Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  “And you stopped to look at the view instead?”

  “Yes, but how did you know that?”

  “Ah! that’s telling; come in.”

  The girl went in shyly.

  “So this is where you live? How nicely you have arranged the room. I never saw a room like this before. How different from the convent! What would the nuns think if they saw me here? What strange pictures! — those ballet-girls; they remind me of the pantomime. Did you buy those pictures?”

  “No; they are wonderful, aren’t they? A friend of mine bought them in France.”

  “Mr. Escott?”

  “Yes; I forgot you knew him — how stupid of me! Had it not been for him I shouldn’t have known you — I was thinking of something else.”

  “Where is he now? I hope he will not return while I am here. You did not tell him I was coming?”

  “Of course not; he is away in France.”

  “And those portraits — it is always the same face.”

  “They are portraits of a girl he is in love with.”

  “Do you believe he is in love?”

  “Yes, rather; head over heels. What do you think of the painting?”

  Lily did not answer. She stood puzzled, striving to separate the confused notions the room conveyed to her. She wore on her shoulders a small black lace shawl and held a black silk parasol. She was very slender, and her features were small and regular, and so white was her face that the blue eyes seemed the only colour. There was, however, about the cheek-bones just such tint as mellow as a white rose.

  “How beautiful you are to-day. I knew you would be beautiful when you discarded that shocking habit; but you are far more beautiful than I thought. Let me kiss you.”

  “No, you will make me regret that I came here. I wanted to see where you lived, so that when I was away I could imagine you writing your poems. Have you nothing more to show me? I want to see everything.”

  “Yes, come, I will show you our dining-room. Mr. Escott often gives dinner-parties. You must get your mother to bring you.”

  “I should like to. But what a good idea to have book-cases in the passages, they furnish the walls so well. And what are those rooms?”

  “Those belong to Escott. Here is where I sleep.”

  “What a strange room!” discountenanced by the great Christ. She turned her head.

  “That crucifix is a present from Frank. He bought it in Paris. It is superb expression of the faith of the Middle Ages.”

  “Old ages, I should think; it is all worm-eaten. And that Virgin? I did not know you were so religious.”

  “I do not believe in Christianity, but I think Christ is picturesque.”

  “Christ is very beautiful. When I prayed to Him an hour passed like a little minute. It always seemed to me more natural to pray to Him than to the Virgin Mary. But is that your bed?”

  Upon a trellis supported by lion’s claws a feather bed was laid. The sheets and pillows were covered with embroidered cloth, the gift of some unhappy lady, and about the twisted columns heavy draperies hung in apparent disorder. Lily sat down on the pouff ottoman. Mike took two Venetian glasses, poured out some champagne, and sat at her feet. She sipped the wine and nibbled a biscuit.

  “Tell me about the convent,” he said. “That is now a thing over and done.”

  “Fortunately I was not professed; had I taken vows I could not have broken them.”

  “Why not? A nun cannot be kept imprisoned nowadays.”

  “I should not have broken my vows.”

  “It was I who saved you from them — if you had not fallen in love with me …”

  “I never said I had fallen in love with you; I liked you, that was all.”

  “But it was for me you left the convent?”

  “No; I had made up my mind to leave the convent long before I saw you. So you thought it was love at first sight.”

  “On my part, at least, it was love at first sight. How happy I am! — I can scarcely believe I have got you. To have you here by me seems so unreal, so impossible. I always loved you. I want to tell you about myself. You were my ideal when I was a boy; I had already imagined you; my poems were all addressed to you. My own sweet ideal that none knew of but myself. You shall come and see me all the summer through, in this room — our room. When will you come again?”

  “I shall never come again — it is time to go.”

  “To go! Why, you haven’t kissed me yet!”

  “I do not intend to kiss you.”

  “How cruel of you! You say you will never come and see me again; you break and destroy my dream.”

  “How did you dream of me?”

