by George Moore
‘If a habit affects us, against that must we endeavour to find some remedy? And what remedy is to be found against a habit? The contrary habit.’
A temptation of the flesh had come upon him; he had yielded to it instead of opposing it with the contrary habit of chastity. For chastity had never afflicted him; it had ever been to him a source of strength and courage. Chastity had brought him peace of mind, but the passion to which he had in a measure yielded had robbed him of his peace of mind, and had given him instead weakness, and agitation of spirit and flesh. The last six months had been the unhappiest of his life. Nothing in this world, he thought, is worth our peace of mind, and love robs us of that, therefore it must be maleficent. ‘And this passion which has caused me so much trouble, what is it? A passing emotion of which I am ashamed, of which I would speak to no one. An emotion which man shares with the lowest animals, but which his higher nature teaches him to check and subject.’ Then he remembered that this emotion might come upon him again. But each time he thought, ‘I shall be able to control it better than the last, and it will grow weaker and weaker until at last it will pass and to return no more.’
But he had proposed to Kitty and had been accepted, and for some solution of this material difficulty he had to fall back upon the argument that he had no right to wreck another’s life, that in considering his interests he was considering hers. And he had stood in the dawn light pondering a means of escape from a position into which a chance circumstance had led him.
He had gone to bed hoping to find counsel in the night, and in the morning he had waked firm in his resolve, and had gone to Shoreham in the intention of breaking his engagement. But instead he had witnessed a cruel and terrible suicide, the reason of which was hidden from him. Possibly none would ever know the reason. Perhaps it were better so; the reasons that prompted suicide were better unrevealed….
And now, as he returned home after the tragedy, about midway in his walk across the downs, the thought came upon him that the breaking off of his engagement might have been sufficient reason in an affected mind for suicide. But this was not so. He knew it was not so. He had been spared that!
‘She was here with me yesterday,’ he said. And he looked down the landscape now wrapped in a white mist. The hills were like giants sleeping, the long distance vanished in mysterious moonlight. He could see Brighton, nearer was Southwick; and further away, past the shadowy shore, was Worthing.
He sat down by the blown hawthorn bush that stands by the burgh. A ship sailed across the rays of the moon, and he said —
‘Illusion, illusion! so is it always with him who places his trust in life. Ah, life, life, what hast thou for giving save deceptions? Why did I leave my life of contemplation and prayer to enter into that of desire? Did I not know that there was no happiness save in calm and contemplation, and foolish is he who places his happiness in the things of this world?’
But what had befallen her? She was mad when she threw herself out of the window to escape from him. But how had she become mad? Yesterday he had looked back and had seen her walking away and waving her parasol, a slight happy figure on the gold-tinted sky. What had happened? By what strange alienation of the brain, by what sudden snapping of the sense had madness come? Something must have happened. Did madness fall like that? like a bolt from the blue. If so she must have always been mad, and walking home the slight thread of sense half worn through had suddenly snapped. He knew that she liked him. Had she guessed that when it came to the point that he would not, that he might not have been able to marry her? If so, he was in a measure responsible. Ah, why had he ventured upon a path which he must have known he was not fitted to walk in?
XV.
Next morning John and Mrs. Norton drove to the Rectory, and without asking for Mr. Hare, they went to her room. The windows were open; Annie and Mary Austin sat by the bedside watching. The blood had been washed out of the beautiful hair, and she lay very white and fair amid the roses her friends had brought her. She lay as she had lain in one of her terrible dreams — quite still, the slender body covered by a sheet. From the feet the linen curved and marked the inflections of the knees; there were long flowing folds, low-lying like the wash of retiring water. And beautiful indeed were the rounded shoulders, the neck, the calm and bloodless face, the little nose, and the drawing of the nostrils, the extraordinary waxen pallor, the eyelids laid like rose-leaves upon the eyes that death has closed for ever. An Ascension lily lay within the arm, in the pale hand.
