Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  “Stracey?”

  “I dare say. I mean the man you said you hated more than any man alive; I hate him, too.”

  “You don’t mean to say she is still thinking of that fellow. Has he come back?”

  “He was at the Manor House all day yesterday.”

  “If she marries that fellow I’ll never speak to her again, it will be dead cuts.”

  “It is only natural that I should love Maggie. You remember the first day I came down to the Manor House? How young I was then — how young we all were; there are no days like the old days! There is a beautiful poem by Wordsworth; I only remember one line now —

  “‘When every day was long

  As twenty days are now’ —

  Do you remember the poem?” Willy did not answer, and noticing that his eyes were blinking, Frank hastily returned to more recent events.” I wrote to her this afternoon telling her how much I loved her, and I said that I would call about nine in the evening at the Manor House, and that I hoped to find her in the drawing-room where we could talk without being disturbed. However, I was too excited, and could not hold out till nine; I thought I had better hear my fate at once, and as I was walking across the field — you know, at the back of Mrs. Heald’s — I met her half way. She had a letter in her hand, which she said she was going to leave at Mrs. Heald’s for me — She admitted that the letter was in point of fact a refusal, and when I questioned her she admitted that she was obliged to refuse me because she had half promised Charlie. We went for a walk on the beach; we sat on the beach and watched the sunset, and I told her all. I spoke to her about the past, how we had grown up together — how we had been, as it were, from the first fated for each other; for you must admit, Willy, that it is very curious — I don’t know if you ever think of it, but I do — how we have met again even when the chances of life seemed to have put us for ever apart. “Here a slight sound warned Frank that the present moment was one as equally unfitted for psychological analysis as for poetry, and he hurried to his story, hoping that the incident of the lock would secure him attention. “Willy, I think I convinced her that I liked her better than that other fellow. We were standing by the lock — Willy, I really do think you might listen.”

  “My dear fellow, I am listening. You were both looking at the sunset.”

  “It really is too bad. Of course, if you don’t want to hear, and would prefer to go to sleep, you have only to say so.”

  “My dear fellow, I assure you I wasn’t asleep. I only closed my eyes because I can’t bear the glare of that candle. I know where you were — you were looking at the sunset.”

  “No, we weren’t.”

  “Weren’t they, Jessie? Are you asleep?”

  “No, I am not asleep. Do hold your tongue, Willy, I want to hear the story. You were standing by the lock, Mr. Escott.”

  “Ah, yes, so they were.”

  “I felt it was my duty, so I told her that I felt it was my mission to save — to save her from that man, and I made her promise me not to see him again.”

  “Then it is all right. Nobody can be more glad than I am. I hate the fellow.”

  “She will not keep her promise. Of course she may only have done it to tease me; but as we were going home she said she could not walk out of the room if she happened to be there when he called, nor could she leave word with the servants to say that they were not at home. She made a lot of excuses. What are you laughing at, Mrs. Brookes?”

  “I am really very sorry, Mr. Escott, but I couldn’t help wondering if she would change her mind again if you were to go back to the lock.”

  Frank took up the candle and turned to go.

  “Don’t go,” Willy murmured faintly.

  “I am very sorry, Mr. Escott — if circumstances permitted, I would do all I could to help you.”

  This was delicate ground, and Willy woke up.

  “What do you want me to do? Have you anything to suggest?”

  “Yes, it struck me that we might both go round to the fellow’s hotel — Stracey, you call him, I think — and you might tell him that his visits must cease at the Manor House, and that he must not speak to your sister if he should happen to meet her. That should bring the matter to an end. He is in Brighton — he is staying at the ‘Grand.’ We might go round there to-morrow morning.”

  “He might kick us out.”

  “I only hope he may try. I would give him such a hammering. But you need not be afraid of that. It wouldn’t do to have Maggie’s name mentioned in connection with a vulgar brawl — people are not too charitable. My idea is that this business should be conducted in the quietest and most gentlemanly manner possible.”

  “I think I had better speak to father first.”

  “No necessity; he will be only too glad to get rid of the penniless brute. Don’t you think so, Mrs. Brookes?”

