by George Moore
“Yes; but you would never come again.”
“Wouldn’t I? I suppose I couldn’t find time — I did enjoy myself. What a lovely day it was.”
“Yes; and do you remember how like a beautiful smile the river lay? And do you remember the bulrushes? I rowed you in among the rushes; you wet the sleeve of your dress plunging your arm in. I remember it, that white plump arm.”
“Get along with you.”
“I wanted to make a sketch of you leaning over the boatside with your lapful of water-lilies; I wish I had.”
“I wish you had, too; you wrote a little poem instead. It was very pretty, but I should have liked the picture better. You gave me the poem next day when you came in to lunch. You had lunch at the bar, and I was so cross with you because you said I hadn’t wiped the glass. It was all done to annoy me because I had been talking to that tall, rather stout young man, with the dark moustache, whom you were so jealous of. Don’t you remember?”
“Yes, I remember; and I believe it was that fellow who prevented you from coming out with me again.”
“No, it wasn’t; but don’t speak so loud, all these people are listening to you.”
Frank met the round stare of the girls; and, turning from the dormant curiosity of the old woman, he said —
“Do you remember the locks, how frightened you were; you had never been through a lock before; and the beautiful old red brick house showing upon the lofty woods; and coming back in the calm of the evening, passing the different boats, the one where the girls lay back in the arms of the young men, the flapping sail, and the dreamy influences of the woods where we climbed and looked into space over the railing?”
“At the green-table — don’t you remember?”
“Yes, I remember every hour of that day; we had lunch at the ‘Roebuck.’”
“You haven’t spoken of the lady we saw there. Lady Something — I forget what you said her name was; you said she had been making up to you.”
“I dined with her one night, and we went to the theatre.”
“You may do that without it being said that you are making up to a gentleman.”
“Of course; I should never think of saying you made up to me.”
“I should hope not, indeed.”
“I should never think of accusing you of having made up to me; you have always treated me very badly.”
Lizzie did not answer. He looked at her, puzzled and perplexed, and he hoped that neither the girls nor the old lady had understood.
“I am sorry; I really didn’t mean to offend you. All I meant to say was that the lady we saw at the ‘Roebuck’ had been rather civil to me; had — well I don’t know how to put it — shown an inclination to flirt with me — will that suit you? — and that I had not availed myself of my chances because I was in love with you.”
Encouraged by a sunny smile, Frank continued: “You wouldn’t listen to me; you were very cruel.”
“I am sure I didn’t mean to be cruel; I went out on the river with you, and we had a very pleasant day. You didn’t say then I was cruel.”
“No, you were very nice that day; it was the happiest day of my life. I was in love with you; I shall never care for any one as I cared for you.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I swear it is true. When you left the ‘Gaiety’ I searched London for you. If you had only cared for me we might have been very happy. As sure as a fellow loves a woman, so sure is she to like some other chap. Tell me, why did you go away and leave no address?”
“I did leave an address.”
“Well, we won’t discuss that. Why didn’t you write to me? You knew my address. It’s no use saying you didn’t.”
“Well, I suppose I was in love with some one else.”
“Were you? You always denied it. Ah! so you were in love with some one else? I knew it — I knew it was that thick-set fellow with the black moustache. I wonder how you could like him — the amount of whisky and water he used to drink.”
“Yes, usen’t he? I have served him with as many as six whiskies in an afternoon — Irish, he always drank Irish.”
“How could you like a man who drank?”
“But it wasn’t he — I assure you; I give you my word of honour. It really wasn’t. I’d tell you if it was.”
“Well, who was it, then? It couldn’t be the old man with the beard and white teeth?”
“No.”
“Was it that great tall fellow, clean shaven?”
“No, it wasn’t; you’ll never guess; There’s no use trying. However, it is all over now.”
“Why? Did he treat you badly? Whose fault was it?”
“His. And the chances I threw away. He behaved like a beast. I had to give up keeping company with him.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know. He changed very much towards me lately; he went messing about after other girls, and we had words, and I left.”
“You will make it up. Perhaps you are mistaken.”
“Mistaken — no; I found their letters in his pocket.”
“There are always rows between sweethearts; and then they kiss and make it up, and love each other the more.”
“No, I shall not see him again. We were going to be married; no, it is all over. It was a little hard at first, but I am all right now.”
“I am sorry. Do you think there is no chance of making it up?”
“I should have thought that you would be glad; men are so selfish they never think of any one but themselves.”
“How do you mean? Why should I be glad that your marriage was broken off?”
“You said just now that you liked me very much, I thought—”
“So I do like you very much. Once I was in love with you — that day when we walked up the steep woods together.”
“And you don’t care for me any longer?”
“I don’t say that; but I am engaged to be married.”
“Oh!”
“Had you not snubbed me so I might have been married to you.”
“Who are you going to be married to — to the lady we saw that day?”
“Oh, no, not to her.”
“I don’t believe you. You mean to say you haven’t been to see her since.”
“I assure you—”
“You mean to say you haven’t seen her?”
