G. A. Henty - "Through the Fray"

Hamilton Wright Mabie - "Essays On Work And Culture"

John Richardson - "Wacousta (Volume II)"

Gertrude Page - "Winding Paths"

Spring Days

G >> George Moore >> Spring Days




"And when are you going to start the new scheme?"

"Immediately. One of my reasons for accepting fourteen thousand pounds
down as a settlement in full was because I was beginning to fear that
he might get wind of my marriage. From one or two things I have heard
lately, I have reason to suspect that the secret is beginning to ooze
out, and I thought it might be as well to take time by the forelock."

"And you told him? What did he say?"

"What people usually say when they criticise other people's lives
without knowing anything of their temptations and sufferings. But I
want to tell you about my scheme. I have bought Blue Mantle, the
winner of the Czarewitch, and only beaten by a length for the
Cambridgeshire, a three-year-old, with eight stone on his back; a most
unlucky horse--if he had been in the Leger or Derby he would have won
one or both. He broke down when he was four years old. By King Tom out
of Merry Agnes, by Newminster out of Molly Bawn."

"I didn't know you knew so much about racing."

"I know more than you think. I don't let out all I know."

"And how much did you pay for Blue Mantle?"

"Dirt cheap. I can imagine myself two years hence, when my first batch
of yearlings is put up for sale--500, 650, 800, 1000, knocked down for
1000 guineas, brown colt by Blue Mantle out of Wild Rose, bred by
William Brookes, Esq."

"I don't think money will come in quite so fast as that."

"Perhaps not; but can't you let a fellow enjoy himself? I never knew
any one like you for throwing cold water. I believe you are jealous."

"What nonsense!"

"Well, never mind. I shall be the deuce of a dog, see if I shan't. I
always like to kill two birds with one stone if I can, and my business
will bring me into connection with the very best in the land.
Unfortunately! my people don't care about getting on; now I do. I like
to know people who are better than myself--at all events, who are no
worse. I shouldn't be surprised if I were dining at Goodwood and
Arundel before long. When I go up to town I shall be calling on Lady
This and Lady That, and later on I might get in somewhere in the
Conservative interest."

"How long you may know a man, and then find you are mistaken in his
character," thought Frank. "So vanity is at the bottom of all these
efforts to make money."

"When are you coming to the Manor House?"

"Impossible. You know I can't go there so long as your father--"

"Come in one afternoon; he'll ask you to stay to dinner. He has
forgotten all about it."

"I cannot come to the Manor House until my engagement to your sister
is sanctioned by him."

"The way to get that is to come to the Manor House and talk him into
it. For my part, I think, even from his point of view, that it would
be better that he should recognise the engagement; nothing can be more
damaging than these clandestine meetings."

"What can I do? I will not give her up."

"I never interfere. I have quite enough worries of my own. I must be
getting home. It is very late. Good-bye."

The green was as bright as day in the moonlight and Frank watched
Willy walking, his shoulders thrown back. He sighed; an undefinable,
but haunting melancholy hung about Willy; he often impressed Frank as
an old book--a book whose text is trite--which no one will read, and
which yet continues to make its mute appeal; a something that has
always missed its way, that can hardly be said to be an adequate thing
to offer for any man's money, that will soon disappear somehow out of
all sight and reckoning.




XV



A few days after he got a letter from Lizzie, saying she was alone and
ill, and asking him to come and see her. He took the next train to
Brighton. The land-lady's daughter, a girl of about twelve, opened the
door to him.

"How is Miss Baker? Is she any better?"

"Please, sir, she is not at all well, she has cold shivers; and mother
went away yesterday."

"And who looks after Miss Baker?"

"Please, sir, I do."

"You do! Is there no one else in the house?"

"No, sir."

"Is Miss Baker in bed?"

"No, sir. She said she would get up a little while this afternoon,
'cause she said she thought you was coming."

"Go and tell her I am here."

"Please, sir, she said you was to go upstairs--the back room on the
second floor, please."

"Come in."

"I am so sorry you are ill, Lizzie. What is the matter?"

"I don't know; I think I caught a severe chill. I stayed out very late
on the beach."

"But why are you crying? Do tell me. Can I do anything?"

"No no. What does it matter whether I laugh or cry? Nothing matters
now. I don't care what becomes of me."

"A pretty girl like you; nonsense! Some one rich and grand will fall
in love with you, and give you everything you want."

"I don't want any one to fall in love with me; I am done for--don't
care what becomes of me."

