Chapter XIV: What met Brian

A winter’s day in London, more especially when that winter’s day happens to be raw, damp, drizzling and foggy, is one, I think, of the most depressing ordeals through which a human being can be called to pass—a day when the streets are sloppy; when the pavements are greasy; when the passing omnibuses are full of wet men, and wetter women; when people poke you in the eyes with their umbrellas; when more people poke you in the ribs, and jostle you into the middle of another set of people, who shove you back again and probably anathematize you into the bargain; when there is no business doing in shops, where the gas is lighted, nor in offices, where the gas is lighted likewise; when if you are out collecting money, nobody will pay you; when if you owe any person any money, everybody makes a point of boring you (in the gaslight), and saying they felt sure of finding you within; when the apples in the costermongers’ carts look damp and dirty; when there is a dull yellow, leaden sky above, and an atmosphere you can taste around you; when London Bridge looks as much like water as the Thames; when you do not feel as if there ever had been any fine weather on earth; when you are quite certain there will never be any fine weather again;—this, I say, is the kind of day to try a man’s equanimity, and to put his cheerfulness to the test.

There was one man however who, having been set down by an omnibus coming from the Borough at the corner of Mansion House and Princes Streets, walked along, careless of the weather, careless of the passers-by, careless of the dull leaden sky, of the greasy pavements and the sloppy horse-roads. He looked neither to right nor left as he strode away after his business; he was evidently thinking of something pleasant, carrying his sunshine along with him, as some country-people carry lanterns: that man was Brian Drewitt; he had just come from Paris, and he was bound for Austinfriars.

He wanted to see Mr. Gyton before he left the City, and as it was getting on for three o’clock he hurried his pace and dashed on towards Austinfriars as though he were walking for a wager.

If you do not know Austinfriars, reader, you are not acquainted with one of the queerest nooks that the march of modern improvement and the heartlessness of railway companies has left us. Before some new extension gets its bill passed, I should recommend you to go and see that curious spot, where, in 1253, says Pennant, “was erected by Humphrey Bohun, Earl of Hereford, the house of the Augustins, for friars eremites of that order.” Until very recently, one of the oldest churches in London (built before 1361) stood about the centre of Austinfriars; the external walls still, I believe, remain, but the interior was, unhappily, destroyed by fire some few years since.

In it were laid great people: Edmund Guy de Meric, who, it is stated, incited Richard II. to the murder of the Duke of Gloucester; Lucie, daughter of Barnaby, Lord of Milan; the great Earl of Arundel, beheaded on Tower Hill, in 1397; the Earl of Oxford, who suffered a similar fate in 1463; Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, in 1521; while, twenty-five years afterwards, this church was filled with herrings, by order of Henry VIII., who used Grey Friars, at the same period, as a warehouse for wine.

There are fewer historical records of Austinfriars than of almost any other spot about the City. In a map of London, A. D. 1563, the old house of the Augustines is not even marked; yet some gleams of the olden glory still lie here and there—in its out-of-the-way courts—in its old-fashioned houses—under the stones of its ancient church—for the curious in such matters to note, as they pass by.

Some time, it may be, that I shall ask you, reader who have so often before this, strayed with me into world-forgotten corners—into silent and deserted nooks—to turn aside from the bustle and din of the City streets, and spend a few minutes with me in Austinfriars; but that day must not be now, when Brian Drewitt is hurrying along to catch the head of the great house of Gyton, Lark, Munday, Hatfield, and Company, before he takes his portly person westward.

Very cheerfully, Brian Drewitt pursued his way. He knew that he had accomplished the business on which he was sent abroad satisfactorily.

He felt certain he should receive the praise of his employers for the manner in which he had performed his mission. It had been intimated to him more than once, that in being sent abroad he was also being put on his trial, and that if he stood the test of the negotiation entrusted to him, his salary would be at once increased, and every facility afforded him for pushing his way up to the very top of the tree.

