Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  Everyone was at their ease, and a murmur of intimate voices rippled through the sleeping shadows of the firs. Mr. Vyner watched his daughter, who still held fast to Sir John.

  Mrs. Bentham was surrounded by her guests; she tried to listen to what they were saying, but she was visibly a little pre-occupied; every now and then she looked in the direction where Lewis was sitting with Lady Helen. They had now been talking for some time together, and had done with the generalities and common-places with which we are all forced to open our conversations, and were now eagerly discussing their sympathies and antipathies. Lewis was lost in admiration. If Mrs. Bentham had appealed to him as a vision of comforting love, Lady Helen enchanted him like a beautiful poem of exquisite whiteness and rhythmical grace.

  One was like a perfectly served dinner in a perfectly appointed dining-room, full of silver, fruit, and bordeaux; the other was like the ecstacy of the dance, when the scent of flowers and hair mingle and sing an odorous accompaniment to the languorous melody of the waltz.

  Lewis spoke to Lady Helen of his artistic aspirations, and his idealization of materialism awoke many unknown sentiments in her heart. It was the first time in her life she had met with anyone whose ideas did not seem to her coarse and vulgar, and in talking to him she fancied she saw her own soul reflected in the mirror of his mind.

  Lady Helen was as wayward a young lady as it is possible to imagine. From her earliest childhood the love of the bizarre was, as it were, the subsoil of her thoughts. She used to choose her dolls rather on account of their strangeness than their prettiness, and they became endeared to her in proportion as the other children did not like them. She loved people whose peculiarities singled them out from the rest, and she ever felt impelled to say unexpected things, things that would startle if they did not annoy those around her. These fancies developed and took a firmer hold of her as she grew up. She hated all that was ordinary, and preferred an equivocal success to straightforward admiration. Although only nineteen, her great beauty had won for her two proposals, which she declined, for no reasons, at least none that were intelligible to Lady Granderville.

  To her the idea of accepting the position she had been born to, and fulfilling the duties of wife and mother, was utterly distasteful. Unlike Mrs. Bentham, who was as fitted to bear as she was to love children, Lady Helen saw few joys in domesticity, and had little sympathy for the traffic in maternity. To be married and deprived of children might have rendered her unhappy; yet she wished for freedom, to be or not to be a mother as she pleased. She sighed for love, perhaps, as ardently as Mrs. Bentham, but whilst the latter knew instinctively what she desired and what would complete her happiness, Lady Helen lost herself in vague conjectures, in strange oceans of sentiment, where the islands of delight floated and disappeared in a thousand indescribable ways, sometimes enwrapped in the hundred hued golden sunset of desire, sometimes bathed and veiled in the rosy mists of poetical imaginings.

  Mrs. Bentham felt, Lady Helen judged, or rather felt and judged simultaneously. She observed men when other women see but one, and if her first flirtations touched her heart, the later ones taught her how to recognise the lie that lurked in the compliment. But it was more the dry narrowness of the imagination than the falseness of the men she was surrounded with that discouraged her from striving to love them.

  She loved love for love’s own sake, and she knew that those who had proposed to her saw in it nothing but children, dinner parties, and a general settling down. Of the deep, womanly, trusting love, which was so distinctly a part of Mrs. Bentham’s nature, Lady Helen could feel nothing, and finding herself misunderstood by those around her, she turned to art for sympathy, and daily the desire for the correction of form grew stronger in her soul.

  She read all the poets with avidity; burned with the fire of yearning she soon began to seek for words, and in rhyme and metre sought to give expression to her aspirations. Her father read her sonnets with complacence, much to her mother’s annoyance, who thought that such tastes should not be encouraged in young girls.

  On all such occasions she would leave the room, declaring that she would interfere no more in her daughter’s education.

  It is therefore easy to understand how passionately and how suddenly Lady Helen was drawn towards Lewis.

  The very similitude there was between their natures completed the charm; for self-love being the basis of life, we love best a wavering image of ourselves. He was softer and feebler than she; but, otherwise, their natures were moulded much after the same fashion.

