by George Moore
‘So Agnes returns home to-day?’
‘Yes, her father insisted… She, poor dear, begged and prayed to be allowed to become a nun, but he would not listen to her any more than he would to me…. There was no use arguing…. You know what the Major is; you are never sure when he’ll turn on you. If I opposed him he might come down some evening when there was a party, and inform my guests that I kept my daughter imprisoned in a convent, that I wouldn’t let her out. No; I daren’t oppose him on this point. Agnes must come home for a while. But the experiment won’t succeed. I daresay you think so too. But for all that I’m right, as time will prove. A mother knows more about her own daughter than any one else, and I tell you that Agnes is no more fitted for the world than I am for a convent. I shall have to drag her about for a season or two. She won’t succeed, and she’ll be wretchedly unhappy. I shall be put to any amount of trouble and expense, that will be all.’
‘And then?’
‘I don’t know. Even if I did give you up, I don’t see what would be gained. All I could do would be to ask you not to come to the house any more.’
‘That is nonsense.’
‘Of course it is nonsense. Can I go back on my whole life? can I change all my friends? If I did I should only collect more exactly like them, and without knowing I was doing it. Lie low for a month or so, and then pursue the same old way. With the best intentions in the world we cannot change ourselves.’ ‘But you don’t intend to give me up, Olive?’
‘Do you want me to, Reggie?’
‘No, dearest, we’ve held together a long time — seven years — we cannot give each other up.’
‘We can’t give each other up,’ said Mrs. Lahens. ‘It never shall be broken off, unless you break it off.’
Lord Chadwick asked himself if he desired to break with her? He looked at her, and thought that he had never seen her look so old; but he could not imagine his life without her. Apart from her, there was nothing for him. His name had been mixed up in questionable city transactions; his wife had divorced him, and he was over forty… Notwithstanding his title, he’d find it difficult to marry a girl with money; he couldn’t marry one without. Besides, he loved Olive as well as a man could love a woman whose lover he has been for seven years. … Mrs. Lahens looked at him, and wondered what there was in him that attached her so firmly. They had once loved each other passionately. All that was over now… But still she loved him. … He was all she had in the world. To live with her husband without Reggie! no, she could not think of it. Even if she did, Agnes would profit nothing by it. Every one knew of their liaison. No one talked about it any more, it had been in a way accepted, and for them to separate would only serve to set Mayfair gossiping again.
‘I know I appear selfish,’ she said; ‘not to want to see my daughter must seem selfish. But I am not selfish, Reggie. I’ve never been selfish where you have been concerned, have I?’
‘I at least can’t accuse you of selfishness, Olive. You’ve always been a good friend to me. There was my bankruptcy—’
‘Do not speak of it. I only did for you what you would have done for me. I have been very unlucky; I was cursed with a husband who was a fool, and who lost all his money — no one can say he’s in his right mind. They say that I have driven him out of his mind, but that is not so, you know that it is not so; I’ve not driven you out of your mind. There never was such a fool as my husband. He has acted as stupidly about his daughter as he did about his money. First he takes her away from me — I’m not good enough for her, this house isn’t good enough for her; he shuts her up in a convent, and never has her home for fear she should hear or see anything that was not pious and good. Then, when she wants to become a nun, and her mind is made up, and her character is formed, he insists that she shall come home, and that I shall give up my lover and bring her into society. But not into the society that comes to my house, but into some other society, some highly respectable society that neither he nor I knows anything about. And to make my task the more easy, he insists on living in a servant’s room, buying the butler’s overcoat, and running down the street whistling for cabs, and carrying my trunks on his shoulder. There never was such madness; God knows how it will all end.’
She turned her head slightly when her husband entered the room, and, without getting off the arm of Lord Chadwick’s chair, said:
‘Doesn’t he look well in that suit of clothes, Reggie?’
