Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  “An hotel,” he said, “will be a sad descent from the riverside villa.”

  “Lewis, for the next fortnight you must promise me not to grumble, but to bear all that may befall you joyfully. Now, if you’re ready, we’ll go down to breakfast. Aren’t you glad, Lewis, to see me pouring out the coffee and attending on you just as if I were your wife?”

  “But you will be my wife to-morrow.”

  “We may have something else to do to-morrow. But why think, Lewis? Why not enjoy things as they go by? Only women seem to have that faculty. Men are always thinking. Shall we go into the garden or shall I sit for you?”

  He began a sketch, but his mind was not on what he was doing. “I cannot draw to-day,” he said, and tore up the drawing. “Let us go and inquire for villas”; and jumping into a hansom they drove from house-agent to house-agent. But none had a villa on his books that could be transferred to them during the course of the afternoon. “An inventory is necessary,” the house-agent said, “and the references you give, though I’m sure they are entirely satisfactory, will have to be inquired into.” While the house-agent was saying these words a tall, energetic old lady, in black silk, who had just come into the office, said: “I have come here to arrange for the letting of my villa at Twickenham. It might suit you.” Whereupon the house-agent that was attending on the tall upright figure in black silk came forward, and the inventory was again alluded to, but Lewis declared that he would accept the inventory, and as he was an artist and liked beautiful things, it was extremely unlikely that misfortunes would occur to a piece of china or to a picture.

  “I don’t think, madam,” he said, “that you will find that coffee has been spilt over your sofas or on your arm-chairs, and if coffee be spilt, I shall have to pay for the recovering of that piece of furniture.”

  She answered that these conditions seemed to her to be fair, and that Mr. Lewis Seymour’s position in the art world was a sufficient reference so far as she was concerned. The house-agent bowed acquiescence, saying that all things being agreeable to all parties, they might look upon the matter as settled. Lewis and Helen began to think that Fortune was still fighting their battles, but at the last moment the old lady cried out: “But it is impossible for you to enter into possession this evening”; and Helen and Lewis returned crestfallen from the doorway. “My parrot is still there.”

  “But we shall be very glad to have a parrot,” Lewis said, smiling.

  “If you knew more about my bird, I’m afraid that you wouldn’t say so. He is an extremely jealous bird, and will fly at anybody who comes near me.”

  “But you will not be there, so the parrot’s jealousy will not be excited.”

  “He’ll not take food from anybody but me, only when I am away will he allow my maid to feed him, and when I return he’ll fly at her. Only the other day he tore the cap off her head. An ungrateful bird, I admit, but a wonderful bird.”

  “We’ll keep your maid to look after the bird and the furniture.” The lady looked from Lewis to Helen and thought she had never seen a handsomer pair.

  “You will not tease my bird?” she said in a sudden burst of intimacy, and Lewis answered that she would have no fault to find with her tenantry. “ Five-and-twenty pounds a week for a month, payable in advance”; and the old lady, astonished at this generous offer, for she would have let her villa for fifteen pounds, signed the agreement.

  “And now,” Lewis said, “will you be kind enough to telegraph to your maid that she may expect us for dinner?” and from the house in the Vale Lady Helen wrote another letter to her father.

  They had tea together, and after tea Lewis packed some summer suits and jerseys.

  “A hansom,” he said, “can take us and our luggage, and it’ll be a pleasant drive there.”

  Lady Helen was of the same mind, and with two small trunks on the top and a bandbox between their legs, they drove away, seeing London declining into long streets of two-storied houses about Hammersmith, but as soon as the river was crossed, they came upon villas standing in the midst of tall trees. After tennis-grounds and flower-vases the country opened up into fields in which haymaking was in progress. Clouds unfolded in a blue sky, birds flew from wood to wood, while the lovers dreamed of the happiness that awaited them. “One long month of happiness for certain,” Lewis said, “unless, indeed, your father and mother come down and snatch you away from me.”

  “But how could they do that?” Helen answered. “Am I not my own mistress? If a woman can’t choose her life at seven-and-twenty, then she is a slave to the end of her days, without the right of self-judgment.”