“I don’t say that. I’ve just come from Ireland. I’ve been staying with my uncle. She spent a week with us; that’s all I have seen of her. I am going now to see the young lady whom I am engaged to.”
“And when will you be married?”
“I don’t know; there are a great many difficulties in the way. Perhaps I shall never marry her.”
“Nonsense. I know better. You think it will take me in. I’ll never be taken in again, not if I know it.”
“I don’t want to take you in.”
“I don’t know so much about that. Is she very pretty? I suppose you are very much in love with her?”
“Yes, I love her very much. Dark, not like you a bit — just the opposite.”
“And you met her since you saw me?”
“No.”
“Ah, I thought as much, and yet you told me the day we went up the river together that you never had and couldn’t care for any one elsebut me. Men are all alike — they never tell the truth.”
“Wait a minute; wait a minute. I knew her long before I knew you; I have known her since I was a boy, but that doesn’t mean that I have been in love with her since I was a boy. I never thought of her until you threw me over, until long after; it was last summer I fell in love with her.”
Lizzie’s eyes were full upon him, and it seemed to them that each could see and taste the essence of the other’s thought.
“What have you been doing ever since? You have told me nothing about yourself.”
“Well, after trying vainly to find you — having searched, as I thought, all Speirs and Pond’s establishments in London, I tried to resign myself to my fate. I assure you,
I was dreadfully cut up — could do nothing. My life was a burden to me. You have been in love, and you know what an ache it is; it used to catch me about the heart. There was no hope; you were gone — gone as if the earth had swallowed you. I got sick of going to the ‘Gaiety’ and asking those girls if they knew anything about you; so to cure myself I went to France, and I worked hard at my painting. In such circumstances there is only one thing — work.”
“You are right.”
“Yes; nothing does you any good but work. I worked in the atelier — that’s the French for studio — all the morning, and in the afternoon I painted from the nude in a public studio. I had such a nice studio — such a jolly little place. I was up every morning at eight o’clock, my model arrived at nine, and I worked without stopping (barring the ten or twelve minutes’ rest at the end of every hour) till twelve. Then I went to the cafe to have breakfast — how I used to enjoy those breakfasts — fried eggs all swimming in butter, a cutlet, after, nice bread and butter, then cock your legs up, drink your coffee, and smoke your cigarette till one.”
“Did you like the French cafe better than the ‘Gaiety’?”
“It is impossible to compare them. I made a great deal of progress. I began one picture of a woman in a hammock, a recollection of you. You remember when we passed under those cedar branches, close to the ‘Roebuck,’ we saw a hammock hung by the water’s edge, and I said I would like to see you in it, and stand by and rock you. I had intended to send it to the Academy, but I never could finish it, the French model was not what I wanted — I wanted you; and I was obliged to leave France, and I could get no one in Southwick. Once a fellow changes his model he is done for; he never can find his idea again.”
“Where’s Southwick?”
“A village outside Brighton, three or four miles, not more. I have a studio there; you must come and see it.”
“You must paint me. But what would your lady love say if she found me in your studio? She’d have me out of it pretty quick. Tell me about her; I want to hear how you fell in love.”
“It happened in the most curious, quite providential way. I have told you that I knew them since I was a boy. Maggie has often sat on my knee.”
“Maggie is her name, then?”
“Yes, don’t you like the name? I do. Her brother was a school-fellow of mine. We were at Eton together, and one time when Mount Rorke was away travelling they asked me to spend my holidays at Southwick. That’s how I got to know them. One day Maggie and Sally were at my studio; Sally has a sweetheart—”
The sentence was cut short by a sudden roar. The train had entered a tunnel, and the speakers made pause, seeing each other vaguely in the dim light, and when they emerged into the cold April twilight Frank told the story of Triss and Berkins, Mr. Brookes struggling with the door, and the girls rushing screaming from their hiding-place; and Frank’s imitation of Berkin’s pomposity amused Lizzie, and she laughed till she cried. He continued till the joke was worn bare; then, fearing he had been talking too much of himself, he said: “Now, I have been very candid with you, tell me about yourself.”
“There is nothing to tell; I think I have told you all.” Then she said, slipping, as she spoke, into minute confidences: “When I left the ‘Gaiety’ I went for a few days to the Exhibition, but he wanted to leave London, so I applied to the firm to remove me to Liverpool (not Liverpool Street; the girl — I suppose it was Miss Clarke, for I wrote to her — made a mistake, or you misunderstood her). We remained in Liverpool a year, and then we came back to London, and I went to the ‘Criterion,’ but I couldn’t stop there long; he was so awfully jealous of me; he used to catechise me every evening — who had I spoken to? How long I had spoken to this man? Once I slapped a man’s face in fun because he squeezed my hand when I handed him the change across the counter. There was such a row about it. I don’t know how he heard of it. I think he must have got some one to watch me. I often suspected the porter — the bigger one of the two; but you don’t know the ‘Criterion.’ You used to go to the ‘Gaiety.’”
“Perhaps he saw you himself. I suppose he used to come to the bar?”
“No, not unless — no, not very often. He banged me about.”