"Do tell me about it. Have you heard anything further about him? Do
tell me; don't cry like that."

"No, no, leave me, leave me! I am so miserable. I don't know why I
wrote to you. I hope I shall die."

"It is very lucky you did write to me, for you are clearly very ill.
What is the matter?"

"I don't know; I can't get warm. This room is very cold--don't you
think so?"

"Cold? No."

"I feel cold; my throat is very bad--perhaps I shall be better in the
morning."

"You must see a doctor."

"Oh, no! I don't want to see a doctor."

"You must see a doctor."

"No, no, I beg of you. I only wrote to you because I was feeling so
miserable."

Lizzie stood between him and the door, imploring him not to fetch a
doctor, but to go away at once, and to tell no one she had written to
him, or that he had been to see her. "Nothing matters now--I am
ruined--I don't care what becomes of me." He marvelled; but soon all
considerations were swept away in anxiety for her bodily health; and
having extorted a promise from her that she would not leave the room
until he came back, he rushed to the nearest chemist and hence to the
doctor.

"I want you to come at once, if possible, and see a young lady who, I
fear, is dangerously ill. She has not been in Brighton long. She is
quite alone. She sent for me. I live at Southwick. I came out at once.
I have known her a long time. I may say she is a great friend of mine.
I found her very ill--I must say her condition seems to me alarming. I
should like her to see a doctor at once. Can you come at once?"

"I am just finishing dinner. I will come in about ten minutes' time.
What is the address?"

"20 Preston Street.--I hope he does not think there is anything
wrong," thought Frank. "He look's as if he did," and with a view of
removing suspicion, he said: "She is a young lady whom I have known
for some years. We had lost sight of each other until we travelled
down in the train together. I say this because I do not wish you to
think there is anything wrong."

"My good sir, I should not allow myself to have any opinions on the
matter. I am summoned to attend a patient, and I give the best advice
in my power."

"Yes, but one can't help forming opinions--a beautiful young girl
living alone in lodgings, and having apparently for sole protector a
young man, are circumstances that might be easily misconstrued, and as
I am engaged to be married, I think it right to tell you exactly how I
stand in relation to this young woman."

The doctor bowed.

"Do you not think I did well in making this explanation?"

"It can do no harm; we medical men see so much that we take no notice
of anything but our patient. But tell me something of this young
lady's suffering. Can you describe the symptoms?"

"She has a racking headache--she is shivering all over--she sits by
the fire and cannot get warm. It looks to me as if it were fever."

"Does she complain of her throat?"

"Yes; she cannot swallow."

"Probably an attack of quinsy."

"Is that dangerous?"

"No; but it is infectious."

"I don't mind about that--she is alone. I will see her through it."

"I will go round to Preston Street immediately I have finished dinner
--in about ten minutes or a quarter of an hour."

When the doctor had seen Lizzie, he said to Frank, who accompanied him
downstairs: "Just as I expected--quinsy. She will take from eight to
ten days to get well. We have taken it in time, that's one good thing.
The throat is very bad. She must have a linseed poultice, and she must
use the gargle. Is there any one in the house who can attend to her?"

"I am afraid not; the landlady went away this morning, leaving no one
in the house but that child. She will, I hope, be home to-morrow."

"In that case you had better have a nurse in; I will give you the
address of one."

When Frank returned he found her lying on the bed weeping. As before,
she refused to tell him the cause of her grief. She would make no
other answer than that nothing mattered now, that she didn't care what
became of her; and when he spoke of going to fetch a nurse, she waved
her hands excitedly, declaring she would on no consideration stop in
the house with a woman she didn't know. And, hardly able to decide
what course he should take, he promised not to leave her; she clung
about him, and he was forced to send the child (whose name he now
found to be Emma) to the chemist for the linseed, and he wrote a note
asking for explicit directions how it should be used. Then he had to
persuade Lizzie to go to bed. She resisted him, and it was with great
difficulty that he got her boots and stockings off; then she collected
her strength, unbuttoned her dress, and took off her stays. Then she
said: "Go out of the room for a moment."

He found his way into the kitchen, and guessing that hot water would
be required, he lit a fire. But there was no muslin, and he had to
send Emma for some. Lizzie smiled faintly when they entered--Frank
with a basin, Emma with a kettle and a parcel of linen. Frank poured
some rum into a glass, and beat an egg up with it.

"What is that?" she asked; and her voice was so faint and hoarse that
he turned, quite startled.

