by George Moore
VII
ONE OF THE French artists he had met in Rome wrote to him from Paris. Why should he not go there? There was nothing for him to do in London; Lizzie Baker had disappeared, and in the year and a half that he spent in Paris learning to draw he forgot her and his friends in Southwick. Nor did he remember them when he returned to London; not until one evening, strolling down Regent Street, he came upon Willy Brookes suddenly.
“How do you do, my dear Willy? I haven’t seen you for — for — how long?”
“I should think it must be now, let me see, I have got it down somewhere; when I get home I’ll look it up.”
“Hang the looking up; better come and look me up.”
The young men laughed.
“It must be nearly a year and a half.”
“I should think it must. Where are you staying? I am staying at Morley’s Hotel, Trafalgar Square. Come and dine with me to-night.”
Willy reflected. He stroked his moustache reflectively.
“No,” he said, “I am afraid I can’t. I have something to do.”
“Nonsense! I don’t believe you. What have you to do?”
“I have some cheques to write.”
“That won’t take you a moment. You can do that at my place.”
“I couldn’t, I assure you. I must have my books and my own pen. I wouldn’t write a cheque in that way for worlds.”
“Why not? We’ll go to a music-hall afterwards.”
“I am very sorry, but I really couldn’t — not to-night.”
“You never go in for amusing yourself.”
“Yes, I do; but what amuses you doesn’t amuse me. I assure you I would sooner stay at home, write my cheques, and enter them carefully, than go to a music-hall.”
Frank looked at Willy for a moment in mute amazement. Then he said: “But what’s that you have under your arm in that brown paper parcel?”
Willy laughed. “A leg of mutton; I have just been to the stores.”
“You mean to say you buy legs of mutton at the stores, and carry them home? Supposing you met some one, if we were to—”
“Not very likely, a foggy night like this. I have a small house in Notting Hill. I take the ‘bus at the Circus. I shall be very glad if you will come with me; so will the missus.”
“I forgot to ask about her, how is she?”
“Very well. Come and see for yourself. Come and dine with us to-morrow. I can’t give you one of your restaurant dinners, but if leg of mutton will suit, all I can say is that I shall be very happy.”
“I’ll come whenever you like.”
“Can you come to-morrow?”
“Yes. We might go to the theatre afterwards.”
“We might. Be at my place at half-past six, that will give us plenty of time.”
“What a queer fish he is,” thought Frank, as he walked down Regent Street, looking at the women. “Can’t come and dine with me because he has two or three cheques to write, must have all his books out to make entries — what a clerk for the Government — an ideal clerk! What a genius for red tape!”
Willy was standing on the steps of the little house, and he commented on his friend’s extravagances as he welcomed him.
“You might have come here for ninepence, third class. You paid that cabman three shillings, and you took, I don’t mind betting, half an hour longer. Now, don’t make a mess, do wipe your feet; we don’t keep a servant, and it gives the missus a lot of trouble cleaning up.”
Not a book nor a picture nor a single flower, and every worn carpet suggested the bare necessaries of life. There was the drawing-room, kept for show, never entered, barren and blank; there was the room — a little more alive — where Willy smoked his pipe and kept his accounts, but there the crumbs, three or four, seemed to speak of the dry, bread-like days that wore themselves away; life there was too obviously dry and bare, joyless and mean.
Had Frank’s mind been philosophic and deep-seeing, he would have mused on the admirable patience of the woman who lived here, seeing no one, making entire sacrifice of her life; he would have contrasted the humbleness, nay, the meanness, of this unknown house with the reception rooms of the Manor House; one life wasting in darkness and poverty, another burning out in light and riches; timeworn truths float on the surface of this little pool of life, and so modernised are they that they appear for a moment “new and original.” But further than a regret that there were no flowers in the window, and a sense of the horrible when his eyes fell on a piece of Swiss scenery, his thoughts did not wander; they soon were fixed and absorbed in the consideration of the happiness that Willy had attained by “doing the right thing by the woman.” He was hers, she was his. Dreams of things marital, the endearments of husband and wife, are the essence of the being of some men and women, and are to them a perennial delight. Frank was such a one.
He had brought Cissy a doll, and the child came and sat on his knees, and put her arms round his neck. He kissed the long face, hollow-eyed, and stroked the beautiful gold ringlets that cloaked the shoulders.
They went to the theatre in a ‘bus. Frank carried Cissy, and he called indignantly to the crowd not to press him. “Did they not see that he was carrying a child?” He did not think that his friends might recognise him, nor would he have felt any shame had he caught sight of some face in the stalls he knew. He would not have put Cissy aside; nor would he have pretended that he was not with the pale, worn, shabbily-dressed woman by his side. He was wholly filled with his friends, their interests and concerns; so complete was the investment of himself that Lizzie Baker did not snatch a fugitive thought from them; and it was not until he sat smoking with Willy in the back parlour that he said:
“I wonder what has become of her? She was a nice girl.”
“You mean Lizzie Baker? You lost sight of her all of a sudden, didn’t you? Do you think she went off to live with some one?”
