Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  You see John and Kitty as they cross the wide park towards the vista in the circling elms, — she swinging her parasol, he carrying stiffly his grave canonical cane. He still wears the long black coat buttoned at the throat, but the air of hieratic dignity is now replaced by, or rather it is glossed with, the ordinary passion of life. Both are like children, infinitely amused by the colour of the grass and sky, by the hurry of the startled rabbit, by the prospect of the long walk; and they taste already the wild charm of the downs, seeing and hearing in imagination its many sights and sounds, the wild heather, the yellow savage gorse, the solitary winding flock, the tinkling of the bell-wether, the cliff-like sides, the crowns of trees, the mighty distance spread out like a sea below them with its faint and constantly dissolving horizon of the Epsom Hills.

  “I never can cross this plain, Kitty, without thinking of the Dover cliffs as seen in mid Channel; this is a mere inland imitation of them.”

  “I have never seen the Dover cliffs; I have never been out of England, but the Brighton cliffs give me an idea of what you mean.”

  “On your side — the Shoreham side — the downs rise in a gently sloping ascent from the sea.”

  “Yes, we often walk up there. You can see Brighton and Southwick and Worthing. Oh! it is beautiful! I often go for a walk there with my friends, the Austen girls — you saw them here at the Meet.”

  “Yes, Mr Austen has a very nice property; it extends right into the town of Shoreham, does it not?”

  “Yes, and right up to Toddington Mount, where we are going. But aren’t you a little tired, John? These roads are very steep.”

  “Out of breath, Kitty; let’s stop for a minute or two.” The country lay below them. They had walked three miles, and Thornby Place and its elms were now vague in the blue evening. “We must see one of these days if we cannot do the whole distance.”

  “What? right across the downs from Shoreham to Henfield?”

  “Well, it is not more than eight miles; you don’t think you could manage it?”

  “I don’t know, it is more than eight miles, and walking on the downs is not like walking on the highroad. Father thinks nothing of it.”

  “We must really try it.”

  “What would you do if I were to get so tired that I could not go back or forward?”

  “I would carry you.”

  They continued their climb. Speaking of the Devil’s Dyke, Kitty said —

  “What! you mean to say you never heard the legend? You, a Sussex man!”

  “I have lived very little in Sussex, and I used to hate the place; I am only just beginning to like it.”

  “And you don’t like the Jesuits any more, because they go in for matchmaking.”

  “They are too sly for me, I confess; I don’t approve of priests meddling in family affairs. But tell me the legend.”

  “Oh, how steep these roads are. At last, at last. Now let’s try and find a place where we can sit down. The grass is full of that horrid prickly gorse.”

  “Here’s a nice soft place; there is no gorse here. Now tell me the legend.”

  “Well, I never!” said Kitty, sitting herself on the spot that had been chosen for her, “you do astonish me. You never heard of the legend of St Cuthman.”

  “No, do tell it to me.”

  “Well, I scarcely know how to tell it in ordinary words, for I learnt it in poetry.”

  “In poetry! In whose poetry?”

  “Evy Austen put it into poetry, the eldest of the girls, and they made me recite it at the harvest supper.”

  “Oh, that’s awfully jolly — I never should have thought she was so clever. Evy is the dark-haired one.”

  “Yes, Evy is awfully clever; but she doesn’t talk much about it.”

  “Do recite it.”

  “I don’t know that I can remember it all. You won’t laugh if I break down.”

  “I promise.”

  THE LEGEND OF ST CUTHMAN.

  “St Cuthman stood on a point which crowns

  The entire range of the grand South Downs;

  Beneath his feet, like a giant field,

  Was stretched the expanse of the Sussex Weald.

  ‘Suppose,’ said the Saint,’’twas the will of Heaven

  To cause this range of hills to be riven,

  And what were the use of prayers and whinings,

  Were the sea to flood the village of Poynings:

  ’Twould be fine, no doubt, these Downs to level,

  But to do such a thing I defy the Devil!’

