Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  “To get on with women you must always admit you are in the wrong — ha, ha, ha!” laughed the General; “now I have it from my wife — women know everything — ha, ha, ha!” laughed the General. “Have another glass of sherry?”

  “No, thanks; couldn’t take any more.”

  “I took I won’t tell you how many glasses before I proposed to my wife, and then I was afraid; enough to make me — a clever woman like Mrs. Horlock, I believe you wouldn’t find a woman in England like Mrs. Horlock. Look round; all that’s her work. Look at that white Arab — exactly like him. I won five hundred pounds with that horse; but I wouldn’t be satisfied, and I ran him again the following day and lost it all and five hundred more with it. I had another horse. My wife is modelling him in wax; she will show it to you in the next room. Marvellous woman!”

  Passing Maggie by who was sitting in the window, Frank inveigled Mrs. Horlock into an anatomical discussion. The General stretched out his feet, put on his spectacles, and took up the St James’s. The conversation dropped, and, full of apprehension and expecting reconciliation, Frank went to Maggie and talked to her of the tennis parties he was going to, of the people he had seen — of indifferent things. The time was tense with the fate of their lives. Once she turned her head and sighed. Time slipped by, and still they talked of their friends — of things they knew perfectly. Maggie said: “I hope you are not angry; I hope we shall remain friends.” Frank replied: “I hope so,” and again the conversation paused. The General denounced Gladstone, and praised his wife’s sculpture. Ten o’clock! Angel was lifted out of his basket. If Maggie had been Helen and Southwick Troy, he would not be kept waiting; the dogs had to be taken out; Willy came to fetch Maggie; hands were tendered, lips said good-bye, and, with a sense of parting, they parted.

  Feeling adrift and strangely alone, he walked to his lodging. His future loomed up in his mind as vague and as illusive as the village that now glared through the mist, white and phantasmal. He did not regret — we can hardly regret the impossible. Then, falling back on a piece of prose, he said: “Where was the good? Mount Rorke would never have given his consent. Poor Lizzie; I hope she is better. I hope it has broken. She won’t get any relief until it does.”

  And next day, towards evening, he went to Brighton. He found her shrinking over the fire, wrapped in a woollen shawl.

  “How are you to-day? You look a little better. I did not expect to find you out of bed.”

  “I am better, thank you; it broke yesterday, and I feel relieved. You are very good. I think I should have died if it had not been for you. Think of that landlady leaving me in the way she did.”

  “What was the reason? Why did she rush off in that way?”

  “She went to town to see her sister, and she says she was taken ill. She drinks.”

  “Does she? I hope she looked after you yesterday?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “As well as I did?”

  “I don’t know about that; you are a very good nurse. It was very good of you; no one else would have done it.”

  “What, not even he?”

  “You were with me for four days, and you never even went to bed — never took your clothes off.”

  “Never even washed myself. By George! I was glad to get home and have a good wash. I was a sorry-looking object — haggard and unshaven.”

  “Where did you say you had been to?”

  “Nobody asked me.”

  “Not Maggie?”

  “No; I didn’t tell you our engagement is broken off.”

  “No; you didn’t say nothing about it.”

  “On account of you. She discovered that you had been to my studio, and she said I was keeping a woman in Brighton.”

  “Keeping a woman in Brighton — she thinks you are keeping me! I will write to her and tell her that it is not true. What right has she to say such things about me?”

  “She doesn’t say it about you. She says a woman.”

  “She means me.”

  “No, she doesn’t; she doesn’t know anything about you. Some one told her I went into Brighton every day by the four o’clock train, and she put two and two or rather two and three together, and said it was six.”

  “But I will write to her. I will not be the cause of any one’s marriage being broken off.”

  “You need not trouble. I saw her last night, and I could have made it all right had I chosen — she was quite willing.”

  “You can’t care for her!”

  “I suppose not. I don’t think I ever really loved her. I thought I did. I was mistaken.”

  “You are very changeable.”

  “No, I don’t think I am — at least not so far as you are concerned. I was mistaken. I was in love with some one else — with you.”

  “With me?”

