by George Moore
Paris was steeped in great darkness and starlight, and the cab made slow and painful way through the frost-bound streets. The amble and the sliding of the horse was exasperating, the drive unendurable with uncertainty and cold, and Mike hammered his frozen feet on the curving floor of the vehicle. Street succeeded street, all growing meaner as they neared the Gare de Lyons. Fearing he should miss the express he called to the impassive driver to hasten the vehicle. Three minutes remained to take his ticket and choose a carriage, and hoping for sleep and dreams of Lily, he rolled himself up in a rug for which he had paid sixty guineas, and fell asleep.
Ten hours after, he was roused by the guard, and stretching his stiffened limbs, he looked out, and in the vague morning saw towzled and dilapidated travellers, slipping upon the thin ice that covered the platform, striving to reach long, rough tables, spread with coffee, fruit, and wine. Mike drank some coffee, and thinking of Mrs. Byril’s roses, wondered when they should get into the sunshine.
As the train moved out of the platform the twilight vanished into daylight, the sky flushed, and he saw a scant land, ragged and torn with twisted plants, cacti and others, gashed and red, and savage as a negress’s lips. So he saw the South through the breath-misted windows. He lay back; he dozed a little, and awoke an hour after to feel soft air upon the face, and to see a bush laden with blossom literally singing the spring. Thenceforth at every mile the land grew into more frequent bloom. The gray-green olive-tree appeared, a crooked, twisted tree — habitual phase of the red land — and between its foliage gray-green brick façades, burnt and re-burnt by the sun. The roofs of the houses grew flatter and campanile, and the domes rose, silvery or blue, in the dazzling day. A mountain shepherd, furnished with water-gourd, a seven-foot staff, and a gigantic pipe, lingered in the country railway-station. This shepherd’s skin was like coffee, and he wore hair hanging far over his shoulders, and his beard reached to his waist.
Nice! A town of cheap fashion, a town of glass and stucco. The pungent odour of the eucalyptus trees, the light breeze stirred not the foliage, sheared into mathematical lines. It was like yards of baize dwindling in perspective; and between the tall trunks great plate-glass windows gleamed, filled with l’article de Londres.
He drove to the hotel from which Mrs. Byril had written, and learnt that she had left yesterday, and that Mrs. and Miss Young were not staying there. They had no such name on the books. Looking on the sea and mountains he wondered himself what it all meant.
Having bathed and changed his clothes, he sallied forth in a cab to call at every hotel in the town, and after three hours’ fruitless search, returned in despair. Never before had life seemed so sad; never had fate seemed so cruel — he had come a thousand miles to regenerate his life, and an accident, the accident of a departure, hastened perhaps only by a day, had thrown him back on the past; he had imagined a beautiful future made of love, goodness, and truth, and he found himself thrown back upon the sterile shore of a past of which he was weary, and of whose fruits he had eaten even to satiety. After much effort he had made sure that nothing mattered but Lily, neither wealth nor liberty, nor even his genius. In surrendering all he would have gained all — peace of mind, unending love and goodness. Goodness! that which he had never known, that which he now knew was worth more than gratification of flesh and pride of spirit.
The night was full of tumult and dreams — dreams of palms, and seas, and endless love, and in the morning he walked into the realities of his imaginings.
Passing through an archway, he found himself in the gaud of the flower-market. There a hundred umbrellas, yellow, red, mauve and magenta, lemon yellow, cadmium yellow, gold, a multi-coloured mass spread their extended bellies to a sky blue as the blouses.
The brown fingers of the peasant women are tying and pressing all the miraculous bloom of the earth into the fair fingers of Saxon girls — great packages of roses, pink lilies, clematis, stephanotis, and honeysuckle. A gentle breeze is blowing, rocking the umbrellas, wafting the odour of the roses and honeysuckle, bringing hither an odour of the lapping tide, rocking the immense umbrellas. One huge and ungainly sunshade creaks, swaying its preposterous rotundity. Beneath it the brown woman slices her pumpkin. Mike scanned every thin face for Lily, and as he stood wedged against a flower-stand, a girl passed him. She turned. It was Lily.
