by George Moore
“Who is this Johnny?” shouted Muchross. “If he won’t stand a drink, we don’t want none of his blooming architecture.”
“And I wouldn’t touch a man with a large pole who didn’t like women,” said Laura. At which emphatic but naïve expression of opinion, the whole coach roared; — even the bar-girls smiled.
“Architecture! It is a regular putty castle,” said Kitty, as they turned out of an avenue of elms and came in view of the house.
Not a trace of the original Italian house remained. The loggia had been replaced by a couple of Gothic towers. Over the central hall he had placed a light lantern roof, and the billiard-room had been converted into a chapel. A cold and corpse-like sky was flying; the shadows falling filled the autumn path with sensations of deep melancholy. But the painted legend of St. George overthrowing the dragon, which John had placed in commemoration of his victories over himself, in the central hall, glowed full of colour and story; and in the melodious moan of the organ, and in the resonant chord which closes the awful warning of the Dies Iræ, he realized the soul of his friend. Castle, window, and friend were now one in his brain, and seized with dim, undefinable weariness of his companions, and an irritating longing to see John, Mike said —
“I must go and see him.”
“We can’t wait here while you are paying visits; who doesn’t like getting drunk or singing, ‘What cheer, Ria?’ Let’s give him a song.” Then the whole coach roared: even the bar-girls joined in.
“What cheer, Ria?
Ria’s on the job;
What cheer, Ria?
Speculate a bob.”
As soon as he could make himself heard, Mike said —
“You need not wait for me. We are only five minutes from Brighton. I’ll ride over in an hour’s time. Do you wait for me at the Ship, Kitty.”
“I don’t think this at all nice of you.”
Mike waved his hand; and as he stood on the steps of this Gothic mansion, listening to the chant, watching the revellers disappearing in the gray and yellow gloom of the park, he said —
“The man here is the one who has seized what is best in life; he alone has loved. I should have founded with him a new religious order. I should walk with him at the head of the choir. Bah! life is too pitifully short. I should like to taste of every pleasure — of every emotion; and what have I tasted? Nothing. I have done nothing. I have wheedled a few women who wanted to be wheedled, that is all.”
CHAPTER IX
“AND HOW ARE you, old chap? I am delighted to see you.”
“I’m equally glad to see you. You have made alterations in the place … I came down from London with a lot of Johnnies and tarts — Kitty Carew, Laura Stanley and her sister. I got Dicky the driver to turn in here. You were playing the Dies Iræ. I never was more impressed in my life. You should have seen the coach beneath the great window … St. George overcoming the Johnnies … the tumult of the organ … and I couldn’t stand singing ‘Two Lovely Black Eyes.’ I sickened of them — the whole thing — and I felt I must see you.”
“And are they outside?”
“No; they have gone off.”
Relieved of fear of intrusion, John laughed loudly, and commented humorously on the spectacle of the Brighton coach filled with revellers drawn up beneath his window. Then, to discuss the window — the quality of the glass — he turned out the lamps; the hall filled with the legend, and their hearts full of it, and delighting in the sensation of each other, they walked up and down the echoing hall. John remembered a certain fugue by Bach, and motioning to the page to blow, he seated himself at the key-board. The celestial shield and crest still remained in little colour. Mike saw John’s hands moving over the key-board, and his soul went out in worship of that soul, divided from the world’s pleasure, self-sufficing, alone; seeking God only in his home of organ fugue and legended pane. He understood the nobleness and purity which was now about him — it seemed impossible to him to return to Kitty.
Swift and complete reaction had come upon him, and choked with the moral sulphur of the last twenty-four hours, he craved the breath of purity. He must talk of Plato’s Republic, of Wagner’s operas, of Schopenhauer; even Lily was not now so imperative as these; and next day, after lunch, when the question of his departure was alluded to, Mike felt it was impossible to leave John; but persecuted with scruples of disloyalty to Kitty, he resisted his friend’s invitation to stay. He urged he had no clothes. John offered to send the coachman into Brighton for what he wanted.
“But perhaps you have no money,” John said, inadvertently, and a look of apprehension passed into his face.
“Oh, I have plenty of money— ’tisn’t that. I haven’t told you that a friend of mine, a lady, has left me nearly five thousand a year. I don’t think you ever saw her — Lady Seeley.”
John burst into uncontrollable laughter. “That is the best thing I ever heard in all my life. I don’t think I ever heard anything that amused me more. The grotesqueness of the whole thing.” Seeing that Mike was annoyed he hastened to explain his mirth. “The inexplicableness of human action always amuses me; the inexplicable is romance, at least that is the only way I can understand romance. When you reduce life to a logical sequence you destroy all poetry, and, I think, all reality. We do things constantly, and no one can say why we do them. Frederick the Great coming in, after reviewing his troops, to play the flute, that to me is intensely romantic. A lady, whom you probably treated exceedingly badly, leaving you her property, that too is, to me.”
Admonished by his conscience, John’s hilarity clouded into a sort of semi-humorous gravity, and he advised Mike on the necessity of reforming his life.
“I am very sorry, for there is no one whose society is as attractive to me as yours; there is no one in whom I find so many of my ideas, and yet there is no one from whom I am so widely separated; at times you are sublime, and then you turn round and roll in the nastiest dirt you can find.”
Mike loved a lecture from John, and he exerted himself to talk.
Looking at each other in admiration, they regretted the other’s weaknesses. Mike deplored John’s conscience, which had forced him to burn his poems; John deplored Mike’s unsteady mind, which veered and yielded to every passion. And in the hall they talked of the great musician and the great king, or John played the beautiful hymns of the Russian Church, in whose pathetic charm he declared Chopin had found his inspiration; they spoke of the Grail and the Romance of the Swan, or, wandering into the library, they read aloud the ever-flowering eloquence of De Quincey, the marmoreal loveliness of Landor, the nurselike tenderness of Tennyson.
Through all these æstheticisms Lily Young shone, her light waxing to fulness day by day. Mike had written to Frank, beseeching him to forward any letters that might arrive. He expected an answer from Lily within the week, and not until its close did he begin to grow fearful. Then rapidly his fear increased and unable to bear with so much desire in the presence of John Norton, he rushed to London, and thence to Marlow. He railed against his own weakness in going to Marlow, for if a letter had arrived it would have been forwarded to him.
“Why deceive myself with false hopes? If the letter had miscarried it would have been returned through the post-office. I wrote my address plain enough.” Then he railed against Lily. “The little vixen! She will show that letter; she will pass it round; perhaps at this moment she is laughing at me! What a fool I was to write it! However, all’s well that ends well, and I am not going to be married — I have escaped after all.”
The train jogged like his thoughts, and the landscape fled in fleeting visions like his dreams. He laid his face in his hands, and could not disguise the truth that he desired her above all things, for she was the sweetest he had seen.
“There are,” he said, talking to Frank and Lizzie, “two kinds of love — the first is a strictly personal appetite, which merely seeks its own assuagement; the second draws you out of yourself, and is far more terrible. I have found both these loves, bu
t in different women.”
“Did no woman ever inspire both loves in you?” said Lizzie.
“I thought one woman had.”
“Oh, tell us about her.”
Mike changed the conversation, and he talked of the newspaper until it was time to go to the station. He was now certain that Lily had rejected him. His grief soaked through him like a wet, dreary day. Sometimes, indeed, he seemed to brighten, but there is often a deeper sadness in a smile than in a flood of tears, and he was more than ever sad when he thought of the life he had desired, and had lost; which he had seen almost within his reach, and which had now disappeared for ever. He had thought of this life as a green isle, where there were flowers and a shrine. Isle, flowers, and shrine had for ever vanished, and nothing remained but the round monotony of the desert ocean. Then throwing off his grief with a laugh, he eagerly anticipated the impressions of the visit he meditated to Belthorpe Park, and his soul went out to meet this new adventure. He thought of the embarrassment of the servants receiving their new master; of the attitude of the country people towards him; and deciding that he had better arrive before dinner, just as if he were a visitor, he sent a telegram saying that the groom was to meet him at the station, and that dinner was to be prepared.
Lady Seeley’s solicitors had told him that according to her ladyship’s will, Belthorpe was to be kept up exactly as it had been in her life-time, and the servants had received notice, that in pursuance of her ladyship’s expressed wish, Mr. Fletcher would make no changes, and that they were free to remain on if they thought proper. Mike approved of this arrangement — it saved him from a task of finding new servants, a task which he would have bungled sadly, and which he would have had to attempt, for he had decided to enjoy all the pleasures of a country place, and to act the country gentleman until he wearied of the part. Life is but a farce, and the more different parts you play in that farce the more you enjoy. Here was a new farce — he the Bohemian, going down to an old ancestral home to play the part of the Squire of the parish. It could not but prove rich in amusing situations, and he was determined to play it. What a sell it would be for Lily, for perhaps she had refused him because she thought he was poor. Contemptuous thoughts about women rose in his mind, but they died in thronging sensations of vanity — he, at least, had not found women mercenary. Lily was the first! Then putting thoughts of her utterly aside, he surrendered himself to the happy consideration of his own good fortune. “A new farce! Yes; that was the way to look upon it. I wonder what the servants will think! I wonder what they’ll think of me! … Harrison, the butler, was with her in Green Street. Her maid, Fairfield, was with her when I saw her last — nearly three years ago. Fairfield knew I was her lover, and she has told the others. But what does it matter? I don’t care a damn what they think. Besides, servants are far more jealous of our honour than we are ourselves; they’ll trump up some story about cousinship, or that I had saved her ladyship’s life — not a bad notion that last; I had better stick to it myself.”
As he sought a plausible tale, his thoughts detached themselves, and it struck him that the gentleman sitting opposite was his next-door neighbour. He imagined his visit; the invitation to dine; the inevitable daughters in the drawing-room. How would he be received by the county folks?
“That depends,” he thought, “entirely on the number of unmarried girls there are in the neighbourhood. The morals and manners of an English county are determined by its female population. If the number of females is large, manners are familiar, and morals are lax; if the number is small, manners are reserved, and morals severe.”
He was in a carriage with two unmistakably county squires, and their conversation — certain references to a meet of the hounds and a local bazaar — left no doubt that they were his neighbours. Indeed, Lady Seeley was once alluded to, and Mike was agitated with violent desires to introduce himself as the owner of Belthorpe Park. Several times he opened his lips, but their talk suddenly turned into matters so foreign that he abandoned the notion of revealing his identity, and five minutes after he congratulated himself he had not done so.
The next station was Wantage Street; and as he looked to see that the guard had put out his portmanteau, a smart footman approached, and touching his cockaded hat said, “Mr. Fletcher.” Mike thrilled with pride. His servant — his first servant.
“I’ve brought the dog-cart, sir; I thought it would be the quickest; it will take us a good hour, the roads are very heavy, sir.”
Mike noticed the coronet worked in red upon the yellow horse-cloth, for the lamps cast a bright glow over the mare’s quarters; and wishing to exhibit himself in all his new fortune before his fellow-passengers, who were getting into a humbler conveyance, he took the reins from the groom; and when he turned into the wrong street, he cursed under his breath, fancying all had noticed his misadventure. When they were clear of the town, touching the mare with the whip he said —
“Not a bad animal, this.”
“Beautiful trotter, sir. Her ladyship bought her only last spring; gave seventy guineas for her.”
After a slight pause, Mike said, “Very sad, her ladyship’s death, and quite unexpected, I suppose. She wasn’t ill above a couple of days.”
“Not what you might call ill, sir; but her ladyship had been ailing for a long time past. The doctors ordered her abroad last winter, sir, but I don’t think it did her much good. She came back looking very poorly.”
“Now tell me which is the way? do I turn to the right or left?”
“To the right, sir.”
“How far are we from Belthorpe Park now?”
“About three miles, sir.”
“You were saying that her ladyship looked very poorly for some time before she died. Tell me how she looked. What do you think was the matter?”
“Well, sir, her ladyship seemed very much depressed. I heard Miss Fairfield, her ladyship’s maid, say that she used to find her ladyship constantly in tears; her nerves seemed to have given way.”
“I suppose I broke her heart,” thought Mike; “but I’m not to blame; I couldn’t go on loving any woman for ever, not if she were Venus herself.” And questioning the groom regarding the servants then at Belthorpe, he learnt with certain satisfaction that Fairfield had left immediately after her ladyship’s death. The groom had never heard of Harrison (he had only been a year and a half in her ladyship’s service).
“This is Belthorpe Park, sir — these are the lodge gates.”
Mike was disappointed in the lodge. The park he could not distinguish. Mist hung like a white fleece. There were patches of ferns; hawthorns loomed suddenly into sight; high trees raised their bare branches to the brilliancy of the moon.
“Not half bad,” thought Mike, “quite a gentleman’s place.”
“Rather rough land in parts — plenty of rabbits,” he remarked to the groom; and he won the man’s sympathies by various questions concerning the best method of getting hunters into condition. The rooks talked gently in the branches of some elms, around which the drive turned through rough undulating ground. Plantations became numerous; tall, spire-like firs appeared, their shadows floating through the interspaces; and, amid straight walks and dwarf yews, in the fulness of the moonlight, there shone a white house, with large French windows and a tower at the further end. A white peacock asleep on a window-sill startled Mike, and he thought of the ghost of his dead mistress.
Nor could he account for his trepidation as he waited for the front door to open, and Hunt seemed to him aggressively large and pompous, and he would have preferred an assumption on the part of the servant that he knew the relative positions of the library and drawing-room. But Hunt was resolved on explanation, and as they went up-stairs he pointed out the room where Lady Seeley died, and spoke of the late Earl. “You want the sack and you shall get it, my friend,” thought Mike, and he glanced hurriedly at the beautiful pieces of furniture about the branching staircase and the gallery leading into the various corridors. At dinner he ate wi
thout noticing the choiceness of the cooking, and he drank several glasses of champagne before he remarked the excellence of the wine.
“We have not many dozen left, sir; I heard that his lordship laid it down in ‘75.”
Hunt watched him with cat-like patience and hound-like sagacity, and seeing he had forgotten his cigar-case, he instantly produced a box. Mike helped himself without daring to ask where the cigars came from, nor did he comment on their fragrance. He smoked in discomfort; the presence of the servant irritated him, and he walked into the library and shut the door. The carved panelling, in the style of the late Italian renaissance, was dark and shadowy, and the eyes of the portraits looked upon the intruder. Men in armour, holding scrolls; men in rich doublets, their hands on their swords; women in elaborate dresses of a hundred tucks, and hooped out prodigiously. He was especially struck by one, a lady in green, who played with long white hands on a spinet. But the massive and numerous oak bookcases, strictly wired with strong brass wire, and the tall oak fireplace, surmounted with a portrait of a man in a red coat holding a letter, whetted the edge of his depression, and Mike looked round with a pain of loneliness upon his face. Speaking aloud for relief, he said —
“No doubt it is all very fine, everything is up to the mark, but there’s no denying that it is — well, it is dull. Had I known it was going to be like this I’d have brought somebody down with me — a nice woman. Kitty would be delightful here. But no; I would not bring her here for ten times the money the place is worth; to do so would be an insult on Helen’s memory…. Poor dear Helen! I wish I had seen her before she died; and to think that she has left me all — a beautiful house, plate, horses, carriages, wine; nothing is wanting; everything I have is hers, even this cigar.” He threw the end of his cigar into the fireplace.