  “Yes, with you. I was in love with you when we went to Reading, and never got over it. I thought I had, but when love is real we never get over it. I always loved you, and those four days I spent nursing you have brought it all out. I shall never love any one else. I know you don’t care for me; you said once you couldn’t care for me.”

  “I! I am too miserable to care for any one. I wish you had let me die; but that is ungrateful. You must excuse me, I am so miserable. Why speak of loving me? I can love no one. I don’t care what becomes of me. I am ruined; nothing matters now.”

  “I wish you would confide in me; you can trust me. Has he forsaken you? Can you not make it up?”

  “No, never now; I shall never see him again.”

  “Has anything happened lately, since you came to Brighton?”

  Lizzie nodded.

  “Don’t cry like that; tell me about it.”

  “What’s the use? Nothing matters now.”

  “Has he been here?”

  Lizzie nodded, and Frank folded the shawl about her, and wiped her tears away with his pocket handkerchief. “Since you were ill?”

  “No, before I was ill; he was down here watching me. He found out I had gone to your studio, and he said the most dreadful things — that he would break your head, and that I had never been true to him, and that I was not fit to be the wife of an honest man.”

  “But I will tell him that you came to my studio to sit for your portrait.”

  “No, you mustn’t write; it would only make matters worse. No use; he says he will never see me again.”

  “Where can I see him? Has he gone back to London? I will follow him and tell him he is mistaken.”

  “No, please don’t, and please don’t go to the ‘Gaiety’; he is a violent- tempered man; something dreadful might occur. Please, promise me.”

  “Not go to the ‘Gaiety’? He doesn’t know me.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “Have I seen him? Do tell me; you know you can trust me. I am your friend. Tell me—”

  “You have seen him in the ‘Gaiety,’ in the grill-room — the waiter, number two, the good-looking tall man.”

  “Oh!”

  “He wasn’t always a waiter; his people are very superior. He has been unfortunate.”

  “And it was he you loved this long while?”

  “I never cared for another man.”

  “I must write and tell him he is committing an act of injustice. I will make this matter right for you, Lizzie.”

  “Do you think you can?”

  “I am sure of it.”

  He rang for the landlady, and asked for writing materials. She apologised for the penny bottle of ink, and spoke of getting a table from the next room, but he said he could write very well on the chimney-piece. “I suppose I had better begin, ‘Sir’?”

  “Don’t people generally begin, ‘Dear Sir’?”

  “Not when they don’t know the people they are writing to.”

  “But you do know him a little. He always said you were very haughty. You used to sit at his table.”

  “I think I had better begin the letter with ‘Sir.’”

  “Very well. You know best. He
was always very jealous.”

  XVI

  “SIR, — I hear from Miss Baker that you were in Brighton last week, and, drawing the inference from the fact that she came to my studio to sit for her portrait, you accuse her of very grievous impropriety. I beg to assure you that this is not so. At my urgent request, Miss Baker, whom I had better say I have known for some years, consented to give me a sitting. My intentions were purely artistic; hers were confined to a wish to oblige an old friend, and I deeply regret that they should have been misinterpreted, and I fear much unhappiness caused thereby.”

  “Do you think that will do?”

  “Yes, it is a beautiful letter.”

  “Do you think so — do you really think so? Do you think I have said all?”

  “You might say something — that I never even kissed you; and that you respected me too much.”

  “I will if you like, but don’t you think that is implied?”

  “Perhaps so; but you see he does not read many books. He hasn’t time for much reading, and you put things in a difficult way. They sound beautiful, but I—”

  “Show me.”

  “Well, this ‘grievous impropriety.’ I know what you mean, but I couldn’t explain it.”

  “Shall I say ‘serious impropriety’? but grievous is the right word. You say a grievous sin for a mortal sin. If we had done any wrong it would have been a grievous sin; but I’ll change the word if you like.”

  “No, don’t change it on my account; but I think he would understand an easier word better.”

  “A ‘heinous impropriety’? No, that won’t do. A ‘serious impropriety.’ That will do. Is there anything else you would like me to alter?”

  “No, I don’t think there is.”

  “You think this letter will convince him that there was nothing wrong?”