“Banged you about, the brute! Good heavens! How could you like a man who would strike a woman? Who was he? Was he a gentleman — I mean, was he supposed to be a gentleman? Of course he wasn’t really a gentleman, or he wouldn’t have struck you.”
“He was in a passion, he was very sorry for it afterwards. Then I left the firm and went to live in lodgings; he allowed me so much a week.”
“He was a man of some means?”
“No, but it didn’t cost him much, he knew the people. We were going to be married, but he got ill, and we thought we had better wait; and I went to the ‘Gaiety’ again. I was a fool, of course, to think so much about him, for I had plenty of chances. One man who used to lunch there three times a week wanted me to marry him, and take me right away. I think he was in the printing business — a man who was making good money; but I could not give Harry up.”
“Harry is his name, then?”
“Yes; but it all began over again. It was just the same at the ‘Gaiety’ as it was at the ‘Criterion.’ He would never leave me alone, but kept on accusing me of flirting with the gentlemen that came to the bar. Now, you know as well as I do what the bar is. You must be polite to the gentlemen you serve. There are certain gentlemen who always come to me, and don’t care to be served by any one else, and if I didn’t speak to them they wouldn’t come to the bar. The manager is very sharp, and would be sure to mention it.”
“Whom do you mean? That fellow with the yellow moustache that walks about with his frock-coat all open — a sort of apotheosis of sherry and bitters?”
“That’s what you called him once before. You see I remember. He is very fond of sherry and bitters. But I was saying that Harry would keep on interfering with me, pulling me over the coals. We had such dreadful rows. He accused me of having gone with gentlemen to their rooms — a thing I never did. I could stand it no longer, and we agreed to part.”
“How long is that ago?”
“About three weeks. I could stand it no longer, I couldn’t remain at the ‘Gaiety,’ so I resolved to leave.”
“Why couldn’t you remain at the ‘Gaiety,’ the manager didn’t know anything about it?”
“No, he knew nothing about it, it wouldn’t have mattered if he had, but after a break up like that you can’t remain among people you know — you want to get right away; there’s nothing like a change. Besides I mightn’t get such a good chance again; I had the offer of a very good place in Brighton, and I took it — a new restaurant, they open to-morrow. I get thirty pounds a year and my food.”
“And lodging?”
“No, they are very short of accommodation, and I have taken a room in one of the streets close by — Preston Street. Do you know it?”
“Perfectly, off the Western Road.”
“The lady who has the house knew my poor mother — a very nice woman — will let me have a bedroom for five shillings a week, and I shall be allowed to use her sitting-room when I want it, which, of course, won’t be very often, for I shall be at business all day.”
The train rolled along the platform; Frank asked the porter when there would be a train for Southwick, and was told he would have half an hour to wait.
“I shall have time to drive you to Preston Street.”
“Oh, no, please don’t! She will be waiting for you — you will miss your train.”
XIV
ABOUT FOUR IN the afternoon he left off painting, and went to Brighton for a couple of hours. The little journey broke up the day, he bought the evening papers, and it was pleasant to glance from the news to those who passed, and to look upon the sunny and hazy sea. He liked to go to Mutton’s, and regretted Lizzie was not there, instead of behind a bar serving whisky and beer. But he went to the bar. It was a German establishment, decorated with the mythologic
al art of Munich, and enlivened with a discordant band. The different rooms were fitted with bars of various importance. Lizzie was engaged at the largest — that nearest the entrance. At half-past five this bar was thronged with all classes. Beer and whisky were drunk hurriedly, with a look of trains on the face. The quietest time was from half-past three to half-past four, during these hours the dining-room was alone in the presence of the awful goddesses and a couple of drowsy waiters. Most of the girls were out, some two or three read faded novels in the sloppy twilight; a group of four or five men who had lingered from half-hour to half-hour turned their backs, and talked among themselves; sometimes a couple would condescendingly address Lizzie, and tease her with rude remarks; or else Frank found her having a little private chat with an old gentleman, a youth, or, may be, the waiter.
Lizzie had her bar manners and her town manners, and she slipped on the former as she would an article of clothing when she lifted the slab and passed behind. They consisted principally of cordial smiles, personal observations, and a look of vacancy which she assumed when the conversation became coarse. From behind the bar she spoke authoritatively, she was secure, it was different — it was behind the bar; and she spoke with a cheek and a raciness that at other times were quite foreign to her. “I will not sleep with you to-night if you don’t behave yourself,” so Frank once heard her answer a swaggering young man. She spoke out loud, evidently regarding her words merely in the light of gentle repartee. What she heard and said in the bar remained not a moment on her mind, she appeared to accept it all as part of the business of the place, and when Frank was annoyed she only laughed.
“Men will talk improper — what does it matter? One doesn’t pay attention to their nonsense, and it is only in the bar. Never mind all that, tell me what you have been doing. You didn’t come into Brighton yesterday, I suppose?”
“No, I had to go to the Manor House.”
“And how is she — the only one? Are you as much in love with her as ever?”
“I suppose I am; I have begun a portrait of her.”
“What, another! You never finish anything. I shan’t have that when I come and sit for you. I shall make you finish my portrait.”
