Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  ‘I would give anything to see you friends again.’

  ‘That is impossible! I can never be friends with Julia as I once was. She has —— No, never can we be friends again. But why do you always take her part against me? That is what grieves me most. If only you thought — —’

  ‘Emily dear, these are but idle fancies. You are mistaken.’

  The conversation fell. The girl lay quite still, her hands clasped across the shawl, her little foot stretched beyond the limp black dress, the hem of which fell over the edge of the grey sofa. Hubert sat by her on a low chair, and he looked into the fire, whose light wavered over the walls, now and again bringing the face of one of the pictures out of the darkness. The wind whined about the windows. Then, speaking as if out of a dream, Emily said —

  ‘Julia and I can never be friends again — that is impossible.’

  ‘But what has she done?’ Hubert asked incautiously, regretting his words as soon as he had uttered them.

  ‘What has she done?’ she said, looking at him curiously. ‘Well, one thing, she has got it reported that — that I am in love with you, and that that is the reason of my illness.’

  ‘I am sure she never said any such thing. You are entirely mistaken. Mrs. Bentley is incapable of such wickedness.’

  ‘A woman, when she is jealous, will say anything. If she did not say it, can you tell me how it got about?’

  ‘I don’t believe any one ever said such a thing.’

  ‘Oh yes, lots have said so — things come back to me. Julia always was jealous of me. She cannot bear me to speak to you. Have you not noticed how she follows us? Do you think she would have left the room just now if she could have helped it?’

  ‘If you think this is so, had she not better leave?’

  Emily did not answer at once. Motionless she lay on the sofa, looking at the grey November day with vague eyes that bespoke an obsession of hallucination. Suddenly she said, ‘I do not want her to go away. She would spread a report that I was jealous of her, and had asked you to send her away. No; it would not be wise to send her away. Besides,’ she said, fixing her eyes, now full of melancholy reproach, ‘you would like her to remain.’

  ‘I have said before, Emily, and I assure you I am speaking the truth, I want you to do what you like. Say what you wish to be done, and it shall be done.’

  ‘Is that really true? I thought no one cared for me. You must care for me a little to speak like that.’

  ‘Of course I care for you, Emily.’

  ‘I sometimes think you might have if it had not been for that play; for, of course, I’m not clever, and cannot discuss it with you.... Julia, I suppose, can — that is the reason why you like her. Am I not right?’

  ‘Mrs. Bentley is a clever woman, who has read a great deal, and I like to talk an act over with her before I write it.’

  ‘Is that all? Then why do people say you are going to marry her?’

  ‘But nobody ever said so.’

  ‘Oh yes, they have. Is it true?’

  ‘No, Emily; it is not true.’

  ‘Are you quite sure?’

  ‘Yes, quite sure.’

  ‘If that is so,’ she said, turning her eyes on Hubert, and looking as if she could see right down into his soul, ‘I shall get well very soon. Then we can go on just the same; but if you married her, I — —’

  ‘I what?’

  ‘Nothing! I feel quite happy now. I did not want you to marry her. I could not bear it. It would be like having a step-mother — worse, for she would not have me here at all; she would drive me away.’

  Hubert shook his head.

  ‘You don’t know Julia as well as I do. However, it is no use discussing what is not going to be. You have been very nice to-day. If you would be always nice, as you are to-day, I should soon get well.’

  Her pale profile seemed very sharp in the fading twilight, and her delicate arms and thin bosom were full of the charm and fascination of deciduous things. She turned her face and looked at Hubert. ‘You have made me very happy. I am content.’

  He was afraid to look back at her, lest she should, in her subtle, wilful manner, read the thought that was passing in his soul. Even now she seemed to read it. She seemed conscious of his pity for her. So little would give her happiness, and that little was impossible. His heart was irreparably another’s. But though Emily’s eyes seemed to know all, they seemed to say, ‘What matter? I regret nothing, only let things remain as they are.’ And then her voice said —

  ‘I think I could sleep a little; happiness has brought me sleep. Don’t go away. I shall not be asleep long.’ She looked at him, and dozed, and then fell asleep. Hubert waited till her breathing grew deeper; then he laid the hand he held in his by her side, and stole on tiptoe from the room.

