Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  ‘Ah,’ he said, after two hours’ delightful talk, ‘how much I’m indebted to you! At last I see my mistakes; in two days I shall have written the act. And he wrote rapidly for nearly two hours, reconstructing the opening scenes of his second act.’ He then threw himself on the couch, smoked a cigar, and after half an hour’s rest continued writing till dinner-time.

  When he came down-stairs, the thought of what he had been writing was still so vivid in him that he did not notice at once the silence of those with whom he was dining. He complimented Mrs. Bentley on the freshness of the turbot; she hardly answered; and then he became aware that something had gone wrong. What? Only one thing was possible. Emily had heard that Mrs. Bentley had been in his study. Looking from the woman to the girl, he saw that the latter had been weeping. She was still in a highly hysterical state, and might burst into tears and fly from the dinner-table at any moment. His face changed expression, and it was with difficulty that he restrained his temper. His life had been made up of a constant recurrence of these scenes, and he was wholly weary of them; and the thought of the absolute want of reason in the causeless jealousy, and the misery that these little bickerings made of his life, exasperated him beyond measure. The dinner proceeded in silence, and every slight remark was a presage of storm. Hubert hoped the girl would say nothing until the servant left the room, and with that view he never spoke a word except to ask the ladies what they would take to eat. These tactics might have succeeded if Mrs. Bentley had not unfortunately said that next week she intended to go to London for a couple of days. ‘The Eastwicks are there now, and they’ve asked me to stay with them.’

  ‘I think I shall go up with you. I want to go to London,’ said Emily.

  ‘It will be very nice if you’ll come; but we cannot both stay with the Eastwicks; they have only one spare room.’

  ‘I suppose you’d like me to go to an hotel.’

  ‘My dear Emily, how can you think of such a thing? A young girl like you could not stay at an hotel alone. I shall be only too pleased if you will go to the Eastwicks; I will go to the hotel.’

  Emily’s lip quivered, and in the irritating silence both Hubert and Mrs. Bentley saw that she was trying to overcome her passion. They fervently hoped she would succeed; for at that moment the servant was handing round the wine, and the time he took to accomplish this service seemed endless. He had filled the last glass, had handed round the dessert, and was preparing to leave the room when Emily said —

  ‘The hotel will suit you very well. You’ll be free to see Hubert whenever you like.’

  Hubert looked up quickly, hoping Mrs. Bentley would not answer, but before he could make a sign she said —

  ‘What do you mean, Emily? I did not know that Hubert was going to London.’

  ‘You hardly expect me to believe that, do you?’

  The servant was still in the room; but no look of astonishment appeared on his face, and Hubert hoped he had not heard. An awful silence glowered upon the dinner-table. The moment the door closed Hubert said, turning angrily to Emily —

  ‘Really, I am quite surprised, Emily, that you should make such observations in the presence of servants! This has been going on quite long enough; you are making the house intolerable. I shall not be able to live here any longer.’

  Emily burst into a passionate flood of tears. She declared she was wretchedly miserable, and that she fully understood that Hubert had begun to regret that he had asked her to stay at Ashwood. Everything had been taken from her; every one was against her. Her sobs shook her frail little frame as if they would break it, and Hubert’s heart was wrung at the sight of such genuine suffering.

  ‘My dear Emily, I assure you you are mistaken. We both love you very much.’ He got up from his chair, and, putting his arm about her, besought her to dry her eyes; but she shook him passionately from her, and fled from the room.

