Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  “Oh, do wait, aunt, for this one waltz,” she asked, pleadingly. Lady Marion was too much a woman of the world to accede to this request, and notwithstanding a weak protest from Mrs. Bentham, she insisted upon going.

  Mrs. Bentham felt a little sick when she had to take Lady Helen’s hand and smile, as the latter thanked her, and told her how she had enjoyed the ball, but she did so, and flinched but very little.

  Lord Senton asked her for a waltz, she refused him, for fear Lewis should fancy she did so from jealousy, but a few moments after she accepted an almost total stranger; it cost her a fearful effort, but she did it.

  Then she sat for a long weary hour, watching patiently the whirling of white ankles and shuffling of glazed shoes.

  There were the Misses Davidson still smiling in their partner’s faces. Forgetful of Lewis, Mrs. Liston was dancing outrageously with Mr. Ripple, while her husband, his head on his hand, pondered on the domestic life of the ancient Egyptians. Lord Senton was dancing with a tall woman who aspired to rank as a professional beauty. Then came Miss French with a lord, Mr. Day with Miss Fanshaw, and Lady Archer with her husband, much to the delight of Mr. Vyner, who watched them from the doorway.

  An interminable confusion of bright faces, and clear dresses stained over with black coats, swayed to the music, and Mrs. Bentham watched them with bitter curiosity. She saw them vaguely, like figures dancing in a dream, a blonde and rosy show of puppets acting in merciless pantomime the futility and vanity of human things.

  She hated them no more; she watched them dreamily, her ears deaf, and her eyes blinded with grief, and bade them goodbye from time to time like a queen in a play.

  Couples one after the other came up with a murmur of mincing words, took their farewells, and the scene seemed to grow more than ever like a stage where a troupe of marionettes, beautiful, rosy, chubby-cheeked, delightful in their silk and velvet dresses and large scarfs tied into puffed-out bows, mockingly made their exits.

  Then, when they were all gone, she walked with her old friend through the wide reception rooms where the servants were turning out the gas. The musicians had departed; the flowers were withered; a petal here and there, and a bit of torn lace, were all that remained.

  The ball-room looked wretched in the white morning light; it was as blank as her own life, of which it was a perfect allegory. Both had been filled with love, rapture, and delight, and both were now hollow, weary and deserted.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  FAREWELLS.

  DURING THE NEXT two days Mrs. Bentham won and lost many a mental battle. For two days and nights the struggle continued. It was fought here and there, in the sunny valleys of the past, and along the mist-laden slopes of the hills of the future. The ardours of determination and the lassitudes of hesitations followed each other consecutively, and each brought its tribute of tumult and pain. But at last she came out of the struggle triumphant, and on the third day wrote to Lewis asking him to wait at home, that she would call to see him about two.

  The letter frightened him. He asked himself what it meant. He had received a hundred from her of the same kind, but in this there was an acid suspicion of curtness which he could not define. He turned the letter over and over with many feelings of apprehension.

  Twice he had seen Lady Helen since the ball, and they were now formally engaged. Lewis would have willingly let matters stand over, have let their engagement remain a secret, but Lady Helen would not hear of it, and insisted that Lady Marion should be consulted at once; but that he need not be alarmed, for that nothing would induce her (Lady Helen) to give him up.

  On that score he had no fear; but there were many other considerations to be taken into account, and Mrs. Bentham’s letter perplexed him strangely. Was it possible she had heard of his engagement? If so, what was he to say to her? Would it be better to deny it or admit it boldly, he asked himself over-and over again.

  Lady Helen had told him that she would be in the park about one, with Lady Marion, and it was arranged between the lovers that her advice should be asked. She was, as Lady Helen said, the best person to break the news to Lord and Lady Grauderville. It was most important that this matter should be decided. Which assignation was he to keep? He was clearly on the horns of a dilemma. As usual, after much hesitation, he chose the middle course. He told his servant to explain to Mrs. Bentham, if she called before he came back, that he had been obliged to go out on important business; to ask her to wait; and to assure her that he would not be more than a few minutes.

