Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  Mrs. Bentham assured him that there was not the slightest chance of his dying for many a year, and that she would be very glad to have the young man down to do the decorations; but, as she was staying there at present, she did not see how it was to be done, unless, indeed, she asked him as a visitor. On this point Mr. Vicome offered no opinion nor suggestion, but declared energetically that she should be there to superintend the work.

  The conversation then turned upon other matters, but from time to time the old gentleman continued querulously to allude to the subject, until Mrs. Bentham, as she got up to go, promised definitely to see to it.

  As she left the dark house she thought rapidly of Lewis; his face came back to her with singular persistency, and she could not help noticing that fate seemed to force her to do what in her heart of hearts she desired.

  There was no doubt she had, in her father’s commands, an excellent reason for asking him to Claremont House, one which her prudish cousin Mrs. Thorpe would find it hard to gainsay, but then there were the county people to be taken into consideration; and when she thought of Lewis’ compromising face, she heard a thousand disagreeable remarks and petty sarcasms ringing in her ears. She changed her position nervously in the brougham, and apostrophized the injustice of the world’s opinion, and the falseness of a woman’s position in modern society. As she leaned back on the cushions she turned the subject over in her mind, finding, every instant, a new reason for taking her father’s advice. She remembered how nicely Mr. Seymour talked, and the suspicion came upon her that he might be a gentleman born to the same position as herself. The stories she had heard of young men who die for the want of a friend, of a helping hand, unknown, on the bosom as it were of a million beings, in the middle of a crowd weary of the gold they do not know what to do with, thronged across her mind: and, irritated by the thought that he might be one of those miserable ones who starve while the person who wishes to succour them is considering the most proper way of extending his or her friendly hand, she told her coachman to drive to Pall Mall, resolved, if the references were satisfactory, to give him the decorations to do.

  Mr. Carver received her in his large and unctuous manner; he overwhelmed Mrs. Bentham, dazzled her with an impromptu sketch of what Lewis’ future would be, “if he only got a chance,” soon. On this point she no longer had a doubt; she was convinced that he would some day blossom into a Raphael. Nevertheless, for the moment, she found herself obliged to consider the more prosaic question of his past life, and after some beating about the bush, she asked Mr. Carver if he would tell her who this young painter was.

  Mr. Carver had, on this subject, little information to supply, but he threw himself at once into the Napoleonic pose, and talked just as if he had known Lewis in his cradle. He told Mrs. Bentham that Lewis was the son of a country doctor in Essex, who had died, leaving his widow in bad circumstances; that, on his mother’s death, Lewis had found himself obliged to come to London to seek his fortune. So much Mr. Carver had found out, for he found out something concerning everyone he had ever been brought in contact with; and he embroidered ingeniously on this slight material until he brought tears into Mrs. Bentham’s eyes.

  A few more words sufficed to settle the matter: it was decided that Lewis should be sent down next Thursday to Sussex, Mr. Carver charging himself with all the arrangements.

  CHAPTER VI.

  DESERTION.

  LEWIS SLEPT VERY badly on Monday night; Gwynnie’s pale face kept him awake. She had not returned, and he feared that she, overcome with shame, had committed the crime that she had saved him from.

  In the morning the landlady brought him up a letter; he looked at it hastily. It was from Mr. Carver, asking him to call about eleven. Having assured himself that his own affairs were all right, he asked Mrs. Cross if she had heard anything of Miss Lloyd. No, she hadn’t, and what’s more, she thought it very strange: Miss Lloyd, as long as she had been in the house, had never done such a thing before.

  Lewis was frightened — so much so that he determined to go off at once to her shop and make inquiries. But when he got downstairs he found it was twenty minutes to eleven. By taking a hansom he would only be able to get to Mr. Carver’s in time, and it never would do to miss that appointment. Besides, Pall Mall was on the way, and he would go on to Regent Street afterwards, it was only a question of five minutes’ difference; Mr. Carver would not keep him longer, and he must know his fate.

