by George Moore
“MY DEAR FRANK, — The enclosed is a copy of the letter which I send by this post to Mr. Brookes. And I make no disguise of the fact that it was written with the full intention of rendering your marriage an impossibility. It will no doubt appear to you a harsh and cruel letter; it will no doubt grieve you, madden you — in your rage you may call me a brute. The epithet will be unjust; but knowing very well indeed what love is at twenty-five, I will forgive it. And now to the point. I know something about old Brookes, and I remember the lean boy you used to bring here, and judging from some slight traces that Eton had not succeeded in effacing, I think I can guess what the rest of the family is like; indeed, the old gentleman’s preposterous demand that I should settle ten thousand pounds on his daughter throws a sufficient light on his character, and in some measure reveals what sort of manner of man he is. But let all this be waived. I admit that with some show of reason, you may say it is unjust, nay more, it is ridiculous, to pronounce judgment on people I have never seen, and it is cruelty worthy of a Roman Emperor to wreck the lifelong happiness of two young people for the sake of a prejudice that the trouble of a journey to Brighton will most certainly extinguish. I will not irritate you by assuring you that the world is full of desirable women-women that will appeal to you two years hence precisely as Miss Brookes appeals to you now. Were I to whisper that it is unwise to give up all women for one woman, you could not fail, in your present mood, to see in my philosophy only the nasty wisdom of a cynical old reprobate. Therefore I will not weary you with advice — what I have said must be considered not as advice, but rather as an expression of personal experience in the love passion, serving as illustration of the attitude of my mind towards you. I will limit myself to merely asking you — no, not to think again of Miss Brookes — that would be impossible, but to leave Southwick for London or Paris, the latter for preference. I will give you a letter of introduction to a charming lady (ah! were I thirty years younger). Put yourself in her hands, and I have no doubt in the world but that she will send you back cured in six months, as my bank-book will abundantly prove.
“If you cannot do this — if so drastic a remedy should be too repugnant to your present feelings, I would remember, were I in your place, that my uncle had never refused me anything; that I could draw upon him for what money I liked — that is to say, for all pleasures and satisfaction save one. I would remember that at his death I was to inherit ten thousand a year and a title; and I would weigh (first examining each weight carefully, to see if it were true weight) all these present and future advantages against the gratification of possessing a woman I loved when I was twenty-five for a period of time extending perhaps over half a century; I would think — at least I think and hope I should hesitate — before I refused to obey one of whose affection I was sure, and I feel certain it would go hard with me before I refused to gratify the whim — call it a whim if you like — of one who had often given but never asked before.
“Somehow I think you owe me this sacrifice; I have done much for you and am prepared to do more, and to speak quite candidly, I want something in return; I do not mean that I am desirous of striking a bargain with you, but we all expect to receive — of course not directly, but in some remote way — something for what we give, and I confess that I look forward to your companionship to assist me through the last course of life. I do not want you now — for the next few years I want you to see the world, to educate yourself; I want you to improve your taste in art and letters, and later on, if possible, to turn yourself to some public account. Besides other work, I am now working at my memoirs; they are to be published after my death, as I have arranged, under your supervision. I regard these memoirs as being of the first importance, and it is advisable that you should be in full possession of all my intentions respecting them. Hitherto I have always looked after everything myself, but the time will come when I shall not be able to do this, and shall require you to relieve me of the burden of business. Then I wish you to live here, so that you may learn to love Mount Rorke. I am very busy now with improvements, and I would wish you to be with me so that you might adequately enter into my views and ideas. To conclude, I do not marry for your sake; do you not marry for mine, at least do not marry for the present. I do not say that if I knew and liked the girl of your choice — if she were in your own set — that I could not be won over, but on the whole I would sooner you didn’t marry. But I could not really endure a lot of new acquaintances — people who had never dined in a lord’s house, and would all want to be asked — no, I could not endure it. I am an old man, and now I want to enjoy myself in my own way, and my desire is to get through the last years of my life with you.
