(Sorry for the slow update! At least this chapter is bigger than the rest. The spacing is a bit weird but my iPad won't let me fix it. Enjoy!)
Chapter IV
On Sunday Papa was well enough to go to church. I put on my best white day dress and a matching hat with a veil and small white flowers at the side. I turned to look in my glass and was pleased with my appearance; I hope it is not vain to say so, but I thought I looked very beautiful, better than any other girl I would meet at church that morning—and I hoped St John would think so too.
I hurried down the stairs, feeling somewhat excited; the past week had been exceedingly dull and even the society of a small country church seemed an appealing escape. Of course, I was blessed never to find church boring, I did not fall asleep in the middle of sermons as my friends did when listening to their dull clergymen. Indeed, when St John became our clergyman, I am sure I learned more in one month than in all my preceding years put together! Though, to say truth, his appearance and manner of speaking sometimes distracted me from his words. His eyes looked so fine when he preached, they were always radiant but then they shone, and he spoke with a firmness, a fire, that seemed almost heroic —he was so unlike any other man in my acquaintance, and one thousand times more beautiful! If it wasn't for St John I am sure I would have been quite wickedly inattentive!
It was a wet morning and we all hurried into church out of the rain! St John stood in the pulpit and welcomed us all, his low, assured voice resounding through the church magnificently. How those prepossessing tones made my heart leap!
He began his sermon; it was eloquent as always, and again I was captivated by the his impassioned glance, the turn of his head, the movement of his limitless blue eyes, the inflections in his enchanting voice! The start of his sermon was always my favourite part because it was calmer than the end, which often seemed harsher, sometimes even a little frightening in its sternness. For much of beginning he did not look my way at all and I wondered if he was avoiding my gaze, but eventually his eyes turned to me; they did not alter their expression, I might have been any other sitting there that morning, except, perhaps, for a slight—how should I describe it—a slight fixedness, a resolution, that I knew not what to make of. Soon those wonderful azure sapphires glimmered on some other parishioner and St John continued with his sermon. I was very content sitting there with the rain coming down, the dim light glowing through the stained glass, and St John's sermon echoing around the old stone walls.
At the end of the service everyone rose and began to file out. Papa talked a little with an old friend of his and we were the last to leave the church. St John stood at the wide arched door, his fair hair and pale, adonean features standing out against the sullen sky.
"Mr Rivers," Papa greeted him, shaking hands.
"Mr Oliver. You are well I hope?"
"Yes, far better than I was. It is all down to Rosamond's diligence. She is an attentive nurse, though I hope it is a part she will not often be called upon to play."
"Indeed," St John replied.
"It is far too long since you were at the hall. You have been missed," Papa said in a fatherly manner.
"Forgive me. I have been much engaged," St John answered shortly.
How provoking he is, I thought, Must he always be so detached and unsociable! He will surely die of loneliness if he behaves so with everybody!—yet, I must consider his father's passing, and his solitary state: it is not his fault if he is inclined to heaviness.
"Will you come to dinner tonight?" Papa asked—I had been hoping he would.
"I have affairs to attend to."
"But it is the sabbath," I could not help interjecting "Can your business not wait until tomorrow. Do come, Mr Rivers, you see Papa has missed you,"
I smiled, taking Papa's arm. I knew he could not refuse me now and he rather reluctantly acquiesced. I gave him my hand as I left the church, and he took it gently. His hand was cold and smooth in mine, like marble, and I suddenly felt very sorry for him, I wished him to be happy, and did not like to see him so forlorn; neverthless, I went home in high spirits, thinking that I should make him merry, even if he was not disposed to be, and we should have a cheerful evening!
Papa sometimes upbraided me for my lateness at dinner but that evening I was down a quarter of an hour early. Soon I heard the door open and St John was announced.
"Good evening Miss Rosamond," he said upon entering.
"Good evening Mr Rivers," I replied. "How good it is to have you come to dinner again! We have been very short of company of late."
"I am afraid I am poor compensation for a want of society."
"No, indeed! There is nobody I would rather see than yourself!"
"You are too kind Miss Rosamund—though I must doubt the veracity of the statement. I cannot compete with the officers of the —th regiment for wit or conversation."