  “I do.”

  They then spoke of other things — of the shop, the profit they had made on tomatoes, and the losses that had resulted from over-stocking themselves with flour. At last a loud snore brought the conversation to a full stop, and Frank hurriedly bade them good-night.

  “Cissy will let you out,” said Willy, with a sigh of relief.

  The little girl had pulled on her stockings and tied a petticoat round her waist. “So you are going to be married.”

  “O Cissy, you have been listening!”

  “Is she very nice? She must be very nice for you to marry her. I should like to marry you.”

  “Would you, Cissy, and why?”

  “Oh, because you are so very handsome. But you will come and see us all the same, and let me sit on your knee?”

  “Of course I will, Cissy, and now good-night.”

  Next morning Willy declared himself ready to go and see Mr. Charles Stracey, and to tell him that he was not to call any more at the Manor House, or speak to Miss Brookes if he should happen to meet her. Frank wondered if this decision was owing to Mrs. Brookes’s influence.

  “I slept last night at the ‘Grand’ It seemed odd sleeping in the same house — perhaps within a few doors of him. If you only knew how I love her, if I could only tell you, you would pity me. You ought to know what I feel — the anxiety, the heart-ache. I know you have gone through it all.”

  “Yes, I think I know what it is,” Willy replied thoughtfully.

  “Mr. Stracey is staying here?”

  “Will you enquire at the office, sir?”

  While the books were being searched the young men consulted together. Frank said: “Send up your card, and say you will be glad to speak to him on a matter of importance. Of course he will see you, but before you speak about Maggie you must apologise for my presence; you must say that I am a very particular friend, and that you thought it better that the interview should take place in the presence of a witness.”

  “I wish it were all over. I wouldn’t do what I am doing for any one else, I can tell you, Frank.”

  “Mr. Stracey is in the hotel, sir.”

  “Will you give him my card, and say I should be glad to speak to him on a matter of importance?”

  “Very good, sir.”

  (In an undertone to Frank), “Was that right?”

  “Quite right.”

  “Oh, one thing I had forgotten to ask you — am I to shake hands with him?”

  “You mean if he offers you his hand?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is impossible to settle everything beforehand. One must act according as the occasion requires.”

  “That’s all very well for you, but I am a slow man, and am lost if I don’t arrange beforehand.”

  “Pretend not to see his hand, and apologise for my presence; he will then see that we mean business.”

  “The waiting is the worst part.”

  “Will you walk this way, sir?” said the page boy. “Mr. Stracey is not out of bed yet, but he said if you wouldn’t mind, sir.”

  They shrank from their enterprise instinctively, but the door was thrown open,
and they saw a bath, and a sponge, and a towel, and Mr. Stracey lying on his back reading The Sporting Times. He extended a long brawny arm. The strength of the arm fixed itself on Willy’s mind, and he doubted if he had not better take the proffered hand.

  “I brought my friend Mr. Escott with me, for I thought a witness — I mean, that this interview should be conducted in the presence of a third party.”

  At this speech Charlie opened his eyes and dropped his paper. Willy leaned over the rail of the bed; Frank looked into the bath, but remembering himself suddenly, he examined the chest of drawers.

  “I have come to speak to you about my sister.”

  Charlie changed countenance, and both men noticed the change.

  “I mean to say I have come to tell you that you must discontinue your visits to the Manor House, and I must beg of you not to address my sisters should you meet them.”

  “May I ask if you are your father’s representative, if you speak with his authority?”

  “I do not. I—”

  “Then I should like to know on what authority you forbid me a house that doesn’t belong to you, and I should like to know, if your father doesn’t disapprove of my knowing your sisters, why you should? I shall speak to Miss Brookes as long as she cares to speak to me. The very idea of a man like you coming here to bully me! You have got my answer.”

  “If, after this warning,” said Frank, who, seeing that things were going against them, thought he had better interfere, “you speak to Miss Brookes, you will do so at your peril.”

  “Peril! What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you must be prepared to take the consequences.”

