A Rough Shaking, page 28
He saw now, in the dusk, a pale, ordinary little face, with rather large gray eyes, a rather characterless, tiny, up-turned nose, and a rather pretty mouth.
“Yes, little one. Were you expecting me?” he returned, with his arms about her.
“Yes,” she answered, in the tone of one stating what the other must know.
“How was it I frightened you, then?”
“Only at first I thought you was an ogre! That was before I saw you. Then I knew!”
“Who told you I was coming?”
“Nobody. Nobody knew you was coming but me. I’ve known it—oh, for such a time!—ever since I was born, I think!”
She turned her head a little and looked down where the doll lay a step or two below.
“You can go now, dolly,” she said. “I don’t want you any more.” Here she paused a while, as if listening to a reply, then went on: “I am much obliged to you, dolly; but what am I to do with you? You won’t never speak! It has made me quite sad many a time, you know very well! But you can’t help it! So go away, please, and be nobody, for you never would be anybody! I did my best to get you to be somebody, but you wouldn’t! Thank you all the same! I will take you and put you where you can be as dull as you please, and nobody will mind."—Here she left Clare, went down, and lifted her plaything.—"Dolly, dolly,” she resumed, “he’s come! I knew he would! And you don’t know it because you’re nobody!”
Without looking back, or a word of adieu to Clare, she went slowly down the steps, one by one, with the doll in her arms, manifesting for it neither contempt nor tenderness. Many a child would have carried the discrowned favourite by one leg; she carried her in both hands.
Clare waited a while on the narrow, closed-in, wooden stair, not a little wondering, and full of thought. His wonder, however, had no puzzlement in it. The child’s behaviour involved no difficulty. The two existences came together, and each understood the other in virtue of its essential nature. In after years Clare could put the thing into such words; he sought none at the time. The child was lonely. She had done her best with her doll, but it had failed her. It was not companionable. The moment she looked in Clare’s face, she knew that he loved her, and that she had been waiting for him! She was not surprised to see him; how should it be otherwise than just so! He was come: good bye, dolly! The child had imagination—next to conscience the strongest ally of common sense. She knew, like St. Paul, that an idol is nothing. As men and women grow in imagination and common sense, more and more will sacred silly dolls be cast to the moles and the bats. But pretty Fancy and limping Logic are powerful usurpers in commonplace minds.
Clare saw nothing more of her that day, neither tried to see her; but he did his work in an atmosphere of roses. The work was not nearly so interesting as house-work, but Clare was an honest gentleman, therefore did it well: that it was not interesting was of no account; it was his work! But to know that a child was in the house, not merely a child for him to love, but a child that already loved him so that he could be her servant indeed, changed the stupid bank almost into the dome of the angels.
His fellow clerks took little notice of him beyond what, in the routine of the day, was unavoidable. He had been a page-boy: the less they did with him the better! Were they not wronged by his introduction into their company? The poorest creature of them believed he would have served out the burglars better if the chance had been his.
CHAPTER LVIII. CHILD-TALK.
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AS CLARE CAME DOWN THE next morning but one, there was the child again on the dark narrow stair. She had no doll. Her hands lay folded in her lap. She sat on the same step, the very image of child-patience. As he approached she did not move. I believe she held solemn revel of expectation. He laid his hand on the whitey-brown hair smoothed flat on her head with a brush dipped in water. Not much dressing was wasted on Ann—common little name!
She rose, turned to him, and again laid her arms about his neck. No kiss followed: she had not been taught to kiss.
“Where’s dolly?” asked Clare.
“Nowhere. Buried,” answered the child.
“Where did you bury her? In the garden?”
“No. The garden wouldn’t be nowhere!”
“Where, then?”
“Nowhere. I threw her out of the window.”
“Into the street?”
“Yes. She did fell on a horse’s back, and he jumped. I was sorry.”
“It didn’t hurt him. I hope it didn’t hurt dolly!”
The moment he said it, Clare’s heart reproached him: he was not talking true! he was not talking out of his real heart to the child! Almost with indignation she answered:—
“Things don’t be hurt! Dolly was a thing! She’s no thing now!”
“Why?”
“Because she fell under the horse, and was seen no more.”
“Is she old enough,” thought Clare, “to read the Pilgrim’s Progress?”
“Will you tell me, please,” he said, “when a thing is only a thing?”
“When it won’t mind what you do or say to it.”
“And when is a thing no thing any more?”
“When you never think of it again.”
“Is a fly a thing?”
“I could make a fly mind, only it would hurt it!”
“Of course we wouldn’t do that!”
“No; we don’t want to make a fly mind. It’s not one of our creatures.”
Clare thought that was far enough in metaphysics for one morning.
“I waited for you yesterday,” he said, “but you didn’t come!”
“Dolly didn’t like to be buried. I mean, I didn’t like burying dolly. I cried and wouldn’t come.”
“Then why did you bury dolly?”
“She had to be buried. I told you she couldn’t be anybody! So I made her be buried.”
“I see! I quite understand.—But what have you to amuse yourself with now?”
“I don’t want to be mused now. You’s come! I’m growed up!”
“Yes, of course!” answered Clare; but he was puzzled what to say next.
What could he do for her? Glad would he have been to take her down to the sea, or to the docks, or into the country somewhere, till dinner-time, and then after dinner take her out again! But there was his work—ugly, stupid work that had to be done, as dolly had to be buried! Alas for the child who has discarded her toys, and is suddenly growed up! What is she to do with herself? Clare’s coming had caused the loss of Ann’s former interests: he felt bound to make up to her for that loss. But how? It was a serious question, and not being his own master, he could not in a moment answer it.
“I wish I could stay with you all day!” he said. “But your papa wants me in the bank. I must go.”
Clare had not had a good sight of the child, and was at a loss to think what must be her age. Her language, both in form and utterance, was partly precise and grown-up, and partly childish; but her wisdom was child-like—and that is the opposite both of precise and childish. It was the wisdom that comes of unity between thought and action.
“Is there anything I can do for you before I go—for I must go?” said Clare.
“Who says must to you? Nurse says must to me.”
“Your papa says must to me.”
“If you didn’t say yes when papa said must, what would come next?”
“He would say, ‘Go out of my house, and never come in again.’”
“And would you do it?”
“I must: the house is his, not mine.”
“If I didn’t say yes when papa said must, what would happen?”
“He would try to make you say it.”
“And if I wouldn’t, would he say, ‘Go out of my house and never come in again’?”
“No; you are his little girl!”
“Then I think he shouldn’t say it to you.—What is your name?”
“Clare.”
“Then, Clare, if my papa sends you out of his house, I will go with you.—You wouldn’t turn me out, would you, when I was a little naughty?”
“No; neither would your papa.”
“If he turned you out, it would be all the same. Where you go, I will go. I must, you know! Would you mind if he said ‘Go away’?”
“I should be very sorry to leave you.”
“Yes, but that’s not going to be! Why do you stay with papa? Were you in the house always—ever so long before I saw you?”
“No; a very little while only.”
“Did you come in from the street?”
“Yes; I came in from the street. Your papa pays me to work for him.”
“And if you wouldn’t?”
“Then I should have no money, and nothing to eat, and nowhere to sleep at night.”
“Would that make you uncomfable?”
“It would make me die.”
“Have you a papa?”
“Yes, but he’s far away.”
“You could go to him, couldn’t you?”
“One day I shall.”
“Why don’t you go now, and take me?”
“Because he died.”
“What’s died?”
“Went away out of sight, where we can’t go to look for him till we go out of sight too.”
“When will that be?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does anybody know?”
“Nobody.”
“Then perhaps you will never go?”
“We must go; it’s only that nobody knows when.”
“I think the when that nobody knows, mayn’t never come.—Is that why you have to work?”
“Everybody has to work one way or another.”
“I haven’t to work!”
“If you don’t work when you’re old enough, you’ll be miserable.”
“You’re not old enough.”
“Oh, yes, indeed I am! I’ve been working a long time now.”
“Where? Not for papa?”
“No; not for papa.”
“Why not? Why didn’t you come sooner? Why didn’t you come much sooner—ever so much sooner? Why did you make me wait for you all the time?”
“Nobody ever told me you were waiting.”
“Nobody ever told me you were coming, but I knew.”
“You had to wait for me, and you knew. I had to wait for you, and I didn’t know! When we have time, I will tell you all about myself, and how I’ve been waiting too.”
“Waiting for me?”
“No.”
“Who for?”
“For my father and mother—and somebody else, I think.”
“That’s me.”
“No; I’m waiting yet. I didn’t know I was coming to you till I came, and there you were!”
The child was silent for a moment. Then she said thoughtfully,
“You will tell me all about yourself! That will be nice!—Can you tell stories?” she added. “—Of course you can! You can do everything!”
“Oh, no, I can’t!”
“Can’t you?”
“No; I can do some things—not many. I can love you, little one!—Now I must go, or I shall be late, and nobody ever ought to be late.”
“Go then. I will go to my nursery and wait again.”
She went down the stair without once looking behind her. Clare followed. On the next floor she went one way to her nursery, and he another to the back-stairs.
One of the causes and signs of Clare’s manliness was, that he never aimed at being a man. Many men continue childish because they are always trying to act like men, instead of simply trying to do right. Such never develop true manliness, Clare’s manhood stole upon him unawares. That which at once made him a man and kept him a child, was, that he had no regard for anything but what was real, that is, true.
All the day the thought kept coming, what could he do for the little girl Perhaps what stirred his feeling for her most, was a suspicion that she was neglected. But the careless treatment of a nurse was better for her than would have been the capricious blandishments and neglects of a mother like Mrs. Shotover. Clare, however, knew nothing yet about Ann’s mother. He knew only, by the solemnly still ways of the child, that she must be much left to her own resources, and was wonderfully developed in consequence—whether healthily or not, he could not yet tell. The practical question was—how to contrive to be her occasional companion; how to offer to serve her.
After much thinking, he concluded that he must wait: opportunity might suggest mode; and he would rather find than make opportunity!
CHAPTER LIX. LOVERS’ WALKS.