  “I dreamed the world was buried in snow, barred with frost — that I never went out, but sat here waiting for you to come. I dreamed that you came to see me on regular days. I saw myself writing poems to you, looking up to see the clock from time to time. Tea and wine were ready, and the room was scented with your favourite perfume. Ting! How the bell thrilled me, and with what precipitation I rushed to the door! There I found you. What pleasure to lead you to the great fire, to help you to take off your pelisse!”

  The girl looked at him, her eyes full of innocent wonderment.

  “How can you think of such things? It sounds like a fairy tale. And if it were summer-time?”

  “Oh! if it were summer we should have roses in the room, and only a falling rose-leaf should remind us of the imperceptible passing of the hours. We should want no books, the picturesqueness of the river would be enough. And holding your little palm in mine, so silken and delicately moist, I would draw close to you.”

  Knowing his skin was delicate to the touch, he took her arm in his hand, but she drew her arm away, and there was incipient denial in the withdrawal. His face clouded. But he had not yet made up his mind how he should act, and to gain time to think, he said —

  “Tell me why you thought of entering a convent?”

  “I was not happy at home, and the convent, with its prayers and duties, seemed preferable. But it was not quite the same as I had imagined, and I couldn’t learn to forget that there was a world of beauty, colour, and love.”

  “You could not but think of the world of men that awaited you.”

  “I only thought of Him.”

  “And who was he?”

  “Ah! He was a very great saint, a greater saint than you’ll ever be. I fell in love with Him when I was quite a little girl.”

  “What was his name?”

  “I am not going to tell you. It was for Him I went into the convent; I was determined to be His bride in heaven. I used to read His life, and think of Him all day long. I had a friend who was also in love, but the reverend mother heard of our conversations, and we were forbidden to speak any more of our saints.”

  “Tell me his name? Was he anything like me?”

  “Well, perhaps there is a something in the eyes.”

  The conversation dropped, and he laid his hand gently upon her foot. Drawing it back she spilt the wine.

  “I must go.”

  “No, dearest, you must not.”

  She looked round, taking the room in one swift circular glance, her eyes resting one moment on the crucifix.

  “This is cruel of you,” he said. “I dreamed of you madly, and why do you destroy my dream? What shall I do? — where shall I go? — how shall I live if I don’t get you?”

  “Men do not mind whom they love; even in the convent we knew that.”

  “You seem to have known a good deal in that convent; I am not astonished that you left it.”

  “What do you mean?” She settled her shawl on her shoulders.

  “Merely this; you are in a young man’s room alone, and I love you.”

  “Love! You profane the word; loose me, I am going.”

  “No, you are not going, you must remain.” There was an occasional nature in him, that of the vicious dog, and now it snarled. “If you did not love me, you should not have come here,” he said interposing, gett
ing between her and the door.

  Then she entreated him to let her go. He laughed at her; then suddenly her face flamed with a passion he was unprepared for, and her eyes danced with strange lights. Few words were spoken, only a few ejaculatory phrases such as “How dare you?” “Let me go!” she said, as she strove to wrench her arms from his grasp. She caught up one of the glasses; but before she could throw it Mike seized her hand; he could not take it from her, and unconscious of danger (for if the glass broke both would be cut to the bone), she clenched it with a force that seemed impossible in one so frail. Her rage was like wildfire. Mike grew afraid, and preferring that the glass should be thrown than it should break in his hand, he loosed his fingers. It smashed against the opposite wall. He hoped that Frank had not heard; that he had left the chambers. He seized the second glass. When she raised her arm, Mike saw and heard the shattered window falling into the court below. He anticipated the porter’s steps on the staircase and his knock at the door, and it was with an intense relief and triumph that he saw the bottle strike the curtain and fall harmless. He would win yet. Lily screamed piercingly.

  “No one will hear,” he said, laughing hoarsely.

  She escaped him and she screamed three times. And now quite like a mad woman, she snatched a light chair and rushed to the window. Her frail frame shook, her thin face was swollen, and she seemed to have lost control over her eyes. If she should die! If she should go mad! Now really terrified, Mike prayed for forgiveness. She did not answer; she stood clenching her hands, choking.

