by George Moore
“What business?”
“The distillery.”
“Oh, but what about this office? Why are you obliged to lunch at your office? Are you expecting customers? I know nothing about that sort of thing.”
“No, I wish I were. The fact is, my missis is staying in Brighton for a few weeks. The child has been ailing a good deal lately, and the doctor ordered change of air.”
“Child! Missis! I know nothing of this.”
“A very nice woman, I think you’ll like her. She is devoted to me. We’ve been together now two years or more, I can’t say exactly, I should have to refer to my diary.”
“But the child?”
“The child isn’t mine. She had the child before I knew her.”
“And what is the matter with it?”
“Curvature of the spine. The doctor says she will outgrow it. Cissy will be quite strong and healthy although she may never have what you would call a good figure. But there is a matter on which I want to speak to you. The fact is, I am going to be married.”
“To whom?”
“To the lady whom you will see at lunch, Cissy’s mother.”
Frank said: “If you really love her I have nothing to say against it.” Willy did not answer. Frank waited for an answer and then broke the silence: “But do you love her?”
“Yes, I am very fond of her; she is a very good sort.”
Frank was implacable. “Do you love her like the other one?” The question wounded, but Frank was absorbed in his own special sentimentalities.
“I was younger then, it is not the same; I am getting old. How many years older am I than you — seven, I think? You are three-and-twenty, I am thirty. How time flies!”
“Yes, I am three-and-twenty — you don’t look thirty.”
“I feel it, though; few fellows have had so much trouble as I have. Your life has been all pleasure.”
“If a man really loves a woman he is always right to marry her. Why should we suppose that a woman may not reform — that true love may not raise her? I was talking to a novelist the other day; he told me thestory of a book he is writing. It is about a woman who leaves the husband she has never loved for the man she adores; she goes away with him, he marries her, and she sinks lower and lower, until she becomes a common prostitute.”
“You are quite mistaken. I am sure that when you see the missis—”
“My dear fellow, pray do not misunderstand me. I would not for worlds. I am only telling you about a book, if you will only listen. I told him that I thought the story would be ten times as interesting if, instead of being degraded, the woman were raised by the love of the man who took her away from her husband. He made the husband a snivelling little creature, and the lover good-looking — that’s the old game. I would have made the lover insignificant and the husband good-looking. Nevertheless she loved the lover better. I know of nothing more noble than for a man to marry the woman he loves, and to raise her by the force of his love; he could teach her, instruct her. Nellie will never forget me. I gave her a religion, I taught her and explained to her the whole of the Catholic faith—”
“I hope you won’t try to convert my sisters.”
“You do pull me up so! Don’t you understand that I was very young then? I was only twenty, not much more; besides, I was engaged to Nellie.”
“Come back to what we were talking about.”
“Well, I have said that if you love her I believe you are quite right to marry her. But do you love her?”
“Yes, I do; how many times more do you want me to say I do?”
“Of course if you are going to be rude—”
“No — you understand what I mean, don’t you? I am very fond of the missis; if I weren’t I shouldn’t marry, that goes without saying, but one likes to have things settled. I have been with her now more thantwo years. I’ve thought it out. There’s nothing like having things settled. I’m sure I’m right.”
The young men looked at each other in silence — Frank quite at a loss; he could nowise enter into the feelings of a man whom an undue sense of order and regularity compelled to marry his mistress, as it did to waste half his life in copying letters and making entries in a diary.
“Then why did you consult me?” he said, for he came to the point sharply when his brain was not muddled with sentiment.
“I am not heir to an entailed estate, like you.”
“I am not heir to an entailed estate. Mount Rorke might marry to-morrow.”
“He is not likely to do that. It is an understood thing that you are heir. My father might cut me off with a shilling if he were to hear I had married without his consent, and I should be left with the few hundreds which I draw out of the distillery, a poor man all my life.”
“If that is so, why marry? You are not in love with her — at least not what I should call being in love.”
“But can’t you understand—”
“No, I can’t, unless you mean that you are down with marriage fever.”
“I have considered the matter carefully, and am convinced I am right,” he answered, looking at Frank as if he would say, but didn’t dare, “don’t let’s talk about it any more, it only distresses me.” “The marriage must be kept a secret. If my father were to hear of it I should be ruined, whereas if Mary will consent to go on living as we are living now, one of these days she will be a rich woman. I daresay my share of his money will come to at least fifteen hundred a year, and then I shall be able to recompense her for the years she has waited for it. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly. The only thing I don’t see is how I am to influence her. You’ve no doubt told her and fully explained to her what the consequences would be if you were to publish the banns.”
“I have, but it would strengthen my hand if you were to tell her all you know of my father. Tell her that he is very obstinate, pig-headed, and would certainly cut me off; tell her that he is sixty-six, that it is a hundred to one against his living till he is eighty, even if he did there would be only fourteen years to wait for fifteen hundred a year; tell her if she tells that I have married her it is just as if she threw fifteen hundred a year out of the window.”
“And when shall I tell her all this?”
“Now. We are going to have lunch at my offices, she’ll be there. We’ll talk the matter over after lunch.”
