by George Moore
II
On coming down to breakfast a few days later he found a letter from Dr. Knight on his plate.
MY DEAR HUGH, — Your letter reached me in the midst of my preparations to leave Stanislaus for a couple of weeks. I am going to France to fetch my daughter Beatrice home from school, and as you are within easy distance of London it seems a pity to pass so close by you and not avail myself of your kind invitation. You mention that any day which is convenient to me will be convenient to you, so if I do not hear to the contrary you may expect me on the fifteenth. As you and my son Percy were at Stanislaus together (at different ends of the school, for you are Percy’s senior by three or four years), I think it would interest you to know that Percy is thinking of taking Orders. I say thinking, for he shows so much devotion to the arts that he may find he has no vocation for the priesthood; yet the two are not incompatible, or used not to be. I have not forgotten that you too were devoted to the arts, especially during the last years you were with us; no doubt the arts still retain a place in your affection, and that is why I propose to bring Percy with me. His originality seems to me most striking, but you will be able to form your own opinion from the portfolio of drawings he is bringing. — Very sincerely yours, — RICHARD KNIGHT.
After reading the letter Hugh passed it over to his mother, saying: — Dr. Knight is coming here to-day.
Coming here to-day! she repeated, for this notification of a visitor seemed a little curt, and she was about to remark that he should have consulted her convenience before inviting Dr. Knight to Wotton Hall; but her thoughts did not pass into words, for she wished to avoid saying anything that might start another quarrel. The moment was an anxious one, and Hugh began to consider her stubbornness, represented, he thought, by her high shoulders, short neck, and thin, aquiline nose. Here is your letter, Hugh, she said; I have read it. Dr. Knight is a widower, I suppose, and became a priest after the death of his wife? Since he has a son and daughter it could not be otherwise, mother, Hugh answered, adopting a sneering tone which was not lost on Mrs. Monfert. You mean, sir, that whereas you had the advantage of being born a Catholic, I had to become one; and picking up her key basket she drew her black shawl over her shoulders (since her husband’s death she always wore black), and swept out of the room, Hugh thought somewhat dramatically. Now what have I done to annoy her? he said. Merit is got by renouncing error rather than by being born outside of error, and she should be proud of her conversion. He was about to ask himself again how much of her conversion was due to admiration of the family, when his secretary came into the room with a bundle of papers. Yes, I am with you, he cried, and followed Mr. Somerville Cootes up to the Barn, where he sat with him writing cheques and letters for the next two hours; and when these were done he accompanied the steward to the Home Farm to view some cattle that had come down from the north, afterwards returning to luncheon to find a telegram from Dr. Knight mentioning the train he was coming by. We had better send the luggage cart as well as the carriage to the station, Mrs. Monfert said, for he may have some heavy luggage. Hugh acquiesced, and returned to the Barn till he deemed the carriage to be on its way back from the station with Dr. Knight, when he joined his mother in the sunny avenue.
There is a smack of autumn in the air, he said, although not a leaf has fallen. The pathetic, eerie little chitter of the robin seemed to them in keeping with the crisp, dry air, with the languid beauty of the distant fields showing through the elms over against the steep descent into a narrow valley in which cattle were grazing. Hawthorns and cattle go well together, Hugh said, and when his mother spoke of deer he answered that deer seemed to him pretentious and silly. And wondering if he were right, or if the remark was no more than another example of his constant capriciousness, she forgot his unwillingness to marry in the compelling beauty of the glowing fields running in and out of woods, and hedgerows, with single trees carrying the eye on and on into subdued tints and airy distances to a high horizon on which the ruins of an ancient castle could be faintly discerned — an admiration that was, however, but momentary, her sense of the prospect being suddenly eclipsed by forebodings of the changes, even transformations, maybe, that would certainly overtake it if Hugh did not marry. She therefore relied upon Dr. Knight to put Hugh right regarding his manifest duties, mentioning by the way that marriage was the only safeguard; whilst Hugh was thinking that Dr. Knight would not fail him, but warn his mother against trying to influence him too much in his choice of a wife, incurring thereby a great responsibility. But she never shrinks from a responsibility, he said to himself, and had begun to wonder at her courage (which he did not envy, it being too alien from himself for envy), when her voice roused him from his meditations. I am afraid they must have missed the train; if they hadn’t, they would be here by now. I dare say you are right, he replied, and the inadequacy of the answer puzzled her. But she refrained from putting questions and Hugh began to hope for the speedy arrival of the visitors, beguiled once more by the beauty of the prospect, which he would like Dr. Knight to see before the last lights were gone.