  Three days after, Emily tore up one of her songs, because Mrs. Bentley had sung it without her leave. And so on and so on, week after week. No sooner was one quarrel allayed than signs of another began to appear. Hubert despaired. ‘How is this to end?’ he asked himself every day. Mrs. Bentley begged him to cancel her promise, and allow her to go. But that was impossible. He could not remain alone with Emily; if he left her she would not fail to believe that he had gone after her rival. The situation had become so tense that they ended by discussing these questions almost without reserve. To make matters worse, Emily had begun visibly to lose her health. There was neither colour in her cheeks nor light in her eyes; she hardly slept at all, and had grown more than ever like a little shadow. The doctor had been summoned, and, after prescribing a tonic, had advised quiet and avoidance of all excitement. Therefore Hubert and Mrs. Bentley agreed never to meet except when Emily was present, and then strove to speak as little as possible to each other. But the very fact of having to restrain themselves in looks, glances, and every slightest word — for Emily misinterpreted all things — whetted their appetites for each other’s society.

  In the misery of his study, when he watched the sheet of paper, he often sought relief in remembrance of her sweet manner, and the happy morning he had spent in her companionship. What he had written under the direct influence of her inspiration still seemed to him to be less bad than the rest of his play; and he began to feel sure that, if ever this play were written, it would be written in the benign charm of her sweet encouragement, in the reposeful shadow of her presence. But that presence was forbidden him — that presence that seemed so necessary; and for what reason? Turning on the circumstances of his life, he raged against them, declaring that it would be folly to allow his very life’s desire to be frittered away to gratify a young girl’s caprice, — a caprice which in a few years she would laugh at. And whenever he was not thinking of his play, he remembered the charm of Mrs. Bentley’s company, and the beneficent effect it had on his work. He had never known a woman he had liked so much, and he felt — he started at the thought, so like an inspiration did it seem to him — that the only possible solution of the present situation was his marriage with her. Once he was married, Emily would soon learn to forget him. They would take her up to London for the season; and, amid the healthy excitement of balls and parties, her girlish fancy would evaporate. No doubt she would meet again the young cavalry officer whose addresses she had received so coldly. She would be sure to meet him again — be sure to think him the most charming man in the world; they would marry, and she would make him the best possible wife. The kindest action they could do Emily would be to marry. There was nothing else to do, and they must do something, or else the girl would die. It seemed wonderful to Hubert that he had not thought of all this before. ‘It is the very obvious solution of the problem,’ he said; and his heart beat as he heard Mrs. Bentley’s step in the corridor. It died away in the distance; but a few days after, when he heard it again, he jumped from his chair, and ran to the door. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘I want to speak to you.’

  ‘No, no, I beg of you!’

  ‘I must speak to you!’ He laid his hand upon her arm, and said, ‘I beg of you. I have something to say — it is of great importance. Come in.’

  They looked at each other a moment, and it seemed as if they could see into each other’s souls. Then a look of yielding passed into her eyes, and she said —

  ‘Well, what is it?’

  The familiarity of the words struck her, and she saw by the kindling tenderness in his eyes that they had given him pleasure. She almost knew he was going to tell her that he loved her. He looked towards the open door, and, guessing his intention, she said —

  ‘Don’t shut it! Speak quickly. Remember that she may pass at any moment. Were she to find us together, she would suffer; it would be tears and reproaches. What you have to say to me is about her?’

  ‘Of course; we never speak of anything else. But we must not be overheard. I must shut the door.’ She noticed a certain embarrassment in his manner. Suddenly relinquishing his intention to take he
r hands, he said —

  ‘This cannot go on; our lives are being made unbearable. You agree with me — do you not?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, with a curious inquiring look in her eyes. ‘You had better let me leave. It is the only way out of the difficulty.’

  ‘You know very well, Julia, that that is impossible.’

  It was the first time he had used her Christian name, and she knew now he was going to ask her to marry him. A frightened look passed into her face; she turned from him; he took her hands.

  ‘No, Julia,’ he said; ‘there is another and better way out of the difficulty. You will stop here — you will be my wife?’ Reading the look of pain that had come into her eyes, he said, ‘You will not refuse me? I want you — I can do nothing without you. If you leave me, I shall never be able to write my play; it can only be written under your influence. I love you, Julia!’ She allowed him to draw her towards him, and then she broke away.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘why do you say these things? You only make my task harder. You know that I cannot betray my friend. Why do you tempt me to do a dishonourable action?’