“No, I don’t think she was a girl who would do that. By Jove, she was a pretty girl! Once I took her up the river, up to Reading. We had such a jolly day in the woods and on the water — amid the water-lilies and bulrushes, or the shade of the cedars. I wonder you never go up the river.”
“I have no time. Besides, I hate the water. I never go on the water if I can help it — I am too nervous.”
“How odd! Oh, we had a jolly day!”
“But I never understood how it was you lost sight of her. You said in your letter that she had left the bar; but she must have gone somewhere. I am sure you didn’t make sufficient enquiries. You are too impatient.”
“I did all I could. One girl told me that a lot of them — Lizzie among the number — had suddenly been transferred to Liverpool Street. That was true, for I saw at Liverpool Street several girls I had known previously at the ‘Gaiety.’ Those poor bar girls, how pitiful they look! all over London they stand behind their bars! Breathing for hours tobacco smoke, fumes of whisky and beer, listening to abominable jokes, the subjects of hideous flirtations; and then the little comedy, the effort to appear as virtuous young ladies— ‘young ladies of the bar.’ It is very pitiful. In such circumstances how do you expect a girl to keep straight? I do not think it is the men who do the harm. There are, of course, a few blackguards who crack filthy jokes over the counter, but if a girl likes she needn’t listen — a girl can always keep a man in his place. Then if a man flirts with a girl he always loves her, likes her, if you think ‘like’ a better word; but you must admit that in the most beery flirtation there must be a certain amount of liking. There is, therefore, something to save a girl. I feel sure that it is girls, not men, who lead innocent girls astray. Those poor bar girls are quite unprotected; they have a sitting-room into which they may not bring a friend — a man, I mean. In the bedrooms there is always a lot of illicit talking and drinking going on. A girl who has gone wrong herself is never content until she has persuaded another girl to go wrong; a girl is so mean! I feel very much on this subject. I am thinking of writing a book on the subject. Did I eve
r tell you about the novel I intended to write?”
“You told me once in Brighton about a novel you intended to write. I forget what it was about, but you said you were going to call it ‘Her Saviour.’”
“Oh, that is another book. I was thinking of writing the story of a woman who is led into vice. They get her to throw over the man who loves her; he follows her, never loses sight of her until at last, determined to save her, and although he knows that he is wrecking his own life, he marries her. What do you think?”
Being pressed for an answer, Willy stroked his moustache with great gravity. “I really can’t say, my dear fellow; you know I never like giving opinions on questions I do not understand.”
The conversation came to a pause, and Willy began to whistle.
“Just a little flat — quarter of a note wrong there and there!”
“Do you whistle it? Oh, yes, that’s it! I can hear the difference! I wish you had your violin. I should like to hear you play it.”
“What, with the missus overhead?”
“She doesn’t know anything about it. How prettily she used to sing it; a pretty tune, isn’t it? Good old days they were! Do you remember when you used to come to the Princess’s with me? Didn’t she look pretty?”
“You never told me why you didn’t marry her; I never heard the end of that story.”
“There is nothing to tell. It’s all over now. Do you remember how I used to dress myself up to go to the theatre? We used to go to supper at Scott’s afterwards. I did not mind what I ate in those days.”
“You hardly ever go to the theatre now, do you?”
“Hardly ever. I shouldn’t have gone to-night if it had not been for you. I don’t know how it is, but I don’t seem to enjoy myself as I used to.”
The men ceased talking. Presently Frank broke the silence.
“I hope you are getting on all right on the Stock Exchange. You haven’t mentioned the subject.”
“I don’t know that there is much to say. Times are very bad just now. I don’t think any one is doing much good.”
“But you are with a very good firm. Nothing is going wrong, I hope.”
“I don’t think any one is making money. We have all been hard hit lately — war scares. But I daresay it will all come right.”
“I never understood what you ever wanted to go into the business for. What do you, with your handsome place at Southwick, and your father with his thousands and thousands, want to turn yourself into a city clerk for?”
“You see, you don’t care about making money; I do — it was bred in me. Besides, I am an unselfish fellow. I never think of myself; I like to think of others. If I were to make a good thing out of this, I should be able to leave the missus independent.” Then, after a slight pause, Willy said: “But, by the way, I was forgetting. I got a letter this morning saying that if I met you in London I was to tell you that you were to come to Southwick for a ball.”
“What ball?”
“A subscription ball at Henfield — a county ball. Will you come?”
“Yes, I don’t mind. It should be rather fun. Are you going?”
“Yes, I must go, worse luck, to chaperon my sisters.”
“How do you go? Will the governor let you have the horses?”
“Not he! We generally have a large ‘bus. I am going down to-morrow by the twelve o’clock train. Will that be too early for you?”
“Not if I go home now and pack up.”
“You won’t like that. You had better sleep here and get up early in the morning; your room is all ready.”
“I couldn’t manage it. I never could get back to the Temple, pack up, and meet you at twelve at London Bridge.”
“It will be rather a cold walk for you; you are too late for the train, and the last ‘bus, I am afraid, has gone.”
