by George Moore
“You must read this letter, it will tell you all. I am truly sorry, but I did not know you cared for me — at least not like that. I don’t think I could, I really don’t. But I don’t know what I am saying. How unfortunate it was meeting you. I but thought to run round and leave the letter, it would have explained all better than I could. We have known you so long. You will forgive me?”
She stood with the letter in her hand. He snatched it a little theatrically and tore it open. She watched, striving to read the effect of her words in his face. They dealt in regrets. There was an exasperating allusion to engaged affections. There was a long and neatly-worded conclusion suggesting friendship. She had taken a great deal of trouble with the composition, and was very fearful as to the result. She felt she could not marry him — at least, not just at present, she didn’t know why. Altogether Frank’s proposal had puzzled and distressed her. She felt she must see her flirtation out with Charlie, but at the same time she did not want to utterly lose Frank, or worse still, perhaps, to hand him over to Sally. She was determined that Sally should not be Lady Mount Rorke, and she thrilled a little when she saw he would not give her up easily, and her heart sank when she thought of the difficulty of continuing her intrigue without prejudicing her future. If Frank would only leave Southwick for a little while.
“Is this all? The meaning is clear enough; it means that you love the man I saw yesterday at the Manor House. But he shall not have you; I will save you from him. Listen to me — I swear he shall not have you; I will strive to outwit him by every means in my power. If I don’t get you, none shall. I will shoot the man rather than he should get you.”
“O Frank, you wouldn’t commit murder!”
“I would, for you; but it will not be necessary. I can challenge him to fight a duel, and if he is cowardly enough to refuse, I will horsewhip him before your face, and I don’t suppose you will marry him after that.”
Maggie struggled with feelings of laughter, fear, and delight; delight overpowered laughter, for Frank was young and handsome, and full of what he said. It was quite romantic to be talked to like that. She would like to see the men threaten each other. But then — the scandal — father might never get over it. And if he married again? Speaking slowly, and in an undertone so as not to betray herself, she said: “O Frank, I’m sure you would not do anything that would injure me.”
“My darling, I love you better than the whole world. My whole life, if you will, shall be spent in striving to make you happy.”
“You are very good.” She took his hand and squeezed it; he returned the pressure with rapturous look and motion. She drew from him a little, for there were some people coming towards them, and she said: “Take care.” When the fisher folk had passed, she looked at him stealthily. She had always liked him in that necktie, and those cloth shoes were perfect. Had she never known Charlie, or if she had not gone so far with him! — There was something in Frank that was very nice — she could like the two. What a pity the two were not one! “If he were always as nice as he is now, and not lecture me!” Then she remembered she must return home. “I must really go home; I can’t go any farther—”
“No, no, I cannot leave you. I must see and hear you now. If you knew what I have endured waiting for you, you would not be so cruel. Come and let us sit on the beach.”
“I couldn’t. I must go back; father will miss me. Besides, what have we to say? If I were only free and could tell you that I loved you, it would be different.”
“Free! then you regret; if a woman wills it she can always free herself.”
“No, it is harder than you think for a girl to get out of an engagement she has entered into, even if no absolute promise has been given.”
“What do you mean? If you have entered into no formal engagement you are surely free.”
“I don’t know. Do you think so? I am afraid men think that a promise may be broken after marriage as well as before.”
“You are wrong. Women who are jealous, who are old, tell girls that men are always unfaithful, but I’m sure that if I loved a girl I could never think of another. Do you really think I could think of any girl but you?”
“I don’t know. I wonder if all you say is true.”
“Do you think me different from other men?”
“Yes, but I cannot go on the beach; some other evening I will walk there with you.”
“No, now, now — I want to tell you how and when I began to love. Do you remember when I used to spend part of my holidays at the Manor House when I was only so high, and you were all in short frocks? Come, there is much I want to say to you; I cannot part with you. Come, and let us sit on the shingle. Oh, the beautiful evening!”
She could love him a little when she looked at him, but when he talked she lost interest in him. She had allowed him to take her hand, he had bent towards her, and she had let him kiss her; and then they talked of love — she of its bitterness and disappointments; he of its aspirations, and gradually their souls approached like shadows in the twilight, paused for a few vague moments, seemed as if lost in dreams.
“I shall never forget this night! O my love, tell me one day you will be mine!”
“I cannot promise, you must not ask me.”
“We are meant for each other. It was not blind fate that cast us together. Does no voice tell you this? I hear it in my heart.”
The abandonment, the mystery of the gathering dusk, touched Maggie’s fancy. They were alone in the twilight, and it was full of the romance of a rising tide.
“Never did I know such happiness; I am supremely happy, alone with you beneath this sky, listening to the vague, wild voice of the sea. It would be bitter sweet to die in such a triumphant hour. Supposing wewere to lie here and allow the sea to take us away.”
“No, I don’t want to die. I want to live and enjoy my life.”
The answer fell a little chillingly on Frank’s rapture. Then after a pause, Maggie said: “I think I have read of that somewhere — in anovel — lovers caught by the tide.”