  The strain of the interview had become too intense; the house was unbearable. He went into the air. The November sky was drawing into wintry night; the grey clouds darkened, clinging round the long plain, overshadowing it, blotting out colour, leaving nothing but the severe green of the park, and the yellow whirling of dishevelled woods.

  ‘I must,’ he said to himself, ‘think no more about it. I shall go mad if I do. Nature will find her own solution. God grant that it may be a merciful one! I can do nothing.’ And to escape from useless consideration, to release his overwrought brain, he hastened his steps, extending his walk through the farthest woods. As he approached the lodge gate he came upon Mrs. Bentley. She stood, her back turned from him, leaning on the gate, her thoughts lost in the long darkness of autumnal fields and woods.

  ‘Julia!’

  ‘You have left Emily. How did you leave her?’

  ‘She is fast asleep on the sofa. She fell asleep. Then why should I remain? The house was unbearable. She went to sleep, saying she felt very happy.’

  ‘Really! What induced such a change in her? Did you — —’

  ‘No; I did not ask her to marry me; but I was able to tell her that I was not going to marry you, and that seemed entirely to satisfy her.’

  ‘Did she ask you?’

  ‘Yes. And when I told her I was not, she said that that was all she wanted to know — that she would soon get well now. How we human beings thrive in each other’s unhappiness!’

  ‘Quite true, and we have been reproaching ourselves for our selfishness.’

  ‘Yes, and hers is infinitely greater. She is quite satisfied not to be happy herself, so long as she can make sure of our unhappiness. And what is so strange is her utter unconsciousness of her own fantastic and hardly conceivable selfishness.... It is astonishing!’

  ‘She is very young, and the young are naturally egotistic.’

  ‘Possibly. Still, it is hardly more agreeable to encounter. Come, let’s go for a walk; and, above all things, let’s talk no more about Emily.’

  The roads were greasy, and the hedges were torn and worn with incipient winter, and when they dipped the town appeared, a reddish-brown mass in the blue landscape. Hubert thought of his play and his love; but not separately — they seemed to him now as one indissoluble, indivisible thing; and he told her that he never would be able to write it without her assistance. That she might be of use to him in his work was singularly sweet to hear, and the thought reached to the end of her heart, causing her to smile sadly, and argue vainly, and him to reply querulously. They walked for about a mile; and then, wearied with sad expostulation, the conversation fell, and at the end of a long silence Julia said —

  ‘I think we had better turn back.’

  The suggestion filled Hubert’s heart with rushing pain, and he answered —

  ‘Why should we return? I cannot go back to that girl. Oh, the miserable life we are leading!’

  ‘What can we do? We must go back; we cannot live in a tent by the wayside. We have no tent to set up.’

  ‘Come to London, and be my wife.’

  ‘No,’ she said; ‘that is impossible. Let us not speak of it.’

  Hubert did not answer; a
nd, turning their faces homeward, they walked some way in silence. Suddenly Hubert said —

  ‘No; it is impossible. I cannot return. There is no use. I’m at the end of my tether. I cannot.’

  She looked at him in alarm.

  ‘Hubert,’ she said, ‘this is folly! I cannot return without you.’

  ‘You ruin my life; you refuse me the only happiness. I’m more wretched than I can tell you!’

  ‘And I! Do you think that I’m not wretched?’ She raised her face to his; her eyes were full of tears. He caught her in his arms, and kissed her. The warm touch of her lips, the scent of her face and hair, banished all but desire of her.

  ‘You must come with me, Julia. I shall go mad if you don’t. I can care for no one but you. All my life is in you now. You know I cannot love that girl, and we cannot continue in this wretched life. There is no sense in it; it is a voluntary, senseless martyrdom!’

  ‘Hubert, do not tempt me to be disloyal to my friend. It is cruel of you, for you know I love you. But no, nothing shall tempt me. How can I? We do not know what might happen. The shock might kill her. She might do away with herself.’

  ‘You must come with me,’ said Hubert, now completely lost in his passion. ‘Nothing will happen. Girls do not do away with themselves; girls do not die of broken hearts. Nothing happens in these days. A few more tears will be shed, and she will soon become reconciled to what cannot be altered. A year or so after, we will marry her to a nice young man, and she will settle down a quiet mother of children.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right.’