  Mr. Carver received him very affably, told him that it was all arranged, that he was to go down to Claremont House the day after to-morrow, and stop there until he had finished the decorations, a three months’ job, for which he would receive two hundred pounds. Lewis was dazed at his good fortune, and the dear dreams of the night before seemed all to have grown into beautiful realities.

  Mr. Carver, in the Napoleonic pose, watched his astonishment with a tender interest akin to that which an inventor takes in his new patent.

  “But who is Mrs. Bentham? You say that she is separated from her husband?” asked Lewis, emboldened a little by his success.

  “One of the biggest swells in London, my dear boy. I can tell you ’twas a lucky day for you when you put your nose into my shop.”

  Mr. Carver had no doubt that in the course of this adventure something would occur which would enable him to turn the weaknesses of human nature to his profit. He did not know what, but he was sure that something would happen. Something always did; at least that was his experience of life. The only thing of which he was uncertain was Lewis’s power of restraint, of conducting himself properly at Claremont House. Therefore, with the air of one who has never spoken to anything less than a baronet, Mr. Carver proceeded to give Lewis what he considered many useful hints as to how he should behave himself He told him that he would meet all the best people, who would tear him to pieces as monkeys would a newspaper; but to be forewarned is to be forearmed, and Mr. Carver advised him to be very reserved, and, above all, very polite to everybody — from the lap-dog upwards.

  It was part of Lewis’s nature to believe that women were in love with him, and cautiously he tried to find out what opinion Mr. Carver held on the matter of Mrs. Bentham’s affections. But Mr. Carver only eyed him sharply and advised him to be very careful, to look before he leaped, and, better still, not to leap at all, but to let things untie themselves gradually. Mr. Carver seemed to enjoy the conversation immensely, and, as a trainer gives the jockey the final instructions, he explained to Lewis the perils he must avoid, and the circumstances he must take advantage of.

  As he told him of the grand people he would meet at Claremont House, Lewis looked in despair at his broken boots and stained trousers. At last, interrupting the list of grand names with which the dealer was apparently baptizing him, he asked boldly for a small advance of money.

  “Of course, of course; you are in a piteous plight, I see,” replied Mr. Carver, looking him up and down.

  Lewis thought the inspection rude, but forgave it when he was handed five ten-pound notes.

  Then, in his turn, Lewis looked Mr. Carver up and down, from the large plaid trousers to the red cravat, an attention which put the dealer in a good temper for the rest of the day, it not occurring to him that the painter might be looking to see what to avoid rather than what to copy.

  Then, after having signed a bill, and listened to a little advice on the subject of dress, Lewis was free to go and look after Gwynnie. He took another hansom and drove to her shop, where he was gratified to hear that she had been at work all the day before. He drew a deep breath of relief; there was no longer any reason for supposing she had committed suicide. Still, it was extraordinary she had not returned home; and he continued to question the forewoman until she would listen to him no longer: all she knew was that Miss Lloyd had been there yesterday, and had gone away with a lady friend.

  “But do you know her friend’s address?” insisted Lewis; “I shall be so much obliged—”

  “I assure you I haven’t the least idea, b
ut if you will leave a message or a letter, it shall be given to Miss Lloyd.”

  Lewis asked her to say he had called, and, with a sense of having done his duty, drove off to buy his clothes. Pettishly he assured himself that he could do no more, unless, indeed, he put the matter in the hands of the police, and to do that would be ridiculous. She was her own mistress, and had a right to hide herself if she pleased. He turned the subject over in his mind, but could think of no reason why she had not returned home, unless, indeed, it was because she was angry with him for not having waited for her. Anyhow, he was sure of one thing: that she had not committed suicide, and, comforting himself with the assurance, he drove to a tailor’s.

  All that day and the next he spent buying shirts, coats, trousers, collars, neckties, and boots. As he walked along the streets he looked to see how the upper ten thousand were dressed. He observed how their coats were buttoned, and the kind of scarfs they wore, and tried to find out what the differences were that distinguished them from the middle classes.