“You can do what you please, ask here whomever you please, give me a few hours of your time when I am particularly busy with my memoirs, and, above all, let us be alone sometimes after dinner, so that we can turn our chairs round to the fire and talk at our ease. — Your affectionate uncle, MOUNT RORKE.”
“So he won’t pay for a secretary, and wants me to do the work; that’s about the meaning of that letter.” Frank re-read the letter sentence for sentence, and as he read new sneers and new expressions of scorn rose in his brain in tremulous ebullition. There was scarcely a plan for the chastisement of his uncle that he did not for some fleeting moment entertain, and one most ironical letter he committed to paper; but Maggie would not hear of its being sent, and he was surprised and glad to see that she was not depressed and disheartened at the turn affairs had taken.
“I can do what I like with father; Sally can’t, but I can. You leave it me.”
“What’s the good of that? You can’t get round Mount Rorke.”
“Never mind; we don’t want to get married yet awhile. We’ll be engaged, it is nearly the same thing. We shall be able to go anywhere together — up to town, if we only come back the same day. Write a nice letter to your uncle, saying you’ll do nothing without his consent; that it is true your affections are very much engaged, but that your first thought is of him—”
“Oh! but my darling, I want to make you mine.”
“So you shall — we shall be engaged; father won’t consent to our being married, but he can’t prevent us being engaged. You’ll see, I’ll get round father sooner or later; he’ll give in.”
“But you won’t get round Mount Rorke; if he would only come here and see you.”
“He won’t do that; but one of these days he’ll be in London. I suppose he goes to the Park sometimes; we’ll go too, you’ll introduce me — a little impromptu, and I’ll see if I can’t get him to like me.”
“How clever you are!”
“I understand father.”
Still it required all Maggie’s adroitness to even partially reconcile Mr. Brookes to Lord Mount Rorke’s letter. She accepted without argument that marriage in the present circumstances was out of the question. She even went so far as to cordially assent that a man would be a fool to give his daughter to a man who could not settle a substantial sum of money upon her, and she only ventured to suggest that it would be foolish not to give Lord Mount Rorke the opportunity of changing his mind. She spoke of his immense fortune, and exaggerated it until she made even Berkins seem a paltry creature in the old man’s eyes.
Frank was anxious to propitiate Sally. He returned from London with presents for her, and he always spoke to her, looking at her admiringly.
He showed much anxiety, and, fearing that she found it dull at his studio, when the sisters came to tea he begged her to give him Meason’s address. Sally tossed her head; she had had enough of Meason, and her manner left no doubt as to her sincerity. But happening to meet Meason a few days after in the train, Frank slipped easily into asking him to come and see him; and in the easy atmosphere of the studio the acquaintanceship soon ripened into intimacy, and after a preliminary ruffling of plumage, Sally restored her old sweetheart to all the rights of wrong. Life went well amid incessant secrets, letter-writing, and tea parties. Grace came to the studio to lunch sometim
es, and she had been betrayed into a promise not to say a word about Meason. It was never ascertained whether, in the indiscretion of the marital night, she had betrayed this trust, or whether some jealous enemy had spoken or written to Mr. Brookes on the subject; but certain it is that one joyful day when Meason, Sally, and Maggie were eating oysters, and Frank was twisting the corkscrew into a bottle of Chablis, there came an ominous ringing at the door.
“I wonder who that can be. Shut up, Triss.”
“Perhaps it is father.”
“He is in London.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“No matter — we don’t want to see them.”
“Rather not! They wouldn’t have known we were here had it not been for that dog.”
“I must go and see who it is. Come here, sir; come here, you brute.”
“Supposing it is father?”
“Get behind that piece of tapestry. I’ll say that Meason and I were having some oysters.”
“Come here, sir. I’d better tie up that dog — I wonder who it is?”
“Open the door.”
“Oh! Mr. Brookes, quite an unexpected pleasure.”
“I have come, sir, for my daughters.”