“I shall have a hansom. The only thing that worries me is not being able to say good-bye to the missus.”
“She’s fast asleep. She won’t mind — I’ll make that all right.”
“Then, at twelve o’clock at London Bridge!”
VIII
SALLY RUSHED DOWN to meet him, and she took him off for a walk in the garden.
“What a time it is since we have seen you. What have you been doing — amusing yourself a great deal, I suppose?”
“I have been the whole time in Paris. I have been studying very hard. I only returned home about two months ago.”
“I don’t believe about the studying.”
“I have been working at my painting. I worked morning and afternoon in the studio from the nude. Last summer I had a delightful time. I took a little place on the Seine — a little house near Bas Meudon. I had a garden; I used to breakfast every morning in the garden — fresh eggs, new bread, an omelette, such as only a Frenchwoman can make, a cutlet, or a piece of chicken. The wine, too, so fresh and generous. I don’t know how it is, but Burgundy here is not the same as Burgundy on the banks of the Seine. I worked all day in my garden, or down by the river. I was painting a large picture. I haven’t finished it yet. I must go back there in the summer to finish it.”
“Why can’t you finish it here? Haven’t you got it here?”
“Yes, but the Seine is not here.”
“Wouldn’t the Adour do? The river at Shoreham?”
“No; but the Thames might. My picture is really more English than French. There were a lot of willow trees there, and my picture represents a girl lying in a hammock, foot hanging over, showing such a pretty piece of black stocking. There are two men there, they are both swinging the hammock, but while one is looking at her ankle the other only sees her face.”
Sally laughed coarsely and evasively.
“What are you laughing at?” he asked, feeling a little nettled.
“Don’t you think people will think it rather improper?”
“Not at all. Why should they? The idea I wish to convey is that one man loves her truly for herself alone, the other only loves her because she is a pretty girl. I have composed some triolets for the picture, which will be printed in the catalogue —
“In a hammock I swing,
My feet hanging over;
‘Neath Love’s bright wing,
In a hammock I swing,
Loves come and they bring
A truth to discover,
In a hammock I swing,
My feet hanging over.
“That is the first stanza. There are six, and they tell the story of the picture. I will copy them into your album, if you like.”
“Will you? That will be so nice, if you will. The only thing is, I haven’t an album.”
“Haven’t you? I’ll get you one. I’ll send you one from London.”
Sally asked him to explain the triolets, and very loyally she strove to understand.
“Ah, I see a thing when I am told, but I never can understand poetry or pictures until they are explained to me.”
Mollified, Frank thought of going upstairs to fetch the copy book in which he wrote such things, but speaking out of an unperceived association of ideas, he said: “What a clever girl your sister is. I had once a long talk with her about pictures and poetry, and I was surprised to find how well she talked. She understands everything.”
“Maggie is a clever girl; I know she is far cleverer than I am; but if you knew her as well as I do, you would find she did not understand all you think she understands.”
“How do you mean?”
“Maggie’s cleverness lies in being able to pretend she understands what she knows nothing about; I have often caught her out.”
“Really; but how do you get on together now?”
“Pretty well! I don’t think there is much love lost on either side. I don’t know why — I never could understand Maggie. You have no idea of the reports she spreads about me all over the place — the stories she tells the Grahams, the Prestons, the Wells. She told Mrs. Wells that I fell in love with every young man that came to Southwick. She said awful things ab
out me. As for that story about telling cook to put father’s dinner back, I don’t think I ever shall hear the last of it. What made father so angry was because he thought it was to talk to Jimmy in the slonk.”
“You told me the last time I was here that you wanted to finish a conversation with him in the slonk.”
“I may have told you that it was to speak to him about his sister Fanny,” Sally replied evasively. “I would not care if I never saw him again; but I couldn’t get on if I weren’t allowed to see Fanny. Father wanted me to promise never to enter the house again!”
“But you have flirted with him?”
“I don’t know that I have; certainly not more than Maggie. Last summer she was hanging round his neck every evening under the sycamores. I caught them twice.”
“I don’t see any harm in going under the sycamores. I daresay Maggie has allowed him to kiss her; so have you!”
“That I assure you I haven’t.”
“You mean to say a man never kissed you?”
“I didn’t say that. I haven’t kissed any one for years.”
“Who did kiss you?”
“You don’t know him. I was only eighteen. He was a married man; it was very wrong of me.”
“I wish I had been he.”
“Do you? I hate him; he was a beast for doing it.”
Sally often indulged in these half confessions; one of her aunts used to call them her “side lights.” By their aid she succeeded in interesting Frank. “How candid she is to tell me — to confide in me!” Sally was handsome now; the evening suited her dark skin and coal black eyes, and her strong figure was rich and not ungraceful in a dress of ruby velvet. Should he kiss her? What would she say? He threwhis arm about her.
“I am surprised. Certainly not!”
“I don’t see any harm.” Then, with a sensation of saying something foolish, he said: “You told me you kissed a married man.”
“That was ages ago — I was very silly. I shouldn’t think of doing sonow.”