"Something that will do your throat good and keep your strength up.
Possibly you will not be able to eat much to-morrow." He held the
tumbler to her lips, and at length succeeded in getting her to drink
it. "Emma, is the kettle boiling?"

"Yes, sir."

"You had better go downstairs and get some coals, and if you can't
find any nightlights you must go out and buy a box. Have you got any
money over?"

"Yes, sir, sixpence."

"Now, Lizzie, let me put this on your throat. Throw your head well
back. There, it isn't too hot?"

And all that night he sat by her bedside. Often she could not get her
breath, and he had to lift her and prop her up with pillows; and four
times he lit the candle, and, with tired eyes, mixed the meal and
placed it on her throat. The firelight played upon the ceiling, the
kettle sang softly, the sufferer moaned, the light brought the rumble
of a cart, and they awoke from shallow sleeps that blurred but did not
extinguish consciousness of the actual present. "You must not uncover
yourself; you will catch cold. Let me pin this shawl about you." About
eight o'clock Emma knocked at the door. Frank asked her to make him a
cup of tea. The morning dragged along amid many anxieties, for he
could see she was worse than she had been over night.

"The disease must take its course," said the doctor; "we shall be
fortunate if by poulticing we can stop it; if we can't, it will come
to a head in about eight or nine days' time, and then it will break.
Did you see the nurse last night? Couldn't she come?"

"She," said Frank, pointing to the sufferer, "wouldn't allow me to
send for her; she said she would not stay in the house with a strange
woman. She was very excited; I fancy she has had some great mental
trouble--a sweetheart, I suppose. I did not like to cross her. I
thought I could nurse her; I did my best. Was the poultice all right?"

"Quite right. But you will have to sit up with her to-night. You will
be very tired; you had better get in a nurse."

"I think I shall be able to manage. The landlady is expected home this
evening or to-morrow morning. What had she better have to eat?"

"She won't be able to eat anything for some days. Try to get her to
take an egg beat up in a wine-glass of rum."

Hourly she grew worse, and on the following day Frank stood by her bed
momentarily fearing that she would suffocate; once her face blackened
and he had to seize and lift her out of bed, and place her in a chair.
When she seemed a little easier he called Emma, and they made the bed
and cleaned up the room together. Then he ate a sausage and drank a
glass of beer that had been brought from the public-house.

The first night had seemed long and weary, but now the hours passed
quickly; he had forgotten all but the suffering woman, and in the
interest of inducing her to swallow some beef-tea, in the pride of
such successes another and then another day fled lightly. Nor did he
feel tired as he had done, and now a nap in an arm-chair seemed all
that he required. So the landlady came as an unwelcome interruption of
an absorbing occupation. Haggard and unshaven, he returned to
Southwick, where he found a note on his table from General Horlock,
asking him to dinner that evening.

"I know the meaning of this: Maggie will be there--a reconciliation!
Can I?" He turned his ear quickly from his conscience; he was
frightened of the voice that would tell him that Maggie was nothing to
him, never had been, never could be; that he had been born for Lizzie
Baker, as the soldier is for the sword or the bullet that kills him;
others had passed him, had been heard sharply, had gleamed dangerously
in his eyes. They were but signs and omens meant for others, not for
him, and they had passed. But this one had remained, though often
lost, as that remains which is to be, and she was now no less for him
than before, though now seemingly lost irrevocably to another; and in
all the seeming of irrevocable loss was drawing nearer--not with the
victory and destiny of old in her eyes, but with no less victory and
destiny inherent in her. Though far from him, she had been for long a
disintegrated influence, but what had been distant was now near, and
all was yielding like a ship in the attraction of the fabulous
loadstone mountain. That room!--the wash-hand-stand, the dirty panes
of glass, the iron bed-there his fate had been sealed. That body which
he had lifted out of bed still lay heavy in his arms. He still
breathed the odour of the hair he had gathered from the pillow and
striven to pin up; those eyes of limpid blue, pale as water where
isles are sleeping, burned deep and livid in his soul; the touch and
sight of that flesh, the sound of that voice, those tears, the
solicitude and anxiety of those hours of night and day conspired
against him, and his life was big with incipient overthrow.