  They talked, conscious of nothing but each other. The sun sank momentarily lower in the sky, until the long fir branches no longer cast a shade over the seat where Lady Helen and Lewis were sitting.

  The match between Miss French and Miss Fanshaw was just going to begin, and the company crowded on to the terrace to see the play.

  To avoid the friends in whom she had no interest, and the rays of the sun which were stealing under her long fringed parasol, Lady Helen got up and walked through the pleasure grounds with Lewis.

  Lady Granderville watched her daughter, Mrs. Bentham her lover, and the two women’s faces told with what uneasiness they saw what was happening.

  Lady Helen’s position and beauty made her noticeable, and there was a movement among the girls; they exchanged glances, and tried to express in looks what they intended to discuss minutely afterwards; Lord Senton looked foolishly annoyed, and tried to make love to Mrs. Bentham.

  Instinctively seeking solitude, Lewis and Lady Helen took the walk that led towards the river.

  The woods were intersected with gravel walks, and under the bright boughs floated a deep sea-like silence.

  On every slope the flowering rhododendrons filled the air with colour, and overhead the screening leaves were sprinkled with the azure of the sky.

  Lady Helen spoke to him of her poetry, and of her interest in art, until they slipped into the theme, the oldest and most common-place, yet ever the most interesting between the sexes, the theme that every man must be able to discuss with esprit if he wishes to be liked by women.

  A turn brought them to the river; to a dreamy, calm place, where a large elm had fallen into the stream, and the beeches cast everywhere cool and diaphanous shadows. Without knowing why, she stopped, and, sitting on the elm, drew listlessly with her parasol on the ground. She felt as persuasively interested in him. She longed to know who he was, what his past had been, how he had lived; she wished to penetrate into his most private life, into his most secret thoughts; and the young girl now felt an irresistible desire to ask him if he had ever been in love. At last, mustering up courage, she said:

  “From the way you speak, Mr. Seymour, one would think that you could not live without love.”

  “Is that extraordinary? We must live on the hope of being loved, or the memory of having been loved; for, after all, it is the only interesting part of life; the rest counts for little.”

  “And do you look forwards, or backwards?”

  “If you knew what my life has been, you could not ask me. As yet I have only dreamed, hoping that some day I might be able to realise my dream.”

  The words were uttered in a half melancholy way, which gave to them, above their meaning, that charm of regretful sadness so dear to youthful hearts. And yet they were not calculated; Lewis said to Lady Helen what we would have said to a hundred other women; he could not speak otherwise; the delicate rose-coloured sentiment contained in the words was the essence of his whole soul.

  For a moment neither spoke, and their emotion was akin to the soft silence and light summer shade that floated around them. But had they looked up they would have seen that they were watched. Mrs. Bentham, pale as death, stood in the pathway by a large laurel. Her hands plucked nervously at the shining leaves, and the expression of her eyes grew fixed in its intensity. The meaning of her gaze and her attitude could not be mistaken, her very heart was laid bare in its jealous agony. But the possibility that the two by the river side
might raise their eyes, and see her where she stood, never once crossed her mind. Perhaps it was her bitterest pang that she had no fear that they would think of her.

  She was like an animal robbed of its young. She saw the lamb that she had found starving on the hill side, that she had taken home and fed, about to be stolen from her, and she writhed in angry despair beneath the cruel injustice. Why should Lady Helen, with all the world to choose from, rob her who had so little? For it was robbery; he was hers; she loved him. Out of the vague sweet sentiment that had filled her heart during the summer days which she had spent with him, was crushed the concentrated strength of a life’s passion. She saw that in him lay her present and her future, that without him there could be nothing for her. And it was doubly cruel that she was not a free woman, that she could not even enter the lists on equal terms with the girl who was drawing him away.

  The sound of approaching footsteps aroused her. She turned hastily and encountered Mrs. Thorpe, who, struck with her frightened face, asked her what was the matter.

