by George Moore
“You know those stables on the Portslade Road where the veterinary surgeon used to live? I am going to take that place. The rent is three hundred pounds a year; there are fifty acres of pasture, and stabling for thirty horses. The dwelling-house is not a very aristocratic-looking place, but it will do for the present; when I begin to make money I shall go in for alterations. You can’t do everything at once.”
“You do astonish me. And where are you going to get the money to do all this? You will require at least twenty thousand pounds capital.”
“More than that. You would not be able to work a place like that under twenty-five thousand pounds,” Willy replied sententiously. “I have got about eight thousand left of my own, and I came in for a legacy of three thousand at the beginning of this year — an aunt of mine left me the money; and my father has agreed to let me have fourteen thousand on condition of my abandoning all further claim upon him. The bulk of his fortune will now be divided among my sisters. Berkins advised him to accept my offer.”
“I should think so indeed; your father is worth ten thousand a year.”
“No, nothing like that. His business has been going down for years past. Last year he lost heavily again; if it weren’t for his investments he wouldn’t be able to go on with it. The business is done for; I knew that long ago. My father and I could never agree about how the accounts should be kept. That head clerk of his is an awful duffer.”
“Yes, but what are you going to do with the shop?”
“The shop was the origin of it all. If it hadn’t been for the shop I dare say I never should have thought of the race-horses. My father and I could never work together. I offered to buy his surplus fruit and vegetables, and, without absolutely binding myself to deal with no one else, I had assured him of my chief custom. Naturally I expected something in return — I expected him to let me have peaches in April and strawberries in March. You cannot do this without using a good deal of heating power. I spoke to the gardener several times. Often when I went into the houses I found the pipes nearly cold. I got tired of this, and I paid a man out of my own pocket to keep the furnaces properly stoked, and — would you believe it? — my father actually raised objections — objected to my paying a man to look after his glass-houses as they should be looked after. He said he would not order in any more coke, that I’d have to get along with what there was in the garden; he said he wished the shop at the devil. I saw it was hopeless. You cannot help my father, and he won’t help himself, so I threw the whole thing up.”
“And when are you going to start the new scheme?”
“Immediately. One of my reasons for accepting fourteen thousand pounds down as a settlement in full was because I was beginning to fear that he might get wind of my marriage. From one or two things I have heard lately, I have reason to suspect that the secret is beginning to ooze out, and I thought it might be as well to take time by the forelock.”
“And you told him? What did he say?”
“What people usually say when they criticise other people’s lives without knowing anything of their temptations and sufferings. But I want to tell you about my scheme. I have bought Blue Mantle, the winner of the Czarewitch, and only beaten by a length for the Cambridgeshire, a three-year-old, with eight stone on his back; a most unlucky horse — if he had been in the Leger or Derby he would have won one or both. He broke down when he was four years old. By King Tom out of Merry Agnes, by Newminster out of Molly Bawn.”
“I didn’t know you knew so much about racing.”
“I know more than you think. I don’t let out all I know.”
“And how much did you pay for Blue Mantle?”
“Dirt cheap. I can imagine myself two years hence, when my first batch of yearlings is put up for sale — 500, 650, 800, 1000, knocked down for 1000 guineas, brown colt by Blue Mantle out of Wild Rose, bred by William Brookes, Esq.”
“I don’t think money will come in quite so fast as that.”
“Perhaps not; but can’t you let a fellow enjoy himself? I never knew any one like you for throwing cold water. I believe you are jealous.”
“What nonsense!”
“Well, never mind. I shall be the deuce of a dog, see if I shan’t. I always like to kill two birds with one stone if I can, and my business will bring me into connection with the very best in the land. Unfortunately! my people don’t care about getting on; now I do. I like to know people who are better than myself — at all events, who are no worse. I shouldn’t be surprised if I were dining at Goodwood and Arundel before long. When I go up to town I shall be calling on Lady This and Lady That, and later on I might get in somewhere in the Conservative interest.”
“How long you may know a man, and then find you are mistaken in his character,” thought Frank. “So vanity is at the bottom of all these efforts to make money.”
“When are you coming to the Manor House?”
“Impossible. You know I can’t go there so long as your father—”
“Come in one afternoon; he’ll ask you to stay to dinner. He has forgotten all about it.”
“I cannot come to the Manor House until my engagement to your sister is sanctioned by him.”
“The way to get that is to come to the Manor House and talk him into it. For my part, I think, even from his point of view, that it would be better that he should recognise the engagement; nothing can be more damaging than these clandestine meetings.”
“What can I do? I will not give her up.”
“I never interfere. I have quite enough worries of my own. I must be getting home. It is very late. Good-bye.”
The green was as bright as day in the moonlight and Frank watched Willy walking, his shoulders thrown back. He sighed; an undefinable, but haunting melancholy hung about Willy; he often impressed Frank as an old book — a book whose text is trite — which no one will read, and which yet continues to make its mute appeal; a something that has always missed its way, that can hardly be said to be an adequate thing to offer for any man’s money, that will soon disappear somehow out of all sight and reckoning.
