by George Moore
“It is all here?”
“No, there’s one chapter to come; that’s good enough for you.”
“Oh yes, it will do. You’ll have to finish it, for you’ll want to write for the paper.”
This time the cards were perfectly packed, and Mike turned the king.
“Cards?”
“No, play.”
Frank and Lizzie leaned breathless over the table, their faces white in the light of the unshaded lamp. Mike won the whole five tricks. But luck was dead against him, and in a few minutes the score stood at three games all. Then outrageously, for there was no help for it, as he never would have dared if his opponent had been quite sober, he packed and bridged the cards. He turned the king.
“Cards?”
“No, play.”
Mike won the fourth game, and put Mr. Beacham Brown’s cheque in his pocket.
“I’ll play you again,” said Thigh.
Mike accepted, and before eleven o’clock Thigh had paid three hundred pounds for the manuscript and lost all his available spare cash. He glanced narrowly at Mike, paused as he put on his hat and coat, and Frank wished Lizzie would leave the room, feeling sure that violent words were inevitable. But at that moment Mike’s shoulders and knuckles seemed more than usually prominent, and Mr. Beacham Brown’s agent slunk away into the darkness.
“You did turn the king pretty often,” said Frank, when the door closed. “I’m glad there was no row.”
“Row! I’d have broken his dirty neck. Not content with swindling poor Beacham Brown, he tries it on with the contributors. I wish I had been able to get him to go on. I would willingly have fleeced him of every penny he has in the world.”
Lizzie bade them good-night, and the servant brought in a letter for Mike, a letter which she explained had been incorrectly addressed, and had just come from the hotel. Frank took up a newspaper which Thigh had left on the table. He turned it over, glancing hastily through it. Then something caught his eye, and the expression of his face changed. And what caused him pain could be no more than a few words, for the paper fell instantly from his hands and he sat quite still, staring into space. But neither the sound of the paper falling, nor yet the frozen rigidity of his attitude drew Mike’s thoughts from the letter he was reading. He glanced hastily through it, then he read it attentively, lingering over every word. He seemed to suck sweetness out of every one; it was the deep, sensual absorption of a fly in a pot of treacle. His eyes were dim with pleasure long drawn out; they saw nothing, and it was some moments before the pallor and pain of Frank’s face dispelled the melliferous Edens in which Mike’s soul moved.
“What is the matter, old chap? Are you ill?”
Frank did not answer.
“Are you ill? Shall I get you a drink?”
“No, no,” he said. “I assure you it is nothing; no, it is nothing.” He struggled for a moment for shame’s sake to keep his secret, but it was more than he could bear. “Ah!” he said, “it is all over; I’m done for — read.”
He stooped to pick up the paper. Mike took the paper from him and read —
“Thursday — Lady Mount Rorke, of a son.”
Whilst one man hears his doom pronounced, another sees a golden fortune fallen in his hand, and the letter Mike had just read was from a firm of solicitors, informing him that Lady Seeley had left him her entire fortune, three thousand a year in various securities, and a property in Berkshire; house, pictures, plate — in a word, everything she possessed. The bitterness of his friend’s ill fortune contrasting with the sweetness of his own good fortune, struck his heart, and he said, with genuine sorrow in his voice —
“I’m awfully sorry, old chap.”
“There’s no use being sorry for me, I’m done for; I shall never be Lord Mount Rorke now. That child, that wife, are paupers; that castle, that park, that river, all — everything that I was led to believe would be mine one day, has passed from me irrevocably. It is terribly cruel — it seems too cruel to be true; all those old places — you know them — all has passed from me. I never believed Mount Rorke would have an heir, he is nearly seventy; it is too cruel.”
Tears swam in his eyes, and covering his face in his hands he burst into a storm of heavy sobbing.