“Very well, let’s start. Come along, Triss.”
With Triss tugging dangerously at the silk handkerchief whenever he saw a likely pair of legs or a dog that he fancied, the young men sauntered up West Street.
“But tell me: how do you manage to have so many people to lunch in your office; your premises must be pretty extensive?”
“I have the whole house; I was obliged to take it. I couldn’t get another place that would suit me, and I thought I should be able to let the upper part; I did have a tenant for a little while, but he was obliged to leave. I believe I am the unluckiest fellow alive. Here’s the place.”
“Agency for Artificial Manure” was printed over the door. Willy asked the office-boy if there were any letters, and they went upstairs. The windows of the front room were in view of a church spire, and overlooked a little shadowy cemetery; and at one window Cissy sat, the little crutches by her side, watching the children playing amid the tombs.
“Where’s your mother, Cissy?”
“In the back room cooking herrings, uncle.”
Mrs. Brookes was a homely, honest-eyed woman, with dingy yellow hair.
“Let me introduce you. This is my friend, Mr. Escott, you have often heard me speak of him.”
“You must excuse my shaking hands with you, sir, I have been cooking.”
“She is an excellent cook, too. Just you wait and see. What have we got?”
“Some herrings and a piece of steak.”
“Is that good enough for you?”
“I love herrings.”
“I am glad of that, these are quite fresh; they were caught this morning. You must excuse
me, I must go back; they want a deal of attending to.” Presently she appeared with a tray and a beer jug. Willy called to the office-boy. “We have no cheese,” said Mrs. Brookes.
Cissy begged to be allowed to fetch the cheese and beer.
“No, dear, I am afraid you aren’t well enough.”
“Yes, I am, uncle; give me a shilling, and let me go with Billy.” Then, breaking off with the unexpected garrulity of children, she continued: “I am getting quite strong now; I was down on the beach this morning, and watched the little boys and girls building mounds. When I am quite well, uncle, won’t you buy me a spade and bucket, and mayn’t I build sand mounds, too?”
“We’ll see when the time comes.”
“Well, let me go with Billy and fetch the cheese.”
“No, you can’t go now, dear, there are too many people about; this is not like London.”
Cissy had the long sad face of cripples, but beautiful shining curls hung thickly, hiding the crookedness of the shoulders. She was nine years old, and was just beginning to awake to a sense of the importance of her affliction.
After lunch she was sent downstairs to the office-boy. Willy sat rubbing his hands slowly and methodically. After some hesitation he introduced the subject they had come to speak on. “Mr. Escott will tell you, Mary, how important it is that our marriage should be kept secret; he will tell you how the slightest suspicion of it would ruin my prospects.” He then spoke of his position in the county, and the necessity of sustaining it. Frank thought this rather bad taste; but he assured Mrs. Brookes, with much Celtic gesticulation, that her marriage must be kept a secret till her father-in-law’s death. The young men and Mrs. Brookes remained talking till the rays trailed among the green grass of the graves, and the blue roofs that descended into the valley, and clung about the sides of the opposite hill. It had been arranged that Willy and Mrs. Brookes should go to London to-morrow to be married. Frank was convinced that she would not break her promise, and he hoped they would be very happy. She had only raised one objection. She had said: “What is the use of my being married if I shall have to live with him as his mistress?”
“A great deal of good. Your position will be secured. Willy will not be able to leave you, even if he felt inclined, and you will know that only one life, that of an old man, stands between you and fifteen hundred a year.”
“I want no assurance that my dear Willy will not leave me,” she said, going over and putting her arms about him; “but as you like. I shall never say anything about the marriage till Willy tells me. I hope I shall never do anything but what he tells me.” And she went over and sat on his knees.
“You are a dear old thing,” he said, squeezing and planting a vigorous kiss on her neck.
Frank’s eyes filled with hot tears, his heart seemed like bursting. “What a beautiful thing love is!” he said to himself, and the world melted away from him in the happiness he drew from the contemplation of these who were about to bind themselves together for life.
“Be most careful what you say to my sisters. I would not trust them. The temptation to get me cut out of everything might — I ought not to say that, but one never knows. I dare say no such accident could happen to any one else, but if I leave the smallest thing to chance I am sure to come to grief. They will question you. They will want to know what we did all day.”
“I’ll say we sat on the beach.”
“That’s it. Good-bye. I shall be home the day after to-morrow.”