And thus divided in their projects, they proceeded into the avenue, stopping by the rhododendrons to hearken to the vague sounds that came through the twilit country, hearing at last amid many rumours, the wheels of a swiftly running carriage. It is not a tradesman’s cart, Hugh said, I hear eight hooves; and they stood waiting till the sleek horses came into view, taking the high pitch in the road at a canter, the coachman checking them as usual. On catching sight of Mrs.
Monfert he drew them into an unwilling standstill, and out of the carriage stepped the tall, lean ecclesiastic whose quiet bearing and courtesy had attracted Hugh and made a permanent impression upon him years ago, when Dr. Knight was Vice-President of Stanislaus College. He was followed by his son, Percy, a youth of seventeen or eighteen, hollow-chested and pale, with large, eloquent eyes, and customary salutations having been made, Mrs. Monfert entered into talk with Percy, leaving Hugh to tell Dr. Knight that the clock tower and some fragments of the old Elizabethan house still remained, but that the greater part of Wotton Hall was Tudor and Jacobean. As they approached the house Hugh dropped the word garth, to which the priest answered: — A word more common in my Yorkshire than in your Essex, meaning a low wall enclosing a space; and I suppose that you are right in your use of the word. I like your gateway, he continued, the pillars and the ironwork; the portico is excellent Jacobean. I am glad you like the house, Hugh replied; and now, sir, would you care to go to your room at once? The luggage cart has not yet arrived, and whilst waiting for it (if you are not too tired), we might sit for a while on the lawn. Dr. Knight replied that he would like to stretch his legs and to catch as many glimpses of Wotton Hall as possible before his departure. But, sir, you have only just arrived! You will stay a week at least, I hope. I could not think of letting you go before. It is very kind of you, Hugh, and there is nothing I would like better than to spend a week with you in the scent of these old cedars; but I think I mentioned in my letter that I was on my way to France to fetch my daughter, and I shall have to leave even sooner than I expected — to-morrow afternoon, in time to catch the Dover train. My dear Dr. Knight, this is a real disappointment. I have been looking forward to having you here ever since I left Stanislaus but have not been able to do so before, for the last three years we have been engaged in rebuilding. You are speaking of the interior, Hugh? I see no traces of modern masonry. You are quite right, sir, with the exception of — but I am overcome by the news that you are going to leave us so soon. You said to-morrow morning, I think? To-morrow afternoon, the priest answered. But I shall return again, I hope. But I have need of your advice, sir. You will not think that I asked you here merely for that? Dr. Knight raised his hands apologetically, and Hugh continued: Indeed, I did not. For the last three years I have been thinking of your visit here, and the workmen have not left my house many months. But you know there are always two motives —
Not two motives, Hugh, Dr. Knight interrupted, smiling
faintly; there is one motive and then circumstance precipitates us into action. You are right, sir, Hugh answered, and the priest waited several seconds and then said: — You were saying that you needed my advice? and his voice was encouraging, reminding Hugh of the days when he knelt beside Dr. Knight absorbed in remembrances of his sins.
