Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  If this man — this unknown creature — were to refuse to help them, she and Emily would have to go to London, and she would have to support Emily as best she might. She would hold to her and fight for her with all her strength, but would she not fall vanquished in the fight; and then, and then? The same thoughts, questions, and fears turned in her head like a wheel, and it was not until dawn had begun to whiten the window-panes that she fell asleep.

  A few days after, the post brought a letter for Julia. After glancing hastily down the page she said: ‘This is a letter from Mr. Grandly, and it is good news. Oh, what a relief!...’

  ‘Read it.’

  ‘“Dear Mrs. Bentley, — Immediately I arrived in London, I set to work to find out Mr. Price’s address. It was the easiest matter in the world, for he has a play now running at one of the theatres. So I directed my letter to the theatre, and next morning I had a visit from him. After explaining to him the resources of the brilliant fortune he had come into, I told him of his uncle’s intention to add a codicil to his will, leaving Miss Watson three hundred a year; I told him that this last will had left her entirely unprovided for. He said, at once, that he fully agreed with me, and that he would consider what was the most honourable course for him to take in regard to his ‘cousin. This is exactly what he said, but his manner was such that before leaving he left no doubt in my mind whatever that he will act very generously indeed. I should not be surprised if he settled even more than the proposed three hundred a year on Miss Watson. He is a very quiet, thoughtful young man of about two or three and thirty. He looks poor, and I fancy he has lived through very hard times. He wears an air of sadness and disappointment which makes him attractive, and his manners are gentle and refined. I tell you these things, for I know they will interest you. I have not been able to find out if he is married, but I am sorry to say that his play has not succeeded. I should have found out more, but he was not in my office above ten minutes; he had to hurry away to keep an appointment at the theatre, for, as he explained, it was to be decided that very day if the play was to be taken out of the bills at the end of the week. He promised to call again, and our interview is fixed for eleven o’clock the day after to-morrow. In the meantime take heart, for I think I am justified in telling you I feel quite sanguine as to the result.”’

  ‘Well,’ said Julia, laying down the letter, ‘I don’t think that anything could be more satisfactory, and just fancy dear old Mr. Grandly being able to describe a young man as well as that.’

  ‘He doesn’t say if he is short or tall, or dark or fair.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t. I think he might have told us something about his personal appearance, but it is a great relief to hear that he is not the vulgar Bohemian we have always understood him to be. Mr. Grandly says his manners are refined; you might take a fancy to him after all.’

  ‘But you don’t know that he isn’t married. I suppose Mr. Grandly wasn’t able to find that out. I should like to know — but not because I want to marry him or any one else; only I don’t like the idea of a great, vulgar woman, and a pack of children scampering about the place when we go.’

  ‘Do you dislike children so much, then, Emily?’

  ‘I don’t know that I ever thought about them; but I’m sure I shouldn’t like his children. I dreamt of him last night. Do you believe in dreams?’

  ‘What did you dream?’

  ‘I cannot remember, but I woke up crying, feeling more unhappy than I ever felt in my life before. It is curious that I should dream of him last night, and that you should receive that letter this morning, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t see anything strange in it. Nothing more natural than that you should dream about him, and it was certain that I should receive a letter from Mr. Grandly; he promised to write to me in a few days.’

  ‘Then you believe what is in that letter — I don’t. Something tells me that he will not act kindly, but I don’t know how.’

  ‘I’m quite sure you are wrong, Emily. Mr. Grandly would never have written this letter unless he knew for certain that Mr. Price would do all or more than he promised.’

  ‘I can’t see from the letter that he has promised anything... Even if he does give me three hundred a year, I shall have to leave Ashwood.’

  ‘My dear Emily, I’m cross with you: of course, if you will insist on always looking at the melancholy side.... Now I’m going; I’ve to see after the housekeeping. Are you going into the garden?’

  ‘Yes, presently.’

