by George Moore
He took a book from his portmanteau and tried to read. His mind was perturbed and his hand trembled. ‘I shall not close my eyes to-night,’ he said, and he looked round the room despairingly. The four massive pieces of oak furniture it contained were veiled in shadows that the light of his candle did not penetrate. He sat with the light of the candle and the moon upon his face. Again he took up his book and strove to read. Had he been dozing? He started - he listened. He felt his flesh grow cold. A low stealthy shuffle moved on the staircase. He grasped the arms of his chair. Was it a dream? Was he mistaken? Surely not! The river gleamed amid the reeds and silent hills; the lonely plain, where the river gleamed, seemed pregnant with misfortune.
He did not sleep until morning, and then he slept so heavily that he made no inquiries about leaving until the afternoon - too late to catch the last train. The prospect of spending another day at Charmandean was not pleasing, and to avoid its inquisition he remained in his room and wrote letters. His dislike of the place had grown into such a fear that he avoided, as much as possible, looking on the landscape, and the posts of the great bed often startled him. It was with difficulty he summoned courage to take his letters to the post. He had hoped by a detour he might escape the observation, but he was unsuccessful, and had to run the gauntlet of all eyes. The little black eyes watched him out of the red, rugged face - that face was now an obsession, and held him like a nightmare; and he strove to drop his letters into the box so that they might not be counted, but his hand trembled, and he felt that they had been counted.
The evening was beautiful and calm; even the prying villagers could not utterly destroy the sweetness of the twilight; and for a moment he hung between his fears of being followed and his inclination to linger in the fading light. He yielded to his fancy; but he had not gone far before he repented his indiscretion, for as he was about to cross the bridge he perceived two forms crouching in the dusk, and he fled across the meadow, now thick with aftermath; he hid himself in the darkness of the trees, and the dew sank through his shoes. Then hearing the voices of his pursuers nearing him, he crept through the shaws that grew along the hill-side almost to the edge of the stream, and sustained by an obtuse instinct, he ran along the edge, sometimes falling into the water, but saving himself by catching at the grass and reeds. How his heart beat when he gained the bridge and ran along the road leading to the Grange! The stairs creaked beneath his rapid feet, and he closed the door, dreaming madly of escape. The casement was high; but perhaps when all was still he might escape by the window. He looked out, scanning the great walls, and, seeing three men watching in the moonlight, he hastily withdrew, and sat quaking in the dark. Presently his fears seemed exaggerated, and he argued that, perhaps, there was no real cause for alarm; and out of this calm of mind came a sense of his condition. He took off his wet clothes, and lay down in bed. But sleep fled from his eyelids, and the events of the last two days silhouetted across his mind in a long procession, and in the insomnia each insignificant detail became terrible, and all that could be taken in proof of death and doom crowded upon him - monstrous and deformed, scarcely like life. And it was when such fancies were at their highest, when the silence was deepest, that sounds of feet on the staircase crept into his ears. Then the sounds grew distinct. Tramp, tramp came heavy treads, and the staircase groaned. Rigid he sat in the great bed, his thin hands moist with perspiration, clutching the sheets.
‘They may have passed my door - no, they have stopped!’
He heard further steps on the rambling staircase, and then, seized by blind terror, he sprang out of bed and pushed the oak table across the doorway. He strove to move the wardrobe, but his poor strength was not sufficient, and he uttered the little cry that animals utter when death is nearing them. Then, in the confusion of death and despair, he dimly distinguished that they were breaking through the door, and that its panels were falling one by one. He clung to the bed; his eyebrows were raised, his mouth was open, his skin was as white as a dead man’s, he was an embodiment of the idea of terror, and when Jim Smith pushed down the door, he raised his arms, and, as if falling from a cross, he fell, quite dead.
A FAITHFUL HEART
Part I
It was a lovely morning, and Major Shepherd walked rapidly, his toes turned well out, his shoulders set well back. Behind him floated the summer foliage of Appleton Park - the family seat of the Shepherds - and at the end of the smooth, white road lay the Major’s destination - the small town of Branbury.
