Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  ‘I do not judge you, father, nor mother either. It is not for me to judge. I am ignorant of the world and wish to remain ignorant of it. I always felt that it would be best so, now I am sure of it.’

  ‘Agnes, it is too soon for you to judge. This house—’

  ‘She’s gone to meet that man; but she shall not. She shall not! I swear it! … That man, I’ll take him by the throat. I ought to have done so long ago; but it is not too late.’

  ‘Father, let us say a prayer together; I have not said one with you since I was a little child. Will you kneel down with me and say a prayer for mother?’

  She stretched out her hand to him, and they knelt down together in the drawing-room. Agnes said:

  ‘Oh, my God, we offer up an our Our Father and Hail Mary that thou may’st give us all grace to overcome temptation.’

  The Major repeated the prayers after his daughter, and, when they rose from their knees, Agnes said:

  ‘Father, I never asked a favour of you before. You’ll not refuse me this?’

  The Major looked at his daughter tenderly.

  ‘You will never again be violent. You promise me this, father. I shall be miserable if you don’t. You promise me this, father? You cannot refuse me. It is my first request and my last.’

  The Major’s face was full of tears. There were none on Agnes’ face; but her eyes shone with anticipation and desire.

  ‘Promise,’ she said, ‘promise.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘And when the temptation comes you’ll remember your promise to me?’

  ‘Yes, Agnes, I’ll remember.’

  The strain that the extortion of the promise had put upon her feelings had exhausted the girl; she then pressed her hands to her eyes and dropped on the ottoman. For a long while father and daughter sat opposite each other without speaking. At last the Major said:

  ‘I must go out; I cannot stop here.’

  ‘But, father, remember… you are not going to mother.’

  ‘No; only for a trot round the Square.’

  She pressed her hand to her forehead; she felt her eyes, they were dry and burning; and it was not until the servant announced Father White that her tears flowed.

  VI.

  ‘Then you’ve heard,’ said Agnes, coming forward and taking the priest’s hand. ‘How did you hear? Did you meet father?’

  ‘No, my dear child, I’ve heard nothing. I did not meet your father. I was in London to-day for the first time since I last saw you. I ought to have called earlier, but I was detained…. I’m afraid I’m late, it must be getting late. It must be getting near your dinner hour.’

  ‘I see that you know nothing, and that I shall have to tell you all.’

  ‘Yes, my dear child, tell me everything.’ Agnes sat on the ottoman, Father White took a chair near her. ‘Tell me everything. I see you’ve been weeping. You’re not happy at home then?’

  ‘Oh, Father; happy! if you only knew, if you only knew…. I cannot tell you.’ Then seeing in the priest’s arrival a means of escape from the danger of her position between her father and mother, she cried, ‘You must take me back to the convent to-night. I cannot meet mother when she comes home. Something dreadful might happen. Father White, you must take me back to the convent, say that you will, say that you will.’

  ‘My dear child, you are agitated, calm yourself. What has happened? Tell me.’

  ‘It is too long a story, it is too dreadful. I cannot tell it all to you now. Later I’ll tell you. Take me back to the convent. I cannot meet mother. I cannot.’

  ‘But what has your mother done; has she been cruel to you — has she struck you?’

  ‘Struck me! if that were all! that would be nothing.’ The priest’s face turned a trifle paler. He felt that something dreadful had happened. The girl was overcome; her nerves had given way, and she could hardly speak. It were not well to insist that she should be put to the torture of a complete narrative.

  ‘Where is your father?’ he said. ‘Major Lahens will tell me, he knows, I suppose, all about it. Calm yourself, Agnes. Tell me where your father is, that will be sufficient.’

  ‘Father is walking round the Square. But don’t leave me, don’t. I cannot remain in this room alone,’ she said, looking round with a frightened air.

  ‘I’ll wait till he comes in.’

  ‘He may not come in for hours. Perhaps he’ll never come back, anything may happen.’