When he reached the top, he had then his vague designs of vengeance to gratify; but upon the lower branches were hanging sweet home fruits, that Brian longed to gather. He wanted to prevail on his mother not to live with Geraldine; to live near, but not with her; to have her all to himself, to provide with the little luxuries that her delicate health required—that it would he a pleasure and a pride to him to place around her.

If she went with Geraldine, it would be Frank Gyton, and not Brian Drewitt, whose money might anticipate her wants, and outspeed her very wishes. No one knew better than Brian how both he and she had saved, and pinched, to pay the expenses attendant on Harold’s trial—on their removal to London—on his long sickness—on his early death. Even Geraldine never fully understood all her mother had denied herself, so that Harold might not suffer for lack of anything he desired. And now, hungrily and greedily, the son who did comprehend everything, longed to have his mother, who had suffered so much, all to himself, that he might make her life a happy one at last, and render the evening of her days the calmest, the brightest, the peacefulest portion of her existence.

There are some men who, from their youth upwards, need to have something to love—something upon which to pour out all their affection, all their devotion. It may be father, brother, sister, mother, child, that they gather into their heart, and keep there: whatever the object may be, it is love they give, rather than love they receive. It is necessary to their very existence to be planning, thinking, working, for some one; and during the entire of his short life, Brian Drewitt had been planning, thinking, working, for others rather than himself.

He could scarcely remember the time when the love he felt for his mother was not a species of idolatry. Instinctively, perhaps, even from childhood, the stronger nature knew that the weaker had need of it; and as years went by, and the child became a boy, and the boy a man, this feeling grew stronger and stronger, till at last Brian came to understand that whatsoever his mother stood in need of, if it were in the power of a human being to procure it, she should have her wish gratified.

And at last he felt that it would soon be in his power to make his mother’s life comfortable and happy, and to free it from care. Comfortable and happy—did I not say once before, that was not to be in this world for ever?

Onwards he sped; eager, sanguine, triumphant. Mr. Gyton, senior, was not gone; and with his snuffbox on the table, with his bandana ready for use, with his coat thrown well back, and his thumbs stuck in the arm-holes of his superfine black cloth waistcoat, he listened to Brian’s narration with every sign of approval visible in his face.

When Brian had quite finished he said—

“We did not expect you home until to-morrow; but now that you are here I believe my son has something to say to you. Meantime, I may add that you can draw your salary at the rate of two hundred and fifty pounds per annum from to-morrow.”

Mr. Gyton had a way of uttering those two words “per annum” which always seemed to give money its true value in the listener’s ears; and accordingly, Brian Drewitt thanked him very heartily for the advance, and had just reached the middle of a neatly-turned sentence when Mr. Gyton, junior, entered.

“Don’t stand wasting your time here, Brian,” he said; “but go home at once. There’s something up there. Geraldine sent here this morning to know your address, and telegraphed for you.”

“What is it?” Brian asked: he stretched out his one hand and seized the table tightly as he spoke.

“Your mother is very ill, I believe; don’t turn so white, Brian; it may be nothing to signify. I have told them to get you a cab. Should you like me to go with you?”

“No, thank you,” Brian answered; “no—no.” Even then he wanted to have her all to himself, and he blindly made his way out of Mr. Gyton’s presence-chamber, and across the clerks’ office, and down the stairs, and so out into the court, at the entrance to which a hansom was waiting for him.

“Drive fast!” that was all he could say; but the man obeyed his instructions literally. Up the City Road, round by Duncan Terrace, out across the Lower Road, and then up Upper Street, till they were close to Canonbury Tower.

“Set me down here,” Brian said, pushing up the little trap-door, and the driver pulled up instantly.

“Your fare?” was the next question; and Brian counted him out a sum, which even the man’s conscience pricked him for demanding, without a remonstrance, but stupidly, and as though he were drunk.

