Ethel Churchill/Chapter 7
CHAPTER VII.
Few know of life's beginnings—men behold
The goal achieved. The warrior, when his sword
Flashes red triumph in the noonday sun;
The poet, when his lyre hangs on the palm;
The statesman, when the crowd proclaim his voice,
And mould opinion on his gifted tongue:
They count not life's first steps, and never think
Upon the many miserable hours
When hope deferred was sickness to the heart.
They reckon not the battle and the march,
The long privations of a wasted youth:
They never see the banner till unfurled,
What are to them the solitary nights,
Past pale and anxious by the sickly lamp,
Till the young poet wins the world at last,
To listen to the music long his own?
The crowd attend the statesman's fiery mind
That makes their destiny; but they do not trace
Its struggle, or its long expectancy.
Hard are life's early steps; and, but that youth
Is buoyant, confident, and strong in hope,
Men would behold its threshold, and despair
Under what different aspects may the same place appear! Walter Maynard arrived in London on the same night with Lady Marchniont. He stopped at an inn suiting his finances. It was in a dark, narrow lane in the city; and the young traveller sat down in the public room, where he was half stifled by the smoke, and half deafened by the noise. What a feeling of desolation, and of vastness, had struck upon his heart as he passed through a few of those crowded streets of which there seemed no ending! It seemed impossible but that, amid so many faces, there must be one that he knew: but, no; all alike were strangers. He felt himself utterly alone; and, for the first time, shrank when he considered how slender were his resources. A small sum of money, a letter of introduction to Sir Jasper Meredith's bookseller, and a card of address where to find Norbourne Courtenaye when he happened to be in London,—these were his all. He pushed aside his frugal meal with utter distaste, and looked round on his companions: at once he felt all conversation with them to be hopeless. He listened to the conversation of the two men next him, who were quarrelling over, rather than discussing, the "Craftsman," which they had just been reading. Both were so decidedly wrong, that it was hardly possible for human nature at twenty-two to avoid setting them right. The consequence was, that the one called him a fool, and the other offered to fight him. A mild, respectable-looking man interfered, and, pacifying the combatants, drew Walter into a corner, and began conversing with him pleasantly enough. The conversation was only a little interrupted by glances from the pretty hostess, who seemed anxious to attract the attention of the handsome young stranger.
"Why, it is later than I thought," exclaimed the stranger, as the clock struck. "Good night, my young friend—I dare say we shall meet again; and let me give you a word of parting advice—never interfere with what does not concern you."
A few minutes after his departure, Walter found that his purse was gone.
"I thought how it would be," cried the landlady; "but I could not catch your eye. Why, the man you were talking to is a first-rate pickpocket—a very clever man. Let me give you a piece of good advice: always be on your guard against strangers; you may be sure that every body wants to take you in."
It is amazing how well the hostess contrived, during the two or three days that Walter remained in the house, to illustrate her theory by practice. Weary and dispirited, Walter retired to the little, close chamber which was his bed-room. One must be uncomfortable to be thoroughly out of sorts. A great sorrow forgets every thing but itself; but little sorrows exaggerate themselves and each other.
As yet our traveller had to contend with only the smaller order. He sat down in the window-seat, in a most profitless mood of dejection. More than once the sweet face of Ethel rose to his mind's eye; but he glanced round his chamber and dismissed it. He was ashamed of thinking of her in such a position, he felt, with morbid sensitiveness, the social distinction between them. The wings of his fancy seemed to melt, like those of Icarus, now that he approached the sun of his hopes, London. The air of the narrow chamber grew more and more oppressive, and he flung open the window, which looked into a churchyard. The moonlight fell over the white stones which press so heavily on the dust beneath.
"The last churchyard I looked upon," exclaimed Walter, "how different was it from this! There the sweet influences of nature shed their own beauty over the presence of death. The wild-flowers sprung up amid the grass; the dew shone on the leaves; and the murmurs of a nameless music stirred the sweeping branches of the oak. Here, all is harsh and artificial: the palpable weight of human care seems upon the thick atmosphere. The very dead are crowded together, and crushed beneath the weight of those dreary-looking stones. "Ah!" exclaimed he, as he turned, with a cold shudder, from the window, "I hope I shall never be buried in a city."