Candles were burning, and the soft smell of wax mixed with the perfume of the roses. For there were roses everywhere — great snowy bouquets and long lines of scattered blossoms, and single roses there and here, and the petals falling were as tears shed for the beautiful dead, and the white flowerage vied with the pallor and the immaculate stillness of the dead.
When they next saw her she was in her coffin. It was almost full of white blossoms — jasmine, Eucharis lilies, white roses, and in the midst of the flowers the hands lay folded, and the face was veiled with some delicate, filmy handkerchief.
For the funeral there were crosses and wreaths of white flowers, roses, and stephanotis. And the Austin girls and their cousins, who had come from Brighton and Worthing, carried loose flowers. Down the short drive, through the iron gate, through the farm gate, the bearers staggering a little under the weight of lead, the little cortege passed two by two. A broken-hearted lover, a grief-stricken father, and a dozen sweet girls, their eyes and cheeks streaming with tears. Kitty, their girl friend, was dead. The word ‘dead’ rang in their hearts in answer to the mournful tolling of the bell. The little by- way along which they went, the little green path leading over the hill, was strewn with blossoms fallen from the bier and the fingers of the weeping girls.
The old church was all in white; great lilies in vases, wreaths of stephanotis; and, above all, roses — great garlands of white roses had been woven, and they hung along and across. A blossom fell, a sob sounded in the stillness. An hour of roses, an hour of sorrow, and the coffin sank out of sight, a snow-drift of delicate bloom descended into the earth.
XVI.
John wandered through the green woods and fields into the town. He stood by the railway gates. He saw the people coming and going in and out of the public-houses; and he watched the trains that whizzed past.
A train stopped. He took a ticket and went to Brighton.
He walked through the southern sunlight of the town. The brown sails of the fishing-boats waved in translucid green; and the white field of the sheer cliff, and all the roofs, gables, spires, balconies, and the green of the verandahs were exquisitely indicated and elusive in the bright air; and the beach was loud with acrobats and comic minstrels, and nurse-maids lay on the pebbles reading novels, children with their clothes tied tightly about them were busy building sand castles.
But he saw not these things; on his mind was engraved a little country cemetery — graves, yews, a square, impressive spire. He heard not the laughter and the chatter of the beach, but the terrible words: Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and the dread, responsive rattle given back by the coffin lid. ‘And these,’ his soul cried, ‘are the true realities, death, and after death Heaven or Hell!’
Then he wondered at the fate that had led him from his calm student life…. He had come to Thornby Place with the intention of founding a monastery; instead, he had fallen in love (the word shocked him), and he asked himself if he had ever thought of her more as a wife than as a sister; if he could have been her husband? He feared that he had adventured perilously near to a life of which he could nowise sustain or fulfil, to a life for which he knew he was nowise suited, and which might have lost him his soul.
He never could have married her — no, not when it came to the point. He thought of the wedding-breakfast, the cake, the speeches, the congratulations, and of the woman with whom he would have gone away, of the honeymoon, of the bridal chamber! He knew now that he could not have fulfilled the life of marriage
. If those things had happened he would have had to tell her — ah! when it was too late — that he was mistaken, that he could not, in any real sense of the word, be her husband. They could not have lived together. They would have had to part. His life and hers would have been irretrievably ruined, and then? John remembered the story of Abelard and Heloise. A new Abelard — a new Heloise!
The romance of the idea interested him. Then returning suddenly to reality, he asked himself what had happened to Kitty — what was the cause of her madness? Something had occurred. Once again, as he remembered the blithe innocence of her smiling eyes when they parted on the hill, and he recalled with terror the trembling, forlorn, half- crazy girl that had sat opposite him in the drawing-room next day. He remembered the twitch of her lips, the averted eyes, and the look of mad fear that had crept over her face, her flight from him, her cries for help, and her desperate escape through the window. His thoughts paused, and then, like a bolt from the blue, a thought fell into his mind. ‘No,’ he cried, ‘not that.’ He tried to shake himself free from the thought; it was not to be shaken off. That was the explanation. It could only be that — ah! it was that, that, and nothing but that.