Lizzie was with him at all times. He saw her eyes, then her teeth, and
the perfume and touch of her hair was often about him; and yet he was
hardly conscious that a revolution of feeling was in progress within
him; and when the time came for him to go to Horlock's he went there
avoiding all thoughts of Maggie, although he knew he would be called
upon that night to take a decisive step. He saw little of her before
dinner, and during dinner the General's allusions to the quarrels of
lovers being the renewal of love vexed him, and he thought, "Confound
it! If I want to make it up I will; but I am not going to be bullied
into it." When the ladies left the room he found it difficult to
pretend to the kind-hearted old soldier that he did not believe that
Maggie would forgive him. "Forgive me for what? I have done nothing."

"To get on with women you must always admit you are in the wrong--ha,
ha, ha!" laughed the General; "now I have it from my wife--women know
everything--ha, ha, ha!" laughed the General. "Have another glass of
sherry?"

"No, thanks; couldn't take any more."

"I took I won't tell you how many glasses before I proposed to my
wife, and then I was afraid; enough to make me--a clever woman like
Mrs. Horlock, I believe you wouldn't find a woman in England like Mrs.
Horlock. Look round; all that's her work. Look at that white Arab--
exactly like him. I won five hundred pounds with that horse; but I
wouldn't be satisfied, and I ran him again the following day and lost
it all and five hundred more with it. I had another horse. My wife is
modelling him in wax; she will show it to you in the next room.
Marvellous woman!"

Passing Maggie by who was sitting in the window, Frank inveigled Mrs.
Horlock into an anatomical discussion. The General stretched out his
feet, put on his spectacles, and took up the _St James's_. The
conversation dropped, and, full of apprehension and expecting
reconciliation, Frank went to Maggie and talked to her of the tennis
parties he was going to, of the people he had seen--of indifferent
things. The time was tense with the fate of their lives. Once she
turned her head and sighed. Time slipped by, and still they talked of
their friends--of things they knew perfectly. Maggie said: "I hope you
are not angry; I hope we shall remain friends." Frank replied: "I hope
so," and again the conversation paused. The General denounced
Gladstone, and praised his wife's sculpture. Ten o'clock! Angel was
lifted out of his basket. If Maggie had been Helen and Southwick Troy,
he would not be kept waiting; the dogs had to be taken out; Willy came
to fetch Maggie; hands were tendered, lips said good-bye, and, with a
sense of parting, they parted.

Feeling adrift and strangely alone, he walked to his lodging. His
future loomed up in his mind as vague and as illusive as the village
that now glared through the mist, white and phantasmal. He did not
regret--we can hardly regret the impossible. Then, falling back on a
piece of prose, he said: "Where was the good? Mount Rorke would never
have given his consent. Poor Lizzie; I hope she is better. I hope it
has broken. She won't get any relief until it does."

And next day, towards evening, he went to Brighton. He found her
shrinking over the fire, wrapped in a woollen shawl.

"How are you to-day? You look a little better. I did not expect to
find you out of bed."

"I am better, thank you; it broke yesterday, and I feel relieved. You
are very good. I think I should have died if it had not been for you.
Think of that landlady leaving me in the way she did."

"What was the reason? Why did she rush off in that way?"

"She went to town to see her sister, and she says she was taken ill.
She drinks."

"Does she? I hope she looked after you yesterday?"

"Oh, yes."

"As well as I did?"

"I don't know about that; you are a very good nurse. It was very good
of you; no one else would have done it."

"What, not even _he_?"

"You were with me for four days, and you never even went to bed--never
took your clothes off."

"Never even washed myself. By George! I was glad to get home and have
a good wash. I was a sorry-looking object--haggard and unshaven."

"Where did you say you had been to?"

"Nobody asked me."

"Not Maggie?"

"No; I didn't tell you our engagement is broken off."

"No; you didn't say nothing about it."

"On account of you. She discovered that you had been to my studio, and
she said I was keeping a woman in Brighton."

"Keeping a woman in Brighton--she thinks you are keeping me! I will
write to her and tell her that it is not true. What right has she to
say such things about me?"

"She doesn't say it about you. She says a woman."

"She means me."

"No, she doesn't; she doesn't know anything about you. Some one told
her I went into Brighton every day by the four o'clock train, and she
put two and two or rather two and three together, and said it was
six."

"But I will write to her. I will not be the cause of any one's
marriage being broken off."

"You need not trouble. I saw her last night, and I could have made it
all right had I chosen--she was quite willing."

"You can't care for her!"

"I suppose not. I don't think I ever really loved her. I thought I
did. I was mistaken."

"You are very changeable."

