Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  No further mention was made of Mr. Burnett, of money matters, or of the young lady up-stairs; and with considerable tact Mrs. Bentley introduced the subject of literature, alluding gracefully to Hubert’s position as a dramatist.

  ‘Your play, Divorce, is now running at the Queen’s Theatre?’

  No; I’m sorry to say it was taken out of the bills last Saturday. Saturday night was the last performance.’

  ‘That was not a long run. And the papers spoke so favourably of it.’

  ‘It is a play that only appeals to the few.’ And, encouraged by Mrs. Bentley’s manner, Hubert told her how happy endings and comic love-scenes were essential to secure a popular success.

  ‘I am afraid you will think me very stupid, but I do not quite understand.’

  In a quiet, unobtrusive way Hubert was a graceful talker, and he knew how to adapt his theme, and bring it within the circle of the sympathies of his listeners. There was some similarity of temperament between himself and Mrs. Bentley; they were both quiet, fair, meditative Saxons. She lent her whole mind to the conversation, interested in the account that the young man gave of his dramatic aspirations.

  From the dining-room window looking over the park the long road wound through the vaporous country. The town stood in the middle distance, its colour blotted out, and its smoke hardly distinguishable. In the room a yellow dress turned grey, and the gold of a bracelet grew darker, and the pink of delicate finger-nails was no longer visible. But the pensive dusk of the dining-room, which blackened the claret in the decanters, leaving only the faintest ruby glow in the glass which Hubert raised to his lips, suited the tenor of the conversation, which had wandered from the dramatic to the social side of the question. What did he think of divorce? She sighed, and he wondered what her story might be.

  They passed out of the dining-room, and stood on the gravel, watching the night gathering in the open country. In the light of the moon, which had just risen above the woods, the white road grew whiter, the town was faintly seen in the tide of blue vapour, which here and there allowed a field to appear. In the foreground a great silver fir, spiky and solitary, rose up in the blue night. Beyond it was seen a corner of the ornamental bridge. The island and its shadow were one black mass rising from the park up to the level of the moon, which, a little to the right, between the town and the island, lay reflected in a narrow strip of water. Farther away some reeds were visible in the illusive light, and the meditative chatter of dozing ducks stirred the silence which wrapped the country like a cloak.

  Hubert and Mrs. Bentley stood looking at the landscape. The fragrance of his cigar, the presence of the woman, the tenderness of the hour, combined to make him strangely happy; his past life seemed to him like a harsh, cruel pain that had suddenly ceased. More than he had ever desired seemed to be fulfilled; the reality exceeded the dream. What greater happiness than to live here, and with this woman! His thoughts paused, for he had forgotten the girl up-stairs. She was not happy; but he would make her happy — of that he was quite certain. At that moment Mrs. Bentley said —

  ‘I hope you like your home. Is not the prospect a lovely one?’

  ‘Yes; but I was thinking at that moment of Emily. I suppose I must accustom myself to call her by her Christian name. She is my cousin, and we are going to live together. But, by the way, she cannot stay here alone. I hope — I may trust that you will remain with her?’

  Mrs. Bentley turned her face towards him; he noticed the look of pleasure that had passed into it.

  ‘Thank you; it is very good of you. I shall be glad to remain with Emily as long as she cares for my society. It is needless to say I shall do my best to deserve your approval.’

  “They dined at the Café Royal.”

  Her voice fell, and he heard her sigh, and in his happiness it seemed to him to be a pity that he should find unhappiness in others.

  They went into the drawing-room. Mrs. Bentley asked him if he liked music, and she went to the piano and sang some Scotch songs very sweetly. Then she took a book from the table and bade him good-night. She was sure that he would excuse her. She must go and see after Emily.

  When the door closed, the woman who had just left him seemed like some one he had seen in a dream; and still more shadowy and illusive did the girl seem — that pale and plaintive beauty, looking like a pastel, who had so troubled him with her enigmatic eyes! And the lodging-house that he had left only a few hours ago! and Rose.

  On Sunday he had taken Rose out to dinner. They dined at the Café-Royal. He had tried to talk to her about Hamilton Brown’s new drama, which they had just heard would follow Divorce; but he was unable to detach his thoughts from Ashwood and the ladies he was going to visit to-morrow evening. Hubert and Rose had felt like two school-fellows, one of whom is leaving school; the link that had bound them had snapped; henceforth their ways lay separate; and they were sad at parting just as school-friends are sad.

  ‘You are not rich; you offered to lend me money once. I want to lend you some now.’

  ‘Oh yes; five shillings, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what the sum was — we were both very poor then — —’

  ‘And I’m still poorer now.’

  ‘All the more reason why you should allow me to help you.... Allow me to write you a cheque for a hundred pounds. I assure you I can afford it.’

  ‘I think I had better not.... I have some things I can sell.’

  ‘But you must not sell your things. Indeed, you must allow me — —’

  ‘I think I’d rather not. I shall be all right — that is to say, if Ford engages me for Brown’s new piece; and I think he will.’

  ‘But if he doesn’t?’

  ‘Then,’ she said, with a sweet and natural smile, ‘I’ll write to you.... We have been excellent friends — comrades — have we not?’

  ‘Yes, we have indeed, and I shall never forget. There is my address; that will always find me.’

  He had written a play — a play that the most competent critics had considered a work of genius; in any case, a play that had interested his generation more than any other. It had failed, and failed twice; but did that prove anything? Fortune had deserted him, and he had been unable to finish The Gipsy. Was it the fault of circumstances that he had not been able to finish that play? or was it that the slight vein of genius that had been in him once had been exhausted? He remembered the article in The Modern Review, and was frightened to think that the critic might have divined the truth. Once it had seemed impossible to finish that play; but fortune had come to his aid, accident had made him master of his destiny; he could spend three years, five years if he liked, on The Gipsy. But why think of the play at all? What did it matter even if he never wrote it? There were many things to do in life besides writing plays. There was life! His life was henceforth his own, and he could live it as he pleased. What should he do with it? To whom should he give it? Should he keep it all for himself and his art? It were useless to make plans. All he knew for certain was that henceforth he was master of his own life, and could dispense it as he pleased.

  And then, in sensuous curiosity, his thoughts turned on the pleasure of life in this beautiful house, in the society of two charming women.

  ‘Perhaps I shall marry one of them. Which do I like the better? I haven’t the least idea.’ And then, as his thoughts detached themselves, he remembered Emily’s tears.

  X

  IT WAS A day of English summer, and the meadows and trees drowsed in the moist atmosphere; a few white clouds hung lazily in the blue sky; the garden was bright with geraniums and early roses, and the closely cropped privets were in full leaf. Hubert’s senses were taken with the beauty of the morning, and there came the thought, so delicious, ‘All this is mine.’ He noticed the glitter of the greenhouses, and thought the cawing of some young rooks a sweet sound; a great tortoiseshell cat lay basking in the middle of the greensward, whisking its furry tail. Hubert stroked the animal; it arched its back, and rubbed itself
against his legs. At that moment a half-bred fox-terrier barked noisily at him; he heard some one calling the dog, and saw a slight black figure hastening down one of the side-walks. Despite the dog’s attempts on his legs, he ran forward.

  ‘Emily! Emily!’ he called. She stopped, turned, and stood looking at him.

  ‘My dear cousin,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry about last night. I hope that Mrs. Bentley has told you. I begged of her to do so.’

  ‘Yes; she told me of your kind intentions. I have to thank you.’

  They walked on in silence, neither knowing what to say.

  ‘Go away, Dandy!’ said Emily, thrusting her black silk parasol at the dog, who had begun an attack on Hubert’s trousers. The dog retreated; Hubert laughed.

  ‘I’m afraid he doesn’t like me.’

  ‘He’ll soon get to know you. Are you fond of animals?’

  ‘I don’t know that I am, particularly.’

  ‘Oh!’ she said, looking at him reproachfully, ‘how can you?’ Her eyes seemed to say, ‘I never can like you after that.’ ‘I adore animals,’ she said. ‘My dear dog — there is nothing in the world I love as I love my Dandy; come here, dear.’ The dog came, wagging his tail, putting back his ears, knowing he was going to be caressed. Emily stooped down, took his rough head in her hands, and kissed him. ‘Is he not a dear?’ she said, looking up; and then she said, ‘I hope you won’t object to having him in the house;’ her face clouded.

  ‘Oh, my dear Emily, how can you ask such a question? I shall never object to anything you desire.’ The conversation paused, and they walked some paces in silence. Emily had just begun to speak of her flowers, when they came upon the gardener, who was standing in consternation over the fragments of a broken mowing-machine. Jack — that was the donkey — had been left to himself just for a moment. It was impossible to say what wild freak had taken him; but instead of waiting, as he was expected to wait, stolidly, he had started off on a wild career, regardless of the safety of the machine. At the first bound it had come in contact with a flower-vase, which had been sent in many pieces over the sward; at the second it had met with some stone coping; and at the third it had turned over in complete dissolution, and Jack was free to tear up the turf with his hoofs, until finally his erratic course was stopped by the small boy who was responsible for the animal’s behaviour. The arrival of Hubert and Emily saved the small boy from many a cuff and the donkey from a kick or two; and Jack stood amid the ruin he had created, as quiet and as docile a creature as the mind could imagine.

  ‘Oh, you — you wicked Jack! Who would have thought it of you?’ said Emily, throwing her arms round the animal’s neck. ‘And at your age, too! This is my old donkey,’ she said, turning her dreamy eyes on Hubert. ‘I used to ride him every day until about two years ago. I love my dear old Jack, and would not have him beaten for worlds, although he is so wicked as to break the mowing-machine. Look what you have done to the flower-vase.’ The animal shook its long ears.

  Hubert and Emily strolled down a long walk, wondering what they should talk about.

  ‘These are really very pretty grounds,’ he said at last. ‘I am sure I shall enjoy myself immensely here.’ The remark appeared to him to be of doubtful taste, and he hastened to add, ‘That is to say, if I have completely made it up with my pretty cousin.’

  ‘But you have not seen the place yet,’ she said, speaking still with a certain tremor in her voice. ‘You haven’t even seen the gardens. Come, and I’ll show them to you.’

  Hubert would have preferred to walk with her through these ornamental swards; and he liked the espalier apple-trees with which the garden was divided better than the glare and heat of the greenhouses into which she took him.

  ‘Do you care for flowers?’

  ‘Not very much.’

  ‘These are all my flowers,’ she said, pointing to many rows of flower-pots. ‘Those are Julia’s. You see I run a line of thread around mine, so that there shall be no mistake. She is not nearly so careful as I am, and it isn’t nice to find that the plants you have been tending for weeks have been spoilt by over-watering. I don’t say she doesn’t love them, but she forgets them.... Just look at those; they are devoured by insects. They want to be taken out and given a thorough cleansing. Even then I doubt if they would come out right, — a plant never forgives you; it is just like a human being.’

  ‘And doesn’t a human being ever forgive?’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean that!’ she said, blushing; ‘but sometimes I could cry over the poor plants which she neglects. I daresay you will think me very ridiculous, but I do cry sometimes, and sometimes I cannot resist taking them out on the sly, and giving them a thoroughly good syringing, — only you must not tell her; we have agreed not to touch each other’s flowers. But I cannot bear to see the poor things dying. How do we know that they do not suffer?’

  ‘I don’t think it probable.’

  ‘But we don’t know for certain,’ she said, fixing her great eyes on him. ‘Do we?’

  ‘We know nothing for certain,’ he answered; and then he said, ‘You and Mrs. Bentley have lived a long time together?’

  ‘No; not very long. About a couple of years. I was about thirteen when I came to Ashwood. I am now eighteen. Mrs. Bentley is a sort of connection. She is very poor — that is why Mr. Burnett asked her to come and live here; besides, as I grew up I wanted a companion. She has been very good to me. We have been very happy together — at least, as happy as one may be; for I don’t think that any one is ever very happy. Have you been very happy?’