The Major was the medium height; his features were regular and cleanly cut. He would have been a handsome man if his eyes had not been two dark mud-coloured dots, set close together, wholly lacking in expression. A long brown moustache swept picturesquely over bright, smoothly shaven cheeks, and the ends of this ornament were beginning to whiten. The Major was over forty. He carried under his arm a brown-paper parcel (the Major was rarely seen without a brown-paper parcel), and in it were things he could not possibly do without - his diary and his letter-book. The brown-paper parcel contained likewise a number of other papers; it contained the Major’s notes for a book he was writing on the principal county families in Buckinghamshire. The Major had been collecting information for this book for many years, and with it he hoped to make two or three hundred pounds — money which he stood sorely in need of — and to advance his position in the county, a position which, in his opinion, his father had done little to maintain, and which, to his very deep regret, his sisters were now doing their best to compromise. That very morning, while packing up his brown-paper parcel, some quarter of an hour ago, he had had a somewhat angry interview on this subject with his sisters. For he had thought it his duty to reprove them for keeping company with certain small London folk who had chosen to come to live in the neighbourhood. Ethel had said that they were not going to give up their friends because they were not good enough for him, and Maud had added significantly that they were quite sure that their friends were quite as good as the friend he was going to see in Branbury. The Major turned on his heel and left the house.
As he walked towards Branbury he asked himself if it were possible that they knew anything about Charlotte Street; and as he approached the town he looked round nervously, fearing lest some friend might pop down upon him, and, after some hestitation, decided to take a long détour so as to avoid passing by the house of some people he knew. As he made his way through a bye-street his step quickened, and at the corner of Charlotte Street he looked round to make sure he was not followed. He then drew his keys from his pocket and let himself into a small, mean-looking house.
Major Shepherd might have spared himself the trouble of these precautions; no one was minded to watch him, for everyone knew perfectly well who lived in 27, Charlotte Street. It was common talk that the tall, dark woman who lived in 27 was Mrs Charles Shepherd, and that the little girl who ran by Mrs Shepherd’s side on the rare occasions when she was seen in the streets - for it was said that the Major did not wish her to walk much about the town, lest she should attract the attention of the curious, who might be tempted to make inquiries - was the Major’s little daughter, and it had been noticed that this little girl went forth now and then, basket on her arm, to do the marketing. It was said that Mrs Shepherd had been a servant in some lodging-house where the Major had been staying; other scandal-mongers declared that they knew for certain that the Major had made his wife’s acquaintance in the street. Rumour had never wandered far from the truth. The Major had met his wife one night as he was coming home from his club. They seemed to suit one another; he saw her frequently for several months, and then, fearing to lose her, in a sudden access of jealousy - he had some time before been bitterly jilted - he proposed to marry her. The arrival of his parents, who came up to town beseeching of him to do nothing rash, only served to intensify his determination, and, losing his temper utterly, he told his father and mother that he would never set his foot in Appleton Park in their lifetime if they ever again ventured to pry into his private affairs; and
, refusing to give any information regarding his intentions, he asked them to leave his lodgings. What he did after they never knew; years went by, and they sighed and wondered, but the matter was never alluded to in Appleton Park.
But the Major had only £400 a year, and though he lived at Appleton Park, never spending a penny more than was necessary, he could not allow her more than £3 a week. He had so many expenses: his club, his clothes, and all the incidental expenses he was put to in the grand houses where he went to stay. By strict economy, however, Mrs Shepherd managed to make two ends meet. Except when she was too ill and had to call in a charwoman to help her with the heaviest part of the work, she undertook the entire housework herself: when times were hardest, she had even taken in a lodger, not thinking herself above cooking and taking up his dinner. She had noticed that her economies endeared her to the Major, and it was pleasant to please him. Hers was a kind-hearted, simple nature, that misfortune had brought down in the world; but, as is not uncommon with persons of weak character, she possessed a clear, sensible mind which allowed her to see things in their true lights, and without difficulty she recognized the unalterable nature of her case. It mattered little whether the Major acknowledged her or not, his family would never have anything to do with her; the doors of Society were for ever closed against her. So within a year of her marriage with the Major she was convinced that her marriage had better be kept a secret; for, by helping to keep it a secret, she could make substantial amends to the man who had married her; by proclaiming it to the world, she would only alienate his affection. She understood this very well, and in all docility and obedience lent herself to the deception, accepting without complaint a mean and clandestine existence. But she would not allow her little girl to carry up a jug of hot water, and it was only rarely, when prostrate with pain, that she allowed Nellie to take the basket and run round to the butcher’s and buy a bit of steak for their dinner. The heiress of Appleton Park must be brought up free from all degrading memory. But for herself she had no care. Appleton Park could never be anything to her, even if she outlived the old people, which was hardly probable. What would she, a poor invalid, do there? She did not wish to compromise her husband’s future, and still less the future of her darling daughter. She could only hope that, when dead, her sins would be forgiven her; and that this release might not be long delayed she often prayed. The house was poor, and she was miserable, but any place was good enough to suffer in. So she said when she rose and dragged herself downstairs to do a little cooking; and the same thought came to her when she lay all alone in the little parlour, furnished with what a few pounds could buy - a paraffin-lamp, a round table, a few chairs, an old and ill-padded mahogany armchair, in which it was a torture to lie; not an ornament on the chimney-piece, not a flower, not a book to while away the interminable hours. From the barren little passage, covered with a bit of oil-cloth, all and everything in 27 was meagre and unimaginative. The Major had impressed his personality upon the house. Everything looked as if it had been scraped. There was a time when Mrs Shepherd noticed the barrenness of her life; but she had grown accustomed to it, and she waited for the Major in the terrible arm-chair, glad when she heard his step, almost happy when he sat by her and told her what was happening ‘at home’.
He took her hand and asked her how she was. ‘You are looking very tired, Alice.’
‘Yes, I’m a little tired. I have been working all the morning. I made up my room, and then I went out to the butcher’s and bought a piece of steak. I have made you such a nice pudding for your lunch; I hope you will like it.’
‘There’s not much fear about my liking any beefsteak pudding you make, dear; I never knew anyone who could make one like you. But you should not tire yourself - and just as you are beginning to get better.’
Mrs Shepherd smiled and pressed her husband’s hand. The conversation fell. At the end of a long silence Mrs Shepherd said: ‘What has happened to trouble you, dear? I know something has, I can see it by your face.’
Then the Major told how unpleasantly his sisters had answered him when he had ventured to suggest that they saw far too much of their new neighbours, who were merely common sort of Londoners, and never would be received by the county. ‘I’m sure that someone must have told them of my visits here; I’m sure they suspect something... Girls are very sharp nowadays.’
‘I am sorry, but it is no fault of mine. I rarely leave the house, and I never walk in the principal streets if I can possibly help it.’
‘I know, dear, I know that no one can be more careful than you; but as people are beginning to smell a rat notwithstanding all our precautions, I suppose there’s nothing for it but to go back to London.’
‘Oh, you don’t think it will be necessary to go back to London, do you? The place suits the child so well, and it is so nice to see you almost every day; and it is such a comfort when you are not here to know you are only a few miles away; and from the top of the hill the trees of the park are visible, and whenever I feel well enough I walk there and think of the time our Nellie will be the mistress of all those broad acres.’
‘It is the fault of the busybodies,’ he said; ‘I cannot think what pleasure people find in meddling in other people’s affairs. I never care what anyone else does. I have quite enough to do thinking of my own.’
Mrs Shepherd did not answer. ‘I see,’ he said, ‘you don’t like moving, but if you remain here all the trouble we have taken not to get found out these last ten years will go for nothing. There will be more worry and vexations, and I really don’t think I could bear much more; I believe I should go off my head.’ The little man spoke in a calm, even voice, and stroked his silky moustache gravely.
‘Very well, then, my dear, I’ll return to town as soon as you like - as soon as it is convenient. I daresay you are right.’
‘I’m sure I am. You have never found me giving you wrong advice yet, have you, dear?’
Then they went down to the kitchen to eat the steak pudding; and when the Major had finished his second helping he lit his pipe, and the conversation turned on how they should get rid of their house, and how much the furniture would fetch. When he had decided to sell the furniture, and had fixed the day of their departure, Mrs Shepherd said - ‘There’s one thing I have to ask you, dear, and I hope you won’t refuse my request. I should like to see Appleton Park before I leave. I should like to go there with Nellie and see the house and the lands that will one day belong to her.’
‘I don’t know how it is to be managed. If you were to meet my mother and sisters they would be sure to suspect something at once.’
‘No one will know who I am. I should like to walk about the grounds for half an hour with the child. If I don’t see Appleton now I never shall see it.’
The Major stroked his long, silky moustache with his short, crabbed little hand. He remembered that he had heard the carriage ordered for two o’clock - they were all going to a tennis-party some miles distant. Under the circumstances she might walk about the grounds without being noticed. He did not think any of the gardeners would question her, and, if they did, he could trust her to give an evasive answer. And then he would like her to see the place - just to know what she thought of it.
‘Won’t you say yes?’ she said at last, her voice breaking the silence sharply.
‘I was just thinking, dear: they have all gone to a tennis-party to-day. There’ll be no one at home.’
‘Well! why not to-day?’
‘Well; I was thinking I’ve been lucky enough to get hold of some very interesting information about the Websters - about their ancestor Sir Thomas, who distinguished himself in the Peninsular - and I wanted to get it copied under the proper heading, but I daresay we can do that another day. The only thing is, how are you to get there? You are not equal to walking so far -’
‘I was thinking, dear, that I might take a fly. I know there is the expense, but...
‘Yes; five or six shillings, at least. And where will you leave the fly? At
the lodge gate? The flyman would be sure to get into conversation with the lodge-keeper or his wife. He’d tell them where he came from, and -’
‘Supposing you were to get a two-wheeled trap and drive me yourself; that would be nicer still.’
‘I’m so unlucky; someone would be sure to see me.’
The Major puffed at his pipe in silence. Then he said, ‘If you were to put on a thick veil, and we were to get out of the town by this end and make our way through the lanes - it would be a long way round; but one hardly meets anyone that way, and the only danger would be going. We should return in the dusk. I don’t care how late you make it; my people won’t be home till nine or ten o’clock at night, perhaps later still. There will be dancing, and they are sure to stay late.’
Finally the matter was decided, and about four o’clock the Major went to the livery stable to order the trap. Mrs Shepherd and Nellie joined him soon after. Turning from the pony, whose nose he was stroking, he said -
‘I hope you have brought a thick shawl; it will be cold coming back in the evening.’
‘Yes, dear, here it is, and another for Nellie. What do you think of this veil?’
‘It will do very well. I do hope these stablemen won’t talk; let’s get off at once.’ The Major lifted in the child, tucked the rug about them, and cried to the stableman to let go. He drove very nervously, afraid at every moment lest the pony should bolt; and when the animal’s extreme docility assured him there was no such danger, he looked round right and left, expecting at every moment some friend to pounce down upon him. But the ways were empty, the breeze that came across the fields was fresh and sweet, and they were all beginning to enjoy themselves, when he suddenly espied a carriage following in his wake. He whipped up the pony, and contrived to distance his imaginary pursuer; and having succeeded, he praised his own driving, and at the cross-roads he said: ‘I dare not go any farther, but you can’t miss the lodge gate in that clump of trees - the first white gate you come to. Don’t ask any questions; it is ten to one you’ll find the gate open; walk straight through, and don’t forget to go through the beech-wood at the back of the house; the river runs right round the hill. I want to know what you think of the view. But pray don’t ask to see the house; there’s nothing to see; the housemaids would be sure to talk, and describe you to my sisters. So now good-bye; hope you’ll enjoy yourself. I shall have just time to get to Hambrook and back; I want to see my solicitor. You’ll have seen everything in a couple of hours, so in a couple of hours I shall be waiting for you here.’
