Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  I know Dublin, sir. I was here before.

  Ah, so much the better. Well, I shall expect to see you when I return home for luncheon to-morrow.

  You may be sure I’ll come, sir, she answered from the door; and then remembering that the lock was a double one, he said: — Allow me. The two handles must be turned at the same time.

  Sarah passed out, and Dr. O’Reardon had barely reseated himself in his chair before he began to regret the impulsive mood that had impelled him to take five pounds from the pile by his writing-pad and give them to a woman he might never see again. But she came recommended by Helena, a level-headed woman, and the doubt that had arisen was swept away, and its place was taken by a sudden and awful dread of breakages. For the woman who had left him had been ten years in a convent, where the concrete is nothing and the abstract everything, and to-morrow, if she returned (which she would, for Helena Lynch would not have sent her to him if she were not sure of her honesty), his cabinets filled with Bow and Chelsea would be in her charge; and the project of running after her with another five pounds, the price of a breach of agreement, started up in his mind. It was cowardice that kept him in his chair; and that night he slept but little, leaving the house for his hospital filled with misgivings of what would happen between ten and eleven, the time she would arrive. He felt that when he returned for luncheon at one o’clock he would be told that she had filled a cut-glass decanter with hot water, with the usual consequences, or that a Chelsea figure had been swept from the chimney-piece into the fender. And the oriental vases and the birds! He shuddered. The carved mirrors above the chimney-pieces she could not touch, but she might easily knock a carved garland from a side table with a sweeping brush.

  His carriage continued to take him further and further from his cherished possessions, and if a capital operation had not been awaiting him, he would have turned back to leave a note saying that she was not to attempt any work, cleaning above all, before seeing him. As the carriage crossed Carlisle Bridge, he thought of his pictures, his collection and his own water-colours. A might-have-been lives on in the heart, almost a reproach, and the memories of the art that he had abandoned and that could never now be his, put the ex-nun out of the doctor’s mind (it was thus that he now thought of her) till he arrived at the hospital.

  II

  At one o’clock O’Reardon returned along the quays, forgetful of the old shop in Liffey Street, deep in thoughts of an accident, one that every doctor dreads; death under an operation. The patient had not recovered consciousness, and Dr. O’Reardon crossed Carlisle Bridge, passed Trinity College, reaching home without seeing or hearing, so absorbed that he did not recognise the smart young woman in cap and apron who met him in the passage. He asked her if luncheon was ready, and she answered that it would be in a few minutes; and it was not till she began to tell him that several had called to see him that morning, that he roused a little and began to ask himself who the young woman was that remembered so clearly the messages given to her. On looking under the white cap he recognised the anxious face of the vagrant nun whom he had seen overnight, asking himself again what animal she resembled, if it was the white and red that had put a weasel into his head. But a weasel is white underneath and red above. Or was it her gait? She seemed to run forward and to stop suddenly, just like a weasel. Have you broken anything, Sarah?

  Broken anything, sir? What makes you think that? Sarah resented the insinuation so sharply that the doctor had to plead that his thoughts were away, and he related the unfortunate operation, the failure of which he knew could not be laid to his charge, nor to that of the anaesthetist or the nurses. The man ought to have been operated upon earlier, he said.

  And as with time his mind freed itself from qualms of conscience, he began to notice that life was passing pleasantly, a great deal of its smoothness seemingly owing to the diligence and care of his new parlourmaid. Since she came into his service plates ceased to be chipped; no Waterford glass had been broken, nor was his eye ever caught by a piece of ornamental carving knocked from a carven armchair. Nor did a cessation of breakages comprise all her qualities; she was now the parlourmaid that every doctor desires and never finds. Her service at table was excellent, though she had never attended at table before she came into his service. In six months she was more learned than the best of her predecessors. Everybody envied him. A dinner of twelve doctors could not be managed by two servants; another housemaid was called in, and Sarah’s administration of the service was admirable. The plates were not put in the oven; they were heated by hot water; the entrées came out hot; the claret was neither hot nor cold but kept warm to just the right temperature. She reminded him that Mr. — did not drink champagne; and when the doctor went into the country every Saturday to paint, and forgot to wash his brushes, when he remembered them they were washed. He had never had a parlourmaid to wash his brushes before. His palette was cleaned, too, and without disturbing the colours that he had set. Messages were delivered and appointments made that he could keep. Every month he discovered new qualities; economies were effected, and how she managed to supervise the household books without enraging the cook, he did not know, nor did he dare to enquire, but he noticed improvements everywhere, and also a change in Sarah herself.