  “Sit down,” he said, “drink something. You need not be afraid of me now — do as you like, I am your servant. I will ask only one thing of you — forgiveness. If you only knew!”

  “Don’t speak to me!” she gasped, “don’t!”

  “Forgive me, I beseech you; I love you better than all the world.”

  “Don’t touch me! How dare you? Oh! how dare you?”

  Mike watched her quivering. He saw she was sublime in her rage, and torn with desire and regret he continued his pleadings. It was some time before she spoke.

  “And it was for this,” she said, “I left my convent, and it was of him I used to dream! Oh! how bitter is my awakening!”

  She grasped one of the thin columns of the bed and her attitude bespoke the revulsion of feeling that was passing in her soul; beneath the heavy curtains she stood pale all over, thrown by the shock of too coarse a reality. His perception of her innocence was a goad to his appetite, and his despair augmented at losing her. Now, as died the fulgurant rage that had supported her, and her normal strength being exhausted, a sudden weakness intervened, and she couldn’t but allow Mike to lead her to a seat.

  “I am sorry; words cannot tell you how sorry I am. Why do you tremble so? You are not going to faint, say — drink something.” Hastily he poured out some wine and held it to her lips. “I never was sorry before; now I know what sorrow is — I am sorry, Lily. I am not ashamed of my tears; look at them, and strive to understand. I never loved till I saw you. Ah! that lily face, when I saw it beneath the white veil, love leaped into my soul. Then I hated religion, and I longed to scale the sky to dispossess Heaven of that which I held the one sacred and desirable thing — you! My soul! I would have given it to burn for ten thousand years for one kiss, one touch of these snow-coloured hands. When I saw, or thought I saw, that you loved me, I was God. I said on reading your sweet letter, ‘My life shall not pass without kissing at least once the lips of my chimera.’”

  Words and images rose in his mind without sensation or effort, and experiencing the giddiness and exultation of the orator, he strove to win her with eloquence. And all his magnetism was in his hands and eyes — deep blue eyes full of fire and light were fixed upon her — hands, soft yet powerful hands held hers, sometimes were clenched on hers, and a voice which seemed his soul rose and fell, striving to sting her with passionate sound; but she remained absorbed in, and could not be drawn out of, angry thought.

  “Now you are with me,” he said, “nearly mine; here I see you like a picture that is mine. Around us is mighty London. I saved you from God, am I to lose you to Man? This was the prospect that faced me, that faces me, that drove me mad. All I did was to attempt to make you mine. I hold you by so little — I could not bear the thought that you might pass from me. A ship sails away, growing indistinct, and then disappears in the shadows; in London a cab rattles, appears and disappears behind other cabs, turns a corner, and is lost for ever. I failed, but had I succeeded you would have come back to me; I failed, is not that punishment enough? You will go from me; I shall not get you — that is sorrow enough for me; do not refuse me forgiveness. Ah! if you knew what it is to have sought love passionately, the high hopes entertained, and then the depth of every deception, and now the supreme grief of finding love and losing. Seeing love leave me without leaving one flying feather for token, I strove to pluck one — that is my crime. Go, since you must go, but do not go unforgiving, lest perhaps you might regret.”

  Lily did not cry. Her indignation was vented in broken phrases, the meaning of which she did not seem to realize, and so jarred and shaken were her nerves that without being aware of it her talk branched into observations on her mother, her home life, the convent, and the disappointments of childhood. So incoherently did she speak that for a moment Mike feared her brain was affected, and his efforts to lead her to speak of the present were fruitless. But suddenly, waxing calm, her inner nature shining through the eyes like light through porcelain, she said —

  “I was wrong to come here, but I imagined men different. We know so little of the world in the convent…. Ah, I should have stayed there. It may be but a poor delusion, but it is better than such wickedness.”

  “But I love you.”