XV
A FEW DAYS after he got a letter from Lizzie, saying she was alone and ill, and asking him to come and see her. He took the next train to Brighton. The land-lady’s daughter, a girl of about twelve, opened the door to him.
“How is Miss Baker? Is she any better?”
“Please, sir, she is not at all well, she has cold shivers; and mother went away yesterday.”
“And who looks after Miss Baker?”
“Please, sir, I do.”
“You do! Is there no one else in the house?”
“No, sir.”
“Is Miss Baker in bed?”
“No, sir. She said she would get up a little while this afternoon, ‘cause she said she thought you was coming.”
“Go and tell her I am here.”
“Please, sir, she said you was to go upstairs — the back room on the second floor, please.”
“Come in.”
“I am so sorry you are ill, Lizzie. What is the matter?”
“I don’t know; I think I caught a severe chill. I stayed out very late on the beach.”
“But why are you crying? Do tell me. Can I do anything?”
“No no. What does it matter whether I laugh or cry? Nothing matters now. I don’t care what becomes of me.”
“A pretty girl like you; nonsense! Some one rich and grand will fall in love with you, and give you everything you want.”
“I don’t want any one to fall in love with me; I am done for — don’t care what becomes of me.”
“Do tell me about it. Have you heard anything further about him? Do tell me; don’t cry like that.”
“No, no, leave me, leave me! I am so miserable. I don’t know why I wrote to you. I hope I shall die.”
“It is very lucky you did write to me, for you are clearly very ill. What is the matter?”
“I don’t know; I can’t get warm. This room is very cold — don’t you th
ink so?”
“Cold? No.”
“I feel cold; my throat is very bad — perhaps I shall be better in the morning.”
“You must see a doctor.”
“Oh, no! I don’t want to see a doctor.”
“You must see a doctor.”
“No, no, I beg of you. I only wrote to you because I was feeling so miserable.”
Lizzie stood between him and the door, imploring him not to fetch a doctor, but to go away at once, and to tell no one she had written to him, or that he had been to see her. “Nothing matters now — I am ruined — I don’t care what becomes of me.” He marvelled; but soon all considerations were swept away in anxiety for her bodily health; and having extorted a promise from her that she would not leave the room until he came back, he rushed to the nearest chemist and hence to the doctor.
“I want you to come at once, if possible, and see a young lady who, I fear, is dangerously ill. She has not been in Brighton long. She is quite alone. She sent for me. I live at Southwick. I came out at once. I have known her a long time. I may say she is a great friend of mine. I found her very ill — I must say her condition seems to me alarming. I should like her to see a doctor at once. Can you come at once?”
“I am just finishing dinner. I will come in about ten minutes’ time. What is the address?”
“20 Preston Street. — I hope he does not think there is anything wrong,” thought Frank. “He look’s as if he did,” and with a view of removing suspicion, he said: “She is a young lady whom I have known for some years. We had lost sight of each other until we travelled down in the train together. I say this because I do not wish you to think there is anything wrong.”
“My good sir, I should not allow myself to have any opinions on the matter. I am summoned to attend a patient, and I give the best advice in my power.”
“Yes, but one can’t help forming opinions — a beautiful young girl living alone in lodgings, and having apparently for sole protector a young man, are circumstances that might be easily misconstrued, and as I am engaged to be married, I think it right to tell you exactly how I stand in relation to this young woman.”
The doctor bowed.
“Do you not think I did well in making this explanation?”
“It can do no harm; we medical men see so much that we take no notice of anything but our patient. But tell me something of this young lady’s suffering. Can you describe the symptoms?”
“She has a racking headache — she is shivering all over — she sits by the fire and cannot get warm. It looks to me as if it were fever.”
“Does she complain of her throat?”
“Yes; she cannot swallow.”
“Probably an attack of quinsy.”
“Is that dangerous?”
“No; but it is infectious.”
“I don’t mind about that — she is alone. I will see her through it.”
“I will go round to Preston Street immediately I have finished dinner — in about ten minutes or a quarter of an hour.”
When the doctor had seen Lizzie, he said to Frank, who accompanied him downstairs: “Just as I expected — quinsy. She will take from eight to ten days to get well. We have taken it in time, that’s one good thing. The throat is very bad. She must have a linseed poultice, and she must use the gargle. Is there any one in the house who can attend to her?”
“I am afraid not; the landlady went away this morning, leaving no one in the house but that child. She will, I hope, be home to-morrow.”
“In that case you had better have a nurse in; I will give you the address of one.”
When Frank returned he found her lying on the bed weeping. As before, she refused to tell him the cause of her grief. She would make no other answer than that nothing mattered now, that she didn’t care what became of her; and when he spoke of going to fetch a nurse, she waved her hands excitedly, declaring she would on no consideration stop in the house with a woman she didn’t know. And, hardly able to decide what course he should take, he promised not to leave her; she clung about him, and he was forced to send the child (whose name he now found to be Emma) to the chemist for the linseed, and he wrote a note asking for explicit directions how it should be used. Then he had to persuade Lizzie to go to bed. She resisted him, and it was with great difficulty that he got her boots and stockings off; then she collected her strength, unbuttoned her dress, and took off her stays. Then she said: “Go out of the room for a moment.”