“Lily, is it possible? I was looking for you everywhere.”
“Looking for me! When did you arrive in Nice? How did you know I was here?”
“Mrs. Byril wrote. She described a girl, and I knew from her description it must be you. And I came on at once.”
“You came on at once to find me?”
“Yes; I love you more than ever. I can think only of you…. But when I arrived I found Mrs. Byril had left, and I had no means of finding your address.”
“You foolish boy; you mean to say you rushed away on the chance that I was the girl described in Mrs. Byril’s letter! … A thousand miles! and never even waited to ask the name or the address! Well, I suppose I must believe that you are in love. But you have not heard…. They say I’m dying. I have only one lung left. Do you think I’m looking very ill?”
“You are looking more lovely than ever. My love shall give you health; we shall go — where shall we go? To Italy? You are my Italy. But I’m forgetting — why did you not answer my letter? It was cruel of you. Deceive me no more, play with me no longer; if you will not have me, say so, and I will end myself, for I cannot live without you.”
“But I do not understand, I haven’t had any letter; what letter?”
“I wrote asking you to marry me.”
They walked out of the flower market on to the Promenade des Anglais, and Mike told her about his letters, concealing nothing of his struggle. The sea lay quite blue and still, lapping gently on the spare beach; the horizon floated on the sea, almost submerged, and the mountains, every edge razor-like, hard, and metallic, were veiled in a deep, transparent blue; and the villas, painted white, pink and green, with open loggias and balconies, completed the operatic aspect.
“My mother will not hear of it; she would sooner see me dead than married to you.”
“Why?”
“She knows you are an atheist for one thing.”
“But she does not know that I have six thousand a year.”
“Six thousand a year! and who was the fairy that threw such fortune into your lap? I thought you had nothing.”
Vanity took him by the throat, but he wrenched himself free, and answered evasively that a distant cousin had left him a large sum of money, including an estate in Berkshire.
“Well, I’m very glad for your sake, but it will not influence mother’s opinion of you.”
“Then you will run away with me? Say you will.”
“That is the best — for I’m not strong enough to dispute with mother. I dare say it is very cowardly of me, but I would avoid scenes; I’ve had enough of them…. We’ll go away together. Where shall we go? To Italy?”
“Yes, to Italy — my Italy. And do you love me? Have you forgiven me my conduct the day when you came to see me?”
“Yes, I love you; I have forgiven you.”
“And when shall we go?”
“When you like. I should like to go over that sea; I should like to go, Mike, with you, far away! Where, Mike? — Heaven?”
“We should find heaven dull; but when shall we go across that sea, or when shall we go from here — now?”
“Now!”
“Why not?”
“Because here are my people coming to meet me. Now say nothing to my mother about marriage, or she will never leave my side. I’m more ill than you think I am — I should have no strength to struggle with her.”
Not again that day did Mike succeed in speaking alone with Lily, and the next day she and her mother and Major Downside, her uncle, went to spend the day with some friends who had a villa in the environs of the town. The day after he met mother and daughter out walking in the morning. In the
afternoon Lily was obliged to keep her room. Should she die! should the irreparable happen! Mike crushed the instinct, that made him see a poem in the death of his beloved; and he determined to believe that he should possess her, love her and only her; he saw himself a new Mike, a perfect and true husband-lover. Never was man more weary of vice, more desirous of reformation.
He had studied the train service until he could not pretend to himself there remained any crumb of excuse for further consideration of it. He wandered about the corridors, a miserable man. On Sunday she came down-stairs and drove to church with her mother. Mike followed, and full of schemes for flight, holding a note ready to slip into her hand, he wondered if such pallor as hers were for this side of life. In the note it was written that he would wait all day for her in the sitting-room, and about five, as he sat holding the tattered newspaper, his thoughts far away in Naples, Algiers, and Egypt, he heard a voice calling —
“Mike! Mike! Mother is lying down; I think we can get away now, if there’s a train before half-past five.”
