Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  The dream he was weaving suddenly fell into little pieces; it was only a dream, for how could he go and live in that house? He had only three shirts, a couple of pairs of old trousers, and the cracked pair of shoes he stood up in. Even the servants were better dressed than he, and they would laugh at his clothes and talk about them in the servants’ hall. But he would not be there to hear them laugh; he could not imagine himself dining in the servants’ hall, nor yet with Mrs. Bentham; but in the housekeeper’s room, perhaps, for there would be a housekeeper. If he only had money to buy a pair of boots and some socks, for his hardly held together. He had no collars, and he needed neckties. At least ten pounds would be required. Ten pounds represented a fortune to him, and he asked himself where he could get ten pounds. Carver might advance the money; if he didn’t what would become of him? He would continue in his life of poverty in the room above the hardware shop, painting small pictures which he might sell sometimes, and which more often he would find himself unable to sell. A life of rags, of hunger, of cold, and, of all, a life of solitude.

  But what had become of Gwynnie? She was very late coming home this evening.

  CHAP. VI.

  ON LEAVING PALL Mall Mrs. Bentham drove to see her father, who lay bedridden in a large bleak house in the neighbourhood of Cavendish Square. She was an only child and had been in charge of all his properties for many years, paying his hills and carrying out his wishes regarding new plantations and the different structural alterations that he dreamed in his wheel-chair, his wig on a small table and a napkin on his lap. On seeing his daughter he put on his wig and called to the servant to take away what he was eating, and remembered the ballroom — his last whim.

  “I wonder, my dear Lucy,” he said pettishly, “you don’t find some artist to do those decorations: you know I want to have that room finished.”

  “My dear father, the room has been painted in light blue and straw colour.”

  “I told you,” said the old man joyfully, “that that was the right colour, and you wouldn’t believe me. I hope it is a light blue turning to mauve. If you have carried out my idea, it will be the prettiest room in Sussex. I shall make an effort and try and get down there when the decorations are done; but you must see about an artist to do the pictures — why, there are dozens of clever young men starving about London who would do them. Can’t that man, Mr. Carver, whom you are always talking about, find you one?”

  “It is curious,” answered Mrs. Bentham reflectively, “you should speak of it, for not half an hour ago Mr. Carver introduced me to a young man who he said would do the work splendidly.”

  “Then why don’t you have him down to do it?” asked the old man. “I may go off any day, and I want to see that room finished before I die; it is really very selfish of you.”

  Mrs. Bentham assured him that there was not the slightest chance of his dying for many a year, and that she would be very glad to have the young man down to do the decorations; but, as she was staying there at present, she did not see how it was to be done — unless, indeed, she asked him as a visitor.

  “Why not ask him as a visitor? What is the objection? Does he drop his h’s, or are you afraid of your servants?”

  “No, he doesn’t drop his h’s. I was only thinking that people might begin to make remarks.”

  “And what if they do? The world is always making remarks. You will see to it, Lucy, won’t you?”

  “I will, father, I will.”

  “And return at once,” he called back as she was passing out of the door to go to Mr. Carver and to tell him to write to the young man immediately. She had, in her father’s desire to see the ballroom finished, an excuse for asking Mr. Seymour to Claremont House, and one which her cousin, Susan Thorpe, would find it hard to gainsay. But then there were the county people to be taken into consideration; and when she thought of Lewis’s compromising face, she heard a thousand disagreeable remarks and petty sarcasms ringing in her ears. She changed her position nervously in the brougham, and apostrophised the injustice of the world’s opinion and the falseness of a woman’s position in modern society, finding, every instant, a new reason for taking her father’s advice. She remembered that Mr. Seymour spoke like a gentleman. The stories she had heard of young men who die for the want of a friend, of a helping hand, unknown, on the bosom, as it were, of a million beings, in the middle of a crowd weary of the gold they do not know what to do with, thronged her mind; and, irritated by the thought that he might be one of those miserable ones who starve while the person who wishes to succour them is considering the most proper way of extending his or her friendly hand, she called to her coachman to drive to Bond Street, resolved, if the references were satisfactory, to give him the decorations to do.

