by George Moore
“But, Cecilia, I am not going to leave you: I do not understand.”
“Yes, you do; you know well enough that you will marry him, and you will moreover go away with him and I shall be left alone.”
“Cecilia, I assure you that he has never spoken a word of love to me; I have no reason to think that he ever thought of asking me to marry him.”
“It is very clear indeed that he holds for you that sentiment which men dignify with the name of love. His blood is on fire with it; when he looks at you... oh, it is horrible! I will not think of it.”
“Cecilia, for shame! Surely it is wicked to speak like that. Surely you are sinning against your religion, which of all the religions the world has known is most human; indeed, I may say, the most domestic. Think, do not your theorics involve a condemnation of the life of Christ, and all that concerns it?”
“Hush, Alice, hush, — that was no more than an infinitely mysterious, and an infinitely beautiful dream.” As she spoke she raised her face, the light fell on the retreating temples, and the prominent eyes of the mystic were rolled upward wildly, almost convulsively.
Then Alice looked straight out of her plain, earnest eyes. She was stirred to the depths of her being with wonder, with a strange wonder in which there were mingled sensations of horror and curiosity. And, at the same time, as there are often in a violet sky vanishing touches of delicate blue so pleasantly suggestive of sunshine that they are, as it were, thoughts of happiness and pleasure, a sweet humming joy fluttered down upon her heart like wings upon a nest that was soon to grow alive with fledglings. In that moment Alice knew she was to be a wife. A soft voice cooed deliciously about her heart, but she strove not to listen. Afterwards she was ashamed of having experienced so much gladness in the presence of one whom life had crowned with much grief. At last she said:
“But, Cecilia, you must remember that marriage is a sacrament that is permitted by God.”
“Marriage is a concession to the weak in spirit.”
“Then do you really think it is impossible to love a man purely. And, admitting for a moment that Dr. Reed does want to marry me, do you think” (here Alice spoke with a slight hesitation in her voice) “it would be incompatible with the married state for a pure and holy affection to exist between us, a belief in each other’s truth, and much firm dependence on the strength of our double life?”
“Marriage is lawful, but for all that its passions are no whit less gross and no less detestable than those of any other form of concubinage, and he or she who would love as the angels love in heaven, who would taste the love that fills the eternal spaces of heaven, must fly from all that is too conclusive of the earth; must not seek to make a spiritual banquet serve for worldly meat and drink. The real and the ideal are not one but twain, and the twain will never turn to one. Before you, myriad brides — bright and radiant maidens — have gone to the marriage-bed, but only to return, as you will, abashed, defiled, and mad with the ignominy and the shame; you, too, like them will know the truth when it is too late. Darling, my heart is your heart, and your affections are mine as mine are yours. I see it all. Oh God! how clear the vision is! Listen, in horrible nightmare I have endured.... yes, I have known the abominable martyrdom which you will suffer. And now I can see it — a fearsome monster waiting you from afar. All is dread darkness about him, but his eyes gleam; his breath stirs the shuddering silence.... Ah! it is too horrible! I will see no more. And, darling, I can only pity you, can but hold these arms to you for a last time. Then you will be alone, and the love I shall send out to you will but barely reach you, and will not help you to live. You will be alone, you will have no one by to comfort you, to wipe away you tears, to bid you bear your lot for Christ’s most holy sake. But I shall pray, I shall pray by day and night, for I shall know all, and you too will know all, and in your agony your thoughts will lean to Cecilia, to her who now seems to you no more than a strange-minded cripple girl, to her who now seems to you but a dark-minded cynic to whom all earthly joy is unholy and vile.”
“But surely, Cecilia, you do not think all men are gross and degraded — you do not hate your own father?”
Cecilia did not answer, but her lips curled disdainfully, and it was easy to guess the dark and terrible thoughts that agitated her.
“I cannot go into that question,’’ she said abruptly; “all I have in my heart to tell concerns the futility of material pleasures, and the terrible future you are preparing for yourself. I have thought long and profoundly of the meaning of life; my deformity, forcing me to stand out of the swelling of the crowd, has given me occasion to see as from a tower, and from my silent and lonely place I have watched and have seen the terrible end that awaits all earthly delight — shame, loathing, weariness. But I am not the cynic that you declare me. I believe there are many pleasures in life, but they are found in resignation, in calm, and never in stormful joy and violent ends. The real, the abiding gladness of this life is approached in prayer, in yearning for an ideal that cannot be ours in this life, but which we may attain in the next.”
“An unattainable ideal! Of what service can it then be to us?”
“The value of an ideal lies in the fact of its unattainableness, otherwise it would be worthless and valueless to guide us, to lead us through our mortal night. And to gain power to conquer our baser passions we set our eyes upon a fair, unalterable star: in rare moments its beauty will shine upon our tired faces, and our hearts shall wax joyful, and burdens grow light upon our bending shoulders. Then we must pray. Prayer is a Divine cordial poured out of heaven that our souls may drink of and be refreshed; prayer is a flower fallen from heaven that man may cull and place it in his bosom and walk on assured of his Divine importance; and I have drunk of this cordial; I have gathered this rose and have been made strong and whole with sweet drink and immortal perfume, and may now pursue my journey to the end without fear of falling by the wayside. Life has been defeated, its thorns have been trampled under foot, and its temptations disdained. For I, even a poor girl cripple like me, have been given not only sorrows and pains to bear, but even temptations to overcome. That you do not believe, and you cannot perhaps realise, what I suffered when I saw you, my only friend, being stolen from me. Then what was loathing grew to hate, and I called upon God to curse, to kill, to relieve me of my enemy; to crush him who will degrade with his vile usage her to whom my thoughts turn as the sunflower must to the sun, her who has been to me, poor, lonely and sorrowful me, an ideal of love, of light, and of grace.”
“Cecilia, darling, you shall not be alone. You shall come and live with us... that is to say, if what you have spoken of is to he.”
“Live with you, with him! For ever in sight of your domestic affection; to become a part of it? No, I shall seek peace from you, from all too disturbing passion, in God and the hope of heaven. I shall return to that place where alone there may exist for me some small portion of earthly happiness — the Convent of the Holy Child.”
“But you are not a Roman Catholic?”
“I have always been one in sentiment, I shall now become one in God, and I shall take the veil; and in those beautiful black robes, in that beautiful woman’s church, in the silent sacramental hours, my soul shall lose consciousness of all things save of the white presence of God; and there, when my heart has grown quieter, I shall pray for you, Alice; and my prayers shall be heard; and if ever you come to me, if you should ever whisper in my ear that you had learnt to believe in our Divine Lord, if you should ever kneel by me in that beautiful convent church and in our old places, and our spirits be mingled in the sweet mutuality of prayer, I should forget all past griefs, or rather I should say that for the ultimate happiness they bore, they were worth enduring.”
Tears stood in Alice’s eyes; her heart was too full for words, but she took her friend in her arms and kissed her — the caress was passionately, and even violently returned.
CHAPTER VII.
A WEEK LATER Mrs. Barton sat waiting in her drawing-room t
o receive Milord. A bit of news had reached her and she was anxious to verify it. From time to time she raised her soft brown eyes to look at the clock. It was after one: consequently he would arrive in a few minutes. And as if in anticipation of his smiles the heart-shaped face was slanted in the Lady Hamilton pose; the feet were tucked neatly away beneath the black silk dress, the hands lay thereon like little white china ornaments. There was about Mrs. Barton always an air of quiet refinement; and Mrs. Barton looked more Mrs. Barton now than ever. The sweet cunning of the face was apparent in the grey Irish air that illumined the room, bringing out in aggressive distinctness the plaintive pastels, the gim-crack cabinets hung in the corners and between the windows, and over-laden with Dresden figures, French fans, ivories, and silver card-cases. Olive, looking as fragile as any toy, lay on the sofa, and the decanter of sherry on his little table was ready waiting for Milord. Suddenly the noise of wheels was heard, and a moment after the old lord entered. He was as hale and as hearty as ever; but the times had been passing him rapidly by of late, and the excessive courtliness, the expansive shirt front, the elaborate necktie with the ends hanging about, the elaborate stud were now more suggestive of high-class comedy than of real life.
“Ah, ce cher Milord, comme il est beau, comme il est parfait!” exclaimed Mrs. Barton as she led him to his chair and poured out his glass of sherry.
But there was a gloom on his face which laughter and compliments failed for a moment to dissipate — at last he said:
“Ah, Mrs. Barton, Mrs. Barton! if I had not this little retreat to take refuge in, to hide myself in, during some hours of the day, I should not be able to bear up — Brookfield has prolonged my life for...”
“I cannot allow such sad thoughts as these,” said Mrs. Barton laughing, and waving her white hands. “Who has been teasing notre cher Milord? What have dreadful Lady Jane and terrible Lady Sarah been doing to him?”
“I shall never forget this morning, no, not if I lived to a thousand,” the old gentleman murmured, plaintively. “Oh, the scenes, the scenes I have gone through! Cecilia, as I told you yesterday, has been filling the house with rosaries and holywater-fonts; Jane and Sarah have been breaking these, and the result has been tears and upbraidings.... Last night at dinner I don’t really know what they didn’t say to each other; and then the two elder ones fell upon me and declared that it was all my fault, that I ought never to have sent my daughter to a Catholic convent. I was obliged to shut myself up in the study and lock the door. Then this morning when I thought it was all over it began again worse than ever; and then in the middle of it all when Jane asked Cecilia how many Gods there were in the roll of bread she was eating if the priest were to bless it... a most injudicious observation, I said so at the time, and I must apologise to you, my dear Mrs. Barton for repeating it, but I am really so upset that I scarcely know what I am saying.. well, Jane had no sooner spoken than Cecilia overthrew the teacups and said she was not going to stay in the house to hear her religion insulted, and without another word she walked down to the parish priest and was baptised a Catholic; nor is that all, she returned with a scapular round her neck, a rosary about her waist, and a Pope’s medal in her hand. I really thought Jane and Sarah would have fainted; indeed I am sure they would have fainted if Cecilia hadn’t declared that she was going to pack up her things and return at once to St. Leonard’s and become a nun. Such an announcement as this was of course far beyond fainting and... but no, I will not attempt to describe it, but I can assure you I was very anxious to get out of the house.”