And as he viewed the delicate, elusive externality of the southern town, he remembered that he had kissed her — he had kissed her by force! ‘My God! then the difference between us is only one of degree, and the vilest humanity claims kinship of instinct with me!’ He clasped his hands across his eyes, and feeling himself on the brink of madness, he cried out to God to save him; and he longed to speak the words that would take him from the world. Life was not for him. He had learnt his lesson. Thornby Place should soon be Thornby Abbey, and in the divine consolation of religion John Norton hoped to find escape from the ignominy of life.
AGNES LAHENS.
I.
A GREY, WINTER morning filtered through lace curtains into drawing- rooms typical of a fashionable London neighbourhood and a moderate income. There was neither excess of porcelain, nor of small tables, nor of screens. Two large vases hinted at some vulgarity of taste; a grand piano in the back room suggested a love of music, and Mrs. Lahens had but to sing a few notes to leave no doubt that she had bestowed much care on the cultivation of her voice. But method only disguised its cracks and thinness as powder and rouge did the fading and withering of her skin. She was like her voice.
Lord Chadwick stood behind her, following the music bar by bar, and with an interest and a pleasure that did not concord with his appearance. For there was nothing in his appearance to indicate that his intelligence was on a higher plane than that of the mess-room. His appearance seemed to fluctuate between the mess-room and the company promoter’s office. He was a good-looking solicitor, he was a good- looking officer; the eyes were attractive; the nose was too large, but it was well-shaped; a heavy military moustache curled over his cheeks, and, as he stood nodding his head, delighted with the music, the seeming commonness of his appearance wore away.
Her song finished, Mrs. Lahens got up from the piano. She was tall and well-made; perhaps too full in the bosom, perhaps too wide in the hips, and perhaps the smallness of the waist was owing to her stays. Her figure suggested these questions. She wore a fashionable lilac blue silk, pleated over the bosom; and round her waist a chatelaine to which was attached a number of trinkets, a purse of gold net, a pencil case, some rings, a looking-glass, and small gold boxes jewelled — probably containing powder. Her hair was elaborately arranged, as if by the hairdresser, and she exhaled a faint odour of heliotrope as she crossed the room. She was still a handsome woman; she once had been beautiful, but too obviously beautiful to be really beautiful; there was nothing personal or distinguished in her face; it was made of too well-known shapes — the long, ordinary, clear-cut nose, and the eyes, forehead, cheeks, and chin proportioned according to the formula of the casts in vestibules. That she was slightly declassee was clear in the first glance. And she represented all that the word could be made to mean — liaisons, familiarity with fashionable restaurants, and the latest French literature.
Lord Chadwick saw that she was out of temper, and wondered what was the cause. He had not yet spoken to her; she was singing when he came into the room. So laying his hand on her shoulder, he said:
‘What is the matter, Olive?’
But it was some time before he could get an answer. At last she said:
‘I had an unpleasant scene with the Major this morning.’
‘I am glad it is no more than that,’ and Lord Chadwick threw himself into an arm-chair. ‘What further eccentricity has he been guilty of? Does he want to sweep the crossing, or to wait at table in the crossing-sweeper’s clothes?’ ‘He has bought an old overcoat from the butler.’
‘And wants to wear it at lunch?’
‘No; he’s got a new suit. I insisted on that. It came home last night. He had to give way, for I told him that if he would come down to lunch he must come decently dressed, otherwise he would do Agnes a great deal of harm.’
‘But you couldn’t persuade him to stick to his type-writing, and keep out of the way?’
‘No, and I thought it better not to try. Agnes’ return home has excited him dreadfully, and he fancies that it is his duty to watch over her — to protect her from my friends.’