  St Cuthman, tho’ saint, was a human creature,

  And his eye, a bland and benevolent feature,

  Remarked the approach of the close of day,

  And he thought of his supper, and turned away.

  Walking fast, he

  Had scarcely passed the

  First steps of his way, when he saw something nasty;

  ’Twas tall and big,

  And he saw from its rig

  ’Twas the Devil in full diabolical fig.

  There were wanting no proofs,

  For the horns and the hoofs

  And the tail were a fully convincing sight;

  But the heart of the Saint

  Ne’er once turned faint,

  And his halo shone with redoubled light.

  ‘Hallo, I fear

  You’re trespassing here!’

  Said St Cuthman, ‘To me it is perfectly clear,

  If you talk of the devil, he’s sure to appear!’

  ‘With my spade and my pick

  I am come,’ said old Nick,

  ‘To prove you’ve no power o’er a demon like me.

  I’ll show you my power —

  Ere the first morning hour

  Thro’ the Downs, over Poynings, shall roll in the sea.’

  ‘I’ll give you long odds,’

  Cried the Saint, ‘by the gods!

  I’ll stake what you please, only say what your wish is.’

  Said the devil, ‘By Jove!

  You’re a sporting old cove!

  My pick to your soul,

  I’ll make such a hole,

  That where Poynings now stands, shall be swimming the fishes.’

  ‘Done!’ cried the Saint, ‘but I must away

  I have a penitent to confess;

  In an hour I’ll come to see fair play —

  In truth I cannot return in less.

  My bet will be won ere the first bright ray

  Heralds the ascension of the day.

  If I lose! — there will be the devil to pay!’

  He descended the hill with a firm quick stride,

  Till he reached a cell which stood on the side;

  He knocked at the door, and it opened wide, —

  He murmured a blessing and walked inside.

  Before him he saw a tear-stained face

  Of an elderly maiden of elderly grace;

  Who, when she beheld him, turned deadly pale,

  And drew o’er her features a nun’s black veil.

  ‘Holy father!’ she said, ‘I have one sin more,

  Which I should have confessed sixty years before!

  I have broken my vows— ’tis a terrible crime!

  I have loved you, oh father, for all that time!

  My passion I cannot subdue, tho’ I try!

  Shrive me, oh father! and let me die!’

  ‘Alas, my daughter,’ replied the Saint,

  ‘One’s desire is ever to do what one mayn’t,

  There was once a time when I loved you, too,

  I have conquered my passion, and why shouldn’t you?

  For penance I say,

  You must kneel and pray

  For hours which will number seven;

  Fifty times say the rosary,

  (Fifty, ‘twill be a poser, eh?)

  But by it you’ll enter heaven;

  As each hour doth pass,

  Turn the hour glass,

  Till the time of midnight’s ne
ar;

  On the stroke of midnight

  This taper light,

  Your conscience will then be clear.’

  He left the cell, and he walked until

  He joined Old Nick on the top of the hill.

  It was five o’clock, and the setting sun

  Showed the work of the Devil already begun.

  St Cuthman was rather fatigued by his walk,

  And caring but little for brimstone talk,

  He watched the pick crash through layers of chalk.

  And huge blocks went over and splitting asunder

  Broke o’er the Weald like the crashing of thunder.

  St Cuthman wished the first hour would pass,

  When St Ursula, praying, reversed the glass.

  ‘Ye legions of hell!’ the Old Gentleman cried,

  ‘I have such a terrible stitch in the side!’

  ‘Don’t work so hard,’ said the Saint, ‘only see,

  The sides of your dyke a heap smoother might be.’

  ‘Just so,’ said the Devil, ‘I’ve had a sharp fit,

  So, resting, I’ll trim up my crevice a bit.’

  St Cuthman was looking prodigiously sly,

  He knew that the hours were slipping by.

  ‘Another attack!

  I’ve cramp at my back!

  I’ve needles and pins

  From my hair to my shins!

  I tremble and quail

  From my horns to my tail!

  I will not be vanquished, I’ll work, I say,

  This dyke shall be finished ere break of day!’