  ‘If he’s walking round the Square he can be sent for.’

  ‘No, Father White. I’ll be calm. I’ll tell you. I must tell you, but you’ll not desert me, you’ll not leave me here to meet mother.’

  ‘Don’t you think, my dear child, that it would be better that I should see your father, that he should tell me?’

  ‘No, I’d sooner tell you myself. Father could not explain. To-morrow, or after in the convent I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you and the Mother Abbess.’

  ‘You must see, Agnes, that I cannot take you away from your father’s house without his permission.’

  ‘It is not father’s house.’

  ‘Well, your mother’s house.’

  ‘That is quite different. I see that I must tell you — of course I must.’

  ‘Surely, Agnes, it would be better to postpone telling me till to- morrow, you’re tired, you’ve been crying, you’ll be able to tell me better in the morning. I’ll call here early to-morrow morning.’

  ‘No; you must take me back to the convent to-night, I cannot remain here…. You’ll agree with me that I cannot when I tell you all.’…

  Agnes looked at Father White, she was no longer crying, she had regained her self possession in the necessity of the moment, and she began with hardly a tremble In her voice.

  ‘Mother is not — is not — I’m afraid she is not — But how am I to accuse my own mother.’

  ‘I’m sure now, my dear child, that I was right when I suggested that I should speak to Major Lahens.’

  ‘Because you don’t know the circumstances, nor do you know my father. No, it must be I. I must tell you.’

  There was a note of conviction in Agnes’ voice which silenced further protestation, and Father White listened.

  ‘You see, this house and everything here belongs to mother. It is she who pays for everything. Father lost all his money some years ago; he was cheated out of it in the city. The loss of his money preyed upon his mind; he could not stand the humiliation of asking his wife, as he puts it, for twopence to take the omnibus. Mother did not care for father, she cared for some one else, and that of course made father’s dependence still more humiliating. It preyed on his mind, and he lives in the house like a servant, in a little room under the roof that the kitchen-maid would not sleep in. He has a type-writing machine up there, and he makes a few shillings a week by copying; he bought the butler’s old overcoat… It is very sad to see him up there at work, and to hear him talk…. I must tell you that the people who come here are not good people, I don’t think that they can be very nice; the conversation in this drawing-room I’m sure is not. … There is a man who comes here whom I don’t like at all, a Mr. Moulton. He says things that are not nice, and he tried to kiss me the other day. I was afraid of him, and mother used to leave me alone with him. I had difficulty in getting away from him, so I asked father to speak. I thought that father, when he met him alone, would tell him not to talk as he did, but father got so angry, that notwithstanding all I could do to prevent him he went down in his old clothes to the drawing-room, and, I suppose, insulted every one. Anyhow they all went away. I felt that something was happening, so I listened on the stairs. Father and mother were talking violently, and when he grasped mother’s throat — I rushed between them. That is the whole story.’

  ‘A very terrible story.’

  ‘So you see that it is impossible for me to remain here. I cannot meet mother after what has happened. You must take me to the convent to- night. Say that you will, Father White.’

  ‘Have you not
thought, my child, that it may be your duty to remain here as mediator, as peace-maker?’

  ‘Father has promised me that he will never raise his hand to mother again. I made him understand that it was by gentleness and patience she must be won back.’

  ‘All the more reason that you should remain here to watch and encourage the good work you have begun.’

  ‘But, Father White, I feel that I have done all that I can do…. My prayers must do the rest.’

  ‘But your presence in this house would be an influence for good, and would check again, as it did to-day, these unhappy outbursts of violence.’

  ‘Father has promised me never to resort to violence again; my presence is the temptation to do so, things might happen — things would be sure to happen that would force him to forget his promise. He might kill mother — that is the way these things end. He has borne with a great deal; he has said nothing; people think that he feels nothing; he may think so himself, but something is all the while growing within him, and the day comes when he will stand it no longer, when he will kill mother. Very little suffices, I very nearly sufficed…. I must go, Father, you must take me away.’