  She was a starveling when she came, shy and perplexed; now she had put on a little flesh and recovered her strength, and though her face could not be said to be as merry as a squirrel’s, it was alive and pleasant. He noticed the neatness with which she wore her cap, her carefully brushed hair, and that when her attention wandered, which it did sometimes, a far-away look came into her pale grey eyes; and so he was moved to ask her if she was happy in her situation and had ceased to regret the convent, to think well of the nuns, but remembering the rebuff he had received on the first occasion, he refrained from putting any questions to her. From these absences she would return suddenly, and he often wondered if she was aware of her absent-mindedness; he thought she was not, and that she came and went unwittingly. Her face lighted up when he spoke to her; she would continue the dropped conversation and go out of the room, a little more abruptly, he thought, than at other times. Sarah is much improved in health, he said to himself, and fell to thinking what her secret might be, without doubting that all Sarah had told him of herself was true; but there was much in her life beyond the facts that she had been in a Welsh convent for ten years and had been turned out at a moment’s notice for rudeness to her superiors. Her accent told him that she came from the County Down, and for a Down girl to find her way to a Welsh convent was queer enough to set the least curious wondering how she had wriggled out of her Protestantism to begin with, and subsequently into a convent in Wales.

  It had come to his ears that Sarah missed Mass, which was strange, unless indeed she had changed in mind as much or more than she had physically, and he remembered her words in defence of the outrageous nuns, and her abrupt rising from her chair with the intention of refusing the situation he had offered her. That time may have revealed to her how cruelly she had been treated was quite possible. She had never spoken of it again. It was true that the opportunity had not occurred. But the other reports! His friends had seen Sarah late at night in Sackville Street and Grafton Street and round Trinity College; nor was she passing quickly through these streets on her way home, but loitering, peering into the faces of the passers-by like one in search of somebody. That his friends had met Sarah, or somebody they had mistaken for Sarah, was certain; but the thought that the reaction from the convent had driven her to lead a double life — his parlourmaid during the day, a whore on her evenings out — was a belief that none who knew her could entertain, for to know Sarah was to believe every word she said. Her exalted moods, her clear, pure voice — No, it is not possible, he said; moreover, Helena would not have sent her here if she were not sure of her character, knowing how important it is to me.... His thoughts passed into a reverie of the days when Helena had decided to work for her own living, and the excellent Health Inspector th
at had come out of this determination. But how had she come upon Sarah? All he knew was that they had met the day after Sarah arrived in Dublin in the straw hat and the alpaca jacket. It might be that Helena knew only Sarah’s story; but it is not easy for one Catholic to deceive another with a tale of expulsion from a convent, and sharp-witted Helena, though a Catholic, was no fool, and he would learn Sarah’s secret from Helena when she returned to Dublin.

  The words came into his mind: She’ll hardly recognise Sarah, so much improved is she, almost a good-looking girl; and hearing her laughing — her laughter came through the window with many sweet-scented airs from the garden — Sarah laughing with Michael! he said, and seeing her standing by the tall, lilac bushes, gathering purple bloom for his dinner-table, Michael, the gardener, drawing down the high branches with his rake, he began a letter to Helena, telling her of the coming of spring in his garden, the lilac in bloom, the buds swelling in the apple trees, waiting for the May-time. Adi the world, he said, yields to the gentle season, and it may be that it will find its way into Sarah’s heart; her feet are certainly on the lilac path, and I should not be surprised overmuch (though I should be surprised), if you were to find her married to Michael when you return, a merry look in her eyes replacing the yearning look for something beyond the world, which you have not forgotten, so characteristic is it of her.... In the letter he was writing he would tell, too, of the secret which he was sure that Sarah was hiding from him — hiding, perhaps, from Helena. His thoughts were brought to an end by the arrival of a patient, and it was not till many days after that he discovered the half-written letter among some papers on his writing-table.