  “But if your father should come and find us still unmarried? Don’t you think, Helen, it would be better to...”

  “No, Lewis, I do not. We shall he married one of these days. One morning I shall say to you, ‘Now, Lewis, don’t you think that this is a suitable morning for us to go to church?’ More than that I cannot say; not at present.”

  “The banns will have to be published,” Lewis muttered.

  “I’m going to have this adventure according to my fancy. God only knows I’ve waited long enough for the adventure of my fancy”; and Lewis, feeling unable to control her whim, abandoned himself altogether to it, and a pleasant silence fell, bringing them into intense consciousness of each other; and feeling for each other’s hands, they followed the landscape, expecting the river to appear at every moment.

  “There’s a sensation of water in the air,” Lewis said, and it was about half a mile on the other side of the village that the hansom turned into a yellow gate on which was written “The Willows,” the drive proceeding into what seemed to be a little wooded domain. It stopped in front of a gabled house, out of which came a maidservant of comely aspect, accompanied by a page boy, into whose charge the maid confided the luggage.

  “That twelve-and-sixpence,” Helen said, “carries us into a new life”; and wondering at her audacious mind, Lewis followed her into a villa, larger, more commodious, and pleasanter than they had hoped for; and the maidservant, pleased at their commendations of the large airy saloons, draped with grey curtained windows, invited them to admire the greensward. The maid-servant said that Mrs. Cartwright set great store on her china and pictures, and the lovers accepted the maid’s words as admonitions, and passed into their bedroom, which, of course, for them was a matter of special interest.

  “This is Mrs. Cartwright’s bedroom — the one, I suppose, you will occupy; and this is the bathroom Mrs. Cartwright put in only a year ago. The dining-room is at the other end of the house.” And through airy and pleasingly coloured saloons they followed the comely maid, thinking how the days would pass with books and music, coming in from walks and going out for walks together.

  “And there is the parrot!” Helen exclaimed.

  The maid stopped, surprised.

  “Mrs. Cartwright has told you about Polly?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Lady Helen answered—” that he hates everybody but his mistress.”

  “Which is quite true, ma’am. He is very fond of tea and coffee and cocoa, but before Mrs. Cartwright went away, whenever I offered him a spoonful he would take the spoon and tip the tea or coffee out, just to show how much he disliked me. But all the time Mrs. Cartwright was away he took everything I gave him, and came to me when I called him, and on Mrs. Cartwright’s return I said: ‘I think that Polly has quite taken to me since you’ve been away, ma’am,’ and went to the cage to show her how she would come to me, but the moment I put in my finger ungrateful Polly tried to snatch it. Now, you see how she rolls her eyes when Mr. Seymour comes near the cage? What a rage she is in! And if she could get out, she’d fly at him just as she flew at me. She tore the cap off my head, and a great piece of hair came with it.”

  As soon as Lewis retired from the cage the bird’s anger ceased, and climbing up her cage she put out her neck for Helen to stroke her.

  “Well, I never! She’s taken to you at once, ma’am. A thing I’ve never seen her do before.”


  They talked a little while longer of the whims and caprices that parrots were subject to, especially the green sort. “She speaks very well for a green bird,” the maid said.

  “The green are much more savage than the grey,” Lewis said, “and the, grey are better speakers and much more beautiful in colour — grey and red, a much prettier bird to paint.”

  “You’d like to see the dining-room, sir?” They murmured their satisfaction.

  “We shan’t have many visitors,” Helen said to the maid, returning to the parrot, who seemed overjoyed to have her back again.

  “I declare, ma’am. She loves you better than the mistress.”

  Lewis thought this a good opportunity to tell Kate that his wife was Lady Helen Seymour, to which Kate answered: “I beg pardon, sir, but I didn’t know the lady’s name; and if her ladyship would like to tell me about the dinner, I’ll send up to the village for a chicken.”

  “That will do excellently, but we are easily fed, Kate,” Lewis answered. “And when will the chicken be ready?”

  “In an hour, sir; you will have just time to dress for dinner.”