  Agnes spoke out of the fulness of her instinct, and Father White wondered, for such knowledge of life seemed very strange in one of Agnes’ age and ignorance.

  ‘I understand, my child. As you say, it is difficult for you to remain here. But I cannot take you away without consulting your father.’

  ‘Father will not oppose my returning to the convent, I have spoken to him. He knows how unhappy I am.’

  ‘But I cannot take you away without his authority.’

  ‘I did not intend to leave without bidding father good-bye. We can stop the cab as we go round the Square.’

  ‘But your clothes are not packed.’

  ‘They will lend me all I want at the convent, my clothes can be sent after me. Father, you must take me away, I cannot remain here and meet mother after what happened. My mission here is ended; prayer will do the rest. I want to go to the convent so that I shall be free to pray for mother.’

  Unable to resist the intensity of the girl’s will, Father White answered that he would wait for her while she went upstairs to get her hat and jacket. As he paced the room he tried to think, but he could not catch a single thread of thought. He was merely aware of the horrible position that this dear, good and innocent girl had so unexpectedly found herself thrust into, and of the good sense and resource she had displayed in her time of trial. ‘No doubt she is right,’ he thought, ‘she cannot remain here…. She must go back to the convent, at least for the present. But once she goes back she will never again be persuaded to leave it. So much the better, another soul for God and joy everlasting.’

  The door opened. Agnes wore the same dress as she had arrived in, the same little black fur jacket, and her hands were in the same little muff. They went downstairs without speaking, and Father White called a four-wheeled cab. As they got in he said:

  ‘You know that I cannot possibly take you away without first obtaining your father’s authority.’

  ‘We shall meet him as we go round the Square. Tell the cabman to drive slowly, I’ll keep watch this side, you keep watch that side, we can’t miss him.’

  ‘I’m to drive round the Square till you see a gentleman walking?’

  ‘Yes, and then we’ll stop you,’ said Father White.

  Suddenly Agnes cried ‘There is father, there.’ Father White poked his umbrella through the window, and Agnes screamed, and she had to scream her loudest, so absorbed was the Major.

  ‘Father White called to see me. I’ve asked him to take me back to the convent. You’ll let me go, father? I shall be happier there than at home.’

  The Major did not answer and the priest said:

  ‘If you’ll allow me, Major Lahens, I’d like to have a few minutes’ conversation with you.’

  He got out of the cab and Agnes waited anxiously. She could hear them talking, and she prayed that she might sleep at the convent that night. At last the Major came to the cab door and said:

  ‘If you wish, Agnes, to go back to the convent with Father White you can. I’ll work hard and make some money and then you’ll come and live with me.’

  ‘Yes, father…. Remember you’ll always be in my thoughts… It is good of you to let me go, indeed it is. You must try not to miss me too much and you’ll often come and see me.’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  ‘And, father, dear, you’ll remember your promise.’

  ‘Yes, dear… Good-bye.’

  She kissed her father on the forehead and burst into tears. The cab jangled on, the priest did not speak and gradually through the girl’s grief there grew remembrance of the road leading to the convent. And, though they were still five miles away or more, she saw the gate at the corner of the lane, the porteress too. She saw the quiet sedate nuns hastening down the narrow passages towards their chapel. She saw them playing with their doves like innocent children, she saw them chase the ball down the gravel walks and across the swards. She saw her life from end to end, from the moment when the porteress would open the door to the time when she would be laid in the little cemetery at the end of the garden where the nuns go to rest.