Well, sir, if you are going to leave us to-morrow, there will be hardly time to tell you my story. Is your story then a very long one? Dr. Knight asked, and Hugh, a little bewildered, answered: After you have heard it you will have to hear mother’s before you can form an opinion. Is the difference that has arisen a very serious one? the prelate asked in a smooth, even, almost mellifluous voice. Very serious, Hugh replied, and then under the spur of necessity he said abruptly: — I can tell you my story now, and to-morrow morning you will walk with my mother; she is sure to ask you. But if it should rain, Hugh? If it rains she will take you round the house, and the portraits will lead you to talk of a number of things — my ancestry, and the rebuilding of the home, which was almost a ruin. She will speak about an heir, and if she doesn’t you can, I think, sir, say a word or two that will start her talking about our differences. Oh, said Dr. Knight, I am beginning to understand. She would like you to marry? Yes, Hugh replied, that is the point which divides us. But are you averse from matrimony, Hugh? No, I don’t think I am; but I do not wish it forced upon me. If the impulse comes to marry, well, let it come, and if not, I can’t help it; and that is the very point I would like to explain to you before you speak to my mother, if you will be so kind as to speak to her. The worry is her failure to see that I am no longer a child but a young man of two-and-twenty come into man’s estate. And my proposal to you, sir, is that you should — Dr. Knight broke in suddenly to ask Hugh if he thought an intervention on his (Dr. Knight’s) part would soothe matters, to which Hugh answered quickly that he saw no other way of avoiding an estrangement that might end by being permanent. For, Dr. Knight, things cannot go on as they are. I must be allowed to live my own life as it pleases me. My mother thinks much less of me than she does of the family. I think I understand, Dr. Knight answered pensively, and it was then Hugh’s turn to assure him that he was not asked to Wotton Hall only to settle family differences. I have never forgotten, Hugh said, and never shall forget your kindness to me at Stanislaus College; for I was often very unhappy at Stanislaus. But we did not see very much of each other, Hugh. You used to come to confession, I remember. Yes, Hugh answered; but what seems very little to you meant a great deal to me, and the only times at Stanislaus that I remember with any pleasure were the few minutes when I knelt on the praying-stool beside you. I don’t wish to say anything against the other priests; they were all good men, no doubt, but —
There is always, the priest said, an instinctive like and dislike in us, something that we cannot explain or account for. You were my one friend, Hugh continued, and that is why I wrote to ask you here, for the pleasure of seeing you as much as for the help that you may be able to give me, if you like to give it. But perhaps I am asking too much? I shall certainly be glad to hear your story, the priest answered, and it is surely not such a long one that it cannot be told between now and dinnertime. A story poured out all of a sudden carries little weight, said Hugh, but as you are going away to-morrow another opportunity might not occur.
I still think the intervention of a third person is dangerous, the priest replied, as Hugh opened a tall iron gate leading to the lawns. What a beautiful place you have, Hugh, he added, stopping to admire for a moment the calm woods and the evening sky. And then remembering that admiration of Hugh’s house was out of keeping with the story he was about to hear, he said: As you say, my dear Hugh, another opportunity might not occur for some time, and I see a seat yonder where I shall be able to give all my attention to you. Where, Hugh answered, we shall be safer from interruption; and if my mother wearies of Percy’s talk and comes to interrupt us, we can move away and find a seat under another cedar. I don’t think that she will weary of Percy’s talk, Dr. Knight replied. Nobody ever wearies of Percy. You told me, said Hugh, that he has brought some of his drawings to show me. I was much struck by what you wrote in your letter, a mere phrase: that in olden times the priesthood and the arts were not incompatible; and they spoke of Fra Angelico and Fra Bartholomeo till it began to seem to them that they were wasting time. You will see Percy’s drawings after dinner, the prelate interjected suavely; now you must tell me about yourself.