  ‘If you win your bet, ‘twill be fairly earned,’

  Said the Saint, and again was the hour-glass turned.

  And then with a most unearthly din

  The farther end of the dyke fell in;

  But in spite of an awful rheumatic pain

  The Devil began his work again.

  ‘I’ll not be vanquished!’ exclaimed the old bloke.

  ‘By breathing torrents of flame and smoke,

  Your dyke,’ said the Saint, ’is hindered each minute,

  What can one expect when the Devil is in it?’

  Then an accident happened, which caused Nick at last

  To rage, fume, and swear; when the fourth hour had passed,

  On his hoof there came rolling a huge mass of quartz.

  Then quite out of sorts

  The bad tempered old cove

  Sent the huge mass of stone whizzing over to Hove.

  He worked on again, till a howl and a cry

  Told the Saint one more hour — the fifth — had gone by.

  ‘What’s the row?’ asked the Saint, ‘A cramp in the wrist,

  I think for a while I had better desist.’

  Having rested a bit he worked at his chasm,

  Till, the hour having passed, he was seized with a spasm.

  He raged and he cursed,

  ‘I bore this at first,

  The rheumatics were awful, but this is the worst.’

  With awful rage heated,

  The demon defeated,

  In his passion used words that can’t be repeated.

  Feeling shaken and queer,

  In spite of his fear,

  At the dyke he worked on until midnight drew near.

  But when the glass turned for the last time, he found

  That the head of his pick was stuck fast in the ground.

  ‘Cease now!’ cried St Cuthman, ‘vain is your toil!

  Come forth from the dyke! Leave your pick in the soil!

  You agreed to work ‘tween sunset and morn,

  And lo! the glimmer of day is born!

  In vain was your fag,

  And your senseless brag.’

  Dizzy and dazed with sulphureous vapour,

  Old Nick was deceived by St Ursula’s taper.

  ‘The dawn!’ yelled the Devil, ‘in vain was my boast,

  That I’d have your soul, for I’ve lost it, I’ve lost!’

  ‘Away!’ cried St Cuthman, ‘Foul fiend! away!

  See yonder approaches the dawn of day!

  Return to the flames where you were before,

  And molest these peaceful South Downs no more!’

  The old gentleman scowled but dared not stay,

  And the prints of his hoofs remain to this day,

  Where he spread his dark pinions and soared away.

  At St Ursula’s cell

  Was tolling the bell,

  And St Cuthman in sorrow, stood there by her side.

  ’Twas over at last,

  Her sorrows were past,

  In the moment of triumph St Ursula died.

  Tho’ this was the ground,

  There never were found

  The tools of the Devil, his spade and his pick;

  But if you want proof

  Of the Legend, the hoof-

  Marks are still in the hillock last trod by Old Nick.”

  “Oh! that is jolly. Well, I never thought the girl was clever enough to write that. And there are some excellent rhymes in it, ‘passed he’ rhyming with ‘nasty,’ and ‘rosary’ with ‘poser, eh;’ and how well you recite it.”

  “Oh, I recited it better at the harvest supper; and you have no idea how the farmers enjoyed it. They know the place so well, and it interested them on that account. They understood it all.”

  John sat as if enchanted, — by Kitty’s almost childish grace, her enthusiasm for her friend’s poem, and her genuine enjoyment of it; by the abrupt hills, mysterious now in sunset and legend; by the vast plains so blue and so boundless: out of the thought of the littleness of life, of which they were a symbol, there came the thought of the greatness of love.

  “Won’t you cross the poor gipsy’s palm with a bit of silver, my pretty gentleman, and she will tell you your fortune and that of your pretty lady?”

  Kitty uttered a startled cry, and turning they found themselves facing a strong, black-eyed girl. She repeated her question.

  “What do you think, Kitty, would you like to have your fortune told?”

  Kitty laughed. “It would be rather fun,” she said.

  She did not know what was coming, and she listened to the usual story, full by the way of references to John — of a handsome young man who would woo her, win her, and give her happiness, children, and wealth.