  ‘I have not always been happy. But tell me more about Mrs. Bentley.’

  ‘There is little more to tell. I naturally love her very much. She nursed me when I was ill — and I’m often ill; she taught me all I know; she cheered me when I was sad — when I thought my heart would break; when everybody else seemed unkind she was kind. Besides, I could not remain here without her.’ Emily lowered her eyes, and the conversation seemed to pause.

  ‘I have arranged all that,’ Hubert answered hurriedly. ‘I spoke to her last night, and she has consented to remain.’

  ‘That is very good of you.’ Emily raised her eyes and looked shyly at Hubert; and then, as if doubtful of herself, she said, ‘Do you like her? I’m sure you do. Every one does. Do you not think she is very handsome?’

  ‘I think her an exceedingly pleasant woman, and I’m sure we shall all get on very well together.’

  ‘But don’t you think her very handsome?’

  ‘Yes; she is a handsome woman.’

  Nothing more was said. Emily drew meditatively on the gravel with the point of her parasol. The gardeners looked up from their work.

  ‘I have to go now,’ she said, raising her eyes timidly, ‘to feed the swans. You would not care to go so far?’

  ‘On the contrary, I should like it, of all things. A walk by the water on a day like this will be quite a treat.’

  ‘Then will you wait a moment? I will go and fetch the bread.’ She returned soon after with a small basket; and a large retriever, tied up in the corner of the yard, barked and lugged at his chain. ‘He knows where I am going, and is afraid I shall forget him — aren’t you, dear old Don? You wouldn’t like to miss a walk with your mistress, would you, dear?’ The dog bounded and rushed from side to side; it was with difficulty that Emily loosed him. Once free, he galloped down the drive, returning at intervals for a caress and a sniff at the basket which his mistress carried. ‘There’s nothing there for you, my beautiful Don!’

  The drive sloped from the house down to the artificial water, passing under some large elms; and in the twilight of the branches where the sunlight played, and the silence was tremulous with wings, Hubert felt that Emily had forgiven him. She wore the same black dress that he had admired her in the night before; her waist was confined by the same black band; but the chestnut hair seemed more beautiful beneath the black silk sunshade, leaned so gracefully, the black handle held between thumb and forefinger. And the littl
e black figure seemed a part of the beautiful English park, now so green and fragrant in all the flower and sunlight of June, and decorated with a blue summer sky, and white clouds moving lazily over the tops of the trees. And the impression of the beautiful park was enforced by its reflection, which lay, with the mute magic of reflected things, in the still water, stirred only when, with exquisite motion of webbed feet, the swans propelled their freshness to and fro, balancing themselves in the current where they knew the bread must surely fall.

  ‘They are waiting for me. Cannot you see their black eyes turned towards the bridge?’ And she threw the bread from the basket, and the beautiful birds unbent their curved necks, devouring it voraciously under the water.

  In the larger portion of this artificial lake there were two islands, thickly wooded. In the smaller, which lay behind Emily and Hubert, there was one small island covered with reeds and low bushes, and this was a favourite haunt for the waterfowl, which now came swimming forward, not daring to approach too near the dangerous swans.

  ‘These are my friends,’ said Emily. ‘They will follow me to the other end, and I shall be able to feed them as we walk along the meadow.’

  Don and Dandy bounded through the tall grass; sometimes foolishly giving chase to the birds that rose up out of the golden grasses, barking in mad eagerness — sometimes pursuing a hare into the distant woods. The last chase had led them far, and both dogs returned panting to walk till they recovered breath by their mistress’s side; and to satisfy the retriever’s affection Emily held one hand to him. Playing gently with his ears, she said —

  ‘Did you ever see much of Mr. Burnett?’

  ‘Not since I was a boy, ten or twelve years ago, when I was at the University. There was absolutely no reason for his doing what he did.’