And Hugh began to relate what he had thought was a long and intricate story, but which, when he came to tell it, turned out to be not much more than a eulogy of the economy with which Mrs. Monfert had managed the estates during his minority, of his great debt to her, of his gratitude and appreciation of the sacrifices she had made. She saved money out of her jointure, he said, and invested it in Wotton Hall. At least a thousand pounds out of the fifteen thousand that the rebuilding cost us came out of her pocket. I would not have you think, sir, that I am ungrateful to her for all she has done, and I hope that when you talk together tomorrow you will lay stress upon this point. You will say that I am devoted to her, which is but the truth. Yet it may come to my having to leave Wotton Hall if she cannot be persuaded to forgo her exactions. She would exact, Dr. Knight said, a marriage from you so that you might produce an heir? That is it, Hugh replied, and the sympathy that he detected in the priest’s voice went straight to his heart. If I do not go for a trip round the world, I shall have to take Orders.
I should be sorry, Dr. Knight began, — To hear that I had taken Orders? Hugh interjected, and the prelate answered that he would be sorry to hear that anybody had entered the priesthood merely to escape from the troubles with which life is beset; and he adverted to the help that a man of Hugh’s position, wealth, and ancient family could bring to the Church from the outside; especially, he added, in a Protestant country. It has always been my desire to help the Church to which my faith is plighted, and I shall think over all you say; and I hope that you will think, sir, of what I have said to you, especially regarding my appreciation of all that my mother has done for me. In fact, if she had not done so much, I often think we should be happier and better able to live together. The priest did not answer, and at the end of a pause Hugh continued: I was brought up under her eyes, instructed by her, and I am no longer sure that a child should be given over to one person to mould like clay. But a mother must look after her child, Hugh, according to her lights. Even so, Hugh answered, the moulding should cease when the child has reached maturity. Don’t you think so, sir? Dr. Knight pursed his lips and said: My dear Hugh, we are always being moulded; from birth to death we continue to take new shapes. That’s just it, sir. We are always being moulded by Nature, by the character that God gives us. I have no aversion for marriage in principle, but would like, as I have said, to wait till the impulse comes to marry, not to marry for the sake of an heir. I would prefer to live my life quietly for the time being, leaving Nature to work out the destiny that is in me.
The discussion was about to take a theological turn, and Hugh was surprised that Dr. Knight did not warn him that to place ourselves unreservedly in the hands of Nature is to incur a great danger, Nature being beset with pitfalls. But the words that he anticipated: We want guidance, Hugh, and the Church is always ready to advise her children, were not spoken, and the conversation was brought to a pause suddenly by a little wind laden with the fragrance of a blossoming lime; and then another wind went by impregnated with the pungent odour of lavender, and looking whence the winds came they saw the shrubs in bloom in the narrow beds between the paved paths and the walls of the house. You should be very happy here, the priest said, but Hugh’s heart was too full of his own trouble to give heed to the evening sounds; to the rooks returning through the overhanging night, the old birds leading the young ones to their roosts, their soft cawing speaking of rest, of the weariness of the day ended at last. A vague sound came across the meadows, it might be the rumble of a passing cart. The peafowl gathered under t
he cedars. A bird would look at a shelving branch as if he had forgotten he could fly, and thought it too high for him to jump; and then the next branch seeming to him again too high, he settled himself for the effort and sprang, reaching his second perch without difficulty; and so on, till he had ensconced himself high up in the tree, followed by other peafowl, every one of which adopted the same leisurely manner of climbing, although they were flying birds and could have reached their favourite roost in one flight from the sward. And possessed by the same instinct, the swans with their grey brood climbed out of the ponds to hide themselves among the reeds. Wotton Hall, its woods and its lawns, are as beautiful as any that I have seen. You are a fortunate man, Hugh, and I quite understand that your mother should be anxious. But I understand your point of view, too. I will speak to her if she speaks to me on the subject, and if she does not I will lead her into speaking of it, and will tell her that in my opinion the choice must be left to you, that it is in the hands of God. They had reached the few steps that led to the stone terrace over against the lawns, but before entering the pillared saloon, they stood for a moment to gaze, watching the kine in the pastures beyond the artificial water, and a line of distant woods.