"Do not say so Mr Rivers, for it is not at all true; I am sure I would not have any one of them take your place."
I hoped that would make him smile but he hardly seemed to notice it.
"It is a gloomy day," I remarked to avoid silence "I hope you did not walk."
"I did," he replied.
"Why, you must be cold and wet! Come and sit by the fire."
"My hat and coat kept me dry and warm enough, I assure you I am quite comfortable."
"I insist, Mr Rivers; you will catch a fever," I said.
Impulsively, I leant forward and felt his hands "But you are cold as ice!"
Our eyes met for a moment and he withdrew his hands so hastily it made me start.
"I am quite comfortable," he repeated emphatically in a strange, agitated voice, and I felt a little embarrassed.
"Well, I see I cannot persuade you!" I replied smilingly to hide my discomfiture, "You never can be persuaded to do anything! You are quite stubborn, you know!"
"I do not disagree with you; do you consider it a fault?"
"I cannot say—it is certainly vexing," I said playfully and I saw something like a smile pass across his lips.
Papa came down a moment later and we went through to dinner.
"How have you been?" Papa asked across the table "Still set on missionary work?"
"Yes," was Mr Rivers' reply "I wait only for my arrangements to be completed."
"Where do you intend to settle?"
"I was always certain that I would travel to the East and I have decided on India as my destination. There is much to be done there—so many to whom God's word has not yet been spoken."
"India," Papa repeated gravely.
"How far away you shall be!" I cried.
"It is necessary that I should go far to seek those who most require my aid and are most in ignorant of God's word."
"Are you sure this is the only course," Papa said, "the climate is harsh. We Englishmen are not made for such conditions. I recall your father's disapprobation of your decision to become a missionary—you are your own man now, of course, no longer the boy who used to sit at this table asking me to play with his tin soldiers, but I must say, I understand his apprehensions; you are an intelligent young man with much to offer the world, we do not want you being carried off by a tropical fever." Papa tried to say the words lightly but they were no jest—I worried for St John, yet it seemed somehow a far off worry, to be dealt with later and I tried to put it to the back of my mind.
"I am sorry for your consternation, yet I cannot put my apprehensions or fears before my work, serving Him to whom I am eternally bound, and whatever may befall me, if I am, as you say, carried off by a fever, I shall welcome it as His will."
Alas! I thought, how could such a thing be the will of anybody! My father sighed and when Mr Rivers' gaze turned to me I cast my eyes despondently down at my plate.
"What of your will, Mr Rivers?" my father asked.
After dinner Papa convinced St John to stay and sit with us in the drawing room. "I will fetch an atlas," I said as we entered, "that we might see how shockingly far away you will be when you are in India."
I went into the library, found Papa's dusty atlas, brought it to St John and sat next to him by the fire. He took the book and leafed through until he came to the right page.
"Here," he said pointing with his finger, his voice was quiet and distant, he seemed lost in contemplation. As he traced his route along the map, his look became fervid, I saw how much he longed to travel—I wished to travel also but I would rather travel to the ruins Italy or the Châteaux of France than to a remote place in the middle of hot and humid jungle. I peered at the spot he had pointed out.
"What an odd name it has," I observed, and laughingly attempted to pronounce it; I tried several variations, all of which sounded quite absurd! Mr Rivers did not laugh.
"It is a translation of a Hindustani name," he said, and pronounced the name with fluency.
"But how beautiful it sounds when it is spoken properly!" I remarked.
St John turned to me with an interest he had not shown before, "It is a beautiful language," he replied. His perfect features looked golden in the fire light that cast an angelic glow about him.
"Rosamond," Papa said, leaning forward in his chair " you must play your song for Mr Rivers."
"Oh yes!" I exclaimed—it was a new song. I had been practicing it all week and had learned to sing to the accompaniment! I went to the pianoforte and set the music upon the stand—I had no need of it for I had learned the song by heart, but I wanted to ask St John to turn the pages. He stood beside me and I began to play; occasionally I would glance sideways at him as I sang to see if he admired my playing. At first he was restless, and kept fidgeting by my side—it was almost distracting— but as I continued he became stiller; his eyes were fixed on me and I noticed that his face wore a similar expression to that when he was bent over the atlas, but softer; he seemed in a trance. Half way through he even forgot to turn the page for me.