  THE END

  The Untilled Field

  CONTENTS

  IN THE CLAY

  SOME PARISHIONERS

  THE EXILE

  HOME SICKNESS

  A LETTER TO ROME

  JULIA CAHILL’S CURSE

  A PLAYHOUSE IN THE WASTE

  THE WEDDING-GOWN

  THE CLERK’S QUEST

  ALMS-GIVING

  SO ON HE FARES

  THE WILD GOOSE

  THE WAY BACK

  The first edition’s title page

  IN THE CLAY

  IT WAS A beautiful summer morning, and Rodney was out of his bed at six o’clock. He usually went for a walk before going to his studio, and this morning his walk had been a very pleasant one, for yesterday’s work had gone well with him. But as he turned into the mews in which his studio was situated he saw the woman whom he employed to light his fire standing in the middle of the roadway. He had never seen her standing in the middle of the roadway before and his doors wide open, and he instantly divined a misfortune, and thought of the Virgin and Child he had just finished. There was nothing else in his studio that he, cared much about. A few busts, done long ago, and a few sketches; no work of importance, nothing that he cared about or that could not be replaced if it were broken.

  He hastened his steps and he would have run if he had not been ashamed to betray his fears to the char-woman.

  “I’m afraid someone has been into the studio last night. The hasp was off the door when I came this morning. Some of the things are broken.”

  Rodney heard no more. He stood on the threshold looking round the wrecked studio. Three or four casts had been smashed, the floor was covered with broken plaster, and the lay figure was overthrown, Rodney saw none of these things, he only saw that his Virgin and Child was not on the modelling stool, and not seeing it there, he hoped that the group had been stolen, anything were better than that it should have been destroyed. But this is what had happened: the group, now a mere lump of clay, lay on the floor, and the modelling stand lay beside it.

  “I cannot think,” said the charwoman, “who has done this. It was a wicked thing to do. Oh, sir, they have broken this beautiful statue that you had in the Exhibition last year,” and she picked up the broken fragments of a sleeping girl.

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Rodney. “My group is gone.”

  “But that, sir, was only in the clay. May I be helping you to pick it up, sir? It is not broken altogether perhaps.”

  Rodney waved her aside. He was pale and he could not speak, and was trembling. He had not the courage to untie the cloths, for he knew there was nothing underneath but clay, and his manner was so strange that the charwoman was frightened. He stood like one dazed by a dream. He could n
ot believe in reality, it was too mad, too discordant, too much like a nightmare. He had only finished the group yesterday!

  He still called it his Virgin and Child, but it had never been a Virgin and Child in the sense suggested by the capital letters, for he had not yet put on the drapery that would convert a naked girl and her baby into the Virgin and Child. He had of course modelled his group in the nude first, and Harding, who had been with him the night before last, had liked it much better than anything he had done, Harding had said that he must not cover it with draperies, that he must keep it for himself, a naked girl playing with a baby, a piece of paganism. The girl’s head was not modelled when Harding had seen it. It was the conventional Virgin’s head, but Harding had said that he must send for his model and put his model’s head upon it. He had taken Harding’s advice and had sent for Lucy, and had put her pretty, quaint little head upon it. He had done a portrait of Lucy. If this terrible accident had not happened last night, the caster would have come to cast it to-morrow, and then, following Harding’s advice always, he would have taken a “squeeze,” and when he got it back to the clay again he was going to put on a conventional head, and add the conventional draperies, and make the group into the conventional Virgin and Child, suitable to Father McCabe’s cathedral.

  This was the last statue he would do in Ireland. He was leaving Ireland. On this point his mind was made up, and the money he was going to receive for this statue was the money that was going to take him away. He had had enough of a country where there had never been any sculpture or any painting, nor any architecture to signify. They were talking about reviving the Gothic, but Rodney did not believe in their resurrections or in their renaissance or in their anything. “The Gael has had his day. The Gael is passing.” Only the night before he and Harding had had a long talk about the Gael, and he had told Harding that he had given up the School of Art, that he was leaving Ireland, and Harding had thought that this was an extreme step, but Rodney had said that he did not want to die, that no one wanted to die less than he did, but he thought he would sooner die than go on teaching. He had made some reputation and had orders that would carry him on for some years, and he was going where he could execute them, to where there were models, to where there was art, to where there was the joy of life, out of a damp religious atmosphere in which nothing flourished but the religious vocation.