  Whereupon the lovers returned to their rooms, Lady Helen saying that she would like to get into a tea-gown. “And after dinner we shall see if the parrot will take food from me.”

  “Well, isn’t it wonderful that we should be here alone? How things have worked out! How well you have managed it!” he said. “Here we’re dressing for dinner in front of each other.” And they went out to dinner together, Lewis whispering: “Don’t you think I did well to mention your name? We are going to be married.”

  “Yes, Lewis, we are,” she said, “on the first opportunity”; and laughing gaily they sat down to dinner, Lady Helen speaking of the parrot, to whom she took over fruit from time to time.

  “I never should have believed it possible,” Kate said, “if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, but I wouldn’t advise your ladyship to make too free with Polly yet, for those birds are very artful and inconstant.”

  “But somehow I feel quite safe with her”; and when dinner was over she repeated the phrase, saying, “I feel quite safe with her,” and went towards the cage.

  “My dear Helen, if on such a night as this the bird should take a piece out of your cheek! I beg of you, I beseech you, I implore you.”

  But Lady Helen would not be gainsaid; and as soon as she opened the door of the cage the parrot came out, perched on to her finger, and climbed up her arm on to her shoulder, and proud of her conquest Helen walked about.

  But the Polly could not bear any attempt to come between her and the object of her affections, and when Lewis approached Lady Helen, Polly at once began to roll her eyes, to scream, and put up her feathers.

  “Don’t come near me, Lewis; you are agitating the bird,” she said. But Lewis, forgetful that parrots have wings and can fly, began to feel a little jealous of Polly, and would have liked to put her back into the cage; but the moment he attempted to approach Lady Helen the bird prepared to attack him, and so savage was her demeanour, that Lewis thought it wiser to retreat. But this wasn’t enough for the parrot: she flew after Lewis, who was walking in a different direction, and Lady Helen’s cry and the parrot’s claws and beak were a simultaneous intimation of the assault. Polly’s beak was in Lewis’s ear, causing him considerable pain, and he might have lost a piece of the ear if Lady Helen had not ran forward at once. At her approach Polly seemed to forget Lewis altogether, and from the harsh notes her voice fell into a soft cooing, and she allowed herself to be put back into her cage.

  CHAP. XXX.

  NEXT MORNING LEWIS and Helen were awakened out of deep sleep by the sound of women’s voices, and sitting up in bed they listened.

  “What can all this screaming be about?” Lewis asked, and slipping out of bed, he opened the door. “I believe,” he said, “that they have let the parrot out of the cage and are trying to get her back into it.” Kate cried to him to shut the door, but she cried out too late, and a moment afterwards the bird came flopping through it and settled herself at once on the pillow beside Helen.

  “We are so sorry, sir; and it isn’t my fault. The kitchenmaid, while I was dusting the chimney-piece, opened the door to take out the tray and forgot to close it.”

  “Well, the bird is in our bedroom now,” be answered.

  “Would you like me to come and try to get her back into her cage, sir?”

  “I’m afraid she wouldn’t let you,” Lewis answered, and his eyes went to the bird, who had perched herself on Helen’s shoulder, and was now rubbing her head caressingly against her cheek. “She seems to be as fond of you as I am, and has ousted me from your bed.”

  Helen offered to carry her back to her cage, but Lewis said he had slept enough; and arming himself with a towel, said, “I will go to the bathroom, dear, and perhaps when I come back dressed” — he stopped to watch the bird put her great horny beak into Helen’s mouth—” I’d like to do a drawing, and will bring in the sketchbook.”

  While he was bathing, Helen, to make Polly more comfortable, drew forward a high-backed arm-chair, inviting Polly to perch upon it, which the bird did, obedient to her every wish. Polly cooed and extended her head for caresses, and she went through her entire repertoire of phrases for Helen’s entertainment. A curious scene it was when Lewis returned: Polly was giving all her attention to Helen. “Trying,” Lewis said, “to learn new words and phrases,” as if she only cared for those she could learn from Helen. “If I were only sure the bird wouldn’t attack me.”