  Ill I cannot thank you enough, he wrote, for sending me Sarah, a most excellent, far-seeing servant, holding all the threads, managing everything, interested apparently in me and in me only; but behind this impersonal externality she lives her personal life, of which we know nothing. She has been with me now nearly a year, yet my knowledge of her is not greater to-day than it was before I saw her. I have learned, it is true, that she came originally from the north of Ireland; she didn’t tell me, her accent told me, and I have been wondering if her bringing-up was Protestant and if she became a Catholic from caprice. Newman, I believe, went over for theological reasons, but theology cannot have been the motive that seduced Sarah, whose attendance at Mass is casual, uncertain, so I am told. Be this a lie or truth, she is no longer religious; indeed I doubt if she ever was religious. Then why did she, a Protestant presumably, become a Catholic and enter a convent? And why is she so silent about herself? The door opened behind him, and without turning round the doctor answered Sarah, who asked if he was busy: I am writing a letter to Miss Lynch; and he continued writing till his attention was attracted by the silence behind him. You heard me say that I was writing to Miss Lynch? Now, Sarah, if you have any message — No, sir, I have no message. I have come to ask you for her address. You see, it was she who sent me to you, and may be able to get me another place, for I’ve come to tell you that I shall be leaving you at the end of the month. But if you would let me go sooner —

  Leaving me, Sarah, at the end of the month! What do you mean? I understood that you were satisfied with your situation —

  Yes, sir; the situation is all right and I am grateful, but it can’t be helped.

  Can’t be helped! the doctor repeated. Everything can be helped. Tell me why you’re leaving — why you’re thinking of leaving. Is it wages? Tell me; there must be a reason, and when I know the reason I shall be able to arrange.

  There are things that cannot be arranged, sir, and this is one of them. As she spoke the words she moved towards the door, but the doctor rushed past her, saying: No, Sarah, no; you cannot leave the room until I hear why you want to leave me. It is not fair, nor is it right, for you to walk out of my house without giving a reason, like the parlourmaid you superseded. Ate you going to be married, for if you are that will be a sufficient reason?

  No, sir; I am not going to get married.

  He watched her face, and she returned to the writing-table with him. Now, sit down, Sarah, and tell me why you’re leaving.

  Well, sir, it is because the gardener wants to marry me.

  But he hasn’t interfered with you in any way?

  No, sir; I’ve got no fault to find with him.

  No fault to find except that he asked you to marry him?

  But I can’t marry him, sir. It would be better if you didn’t ask me any more questions, indeed it would.

  Am I to understand that you like the gardener?

  He is all right, sir; I shouldn’t mind if things were different.

  Tell me, Sarah.

  You wouldn’t understand, sir; it would seem a lot of nonsense to you.

  But everybody is nonsense to the next one. I would like to hear first of all why you left the north and why you became a Catholic.

  I was always a Catholic, sir; my mother was a Catholic.

  And your father?

  Father was a Protestant, and mother went over when she married him. You see, in the County Down a Protestant can’t marry a Catholic, for everybody would be against her. Mother wanted to bring me over with her, but I wouldn’t go over, and that was the beginning of it.

  Sarah stopped suddenly, and a little perplexed doctor and maidservant stared at each other. I can’t see, sir, how all this can interest you; but if you wish to hear it, I’ll tell you the story, for I have been very happy here and am grateful to you, and, as you said, I can’t leave without giving a reason. When mother went over I was twelve, and out in the fields at five o’clock in the morning pulling swedes and mangel-wurzels; the wurzels are the worst, for they have roots a foot long, and it was terribly hard work getting them up, for I wasn’t as strong as the other girls. They all thought it hard work; our backs ached dreadfully when we went home to breakfast at eight o’clock.

