by George Moore
‘Write underneath it, “That night the sky was like a battle.”’
‘No, it would do for my sketch.’
‘You think the suggestion would overpower the reality…. But it is a charming sketch. It will remind me of a charming day, of a very happy day.’
She raised her eyes. The moment had come.
He threw one arm round her, and raised her face with the other hand. She gave her lips easily, with a naturalness that surprised and deceived him. He might marry her, or she might be his mistress, he didn’t know which, but he was quite sure that he liked her better than any woman he had seen for a long time. He had not known her a week, and she already absorbed his thoughts. And, during the drive home, he hardly saw the forest. Once a birch, whose faint leaves and branches dissolved in a glittering light, drew his thoughts away from Mildred. She lay upon his shoulder, his arm was affectionately around her, and, looking at him out of eyes whose brown seemed to soften in affection, she said:
‘Elsie said you’d get round me.’
‘What did she mean?’
‘Well,’ said Mildred, nestling a little closer, and laughing low, ‘haven’t you got round me?’
Her playfulness enchanted her lover, and, when she discreetly sought his hand, he felt that he understood her account of Alfred’s brutality. But her tenderness, in speaking of Ralph, quickened his jealousy.
‘My violets lay under his hand, he must have died thinking of me.’
‘But the woman who wrote to you, his mistress, she must have known all about his love for you. What did she say?’
‘She said very little. She was very nice to me. She could see that I was a good woman….’
‘But that made no difference so far as she was concerned. You took her lover away from her.’
‘She knew that I hadn’t done anything wrong, that we were merely friends.’
The conversation paused a moment, then Morton said: ‘It seems to have been a mysterious kind of death. What did he die of?’
‘Ah, no one ever knew. The doctors could make nothing of his case. He had been complaining a long time. They spoke of overwork, but—’
‘But, what?’
‘I believe he died of slow poisoning.’
‘Slow poisoning! Who could have poisoned him?’
‘Ellen Gibbs.’
‘What an awful thing to say…. I suppose you have some reason for suspecting her?’
‘His death was very mysterious. The doctors could not account for it. There ought to have been a post-mortem examination.’ Feeling that this was not sufficient reason, and remembering suddenly that Ralph held socialistic theories and was a member of a sect of socialists, she said: ‘Ralph was a member of a secret society…. He was an anarchist — no one suspected it, but he told me everything, and it was I who persuaded him to leave the Brotherhood.’
‘I do not see what that has to do with his death by slow poisoning.’
‘Those who retire from these societies usually die.’
‘But why Ellen Gibbs?’
‘She was a member of the same society, it was she who got him to join. When he resigned it was her duty to—’
‘Kill him! What a terrible story. I wonder if you’re right.’
‘I know I am right.’
At the end of a long silence, Morton said:
‘I wonder if you like me as much as you liked Ralph.’
‘It is very different. He was very good to me.’
‘And do you think that I shall not be good to you?’
‘Yes, I think you will,’ she said looking up and taking the hand which pressed against her waist.
‘You say he was a very clever artist. Do you like his work better than mine?’
‘It was as different as you yourselves are.’
‘I wonder if I should like it?’
‘He would have liked that,’ and she pointed with her parasol towards an oak glade, golden hearted and hushed.
‘A sort of Diaz, then?’
‘No, not the least like that. No, it wasn’t the Rousseau palette.’
‘That’s a regular Diaz motive. It would be difficult to treat it differently.’
The carriage rolled through a tender summer twilight, through a whispering forest.
XVII.
At the end of September the green was duskier, yellow had begun to appear; and the crisped leaf falling through the still air stirred the heart like a memory.
The skies which rose above the dying forest had acquired gentler tints, a wistfulness had come into the blue which was in keeping with the fall of the leaf.
There was a scent of moisture in the underwoods, rills had begun to babble; on the hazel rods leaves fluttered pathetically, the branches of the plane trees hung out like plumes, their drooping leaves making wonderful patterns.
