defect of most counsel.
It was but a principle; whether it suited this particular case was the
one important point on which Miss Arbour was no authority. What _was_ it
which prompted this inexplicable emotion? A thousand things rushed
through my head without reason or order. I begin to believe that a first
love never dies. A boy falls in love at eighteen or nineteen. The
attachment comes to nothing. It is broken off for a multitude of
reasons, and he sees its absurdity. He marries afterwards some other
woman whom he even adores, and he has children for whom he spends his
life; yet in an obscure corner of his soul he preserves everlastingly the
cherished picture of the girl who first was dear to him. She, too,
marries. In process of time she is fifty years old, and he is fifty-two.
He has not seen her for thirty years or more, but he continually turns
aside into the little oratory, to gaze upon the face as it last appeared
to him when he left her at her gate and saw her no more. He inquires now
and then timidly about her whenever he gets the chance. And once in his
life he goes down to the town where she lives, solely in order to get a
sight of her without her knowing anything about it. He does not succeed,
and he comes back and tells his wife, from whom he never conceals any
secrets, that he has been away on business. I did not for a moment
confess that my love for Ellen had returned. I knew who she was and what
she was, and what had led to our separation; but nevertheless, all this
obstinately remained in the background, and all the passages of love
between us, all our kisses, and above everything, her tears at that
parting in her father’s house, thrust themselves upon me. It was a
mystery to me. What should have induced that utterly unexpected
resurrection of what I believed to be dead and buried, is beyond my
comprehension. However, the fact remains. I did not to myself admit
that this was love, but it _was_ love, and that it should have shot up
with such swift vitality merely because I had happened to see those
initials was miraculous. I pretended to myself that I should like once
more to see Mrs. Butts—perhaps she might be in want and I could help her.
I shrank from writing to her or from making myself known to her, and at
last I hit upon the expedient of answering her advertisement in a feigned
name, and requesting her to call at the King’s Arms hotel upon a
gentleman who wished to engage a widow lady to teach his children. To
prevent any previous inquiries on her part, I said that my name was
Williams, that I lived in the country at some little distance from the
town, but that I should be there on business on the day named. I took up
my quarters at the King’s Arms the night before. It seemed very strange
to be in an inn in the place in which I was born. I retired early to my
bedroom, and looked out in the clear moonlight over the river. The
landscape seemed haunted by ghosts of my former self. At one particular
point, so well known, I stood fishing. At another, equally well known,
where the water was dangerously deep, I was examining the ice; and round
the corner was the boathouse where we kept the little craft in which I
had voyaged so many hundreds of miles on excursions upwards beyond where
the navigation ends, or, still more fascinating, down to where the water
widens and sails are to be seen, and there is a foretaste of the distant
sea. It is no pleasure to me to revisit scenes in which earlier days
have been passed. I detest the sentimental melancholy which steals over
me; the sense of the lapse of time, and the reflection that so many whom
I knew are dead. I would always, if possible, spend my holiday in some
new scene, fresh to me, and full of new interest. I slept but little,
and when the morning came, instead of carrying out my purpose of
wandering through the streets, I was so sick of the mood by which I had
been helplessly overcome, that I sat at a distance from the window in the
coffee-room, and read diligently last week’s _Bell’s Weekly Messenger_.
My reading, however, was nothing. I do not suppose I comprehended the
simplest paragraph. My thoughts were away, and I watched the clock
slowly turning towards the hour when Ellen was to call. I foresaw that I
should not be able to speak to her at the inn. If I have anything
particular to say to anybody, I can always say it so much better out of
doors. I dreaded the confinement of the room, and the necessity for
looking into her face. Under the sky, and in motion, I should be more at
liberty. At last eleven struck from the church in the square, and five
minutes afterwards the waiter entered to announce Mrs. Butts. I was
therefore right, and she was “E. B.” I was sure that I should not be
recognised. Since I saw her last I had grown a beard, my hair had got a
little grey, and she was always a little short-sighted. She came in, and
as she entered she put away over her bonnet her thick black veil. Not
ten seconds passed before she was seated on the opposite side of the
table to that on which I was sitting, but I re-read in her during those
ten seconds the whole history of years. I cannot say that externally she
looked worn or broken. I had imagined that I should see her undone with
her great troubles, but to some extent, and yet not altogether, I was
mistaken. The cheek-bones were more prominent than of old, and her
dark-brown hair drawn tightly over her forehead increased the clear
paleness of the face; the just perceptible tint of colour which I
recollect being now altogether withdrawn. But she was not haggard, and
evidently not vanquished. There was even a gaiety on her face, perhaps a
trifle enforced, and although the darkness of sorrow gleamed behind it,
the sorrow did not seem to be ultimate, but to be in front of a final
background, if not of joy, at least of resignation. Her ancient levity
of manner had vanished, or at most had left nothing but a trace. I
thought I detected it here and there in a line about the mouth, and
perhaps in her walk. There was a reminiscence of it too in her clothes.