  “Who are you? I should like to know what you have to do in this matter?”

  “I speak as Miss Brookes’s future husband.”

  “Future husband be damned! She’ll never marry you,” said Charlie, springing out of bed.

  Frank threw himself on his guard, and they would have struck each other if Willy had not cried out: “Frank, remember you promised me there must be no scandal.”

  “I had almost forgotten. For Miss Brookes’s sake, I refrain. Do you also, for her sake, cease to provoke me.”

  Charlie hesitated for a moment, then rushing to the door, he said: “I, too, for Miss Brookes’s sake, refrain, and I give you three seconds to clear out.”

  In attempting to carry out the injunction Willy nearly fell in the bath. Frank had to bite his lip to avoid a smile, and he stalked out of the room assuming his most arrogant air.

  “I think, on the whole, we got the best of it,” he said as they went down stairs.

  “Do you? He turned us out of his room!”

  “That’s the worst of tackling a man in his own room — if he tells you to go, and you don’t go, he can ring for the servants.”

  “I was as nearly as possible going into the bath.”

  “Yes, a touch more and down you’d have gone.” Frank laughed, and Willy laughed, “and that fellow in his nightshirt fishing you out!”

  “Oh, don’t, don’t—”

  Frank asked Willy to lunch with him at Mutton’s, and he ordered a bottle of champagne in honour of the day.

  “I say, just fancy pulling you out of the bath, and wiping you with a towel. I can see you dripping!”

  “Don’t set me off again. Let me enjoy my cutlets.”

  “By Jove! there’s something I hadn’t thought of.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We must be off. We must tell Maggie what has happened before he has time to communicate with her. What is the next train to Southwick?”

  “There’s one at half-past one.”

  “It was after twelve when we saw him, he won’t have time to catch that. We must be off. Waiter, the bill, and be quick. Look sharp, Willy, finish the bottle, pity to waste it.”

  “What a nuisance women are, to be sure. Just as I was enjoying my cutlet! I can’t walk fast in this weather, I should make myself ill.”

  “We must take a cab.”

  “What a fellow you are, you never think of the expense. I don’t know where I should be if I were as reckless as you are.”

  “Supposing he were at the station. It would be rather a sell if we went down by the same train! What should we do? He would surely never attempt to force his way in!”

  “I don’t think he would attempt that. If he did, we should have to send for the police.”

  The young men strove to decide how the news should be broken to Maggie. But they had arranged nothing before they arrived at Southwick, and Frank stopped Willy time after time by the footpath, until at last in despair the latter said: “We must make haste; there’s another train in twenty minutes.”

  “By Jove! I had not thought of that; we must get on. Well, then, it is all arranged. You must tell her that you thought it your duty. Put it all down to duty, and it was your duty to do what you did — putting entirely out of the question the service you did me.”

  “I can tell you what, Frank, I am very sorry I ever meddled in the matter. Had I known the vexation and annoyance it would have caused — and mark my words, and see if they don’t come true, we are only commencing the annoyances that the affair will cause us. Ah, had I only foreseen! What a fool I was; I ought to have known better; I have had nothing but bad luck all my life. It is perfectly wonderful the bad luck I have had; no matter what I did, nothing seemed to go right. I dare say if you had gone to see that fellow without me it would have turned out differently. But I don’t see how I am to tell my sister point blank that I have forbidden him the house. What will she say? She may fly at me. Women have queer tempers, particularly when you interfere with their young men. My sisters have the very worst of tempers; you don’t know them as I do. Fortunately it is not Sally. I assure you I wouldn’t face Sally with such news for all the money you could give me.”

  “I am very sorry, old chap, but we must now go through it. You must forbid her to communicate with him.”

  “She won’t heed what I say. It will only excite her. She will fly at me, and call me names, and burst into tears. I should not be surprised if she went off her head — she has been very strange once before. I don’t mean to say she was ever wrong in her head, but she is a nervous, excitable girl — most excitable; my sisters are the most excitable girls I have ever known.”

  It was surprisingly soon over. Willy had not spoken a dozen words, when he was interrupted.