  “I hope so; but he is a very suspicious man.”

  “I will post it when I go out.” Then after a long silence: “Do you know what time it is? It must be getting late.”

  “It must be getting on for nine.”

  “Then I must say good-bye; but I forgot, I want to ask you — you must be hard up, and want some money — do you? If you do, I assure you I shall be only too glad.”

  “Well, I am rather hard up, for you know that this illness has prevented my doing anything; and I am afraid I have lost my place at the ‘Tivoli.’”

  “What do you intend to do?”

  “I should like to go back to London. I shall see him there, and if the letter makes it right we may be married. I will write to you.”

  “You will? — Do. Here is five pounds. I have no more about me, but if anything should occur, you know where to write to.”

  “You are very good; I don’t deserve it. I don’t know why you take so much trouble about me. If he doesn’t marry me I’ll try to get another place; I shall go back to the firm.”

  “When do you intend to leave?”

  “As soon as I am well enough, in a day or two; but you will not come here again.”

  “I had thought that I might.”

  “I know; but if he were to hear that you had been here, it would be worse than ever. You don’t mind, do you? You aren’t angry, are you?”

  “No; good-bye, Lizzie. Write to me when you are married.” Frank walked into the street. There was neither rage nor will in him. He was a sorrowing creature in a bitter world. The sea was cruelly blue in the coming night; the sky was also blue, only deeper, a red streak like a red bar of iron stretched across the embaying land, relieving into picturesque detail the outlines of coast-towns and villages. His eyes rested on and drew grief from this dim distance so illusive; and for jarring contrast, the pier hung with gaudy and gross decoration in the blue night, and a brass band replied to the waves.

  Then the clouds lifted, and when he returned to Southwick the moon was shining and some boys pursued the resounding ball through the shadows. He undressed with an effort, and he lay down hoping never to rise again. Next morning he went to his studio full of resolve. His picture must be finished for one of the winter exhibitions. He did not take up his palette, nor did he sit at his piano for more than a few minutes; and when he met Willy he raged against Lizzie, jeered at her vulgarity, heaped ridicule upon her lover, the waiter; he spoke of writing a novel on the subject; he set out her character at length; and was alarmed when told that Maggie was ill. He must win her. She must be his wife. So he told Willy, so he assured himself that she would. He knew that Lizzie was nothing to him. She had left Brighton, thank God! He went to sleep, certain he had torn this page out of his life, and he awoke to find it still there; and day after day he continued to brood upon, and still unable to understand its meaning, he longed to turn it over and read, for there were other pages; but they were sealed, and he might only read this one page.

  “I’m afraid that our old friend Brookes is having a hard time of it,” said the General, taking the spectacles from his nose, and laying down the St James’s, “they are all at him tooth and nail,” and the General laughed gleefully. “You are the young man who has upset them. The young lady won’t dress herself.”

  “My dear Reggie, you shouldn’t talk like that. I do hate to hear scandal; you’ll repent it,” said Mrs. Horlock, and she adroitly smoothed the wax on the horse’s quarters.

  “I assure you, Mrs. Horlock, I never repeat what I hear; the guiding principle of my life is not to repeat conversations. Particularly in a village like Southwick, it is most essential that none of us should repeat conversations; I have always said that.”

  “Do tell me about Maggie; I hear she is very ill. What is the matter with her? What did you say — the young lady won’t dress herself?”

  “My dear Reggie, I will not stay here and listen to scandal. Not a word of it is true, Mr. Escott.”

  “What is not true, Mrs. Horlock?”

  “What he told you about her walking about the house with her hair down.”

  “I don’t think the General said anything about walking about the house with her hair down; he said some one wouldn’t dress herself. I suppose he meant Maggie. I am sure I am sorry — I am most sorry — to hear she is ill, but it is unjust to assume that I had anything to do with her illness. We can speak freely among ourselves, you know. You know the circumstances; no one is more capable of understanding the case than you, for you are an artist. Maggie heard that I had had a model, that’s what it amounts to, and she broke off the engagement; nothing could be more unjust, nothing could be more unwarranted.”