Mike was sincere, but “there is something not wholly disagreeable to us in hearing of the misfortunes even of our best friends,” and Mike felt the old thought forced into his mind that he who had come from the top had gone to the bottom, and that he who came from the bottom was going — had gone to the top. Taking care, however, that none of the triumph ebullient within him should rise into his voice, he said —
“I am really sorry for you, Frank. You mustn’t despair; perhaps the child won’t live, and perhaps the paper will succeed. It must succeed. It shall succeed.”
“Succeed! nothing succeeds with me. I and my wife and child are beggars on the face of the earth. It matters little to me whether the paper succeeds or fails. Thigh has got pretty nearly all of it. When my debts are paid I shall not have enough to set myself up in rooms.”
At the end of a painful silence, Mike said —
“We’ve had our quarrels, but you’ve been a damned good friend to me; it is my turn now to stand to you. To begin with, here is the three hundred that I won from Thigh. I don’t want it. I assure you I don’t. Then there are your rooms in Temple Gardens; I’ll take them off your hands. I’ll pay all the arrears of rent, and give you the price you paid for your furniture.”
“What damned nonsense! how can you do that? Take three hundred pounds from you — the price of your book. You have nothing else in the world!”
“Yes, I have; it is all right, old chap; you can have the money. The fact is,” he said, “Lady Seeley has left me her whole fortune; the letter I just received is from the solicitors. They say three thousand a year in various securities, and a property in Berkshire. So you see I can afford to be generous. I shall feel much hurt if you don’t accept. Indeed, it is the least I can do; I owe it to you.”
The men looked at each other, their eyes luminous with intense and quickening emotions. Fortune had been so derisive that Mike feared Frank would break into foolish anger, and that only a quarrel and worse hatred might result from his offer of assistance.
“It was in my box you met her; I remember the night quite well. You were with Harding.” [Footnote: See Spring Days.] The men exchanged an inquiring look. “She wanted me to go home and have supper with her; she was in love with me then; I might have been her lover. But I refused, and I went into the bar and spoke to Lizzie; when she went off on duty I went and sat with you and Harding. Not long after I saw you at Reading, in the hotel overlooking the river. I was with Lizzie.” [Footnote: See Spring Days.]
“You can’t accuse me of having cut you out. You could have got her, and—”
“I didn’t want her; I was in love with Lizzie, and I am still. And strange as it may appear to you, I regret nothing, at least nothing that concerns Lizzie.”
Mike wondered if this were true. His fingers fidgeted with the cheques. “Won’t you take them?”
Frank took them. It was impossible to continue the conversation. Frank made a remark, and the young men bade each other good-night.
As Mike went up the staircase to his room, his exultation swelled, and in one of those hallucinations of the brain consequent upon nerve excitement, and in which we are conscious of our insanity, he wondered the trivial fabric of the cottage did not fall, and his soul seemed to pierce the depth and mystery imprisoned in the stars. He undressed slowly, looking at himself in the glass, pausing when he drew off his waistcoat, unbuttoning his braces with deliberation.
“I can make nothing of it; there never was any one like me…. I could do anything, I might have been Napoleon or Cæsar.”
As he folded his coat he put his hand into the breast pocket and produced the unposted letter.
“That letter will drive me mad! Shall I burn it? What do I want with a wife? I’ve plenty of money now
.”
He held the letter to the flame of the candle. But he could not burn it.
“This is too damned idiotic!” he thought, as he laid it on the table and prepared to get into bed; “I’m not going to carry that letter about all my life. I must either post it or destroy it.”
Then the darkness became as if charged with a personality sweet and intense; it seemed to emanate from the letter which lay on the table, and to materialize strangely and inexplicably. It was the fragrance of brown hair, and the light of youthful eyes; and in this perfume, and this light, he realized her entire person; every delicate defect of thinness. She hung over him in all her girlishness, and he clasped her waist with his hands.
“How sweet she is! There is none like her.”