  “You mean to say you have been to call on him?”

  “Yes; and we told him he was never to speak to you again.”

  Frank expected her eyes to flash fire, but he only noticed a slight change in her face, a movement of the muscles of the lower jaw.

  “Then I will speak to neither of you again!” and she walked out of the room, and in dismay they listened to her going upstairs.

  “She didn’t fly at me,” said Willy; and, looking a little terrified, he stroked his moustache softly. “I told you she would give no heed to what we said; nor do I see how we can prevent her seeing that fellow if she chooses. He cannot come into the house, it is true, but she can go out when she pleases.”

  “We must follow her.”

  Conscious of defeat, Willy desired compromise. He could not be induced to take a share of watching and following which Frank declared essential; and, dreading an encounter with Stracey, whose brawny arm it was impossible to forget, he shut himself up in the shop, and devoted himself to drawing up a most elaborate balance-sheet, showing how he would stand if he were obliged to close the business to-morrow, whereas Frank loitered about the roads, till Mrs. Horlock came along with her dogs, and engaged him in conversation; and no matter at what corner he stationed himself, he found he was not free from observation. A few days after he could not bring himself to return to his post, and contented himself with looking out of his window, and taking an occasional stroll by the embankment, when he saw a train signalled.

  A great weight seemed lifted from his shoulder the day he heard that his rival’
s holiday had come to an end, and that he had been forced to return to his counting-house in London. True it is that Mr. Brookes had in a certain measure approved of Willy’s action in forbidding young Stracey the Manor House, and therefore of his, Frank Escott’s, suit, but neither of these gains compensated him for the crowning loss of not being able to see his beloved, for although the Manor House was still theoretically open to him, practically it was closed. The sisters, although at variance on all subjects, had united in condemning him and Willy, and during one dinner, the misery of which he declared he could never forget, they had sat whispering together, refusing to address him either by look or word. Willy took all this calmly. It is an ill wind that blows no good, and the silence enabled him to thoroughly masticate his food. Mr. Brookes wept a little and laughed a little, and reminded them of the oblivion that awaited all their little quarrels.

  All this, like much else in life, was ridiculous enough; but because we are ridiculous, it does not follow that we do not suffer, and Frank suffered. He was five-and-twenty, and light love had him fairly by the throat; he winced, and he cried out, but very soon his dignity gave way, and he craved forgiveness. But Maggie passed without heeding him. For more than a week she resisted all his appeals, and it was not until she saw that she was taking the neighbourhood into her confidence, and to feel that if she did not relent a little he might leave Southwick, and not return, she answered him with a monosyllable. With what bliss did he hear that first “no,” and how passionately he pleaded for a few words; it did not seem to matter what they were, so long as he heard her speak one whole sentence to him. Feeling her power, she was shy of yielding, and with every concession she drew him further into the meshes of love. He dined now nearly every day at the Manor House, and he spent an hour, sometimes two, with her in the morning or afternoon; he followed her from greenhouse to greenhouse, but all his efforts were in vain, and he failed not only to obtain her promise to marry him, but even a renewal of the feeble and partial hopes which she had given him that night on the beach. He prayed, he wept, he implored pity, he openly spoke of suicide, and he hinted at murder. But Maggie passed him, pushing him out of the way with the watering-pot, threatening to water him too, until one day he drew a revolver. She screamed, and the revolver was put away, but on the next occasion a stiletto that he had brought from Italy was produced, and with a great deal of earnestness life was declared to be a miserable thing. It was absurd, no doubt, but at the same time it was not a little pathetic; he was so good-looking, and so sincere. Maggie put down the watering-pot, and she would probably have allowed him to take her hand and kiss her, if he had not spoken roughly about Charlie, and called her conduct into question. So she told him she would not speak to him again, and she continued watering the flowers in silence. Amid vague remembrances of murders she had read of, Frank’s words and behaviour remained present in her mind, and that evening when Willy, who rarely took the trouble to speak, much less to advise his sisters, told her that she might never get such a chance again, she said: “I am not going to marry a madman to please your vanity.”