Mike did not need to consult the time-table. He said, “At last, at last, darling, come! … Yes, there is a train for the Italian frontier at a few minutes past five. We shall have just time to catch it. Come!”
But in the gardens they met the Major, who would not hear of his niece being out after sunset, and sent her back. Mike overtook Lily on the staircase.
“I can endure this no longer,” he said; “you must come with me to-night when every one is in bed. There is a train at two.”
“I cannot; I have to pass through my mother’s room. She would be sure to awake.”
“Great Scott! what shall we do? My head is whirling. You must give your mother a sleeping potion, will you? She drinks something before she goes to bed?”
“Yes, but — —”
“There must be no buts. It is a case of life and death. You do not want to die, as many girls die. To many a girl marriage is life. I will get something quite harmless, and quite tasteless.”
She waited for him in the sitting-room. He returned in a few minutes with a small bottle, which he pressed into her hand. “And now, au revoir; in a few hours you will be mine for ever.”
After leaving her he dined; after dinner went to a gambling hell, where he lost a good deal of money, and would have lost more, had the necessity of keeping at least £200 for his wedding-tour not been so imperative. He wandered about the streets talking to and sometimes strolling about with the light women, listening to their lamentable stories— “anything,” he thought, “to distract my mind.” He was to meet Lily on the staircase at one o’clock, and now it was half-past twelve, and giving the poor creature whose chatter had beguiled the last half-hour a louis, he returned hurriedly to his hotel.
The lift had ceased working, and he ascended the great staircase, three steps at a time. On the second floor he stopped to reconnoitre. The gardien lay fast asleep on a bench; he could not do better than sit on the stairs and wait; if the man awoke he would have to be bribed. Lily’s number was 45, a dozen doors down the passage. At one o’clock the gardien awoke. Mike entered into conversation with him, gave him a couple of francs, bade him good-night, and went partly up the next flight of stairs. Listening for every sound, expecting every moment to hear a door open, he waited till the clocks struck the half-hour. Then he became as if insane, and he deemed it would not be enough if she were to disappoint him to set the hotel on fire and throw himself from the roof. Something must happen, if he were to remain sane, and, determined to dare all, he decided he would seek her in her room and bear her away. He knew he would have to pass through Mrs. Young’s room. What should he do if she awoke, and, taking him for a robber, raised the alarm?
Putting aside such surmises he turned the handle of her door as quietly as he could. The lock gave forth hardly any sound, the door passed noiselessly over the carpet. He hesitated, but only for a moment, and drawing off his shoes he prepared to cross the room. A night-light was burning, and it revealed the fat outline of a huge body huddled in the bed-clothes. He would have to pass close to Mrs. Young. He glided by, passing swiftly towards the further room, praying that the door would open without a sound. It was ajar, and opened without a sound. “What luck!” he thought, and a moment after he stood in Lily’s room. She lay upon the bed, as if she had fallen there, dressed in a long travelling-cloak, her hat crushed on one side.
“Lily, Lily!” he whispered, “’tis I; awake! speak, tell me you are not dead.” She moved a little beneath his touch, then wetting a towel in the water-jug he applied it to her forehead and lips, and slowly she revived.
“Where are we?” she asked. “Mike, darling, are we in Italy? … I have been ill, have I not? They say I’m going to die, but I’m not; I’m going to live for you, my darling.”
Then she recovered recollection of what had happened, and whispered that she had failed to give her mother the opiate, but had nevertheless determined to keep her promise to him. She had dressed herself and was just ready to go, but a sudden weakness had come over her. She remembered staggering a few steps and nothing more.
“But if you have not given your mother the opiate, she may awake at any moment. Are you strong enough, my darling, to come with me? Come!”
“Yes, yes, I’m strong enough. Give me some more water, and kiss me, dear.”
The lovers wrapped themselves in each other’s arms. But hearing some one moving in the adjoining room, the girl looked in horror and supplication in Mike’s eyes. Stooping, he disappeared beneath a small table; and drew his legs beneath the cloth. The sounds in the next room continued, and he recognized them as proceeding from some one searching for clothes. Then Lily’s door was opened and Mrs. Young said —
“Lily, there is some one in your room; I’m sure Mr. Fletcher is here.”
“Oh, mother, how can you say such a thing! indeed he is not.”
“He is; I am not mistaken. This is disgraceful; he must be under that bed.”
“Mother, you can look.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind. I shall fetch your uncle.”
When he heard Mrs. Young retreating with fast steps, Mike emerged from his hiding.
“What shall I do?”
“You can’t leave without being seen. Uncle sleeps opposite.”
“I’ll hide in your mother’s room; and while they are looking for me here, I will slip out.”
“How clever you are, darling! Go there. Do you hear? uncle is answering her. To-morrow we shall find an opportunity to get away; but now I would not be found out…. I told mother you weren’t here. Go!”
The morrow brought no opportunity for flight. Lily could not leave her room, and it was whispered that the doctors despaired of her life. Then Mike opened his heart to the Major, and the old soldier promised him his cordial support when Lily was well. Three days passed, and then, unable to bear the strain any longer, Mike fled to Monte Carlo. There he lost and won a fortune. Hence Italy enticed him, and he went, knowing that he should never go there with Lily.
But not in art nor in dissipation did he find escape from her deciduous beauty, now divided from the grave only by a breath, beautiful and divinely sorrowful in its transit.
Some days passed, and then a letter from the Major brought him back over-worn with anxiety, wild with grief. He found her better. She had been carried down from her room, and was lying on a sofa by the open window. There were a few flowers in her hands, and when she offered them to Mike she said with a kind of Heine-like humour —
“Take them, they will live almost as long as I shall.”
“Lily, you will get well, and we shall see Italy together. I had to leave you — I should have gone mad had I remained. The moment I heard I could see you I returned. You will get well.”
“No, no; I’m here only for a few days — a few weeks at most. I shall never go to Italy. I shall never be your sweetheart. I’m one of God’s virgins. I belong to my saint, my first and real sweetheart. You remember when I came to s
ee you in the Temple Gardens, I told you about Him then, didn’t I! Ah! happy, happy aspirations, better even than you, my darling. And He is waiting for me; I see Him now. He smiles, and opens His arms.”
“You’ll get well. The sun of Italy shall be our heaven, thy lips shall give me immortality, thy love shall give me God.”
“Fine words, my sweetheart, fine words, but death waits not for love…. Well, it’s a pity to die without having loved.”
“It is worse to live without having loved, dearest — dearest, you will live.”
He never saw her again. Next day she was too ill to come down, and henceforth she grew daily weaker. Every day brought death visibly nearer, and one day the Major came to Mike in the garden and said —
“It is all over, my poor friend!”
Then came days of white flowers and wreaths, and bouquets and baskets of bloom, stephanotis, roses, lilies, and every white blossom that blows; and so friends sought to cover and hide the darkness of the grave. Mike remembered the disordered faces of the girls in church; weeping, they threw themselves on each other’s shoulders; and the mournful chant was sung; and the procession toiled up the long hill to the cemetery above the town, and Lily was laid there, to rest there for ever. There she lies, facing Italy, which she never knew but in dream. The wide country leading to Italy lies below her, the peaks of the rocky coast, the blue sea, the gray-green olives billowing like tides from hill to hill; the white loggias gleaming in the sunlight. His thoughts followed the flight of the blue mountain passes that lead so enticingly to Italy, and as he looked into the distance, dim and faint as the dream that had gone, there rose in his mind an even fairer land than Italy, the land of dream, where for every one, even for Mike Fletcher, there grows some rose or lily unattainable.
CHAPTER X
IN THE DREARY drawing-room, amid the tattered copies of the Graphic and Illustrated London News, he encountered the inevitable idle woman. They engaged in conversation; and he repeated the phrases that belong inevitably to such occasions.