In the hotel gardens a sunflower watched the yellowing forest, then bent its head and died.
The great cedar was deserted, and in October Morton was painting chrysanthemums on the walls of the dining-room. He called them the flowers of twilight, the flowers of the summer’s twilight. Mildred watched him adding the last sprays to his bouquet of white and purple bloom.
The inveigling sweetness of these last bright days entered into life, quickening it with desire to catch and detain some tinge of autumn’s melancholy. All were away in the fields and the forest; and, though little of their emotion transpired on their canvases, they were moved, as were Rousseau and Millet, by the grandeur of the blasted oak and the lonely byre standing against the long forest fringes, dimming in the violet twilight.
Elsie was delighted with her birch, and Cissy considered her rocks approvingly.
‘You’ve caught the beauty of that birch,’ said Cissy. ‘How graceful it is in the languid air. It seems sad about something.’
‘About the pine at the end of the glade,’ said Elsie laughing. ‘I brought the pine a little nearer. I think it composes better.’
‘Yes, I think it does. You must come and see my rocks and ferns. There’s one corner I don’t know what to do with. But I like my oak.’
‘I will come presently. I’m working at the effect; the light will have changed in another half hour.’
‘I’ve done all I can do to mine. It would make a nice background for a hunting picture. There’s a hunt to-day in the forest. Mildred and Morton are going to see the meet.’
Elsie continued painting, Cissy sat down on a stone and soon lost herself in meditations. She thought about the man she was in love with; he had gone back to Paris. She was now sure that she hated his method of painting, and, finding that his influence had not been a good one, she strove to look on the landscape with her own eyes. But she saw only various painters in it. The last was Morton Mitchell, and she thought if he had been her lover she might have learnt something from him. But he was entirely taken up with Mildred. She did not like Mildred any more, she had behaved very badly to that poor little Rose Turner. ‘Poor little thing, she trembles like that birch.’
‘What are you saying, Cissy? Who trembles like that birch?’
‘I was thinking of Rose, she seems dreadfully upset, Morton never looks at her now.’
‘I think that Morton would have married her if Mildred hadn’t appeared on the scene. I know he was thinking of settling down.’
‘Mildred is a mystery. Her pleasure seems to be to upset people’s lives. You remember poor Ralph Hoskin. He died of a broken heart. I can’t make Mildred out, she tells a lot of lies. She’s always talking about her virtue. But I hardly think that Morton would be as devoted to her as he is if he weren’t her lover. Do you think so?’
‘I don’t know, men are very strange.’
Elsie rose to her feet. She put aside her camp stool, walked back a few yards, and looked at her picture. The motive of her picture was a bending birch at the end of the glade. Rough forest growth made clear its delicate drawing, and in the pale sky, washed by rains to a faded blue, clouds arose and evaporated. The road passed at
the bottom of the hill and several huntsmen had already ridden by. Now a private carriage with a pair of horses stood waiting.
‘That’s Madame Delacour’s carriage, she is waiting for Mildred and Morton.’
‘The people at Fontainebleau?’
‘Yes, the wife of the great Socialist Deputy. They’re at Fontainebleau for the season. M. Delacour has taken the hunting. They say he has a fine collection of pictures. He buys Morton’s pictures…. It was he who bought his “Sheepfold.”’
Elsie did not admire Morton’s masterpiece as much as Cissy. But they were agreed that Mildred might prove a disintegrating influence in the development of his talent. He had done no work since he had made her acquaintance. She was a mere society woman. She had never cared for painting; she had taken up painting because she thought that it would help her socially. She had taken up Morton for the same reason. He had introduced her to the Delacours. She had been a great success at the dinner they had given last week. No doubt she had exaggerated her success, but old Dedyier, who had been there too, had said that every one was talking of la belle et la spirituelle anglaise.
The girls sat watching the carriage stationed at the bottom of the hill. The conversation paused, a sound of wheels was heard, and a fly was seen approaching. The fly was dismissed, and Mildred took her seat next to Madame Delacour. Morton sat opposite. He settled the rug over the ladies’ knees and the carriage drove rapidly away.