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HE HAD NOT LONG TO wait. That very afternoon, going a message for the head-clerk, he met Ann walking with a young lady—who must be Miss Shotover. Neither sister seemed happy with the other. Ann was very white, and so tired that she could but drag her little feet after her. Miss Shotover, flushed with exertion, and annoyed with her part of nursemaid, held her tight and hauled her along by the hand. She looked good-natured, but not one of the ministering sort. Every now and then she would give the little arm a pull, and say, though not very crossly, “Do come along!” The child did not cry, but it was plain she suffered. It was plain also she was doing her best to get home, and avoid rousing her sister’s tug.
Keen-sighted, Clare had recognized Ann at some distance, and as he approached had a better opportunity than on the dark stair of seeing what his little friend was like. He saw that her eyes were unusually clear, and, paces away, could distinguish the blue veins on her forehead: she looked even more delicate than he had thought her. The lines of her mouth were straightened out with the painful effort she had to make to keep up with her sister. Her nose continued insignificant, waiting to learn what was expected of it.
For Miss Shotover, there was not a good feature in her face, and even to a casual glance it might have suggested a measure of meanness. But a bright complexion, and the youthful charm which vanishes with youth, are pleasant in their season. Her figure was lithe, and in general she had a look of fun; but at the moment heat and impatience clouded her countenance.
Clare stopped and lifted his hat. Then first the dazed child saw him, for she was short-sighted, and her observation was dulled by weariness. She said not a word, uttered no sound, only drew her hand from her sister’s, and held up her arms to her friend—in dumb prayer to be lifted above the thorns of life, and borne along without pain. He caught her up.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said, “but the little one and I have met before:—I live in the house, having the honour to be the youngest of your father’s clerks. If you will allow me, I will carry the child. She looks tired!”
Miss Shotover was glad enough to be relieved of her clog, and gave smiling consent.
“If you would be so kind as to carry her home,” she said, “I should be able to do a little shopping!”
“You will not mind my taking her a little farther first, ma’am? I am on a message for Mr. Woolrige. I will carry her all the way, and be very careful of her.”
Miss Shotover was not one to cherish anxiety. She already knew Clare both by report and by sight, and willingly yielded. Saying, with one of her pleasant smiles, that she would hold him accountable for her, she sailed away, like a sloop that had been dragging her anchor, but had now cut her cable. Clare thought what a sweet-looking girl she was—and in truth she was sweet-looking. Then, all his heart turned to the little one in his arms.
What a walk was that for both of them! Little Ann seemed never to have lived before: she was actually happy! She had been long waiting for Clare, and he was come—and such as she had expected him! It was bliss to glide thus along the busy street without the least exertion, looking down on the heads of the people, safe above danger and fear amid swift-moving things and the crowding confusions of life! To be in Clare’s arms was better than being in the little house on the elephant’s back in her best picture-book! True, little one! To be in the arms of love, be they ever so weak, is better than to ride the grandest horse in all the stables of God—and God would have you know it! Never mind your pale little face and your puny nose! While your heart is ready to die for love-sake, you are blessed among women! Only remember that to die of disappointment is not to die either of or for love!
And to Clare, after all those days upon days during which only a dog would come to his arms, what a glory of life it was to have a human child in them, the little heart of the pale face beating against his side! He was not going to forget Abdiel. Abdiel was not a fact to be forgotten. Abdiel was not a doll, Abdiel was not a thing that would not come alive. Abdiel was a true heart, a live soul, and Clare would love him for ever!—not an atom the less that now he had one out upon whom a larger love was able to flow! All true love makes abler to love. It is only false love, the love of those who take their own meanest selfishness, their own pleasure in being loved, for love, that shrinks and narrows the soul.
To the pale-faced, listening child, Clare talked much about the wonderful Abdiel, and about the kind good Miss Tempest who was keeping him to live again at length with his old master; and Ann loved the dog she had never seen, because the dog loved the Clare who was come at last.
When they returned, Clare rang the house-bell, and gave up his charge to the man who opened the door. Without word or tone, gesture or look of objection, or even of disinclination, the child submitted to be taken from Clare’s loving embrace, and carried to a nurse who was neither glad nor sorry to see her.
He had been so long gone that Mr. Woolrige found fault with him for it. Clare told him he had met Miss Shotover with her sister, and the child seemed so tired he had asked leave to carry her with him, Mr. Woolrige was not pleased, but he said nothing; on the spot the clerks nicknamed him Nursie; and Clare did his best to justify the appellation-he never lost a chance of acting up to it, and always answered when they summoned him by it.
Before the week was ended, he sought an interview with Miss Shotover, and asked her whether he might not take little Ann out for a walk whenever the evening was fine. For at five o’clock the doors of the bank were shut, and in half an hour after he was free. Miss Shotover said she saw no objection, and would tell the nurse to have her ready as often as the weather was fit; whereupon Clare left her with a gratitude far beyond any degree of that emotion by her conceivable. The nurse, on her part, was willing to gratify Clare, and not sorry to be rid of the child, who was not one, indeed, to interest any ordinary woman.