  The servant was perfectly trained to such commissions, and when Mrs. Bentham called she was shown into the studio, with many protestations of regret, and assurances that Mr. Seymour would be back directly; that she would not have to wait above three minutes.

  Mrs. Bentham was not sorry that Lewis was away, for the interval would give her time to compose her thoughts, to dream a little. It was a bright day at the end of April, and the sunlight glinted on the rose curtains that hid the staircase. Overhead, even the dead flowers in the urns seemed to bend towards the light, and the stove simmered and breathed a dreamy warmth through the room.

  She looked at a picture of herself; she thought of the pleasant talks that had beguiled away the sittings: strange it was to think that she would never sit to him again. There was a picture of some gleaners he had painted at Claremont House: she remembered how they had quarrelled over one of the figures, and how, at last, he had taken her advice and changed it: he would never take her advice any more.

  She was dressed quite unaffectedly, in a brown skirt, with a black lace mantle; and the autumn of her beauty still presented many bright flowers of forgotten springs and ardent richnesses of summer.

  And without deploring her folly at having sacrificed herself to the honour of a false god, she humbly abandoned herself to the contemplation of the past.

  It rose before her eyes like haze on the sunsets line: she let herself drift from reminiscence to reminiscence; and, in the irresolute tenderness of her grief, her memories grew bright, faded, and passed like shadows away.

  On a guéridon next her hand lay her work-basket. Mechanically she took up her embroidery, but dropped it with a feeling of repulsion; the slippers begun must remain unfinished. The book she was reading lay there too, but with half its leaves uncut.

  On the carved cabinet, which reared its slender height against the opposite wall, lay a handkerchief he had taken from her on account of the scent; she took it up but threw it aside, the perfume had evaporated; she looked into the mirror, but it preserved none of the smiles of old days: under the shadow of the curtains she saw the arum lily she had sent him slowly dying in its vase.

  In the meanwhile Lewis was having a very pleasant time in the park. When Lady Helen looked at him, her eyes beamed with love, and it was like drinking exquisite wine to see the faint shadows fall over her white skin, and watch the light filling with pale flames the saffron-coloured hair.

  For a moment he felt he could sacrifice much, if not everything, for her.

  The air was delicious to breathe; the sunlight came streaming through the green leaves, and the cavalcades cantered till lost in a cloud of sunlit dust over the brow of the hill.

  They watched with an exalted sense of delight, and they dreamed of plunging, locked in each other’s arms, and bathing together in the seductive ocean of fashion and elegance.

  They dreamt of parties, balls, triumphs, admiration shared together; and then of the quiet half-hour when, in a narrow brougham, pressed close together in the darkness rendered uncertain by the passing light of the gas-lamps, a tired face would abandon itself to the soliciting shoulder.

  Everything had conspired to make them happy; Lady Marion met some friends, and they profited by the circumstance to walk on in front, and they talked just as if they had been alone. Nothing could have been more charming or delightful; their only trouble was how to announce their engagement to Lady Marion. Lewis declined the responsibility. Whereupon Lady Helen declared she did not care
what anyone said, that she was her own mistress; that parents always had to give way if the lovers were only sufficiently determined.

  Lewis listened, amazed at her impetuosity, but without attempting to oppose it; and as they walked home Lady Helen told her aunt, bluntly, that she was engaged to Mr. Seymour, and that she would like her to write to her father and mother.

  Lady Marion said she was never more surprised at anything in her life; which was in all probability the truth. She said Lord Granderville would not hear of it; and advised them to break it off. Lady Helen indignantly asked her why, and this provoked a discussion of love and talent versus prejudice, in which Lewis took no part, but waited patiently for an occasion to take his leave.

  Lady Helen was a little angry with him for his want of pluck in defending himself; but he afterwards explained that he had been placed in a very delicate position.