“Yes, I daresay you have. I was thinking of two lovers who were so overcome with happiness that they decided that they would not trust themselves again to the waves and storms of life, but would let the calm, slow tide of death take them away with all their happiness unassoiled.”
Maggie did not answer. The double fear had come upon her — first, that the tide might rise higher than usual and cut off their retreat. Secondly, that Frank — he was a poet — might insist on remaining there and being drowned. Getting up, she said: “I do not know what father will say when I get home, really it is quite dark. Come, Frank.”
“Death is better than a life of abomination — loss of innocence, and of delight in simple things. I ask you,” he said, stopping her suddenly.
“Yes, no doubt it is so; but I want to get home. Do go on, Frank.”
“I will save you from a life of abomination — in other words I will save you from him; he shall not get you. I have sworn it; you did notknow that when you were lying down on the beach — you had ceased speaking, and in the silence my life seemed stirred to its very essence; and I knew that I must struggle against him, and conquer. I want to know this: Have you ever thought of what your life would be with him? Have you ever thought what he is?”
“But you don’t know him, Frank. You have never spoken to him. I am sure you misjudge him.”
“Do you think I cannot see what he is? He is one of those men whose one ambition is to make themselves friendly in a house where there are women to wheedle. If the wife is young he will strive to wheedle her, and though he may not succeed he must degrade her. Or, if she have daughters, he will never cease to appeal to, to work upon, to excite latent feelings which, had it not been for him, would never have been developed into base and abnormal desire. I know what the foul-minded beast is. Such men as he ought to be killed; we don’t want them in our society. I want to save you, I want to give you a noble, a pure life, full of the charms of a husband’s influence,
a home where there would be love of natural things. You are capable of all this, Maggie, your nature is a pure one, but your life is unwholesome and devoid of purity.”
“Frank, how can you speak so? You have no right to say such things about us. I am sure you have always been well treated—”
“You do not understand me, I will explain what I mean. Your life is rich and luxurious, but you are not happy, no one is happy in idleness; above all no woman is happy without love. A woman’s mission in life is to love, she must have her home, her husband, and her children. These are the things that make a woman happy; and these are the things I want to give you — that I will give you; for, listen to me, I swear you shall not have that adventurer. He would degrade you with pleasure at first, and afterwards with neglect. You are too good for this, Maggie — it must not be, it shall not be. As I said before, death would be better.” They stood in front of the canal locks and Maggie looked with a beating heart on the deep water that a ray from a crescent moon faintly indicated. “A woman is helpless until she finds her lord, he who shall save, the saviour who shall bring her home safe to the fold. He exists! and all are in danger till they find him. Some miss him — they wander into misery and ruin; those that find him are led to happiness and content. I am yours. I would tell you how I became convinced that I am the one appointed by God to lead you to Him.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in God.”
“Not as we have been taught to understand Him but I believe in a presiding power — call it luck, fate, or destiny that — that exists and wills; that is to say, watches over — rules out that this man is for that woman, and ordains that he shall protect her from danger, shall save her from those that seek her destruction. Much has happened to prove that I was intended for you. We have known each other since we were children. Do you not remember when I kissed you in the verandah as I was going to school? I was the first man who kissed you; you were the first woman who kissed me — have you never felt that we were for each other? Nor can I forget that when I thought we had drifted for ever apart, that I was brought back. Do you think it was accident — blind chance? I don’t. Now I see this man striving to win you, and whether it be for your money, whether it be for yourself, or for both, it is my duty to say: No, this must not be.”
“I think you are mistaken about Charlie. I admit that a man is often a better judge than a girl; and as for you, Frank, I am sure I am very fond of you. It is very good of you to take such interest in me — but we must get home. I don’t know what father will think.”
“No, before you go a step further you must promise me not to see that man again. I cannot tell you how, but I know no good can come of it. He is one of those creatures who cannot love, and only care for women for the excitement they afford. I know what sort of brute he is. It is more depraving to walk alone with him, than to be the mistress of a man who loved you.”
“He is leaving Brighton in a few days.”
“So much the better for all of us. But you must promise me. I would sooner see you lying drowned in that lock than his wife.”
Maggie trembled. It was ridiculous to think of such a thing. Surely he did not mean to drown her if she refused to promise. Charlie was going to London in a few days; he would be away for three or four months. Heaven only knows what would happen in that time. She didn’t see what right Frank had to bully her — to extort promises from her by night on the edge of a dangerous lock. But a promise wasn’t much, and a promise given in such circumstances was not a promise at all.
“If you are really in earnest — if you think it is for my good, I’ll promise you not to see him again.”
“O Maggie, if you only knew what a load of trouble you have taken off my mind! Thank you — give me your hand, and let me thank you. I know I am right. And now, tell me, can you love me? Will you marry me?”
“I will promise nothing more to-night; we shall see how you behave yourself,” the girl replied winningly. “And now go on, sir, we have been here quite long enough.”
He crossed the gate mechanically, she followed eagerly, and when she reached the other side her heart beat with pride at her pretty triumph. Now I’ll twit him, she thought, as they ascended the shore and entered the town.