The Major was a short man, shorter by nearly two inches than his wife or Lord Chadwick. His hair had once been red; it was now faded, and the tall forehead showed bald amid a slight gleaning. His beard and moustaches were thick, unkempt, and full of grey hair. The nose was small and aquiline, and the eyes, shallow and pale blue, wore a silly and vacant stare. The skin was coloured everywhere alike, a sort of conventional tone of flesh-colour seemed to have been poured over the face, forehead, and neck. His short thick hands were covered with reddish hair. They fidgeted at the trousers and waistcoat, too tightly strained across his little round stomach; and he did not desist till his wife said:
‘I hope you will have finished dressing before our guests arrive.’
‘Whom have you asked? Not the tall thin man who—’
‘Why not?’
‘You surely don’t think he is a fit companion for Agnes?’
‘Companion for Agnes! no; but I don’t intend every one that comes here to lunch as a companion for Agnes. I’m sick of hearing of that girl. I’ve heard of nothing else for the last week — the people she should meet — what we should say and not say before her. If we aren’t good enough for her she should have remained in the convent. But what fault, may I ask, do you find with Moulton?’
‘Only what you’ve told me…. Am I not right, Reggie?’
‘Oh, Reggie will agree with you — he hates Moulton.’
‘I don’t like the man.’
‘The truth is that he sent a note asking if he might come, and I knew if I refused he’d have nothing to eat…. You ought to be able to judge Moulton more fairly, for it is want of money that has reduced him to his present position. He was born a gentleman, and his uncle only allows him fifteen shillings a week. This pays for his lodging — one room, which costs five shillings a week — another five shillings a week goes for current expenses, a cup of tea in the morning, and a few omnibus fares; the remaining five shillings goes towards his clothes. So every day he finds himself face to face with the problem where he shall lunch, where he shall dine. He’s good-looking, women like him, and any little present they make him is welcomed, I can assure you. He said the other day, “Look at my boot, there’s a hole in it; I shall be laid up with a cold. You don’t know what it is to be ill in a room for which you pay five shillings a week.” What could I do but to tell him that he might order a pair at my shoemaker’s?’
‘And he ordered a pair that cost three pounds,’ said Lord Chadwick.
‘Yes; I did think that he might have chosen a cheaper pair. But you’re rather hard on him,’ said Mrs. Lahens; ‘he’s not the only man in London who takes money from women.’
‘I wonder he doesn’t go to Mashonaland or to Canada?’ said the Major.
‘If every one who could not make his living here went to Mashonaland or Canada, the London drawing-rooms would be pretty empty.’
‘You mean that for me, Olive,’ said the Major. ‘I would go to-morrow to Mashonaland if I were as young as Moulton.’
At that moment a youngish-looking man, about five-and-thirty, came into the room quickly. Notwithstanding the wintry weather he was clad in a light grey summer suit; he wore a blue shirt and a blue linen tie, neatly tied and pinned. Mrs. Lahens, the Major, and Reggie glanced at the boots which had cost three pounds, and Mrs. Lahens thought how carefully that grey summer suit was folded and laid away in the tiny chest of drawers which stood next the wall by the little window. Mr. Moulton was clean shaved. His features were long and regular; a high Socratic forehead suggested an intelligence which his conversation did not
confirm. His manners were stagey, and there was a hollow cordiality in the manner in which he said ‘How do you do,’ and shook hands. Immediately his blue, superficial, glassy eyes were turned to Mrs. Lahens; and he studied her figure in her new gown, and whispered that he had never seen her looking better.
‘So there he is, and in his new clothes. Curious little fellow he is,’ said Moulton, eyeing the Major. ‘Did he offer much resistance? You don’t seem torn at all. Not a scratch.’
‘I did all I could to dissuade him, but — —’
‘I know, suffering from daughter on the brain…. Tell me, shall we see much of him? Will he come down every day to lunch, and what about dinner?’
‘I hope not, I think not… he has his typewriting to attend to.’
‘At all events the mystery is cleared up. I don’t think I ever was believed when I said that I had once spoken to him on the stairs.’
‘Do you hear that, Major? Mr. Moulton says that he doesn’t think he ever was believed when he said that he had once spoken to you on the staircase. Major, do you hear?’
