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.’