“I wonder why you think Charlie so wicked; I think if you knew him you would change your opinion.”
“I am very thankful indeed that I do not know him.”
The conversation dropped, but a moment after he gave her the chance she wanted.
“Mind you have promised me not to see him again. I trust you.”
“But suppose he calls and if I should be in the drawing-room, I cannot walk out of the room without speaking to him.”
“I think you had better write and say you do not wish to see him.”
“I couldn’t do that; we have known him a long time, and father has always said that we must be rude to no one. Besides, what reason could I give?”
“You need not give a reason. But let that pass. I can’t see why you should meet; you can surely tell your servant to say ‘Not at home,’ when he calls.”
“I might be in the garden — Sally would not allow it. If John said ‘Not at home,’ she would run down and let him in.”
“I see you are raising difficulties — I see you do not intend to keep your promise.”
“You have been quite rude enough for one evening. You have kept me out on the beach by force till nearly ten o’clock at night, and you said that my life at the Manor House was not a pure one — I don’t know what you mean. No man ever spoke to me like that before.”
“You misunderstood me. If you knew how I loved you, you would not twit me with my own words. Heaven knows I would sooner go back and drown myself in the lock than do anything or say anything that would offend you. Remember also that I asked you to be my wife.”
“You are not the first. I daresay it may appear strange to you, but others have asked me the same question before.”
“It does not seem strange to me, it only seems strange to me that every one doesn’t love you, but I daresay they do. O Maggie, remember that you gave me hope, you said that you might—”
“Did I? Well, it’s too late to talk any more. Goodnight. I suppose you’re not coming in?”
She left him in a cruel dispersal of hope. He avoided, and then he tenderly solicited a regret that he had not thrown her into the lock. To end on that hour by the sea would have been better than the trivial and wretched conclusion of a broken promise, and everything, even murder, were better than that a brute should have her woman’s innocence to sully and destroy. His love of the woman disappeared in his desire to save, the idea which she represented at that moment; and lost in sentiment he stood watching the white sickle of the moon over against the dim village. The leaves of some pollarded willows whitened when the breeze shot them up to the light, and a moment after became quite distinct in the glare and the steam of an approaching engine. He might go and tell Willy all about it; he would ask him to interfere-could he catch that train? If he ran for it, yes. He ran full tilt across the green under the archway up the high stone steps. He just did it.
It was the last train; he would sleep in Brighton. His plan, so far as he had a definite plan, was to ask Willy to come with him and tell “that brute” that his visits to the Manor House must end, and request him to pay his sister no further attentions. His other plans were — Willy must speak to Maggie and tell her all he knew of the man; Willy must speak to his father; Mr. Brookes must not be kept in ignorance. But of course the right thing to do would be for Willy and him to call at the brute’s hotel, tell him what they thought, and give him a licking. The train jogged on, and Frank made plan after plan. It was now past eleven, and he would not be at East Street before twelve o’clock. As he hurried along the streets he doubted more than ever how Willy would receive him. He might just as well have waited till morning. However, it was too late now to think of going back, there was no train, and he rapped at first timidly and then noisily at the
shop door. He had to wait some time, and then he heard a voice asking from the top windows who was there.
“’Tis I, Frank; awfully sorry, but must see you — particular business.”
There was no answer; he heard the voice grumbling, and more than ever doubtful of the cordiality of his reception, he listened. The door opened.
“Who is it?” he said.
“’Tis I, Cissy; but I’m in my nightdress.”
“I won’t look at you, Cissy, if that’s what you mean. But won’t yougive me a kiss?”
“Stoop down, then.”
“I am sorry for waking you up, Cissy.”
“Never mind, I’d get up at any hour to see you.”
“There, run upstairs, and take care you don’t catch cold, or I shall never hear the end of it.”
“Father is in bed with mother. He says you are to go up, for if he were to get out of bed it might give him cold. You know his room?”
“Yes, here it is, now run along.”
“Come in.”
Frank was a little shocked, and he waited stupidly on the threshold. He could see a fragment of Mrs. Brookes’s profile, and beneath the clothes the outline of Willy’s bony body.
“Come in, come in,” he said, “don’t stand there filling the room with cold air. Now, what is it? Why the deuce do you come here waking us up at this ungodly hour? What has happened?”
“I have proposed to your sister Maggie.”
“I am sure I am delighted to hear it, old chap; but I can’t help thinking that I could have congratulated you equally as well, if not better, in the morning.” Then, noticing the distressed look in Frank’s face, he said: “I hope she has not refused you.”
“No; she asked me to wait, she said it would depend—”
“Then you may depend it is all right; now go away and let me go to sleep, we’ll talk about it in the morning. You can’t get back to-night. You are sleeping in Brighton, I suppose? You’ll come and breakfast here?”
“Yes, with pleasure, but it wasn’t exactly to tell that I had proposed to Maggie that I came here to-night; there is something more than that. You know that fellow she calls Charlie? I don’t know his other name.”