  ‘A dishonourable action! What do you mean? It is the only way to save her. Once we are married, she will forget. No doubt she will shed a few tears; but to save the body we must often lose a limb. It is even so. Things cannot go on as they are. We cannot watch her withering away under our very eyes; and that is what is actually happening. I have thought it all over, considered it from every point of view, and have come to the conclusion that — that, well, that we had better marry. You must have seen that I always liked you. I did not myself know how much until a few days ago. Say that I am not wholly disagreeable to you.’

  ‘No; I will not listen to you! My conscience tells me plainly where my duty lies. Not for all the world will I play Emily false. I shudder to think of such a thing; it would be the basest ingratitude. I owe everything to her. When I hadn’t a penny in the world, and when in my homelessness I wrote to Mr. Burnett, she pleaded in my favour, and decided him to take me as a companion. No, no! a thousand times no! Let go my hands. Do you not know what it is to be loyal?’

  ‘I hope I do. But, as I have explained, it is the only solution. The romantic attachments of young girls, unless nipped in the bud, often end fatally. Do you not see how ill she is looking? She is wearing her life away. We shall be acting in her best interests. Besides, she is not the only person to be considered. Do I not love you? Are you not the very woman whose influence, whose guidance, is necessary, so that I should succeed? Without your help I shall never write my play. A woman’s influence is necessary to every undertaking. The greatest writers owe their best inspiration to — —’

  ‘Her heart is as closely set upon you as yours is upon your play.’

  ‘But,’ cried Hubert, ‘I do not love her! Under no circumstances would I marry her. That I swear to you. If she and I were alone on a desert island — —’

  Julia looked at him one moment doubtingly, inquiringly. Then she said —

  ‘Hers is no evanescent fancy, but a passion that goes to the very roots of her nature, and will kill her if it be not satisfied.’

  ‘Or cut out in time.’

  ‘I must leave.’

  ‘That will not mend matters.’

  ‘My departure will, at all events, remove all cause for jealousy; and when I am gone you may learn to love her.’

  ‘No; that I swear is impossible!’

  ‘You very likely think so now; but I’m bound to give her every chance of winning you.’

  ‘I say again that that is impossible! I have never seen a woman except yourself I could marry. I tell you so: believe me as you like.... In this matter you are acting like a woman, — you allow your emotions and not your intellect to lead you. By acting thus, you are certainly sacrificing two lives — hers and mine. Of your own I do not speak, not knowing what is passing in your heart; but if by any chance you should care for me, you are adding your own happiness to the general holocaust.’ Neither spoke again for some time.

  ‘Why should you not marry her?’ Julia said, at the end of a long silence. ‘Some people think her quite a pretty girl.’

  The lovers looked at each other and smiled sadly. And then, in pathetic phrases, Hubert tried to explain why he could never love Emily. He spoke of his age, and of difference of tastes, — he liked clever women. The conversation fell. At the end of a long silence, Julia said —

  ‘There is nothing for it but my departure, and the sooner the better.’

  ‘You are not in earnest? You are surely not in earnest?’

  ‘Yes, indeed I am.’

  ‘Then, if you go, you must take her with you. She cannot remain here alone with me. And even if she could, I could not live with her. Her folly has destroyed any liking I may have ever had for her. You’ll have to take her with you.’

  ‘She would not come with me. I spoke to her once of a trip abroad.’

  ‘And she refused?’

  ‘She said she only wanted things to go on just as they are.’

  XVII

  IN SOME TREPIDATION Julia knocked. Receiving no reply, she opened the door, and her candle burnt in what a moment before must have been inky darkness. Emily lay on her bed — on the edge of it; and the only movement she made was to avert her eyes from the light. ‘What! all alone in this darkness, Emily!... Shall I light your candles?’ She had to repeat the question before she could get an answer.

  ‘No, thank you; I want nothing; I have no wish to see anything. I like the dark.’