‘They’ll be late for the meet,’ said Cissy.
And all the afternoon the girls listened to the hunting. In the afternoon three huntsmen crashed through the brushwood at the end of a glade, winding the long horns they wore about their shoulders. Once a strayed hound came very near them, Elsie threw the dog a piece of bread. It did not see the bread, and pricking up its ears it trotted away. The horns came nearer and nearer, and the girls were affrighted lest they should meet the hunted boar and be attacked. It must have turned at the bottom of the hill. The horns died through the twilight, a spectral moon was afloat in the sky, and some wood-cutters told them that they were three kilometres from Barbizon.
When about a mile from the village they were overtaken by the Delacours’ carriage. Morton and Mildred bade Madame good-bye and walked home with them. Their talk was of hunting. The boar had been taken close to the central carrefour, they had watched the fight with the dogs, seven of which he had disabled before M. Delacour succeeded in finally despatching him. The edible value of boar’s head was discussed, until Mildred mentioned that Madame Delacour was going to give a ball. Elsie and Cissy were both jealous of Mildred, but they hoped she would get them invited. She said that she did not know Madame Delacour well enough to ask for invitations. Later on she would see what could be done; Morton thought that there would be no difficulty, and Elsie asked Mildred what dress she was going to wear. Mildred said she was going to Paris to order some clothes and the conversation dropped.
At the end of the week the Delacours drove over to Barbizon and lunched at Lunions. The horses, the carriage, liveries, the dresses, the great name of the Deputy made a fine stir in the village.
‘I wonder if she’ll get us invited,’ said Elsie.
‘Not she,’ said Cissy.
But Mildred was always unexpected. She introduced Monsieur and Madame Delacour to Elsie and Cissy; she insisted on their showing their paintings; they were invited to the ball, and Mildred drove away nodding and smiling.
Her dress was coming from Paris; she was staying with the Delacours until after the ball, so, as Cissy said, her way was nice and smooth and easy — very different indeed from theirs. They had to struggle with the inability and ignorance of a provincial dressmaker, working against time. At the last moment it became clear that their frocks could not be sent to Barbizon, that they would have to dress for the ball in Fontainebleau. But where! They would have to hire rooms at the hotel, and, having gone to the expense of hiring rooms, they had as well sleep at Fontainebleau. They could return with Mildred — she would have the Delacours’ carriage. They could all four return together, that would be very jolly. The hotel omnibus was going to Melun to catch the half-past six train. If they went by train they would economise sufficiently in carriage hire to pay their hotel expenses, or very nearly. Morton agreed to accompany them. He got their tickets and found them places, but they noticed that he seemed a little thoughtful, not to say gloomy. Not the least,’ as Elsie said, ‘like a man who was going to meet his sweetheart at a ball.’
‘I think,’ whispered Cissy, ‘that he’s beginning to regret that he introduced her to the Delacours. He feels that it is as likely as not that she’ll throw him over for some of the grand people she will meet there.’
Cissy had guessed rightly. A suspicion had entered into his heart that Mildred was beginning to perceive that her interest lay rather with the Delacours than with him. And he had not engaged himself to Mildred for any dances, because he wished to see if she would reserve any dances for him. This ball he felt would prove a turning-point in his love story. He suspected M. Delacour of entertaining some very personal admiration for Mildred; he would see if his suspicion were well founded; he would not rush to her at once; and, having shaken hands with his host and hostess, he sought a corner whence he could watch Mildred and the ball.
The rooms were already thronged, but the men were still separated from the women; the fusion of the sexes, which was the mission of the dance to accomplish, had hardly begun. Some few officers were selecting partners up and down the room, but the politicians, their secretaries, the prefects, and the sub-prefects had not yet moved from the doorways. The platitudes of public life were written in their eyes. But these made expressions were broken at the sight of some young girl’s fragility, or the paraded charms of a woman of thirty; and then each feared that his neighbour had discovered thoughts in him unappropriate to the red ribbon which he wore in his buttonhole.