  It was absolutely necessary for him to know these things, for he felt he would be seriously compromising his position if he went down to Mrs. Bentham’s dressed like a shop boy.

  He fancied that Mr. Carver had hinted that it was not merely his talents as an artist that had induced Mrs. Bentham to give him the commission to decorate the ball-room, and it afforded him much pleasure to think that she was interested in him.

  The time at his disposal necessitated orders to Mr. Halet instead of to Mr. Johnson; but, his figure being perfectly proportioned, he was easy to fit, and the clothes, with a few alterations, almost satisfied him. He bought two suits of country clothes, short jackets and coloured trousers, to which he added a velvet coat for painting in. Dress clothes were indispensable, and these, at least, he would have liked to have had from a first-class tailor, but it was not possible — he had to start the following day. Having to buy everything, from a portmanteau to a tooth-brush, he had not a minute to spare, and every now and then, when he had fancied he had ordered all he would require, he found himself obliged to start off again to buy some pocket-handkerchiefs, collars, or silk socks. Instinctively he was attracted by what was soft and delicate. Some silk shirts with cords tempted him so much that ho was restless until he possessed them.

  A great deal of money was also spent in scent, powder, nail-polishers. Although he had had but little opportunity in his life of becoming acquainted with such luxuries, he divined their uses as if by instinct, and his white, feminine hands as they strayed over the shop counters seemed to love the touch of all things connected with the toilette-table.

  Yet, notwithstanding his occupations, he found time to inquire again at the shop in Regent Street after Gwynnie. She had not returned, nor had her friend, and Lewis went away, wondering what was the reason of this disappearance.

  He felt that he ought to take more trouble to find her, but he assured himself that he hadn’t the time, his hours were numbered. Of course it was very unfortunate, it seemed perfectly abominable to go away without seeing her; but then, what was he to do? Over and over again he asked himself the question. At last he resolved to write her a letter.

  In his excited state, it was a matter of no small difficulty to explain satisfactorily the story of his luck, to express fear for her safety, and abuse her affectionately for having gone away without leaving him word to say where she had gone to. Lewis found the letter horribly difficult to write; he often felt inclined to throw it aside, but he struggled on to the end, and he finished it just before he had to start to catch the three o’clock train.

  As he drove away, Mrs. Cross stood at the door and followed the hansom with her eyes.

  “I am sure, ‘Arry, that young gentleman was someone great, or will become someone great.”

  ‘Arry did not answer; he went on arranging the jugs and basins and tin saucepans in his window, so as to attract his customers, evidently thinking that his wife’s prediction did not call for reply.

  Dinah, however, left off teasing the yellow cat, and hiding her golden curls in her mother’s coarse apron began to cry.

  CHAPTER VII.

  LEWIS SEYMOUR’S EARLY LIFE.

  BEHIND HIS MOTHER’S death, Lewis’s early life extended like a wide grey cloud. In the hurry and trouble of London life he “had forgotten the past, but as he leaned back in the comfort of a first-class carriage, he complacently amused himself by picking out some portions of the obliterated picture. In’43 his father, whom he just remembered, had been appointed dispensary doctor, in the little town of Santry. He had been elected in the face of much opposition, for an inkling of his gravity and sternness had got wind, and the inhabitants of Santry disliked above all things an unsociable doctor. The women worked heaven and earth against him; but his splendid testimonials for hospital service carried the day against his rival’s reputation for dancing and croquet playing.

  On his arrival at Santry, Mr. Seymour took a house, built a laboratory, declined an invitation to a dance.

  This curious behaviour excited much comment; and as the days went by, the good people of Santry came to the conclusion that Mr. Seymour in no way belied the character that had preceded him. He was found to be an excellent doctor, but he did not care for society. He neither drank nor gambled, but he lived, as a wag said, buried in a lot of saucepans. In other words, Mr. Seymour was a chemist, and for his favourite pursuit he neglected everything except his patients. The townspeople used to say, when the thick smoke issuing from the chimney of his laboratory attracted their notice, that Seymour was burning away hundreds of pounds in his crucibles. But what ha spent or saved was problematic. He took no one into his confidence; he lived in himself, avoiding as much as possible the garrulous society of the place. He paid his visits, took his fees, and shirked dancing and dinner parties.