  John threw the girl a shilling. She withdrew. They watched her passing through the furze. The silence about them was immense. Then John spoke:

  “What the gipsy said is quite true; I did not dare to tell you so before.”

  “What do you mean, John?”

  “I mean that I am in love with you, will you love me?”

  “You in love with me, John; it is quite absurd — I thought you hated girls.”

  “Never mind that, Kitty, say you will have me; make the gipsy’s words come true.”

  “Gipsies’ words always come true.”

  “Then you will marry me?”

  “I never thought about marriage. When do you want me to marry you? I am only seventeen?”

  “Oh! when you like, later on, only say you will be mine, that you will be mistress of Thornby Place one day, that is all I want.”

  “Then you don’t want to pull the house down any more.”

  “No, no; a thousand times no! Say you will be my wife one of these days.”

  “Very well then, one of these days....” “And I may tell my mother of your promise to-night?... It will make her so happy.”

  “Of course you may tell her, John, but I don’t think she will believe it.”

  “Why should she not believe it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Kitty, laughing, “but how funny, was it not, that the gipsy girl should guess right?”

  “Yes, it was indeed. I wanted to tell you before, but I hadn’t the courage; and I might never have found the courage if it had not been for that gipsy.”

  In his abundant happiness John did not notice that Kitty was sca
rcely sensible of the importance of the promise she had given. And in silence he gazed on the landscape, letting it sink into and fix itself for ever in his mind. Below them lay the great green plain, wonderfully level, and so distinct were its hedges that it looked like a chessboard. Thornby Place was hidden in vapour, and further away all was lost in darkness that was almost night.

  “I am sorry we cannot see the house — your house,” said John as they descended the chalk road.

  “It seems so funny to hear you say that, John.”

  “Why? It will be your house some day.”

  “But supposing your Church will not let you marry me, what then....”

  “There is no danger of that; a dispensation can always be obtained. But who knows.... You have never considered the question.... You know nothing of our Church; if you did, you might become a convert. I wish you would consider the question. It is so simple; we surrender our own wretched understanding, and are content to accept the Church as wiser than we. Once man throws off restraint there is no happiness, there is only misery. One step leads to another; if he would be logical he must go on, and before long, for the descent is very rapid indeed, he finds himself in an abyss of darkness and doubt, a terrible abyss indeed, where nothing exists, and life has lost all meaning. The Reformation was the thin end of the wedge, it was the first denial of authority, and you see what it has led to — modern scepticism and modern pessimism.”

  “I don’t know what it means, but I heard Mrs Norton say you were a pessimist.”

  “I was; but I saw in time where it was leading me, and I crushed it out. I used to be a Republican too, but I saw what liberty meant, and what were its results, and I gave it up.”

  “So you gave up all your ideas for Catholicism....”

  John hesitated, he seemed a little startled, but he answered, “I would give up anything for my Church...”

  “What! Me?”

  “That is not required.”

  “And did it cost you much to give up your ideas?”

  John raised his eyes — it was a look that Balzac would have understood and would have known how to interpret in some admirable pages of human suffering. “None will ever know how I have suffered,” he said sadly. “But now I am happy, oh! so happy, and my happiness would be complete if.... Oh! if God would grant you grace to believe....”

  “But I do believe. I believe in our Lord Christ who died to save us. Is not that enough?”

  CHAPTER VI.

  LIKE JUGGERNAUT’S CAR, Catholicism had passed over John’s mind, crushing all individualism, and leaving it but a wreck of quaking mysticism. Twenty times a day the spectre of his conscience rose and with menacing finger threatened him with flames and demons. And his love was a source of continual suffering. How often did he ask himself if he were surrendering his true vocation? How often did he beg of God to guide him aright? But these mental agitations were visible to no one. He preserved his calm exterior and the keenest eye detected in him only an ordinary young man with more than usually strict business habits. He had appointments with his solicitor. He consulted with him, he went into complex calculations concerning necessary repairs, and he laid plans for the more advantageous letting of the farms.