  ‘Have you been asleep?’

  ‘No; I have not.... Why do you come to torment me? It cannot matter to you whether I lie in the dark or the light. Oh, take that candle away! it is blinding me.’ Julia put the candle on the washstand. Then full of pity for the grieving girl, she stood, her hand resting on the bed-rail.

  ‘Aren’t you coming down to dinner, Emily? Come, let me pour out some water for you. When you have bathed your eyes — —’

  ‘I don’t want any dinner.’

  ‘It will look very strange if you remain in your room the whole evening. You do not want to vex him, do you?’

  ‘I suppose he is very angry with me. But I did not mean to vex him. Is he very angry?’

  ‘No, he is not angry at all; he is merely distressed. You distress him dreadfully when — —’

  ‘I don’t know why I should distress him. I’m sure I don’t mean to. You know more about it than I. You are always whispering together — talking about me.’

  ‘I assure you, Emily, you are mistaken. Mr. Price and I have no secrets whatever.’

  ‘Why should you tell me these falsehoods? They make me so miserable.’

  ‘Falsehoods, Emily! When did you ever know me to tell a falsehood?’

  ‘You say you have no secrets! Do you think I am blind? You think, I suppose, I did not see you showing him a ring? You took it off, too; and I suppose you gave it to him, — an engagement ring, very likely.’

  ‘I lost a stone from my ring, and I asked Mr. Price if he would take the ring to London and have the stone replaced.... That is all. So you see how your imagination has run away with you.’

  Emily did not answer. At last she said, breaking the silence abruptly —

  ‘Is he very angry? Has he gone to his study? Do you think he will come down to dinner?’

  ‘I suppose he’ll come down for dinner.’

  ‘Will you go and ask him?’

  ‘I hardly see how I can do that. He is very busy.... And if you would listen to any advice of mine, it would be to leave him to himself as much as possible for the present. He is so taken up with his play; I know he’s most anxious about it.’

  ‘Is he? I don’t know. He never speaks to me about it. I hate that play, and I hate to see him go up to that study! I cannot understand why he should trouble himself about writing plays; he doesn’t want the money, and it can’t be agreeable sitting up there all alone thinking.... It is easy to see that it only makes hi
m unhappy. But you encourage him to go on with it. Oh yes, you do; there’s no use saying you don’t. You are always talking to him about it; you bring the conversation up. You think I don’t see how you do it, but I do; and you like doing it, because then you have him all to yourself. I can’t talk to him about that play; and I wouldn’t if I could, for it only makes him unhappy. But you don’t care whether he’s unhappy or not; you only think of yourself.’

  ‘You surely don’t believe what you are saying is true? To-morrow you will be sorry for what you have said. You cannot think that I would deceive you, Emily? Remember what friends we have been.’

  ‘I remember everything. You think I don’t; but I do. And you think also that there’s no reason why I should be miserable; but there is. Because you do not feel my misery, you think it doesn’t exist. I daresay you think, too, that you are very good and kind; but you aren’t. You think you deceive me; but you don’t. I know all that is passing between you and Hubert. I know a great deal more than I can explain....’

  ‘But tell me, Emily, what is it you suspect? What do you accuse me of?’

  ‘I accuse you of nothing. Can’t you understand that things may go wrong without it being any one’s fault in particular?’

  Julia wondered how Emily could think so wisely. She seemed to have grown wiser in her grief. But grief helped her no further in her instinctive perception of the truth, and she resumed her puerile attack on her friend.

  ‘Nothing has gone well with me ever since you came here. I was disinherited; and I daresay you were glad, for you knew that if the money did not come to me it would go to Hubert, and I do know — —’

  ‘What are you saying, Emily? I never heard of such wild accusations before! You know very well that I never set eyes on Mr. Price until he came down here.’

  ‘How should I know what you know or don’t know? But I know that all my life every one has been plotting against me. And I cannot make out why. I never did harm to any one.’