  “Oh, nothing, you only startled me,” she said, with difficulty, “you came so suddenly round the turn.”

  “Then I beg your pardon,” Mrs. Thorpe answered, smiling; “but Lady Marion is looking everywhere for Lady Helen; have you seen her!”

  “No, I have not;” and Mrs. Bentham, anxious to conceal her trouble, took her friend’s arm to return to the house. But they had not taken half-a-dozen steps before all such anxiety vanished in the feeling that to leave the pair together was unendurable, impossible.

  “She might be walking by the river with someone,” she exclaimed, turning back; “since we are here perhaps we had better make sure.”

  The two women had not gone many yards down the pathway when the lovers, hearing their footsteps, looked up; Lewis was embarrassed, he felt he had been guilty of an indiscretion, and Lady Helen’s white face flushed red — she looked at Mrs. Bentham.

  Nature had not made them rivals. Under ordinary circumstances they could not have been matched against each other. One was a delicate lily, the other was a sumptuous poppy.

  Lady Helen was annoyed when she heard that her mother was waiting for her; she knew that it meant not only a lecture but a struggle as to whether she should choose, or let her mother choose for her, and she was determined she would have her way. Lewis interested her as no other man had, and her febrile and excitable nature allowed her to think of nothing but the immediate gratification of her fancies. She had been interrupted in an interesting part of her conversation; she would have liked to have walked up the pathway with Lewis, but to her vexation he lagged a little behind with Mrs. Bentham, and Mrs. Thorpe began a series of questions and remarks that forced her to keep in advance.

  Lewis and Mrs. Bentham went slowly up the rhododendron covered slopes together. The evening air tasted of flowers and fruit, and the pearly laughs of several nightingales rippled over the tepid silence of the woods. But the delights of the evening affected not Mrs. Bentham; her mind was occupied by one burning thought: was she going to keep or lose her lover?

  Stopping suddenly as they approached the terrace, she said: “I suppose you admire her very much; have you been making love to her?”

  “We were only talking about painting and poetry; she writes poetry, and wanted to know my opinion,” he answered timidly, “and she said she would like to have some lessons in painting.”

  “Then give her the lessons she wants; you’ll have plenty of time, for I don’t think I shall take any more of you.”

  Lewis trembled with fear; he saw how he had jeopardised his future, and his dirty garret loomed before his eyes. Speaking like a child, he said:

  “I don’t love her at all; you know I love you, and only you.” The words fell on Mrs. Bentham’s ears as softly as dew on a flower, and her eyes grow full of tenderness. Perceiving his advantage, Lewis continued more confidently:

  “Besides how could you suspect me of caring for her. we admire a lily, but we love a rose.”

  Instinctively she leaned towards him, and, carried away by her passion, he took her hands into his. She remembered not in the intoxication of the moment how she was compromising herself, how near they were to the tennis ground; for an instant they stood looking into the vaporous langours of each other’s eyes. She bent her face and would have kissed him, but a sound of footsteps startled them: Lewis had only just time to let go her hands when Mrs. Thorpe appeared. After having left Lady Helen with her mother, she had returned to ask if any one had been asked to stay to dinner; the cook wanted to know. Mrs. Bentham said she had asked no one, then the three walked up to the terrace, Mrs. Bentham thoughtfully, Lewis mortified at the interruption, but visibly elated at his success.

  Everybody was collected round the tennis court watching the match. On a vast plain of gold sky, the group came out in black, like a huge picture painted in silhouette.

  Lewis and the two ladies stopped as they left the wood, to gaze on the flaming garden of colours that stretched along the horizon. In the valley below, reflecting all the stillness of the reeds, the river glided like a white dream between the two hills, through the glittering reaches down to the shimmering sea. Drowned little by little in a bath of gold, the sun sank, and rays went up on every side, piercing some fluffy white clouds high up in the blue immensity, deluging the landscape with light, awakening the half-sleeping insects, and revealing every outline of the distant trees which stood against the sky.

  But the sunset was lost sight of in the superior excitement of the tennis match. Every stroke was watched with almost breathless interest. Miss Fanshaw had won the first set easily; for the second there had been a fight, but Miss French had got it in the end; in the third set Miss Fanshaw was five games to Miss French’s four. The play on both sides had been magnificent, but fatigue was beginning to tell on Miss French. Her hair had fallen down her back; her face was streaming with perspiration; Miss Fanshaw had run her about the court a great deal. Still, she was a plucky girl, and was determined to win the bracelet. Throwing the ball in the air, she raised herself high on her toes, and hit it with all the force of her body. It cleared the net by about six inches, and came down upon Miss Fanshaw like lightning; she missed it, and, amid much applause, the marker called the game, “forty all, deuce.”

  Crossing to the right-hand court, Miss French made a still better serve, the ball went sliding out of the corner of the court; it was impossible to get at it: vantage, Miss French. As she crossed over to the left, her brothers whispered words of encouragement; but she looked very weak and tired; it was impossible she could last much longer. The excitement as she prepared to serve the third time was intense. Even Lady Marion grew interested, and attempted to explain the game to Lewis, who, to escape from Lady Helen, had taken refuge at her side. Mrs. Bentham tried to listen to Lord Senton’s platitudes, but she heard and saw scarcely anything, so filled was her mind with the memory of Lewis’s eyes, and the pressure of his hands.

  Miss French’s next serve did not come off so successfully as the last two; she banged it into the net, and had therefore to lob it over the second time. Miss Fanshaw very cleverly cut it down the lines, and it was only by a tremendous run that Miss French reached it; she returned it but feebly, and Miss Fanshaw volleyed it, and gave her another run; still she managed to get it up; this time Miss Fanshaw very nearly missed it: she hit it with the wood of her racquet, and it only just went over and dropped under the net, and Miss French killed it easily. They were now five all, and would have to play deuce and vantage games: this was against Miss French, who was terribly done up.

  The sun had now slipped below the horizon: two large bands of purple-backed and crimson-bellied clouds stole forward from both sides, and the yellow evening faded to a dim russet colour. The rays that still played about the fantastic outlines of the rocks and cliffs of the further hills grew fainter, and at last the last light went out on the highest point, leaving the shadows to work their will.

  Blue mists trailed up the va
lley from the sea, and the trees that crowned the summit of the hill facing the terrace, became a mass of violet colour seen against a background of cold crimson clouds.

  There would be but another half hour of light, but to finish the match only five minutes were required. Miss Fanshaw had won the vantage game, and the score was “love, thirty.” Miss French could no longer serve, she trembled as she walked across the court, and her face was perfectly haggard; it was clear she must soon give way. Her mother was whining that poor Fanny looked tired, that she was afraid she would be laid up; but Mr. French, a fat, country squire, said that that was of no consequence, and, calling on her to play up, he offered to bet au even fiver on the result.

  In the left hand corner she made two faults, and her father and brothers, who were all standing together, swore simultaneously under their breath. It was now a hundred to one against her, but she still fought on with the tenacity of a bull-dog.

  She scored the next point with a serve and the next with a splendid return, and the marker called the game “thirty, forty.” Could she pull off the next point they would be at “deuce.” She threw the ball high, and, raising herself with her last shred of strength, she hit it with a straight bat, but unfortunately, it was a fault; then, trembling for fear, she lobbed the ball timidly it fell into the net. There was a great pause; the lookers on would have liked it to have ended in a tremendous rally and not in this somewhat ignoble fashion. But nevertheless, it was all over: the bracelet was lost and won.

  Loud applause went up through the still air, and, deadly pale, Miss French walked over to her father and mother. Her head seemed empty, and she realised nothing definitely. Had she not been so terribly exhausted, she would probably have burst out crying, for she had set her heart on the championship. Her father looked awfully cut up, and her brother began to abuse her for having made so many faults, but she neither saw nor heard; her eyes grew full of mist, the ground seemed to slide away from under her feet. She struggled for an instant, and then fell in a dead swoon into her father’s arms.