IV
WHEN THE YOUNG ladies at the Manor House did not get their dresses from London, a dressmaker came from Brighton to help them, and all together they sat sewing and chattering in the work-room. Maggie would take a bow or a flower, and moving it quickly, guided by the instinct of a bird building its nest, would find the place where it decorated the hat or bonnet best. Neither Sally nor Grace could do this, nor could they drape a skirt or fit a bodice, but they could work well and enjoy their work. But what they enjoyed more was the opportunity these working days afforded for gossip. Mrs. Wood had the Brighton scandal at her tongue’s tip, and what she would not tell, her niece told them when her aunt left the room. Secrecy was enjoined, but sometimes they forgot, and in Mrs. Wood’s presence alluded too pointedly to stories that had not yet found their way beyond the precincts of the servants’ hall, and then the dressmaker raised her mild eyes, and looked through large spectacles at Susan, who sat biting her lips. Susan told the young ladies of her love affairs; they told Susan of theirs; and the different codes of etiquette gave added zest to the anecdotes, in themselves interesting. The story of the young man who had said, “I am afraid that parcel is too heavy for you, miss,” and had been promised a walk in the twilight on the cliff, evoked visions of liberty, and the story of the officer at the Henfield ball, with whom Sally had discovered a room that none knew of, did not fail to impress the little dressmaker. They talked a great deal about Frank. His face and manner called up the name, and after a few hesitations they used his Christian name as they did when he came to see them years ago.
“He is a very good fellow — I don’t say he isn’t. No one could say he wasn’t nice-looking, but somehow he doesn’t make you feel — you know, right down, you know, through and through.”
“Electricity,” said Maggie, with a low, subtle laugh, and her thread cracked through the straw of the hat.
“Yes,” cried Sally boisterously. “Electricity, I never heard it called that before; but it isn’t a bad name for it; it is like electricity. When a man looks at you — you know, in a peculiar way, it goes right down your back from the very crown of your head.”
“No, not down my back; I feel it down my chest, just like forked lightning. Isn’t it horrid? You know that it is coming and you can’t help it. Some men fix their eyes on you.”
“It is just when you meet a man’s eyes — a man you like, but haven’t seen much of.”
“I don’t think liking has anything to do with it. I hate it; don’t you?”
“No, I don’t know that I do. I can’t see anything so disagreeable as that in it. ’Tis rather a shock, a sort of pang.”
Mrs. Wood raised her mild face and looked surprised through her thick spectacles; the merry niece bit her lips, and strove to stay her laughter. Then Maggie said: “Sue, have you ever felt electricity?”
“Oh, miss! I don’t think I understand,” and she glanced at her aunt over the hem she was running.
“Now, come, tell the truth. You mean to say you never felt electricity?”
“I don’t think I ever did, miss.”
“I don’t believe you. Not when that nice young man you were telling us about looked at you? Come, now, tell the truth.”
“Well, miss, I don’t know — I thought it was very revolting.”
Mrs. Wood said nothing; with her hand in suspended gesture and her spectacles a-glimmer with round surprise, she sat looking at Miss Maggie. Her reveries, however, were soon cut short, for Sally not only asked her if she had ever experienced the doubtful pleasure of electricity, but advised her when she returned home to try if her husband’s looks could thrill her.
“I don’t think the conversation at all nice,” said Grace, who had up to the present taken no part either by looks, or words, or laughter.
“Who cares what you think? You used to be fond enough of sitting out dances with him. You mean to say he never gave you electricity?”
“No, never.”
“Then I hope Berkins will,” said Sally, with a coarse laugh.
The association of Berkins with electricity proved so generally ludicrous that Mrs. Wood, conscious of the respect she owed Miss Brookes, pretended to look for her handkerchief, and it was for a moment doubtful if the spectacles would preserve their gravity. Tears started to Grace’s eyes, and she bent over her work to hide them from her sisters, which was unnecessary, for Maggie and Sally were absorbed in past experiences.
“What about Frank?” Sally asked, and Susan looked up curious to hear Maggie’s answ
er.
“Well,” said Maggie, staring at the window, “Frank is very good-looking, but I don’t think that he electrifies one... he did once.”
“And when was that?” said Sally.
“You remember the first time he came to stay here? Willy brought him down from London. We went to bed early and left them playing billiards; I lay awake waiting to hear them come up the stairs, and as he passed my room Frank stopped and I thought he was coming in. I felt it all down my spine, but never afterwards. You see, I didn’t know him much then.”
“And Jimmy?”
“I never liked Jimmy.”
“If you don’t like him why trouble about him?” Sally replied in her usually defiant manner. “You always take good care to trouble about my men. You tried all you could to get Jimmy away from me, yet you pretend to father that you never flirted with him.”
“I didn’t flirt with him; once a young man looks at you you think no one must speak to him but yourself. If young Meason asks me to dance with him, I cannot refuse; I am not going to make myself ridiculous though you were to look all the daggers in the world at me, but as for flirting with him, I never cared enough about him.”
“And what about meeting him in London?”
Maggie coloured a little, and repudiated the accusation.
“You told him you were going to London, and you asked him if he were going, and what he would be doing that day. I don’t know what more you could say.”
“I never said any such thing.”
“I have it from his own lips.”
“It isn’t true; I will ask him to your face if he ever said such a thing; I will tell father that.”
“Well, there’s no use in quarrelling,” said Grace, “and I wouldn’t advise you to worry father about it. You know he can’t stand the name of Meason. It seems to me that neither of you care much whom you flirt with, you like so many young men.”
“It is better to like a dozen young men than one old one.”
“I shan’t marry Mr. Berkins, no matter what you say. However, you can’t accuse me of interfering in your affairs.”
