Chapter XXVI: In the ‘house.’

Roger had not renewed his visit to Cara for some weeks. He had been too much cast down and discouraged by that first Sunday for which he had prepared so elaborately, and looked forward to with so much eagerness. But discouragement, like everything else, wears out, and when he had gone round the circle from anger to disapproval, from disapproval to contempt, from contempt to pity, Roger found himself with some surprise back at his original point, longing to see Cara, and ready to believe that anything that had come between them had been accidental. The two Merediths would not be there for ever, and Cara no doubt, poor girl, must be pining for someone from her old home, and would be glad to see him, and hear all that everybody was doing. He was sorry he had said a word to his mother about what happened in the Square; indeed he had done nothing but regret ever since the indiscretion which tempted him to complain; for Mrs. Burchell was one of those inconvenient persons who never forget the indignant criticisms of injured feeling, but continue to repeat and harp upon it long after that feeling has sunk into oblivion or changed into contempt. Very soon the softening influences of his early love, and the longing he had after the object of it, made Roger forgive Cara all her imagined sins against him; but his mother could not forget that he had been slighted, and punished his betrayal of his wound by incessant reference to the evils in the Square. This of itself helped on his recovery, since to find fault yourself with those to whom you are attached is a very different thing from hearing them assailed by others. The process ended by a serious quarrel with Mrs. Burchell, who would not give up this favourite subject, and taunted her son with his want of proper pride, and inclination to put up with anything, when she heard of his intention to go back. ‘If I had been so treated anywhere, I would never go near them again. I would not invite people to trample upon me,’ cried the Rector’s wife. ‘I might forgive, but I should never forget.’ ‘My dear,’ the Rector had said, ‘Roger has himself to look to: we are not able to do very much for him; and Cara will be a kind of heiress. I should not mind any trifle of that sort, if he has serious views.’ ‘What do you call serious views?’ cried Roger, ashamed and wretched, and he plunged out of the house without waiting for an answer, and betook himself to those wintry woods of which Agnes was thinking at the ‘House,’ and which even in winter were sweet. Roger had no sordid intentions, which was what his father meant by ‘serious’ views; and though he was well enough satisfied with his daily work, and not, like Agnes, troubled by any ideal, yet he felt, like his sister, the wretched downfall of existence into misery and meanness, between his mother’s prolonged and exaggerated resentment and his father’s serious worldliness. That boyish love of his was the highest thing in the young man’s mind. If nothing else that was visionary existed in his nature, his semi-adoration of Cara, which had lasted as long as he could recollect, was visionary, a touch of poetry amid his prose, and to hear it opposed, or to hear it sordidly encouraged alike shocked and revolted him. He resolved never to mention Cara’s name again, nor to make any reference to the Square, to shut up his sentiments about her in his own bosom, whether these were sentiments of admiration or of offence. Supposing she was cold to him--and it would be very natural that she should be cold, as he had never gone back to her, nor visited her but once--he would bear it and make no sign; never again would he subject her name to comments such as these. Fathers and mothers do badly by their children when they force them to such a resolution. Roger kept his word all through the weary Sunday, and did not say even that he would not return home for the next; but he made his arrangements all the same.

When the next Sunday came the heart of the aunt at Notting Hill was once more gladdened by the sight of him; and in the afternoon he duly set out for the Square. Perhaps his dress was not so elaborate nor his necktie so remarkable as when he first went there. He had sworn to himself that he would form no special expectations and make no grand preparations, and on the whole he was happier on his second visit. Miss Cherry, whom he found at the Square, was very glad to see him, and Mr. Beresford spoke to him kindly enough, and Cara was sweet and friendly. But they treated his visit as a call only; they did not ask him to dinner, which was a disappointment. They offered him a cup of tea, which Roger did not care for, being scarcely fashionable enough to like five o’clock tea, and let him go when they went to dinner, forlorn enough, turning him out as it were upon the streets full of people. To be sure Roger had his aunt at Netting Hill, who was very glad to see him, who would give him supper and make him very comfortable. Still, as he had hoped perhaps to be asked to stay, to spend the evening with Cara, it gave him a very forlorn sensation, when they bade him cheerfully good-by at the sound of the dinner-bell. He went out into the evening streets, where many people were going to church, and many coming back from their afternoon walk, going home to their families in twos and threes. Scarcely anyone seemed to be alone but himself. Still he said to himself he had no right to grumble, for they had been kind--and next Sunday he would go again; and with this melancholy yet courageous resolution he made a little pause at the corner of the street, asking himself where he should go now? His aunt would have taken tea and gone to evening church before he could get to Netting Hill. So he changed his direction and went manfully the other way, to the ‘House,’ to visit his sister, arguing his disappointment down. Why should they have asked him to dinner? Besides, he did not go for dinner, which would have been mercenary, but for Cara--and he had seen Cara, without those Merediths thrusting themselves into his way; and she had been very kind, and Miss Cherry had been kind, and there was no reason why he should not go again next Sunday afternoon. So why should he be discouraged? There was Agnes, whom he had not seen since she had gone into this ‘House,’ as they called it. It was only right that a man should go and look after his own sister, even if he did not approve of her. So Roger employed his undesired hour of leisure in the way of duty, and went to see Agnes, gradually calming himself down out of his disappointment on the way.

The Burchells were not what is called a family devoted to each other. They were good enough friends, and took a proper brotherly and sisterly interest in what happened to each other, especially as every new piece of family news brought a certain amount of enlivenment and variety and a new subject for conversation into the monotonous family life; but they were prosaic, and Agnes was the one among them whom the others did not understand much, and not understanding, set down bluntly as fantastic and incomprehensible. Had she fallen in love with somebody or had a ‘disappointment,’ they would have entered to a certain degree into her feelings, and even now Roger could not quite divest himself of the thought, that, though he knew nothing of it, something of this kind must be at the root of her withdrawal from home. An ideal life, what was that? Neither Roger nor any of the rest understood what she could mean, or really believed that there was any sincerity in such a pretext; and he indeed was one of those who had been most opposed to her purpose; asking scornfully what advantage she supposed she was to get by going among strangers? Was she better than the other girls, that she could not make herself comfortable at home? Was there not plenty to do there, if that was what she wanted? Was there not the parish, if she wanted more work? Roger had been alike indignant and astonished. But the thing was done, and he was in town, not very far off from where she was, with an hour or two to spare. He went with a secret antagonism against everything he was likely to see. The very name of the place nettled him. The ‘House!’ as if it was a penitentiary or shelter for the destitute, which _his_ sister had been obliged to find refuge in. He was admitted on giving full particulars as to who he was, and ushered into the bare little room, covered with dusty matting, with religious prints of the severest character on the walls, and bookshelves full of school-books. St. Monica was emblazoned on the door of it, which name offended him too. Could not the foolish people call it the brown room, or the matted room, or by any common appellation, instead of by the name of a saint, whom nobody had ever heard of? Agnes came to him, not in the dress which she wore out of doors, but in a simple black gown, fortunately for her, for what avalanche of objections would have tumbled upon her head had she come in to him in her cape and poke-bonnet! He was pleased to see his sister and pleased by her delight at the sight of him, but yet he could not smooth his brow out of displeasure. It gave him an outlet for the subdued irritation with which he had received his dismissal from the Square.

‘Well, Agnes,’ he said, ‘so here you are in this papistical place. I had an hour to spare, and I thought I would come and see you.’

‘I am so glad to see you, Roger. I was just thinking of them all at home.’

‘At home! You were anxious enough to get away from home. I wish anyone knew why. I can’t fancy anything so unnatural as a girl wishing to leave home, except on a visit, or if she is going to be married, or that sort of thing--but to come to a place like this! Agnes, I am sure there is no one belonging to you who knows why.’

‘Yes,’ said Agnes, quietly, ‘because I wanted to do something more, to do some duty in the world, not to be like a vegetable in the garden.’

‘That is just the slang of the period,’ said wise Roger. ‘You can’t say there is not plenty to do with all the children to look after; and one never can get a button sewed on now.’

‘Louisa and Liddy were quite able to do all and more than all--why should there be three of us sewing on buttons? And what were we to come to--nothing but buttons all our lives?’

‘Why, I suppose,’ said Roger, doubtfully--‘what do girls ever come to? You would have been married some time.’

‘And that is such a delightful prospect!’ cried Agnes, moved to sarcasm. ‘Oh, Roger, is it such an elevated life to jog along as papa--as we have seen people do, thinking of nothing but how to get through the day, and pay the bills, and have a good dinner when we can, and grumble at our neighbours, the children running wild, and the house getting shabby?’ said Agnes, unconsciously falling into portraiture, ‘and talking about the service of God? What is the service of God? Is it just to be comfortable and do what you are obliged to do?’

‘Well, I suppose it is not to make yourself uncomfortable,’ cried Roger, shirking the more serious question. ‘Though, as for that, if you wished, you could be quite uncomfortable enough at home. What do they mean by calling a room after a woman, St. Monica? and all these crucifixes and things--and that ridiculous dress--I am glad to see you have the sense not to wear it here at least.’

‘I wear it when I go out; it is not ridiculous; one can go where one pleases, that is, wherever one is wanted, in a Sister’s dress, and the roughest people always respect it,’ said Agnes, warmly. ‘Oh, Roger, why should you be so prejudiced? Do you know what kind of people are here? Poor helpless, friendless children, that have got no home, and the Sisters are like mothers to them. Is that no good? What does it matter about the name of the room, if a poor destitute baby is fed and warmed, and made happy in it? Children that would starve and beg and rob in the streets, or die--that would be the alternative, if these Sisters with their absurd dresses and their ridiculous ways, that make you so angry, did not step in.’

‘Well, I suppose they may do some good,’ said Roger, unwillingly. ‘You need not get so hot about it; but you might do just as much good with less fuss. And why should you shut yourself up in a penitentiary as if you had done something you were ashamed of? Why should you slave and teach for your living? We are not so poor as that. If the brothers all work,’ said Roger, with a not unbecoming glow of pride, ‘there ought always to be plenty for the sisters at home.’

‘But I must live my life too, as well as my brothers; and do what I can before the night comes,’ said Agnes, with a little solemnity, ‘when no man can work.’

Roger was subdued by the quotation more than by all her reasons. He could not, as he said to himself, go against Scripture, which certainly did exhort every man to work before the night cometh. Did that mean every woman too?

‘The short and the long of it is,’ he said, half sulkily, half melted, ‘that you were never content at home, Agnes. Are you contented here?’

That was a home question. Agnes shrank a little and faltered, avoiding a direct reply.

‘You do not look very contented yourself. Have you been to see Cara?’ she said. ‘How is she? I have not heard a word of her since I came here.’

‘Oh, Cara is well enough. She is not like you, setting up for eccentric work. She is quite happy at home. Miss Cherry is there at present, looking after her. It is a handsome house, choke full of china and things. And I suppose, from all I hear, she has a very jolly life,’ said Roger, with a certain shade of moroseness creeping over his face, ‘parties and lots of friends.’

‘I daresay she does not forget the people she used to like, for all that,’ said Agnes, more kind than he was, and divining the uncontent in his face.

‘Oh, I don’t know. There are some people who never leave her alone, who pretend to be old friends too,’ said Roger, ruefully. ‘And they live next door, worse luck; they are always there. Other old friends have no chance beside these Merediths.’

‘Oh!--is their name Meredith?’

‘Yes; do you know them? There is one, a palavering fellow, talks twenty to the dozen, and thinks no end of himself--a sneering beggar. I don’t mind the other so much; but that Oswald fellow----’

‘Oh!--is his name Oswald?’

‘I believe you know him. Do swells like that come a-visiting here?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Agnes, anxiously smoothing down suspicion; ‘there is a name--much the same--in Sister Mary Jane’s list of subscriptions. Oh, yes; and the gentleman carried a poor child to the hospital so very kindly. I noticed the name, because--because there is a poet called Oswald, or Owen, or something, Meredith. I wondered,’ said Agnes, faltering, telling the truth but meaning a fib, ‘whether it could be the same.’

‘Quite likely,’ said Roger; ‘the very kind of fellow that would write poetry and stuff--a sentimental duffer. To tell the truth,’ he added, with immense seriousness, ‘I don’t like to have little Cara exposed to all his rubbishing talk. She is as simple as a little angel, and believes all that’s said to her; and when a fellow like that gets a girl into a corner, and whispers and talks stuff----’ Roger continued, growing red and wroth.

Agnes did not make any reply. She turned round to examine the school-books with a sudden start--and, oh me! what curious, sudden pang was that, as if an arrow had been suddenly shot at her, which struck right through her heart?

‘Cara should not let anyone whisper to her in corners,’ she said at last, with a little sharpness, after her first shock. ‘She is too young for anything of that sort; and she is old enough to know better,’ she added, more sharply still. But Roger did not notice this contradiction. He was too much interested to notice exactly what was said.

‘She is too young to be exposed to all that,’ he said, mournfully; ‘how is she to find out at seventeen which is false and which is true? There now, Agnes, see what you might have done, had not you shut yourself up here. Nothing so likely as that Cara would have asked you to go and pay her a visit--and you could have taken care of her. But you know how romantic poor dear Miss Cherry is--and I should not be a bit surprised if that child allowed herself to be taken in, and threw herself away.’

And would this be the fault of Agnes, who had shut herself up in the House, and thus precluded all possibility of being chosen as the guardian and companion of Cara? She smiled a little to herself, not without a touch of bitterness; though, indeed, after all, if help to one’s neighbour is the chief thing to be considered in life, it was as worthy a work to take care of Cara as to teach the orphans their A B C. This news of Roger’s, however, introduced, he did not well know how, a discord in the talk. He fell musing upon the risk to which his little lady was exposed, and she got distracted with other thoughts. She sat beside him, in her plain, long black gown, every ornament of her girlhood put away from her; her hands, which had been very pretty white hands, loosely clasped on the table before her, and showing some signs of injury. It is only in romances that the hands of women engaged in various household labours retain their beauty all the same. Agnes had now a little of everything thrown in her way to do, and was required not to be squeamish about the uses she put these pretty hands to; and it could not be denied that they were a little less pretty already. She looked down upon them in her sudden rush of thought and perceived this. What did it matter to the young handmaid of the poor whether or not her hands were as pretty as usual? but yet, with an instantaneous comparison, her mind rushed to Cara, who had no necessity to soil her pretty fingers, and to the contrast which might be made between them. What did it matter that it was wicked and wrong of Agnes, self-devoted and aspiring to be God’s servant, to feel like this? The wave of nature was too strong for her, and carried her away.

‘Well, I must be going,’ said Roger, with a sigh. ‘I am glad that I have seen you, and found you--comfortable. There does not seem much here to tempt anyone; but still if you like it--I am coming back next Sunday. Aunt Mary is pleased to have me, and they don’t seem to care at home whether one goes or stays. I shall probably look in at the Square. Shall I tell Cara about you? She knows you have gone away from home, but not where you are. She might come to see you.’

‘I don’t want any visitors,’ said Agnes, with a little irritation of feeling, which, with all the rest of her misdeeds, was laid up in her mind to be repented of. ‘We have no time for them, for one thing; and half-measures are of little use. If I do not mean to give myself altogether to my work, I had better not have come at all. Do not mention my name to Cara. I don’t want to see anyone here.’

‘Well, I suppose you are right,’ said Roger. ‘If one does go in for this sort of thing, it is best to do it thoroughly. What is that fearful little cracked kettle of a bell? You that used to be so particular, and disliked the row of the children, and the loud talking, and the bad music, how can you put up with all this? You must be changed somehow since you came here.’

‘I ought to be changed,’ said Agnes, with a pang in her heart. Alas, how little changed she was! how the sharp little bell wore her nerves out, and the rustle of the children preparing for chapel, and the clanging of all the doors! She went with Roger to the gate, which had to be unlocked, to his suppressed derision.

‘Have you to be locked in?’ the irreverent youth said. ‘Do they think you would all run away if you had the chance?’

Agnes took no notice of this unkind question. She herself, when she first arrived, had been a little appalled by the big mediæval key, emblem, apparently, of a very tremendous separation from the world; and she would not acknowledge that it meant no more than any innocent latch. When Roger was gone she had to hasten upstairs to get her poke-bonnet, and rush down again to take her place among her orphans for the evening service in the chapel, which the House took pleasure in calling Evensong. She knelt down among the rustling, restless children, while the cracked bell jangled, and a funny little procession of priests and choristers came from the vestry door. They were all the most excellent people in the world, and worthy of reverence in their way; but no procession of theatrical _supers_ was ever more quaintly comic than that which solemnly marched half-way round the homely little chapel of the House, chanting a hymn very much out of tune, and ending in the best of curates--a good man, worthy of any crowning, civic or sacred, who loved the poor, and whom the poor loved, but who loved the ceremonial of these comic-solemn processions almost more than the poor. With a simple, complaisant sense of what he was doing for the Church, this good man paced slowly past the kneeling figure of the young teacher, motionless in her black drapery, with her head bent down upon her hands. No mediæval Pope in full certainty of conducting the most impressive ceremonial in the world could have been more sincerely convinced of the solemnising effect of his progress, or more simply impressed by its spiritual grandeur; and no mediæval nun, in passionate penitence over a broken vow, could have been more utterly bowed down and prostrate than poor Agnes Burchell, guilty of having been beguiled by the pleasant voice and pleasant looks of Oswald Meredith into the dawn of innocent interest in that mundane person: she, who had so short time since offered herself to God’s service--she, who had made up her mind that to live an ideal life of high duty and self-sacrifice was better than the poor thing which vulgar minds called happiness. The cracked bell tinkled, and the rude choristers chanted, and all the restless children rustled about her, distracting her nerves and her attention. All this outside of devotion, she said to herself, and a heart distracted with vulgar vanities within! Was this the ideal to which she had vowed herself--the dream of a higher life? The children pulled at her black cloak in consternation, and whispered, ‘Teacher, teacher!’ when the service began, and she had to stumble up to her feet, and try to keep them somewhere near the time in their singing. But her mind was too disturbed to follow the hymn, which was a very ecstatic one about the joys of Paradise. Oh, wicked, wicked Agnes! what was she doing, she asked herself--a wolf in sheep’s clothing amid this angelic band?