Chapter XX: The Perugino

Oswald Meredith had a new direction given to his thoughts. He was not, as may be easily divined, so clever as Cara gave him credit for being, nor, indeed, as his family supposed, who knew him better than Cara did; but he was full of fancy and a kind of gay, half-intellectual life which might be called poetic so far as it went. His head was full of the poets, if not of poetry; and a certain joyous consciousness of existence and of well-being which made his own pursuits and enjoyments beautiful and important to him, was in all he did and said. He was not so much selfish as self-occupied, feeling a kind of glory and radiance about his youth, and conscious freedom and conscious talents which elated him, without any absolute vanity or self-love. Naturally all the people who were equally self-occupied, or whose temperaments ran counter to Oswald’s, took it for granted that he was vain and selfish; and those who loved him best were often impatient with him for this happy contentment, which made him pleased with his own aimless ways, and indifferent to everything that demanded any exertion which would interfere with the smooth current of his enjoyable and enjoying life. For himself he was too good-natured to criticise or find fault with anyone--having no ideal himself to derange his satisfaction with his own circumstances and behaviour, he had no ideal for others, and was quite content that they, too, should enjoy themselves as they pleased, and find each for himself the primrose paths which suited him best; but he did not inquire into the primrose paths of others. He was so pleased with his own, so ready to tell everybody how delightful it was, how he enjoyed it, what pretty fancies it abounded in, and pleasant intercourse, and merry sunshiny ways. For Edward, who worked, he had the kindest toleration, as for an odd fellow who found his pleasure that way; and his mother, who sympathised with everybody, he regarded also with half-laughing, satisfied eyes as one whose peculiar inclinations laid her open to a charge of ‘humbug,’ which, perhaps, was not quite without foundation. Let everybody follow their own way: that was the way in which, of course, they found most pleasure, he said to himself, and in the lightness of his heart had no idea of any other rule. Cara had brought in a new and very pleasant element into his life; he liked to go to her and tell her what he was doing and receive that ready sympathy which was to him something like the perfume of flowers--a thing for which it was quite unnecessary to make any return, but which was delightful to receive, and which added a something more exquisite and delicate to the very atmosphere in which this young demi-god lived, caressed by gods and men. What more could he do for Cara or anyone but communicate his own satisfaction to her, make her a sharer in the pleasure he felt in himself and his life? He was ‘very fond’ of Cara. He would not, for a moment, have permitted anyone to take her companionship and sympathy from him. To tell Cara, was not that the first thing that occurred to him when anything happened, any new gratification or success? As for hearing from her in return what thoughts came into her little head, what happened in her quiet life--that did not occur to Oswald. To talk of himself seemed so much more natural and so much more interesting, to Cara as well as to himself. Was it not really so? He was a man, three-and-twenty, at the very most triumphant period of life, free to go anywhere he pleased, to do anything he liked, strong, clever, handsome, sufficiently rich. Could any circumstances be more delightful, more satisfactory? No woman, let alone a little girl, without freedom of action, could be so well off, so consciously at the ‘high top-gallant’ of mortal pleasantness. The sense of this suffused, so to speak, his whole being. It was not selfishness, any more than happiness is selfishness; there was even a kind of spontaneous unconscious gratitude in it for all the pleasant things in his lot.

It was with this feeling strong in his mind that he had walked along the streets the day of the accident to the little schoolgirl. It had been just his luck to meet with a true Perugino face. Little processions of school-children are the commonest things in the world, but you might have passed a hundred of them before you came upon anything like the soft Umbrian glow of that complexion, that tender roundness of the soft form, the devout, sweet eyes. The incident itself, it was true, was something of a break upon the general felicity; but Oswald was able to hope that the little girl whom he had carried with the utmost care and kindness to the hospital, with a sympathetic pallor on his handsome face, would turn out to be not so much hurt, or at least would mend rapidly and be none the worse. He felt very sorry for the poor little thing, yet felt there was a certain luck in the accident, for otherwise he could only have looked at the Perugino, not spoken to her as he did now. He found out the name of the house to which she belonged, and asked permission of the Sister who had been in charge of the procession to go and inquire for the little sufferer. ‘Alas, I am afraid for a long time inquiries must be made at the hospital,’ she said, but gave him her name, Sister Mary Jane, with natural pleasure in the kindness of so handsome a young man, and one who looked so _comme il faut_, so thoroughly a gentleman. It is just as good in an ugly and common person to be kind, but somehow nobody thinks so, and Oswald’s anxiety to hear of the child’s progress seemed exceptional virtue in the mind even of the good Sister. ‘Never say the upper classes are indifferent to other people’s welfare,’ said Sister Mary Jane. ‘I don’t believe a working man could have shown half so much feeling.’ And young Agnes, the teacher, said nothing against this, but admired secretly and wondered why he had looked at her so, and whether by any chance they might ever meet again. Oswald, for his part, went away from the hospital with his head full of that new ‘poem’ which he had begun on the spot even before the _rapprochement_ of the accident--