  “It could be brought on again, I know that,” said Mrs. Horlock, and she turned the shoulders of her horse to the light.

  “We will not go into that question, Mrs. Horlock. I confine myself to what has happened, and I say I was treated unjustly, most shamefully; and when I have been cast aside like an old hat, I hear indirectly that it can be made up again. I have borne quite enough, and will bear no more. Old Brookes came down to my studio with that cad Berkins, and forced his way in, and then forbade me the house because my dog bit Berkins’s thigh. I couldn’t help it. What did he attack me for? He didn’t suppose a bull-dog would be still while his master was being knocked on the head.”

  “What should a common City man know about dogs? He wouldn’t sign the petition when I asked him, to Sir Charles Warren, to cancel the regulations about muzzling.”

  “And then they set a report going that I had set the dog on, and if I hadn’t set it on, that I hadn’t called him off. As if I could! You know what a bull-dog is, Mrs. Horlock? Is a highly-bred dog likely to let go when he has fixed his teeth in the fleshy part of a thigh? The Brookes are old friends of mine, and I wouldn’t say a word against them for the world; but of course it is as obvious to you as it is to me that they are not quite the thing. I mean — you know — I would not think of comparing them with the Southdown Road; but there is a little something. City people are not the Peerage; there’s no use saying they are. Mount Rorke was upset; but I would not give in, and I think I should have wo
n his consent in the long run. After all I have borne for her sake I think I might expect better treatment than to be thrown over, as I have said, like an old hat; and I don’t mind telling you that I do not intend to be made a fool of in this matter; I shall turn a very deaf ear to stories of a broken heart and failing health. I shall not cease to think of Maggie. I loved her once very deeply, and I should have loved her always if — But tell me, General. You know I will not repeat anything.”

  “I advise you to say no more, Reggie. I will not be mixed up in any scandal. I shall leave the room. Sally is dining here to-night; she is only too anxious to talk of her sister. If Mr. Escott will stay and take pot-luck with us, he will no doubt hear everything there is to hear in the course of the evening.”

  “What have we got for dinner, Ethel? I know we have got a leg of mutton, and there is some curry.”

  “Your dinners are always excellent, Mrs. Horlock. I shall be delighted to stay. Here is Sally. Oh, how do you do, Sally? We were talking of you.”

  “I’m afraid every one is talking of me, now,” she whispered, and the big girl passed over to Mrs. Horlock and kissed her. “How is it that no one has seen anything of you lately?” she said, taking the seat next him. “What have you been doing?”

  “Nothing in particular. But I want to ask you about Maggie. I hear she is very ill.”

  Perceiving that his tone did not bespeak a loving mood, Sally’s face brightened, and she became at once voluble and confidential.

  “Oh, we have been having no end of a time at home. Father has been speaking of selling the place and leaving Southwick.”

  “Speaking of selling the place and leaving Southwick! And where does he think of going to live, and what is the reason of this?”

  “Oh, the reason! I suppose he would say I was the reason; and where heis going to live, that is not settled yet — probably one of the big London hotels. He says everybody is laughing at him, and that when he meets the young men at the station he can see them laughing at him over their newspapers, for, according to father, they have all flirted with us. Maggie has been saying all kinds of things against me, and I am afraid that the Southdown Road people have been writing him anonymous letters again. Some one — I don’t know who it is — I wish I did — has been telling him the most shocking things about Jimmy Meason and me; things in which I assure you there is not a word of truth. You know yourself that we have hardly spoken for nearly two years; last year, it is true, we made it up a bit in your studio, but it didn’t last long. I don’t think I saw him twice afterwards, and never alone — and now to have everything that happened two years ago raked up and thrown in my face! I don’t say I haven’t — I don’t know what you’d call it, I suppose you’d call it spooning. I admit I infinitely preferred walking about the garden with a young man to sitting in the drawing-room and doing woolwork. I was a silly little fool then, but I do think it hard that all this should be raked up now. I don’t know what will happen. Maggie pretends to be frightened at me; ’tis only her nonsense to set father against me. She won’t dress herself, and she walks about with her hair down her back, wringing her hands.”