  An empty fly, returning to the town, passed them. The fly-man raised his whip.

  ‘Take you to the railway station in ten minutes!’

  Hubert spoke quietly; nevertheless there was a strange nervousness in his eyes when he said —

  ‘Fate comes to help me; she offers us the means of escape. You will not refuse, Julia?’

  Her upraised face was full of doubt and pain, and she was perplexed by the fly-man’s dull eyes, his starved horse, his ramshackle vehicle, the wet road, the leaden sky. It was one of those moments when the familiar appears strange and grotesque. Then, gathering all her resolution, she said —

  ‘No, no; it is impossible! Come back, come back.’

  He caught her arm: quietly and firmly he led her across the road. ‘You must listen to me.... We are about to take a decisive step. Are you sure that — —’

  ‘No, no, Hubert, I cannot; let us return home.’

  ‘I go back to Ashwood! If I did, I should commit suicide.’

  ‘Don’t speak like that.... Where will you go?’

  ‘I shall travel.... I shall visit Italy and Greece.... I shall live abroad.’

  ‘You are not serious?’

  ‘Yes, I am, Julia. That cab may not take both, but it certainly will take one of us away from Ashwood, and for ever.’

  ‘Take you to Southwater, sir — take you to the station in ten minutes,’ said the fly-man, pulling in his horse. A zig-zag fugitive thought passed: why did the fly-man speak of taking them to the station? How was it that he knew where they wanted to go? They stopped and wondered. The poor horse’s bones stood out in strange projections, the round-shouldered little fly-man sat grinning on his box, showing three long yellow fangs. The vehicle, the horse, and the man, his arm raised in questioning gesture, appeared in strange silhouette upon the grey clouds, assuming portentous aspect in their tremulous and excited imaginations. ‘Take you to Southwater in ten minutes!’ The voice of the fly-man sounded hard, grating, and derisive in their ears.

  He had stopped in the middle of the road, and they walked slowly past, through a great puddle, which drenched their feet.

  ‘Get in, Julia. Shall I open the door?’

  ‘No, no; think of Emily. I cannot, Hubert, — I cannot; it would kill her.’

  The conversation paused, and in a long silence they wondered if the fly-man had heard. Then they walked several yards listening to the tramp of the hoofs, and then they heard the fly-man strike his horse with the whip. The animal shuffled into a sort of trot, and as the carriage passed them the fly-man again raised his arm and again repeated the same phrase, ‘Drive you to the station in ten minutes!’ The carriage was her temptation, and Julia hoped the man would linger no longer. For the promise she had given to Emily lay like a red-hot coal upon her heart; its fumes rose to her head, and there were times when she thought they would choke her, and she grew so sick with the pain of self-denial that she could have thrown herself down in the wet grass on the roadside, and laid her face on the cold earth for relief. Would nothing happen? What madness! Night was coming on, and still they followed the road to Southwater. Rain fell in heavy drops.

  ‘We shall get wet,’ she murmured, as if she were answering the fly-man, who had said again, ‘Drive you to the station in ten minutes!’ She hated the man for his persistency.

  ‘Say you will come with me!’ Hubert whispered; and all the while the rain came down heavier.

  ‘No, no, Hubert.... I cannot; I promised Emily that I never would. I am going back.’

  ‘Then we must say good-bye. I will not go back.’

  ‘You don’t mean it. You don’t really intend me to go back to Emily and tell her?... She will not believe me; she will think I have sent you away to gain my own end. Hubert, you mustn’t leave me ... and in all this wet. See how it rains! I shall never be able to get home alone.’

  ‘I will drive you on as far as the lodge-gate; farther than the lodge I will not go. Nothing in the world shall tempt me to pass it.’

  At a sign from Hubert the little fly-man scrambled down from his box. He was a little old man, almost hunchbacked, with small mud-coloured eyes and a fringe of white beard about his sallow, discoloured face. He was dressed in a pale yellow jacket and waistcoat, and they both noticed that his crooked little legs were covered with a pair of pepper-and-salt trousers. They felt sure he must have overheard a large part of their conversation, for as he opened the carriage door he grinned, showing his three yellow fangs.... His appearance was not encouraging. Julia wished he were different, and then she looked at Hubert. She longed to throw herself into his arms and weep. But at that moment the heavens seemed to open, and the rain came down like a torrent, thick and fast, splashing all along the road in a million splashes.