  “Love me! … You say you have sought love; we find love in contemplation and desire of higher things. I am wanting in experience, but I know that love lives in thought, and not in violent passion; I know that a look from the loved one on entering a room, a touch of a hand at most will suffice, and I should have been satisfied to have seen your windows, and I should have gone away, my heart stored with impressions of you, and I should have been happy for weeks in the secret possession of such memories. So I have always understood love; so we understood love in the convent.”

  They were standing face to face in the faint twilight and scent of the bedroom. Through the gauze blind the river floated past, decorative and grand; the great hay-boats rose above the wharfs and steamers; one lay in the sun’s silver casting a black shadow; a barge rowed by one man drifted round and round in the tide.

  “When I knelt in the choir I lifted my heart to the saint I loved. How far was He from me? Millions of miles! — and yet He was very near. I dreamed of meeting Him in heaven, of seeing Him come robed in white with a palm in His hand, and then in a little darkness and dimness I felt Him take me to His breast. I loved to read of the miracles He performed, and one night I dreamed I saw Him in my cell — or was it you?”

  All anger was gone from her face, and it reflected the play of her fancy. “I used to pray to you to come down and speak to me.”

  “And now,” said Mike, smiling, “now that I have come to you, now that I call you, now that I hold my arms to you — you the bride-elect — now that the hour has come, shall I not possess you?”

  “Do you think you can gain love by clasping me to your bosom? My love, though separated from me by a million miles, is nearer to me than yours has ever been.”

  “Did you not speak of me as the lover of your prayer, and you said that in ecstasy the nuns — and indeed it must be so — exchange a gibbeted saint for some ideal man? Give yourself; make this afternoon memorable.”

  “No; good-bye! Remember your promises. Come; I am going.”

  “I must not lose you,” he cried, drunk with her beauty and doubly drunk with her sensuous idealism. “May I not even kiss you?”

  “Well, if you like — once, just here,” she said, pointing where white m
elted to faint rose.

  Mastered, he followed her down the long stairs; but when they passed into the open air he felt he had lost her irrevocably. The river was now tinted with setting light, the balustrade of Waterloo Bridge showed like lace-work, the glass roofing of Charing Cross station was golden, and each spire distinct upon the moveless blue. The splashing of a steamer sounded strange upon his ears. The “Citizen” passed! She was crowded with human beings, all apparently alike. Then the eye separated them. An old lady making her way down the deck, a young man in gray clothes, a red soldier leaning over the rail, the captain walking on the bridge.

  Mike called a hansom; a few seconds more and she would pass from him into London. He saw the horse’s hooves, saw the cab appear and disappear behind other cabs; it turned a corner, and she was gone.

  CHAPTER III

  SEVEN HOURS HAD elapsed since he had parted from Lily Young, and these seven hours he had spent in restaurants and music-halls, seeking in dissipation surcease of sorrow and disappointment. He had dined at Lubi’s, and had gone on with Lord Muchross and Lord Snowdown to the Royal, and they had returned in many hansoms and with many courtesans to drink at Lubi’s. But his heart was not in gaiety, and feeling he could neither break a hat joyously nor allow his own to be broken good-humouredly, nor even sympathize with Dicky, the driver, who had not been sober since Monday, he turned and left the place.

  “This is why fellows marry,” he said, when he returned home, and sat smoking in the shadows — he had lighted only one lamp — depressed by the loneliness of the apartment. And more than an hour passed before he heard Frank’s steps. Frank was in evening dress; he opened his cigarette-case, lighted a cigarette, and sat down willing to be amused. Mike told him the entire story with gestures and descriptive touches; on the right was the bed with its curtains hanging superbly, on the left the great hay-boats filling the window; and by insisting on the cruelest aspects, he succeeded in rendering it almost unbearable. But Frank had dined well, and as Lizzie had promised to come to breakfast he was in excellent humour, and on the whole relished the tale. He was duly impressed and interested by the subtlety of the fancy which made Lily tell how she used to identify her ideal lover while praying to Him, Him with the human ideal which had led her from the cloister, and which she had come to seek in the world. He was especially struck with, and he admired the conclusion of, the story, for Mike had invented a dramatic and effective ending.