Then wearying of the strained delight he remembered Belthorpe Park, now his. Trees and gardens waved in his mind; downs and river lands floated, and he half imagined Lily there smiling upon them; and when he turned to the wall, resolute in his search for sleep, the perfume he knew her by, the savour of the skin, where the first faint curls begin, haunted in his hallucinations, and intruded beneath the bed-clothes. One dream was so exquisite in its tenderness, so illusive was the enchanted image that lay upon his brain, that fearing to lose it, he strove to fix his dream with words, but no word pictured her eyes, or the ineffable love they expressed, and yet the sensation of both was for the moment quite real in his mind. They were sitting in a little shady room; she was his wife, and she hung over him, sitting on his knee. Her eyes were especially distinct and beautiful, and her arms — those thin arms which he knew so well — and that waist were clothed in a puritanic frock of some blue material. His happiness thrilled him, and he lay staring into the darkness till the darkness withered, and the lines of the room appeared — the wardrobe, the wash-hand-stand, and then the letter. He rose from his bed. In all-pervading grayness the world lay as if dead; not a whiff of smoke ascended, not a bird had yet begun, and the river, like a sheet of zinc, swirled between its low banks.
“God! it is worse than the moonlight!” thought Mike, and went back to bed. But he could not rest, and when he went again to the window there was a faint flush in the sky’s cheek; and then a bar of rose pierced the heavy ridge of clouds that hung above the woodland.
“An omen! I will post her letter in the sunrise.” And conscious of the folly, but unable to subdue that desire of romance so inveterate in him, he considered how he might leave the house. He remembered, and with pleasure, that he could not pass down the staircase without disturbing the dog, and he thought of the prolonged barking that would begin the moment he touched the chain on the front door. He would have to get out of the window; but the window was twenty feet from the ground. “A rope! I have no rope! How absurd!” he thought, and, rejoicing in the absurdity, he drew a sheet from the bed and made it fast. Going to Lily through a window seemed to relieve marriage of some of its shame.
“Life wouldn’t be complete without her. Yes, that’s just it; that sums it up completely; curious I did not think of that before. It would have saved such a lot. Yes, life would not be complete without her. The problem is solved,” and he dropped the letter as easily as if it had been a note asking for seats in the theatre. “I’m married,” he said. “Good heavens! how strange it seems. I shall have to give her a ring, and buy furniture. I had forgotten! … No difficulty about that now. We shall go to my place in Berkshire.”
But he could not go back to bed, and he walked down to the river, his fine figure swinging beautifully distinct in his light clothing. The dawn wind thrilled in his chest, for he had only a light coat over the tasselled silk night-shirt; and the dew drenched his feet as he swung along the pathway to the river. The old willow was full of small birds; they sat ruffling their feathers, and when Mike sprang into the boat they flew through the gray light, taking refuge in some osier-beds. And as he looked down stream he saw the night clouds dispersing in the wind. He pulled, making the boat shoot through the water for about a mile, then touched by the beauty of the landscape, paused to view it. Cattle lay in the long, moist meadows, harmonizing in their semi-unconsciousness with the large gray earth; mist hung in the sedges, floated evanescent upon the surface of the water, within reach of his oars, floated and went out in the sunshine. But on the verge of an oak wood, amid tangled and tawny masses of fern and grass, a hound stopped and looked up. Then the huntsman appeared galloping along the upland, and turning in his saddle, he blew a joyful blast.
Mike sat still, his heart close shut, the beauty of the scene in its quick and core. Then yielding utterly he drove the boat ashore, and calling to the nearest, to one who had stopped and was tightening his horse’s girths, he offered to buy his horse. A hundred pounds was asked. “It is not worth it,” he thought; “but I must spend my four thousand a year.” The desire to do what others think of doing but don’t do was always active in Mike. He gave his name and address; and, fearing to miss dealing on such advantageous terms, the owner consented to allow Mike to try the horse then and there. But the hounds had got on the scent of a fox. The horn was heard ringing in the seared wood in the crimson morning, and the hounds streamed across the meadows.
“I must try him over some fences. Take my boat and row up to Ash Cottage; I’ll meet you there.”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort!” roared the man in top-boots.
“Then walk across the fields,” cried Mike; and he rode at the hedge and rail, coming down heavily, but before the owner could reach him he had mounted and was away.
Some hours later, as he approached the cottage, he saw Frank and a man in top-boots engaged in deep converse.
“Get off my horse instantly!” exclaimed the latter.
“The horse is mine,” said Mike, who unfortunately could not control his laughter.
“Your horse! Certainly not! Get off my horse, or I’ll pull you off.”
Mike jumped off.
“Since you will have it so, I’ll not dispute with you. There is your horse; not a bad sort of animal — capital sport.”
“Now pay me my hundred pounds!” said the owner, between his clenched teeth.
“You said just now that you hadn’t sold me the horse. There is your horse, and here is the name of my solicitors, if you want to go to law with me.”
“Law with you! I’ll give you law!” and letting go the horse, that immediately began to browse, he rushed at Mike, his whip in the air.
Mike fought, his long legs wide apart, his long arms going like lightning, straight from the shoulder, scattering blood over necktie and collar; and presently the man withdrew, cursing Mike for an Irish horse-stealer.
“I never heard of such a thing!” said Frank. “You got on his horse and rode away, leaving him standing on the outside of the cover.”
“Yes,” shouted Mike, delighted with his exploit; “I felt I must go after the hounds.”
“Yes, but to go away with the man’s horse!”
“My dear fellow, why not? Those are the things that other fellows think of doing but don’t do. An excitement like that is worth anything.”
While waiting for Lily’s answer, Mike finished the last chapter of his book, and handed the manuscript to Frank. Between the sentences he had speculated on the state of soul his letter would produce in her, and had imagined various answers. “Darling, how good of you! I did not know you loved me so well.” She would write, “Your letter surprised me, but then you always surprise me. I can promise you nothing; but you may come and see me next Thursday.” She would write at once, of that there could be no doubt; such letters were always answered at once. He watched the postman and the clock; every double knock made tumult in his heart; and in his stimulated perceptions he saw the well-remembered writing as if it lay under his eyes. And the many communications he received during those days whetted the edge of his thirst, and aggravated the fever that floated in his brain.
And towards the end of the week, at the end of a long night of suffering, he went to London. And for the
first time, forgetful of himself, without a thought of the light he would appear in, he told the cabman where to drive. His heart failed him when he heard that Miss Young had been ordered abroad by the doctor. And as he walked away a morbid sense instilled in him that Lily would never be his bride. Fear for her life persisted, and corrupted all his joy. He could not listen to Lady Seeley’s solicitors, and he could not meditate upon the new life which Helen had given him. He had inherited sixty thousand pounds in various securities, yielding three thousand a year; the estate in Berkshire brought in fifteen hundred a year; and a sum of twelve hundred pounds lay in the bank for immediate uses.
“Dear, sweet Helen — she was the best of the lot — none were as sweet as she. Well, after all, it isn’t so strange when one thinks of it — she hadn’t a relation in the world. I must see her grave. I’ll put a beautiful marble tomb over her; and when I’m in Berkshire I’ll go there every day with flowers.”
Then a shocking thought appeared in his mind. Accustomed to analyse all sentiments, he asked his soul if he would give up all she had given him to have her back in life; and he took courage and joy when the answer came that he would. And delighted at finding himself capable of such goodness, he walked in a happier mood. His mind hung all day between these two women — while he paid the rent that was owing there in Temple Gardens; while he valued the furniture and fixtures. He valued them casually, and in a liberal spirit, and wrote to Frank offering him seven hundred pounds for the place as it stood. “It is not worth it,” he thought, “but I’d like to put the poor fellow on his legs.”
Where should he dine? He wanted distraction, and unable to think of any better relief, he turned into Lubi’s for a merry dinner. The little gilt gallery was in disorder, Sally Slater having spent the afternoon there. Her marquis was with her; her many admirers clustered about the cigarette-strewn table, anxious to lose no word of her strange conversation. One drunkard insisted on telling anecdotes about the duke, and asking the marquis to drink with him.