  “The bird will not interfere with you, Lewis, so long as you don’t come near me. But she is clearly very jealous, and can only have one love at a time, and will not suffer any rivalry, so keep away.”

  The last remark did not altogether please Lewis, but his mind was bent upon his drawing, for he had seen a pose that captured him: Helen raising herself up to the bird — a pretty movement, almost a nude, for the morning being very hot, the last sheet had been kicked aside.

  “How is your drawing going?” Helen asked, and Lewis replied, “Very well indeed. But can you keep the pose a little longer?”

  “Well, a little longer,” she said; “all my weight is on my right arm.”

  Lewis hurried to get down the main lines of his drawing, and when Helen said, “I really cannot bear the pose any longer,” he answered that after breakfast he would be glad if she would give him another sitting.

  “And now, Polly, I must really dress myself,” she said, twisting her legs over the bedside; and taking Polly in her hands, she took her to her cage and went into the bathroom, appearing some twenty minutes afterwards in a tea-gown.

  “You said you’d like me to take the pose afterwards, so I haven’t made any considerable change in my toilet. But, darling, I haven’t asked you to show me your drawing.”

  Lewis opened his sketch-book, and they hung over it together, admiring, criticising it till beguiled from it by the savoury smell of kidneys and bacon. They seated themselves at the breakfast table. Kate had baked some cakes for them which they liked exceedingly, and the coffee was strong, the marmalade excellent, and in a happy digestion they rose from the table and stood by the open window, their feet tempted by the greensward and by the shady alley leading no doubt to the water’s edge. Both were anxious to explore, to investigate and admire their little domain — a month’s domain, for by the end of the month it seemed to them that they must return to town. Lewis had pictures to paint, but for a month they would be all alone with the books, the views, and the sketch-books.

  “And a vicious parrot,” Lewis said. “A bird that threatens to monopolise you, darling. My first rival; will there be any others?”

  Helen did not answer as he expected she would—” There can never be anybody but you” — she merely turned the conversation, saying that she was tempted to walk out. “But you see, dear, I’ve only slippers on, silk stockings, a chemise and a dressing-gown. You see, I’m nearly undressed. You want me to go back to
bed for you to finish your drawing.”

  Lewis admitted that he would like to have another half-hour’s sitting, but he, too, was captured by the scents that came up from the flowers, and the hum of the bees seeking honey from larkspur to hollyhock.

  “How strong and sweetly the stocks smell!” she said. “I think we might go a little way.”

  “Yes, let us go a little way and talk to the gardener yonder. There may be a boat-house, and the air is so pleasant in the shady alley, and you are so pleasant to walk with,” he said, conscious of the presence of her body under the long blue tea-gown.

  The alley they were in was shaded by willows on one side and by an occasional elm on the other, a pleasant path extending one whole reach of the Thames. It seemed commonplace to her to say that it was exquisite to walk in this fresh morning air by the river after a love night. Yet the words were on their lips — on his, perhaps, more often than hers, for she was more content than he was to enjoy without speech. He would have liked her to speak, for not to speak seemed to him a little cynical. That was the one fault he had to find with Helen. She yielded her body, but not her soul — at least, not as completely as he had expected she would, as other women had. And presently she seemed to him unduly loquacious with the gardener, asking for tiresome information about the strawberries that were over, and the peaches that were ripening. Was it not enough to know that he would send in some peaches? Of what concern of theirs was it to learn the precise relationship of the peach to the nectarine? The gardener was anxious to conduct them through his garden to show them some carnations — a new flower of his own invention — and Helen would have followed him, but Lewis said: “Somebody is always stealing you from me. It began early in the morning with the parrot, now it is the gardener.”

  A change came into her face, and they turned back into the shade of the alley, the sun being uncomfortably hot in the open. Half its length was traversed without speaking, till, breaking the silence suddenly, Lewis said that a new idea for a picture had just come to him, and his idea was that Polly might conceive the idea of robbing Helen of her nightgown:— “Stepping from her perch, the bird might be dragging at your nightgown as if he liked you better without it. Another version of Fragonard: ‘La Chemise Volée.’”