He found his way into the kitchen, and guessing that hot water would be required, he lit a fire. But there was no muslin, and he had to send Emma for some. Lizzie smiled faintly when they entered — Frank with a basin, Emma with a kettle and a parcel of linen. Frank poured some rum into a glass, and beat an egg up with it.
“What is that?” she asked; and her voice was so faint and hoarse that he turned, quite startled.
“Something that will do your throat good and keep your strength up. Possibly you will not be able to eat much to-morrow.” He held the tumbler to her lips, and at length succeeded in getting her to drink it. “Emma, is the kettle boiling?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You had better go downstairs and get some coals, and if you can’t find any nightlights you must go out and buy a box. Have you got any money over?”
“Yes, sir, sixpence.”
“Now, Lizzie, let me put this on your throat. Throw your head well back. There, it isn’t too hot?”
And all that night he sat by her bedside. Often she could not get her breath, and he had to lift her and prop her up with pillows; and four times he lit the candle, and, with tired eyes, mixed the meal and placed it on her throat. The firelight played upon the ceiling, the kettle sang softly, the sufferer moaned, the light brought the rumble of a cart, and they awoke from shallow sleeps that blurred but did not extinguish consciousness of the actual present. “You must not uncover yourself; you will catch cold. Let me pin this shawl about you.” About eight o’clock Emma knocked at the door. Frank asked her to make him a cup of tea. The morning dragged along amid many anxieties, for he could see she was worse than she had been over night.
“The disease must take its course,” said the doctor; “we shall be fortunate if by poulticing we can stop it; if we can’t, it will come to a head in about eight or nine days’ time, and then it will break. Did you see the nurse last night? Couldn’t she come?”
“She,” said Frank, pointing to the sufferer, “wouldn’t allow me to send for her; she said she would not stay in the house with a strange woman. She was very excited; I fancy she has had some great mental trouble — a sweetheart, I suppose. I did not like to cross her. I thought I could nurse her; I did my best. Was the poultice all right?”
“Quite right. But you will have to sit up with her to-night. You will be very tired; you had better get in a nurse.”
“I think I shall be able to manage. The landlady is expected home this evening or to-morrow morning. What had she better have to eat?”
“She won’t be able to eat anything for some days. Try to get her to take an egg beat up in a wine-glass of rum.”
Hourly she grew worse, and on the following day Frank stood by her bed momentarily fearing that she would suffocate; once her face blackened and he had to seize and lift her out of bed, and place her in a chair. When she seemed a little easier he called Emma, and they made the bed and cleaned up the room together. Then he ate a sausage and drank a glass of beer that had been brought from the public-house.
The first night had seemed long and weary, but now the hours passed quickly; he had forgotten all but the suffering woman, and in the interest of inducing her to swallow some beef-tea, in the pride of such successes another and then another day fled lightly. Nor did he feel tired as he had done, and now a nap in an arm-chair seemed all that he required. So the landlady came as an unwelcome interruption of an absorbing occupation. Haggard and unshaven, he returned to Southwick, where he found a note on his table from General Horlock, asking him to dinner t
hat evening.
“I know the meaning of this: Maggie will be there — a reconciliation! Can I?” He turned his ear quickly from his conscience; he was frightened of the voice that would tell him that Maggie was nothing to him, never had been, never could be; that he had been born for Lizzie Baker, as the soldier is for the sword or the bullet that kills him; others had passed him, had been heard sharply, had gleamed dangerously in his eyes. They were but signs and omens meant for others, not for him, and they had passed. But this one had remained, though often lost, as that remains which is to be, and she was now no less for him than before, though now seemingly lost irrevocably to another; and in all the seeming of irrevocable loss was drawing nearer — not with the victory and destiny of old in her eyes, but with no less victory and destiny inherent in her. Though far from him, she had been for long a disintegrated influence, but what had been distant was now near, and all was yielding like a ship in the attraction of the fabulous loadstone mountain. That room! — the wash-hand-stand, the dirty panes of glass, the iron bed-there his fate had been sealed. That body which he had lifted out of bed still lay heavy in his arms. He still breathed the odour of the hair he had gathered from the pillow and striven to pin up; those eyes of limpid blue, pale as water where isles are sleeping, burned deep and livid in his soul; the touch and sight of that flesh, the sound of that voice, those tears, the solicitude and anxiety of those hours of night and day conspired against him, and his life was big with incipient overthrow.
Lizzie was with him at all times. He saw her eyes, then her teeth, and the perfume and touch of her hair was often about him; and yet he was hardly conscious that a revolution of feeling was in progress within him; and when the time came for him to go to Horlock’s he went there avoiding all thoughts of Maggie, although he knew he would be called upon that night to take a decisive step. He saw little of her before dinner, and during dinner the General’s allusions to the quarrels of lovers being the renewal of love vexed him, and he thought, “Confound it! If I want to make it up I will; but I am not going to be bullied into it.” When the ladies left the room he found it difficult to pretend to the kind-hearted old soldier that he did not believe that Maggie would forgive him. “Forgive me for what? I have done nothing.”