"Forgive me," he said as if he had been woken from a reverie; he turned the page and I continued, smiling at the effect of my performance.
"Excellent, Rosamond," Papa said as I finished, "She sings well does she not?" he asked, turning to St John.
"Very well indeed," St John replied with feeling. I bowed my head modestly but I was delighted with the compliment—they were hard to win from St John of late.
"I will play another," I said, pleased with my success, "It is Papa's favourite."
It was a gentle tune, a lullaby that Papa often liked me to play in the evenings. The room felt warm and comforting and within a matter of moments I noticed that Papa had fallen asleep in his chair by the fire.
"Do you like the tune, Mr Rivers?" I asked.
"Yes. It is well written," he replied, "And well played. I have always admired proficiency in music—though it is something I have never possessed myself—it seems remarkable that a certain note or melody may bring such harmony, or unrest, within us, may touch our very souls."
"Do you wish to learn? I shall teach you!" I said.
"Thank you, but I have no wish to learn at present, I am too much occupied; there are many pressing affairs I must contend with before my passage to India."
"That is a pity," I replied, "If you were not going I should have had the pleasure of being your instructress," I added with a smile—I hoped that by continually stressing my reluctance for him to go he might begin to feel reluctant himself.
"I am sorry to miss such an opportunity," he said, I could not tell whether in jest or in earnest.
"You must visit us more frequently now, to make amends for all the time you will be away when you are in India. You spent many evenings here last summer," I added after a pause, remembering those delightful visits—in those days St John would often come with his sisters and we would have a lively time playing games and reciting from plays or poetry.
"They were well spent, Miss Rosamond," St John replied, and I felt glad that he looked back on those memories with the same fondness, I felt more at ease with him for a moment, but his mood changed as he added, "But my life is far busier than it was before; it is taking a different path and I must prepare accordingly. I will come when I am able and am not occupied with other matters."
"Well, you must be sure to come—occupied or no!" I said animatedly.
When Papa awoke he asked if St John would read to us before he left; he recited a chapter from the bible, which was a little tedious after having been to church earlier in the day.
"Might you recite some poetry?" I asked afterwards. "You do read so well."
He assented and I took down a volume of Coleridge. I settled in a chair by Papa as St John leant against the mantle with one arm and held the book in the other.
"Is there any poem in particular you wish to hear, Miss Rosamond?" he asked.
"'The Sigh' perhaps," I said, (I had chosen the poem with purpose); he found the page and began to read—beautifully as always, and with wonderful expression!
WHEN Youth his faery reign began
Ere sorrow had proclaimed me man;
While Peace the present hour beguiled,
And all the lovely Prospect smiled;
Then Mary! 'mid my lightsome glee
I heav'd the painless Sigh for thee.
And when, along the waves of woe,
My harassed Heart was doomed to know
The frantic burst of outrage keen,
And the slow Pang that gnaws unseen;
Then shipwrecked on Life's stormy sea
I heaved an anguished Sigh for thee!
(I observed his brow furrow slightly; he looked perplexed, his eyes moved rapidly across the page, and I concluded that he was not unmoved by the lines he read.)
But soon Reflection's power imprest
A stiller sadness on my breast;
And sickly Hope with waning eye
Was well content to droop and die:
I yielded to the stern decree,
Yet heaved a languid Sigh for thee!
(I hoped he would sigh thus for me—his look as he read seemed to affirm that he would.)
And though in distant climes to roam,
A wanderer from my native home,
I fain would soothe the sense of Care,
And lull to sleep the Joys that were,
Thy Image may not banished be-
Still, Mary! still I sigh for thee.
As he finished he glanced up at me quickly, from the volume—it was a curious glance, I could not read it. "It is late," he said shortly, "I fear I shall outstay my welcome. I must go." After a hurried parting from Papa, a refusal to accept the offer of the carriage, and a farewell in which he neglected the hand I offered him, he left.