“Your daughters? Your daughters are not here. Mr. Brookes.”
“I have reason to know they are here, and I will not leave without them.”
“You will do well to let us in, Mr. Escott; we are determined—”
“Who are you? What business is it of yours?”
“Should you refuse us admission we are resolved to wait here till evening, till midnight if necessary!” exclaimed Berkins. “I say again you will do well to admit us, and so avoid a scandal on the green.”
“You can come in if you like.”
“Will you kindly chain up that dog of yours?”
“Well, this is coming it too strong; this is a little too ‘steep.’ If Mr. Brookes refuses to believe my word that his daughters are not here he may come in and look for them, and to facilitate his search I will tie up the dog — (the dog is tied up). But you, what brings you here? What the devil, I should like to know, brings you here, poking your nose into other people’s business?”
“Mr. Brookes, will you answer him?”
“I must decline your offer to admit me unaccompanied by my son-in-law. We shall not stay long.”
“All this seems to me very extraordinary, but since you wish it, Mr. Brookes, pray enter.”
“Is that dog tied up quite securely?”
“Quite. I think you know Mr. Meason?”
“Mr. Meason knows very well that I do not wish to know him.”
“If you only come here to insult my guest, the sooner you go out the better. Had I known that you intended to behave in this fashion I should have left you standing outside till morning. I’ll not have—”
“Never mind, Escott; I’m off. Mr. Brookes and I are no longer on speaking terms, that’s all! I’ll see you later on.”
“Don’t go, pray.”
“I think I must.”
“I am surprised, Frank,” said Mr. Brookes, when Meason was gone, “that you should seek your friends among the enemies of my family.”
“We will not discuss that question now. I never heard of such conduct — you force your way into my studio, and apparently for no purpose but to insult my guest. You see your daughters are not here.”
“I am by no means satisfied with that,” said Berkins, opening a door. “I must see behind that piece of tapestry.”
“No, you shall not. I have had just about enough of this. How dare you? God’s truth—” and as Berkins seemed determined to continue his search, Frank caught him by the collar.
But Berkins was tall and strong, and showed no intention of allowing himself to be thrown out. His long legs were soon extended here and there; his body was sometimes bent back by Frank’s weight, once he had succeeded in nearly throwing Frank over on the sofa. Mr. Brookes had fled to the door, which, in his excitement, he failed to open, and the struggle was continued until at last, maddened by a most tight and tempting aspect of Berkin’s thigh, Triss broke his collar, and in a couple of bounds, reached and fixed his teeth deep in the flesh.
“Triss, you brute, leave go.” But Triss clung to the long-desired thigh. “I’ll twist his tail, it will make him leave go.”
With a savage yelp of pain the dog turned on his master and was hauled instantly off Berkins’s thigh.
“I need hardly say that so far as the dog is concerned, I regret, and I am truly sorry for what has occurred.”
“Sir, do you not see what a state I am in; do not stand there making excuses, but lend me your handkerchief. I shall bleed to death if you don’t.”
“Shall I tie it up for you?”
“If those girls there would only fetch a doctor.”
Mr. Brookes could not refrain from foolish laughter, and in a moment of wretched despair he declared that it would be all the same in a hundred years time — a remark which would not have failed to irritate Berkins if he had not fainted.
XIII
NEXT DAY WILLY called at the studio, and Frank told him what had occurred.
“But I don’t see why you shouldn’t come to the Manor House,” said Willy. “If you will only say something about the Measons, I think it can be made all right.”
“No, I’m not going to turn against Meason; I have always found him a good fellow. I know nothing about his flirtation with Sally.”
“No more do I; I think it has been exaggerated, but, as you know, I never interfere. I wish you would come in to dinner one night.”
“Supposing I were to meet Berkins?”
Willy stroked his moustache.
“No, it is quite impossible that I could return to the Manor House. Your father behaved in a way — well, I will not say what I think of it.”