‘Then I suppose we shall never get rid of him. He’ll be here all day, night and day. Good Heavens!’
‘I don’t say that. I hope that this new idea of his is only a freak. He will soon tire of his task of censor of morals. Meanwhile, we are to be most guarded in our conversation. And as for you — —’
‘What has he got against me?’ and Lord Chadwick looked at Mrs. Lahens. ‘About me!’ he repeated, ‘Nonsense.’
‘I don’t mean that he’s jealous, but he thinks that we should not continue to see one another.’
‘Does he give any reason?’
‘Agnes is coming home to-day. I shall have to take her into society. He says that society will not stand it, unless our relations are broken off.’
‘Society has stood it for the last seven years; society will stand anything except the Divorce Court, and there’s no danger of that.’
‘The Major’s very queer. I don’t know what’s the matter with him; I never saw him go on as he did this morning. He says that the girl shall not be sacrificed if he can help it.’
‘You don’t think he’ll make a row, do you?’
‘Are you afraid?’
‘Of what? For your sake I shouldn’t like a row. Afraid of a madman like that! But he can do nothing. I don’t see what he can do.’
‘That’s what he said himself. He says he can do nothing — you should have seen him walking up and down the room, dressed in a suit of clothes out of a rag shop, yellow-grey things two sizes too big for him; he has to roll up the ends of the trousers. He had no collar on, and to keep his neck warm he had tied an old pink scarf round his throat. He couldn’t walk either way above a couple of yards, for the roof slants down almost to the floor; he knocked his head against the roof, but he did not mind, he went on talking, half to me, half to himself.’
‘He sent for you, then?’
‘Yes; that he’d like to see me upstairs. I told my maid to say that he was to come down to my room, but she brought back word that the Major couldn’t come down, would I go up to him. So I had to go up to his garret. You never saw such a place. At last I got tired of listening to him — I couldn’t stand there in the cold any longer — I was catching cold.’
‘But you haven’t told me what he said.’
‘The usual thing: that it was the loss of his money that had brought him where he was; that if he only had a little money, if he could only keep himself, he would take his daughter away to live with him. He didn’t know what would become of her in this house. Oh, he did go on. At last he burst into tears, he threw himself at my feet and said he’d forgive me everything if I’d only think of my daughter.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said the best
way to consider his daughter’s interests, was by avoiding all scandal and wearing proper clothes.’
‘And he promised he would wear the new suit?’
‘Yes; he promised he would. He said that he knew all I said was true. That it wasn’t my fault, that a woman couldn’t be expected to respect a man who couldn’t keep her, that he felt the shame of his position in the house, that it had broken his heart, that if he had lost his money it was not his fault, that the world was full of rogues, you know — you’ve heard him go on.’
‘I should think I had. I don’t know how I put up with him. Very often it is as much as I can do to prevent myself from running out of the room.’
Mrs. Lahens looked at her lover angrily.
‘You don’t think what I have to put up with. You come here when you like, you go away when you like…. Men are always the same, they only think of themselves. You don’t think of me, you do not remember what I have put up with for your sake, of the sacrifices I have made for you. I should have left him years ago when he lost his money if it hadn’t been for fear of compromising you.’
‘He never would have divorced you. He’d have been left without a cent if he had, and he couldn’t have got anything out of me.’
‘Whatever my husband’s faults are, he’s not mercenary. There are many who think more of money and its advantages than he.’
‘Now, what are you angry about, Olive?’ and Lord Chadwick laid his hand on her shoulder.
‘I don’t like unjust accusations, not even against my husband. The Major is a fool, but he is not dishonourable; he is the most honourable man that comes to this house. It was not on account of my money that he did not divorce me.’
‘On account of you, then.’
‘Partly, strange as that may seem to you, and on account of his daughter.’
Lord Chadwick did not answer. The conversation was taking a disagreeable turn, and as he looked into the fire he thought how he might change it.