“Cecilia going to be a nun; oh, I am so glad!” exclaimed Olive. “It is far the best thing she could do, for she couldn’t hope to be married.”
“Olive, Olive!” said Mrs. Barton, “you should not speak so openly. We should always consider the religious prejudices of others. Of course, as Catholics we must be glad to hear of anyone joining the true Church, but we should remember that Milord is going to lose his daughter.”
“I assure you my dear Mrs. Barton, I have no prejudices. I look upon all religions as equally good, but to be forced to live in a perpetual discussion in which teacups are broken, concerning scapulars, bacon and meal shops, and a school which, putting aside the question of expense, makes me hated in the neighbourhood, I regard as intolerable, and when I go home this evening I shall tell Jane that the school must be put down or carried on in a less aggressive way. I assure you I have no wish to convert the people; they are paying their rents very well now, and I think it absurd to upset them; and the fact of having received Cecilia into the Church might incline the priest very much towards us.”
“And Cecilia will be so happy in that beautiful convent!” suggested Mrs. Barton.
“C’est le génie du Catholicisme de nous débarrasser des filles laides.”
And upon this expression of goodwill towards the Church of Rome, Cecilia’s future life was discussed with much amiability. Mrs. Barton said she would make a sweet little nun; Olive declared that she would certainly go to Saint Leonard’s to see her “professed,” and Milord’s description of Lady Sarah’s and Lady Jane’s ill-humour was considered irresistibly comic, and he was forced to tell the story of his woes again and again.
Soon after, the servant announced Dr. Reed, and Alice came downstairs.
Mrs. Barton was annoyed at the Doctor’s visit, and she showed her annoyance by maintaining a discourteous silence.
“What can he want here every day?” she thought; “this is the third time this week he has called, and Olive is as well as ever she was. He feels her pulse and looks at her tongue and says it is a very satisfactory recovery. We all know that! I wish he’d go, and let me hear something more about Cecilia’s conversion.”
Dr. Reed’s society manners were none of the best, and now, facing Milord’s urbanity and Mrs. Barton’s indifference, he sat on the edge of his chair, a picture of drawing-room misery. Alice, who knew he had come to see her, strove to make matters easy, and she industriously alluded to all possible topics of conversation. But without much effect; the Doctor evidently had something on his mind, and after an answer had been given the conversation came to an abrupt close. Then she guessed that he wanted to speak to her alone; and in reply to a remark he had made concerning the fever dens in Gort she said:
“I wanted to ask you a question or two about typhoid-fever, Dr. Reed; one of my heroines is going to die of it, and I should like to avoid medical impossibilities. May I show you the passage?”
“Certainly, Miss Barton; I shall be delighted to give you any assistance in my power.”
When Alice left the room to fetch her manuscript, the Doctor hurriedly bid his patient, Milord and Mrs. Barton goodbye. The latter said:
“Won’t you wait to see Alice?”
“I have to speak to the boy in charge of my car; I shall see Miss Barton as she comes downstairs.”
Mrs. Barton looked as if she thought this arrangement not a little singular, but she said nothing, and when Alice came running downstairs with a roll of MSS. in her hand, she attempted to explain her difficulty to the Doctor. He made a feeble attempt to listen to the passage she read aloud to him; and when their eyes met across the paper she saw he was going to propose to her.
“Will you walk down the avenue with me? and we ‘will talk of that as we go along.”
Her hat was on the hall table, she took it up and in silence walked with him out on the gravel.
“Will I put the barse up, sor?” cried the boy from the outside car.
“No, follow me down the avenue.”
It was a wild autumn evening, full of wind and leaves. The great green pasture lands, soaked and soddened with rain, rolled their monotonous green turf to the verge of the blown beech-trees, about which the rooks drifted in picturesque confusion. Now they soared like hawks, or on straightened wings were carried down a furious gust across the tumultuous waves of upheaved yellow, and past the rift of cold crimson that is tossed like a banner through the shadows of evening.
&nb
sp; The lovers walked onwards in silence; and, as the landscape darkened, their lives seemed to grow brighter in the auroral light of a new clay: and the echoes of the old world sounded dim as the shuffling of the horse that tramped leisurely behind them. At last he said:
