Under St Paul's: A Romance. Dowling Richard
you are stupid, and dull, and proper, and I hate to play second fiddle.' They walked on in silence until they arrived at the cathedral. 'Service is going on,' said Osborne, in the porch. 'Would you like to attend portion of it?' 'No. Take me round and let me look at the shops. I do not go to church.' 'You are a Roman Catholic, no doubt?' 'No. I was brought up in the Church of England; but I have given up going to church. I am not profane enough to treat the service as a spectacle or a musical performance, and I am not sincere enough to treat it on higher grounds.' 'I am exceedingly sorry to hear you say so.' 'I have worn off most of my faith with travel and change.' 'Then I would recommend you to rest from travel and change until your faith comes back again.' He had paused and was looking down earnestly into her face. An accent of solicitude in the man's voice arrested the girl's attention. For the first time her face was turned to his without a smile, and she looked up gravely to him. She spoke, after a short pause, – 'What you say interests me more than you might think, for I am not nearly so happy or quiet in my mind as when I went-' she pointed to the cathedral, in the shadow of which they were standing. 'Nor will you ever be. So long as we are in the great hurry and bustle of life, we do not feel the necessity strong upon us. But each one of us has to go out of life alone. That is the terrible thought-alone. The future is of the utmost consequence to us. It can be made as valid a certainty as this great church under which we stand. Look up, and think of that church alone. That noble pile is the symbol of a nation's faith. All over the world St Paul's is known. It is the loftiest point in all these miles that make up London. Four millions of Christian men and women are clustered round its feet, draw breath and kneel in worship in sight of its cross. This is the greatest church built by the most practical race. When we consider that the most practical race on earth built this monument of faith, the opinion of the individual ought to be hushed before such a proof of devotion. Sceptics, scientists, and voluptuaries may rail as they will, there is the great fact hung by our nation between London and heaven.' He had forgotten whom he was speaking to. He looked down, coloured quickly, and said, – 'I beg your pardon, Miss Gordon; I forgot you wished to see the shops. Let us go.' She did not move. She was looking up with a new sweet gravity in her face. 'I don't care about the shops. The things are all faded. Let us walk round the cathedral; I want to have a good look at it.' The expression of her face changed. She sighed, and a soft light of hopefulness came into her eyes. It was a quiet light, like the morning light in a wood. 'You look your loveliest now,' he said. He thought, – 'Mad or drunk, or mad and drunk, what can I do?' 'You will take me round the cathedral?' 'Yes, when the service is over.' 'And you will tell me all about it?' 'Yes, as far as I know,' he answered. 'Mad or drunk, no matter which,' he thought. 'And you will treat me as a woman capable of respecting things that deserve respect?' 'Certainly.' He was not paying attention to what she was saying, his whole being was centred upon what she was looking. Mentally he said, – 'Drunk or mad, or-love? No matter!' 'Fools have made me flippant,' she said. 'And nature has made you divine.' 'Mr Osborne?' 'Yes.' 'Suppose I made up my mind to take a rest, and think seriously of serious things, would you advise me to settle in the country or town?' He stopped suddenly, raised his right arm, and made a slow gesture round. 'What place can you find better than here?' Throwing up his arm to its full height from his shoulder, he added, – 'Under St Paul's?'
CHAPTER IV.
'OH, PERHAPS.'