“Berkins hasn’t been to the City since. Grace was over here yesterday, she says he limps about the garden. He’ll never forgive you; he says that you didn’t call the dog off at once.”
“That’s a lie; and I said, ‘So far as the incident with the dog is concerned, I am very sorry.’”
“I think that made him more angry than anything else; he thought you were laughing at him.”
“I was not. It was most unfortunate. I shall not give Maggie up. I am writing to-morrow or next day to Mount Rorke.”
All were agreed that things must come right sooner or later. Maggie fought for her lover, and emphatically asserted her engagement. She yielded on one point only — not to visit the studio; but she maintained her right in theory and in practice to go where she liked with him in train or in cart, to walk with him on the cliff, to lunch with him at Mutton’s. They found pleasure in thus affirming their love, and it pleased them to see they were observed, and to hear that they were spoken about. Nevertheless the string that sung their happiness had slipped a little, and the note was now not quite so clear or true. Frank could not go to the Manor House; Maggie could not go to the studio. Whether Mount Rorke would consent to their marriage perplexed them as it had not done before.
The summer fades, the hills grow grey, and a salt wind blew up from the sea, blackening the trees, and the beauty of autumn was done. Frank thought of Ireland, and what personal intercession might achieve. She begged of him to go, and he promised to write to her every day.
“Every day, darling, or I shall be miserable.”
“Every day.”
“Arrived safe after a very rough passage. Every one was ill, I most of all.”
She received a post-card:— “It was raining cats and dogs when I got out of the train. Mount Rorke sent a car to meet me; the result is that I am in bed with a bad cold. The house is full of company — people I have known, or known of, since I was a boy; we shall begin pheasant-shooting in a few days. When I am out of bed I shall write a long letter. Do you write to me; I shall be awfully disappointed if I do not get a letter to-morrow morning.”
Extract from a le
tter: —
“Mount Rorke is considered to be a handsome place, but as I have known it from childhood, as my earliest memories are of it, I cannot see it with the eyes of a professed scenery hunter. I have loved it always, but I do not think I ever loved it more than now, for now I think that one day I shall give it to you. Should that day come — and it will come — what happiness it will be to walk with you under the old trees, made lovelier by your presence, to pass down the glades to the river, watching your shadow on the grass and your image in the stream. We will roam together through the old castle, and I will show you the little bed I used to sleep in, the school-room where I learned my lessons. When I entered the old room I saw in imagination — and oh, how clearly! — the face of my governess; and how easily I see her in the corridor she used to walk down to get to her room.
“Poor, dear, old thing, I wonder what has become of her!
“I saw again the pictures that stirred my childish fancy, and whose meaning I once vainly strove to decipher.
“I came to live here when I was four, immediately after my father’s death. I can just remember coming here. I remember Mount Rorke taking me up in his arms and kissing me. I will not say there is no place like home — I do not believe that; but certainly no place seems so real. Every spot of ground has its own particular recollections. Every bend of the avenue evokes some incident of childish life (in Ireland we call any road leading to a house an avenue, even if it is absolutely bare of trees; we also speak of rooks as crows, and these two provincialisms jarred on my ear after my long stay in Sussex). Mount Rorke is covered with trees — great woods of beech and fir — and at the end of every vista you see a piece of blue mountain. A river passes behind the castle, winding through the park; there are bridges, and swans float about the sedges, and there are deer in the glades. The garden, — I do not know if you would like the garden; it is old-fashioned — full of old-fashioned flowers — convolvuluses, Michaelmas daisies, marigolds; hedges clipped into all sorts of strange and close shapes. There is a beautiful avenue behind the garden (an avenue in the English sense of the word) where you may pace to and fro and feel an exquisite sense of solitude; for when the castle had passed out of the hands of Irish princes — that is to say, brigands — it was turned into a monastery, and I often think, as I look on the mossy trees — the progeny of those under whose leafage the monks told their beads — that all happened that I might throw my arm about you some beautiful day, and whisper, ‘My wife, this is yours.’”