From old Pietro’s canvas freshly sprung,
Fair face!----

That was all the length he got; he discarded the other line and a half which I have already recorded, and went about all day saying over that ‘fair face!’ to himself. It made a suggestive break in the verse which was delightful to him, and gave him a point of pleasure the more--pleasure, and piquant suggestion of other sweetness to come.

Next day he went, as he felt it his duty to do, to the hospital to inquire for the child; and in the waiting-room he found to his wonder and delight the Perugino herself, waiting meekly for news, but accompanied by a somewhat grim personage who would have been the lay-sister of a Roman Catholic sisterhood, but whom Oswald did not know (nor do I) how to classify in the spick and span new conventual system of Anglicanism. She kept apart with humility, but she kept her eye from under the poke-bonnet fixed upon the young lady whom she attended, so that Oswald was able to exchange only a few words with her. The little girl had her leg broken; which was very serious; but she had passed a good night and was going on well; which was more cheerful and restored the smiles to the young faces of the inquirers, to whom it was further intimated that on a certain day her friends might be admitted to see the little patient. ‘Oh, thanks! I will come,’ cried Agnes; and then she explained, with a blush, that poor little Emmy was an orphan and had no friends out of the ‘House.’ ‘But everybody is fond of her there,’ she added. Perhaps it was the coming in of some new feeling into his mind that made Oswald as effusive and sympathetic as his mother herself could have been. ‘Then God bless the House,’ he said, ‘for taking such care of the friendless.’ Agnes looked at him gratefully with humid eyes.

‘Then you are not one of the people who disapprove of it?’ she said. ‘Indeed, they do things there we could not do staying at home.’

‘Ah,’ said Oswald, with a smile, ‘I can see you are wanted to stay at home--and I don’t wonder.’

The girl shrank back a little. ‘I am not a Sister,’ she said, with youthful dignity. ‘I am not good enough. I only teach. We must go back now.’

He stood aside, with his hat in his hand, to let them pass, and even the lay Sister, not used to courtesies, was moved by the politeness in which her humble person had a share. ‘I never saw a more civil-spoken gentleman,’ she said as they went towards the ‘House.’ Agnes in her private heart felt that he was more than a civil-spoken gentleman. How tenderly he had carried the child, and how good it was to take the trouble of going to inquire after her; and what kind enthusiasm was in his face when he bade God bless the ‘House’ for taking care of the friendless. Ah, that was how it ought to be thought of! The bread and butter of the little orphans was somehow more noble than that bread and butter which had disgusted her at home when all her little brothers and sisters were squabbling for it, and mamma scolding the elder girls for letting them make such a noise, and the whole house filled with insubordination and confusion. Her work now was more satisfactory, and Louisa, who did not mind, and who scolded back again when there was scolding going on, was quite enough for all that was wanted; but still Agnes felt very glad that ‘the gentleman’ had set her present life before her thus anew as help to the friendless. In reality, taking the facts of the case, it was always the bread and butter, though that was noble when given to orphans and the friendless, which was but commonplace when dispensed to one’s brothers and sisters. Yet life, take it how you will, in a vulgarish common Rectory, full of children, or in a ‘House’ devoted to the help of one’s fellow-creatures, is an unheroic sort of affair at the best. There is no making up to that ideal that flies from you further and further as life goes on. Does not everything turn into commonplace as one’s hands touch it, as one executes it, the great imagination gliding ever further and further off, mocking you from the skies? So Agnes felt as she went back to the House to go on with the lessons of the little orphans, in their somewhat dingy schoolroom, all the afternoon.

As for Oswald he pursued his walk, more and more delighted with this new adventure.

From old Pietro’s canvas freshly sprung,
The gentle form disclosing to my heart,
Of that dear image, sweet and fair and young,
Image beloved of art;
Which in all ages represents the dream
Of all perfection----

Here he broke down; there was nothing fitly rhyming to ‘dream’ which would suit his subject, unless it was something about a ‘wondrous theme,’ which would be commonplace. Here accordingly he stuck, with other monosyllables rushing about hopelessly in his head, in the pleased excitement of a rhymester with a new source of inspiration. Better than staying at home! What would be better than staying at home would be to take this Perugino away to see the other Peruginos in the world, to carry her off to the loveliest places that could be thought of, to wander with her alone by riversides and in green woods and by summer seas. Italy! that would be better than staying at home, better than the ‘House’ with its orphans. Such an idea as this had never crossed Oswald’s mind before. He had thought that he had been in love--indeed, he was in love (was not he?) with Cara even now, and could not be content without her sympathy. But never before had he felt it necessary to think of the other, of the individual he was in love with, first before himself. Now, however, that it had come to him to do this, he did it in his characteristic way. How sweet it would be to carry her off from all these vulgar scenes, to show her everything that was beautiful, to show himself to her as the very source of felicity, the centre of everything! A teacher in a charity school, of course she was poor. He would like to make her rich, to clothe her beautifully, to give her the half of all his own delights. How sweet it would be! and how grateful she would be, and how those liquid brown eyes would look, full of eloquent thanks! He laughed at himself as he went on. Why, this was something new, another delight added to the pleasures of his life, a delight of generosity which he had never known before. To be sure it was all in imagination, but is not imagination the better part of life?

On the visitors’ day Oswald went back again to the hospital, and found out there exactly the length of time that the visitors were allowed to stay. She would remain to the last, he felt sure, to comfort the little patient. And his plan was successful. At the last moment, when the doors were almost closing, she came running through the great hall, apologising to the porter for being so late, the ladyhood of her light figure and soft step showing very distinctly after the crowd of good, honest, anxious women, mothers or wives of the patients, who had come out before her. Agnes was by herself, for the ‘House’ was not far off, and her dress was a sufficient protection to her. It was not a protection, however, against Oswald, who came eagerly up with a pretence of being just too late to inquire, which delighted himself as the cleverest expedient. ‘How is she?’ he asked quite anxiously, and Agnes gave her report with the greatest gravity. The little girl was making quite satisfactory progress. She was very well cared for, and quite comfortable, though she had cried when her visitor left her. ‘That was not so wonderful,’ Agnes said seriously, ‘for I was like a sight of home to her, you know.’

‘I don’t think it was at all wonderful,’ said Oswald, with equal gravity. ‘Had it been me I should have cried too.’

She looked at him suspiciously, with rising colour; but Oswald looked innocence itself. He went on quietly walking by her side as if it were the most natural thing in the world. ‘Are your pupils all orphans,’ he asked, ‘or are others received?’ with the air of a philanthropist who had troops of poor children to dispose of. This was what Agnes thought, and the ‘House’ was in want of funds, as where is the ‘House’ that is not? She answered with some eagerness:

‘I think if they have lost one parent--I know we have widows’ children; and they are very glad if kind people will send children to be paid for,’ she said. ‘But perhaps that was not what you meant?’

‘I have not got any children to send; but I should like to subscribe to such an excellent institution. Charities are often so unsatisfactory,’ he said in his most solemn tone, with a gravity which was sublime.

‘Yes. I suppose so,’ she said doubtfully. ‘I do not know very much about charities, but I am sure the Sisters would be very glad; they have more to do than they have money for, I know. They are always wanting to do more.’

‘I suppose I might send my offering,’ said Oswald clumsily, ‘to Sister Mary Jane?’ Then he paused, perceiving a further advantage. ‘If you will kindly show me where the convent is, I will see her at once.’

‘It is close by,’ said Agnes--then looked at him again, with a shade of doubt on her face. He was not like the sort of person to visit Sister Mary Jane; still if he brought subscriptions, had she any right to stop him? She went along by his side for another moment, demure and quiet. As for Oswald, between his terror of awakening her suspicions and his desire to laugh at his own dissimulation, his usual readiness quite failed him. He, too, walked by her as grave as a judge. He dared not look at her lest he should laugh, and he dared not laugh lest he should destroy his chances once and for all.

‘I have seen convents abroad,’ he said at last, ‘but none in England. Forgive my curiosity; are the same rules observed? Is there a Lady Superior, Abbess, or Prioress, or----, don’t be angry with me if I show my ignorance.’

‘I never was abroad,’ said Agnes. ‘There is a Sister Superior, that is all.’

‘Then I suppose the Abbesses exist only in books,’ he said, with an insinuating smile.

‘I have not read many books.’ Then she thought she was perhaps uncivil to a man who was coming with a subscription. ‘Papa did not approve of light books, and I have not much time for reading now.’

‘You have not been there long? Is the routine severe? Don’t think I am asking from mere curiosity,’ said Oswald; ‘indeed I have a motive in wishing to know.’

‘Oh, no, not severe; there is a great deal to do. We have to attend to all the children. If you are fond of children it is not at all hard; but what one wishes for is to be quiet sometimes,’ said Agnes, ‘That is not so easy when the place is so full.’

‘Ah! I know a girl who has too much quiet, who would like to be in a full house and hear other people’s voices.’

‘Lots are very different in this world,’ said Agnes, with gentle wisdom; ‘one cannot tell which to choose; the only safe thing is to do one’s best; to aim at something good.’

‘Or to make the best of what we have,’ said Oswald.

A flush of sudden colour came to her face. ‘It is surely best to aim at something above us,’ she said, with some confusion; ‘just to be content cannot be the highest good, if what we have by nature is nothing but what others can do just as well; is not that a reason for taking the matter into one’s own hands and trying something better?’

Special pleading! He could see in her eyes, in her every expression, that this was her own case which she was arguing with such warmth, and that indeed there was some doubt in her mind as to this highest idea which she had followed. And in the fervour of the self-argument she had forgotten that she did not know him, and that he had no right to be walking thus familiarly by her side.

‘The worst is,’ he said, ‘that when we follow an ideal, the result is sometimes disappointment. Have you not found it so?’

She blushed very deeply, and cast a wondering glance up at him, astonished at his penetration. ‘I did not say so,’ she cried. ‘I am not disappointed--only one did not think of all the details. Real things are never so beautiful as things are in your imagination, that is all.’

‘Is it always so?’ he said, stealing always a little further on. ‘For then this world would be a sadly unsatisfactory place, and life would not be worth living.’

‘Ah, everybody says so,’ cried Agnes; ‘that is what I always rebel against. Because one thing disappoints you, why should everything? They say the world is so bad, all full of delusion; but God made it--it cannot be so bad if we took pains enough to find out what is best.’

Oswald’s heart was touched; by the eagerness in her face and the beauty of its dimples--but a little by the contrast between this young creature’s abstract purpose and his own want of any purpose at all. ‘I am not good enough to keep up such an argument,’ he said ingenuously enough; ‘I am afraid I am content to get along just as it happens from day to day. You make me blush for myself.’

When he said this an overpowering blush covered the face which was turned towards him under the poke-bonnet. ‘Oh, what have I been saying?’ she cried, crimson with shame and compunction. How she had been talking to a stranger, a man, a person whose very name she did not know! What would the Sisters say, what would mamma say if she knew? Would not this heinous offence against all the proprieties prove everything they had ever said against her independent outset in the world? And he, what could he think? Agnes wished the pavement might open and swallow her up--as it had done once or twice before at very great crises of history. She could not run away from him, that would be a worse folly still, especially as the ‘House’ was already in sight. But she shrank away from him as far as the narrow pavement would permit, and did not dare to look at him again.

‘You have said nothing but what it was good to say,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Do not be angry with yourself for having spoken to me. I am not unworthy of it. It will do me good, and it cannot have harmed you. I do not even know your name’--here he made a slight pause, hoping she might tell him--‘mine is Oswald Meredith. I am not much good, but if anything could make me better it would be hearing what you have said. Life is perhaps too pleasant to me--and I don’t take thought enough of what is best; but I will think of you and try,’ said Oswald, with a little innocent, honest, natural hypocrisy. He meant it for the moment though he did not mean it. A little glow of virtuous feeling rose in his breast. Yes, to be sure, he, too, would think of what was best in life and do it--why not? it would be good and right in itself, and agreeable to her. To be sure he would do it. The resolution was very easy and gave him quite a warm glow of virtue and goodness. He had no secret wickedness to give up, or struggles with favourite vices to look forward to. He would be good, certainly, and made up his mind to it with all the bland confidence and light-hearted certainty of a child.

And then he went across the street to the ‘House’ and put down his name for such a subscription as made the heart leap within the sober bosom of Sister Mary Jane.