'O'CONNOR, you are to do my hair plain to-day,' said the mistress dreamily, as she sat before her glass. 'Plain, miss! Plain!' exclaimed the maid, in astonishment. 'Are you going to sit in your room all day?' 'No. I am going down to breakfast, and after breakfast I am going to see Westminster Abbey,' said Miss Gordon, with a sigh. 'I will wear my light-blue silk. O'Connor groaned. 'And my pearl-grey hat with the blue feathers.' O'Connor sat down and looked uneasily at her mistress. After a few seconds she asked, – 'And wouldn't you like to put green paint on your eyebrows and a blue stripe down your nose?' 'Come, O'Connor, and do my hair, or I shall be late.' 'I'll have no hand, act, or part in it,' said the maid quietly, as she folded her arms and stared with scrupulous sincerity at the window. 'Come at once, I say, O'Connor; no more nonsense. You really must learn to do what I tell you at once, or you and I shall part.' For a moment the maid remained immoveable. Suddenly she rose to her feet, turned round, and placed herself between her mistress and the glass, and said excitedly, – 'I often helped to make you look what you are-the loveliest lady I ever saw. And I will not now help you to make a fool of yourself. You know your hair plain does not suit you; you know that dress you never wore, for it does not suit you; you know that hat only made you laugh when you put it on. You can dress as you like and do your hair as you like; but if you think I'll do what you say, you're mistaken.' 'O'Connor, I will have no more of your impertinent nonsense. Do what I tell you!' 'Is that the way you treat me after all I've done for you? Give me what you owe me and I'll go back to Cork.' 'Leave the room at once!' cried Miss Gordon excitedly. 'Not till you give me my money,' replied the girl vehemently, at the same time holding out her hand. 'Leave the room, I say, at once. How dare you stay when I tell you to go?' 'I am waiting for my money. I want to go back to Cork before you disgrace me.' 'O'Connor, I will take no further notice of you. Your conduct is unpardonable. Go, or I shall have to ring the bell.' 'Ring the bell! Ring the bell! Is that what you say after all I've done and suffered for you, and all the outlandish victuals I have eaten, and all the outlandish gibberishes I have listened to-is that my thanks?' 'If you don't go at once, I'll ring.' 'Pay me my money and I'll go.' Miss Gordon rose and went towards the bell. 'Pay me my money, or I'll call in the police.' Miss Gordon rang the bell. All at once the manner of the maid changed. Her lips trembled, she put her hand before her face, walked towards the door, and left the room sobbing. The chambermaid appeared in a few minutes. To her Miss Gordon said, – 'I shall be late for the table d'hôte breakfast. Get me a little for myself in about three-quarters of an hour.' When the chambermaid came down to the kitchen she found Judith O'Connor moving about the place restlessly. 'What did my mistress ring for?' asked Judith. 'To say she'd want breakfast for herself in three-quarters of an hour.' 'She did not say anything else?' 'No.' Judith sat down and sighed. In a few moments she said to the chambermaid, – 'Isn't my missis beautiful?' 'She is.' 'The most beautiful lady you ever saw here?' 'We've had no one so good-looking lately.' 'You never had,' said Judith firmly. 'Oh yes; there's Mrs Loftus.' 'Yes, I know what Mrs Loftus is like, all frills and tuckers, and frizzed hair and paint.' 'Mrs Loftus didn't wear frills or tuckers; she wears her hair flat: and as to paint, well, I never saw any sign of it about her. Did you?' 'No; and I don't want to see Mrs Loftus, or any other missis but my own. Mrs Loftus may be a very handsome lady-and I am sure she is when you say it-but there isn't a finer missis in all England than mine.' 'How do you mean? Mrs Barclay is as good a missis as any servant could have.' 'Yes; but my missis doesn't know she's a missis at all.' As Miss Gordon had predicted, she was late for breakfast that morning. All the guests had left the table, and Mrs Barclay had risen and gone out of the room. Two gentlemen were seated on the couch farthest from the table, looking at newspapers. As Miss Gordon entered, each lowered his newspaper, looked at the girl for a moment, and resumed reading without breaking silence. One was the solid-looking gentleman, the other George Osborne. The light in the room was dull. Miss Gordon, too, kept silence. Her breakfast was soon over; she rose and left the room. In a few minutes the solid-looking man went out also, and George Osborne was left to himself. He looked at the clock on the chimney-piece. He looked at his watch. He put away The Times, and walked slowly up and down the room. He sat down, took up The Times again, and thought resolutely to himself, – 'I'll read a column, and make myself think of it. That will pass away the minutes until she comes. It is sickening to be looking at the door every time it opens, and see the way blocked by commonplace people seeking something or other, or expressing wonder as to what they shall have for dinner.' The door opened twice, but he kept his resolution. It was hard to be obliged to look down at this white sheet and these dark words, and try to fix the mind on the dreary drone of a leading article, when raising the eyes might reveal to him a feast of colour and a charm of grace that would make the heart rich and life a poem. The door opened a third time. A light, swift footstep approached where he sat. He deliberately waited to finish reading the sentence before looking up. He had been in haste as long as there was doubt; now that he was certain he delayed. He had been a poor man, anxiously expecting wealth; now he was opulent, and squandered recklessly to convince himself his fortune was real. He could feel the beauty of her presence surrounding him and intoxicating him. The moment he raised his eyes he started