  ‘Horrible weather, sir; shan’t be long a-takin’ you to Southwater. What part of the town be yer going to — the railway station?’

  Julia still hesitated. The rain beat on their faces, and when some chilling drops rolled down her neck she instinctively sought shelter in the carriage.

  ‘Drive me to the station as fast as you can. Catch the half-past five to London, and I’ll give you five shillings.’

  The leather thong sounded on the starved animal’s hide, the crazy vehicle rocked from side to side, and the wet country almost disappeared in the darkness. Hedges and fields swept past them in faintest outline, here and there a blurred mass, which they recognised as a farm building. His arm was about her, and she heard him murmur over and over again —

  ‘Dearest Julia, you are what I love best in the world.’

  The words thrilled her a little, but all the while she saw Emily’s eyes and heard her voice.

  Hubert, however, was full of happiness — the sweet happiness of the quiet, docile creature that has at last obtained what it loves.

  XIX

  EMILY AWOKE SHIVERING; the fire had gone out, the room was in darkness, and the house seemed strange and lonely. She rang the bell, and asked the servant if he had seen Mr. Price. Mr. Price had gone out late in the afternoon, and had not come in. Where was Mrs. Bentley? Mrs. Bentley had gone out earlier in the afternoon, and had not come in.

  She suspected the truth at once. They had gone to London to be married. The servant lighted a candle, made up the fire, and asked if she would wait dinner. Emily made no answer, but sat still, her eyes fixed, looking into space. The man lingered at the door. At that moment her little dog
bounded into the room, and, in a paroxysm of delight, jumped on his mistress’s lap. She took him in her arms and kissed him, and this somewhat reassured the alarmed servant, who then thought it was no more than one of Miss Emily’s queer ways. Dandy licked his mistress’s face, and rubbed his rough head against her shoulder. He seemed more than usually affectionate that evening. Suddenly she caught him up in her arms, and kissed him passionately. ‘Not even for your sake, dearest Dandy, can I bear with it any longer! We are all very selfish, and it is selfish of me to leave you, but I cannot help it.’ Then a doubt crossed her mind, and she raised her head and listened to it. It seemed difficult to believe that he had told her a falsehood — cruel, wicked falsehood — he who had been so kind. And yet —— Ah! yes, she knew well enough that it was all true; something told her so. The lancinating pain of doubt passed away, and she remained thinking of the impossibility of bearing any longer with the life.

  An hour passed, and the servant came with the news that Mr. Price and Mrs. Bentley had gone to London; they had taken the half-past five train. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I know they have.’ Her voice was calm. There was a strange hollow ring in it, and the servant wondered. A few minutes after, dinner was announced; and to escape observation and comment she went into the dining-room, tasted the soup, and took a slice of mutton on her plate. She could not eat it. She gave it to Dandy. It was the last time she should feed him. How hungry he was! She hoped he would not care to eat it; he would not if he knew she was going to leave him.

  In the drawing-room he insisted on being nursed; and alone, amid the faded furniture, watched over by the old portraits, her pale face fixed and her pale hands clasping her beloved dog, she sat thinking, brooding over the unhappiness, the incurable unhappiness, of her little life. She was absorbed in self, and did not rail against Hubert, or even Julia. Their personalities had somehow dropped out of her mind, and merely represented forces against which she found herself unable any longer to contend. Nor was she surprised at what had happened. There had always been in her some prescience of her fate. She and unhappiness had always seemed so inseparable, that she had never found it difficult to believe that this last misfortune would befall her. She had thought it over, and had decided that it would be unendurable to live any longer, and had borne many a terrible insomnia so that she might collect sufficient chloral to take her out of her misery; and now, as she sat thinking, she remembered that she had never, never been happy. Oh! the miserable evenings she used to spend, when a child, between her father and mother, who could not agree — why, she never understood. But she used to have to listen to her mother addressing insulting speeches to her father in a calm, even voice that nothing could alter; and, though both were dead and years divided her from that time, the memory survived, and she could see it all again — that room, the very paper on the wall, and her father being gradually worked up into a frenzy.