He never could tell what feeling possessed him to stop the cab and walk quietly up the street where was his home. He never knew how he got from the cab to the door opposite his own door, where he paused and looked across the way.

Every blind in the house was down.

He saw a gentleman coming out; a gentleman whose carriage stood waiting for him to enter. Brian crossed the street and asked him what was the matter.

“A poor lady has done with all suffering,” was the reply.

“Mrs. Drewitt?”

“Yes; are you her son?”

It was too much, the reaction was too great; and Brian would have fallen on the pavement, but that he staggered by chance against the doctor’s brougham.

“Come in,” said the doctor, “and I will go in with you.”

“I won’t,” answered Brian; and he turned and walked back down the street, like one in a dream.

For hours and hours he walked about before he could face the house again. With his clothes soaked through, with his hair damp and wet, shivering with the cold, heartbroken and miserable, Brian Drewitt at last made up his mind to face the inevitable, and retraced his steps towards home.

It was late in the evening when he approached the door; the street-lamps had long been lighted; the shops in Upper Street were all brilliantly illuminated as he passed by; the pavements were crowded with people, well-dressed, lively, happy, thoughtless; with women going to make their purchases; with women only curious to look through the windows at the goods displayed within; with men on their way from the City to Holloway and Highbury; with the husbands, and the brothers, and the lovers of the females, who were going shopping, or window-gazing, with idlers and loungers of all descriptions—amongst whom Brian made his way, with a dull, stupid sorrow tearing at his heart, with a conviction that he was going home to meet something very dreadful—something that he still doubted whether he should have strength of mind to meet.

He lifted his hand to the knocker, and rapped hesitatingly for admittance. When the servant opened the door she put her apron to her eyes, and said, “Oh! sir——”

“I have heard,” Brian interrupted, sharp and stern, and walked straight into the parlour.

There sat Geraldine—her eyes red with weeping, her cheeks pale with watching. Mrs. Gyton was holding one hand, and Frank the other, while a man whom Brian had never seen before was standing with his back to the fire, talking vehemently and positively.

At sight of Brian, he stopped short, and while Geraldine, with a cry, ran towards her brother, he stooped down and inquired of Mr. Gyton who the new comer might be.

“Her brother,” was the answer; and when Brian came forward into the room, he found his hand clasped in that of the stranger, who said—

“It is a poor welcome home for you, this—but we did all for her we could.”

“May I ask your name?” Brian’s tone was as quiet as though nothing unusual were lying in the house.

“Murphy—at your service. It is many a year since I saw you; and it is just the same time since I saw your poor mother. God help her! she must have gone through an awful lot of trouble. I can remember her as young-looking as your sister is now, with her hair as soft and dark every bit as yours, Miss; but there is one comfort, she can feel no more sorrow where she is gone: women’s heads are not turned grey with grief there. Just let him be,” he whispered to Francis Gyton. “You know he must feel it, so do not try to get him to put on a face before you.”

Brian had sat down at the table and rested his head on his hand. All at once he looked up, with no dimness in his eye, with no hesitation in his voice—

“I should like to see her,” he said; “may I go up stairs?”

Geraldine rose to go with him, but Mr. Murphy gently pushed her aside.

“With your permission,” he observed, taking one of the candles off the table, and he and Brian left the room.

“Did you attend her?” Brian asked.

“No, I was only called in last night. She had a very good doctor, though—very good. The whole College of Surgeons could not have saved her, nor all the physicians in London to the back of that.”

“It was sudden, I suppose?” Brian scarcely spoke above a whisper, and he drew Mr. Murphy nervously into the drawing-room, still evidently unwilling to look upon the dead.

“Towards the last, very; but these cases always are sudden. She must have known how it would end for a considerable time past.”

“Can you tell me if she had been long under treatment?”

“Twelve months, her doctor says; but your sister never knew a syllable of what was the matter with her. She does not appear to have told a living soul belonging to her a word about her disease.”

“And was it incurable from the first?”

“Yes.”