  This continued for years, until one day the smoke ceased to issue from the tall chimney, and then the doctor manifested a desire to become more cordial.

  The society of Santry hailed this conversion with delight, and the matrons soon discovered that Mr. Seymour was on the look out for a wife. The young girls made faces when their mammas spoke of him; he was far too serious for their tastes, but they were overruled by their elders.

  For two months everyone was on the tiptoe of expectation, and it was then perceived that the doctor’s choice had fallen on Miss Oyler, the daughter of a rich corn merchant.

  May Oyler was a soft, fair girl, with a receding chin. She liked her father’s clerk far better than the doctor; and when it was found out that Mr. Seymour had spent several thousands in chemicals, and that it would take more than half her fortune to pay off these debts, she hoped ardently that this would suffice to break off the engagement. But Mr. Seymour’s practice was large; for, notwithstanding his unsociable disposition, his undoubted abilities had enabled him to maintain the position of fashionable doctor. Mr. Oyler was, therefore, ready to consent to anything, provided Mr. Seymour promised to give up chemistry.

  This was agreed upon, and May Oyler became Mrs. Seymour.

  For a year Mr. Seymour tried to do his duty, tried to be affectionate to his wife, tried to bring his nature down to hers; for a year he went with her into society, and let her receive the friends she liked. Had she possessed a little resolution, she might have easily weaned him from his vice; but, unfortunately, her nature was so tepid, so incapable of an effort, that to escape from the horrible ennui of her company he soon began to pay fugitive visits to his laboratory.

  Mrs. Seymour cried meekly in secret, she went to church to pray, and that was all she did or could do.

  Lewis was the only child born of this ill-sorted match. He was his mother’s darling, but his beautiful blue eyes had in them a silly look, which horrified the father. The mother’s dullness seemed to have fallen on the son, and Mr. Seymour shut himself up more than ever in his studies. What Mr. Seymour’s studies were no one ever knew exactly.

  Dr. Brown, who was the only person who could boast of much
intimacy with Mr. Seymour, said that he believed in the future of electricity, and was making experiments with that view.

  “A very able man indeed, but something of a dreamer,” Doctor Brown often said. Had he finished his remarks there he would have been saved regret, but, on being pressed for details, he added that Mr. Seymour had declared electricity to be the modern god that would revolutionise the world. Everybody was shocked. A suspicion of atheism was all that was wanted, and imperceptibly Mr. Seymour’s practice slipped away from him.

  Writs came down from London, but Mr. Seymour paid no attention, he continued to work harder than ever in his laboratory, and the smoke poured more lustily than ever out of the tall chimney. Some said that he was on the eve of a successful experiment; and they were not wrong: on the day the bailiffs came to seize he was found dead: the jury returned a verdict of accidental death from an overdose of chloral, but it was generally supposed he had committed suicide.

  Mrs. Seymour’s whole fortune on her husband’s death consisted in an interest to the extent of two hundred pounds a year in her father’s corn business, which, the old man being now dead, was now carried on by her brother.

  On this modest competence she determined, not only to live, but if possible to save money. She took a very small house at the end of the town, and devoted the rest of her wretched life to her son’s welfare.

  Mother and son lived quite alone, seeing nobody but a few relations. Mr. Seymour’s suspected atheistical opinions and manner of life had alienated them during his lifetime from the society of the place, and now she felt herself incapable of making new friends: those of her youth were dispersed.

  Poverty also lent its hand to complete Mrs. Seymour’s isolation, but she did not complain, she accepted life as it came.

  Lewis grew up by her side a shy, timid lad. She taught him how to read and write, and what she remembered of French. But she did not succeed very well, and the silent tears would often stream down her cheeks on to the books. Her only consolation, and it was a supreme one, was that her son seemed to be content to be with her.