  And after breakfast?

  After breakfast I had to go to school; and when school was over we began to feel the dread of next morning creeping over us, at least I did.

  And to escape from the pulling of mangel-wurzels you came to Dublin?

  No, it wasn’t that, sir. After a bit my stepfather was out of his luck; ten sheep died on him, the mare cast her foal; and we did not keep the bad luck to ourselves, for we shared it with the farmers round our way, and the talk began that somebody had put a curse on the County. If anything goes wrong in County Down it’s the fault of the Catholics. I was the only Catholic there, and as I passed by some boys on a gate, one of them said: There goes the papist, and another picked it up and cried: To hell with the Pope and his witches. I took fright in case the story should get about and my feet be put in the fire till I confessed that I had sold my soul to the Devil. So I saved up a few pence every week till I had enough to bring me to Dublin, and one day after my morning’s work on the farm, instead of coming in for dinner I walked into Belfast. It was a brave long walk, more than seven miles, so I had to buy some, meat, and this left me with only a shilling above my railway fare. I was afraid to break into my shilling in Dublin, but by ten o’clock it was that cold I had to have a cup of tea. I hung round the coffee-stall, thinking I might hear where I could look for work in the morning, and then the stall-keeper closed for the night. A drizzle was coming on, and the policeman I spoke to told me I had better go to the workhouse. But I didn’t know the road, and if they didn’t take me in (and why should they? for I didn’t belong to Dublin), I’d have to come all the way back again. Why back again? the doctor asked, and she said that she expected more luck about the parks. Than where? queried the doctor. Thau in the streets round a workhouse, she answered. The late hour and the word luck put the thought of prostitution and begging into the doctor’s mind, and it was with a sort of relief that he heard her say that on that night luck would have meant to her a bench where she could sit till daybreak. I was looking for one, she said, when a girl spoke to me. I think I heard you ask the policeman where you could get a lodging, said she; those were he
r very words; but I told her I had no money to pay for one, only a few pence. She asked me if I was from Dublin and I answered I was not, that I was from the County Down and had taken the train from Belfast that night. We walked on together. I said: You are out late, and she told me that she was out to meet somebody. But it’s getting late, she said, and the rain is coming on again; if you stay out all night you’ll be soaked. I told her I couldn’t help that, for I had only a few pence and was afraid to go to a doss-house where the beds are threepence a night. She didn’t answer me and I could see she was turning something over in her head. It was then that I began to take notice of her; I noticed her umbrella, for I had never had one myself, and wondered why she had spoken to me and let me walk by her side. She had a veil, too. Quite the lady, said I to myself, and no ill-looking girl either. She told me her name was Phyllis Hoey and that she worked in the daytime in a biscuit factory, and if I came with her in the morning I could get work there, not work that would be well paid for, but enough to pay for my lodging. As for food and clothes, well, that was another thing, she said. She told me to come in under her umbrella out of the rain, and I came up close, afraid at first to take her arm. We’ll be fellow-workers in the morning, she said, and you can sleep with me to-night. I didn’t know where she was taking me to. It was a long way, and it was all I could do to hold out till the end, and I can’t tell you, sir, what a relief it was to get out of the darkness, to see her light a candle, and to catch sight of the bed. We slept soundly enough, and in the morning she took me to the factory. The manager wanted an extra girl, as it happened, and I would get eight shillings a week. As I only got three-and-six a week for pulling mangel-wurzels, eight shillings seemed like a fortune. Why, said I to Phyllis as we went to the workroom, if you let me live with you we’ll have sixteen shillings a week. We won’t have all that, said Phyllis, for there are always fines; they generally manage to get a shilling a week out of us. Well, fifteen shillings, said I, and it was disheartening to hear her say that we’d have to pay more for the room now there were the two in it.