“Could money have kept her with us a little longer? had anxiety any share in hastening her death?”

“I do not know; I cannot tell. Anxiety always aggravates sickness, as a rule; and money also, as a rule, alleviates it; but in this particular case I cannot say. I do not know how she has lived; I can only guess how she must have suffered.”

There was a moment’s silence; then Mr. Murphy said, “Are you ready?” and Brian bent his head in answer.

The bed-chamber opened off the drawing-room with folding-doors: as Mr. Murphy turned the handle of one of these, Brian put his hand on the surgeon’s and held it so tight that he could not shoot back the lock.

“Shall we wait a while?” he asked.

“No—no;” and Brian relaxed his grasp and put up his right hand to his head, as though, fancying he had on his hat, he was going to remove it.

The bed was made, and unoccupied; there was a fearful formality in the arrangement of the furniture; something terrible in the prim, frigid neatness which pervaded the apartment.

There had been a space cleared in the centre, and there on trestles stood the shell.

Mr. Murphy laid his hand on the lid, and looked inquiringly at his companion.

Brian nodded, and the surgeon pushed the lid aside.

There she lay; there she slept the sleep that on this side eternity knows no waking. She had been tossed by the billows; she had been amid the waves; she had been buffeted by the winds; she had been beaten hither and thither by the world’s storms; she had crossed the ocean of suffering; she had been out in seas of trouble; she had felt the deeps go over her head, and passed through torrents of tribulation—but it was all over now—the voyage, the fear, the struggle, the misery—for the Lord had taken her, after much weariness, unto Himself to rest, and she was at last brought by Him “unto the haven where she would be.”

There she lay, with the wrinkles smoothed out of her face; with the lines care had written erased from her forehead; with the beauty of her youth almost restored to her—so unlike what she had been in her later life, so different to what he could remember her, that Brian Drewitt looked in Mr. Murphy’s face incredulously.

“That is not my mother?” he said; and he drew back a step.

“It is all you will ever again see for your mother here,” was the reply, uttered slowly and thoughtfully.

Brian stooped over the coffin. Mr. Murphy always believed he was listening to hear if she breathed; but he was only touching her lips with his lips—only silently whispering words of tenderness—of passionate sorrow—that he had a vague feeling she might understand, though she could never answer.

“Would you mind leaving me for a minute?” he said, at last. “Would you go into the next room and wait for me?—if you go down stairs some of them will be coming up.”

Without uttering a syllable, Mr. Murphy placed the candle on the chimneypiece, and left Brian, closing the folding-doors after him.

The surgeon thought that very likely Brian wanted to have a good cry unnoticed—unpitied. He had seen as strong natures weeping in their agony and despair. He knew the blow must have been heavy—the wound sharp; and he knew, likewise, that at such times sorrow must have its way in some form or other: for all of which reasons, he left Brian willingly, and, walking to one of the windows in the drawing-room, lifted a corner of the blind and looked out.

Had he been able to see what was passing in the inner chamber, he would scarcely have remained contemplating the wet street and the flickering gas-lamps for so long.

At the head of his mother’s coffin Brian stood erect; one arm was stretched out over the dead, and he was swearing an oath, to himself, full of vengeance and of hate. Beside her coffin he was pouring out imprecations on all who had ever caused her misery—just as Maxwell had said the peasants sat beside their desolate hearths, cursing the men who had taken the roofs off their heads, and left them without a shelter from the storm.

There were no tears in Brian Drewitt’s eyes—there was no softness in Brian Drewitt’s heart. We had best come out and close the door, and leaving him alone; for the days were nigh at hand when he repented him of his blasphemy—when he covered his face, and acknowledged his sin, and bowed his head, while that angel of the Lord,—which teaches unto men all manner of good things—suffering—showed him how God’s ways are not as man’s ways—how they are eternally wise and eternally just, although, to our short-sightedness, they may oftentimes seem indeed inscrutable and past finding out.