‘Yes, dear, I hear. But I am talking to Reggie about Miss Lahens. By the way, Mr. Moulton, my daughter, Miss Lahens, is coming home to-day, so I hope that you’ll be guarded in your conversation, and will say nothing that a young girl may not hear.’
‘I shall be very pleased to see Agnes again,’ said Moulton. ‘If I had thought of it I would have read up the lives of the saints.’
‘I beg, Mr. Moulton, that you do not speak disrespectfully of Miss Lahens. Perhaps there is nothing in your conversation that is fit for her to hear.’
Moulton looked at Mrs. Lahens, then taking in the situation, he said:
‘If I have the pleasure of talking to Miss Lahens I shall confine my conversation to those subjects with which she is familiar. I shall acquit myself better than you, I think, Major; I have a sister who is a nun. I know a good deal about convents.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said the Major. ‘I wanted you to know that my daughter has been very strictly brought up.’
‘My dear Major,’ said Mrs. Lahens, ‘you had better write on a piece of paper “My daughter, Miss Lahens, comes home from school to-day, and my guests at lunch are particularly requested to be guarded in their conversation.” You can put it up where every one can see it, then there can be no mistake. The only disadvantage of this will be that at the end of the week Agnes will be the talk of the town. If Lilian Dare were to hear you she would—’
‘But you haven’t asked her?’
‘Why not? she’s received everywhere.’
‘Not where there are young girls. You know how she got her money.’
‘Oh yes, we’ve all heard that story,’ said Mrs. Lahens, and before the Major could reply the servant announced —
‘Miss Lahens and Father White.’
‘Who is Father White?’ whispered Moulton.
‘I haven’t the least idea,’ said Mrs. Lahens.
II.
Agnes wore a jacket made of some dark material, she held a little fur muff in her hand, and under a black straw hat her blue eyes smiled; and when she caught sight of her mother she uttered a happy cry.
Mrs. Lahens looked at Agnes curiously; at this thin girl; for, though Agnes’ face was round and rosy, her waist was slender, and her hands, and hips, and bosom; and Mrs. Lahens was unconsciously affected by the contrast that her own regular and painted features, and her long life of social adventure, presented to this pretty, dovelike girl, this pale conventual rose, without instinct of the world, and into whose guileless mind no knowledge of the world would apparently ever enter.
‘Oh, father, how are you? I did not see you, the room is so dark.’ Agnes kissed her father, and with her right hand in her mother’s left hand, and her left hand in her father’s left she looked at her parents, overcome by her affection for them. But suddenly remembering, she said:
‘But I haven’t introduced you to Father White. How rude of me! Father White was good enough to see me home. The Mother Abbess was afraid I should get into a wrong train, or get run over in the streets.’
The little priest came forward shyly. His black cloth trousers were too short, and did not hide his clumsy laced boots. His features were small and regular, and his light-brown hair grew thick on his little round head, which he carried on one side. He was young, seven or eight and twenty, and so good-looking that some unhappy romantic passion suggested itself as the cause of his long black coat and penitential air.
‘I’m sure that we’re very much obliged to you for your kindness, Father White,’ said Mrs. Lahens.
‘I was going to London, and the Mother Abbess asked me to take charge of Miss Lahens, and surrender her safe into your hands.’
‘Won’t you sit down, Father White?’ said Mrs. Lahens. ‘I want to talk to you about Agnes. I hope you will stop to lunch…. I wish you would.’
‘Thank you, but I’m afraid I cannot. I have an engagement to lunch with the Dominicans.’
‘I’m sorry, but you can spare me a few minutes,’ said Mrs. Lahens, leading him away.
Lord Chadwick came forward and shook hands with Agnes.
‘I’m afraid you’ve forgotten me, Agnes. It is nearly five years—’
‘No; I haven’t, at least not quite. It was in the country, at the cottage in Surrey. You’re the gentleman who used to go out driving with mother.’
‘Yes; you’re right so far, I used to go out driving with Mrs. Lahens. You used to come too.’
‘And very often you used to speak French to mother. I never could understand why — I used to think and think.’
‘And do you remember any of the things he used to say in French?’ said Mr. Moulton.