  “Is Mr. Carver in?”

  “Yes, ma’am and Mr. Carver came forth.

  “I’ve decided,” she said.

  “I’m very glad to hear it, for I’m sure you have done the right thing. If he only gets a chance. If his luck be not against him. Luck, you know, Mrs. Bentham—”

  “But who is this young man?” she asked.

  Regarding Lewis Seymour’s antecedents Mr. Carver had little information to supply, but he threw himself at once into the Napoleonic pose, and talked just as if he had known Lewis in his cradle. Lewis was the son of a country doctor in Essex; both his parents were dead, and he had come to London to seek his fortune. So much Mr. Carver had found out, for he found out something concerning everybody he was ever brought in contact with; and on this slight knowledge he embroidered ingeniously till Mrs. Bentham decided that Lewis should be sent down next Thursday to Sussex, Mr. Carver charging himself with all the arrangements.

  CHAP. VII.

  “A LETTER FOR you, Mr. Seymour.” It was from Mr. Carver, asking him to call about eleven, and by taking a hansom he would only be able to get to Mr. Carver’s in time. It never would do to miss that appointment; besides, Bond Street was on the way; he would go on to Regent Street afterwards and try to find out what had become of Gwynnie — it was only a question of five minutes’ difference; Mr. Carver would not keep him longer. He must know his fate.

  His fate was to hear that it was all arranged: he was to go down to Claremont House the day after to-morrow, to stop there until he had finished the decorations — a three months’ job, for which he would receive two hundred pounds.

  Mr. Carver, in the Napoleonic pose, watched his astonishment with a tender interest akin to that which an inventor takes in his new patent.

  “But who is Mrs. Bentham? You say that she is separated from her husband?” asked Lewis, emboldened a little by his success.

  “One of the biggest swells in London, my dear boy. I can tell you ’twas a lucky day for you when you put your nose into my shop.”

  Mr. Carver had no doubt that in the course of this adventure something would occur which would enable him to turn the weaknesses of human nature to his profit. He did not know what, but he was sure that something would happen. Something always did; at least, that was his experience of life. The only thing of which he was uncertain was Lewis’s power of restraint, of conducting himself at Claremont House properly. Therefore, with the air of one who has never spoken to anything less than a baronet, Mr. Carver proceeded to give Lewis what he considered many useful hints as to how he should behave himself. He told him that he would meet all the best people, who would tear him to pieces as monkeys would a newspaper; but to be forewarned is to be forearmed, and Mr. Carver advised him to be very reserved, and, above all, very polite to everybody — from the lap-dog upwards.

  It was part of Lewis’s nature to believe that women were always in love, and he tried to find out cautiously what opinion Mr. Carver held on the matter of Mrs. Bentham’s affections. But Mr. Carver only eyed him sharply, and advised him to be very careful, to look before he leaped, and, better still, not to leap at all, but to let things untie themselves gradually; and, as a trainer gives the jockey the final instructions, he explained to Lewis the perils he
must avoid, and the circumstances he must take advantage of.

  As he told him of the grand people he would meet at Claremont House, Lewis looked in despair at his broken boots and stained trousers, till at last, interrupting the list of grand names with which the dealer was baptising him, he asked boldly for a small advance of money.

  “Of course — of course; I see,” replied Mr. Carver, looking him up and down.

  Lewis thought the inspection rude, but forgave it when he was handed five ten-pound notes.

  Then, in his turn, Lewis looked Mr. Carver up and down, from the large plaid trousers to the red cravat — an attention which put the dealer in a good temper for the rest of the day, it not occurring to him that the painter might be looking to see what to avoid rather than what to copy.

  And then, after having signed a bill, and listened to a little more advice on the subject of dress, Lewis was free to call a hansom and drive to Regent Street. She had been at work all the day before: he drew a deep breath of relief. There was no longer any reason for supposing she had committed suicide. Still, it was extraordinary she had not returned home; and he continued to question the forewoman until she would listen to him no longer; all she knew was that Miss Lloyd had been at work yesterday, and had gone away with a lady friend.

  “But do you know her friend’s address?” insisted Lewis; “I shall be so much obliged — —”

  “I assure you I haven’t the least idea, but if you will leave a message or a letter, it shall be given to Miss Lloyd.”

  Lewis asked her to say he had called, and, with a sense of having done his duty, drove off, remembering that Gwynnie, after all, was her own mistress, and had a right to hide herself if she pleased. Anyhow, he was sure of one thing: she had not committed suicide, and, comforting himself with the assurance, he drove to a tailor’s.

  All that day and the next were spent buying shirts, coats, trousers, collars, neckties and boots, and as he walked along the streets he was on the lookout to see how the upper ten thousand were dressed, and how their coats were buttoned, and the kind of scarves they wore, and tried to find out what the differences were that distinguished them from the middle classes.

  It was necessary for him to know these things, for he felt he would be seriously compromising his position if he went down to Mrs. Bentham’s dressed like a shop-boy.

  He fancied that Mr. Carver had hinted that it was not merely his talents as an artist that had induced Mrs. Bentham to give him the commission to decorate the ballroom, and it afforded him much pleasure to hope that she was interested in him.

  The time at his disposal necessitated orders to Mr. Halet instead of to Mr. Johnson; but, his figure being well-proportioned, he was easy to fit, and the clothes, with a few alterations, almost satisfied him. He bought two suits of country clothes — short jackets and coloured trousers — to which he added a velvet coat for painting in. Evening clothes were indispensable, and these, at least, he would have liked to have gotten from a first-class tailor, but it was not possible: he had to start the following day, and had to buy everything, from a portmanteau to a toothbrush. There was not a minute to spare. At the last moment, when everything was ordered, he found himself obliged to start off again to buy some silk shirts. “Silk shirts go with a velvet jacket,” he muttered, as he hurried west again. A great deal of money was also spent in scent, powder, nail-polishers. Although he had had but little opportunity in his life of becoming acquainted with such luxuries, he divined their uses as if by instinct, and his white, feminine hands, as they strayed over the shop counters, seemed to love the touch of all things connected with the toilette-table.

  Yet, notwithstanding his occupations, he found time to inquire again at the shop in Regent Street after Gwynnie. She had not returned, nor had her friend; and Lewis went away thinking he ought to take more trouble to find her, but he assured himself that time was lacking; his hours were numbered. It was unfortunate, but what was he to do? Over and over again he asked himself the question.

  “You’ll tell Miss Lloyd, Mrs. Cross, that I was sorry not to see her before leaving?”

  “And your address, sir?”

  “I’ll write — I’ll write,” he said, and as he drove away, Mrs. Cross stood at the door and followed the hansom with her eyes.

  “I’m sure, ‘Arry, that young gentleman was someone great, or will become someone great.”

  ‘Arry did not answer; he went on arranging the jugs and basins and tin saucepans in his window, so as to attract his customers, evidently thinking that his wife’s prediction did not call for reply.

  Dinah, however, left off teasing the yellow cat, and, hiding her golden curls in her mother’s coarse apron, began to cry.

  CHAP. VIII.

  “WHAT AN EXTRAORDINARY adventure!” Lewis said to himself, as he leaned back in the comfort of a first-class carriage; “I wonder what father would think of it all, if he could only know!” And Lewis continued to consider what his father’s opinion would be of his son if he were sitting opposite in the railway carriage, hearing Lewis telling that he was going to stay with a grand lady in Sussex and decorate her ballroom. He was afraid his father would hardly appreciate the adventure, so dead to all aesthetic interest was he, and Lewis fell to thinking what might be the spiritual personality of the tall, gaunt man with bristly hair who, in Lewis’s childhood, was so much appreciated at Santry as a healer, and about whom a legend had collected because of a laboratory he had built and in which he had wasted a fortune. He might even say two fortunes, for his father had brought to Santry some money of his own, and it was not until he had spent all his money upon chemical experiments that he had thought of a rich marriage as a way out of his difficulties. He did not like to think that his mother had been married for her money, but he could understand that a man absorbed by his desire to solve a chemical problem would not hesitate to help himself out of his difficulties by a money marriage; and his mother had five thousand pounds on her wedding day, a sum of money that the Oylers had given with reluctance, they being prudent business folk and full of suspicion of anyone who had not only wasted money in fruitless experiments, but time that he might have devoted to his patients. “So they were always insinuating,” Lewis said to himself as he watched the country passing, trees advancing and retiring, till he again took up the thread of his life, which always seemed to him a magical skein which some mystic hand was weaving into a wonderful pattern. “If father knew that I was going down to decorate Mrs. Bentham’s ballroom, and that I met her at the moment of my greatest need in a picture dealer’s shop, he could not fail to remember how he jumped out of a chair in which he had been sitting munching a cigar for more than an hour in silence, till the sight of me painting at the table filled him with such rage that he could not contain himself; and he seized my poor little paintings, crumpled them up and threw them into the fire. Why, he didn’t know himself, possibly because some experiments had failed.”

  Lewis would almost have liked to call his father back into life, so that he might see that his painting was likely to turn out more successful than the chemistry — he would have liked to have got one back on his father, “but if I were to call him back into life,” he murmured to himself, “it would be difficult to know what to do with him afterwards: to call him out of the grave merely to tell him that I’m getting on would seem to him something more than cynical.” And, ashamed of himself, he began to watch the rolling hills and woodlands breaking up into fields one after the other, with trees starting out of the hedgerows so beautifully that even those who have lived in southern England all their lives never look upon it without thinking how much more fortunate we are to live here than in any other country!

  As soon as the fields and the hedgerows were blotted out of sight by some high embankment or by the disappearance of all country as the train rushed into a tunnel, Lewis’s thoughts returned easily to his early life, and he thought of the fateful day when his father had been found dead in the laboratory. Suicide was spoken of, and it might
well be that his father had thought that his death would be the greatest benefit he could confer upon his wife and son for, truth to tell, they had never been what people call happy together. Lewis had admired his father, that tall, gaunt man, who spent his evenings and a great part of his nights in his laboratory engaged in fantastic attempts to solve problems that might never be solved; an alchemist of old time his father appeared to him, a romantic figure, but he had made their lives cheerless and lonely beyond measure, and “if he had lived he would have insisted upon my entering a bank,” and be doubted his strength to resist his father. “His death set me free to follow my painting, and it seems to be leading me into a fair prospect. If that woman were to fall in love with me!” Such good fortune as this seemed to him more than he could hope for, a tale straight out of the “Arabian Nights.” But why should he not be the hero of a story; and to convince himself that this might be possible he looked again into his life and remembered how he had started off from home, the day after his father’s funeral, to paint all the windmills and willow banks under which donkeys are tethered so that they may be painted; and when a great number of these had been turned into water-colours he had ventured into a park where he had no right to go and had encountered a very stern man therein, the gamekeeper, who told him that if he were to catch him there again he would have him up before the magistrate. He had been bidden to take up his water-colours and be off, a command he had hastened to obey; the man accompanied him to the gate to see him off the premises, but on their way thither the lady of all the fair domain passed them, driving her cream-coloured ponies, and, noticing Lewis’s picturesque appearance, asked her gamekeeper to tell her who he was; and on his story being made known to her she said: “You are free to come into my park to paint whenever you please; and will you, when you have finished some sketches, bring them up to my house?” — an invitation he had hastened to avail himself of. And he remembered her admiration of the group of beech trees with wood pigeons picking at the mast. She had liked his bridge and his portrait of her gardens; and after her commendations everybody within ten miles of Santry bought something from him, believing him to be for sure a future Academician.