  The truth of it was, that much as he admired Lady Helen, he could not help thinking she was a little rash, not to say unreasonable; for supposing Lord Granderville refused to make her an allowance, frankly, he did not see how they were going to manage. Besides, he could not forget that, once he was married, women would cease to occupy themselves about him; and such successes had become so dear to him, that he feared their loss would make a great blank in his life. On the other hand, he remembered that he would probably never get such a chance again. Never had he seen anyone who so entirely came up to his ideal, and he had no doubt that if Lord Granderville would only give her a proper allowance, he should be very happy, and love her to the end of her days.

  So Lewis thought, and in a very hesitating frame of mind he went to meet Mrs. Bentham.

  Apologising for having kept her waiting, in an affectionate but somewhat self-sufficient way, he sat down next her, and explained that he had been obliged to go to the park to meet Mr. Ripple, who —

  Mrs. Bentham laid her hand on his arm, and said, very gently:

  “To see Lady Helen.”

  Lewis could never command his face, it always betrayed him, but he could nevertheless tell a lie, and he answered, quickly:

  “No, no, ‘pon my word; what makes you think so? I really went to meet Ripple, who—”

  Mrs. Bentham again interrupted him: it pained her to hear him lie, and she said:

  “No, don’t say so; I know the truth.”

  Seeing from her manner that it was useless to attempt to deceive her, he tried to swagger.

  “Well, supposing I did, what of it? I suppose I am free to speak to her if I like?”

  “Of course you are, Lewis, and it was on that subject I came to talk with you. I noticed at the ball that you seemed to like each other very much, and — and—” here her voice slightly trembled—” I have been since thinking about it, and have come to the conclusion that you should marry her. You will not be able to make a better match, and I am sure I shall be glad to help you in any way I can.”

  Lewis had little taste for the unknown; and the idea of leaving a life of pleasantness and comfort gave him a little uneasiness. It was all very well to think that Lady Helen was his ideal, but if he hadn’t the money to marry her he didn’t see what he was to do. Of course she was far handsomer than Lucy, that was beyond question, but then beauty was not everything. Lucy knew his ways, and ho knew hers; they could guess each other’s thoughts; they had so many interests in common. She understood pictures, and Helen, although she was not wanting in taste, made stupid mistakes; he had caught her in one yesterday; and after all, if Lord Granderville didn’t consent he would have lost both; and that was about the long and short of it.

  A hundred such thoughts, mixed up with many pleasant memories, flickered through his mind; under their impulse he began to grow sentimental, and to think that this brusque separation was a great mistake.

  “No, no, Lucy,” he said, taking her hands; “why cannot we remain friends! You know I love you better than anyone in the world. I owe you everything; it was you who took me out of poverty where I might have died; it was you who spurred me on to work; you gave me all my dreams, my thoughts, all sentiment of life and death; I have become a part of you.”

  He held her hands and looked beseechingly into her face.. Mrs. Bentham felt her throat grow dry, and a weakness come over her. She had great difficulty in not giving way, for although she knew how cowardly and vacillating he was, she could not bring herself to admit that her whole life had been no more than one wretched mistake. She trembled a moment, both morally and physically, but gathering up her strength, she said:

  “We have been very happy together; but we have all duties to perform, and this is one of yours.”

  “To say good-bye?”

  “Yes, even so; but I hope that we shall always remain the best and sincerest friends; we shall not see so much of each other, that will be all.”

  The impressions of the moment were always the strongest with Lewis; and, sincere as he was when making love to Lady Helen, he was equally so now.

  “I gave what love I had to give,” he said, his clear girl-like eyes filling with tears; “I have no more.”

  “My dear Lewis,” replied Mrs. Bentham, almost choking with emotion, “I am to-day your mother; my only desire in life is to assist you towards success and happiness in life, and for this end we must say good-bye. I bring you back your letters, will you give me mine?”

  Looking utterly wretched, and too weak to cope with the intensity of the scene, Lewis pleaded to be allowed to keep the letters as a link to bind him to the past. The demand assuaged Mrs. Bentham’s bitterness a little, although, in her heart of hearts, she knew that he could appreciate no memory, and that the letters would lie in a dusty drawer, uncared for, though he might never find the moral courage to burn them.

  “Old letters read distastefully,” she answered, sadly; “I read some yesterday. You had better give them to me.”

  After a little more argument, he gave her all he could find; there were two large packets.

  She looked at them, and tenderly turned them over; they extended back over many years; some were quite faded, others were crisp and new.

  She was sublimely sad, and the modern dress seemed to add to rather than take away from the poetry of the subject.

  Her feet rested on the fender of the stove that, simmering slowly, burnt itself out in the April sunlight, and her hands, in their long gloves, pensively turned over the letters, the mute witnesses of the past She had intended to burn them, to watch the flames devouring each leaf, to read a word here and there whilst they turned from red to black, and faded to senseless ashes; but even this last sad pleasure was denied her. She hesitated a long while, for in the situation there was something at once ludicrous and sinister; it was one of those miserable incidents which degrade without relieving the tragedy of our lives.

  Mrs. Bentham still waited a moment, but at last, conquering her fancies, she got up, and pushed the whole heap of letters, as they lay about her lap, into the smoking stove.

  “Oh, Lucy, how can you!” cried Lewis, interposing.

  “What matter here or elsewhere?” she said, bitterly, picking a letter or two from the ground, and throwing them violently after the others.

  Then she bade him good-bye, but when their eyes met she could contain herself no more, and burst into a passionate flood of tears.

  He held her hand, but she disengaged herself, and, begging of him not to follow, hurried away. He stood for a moment looking after her, unable to realise the situation. He opened the door of the black stove, but an immense cloud of smoke forced him to shut it. Then, like one awakened from a narcotic-produced sleep, he threw himself on the sofa, and lay staring into the past and future which stretched around him, sullen and lead-coloured, like the long reaches of a stagnating mere.

  CHAPTER XXII.

  ENGAGED.

  POOR LADY MARION found herself in a serious dilemma.

  Her wilful niece would not even listen to her proposals for an armistice, the terms of which were these: That she, Lady Hele
n, was not to see or hold communication with Lewis until Lord and Lady Granderville had been communicated with. Pleadingly, Lady Marion begged hard for this cessation of love-making. She explained the difficulties of her position. She had undertaken the responsibility of chaperone, and what would Lady Granderville say? She would never forgive either of them.

  Lady Granderville had always had a reputation for being practical; Lady Marion for being sentimental; and the latter felt sure she would have to bear till the end of her days the blame of the adventure. However, there was nothing to do but to write to her sister, and give her a precise account of what had happened.

  The lettter was a painful one to write. There were many facts that had to be accurately stated, and Lady Marion found that her knowledge on all points was of the meagrest description.

  All she knew of Lewis Seymour was that he was a very handsome, gentlemanly young man, whose pictures were always hung in the Academy, and that he was supposed to be making money.

  Mrs. Bentham, who was frequently called in to give testimony, declared that she believed it to be a well-established fact, that Lewis made between fifteen hundred and two thousand a year; but when questioned about his family, her responses grew more vague. She thought she was acquainted with his past life, down to the smallest detail. During the last five years they had talked it over scores of times, but when it came to putting her knowledge into distinct statement, it surprised her to find how little she really knew.

  Lady Marion thought the whole matter very strange: but at length, half convinced by Lady Helens protestations that everything was perfectly clear, she composed a letter, carefully limiting herself to the general facts. But this did not in the least satisfy Lady Helen, who insisted on embellishing it, with many turns of fancy. Lady Marion protested, and each amendment provoked interminable discussions.

  But a letter had to be sent, and at once; for Lady Helen would undertake to do no more than to give her mother and father a reasonable time to send a satisfactory reply. As for refusing to see Lewis, she declared she could not think of any such cruel arrangement; and as for being influenced by her mother, that was impossible.