‘No; I didn’t understand French then.’
‘But you do now?’
‘Yes. Our school is one of the best; we are taught everything.’
‘I’m sorry for that. There’ll be nothing for us to teach you.’
‘For you to teach me?’ said Agnes, looking at him inquiringly.
At that moment the servant announced Mr. Harding. The Major went forward and welcomed him cordially.
‘You see, you’ve lost your bet,’ Moulton whispered to Harding.
‘We were very sorry to lose her,’ said Father White, ‘and she was sorry to leave, but it would not be right for her to take vows to enter a severe order until she has seen the world and had opportunities of knowing if she has a vocation. On that point I shall be very firm with her, you can rely on me, Mrs. Lahens.’
‘I’m afraid that she will never care for society. I’m afraid that this experience will not prove of much avail. She’ll return to the convent, I shall be sorry to lose her.’
‘She’s indeed a good girl, and if she finds that she has a vocation—’
‘Now, you are speaking about me,’ said Agnes. ‘I can hear the word vocation.’
Mrs. Lahens smiled and was about to reply when the servant announced Miss Lilian Dare.
Lilian was a red blonde; her rich chestnut hair fell over her ears like wings, and she was showily dressed in an expensive French gown which did not suit her, which made her seem older than she was.
‘So you have come alone?’
‘Yes, dear Lady Duckle was not feeling well this morning; she sends you her love, and begs you’ll excuse her.’
‘Oh yes, we’ll excuse her. But tell me, Lilian,’ said Mrs. Lahens, taking the girl aside, ‘how do you like living with her?’
‘It is delightful, you don’t know what it means to me to get away from home — all those brothers and sisters — that hateful suburb.’
‘You must never speak of it again. Islington, where is that? you must say if Islington should happen in the conversation, which is not likely. I always told you that you’d have to throw your family over. We want you, not your family. Chaperons nowadays are a make-believe. Lady Duckle will suit you very well; she’ll feel ill when you don’t want her, when you do she’ll be all there. She’s
an honest old thing, and will do all that’s required of her for the money you pay her. Thirty pounds a month, that’s it, isn’t it, dear?’
The servant announced Lady Castlerich.
Lady Castlerich disguised her seventy years under youthful gowns and an extraordinary yellow wig. She wore a large black hat trimmed with black ostrich plumes, it became her; she looked quite handsome, and her cracked and tremulous voice was as full of sympathy as her manner was of high breeding. She seemed very fond of Lilian, and was soon engaged in conversation with her.
‘You mustn’t disappoint me, my dear; you must come to my shootin’ party on the twenty-fifth, and dear Lady Duckle, I hope she’ll come too, though she is rather a bore. I shall have plenty of beaux for you, there is my neighbour Lord Westhorpe, he’s young and handsome, a beautiful place, charmin’, my dear. And if you don’t like him, there’s my old lover Appletown, you know, my dear, all that is a long while ago. I said to Appletown more than ten years ago— “Appletown, this must end, I am an old woman.” You’ve no idea the look he gave me. “Florence,” he said, “don’t call yourself an old woman, I can’t bear it. You’ll never be an old woman, at least not in my eyes.” Charmin’, wasn’t it; no one but a nice man could speak like that. So we’ve always remained friends, Appletown has his rooms at Morelands, and he does as he likes. He likes you, dear, he told me so. I’ve got a telegram from him, I’ll show it to you after lunch.’
The servant announced Mr. Herbert St. Clare, a fastidiously-dressed man. He was tall and thin, and his eyes were pale and agreeable; his beard was close-clipped, he played with his eye-glass, and shook hands absent-mindedly.
‘Oh, Mr. St. Clare, I’m enchanted with your last song,’ said Lady Castlerich. ‘Every one is talking of it, it is quite the rage, charmin’, I wish I had had it ten years ago, my voice is gone now.’
‘You still sing charmingly, Lady Castlerich, not much voice is required if the singer is a musician.’
‘You’re very kind,’ and the old lady laughed with pleasure, and Mrs. Lahens smiled satirically, and whispered:
