by George Moore
Timorous, abashed they crossed the threshold. Like a piece of marble, said Cissy. And how unlike herself, answered Elsie, and the girls began to wonder if death reveals or hides the truth, or if truth and falsehood end with life. It seems only natural that the untruthful in life should be untruthful in death, said Cissy. Elsie did not answer, the moment not seeming to her one for criticism of their dead friend. All the same, it was dreadful to die like this, and laying aside their thoughts of the end that might await them, their eyes went round the room in search of the Watteau dress that she had danced in last night, and not finding it, Cissy said: She has hung up her dress in the wardrobe.
She has put away everything. Her parasol is in the corner and her hat is in its box.
She evidently thought it all out.
Not a drawer is open; yet she must have opened many seeking the drug.
You think it was a drug? Cissy whispered, and returning from the bed, she said: It was a drug, for there’s no blood. She put on a fresh nightgown; how like her!
Ah, here is the veronal, said Elsie, and the bottle half empty. If it was full last night, she has taken enough to kill twenty.
And here is the letter she received at Lunions last night, on the toilet table, in full view. Ought we to read it?
If she hadn’t wanted us to read it, she would have destroyed it, answered Elsie, and they read the letter together, lifting their eyes from time to time to make sure that the dead girl was not watching them. If she shouldn’t be dead, Cissy whispered, and should open her eyes and see us reading her letter! She will never open her eyes again, answered Elsie, and looking over Elsie’s shoulder Cissy continued reading the letter that the Comte had written to Etta in answer to a letter of condolence she had written to him, full of pathetic sentiments about his dead wife, ending up by reminding him he had promised her that if ever he was free he would marry her. It was stupid of her, said Cissy, to write such a letter at such a moment. But he needn’t have answered her so roughly.
His letter killed her. All her hopes were set on this grand marriage, all her vanity. The mystery is explained, Morton.
Morton closed the door. What mystery? he asked. She left the letter she got last night on the toilet table.
And you have read it?
If she hadn’t wanted us to read it, she wouldn’t have left it on the toilet table.
That’s true, said Morton, and Elsie handed him the letter. Read it, she said.
No, I couldn’t read it in front of her. It was the cause of her death, I presume?
Elsie told him the contents of the letter, referring to it from time to time, reading out the words with which the Comte bade Etta good-bye. You see, said Elsie, that this letter put an end to all her hopes of ever getting him back.
So she took her life in a fit of spleen, Morton answered. How did she do it?
With a dose of veronal, Cissy replied.
To revenge herself on the Comte, said Elsie. I can think of nothing else.
“Don’t be so harsh, Elsie! Morton answered sharply. Now that she’s dead it would be well to think of her as kindly as we can.
She always struck me as being a little crazed, Cissy interjected. Cut off from a good deal in life, Elsie added, and they went downstairs talking of the parson. Sent away to Paris, Elsie conjectured, to save him the sorrow of learning that she intended to throw him over for the Comte.
But he’ll learn that from the letter, said Morton.
In his grief for her he’ll forget the Comte, Elsie answered.
And will throw himself at her bedside, Morton continued, weeping and praying, and I hope that Harold will not find him here when he arrives. A painful and embarrassing scene it will be for both of them if he does. He reaches the Gare du Nord before six; it will take him an hour to drive from the Gare du Nord to the Gare de Lyons, perhaps more than that, and there may not be a train, or a very slow one. I doubt if he will reach Fontainebleau before ten at the very earliest.
SARAH GWYNN
I
ON RETURNING FROM the study door, whither he had accompanied the last patient, the doctor cast a glance of approbation at the two piles of gold and silver on his table, the gold slightly overtopping the silver; and considering them as a very adequate remuneration for his afternoon’s work, Dr. O’Reardon dropped into his great Chippendale armchair (the very one that Sir Stanley used to sit in — it had returned to Ely Place after a brief sojourn in Taylor’s shop in Liffey Street), and ensconced amid its carvings, his thoughts ran on a tiresome woman for whose everlasting megrim he had written a prescription: five grains of carbonate of soda — a neighbour, an acquaintance, a garrulous woman, who never would take a hint but would go on talking, however many people were in the waiting-room; she paid her guinea, but rarely failed to waste two guineas’ worth of his time, putting him past his complacency. He regretted these accesses of temper by the burnished brass of the fire-irons and the multi-coloured marble chimney-piece, and continued to recall his patients. Another woman engaged his thoughts; her rheumatoid arthritis perplexed him; she didn’t seem to improve under his treatment and he was afraid he would have to try inoculations. These cases, he said, go commonly from bad to worse. A moment after he was thinking of a child he had examined that morning for heart, still uncertain whether the murmur that had come to his ear through the stethoscope meant specific disease or whether it might be attributed to poverty of blood. Another, a still more serious case, was remembered; and so that he might think better he closed his eyes, but began very soon to lose control over his thoughts, a veil seeming to rise and another to descend. He strove against sleep, but it was too late to rouse, and he must have slept for a long or a short time, which he could not say, but he must have slept deeply, for when the knocker of the front door awoke him he stared round the room, not recognising it as his own, returning to consciousness of himself through recollections of the parlourmaid who had run out of the house that morning without saying a word to anybody (she had her wages yesterday). From the parlourmaid his thoughts turned to the cook, who must be upstairs, else she would have gone to the front door. Now who could the visitor be? A patient, most likely, though it was past four o’clock. For a doctor of his position to let a patient in was a breach of etiquette, but circumstance —— Another knock startled him from his meditation, and he returned from the front door followed by a sparely dressed woman, standing not much higher than his elbow.