"No, I don't think I am--at least not so far as you are concerned. I
was mistaken. I was in love with some one else--with you."

"With me?"

"Yes, with you. I was in love with you when we went to Reading, and
never got over it. I thought I had, but when love is real we never get
over it. I always loved you, and those four days I spent nursing you
have brought it all out. I shall never love any one else. I know you
don't care for me; you said once you couldn't care for me."

"I! I am too miserable to care for any one. I wish you had let me die;
but that is ungrateful. You must excuse me, I am so miserable. Why
speak of loving me? I can love no one. I don't care what becomes of
me. I am ruined; nothing matters now."

"I wish you would confide in me; you can trust me. Has he forsaken
you? Can you not make it up?"

"No, never now; I shall never see him again."

"Has anything happened lately, since you came to Brighton?"

Lizzie nodded.

"Don't cry like that; tell me about it."

"What's the use? Nothing matters now."

"Has he been here?"

Lizzie nodded, and Frank folded the shawl about her, and wiped her
tears away with his pocket handkerchief. "Since you were ill?"

"No, before I was ill; he was down here watching me. He found out I
had gone to your studio, and he said the most dreadful things--that he
would break your head, and that I had never been true to him, and that
I was not fit to be the wife of an honest man."

"But I will tell him that you came to my studio to sit for your
portrait."

"No, you mustn't write; it would only make matters worse. No use; he
says he will never see me again."

"Where can I see him? Has he gone back to London? I will follow him
and tell him he is mistaken." "No, please don't, and please don't go
to the 'Gaiety'; he is a violent-tempered man; something dreadful
might occur. Please, promise me."

"Not go to the 'Gaiety'? He doesn't know me."

"Yes, he does."

"Have I seen him? Do tell me; you know you can trust me. I am your
friend. Tell me--"

"You have seen him in the 'Gaiety,' in the grill-room--the waiter,
number two, the good-looking tall man."

"Oh!"

"He wasn't always a waiter; his people are very superior. He has been
unfortunate."

"And it was he you loved this long while?"

"I never cared for another man."

"I must write and tell him he is committing an act of injustice. I
will make this matter right for you, Lizzie."

"Do you think you can?"

"I am sure of it."

He rang for the landlady, and asked for writing materials. She
apologised for the penny bottle of ink, and spoke of getting a table
from the next room, but he said he could write very well on the
chimney-piece. "I suppose I had better begin, 'Sir'?"

"Don't people generally begin, 'Dear Sir'?"

"Not when they don't know the people they are writing to."

"But you do know him a little. He always said you were very haughty.
You used to sit at his table."

"I think I had better begin the letter with 'Sir.'"

"Very well. You know best. He was always very jealous."




XVI



"SIR,--I hear from Miss Baker that you were in Brighton last week,
and, drawing the inference from the fact that she came to my studio to
sit for her portrait, you accuse her of very grievous impropriety. I
beg to assure you that this is not so. At my urgent request, Miss
Baker, whom I had better say I have known for some years, consented to
give me a sitting. My intentions were purely artistic; hers were
confined to a wish to oblige an old friend, and I deeply regret that
they should have been misinterpreted, and I fear much unhappiness
caused thereby."

"Do you think that will do?"

"Yes, it is a beautiful letter."

"Do you think so--do you really think so? Do you think I have said
all?"

"You might say something--that I never even kissed you; and that you
respected me too much."

"I will if you like, but don't you think that is implied?"

"Perhaps so; but you see he does not read many books. He hasn't time
for much reading, and you put things in a difficult way. They sound
beautiful, but I--"

"Show me."

"Well, this 'grievous impropriety.' I know what you mean, but I
couldn't explain it."

"Shall I say 'serious impropriety'? but grievous is the right word.
You say a grievous sin for a mortal sin. If we had done any wrong it
would have been a grievous sin; but I'll change the word if you like."

"No, don't change it on my account; but I think he would understand an
easier word better."

"A 'heinous impropriety'? No, that won't do. A 'serious impropriety.'
That will do. Is there anything else you would like me to alter?"

"No, I don't think there is."

"You think this letter will convince him that there was nothing
wrong?"

"I hope so; but he is a very suspicious man."

"I will post it when I go out." Then after a long silence: "Do you
know what time it is? It must be getting late."

"It must be getting on for nine."

"Then I must say good-bye; but I forgot, I want to ask you--you must
be hard up, and want some money--do you? If you do, I assure you I
shall be only too glad."

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