‘A cross between clergymen and actors,’ thought Morton, and he indulged in philosophical reflections. The military had lost its prestige in the boudoir, Nothing short of a continental war could revive it, the actor and the tenor never did more than to lift the fringe of society’s garment. The curate continues a very solid innings in the country; but in town the political lover is in the ascendent. ‘A possible under-secretary is just the man to cut me out with Mildred…. They’d discuss the elections between kisses.’ At that moment he saw Mildred struggling through the crowd with a young diplomatist, Le Comte de la Ferriere.
She wore white tulle laid upon white silk. The bodice was silver fish- scales, and she shimmered like a moonbeam. She laid her hand on her dancer’s shoulder, moving forward with a motion that permeated her whole body. A silver shoe appeared, and Morton thought:
‘What a vanity, only a vanity; but what a delicious and beautiful vanity.’
The waltz ended, some dancers passed out of the ball-room, and Mildred was surrounded. It looked as if her card would be filled before Morton could get near her. But she stood on tiptoe and, looking over the surrounding shoulders, cried that she would keep the fourteenth for him. ‘Why did you not come before,’ she asked smiling, and went out of the room on the arm of the young comte.
At that moment M. Delacour took Morton’s arm and asked when would the picture he had ordered be finished. Morton hoped by the end of next week, and the men walked through the room talking of pictures… On the way back they met Mildred. She told Morton that she would make it all right later on. He must now go and talk to Madame Delacour. She had promised M. Delacour the next dance.
M. Delacour was fifty, but he was straight and thin, and there was no sign of grey in his black hair, which fitted close and tight as a skull cap. His face was red and brown, but he did not seem very old, and Morton wondered if it were possible for Mildred to love so old a man.
Madame Delacour sat in a high chair within the doorway, out of reach of any draught that might happen on the staircase. Her blond hair was drawn high up in an eighteenth century coiffure, and her hig
h pale face looked like a cameo or an old coin. She spoke in a high clear voice, and expressed herself in French a little unfamiliar to her present company. ‘She must have married beneath her,’ thought Morton, and he wondered on what terms she lived with her husband. He spoke of Mildred as the prettiest woman in the room, and was disappointed that Madame Delacour did not contest the point…
When Cissy and Elsie came whirling by, Cissy unnecessarily large and bare, and Elsie intolerably pert and middle class, Morton regretted that he would have to ask them to dance. And, when he had danced with them and the three young ladies Madame Delacour had introduced him to, and had taken a comtesse into supper, he found that the fourteenth waltz was over. But Mildred bade him not to look so depressed, she had kept the cotillion for him. It was going to begin very soon. He had better look after chairs. So he tied his handkerchief round a couple. But he knew what the cotillion meant. She would be always dancing with others. And the cotillion proved as he had expected. Everything happened, but it was all the same to him. Dancers had gone from the dancing-room and returned in masks and dominoes. A paper imitation of a sixteenth-century house had been brought in, ladies had shown themselves at the lattice, they had been serenaded, and had chosen serenaders to dance with. And when at the end of his inventions the leader fell back on the hand glass and the cushion, Mildred refused dance after dance. At last the leader called to Morton, he came up certain of triumph, but Mildred passed the handkerchief over the glass and drew the cushion from his knee. She danced both figures with M. Delacour.
She was covered with flowers and ribbons, and, though a little woman, she looked very handsome in her triumph. Morton hated her triumph, knowing that it robbed him of her. But he hid his jealousy as he would his hand in a game of cards, and, when the last guests were going, he bade her good-night with a calm face. He saw her go upstairs with M. Delacour. Madame Delacour had gone to her room; she had felt so tired that she could sit up no longer and had begged her husband to excuse her, and as Mildred went upstairs, three or four steps in front of M. Delacour, she stopped to arrange with Elsie and Cissy when she should come to fetch them, they were all going home together.