All men and women resemble some animal, a friend had said one evening, and when he had pointed out many likenesses to cats and dogs, horses and hyenas, among his acquaintances, somebody said: And O’Reardon — what is he like? The answer came at once: A camel, and immediately everybody saw the resemblance: the small head, high nose, long lip, wide, drooping mouth. The story was an old one, almost out of currency, but the little starveling the doctor had just let into his house recalled it. If I am like a camel, he said to himself, what is this woman like? A squirrel? No; a squirrel is a gay boy. Before he could think again the little woman by his side began to tell that she had heard from Miss Lynch that he required a cook, and he listened, already won by a voice so pure and clear that his curiosity was stirred to see his visitor; and the little, blonde face, the upturned nose, and clear, eager eyes that appeared when the lamp was lighted seemed to be the girl he might have guessed if he had laid his mind to guessing — a tiny, thread-paper girl in a straw hat, an alpaca jacket, and a thin skirt that did not hide her broken boots, a starveling, and remembering what Miss Lynch had told him, he said: The cook must be in the house somewhere; she’ll get you a cup of tea.
No, thank you, sir. I came here thinking you wanted a cook. The doctor answered that it was the parlourmaid who had left. Then you’ll not be wanting a cook, sir? she broke in, without a trace of disappointment in her voice; she even seemed to the doctor relieved to hear that she was not required. I remember now, the doctor said. You were in a convent in Wales, weren’t you?
Yes, sir.
Miss Lynch told me
about you; but when you knocked I was asleep and must have slept heavily, for I didn’t know my own room when I awoke.
I am sorry I woke you, sir.
There’s no need for you to be sorry. I’m glad you did, and that I went to the door. You were in a convent for nearly ten years, and because you answered the Sub-Prioress, or maybe the Prioress herself, sharply, they bundled you out, clapping a straw hat on your head and an alpaca jacket on your shoulders, giving you but your bare fare to Dublin, not caring —
Oh, but you mustn’t talk like that, sir! It was all my fault I spoke to our Sub-Prioress in a way that I shouldn’t have. I lost my temper, and all the blame is with me. They did quite right to send me away, for they couldn’t have kept me. You must believe what I say; indeed, I am speaking the truth, and no more than it. The doctor did not answer, and at the end of the pause the nun said: I doubt very much if I should suit you. I think I’ll go.
You shall go, if you wish to go, in a minute or two, but I’d like to say a few words first. Miss Lynch mentioned that you would not hear a word said against the nuns, and advised me not to speak about the convent; but, as I have said, your knock awoke me, and I came to the door unable to collect my thoughts. That’s how it happened, else I should not have spoken about the nuns. So, you see, there’s no real reason for you to run away.
You want a cook, sir? The doctor answered that his cook had decided to stay, but the parlourmaid had left, and that if she would care to accept the situation he would be glad to engage her. I go out in the mornings, he continued, to my hospital or to visit my patients, and in the afternoons I receive patients from two till four. The wages are twenty-four pounds a year. I don’t know your name.
My name is Sarah Gwynn, sir; and during the pause Dr. O’Reardon was again attracted by the tiny face, lit by blue-grey nervous eyes. I hope you’ll not refuse the situation, he said, for if you do Miss Lynch will be very angry with me for my indiscretion.
I should not like you to have it on your mind, sir, that the nuns behaved otherwise than rightly, and would sooner lose the situation than —
Miss Lynch, who is a Roman Catholic, doesn’t take that view, but we need not trouble ourselves about the rights and wrongs. You may have been overworked and tired; your nerves may have given way.
Yes, sir, that was it.
Sarah’s vehement defence of her former friends and sisters in the Lord Jesus Christ had evoked the doctor’s sympathy, and smitten by her originality, he determined not to lose her. You will require some clothes, he said, assuming that she had agreed to stay, and he went to his writing-table and took five pounds from the pile of gold. At the sight of so much money Sarah drew back, as if afraid. I should like you to buy the things you want before the shops close, he continued. Miss Lynch will advise you, perhaps accompany you, as you have only just arrived in Dublin.
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 tomorrow.
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.
I he 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 inquire, 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 hueer enough to set the least curious wondering bow 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 that had come out of this deterurination. 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.