  Emily did not seem to know what she was going to do. She looked out of the window, she lingered in the corridor; finally she wandered into the library. The quaint, old-fashioned room recalled her childhood to her. It was here she used to learn her lessons. Here was the mahogany table, at which she used to sit with her governess, learning to read and write; and there, far away at the other end of the long room, was the round table, where lay the old illustrated editions of Gulliver’s Travels and The Arabian Nights, which she used to run to whenever her governess left the room. And at the bottom of the book-cases there were drawers full of strange papers; these drawers she used to open in fear and trembling, so mysterious did they seem to her. And there was the book-cases full of the tall folios, behind which lay, in dark and dim recesses, stores of books which she used to pull out, expecting at every moment to come upon long-forgotten treasures. She smiled now, as she recalled these childish imaginings, and lifting tenderly the coarse drugget, she looked at the great green globe which her fingers used to turn in infantile curiosity.

  Then leaving the library, she roamed through the house, pausing on the first landing to gaze on the picture of the fine gentleman in a red coat, his hand for ever on his sword. She remembered how she used to wonder whom he was going to kill, and how sure she used to feel that at last he would grant his adversary his life. And close by was the picture of the wind-mill, set on the edge of the down, with the shepherd driving sheep in the foreground. Her whole life seemed drenched with tears at the thought of parting with these things. Every room was full of memories for her. She was a little girl when she came to live at Ashwood, and the room at the top of the stairs had been her nursery. There were the two beds; both were now dismantled and bare. It was in the little bed in the corner that she used to sleep; it was in the old four-poster that her nurse slept. And there was the very place, in front of the fire, where she used to have her tea. The table had disappeared, and the grate, how rusty it was! In the far corner, by the window, there used to be a press, in which nurse kept tea and sugar. That press had been removed. The other press was there still, and throwing open the doors she surveyed the shelves. She remembered the very peg on which her hat and jacket used to hang. And the long walks in the great park, which was to her, then, a world of wonderment!

  She wandered about the old corridor, in and out of odd rooms, all associated with her childhood — quaint old rooms, many of them lumber rooms, full of odd corners and old cupboards, the meaning of which she used to strive to divine. How their silence and mystery used to thrill her little soul! Faded rooms whose mystery had departed, but whose gloom was haunted with tenderest recollections. In one corner was the reading-chair in which Mr. Burnett used to sit. At that time she used to sit on his knee, and when the chair gave way beneath their weight, he had said she was too big a girl to sit on his knee any longer. The words had seemed to her a little cruel. She had forgotten the old chair, but now she remembered the very moment when the servants came to take it away.

  Under the window were some fragments of a china bowl which she had broken when quite a little child. There was a hoop-stick and the hoop which had been taken down to the blacksmith’s to be mended. He had mended it, but she did not remember ever using it again. And there was an old box of water-colours, with which she used to colour all the uncoloured drawings in her picture-books. Emily took the hoop-stick, the old doll, and the broken box of water-colours, and packed them away carefully. She would be able to find room for them in the little house i
n London where she and Julia were going to live.

  A few days after, the post brought letters from Mr. Grandly, one for Emily and one for Julia. Julia’s letter ran as follows:

  ‘Dear Mrs. Bentley, — I write by this post to Miss Watson, advising her that her cousin, Mr. Price, is most anxious to make her acquaintance, and asking her to send the dog-cart to-morrow to meet him at the station. I must take upon myself the responsibility for this step. I have seen Mr. Price again, and he has confirmed me in my good opinion of him. He seems most anxious, not only to do everything right, but to make matters as pleasant and agreeable as possible for his cousin. He has written me a letter recognising Miss Watson’s claim upon him, and constituting himself her trustee. I have not had yet time to prepare a deed of gift, but there can be little doubt that Miss Watson’s position is now quite secure. So far so good; but more than ever does the only clear and satisfactory way out of this miserable business seem to me to be a marriage between Mr. Hubert Price and Miss Watson. I have already told you that he is a nice, refined young man, of gentlemanly bearing, good presence, and excellent speech, though a trifle shy and reserved; and, as I have since discovered that he is not married, I have taken upon myself the responsibility of advising him to jump into a train and to go and tell his cousin the conclusion he has come to regarding the will of the late Mr. Burnett. As I have said, he is a shy man, and it was some time before I could induce him to take so decisive a step; he wanted to meet Miss Watson in my office, but I succeeded in persuading him. He will go down to you to-morrow by the five o’clock, and I need not impress upon you the necessity that you should use your influence with Miss Watson, and that his reception should be as cordial as circumstances permit. I have only to add that I see no need that you should show this letter to Miss Watson, for the very fact of knowing that we desired to bring about a marriage might prejudice her against this young man, whom she otherwise cannot fail to find charming.’

  Hearing some one at her door, Julia put the letter away. It was Emily.

  ‘I’ve just received a letter from Mr. Grandly, saying that that man is coming here to-day, and that we are to send the dog-cart for him.’

  ‘Is not that the very best thing that — —’

  ‘We cannot remain here, we must leave a note for him, or something of that kind. I wouldn’t remain here to meet him for worlds. I really couldn’t, Julia.’

  ‘And why not, Emily?’

  ‘To meet the man who is coming to turn me out of Ashwood!’

  ‘How do you know that he is coming to turn you out of Ashwood? You imagine these things.... Do you suppose that Mr. Grandly would send him down here if he did not know what his intentions were?’

  ‘But we shall have to leave Ashwood.’

  ‘Very likely, but not in the way you imagine. Remember, Mr. Price is your cousin; you may like him very much. Let’s be guided by Mr. Grandly; I have not seen your letter, but apparently he advises us to remain here and receive him.’

  ‘I don’t think I can, Julia. I have misgivings.’

  ‘Have you been dreaming again?’

  ‘No; I’ve not been dreaming, but I have misgivings.’

  ‘You are a silly little goose, Emily. Come and give me a kiss, and promise to take my advice.’

  ‘Dearest Julia, you do love me, don’t you? Promise me that we shall not be separated, and then I don’t mind.’

  ‘Yes, dear, I promise you that, and you will promise me to try to like your cousin?’

  ‘I’ll try, Julia, but I’m awfully frightened, and — I don’t think I could like him, no matter what he was like. I feel a sort of hatred in my heart. Don’t you know what I mean?’ And the girl looked questioningly into her friend’s eyes.

  IX

  ‘I AM MISS Watson,’ she said in her low musical voice, ‘and this is my friend, Mrs. Bentley.’ Hubert bowed, and sought for words. He found none, and the irritating silence was broken again by Miss Watson. ‘Won’t you sit down?’ she said.

  ‘Thank you.’ He pulled off his gloves. The pained, troubled look which he had met in Miss Watson’s face seemed a reproach, and he regretted not having followed his own idea, and invited the young lady to meet him at Mr. Grandly’s office. He glanced nervously from one lady to the other.

  ‘I hope you have had a pleasant journey, Mr. Price,’ said Mrs. Bentley. ‘The country is looking very beautiful just at present. Do you know this part of the country?’ Mrs. Bentley’s words were very welcome, and Hubert replied eagerly —

  ‘No; I do not know the country at all well. I have been very little out of London for some years, but I hope now to see more of the country. This is a beautiful place.’

  At that moment he met Mrs. Bentley’s eyes, and, feeling that he was touching on delicate ground, he stopped speaking. When he turned his head, he met Miss Watson’s great sad eyes, which seemed to absorb the entire face, fixed upon him. They expressed such depth of pathetic appeal that he trembled with apprehension, and the instinct in him was to beg for pardon. But it became suddenly necessary to say something, and, speaking at random, his head full of whirling words, he said —

  ‘Of course nothing could be more sad than my poor uncle’s death, — so unexpected... Having lived so long together, you must have — —’ Then it was Hubert’s turn to look appealingly at Miss Watson; but her great eyes seemed to say, ‘Go on, go on; heap cruelty on cruelty!’ Then he plunged desperately, hoping to retrieve his mistakes. ‘He died about a month ago. Mr. Grandly told me I should still find you here, so I thought — —’

  The intensity of his emotion perhaps caused Hubert to accentuate his words, so that they conveyed a meaning different from that which he intended. Certainly his hesitations were capable of misinterpretation, and Miss Watson said, her voice trembling, —

  ‘Of course we know we have no right here, we are intruding; but we are making preparations.... I daresay that to-morrow we shall be able to — —’

  ‘Oh, I beg pardon, Miss Watson; let me assure you ... I am sorry if — —’

  Taking a little handkerchief out of her black dress, Emily covered her face in her thin, tiny hands. She sobbed aloud, and ran out of the room. Hubert turned to Mrs. Bentley, his face full of consternation.

  ‘I am very sorry, but she did not give me time to speak. Will you go and fetch her, Mrs. Bentley? I want to tell her I hope she will never leave Ashwood. ... I believe she thinks that I came down here to ask her to leave as soon as possible. It is really quite awful that she should think such a thing.’

  ‘She is an exceedingly sensitive girl, and is now a little overwrought. The events of the last month have proved too much for her.’

  ‘Mr. Grandly informed me that it was Mr. Burnett’s intention to add a codicil to his will, leaving Miss Watson three hundred a year. This money I am prepared to give her, and I’m quite sure she is welcome to stay here as long as she pleases. Indeed, she will do me a great favour by remaining. Please go and tell her. I cannot bear to see a girl cry; to hear her sob like that is quite terrible.’

  ‘You will be able to tell her yourself during the course of the evening. I think it will come better from you.’

  ‘After what has happened, it will be very difficult for me to meet her until she is informed that she is mistaken. I charged Mr. Grandly to explain everything in his letter. Apparently he omitted to do so.’

  ‘He only said you wanted to see Emily on a matter of business. Of course we did not expect such generosity.’

  They were standing quite close together, and suddenly Hubert became conscious of Mrs. Bentley’s beauty. Her blue eyes were at that moment full of tender admiration for the instinctive generosity which Hubert so unwittingly exhibited, and her eyes told what was passing in her soul. Suddenly they both seemed to understand each other better, and, playing with the bracelet on her arm, she said —

  ‘You do not know Emily; she is strangely sensitive. But I will go and try to persuade her to return.... Although only distantly related, you are c
ousins, after all — are you not?’

  ‘Yes, we are cousins, but the relationship is remote. Tell her everything; beg of her to come down-stairs.’

  Hubert imagined Emily’s little black figure thrown upon her bed, sobbing convulsively. He was very much agitated, and looked about the room, at first hardly seeing it. At last its novelty drew his thoughts from his cousin’s tears, and he wondered what was the history of the house. ‘The old man,’ he thought, ‘bought it all, furniture and ancestors, from some ruined landowner, and attempted very few alterations — that’s clear.’ Then he reproached himself. ‘How could I have been so stupid? I did not know what I was saying. I was so horribly nervous. Those strange eyes of hers quite upset me. I do hope Mrs. Bentley will tell her that I wish to act generously, that I am prepared to do everything in my power to make her happy. Poor little thing! She looks as if she had never been happy.’ Again the room drew Hubert’s thoughts away from his cousin. It was still lit with the faint perfumed glow of the sunset. The paint of the old decorations was cracked and faded. A man in a plum-coloured coat with gold facings fixed his eyes upon him, and the tall lady in blue satin had no doubt played there in short clothes. He walked up and down, he turned over the music on the piano, and, hearing a step, looked round. It was only the servant coming to tell him that his room was ready.

  He dressed for dinner, hoping to find the two ladies in the drawing-room, and it was a disappointment to find only Mrs. Bentley there.

  ‘I have told Emily everything you said. She is very grateful, and begs of me to thank you for your kind intentions. But I am afraid you must excuse her absence from dinner. I really don’t think she is in a fit state to come down; she couldn’t possibly take part in the conversation.’

  ‘But why? I hope she isn’t ill? Had we better send for the doctor?’

  ‘Oh no; she’ll be all right in the morning. She has been crying. She suffers from depression of spirits. She is, I assure you, all right,’ said Mrs. Bentley, replying to Hubert’s alarmed and questioning face. ‘I assure you there is no need for you to reproach yourself. Dinner is ready.’ She took his arm, and they went into the dining-room.