Notwithstanding poverty and distress, the old neatness—that particular
care which used to charm me so when I was little more than a child, was
there still. I was always susceptible to this virtue, and delicate hands
and feet, with delicate care bestowed thereon, were more attractive to me
than slovenly beauty. I noticed that the gloves, though mended, fitted
with the same precision, and that her dress was unwrinkled and perfectly
graceful. Whatever she might have had to endure, it had not destroyed
that self-centred satisfaction which makes life tolerable.
I was impelled at once to say that I had to beg her pardon for asking her
there. Unfortunately I was obliged to go over to Cowston, a village
which was about three miles from the town. Perhaps she would not mind
walking part of the way with me through the meadows, and then we could
talk with more freedom, as I should not feel pressed for time. To this
arrangement she at once agreed, and dropping her thick veil over her
face, we went out. In a few minutes we were clear of the houses, and I
began the conversation.
“Have you been in the habit of teaching?”
“No. The necessity for taking to it has only lately arisen.”
“What can you teach?”
“Not much beyond what children of ten or eleven years old are expected to
know; but I could take charge of them entirely.”
“Have you any children of your own?”
“One.”
“Could you take a situation as resident teacher if you have a child?”
“I must get something to do, and if I can make no arrangement by which my
child can live with me, I shall try and place her with a friend. I may
be able to hear of some appointment as a daily governess.”
“I should have thought that in your native town you would have been
easily able to find employment—you must be well known?”
There was a pause, and after a moment or so she said:—
“We were well known once, but we went abroad and lost all our money. My
husband died abroad. When I returned, I found that there was very little
which my friends could do for me. I am not accomplished, and there are
crowds of young women who are more capable than I am. Moreover, I saw
that I was becoming a burden, and people called on me rather as a matter
of duty than for any other reason. You don’t know how soon all but the
very best insensibly neglect very poor relatives if they are not gifted
or attractive. I do not wonder at being made to feel this, nor do I
blame anybody. My little girl is a cripple, my rooms are dull, and I
have nothing in me with which to amuse or entertain visitors. Pardon my
going into this detail. It was necessary to say something in order to
explain my position.”
“May I ask what salary you will require if you live in the house?”
“Five-and-thirty pounds a year, but I might take less if I were asked to
do so.”
“Are you a member of the Church of England?”
“No.”
“To what religious body do you belong?”
“I am an Independent, but I would go to Church if my employers wished
it.”
“I thought the Independents objected to go to Church.”
“They do; but I should not object, if I could hear anything at the Church
which would help me.”
“I am rather surprised at your indifference.”
“I was once more particular, but I have seen much suffering, and some
things which were important to me are not so now, and others which were
not important have become so.”
I then made up a little story. My sister and I lived together. We were
about to take up our abode at Cowston, but were as yet strangers to it.
I was left a widower with two little children whom my sister could not
educate, as she could not spare the time. She would naturally have
selected the governess herself, but she was at some distance. She would
like to see Mrs. Butts before engaging her finally, but she thought that
as this advertisement presented itself, I might make some preliminary
inquiries. Perhaps, however, now that Mrs. Butts knew the facts, she
would object to living in the house. I put it in this way, feeling sure
that she would catch my meaning.
“I am afraid that this situation will not suit me. I could not go
backwards and forwards so far every day.”
“I understand you perfectly, and feared that this would be your decision.
But if you hesitate, I can give you the best of references. I had not
thought of that before. References of course will be required by you as
well as by me.”
I put my hand in my pocket for my pocket-book, but I could not find it.
We had now reached a part of our road familiar enough to both of us.
Along that very path Ellen and I had walked years ago. Under those very
trees, on that very seat had we sat, and she and I were there again. All
the old confidences, confessions, tendernesses, rushed upon me. What is
there which is more potent than the recollection of past love to move us
to love, and knit love with closest bonds? Can we ever cease to love the
souls who have once shared all that we know and feel? Can we ever be
indifferent to those who have our secrets, and whose secrets we hold? As
I looked at her, I remembered what she knew about me, and what I knew
about her, and this simple thought so overmastered me, that I could hold
out no longer. I said to her that if she would like to rest for one
moment, I might be able to find my papers. We sat down together, and she
drew up her veil to read the address which I was about to give her. She
glanced at me, as I thought, with a strange expression of excited
interrogation, and something swiftly passed across her face, which warned
me that I had not a moment to lose. I took out one of my own cards,
handed it to her, and said, “Here is a reference which perhaps you may
know.” She bent over it, turned to me, fixed her eyes intently and
directly on mine for one moment, and then I thought she would have
fallen. My arm was around her in an instant, her head was on my
shoulder, and my many wanderings were over. It was broad, high, sunny
noon, the most solitary hour of the daylight in those fields. We were
roused by the distant sound of the town clock striking twelve; we rose
and went on together to Cowston by the river bank, returning late in the
evening.