Complete Works of George Moore, page 25
“Were I to listen to anyone, it would be you,” she exclaimed, kissing the old lady on both cheeks. “Mamma and I don’t get on well together, and there is nobody I love like my aunt; but in a serious question like marriage is we must judge for ourselves. If my family object, so much the worse for them. I shall be obliged to run away with him. I am not going to ruin my happiness for anyone.”
Lady Marion argued, but to no purpose; for Lady Helen overwhelmed Lady Marion with citations from the conduct of this person and that person, proving conclusively, at least to her own satisfaction, that it was quite right for engaged people to walk out alone, visit picture galleries, and, on a pinch, drive about in hansom cabs. Lady Marion was at her wits’ end; and her disobedient niece caused her for over a month intolerable anxiety. For day by day, Lady Helen seemed to grow more and more reckless; and even the telegram they received from Lord Granderville did not appear in the least to affect her.
Sometimes Lewis called to fetch her, sometimes she went to fetch him at his studio. In fact, to save her from going out with him to dine at the restaurants, Lady Marion was obliged to ask him constantly to dinner. She had appealed to his generosity, but when she complained that he had not acted up to his word, he only answered that he could not prevent Lady Helen calling at his “place.” It was therefore with a deep sense of relief that she received a telegram from Lord Granderville saying, that they had arrived in Liverpool, and that they would be in town that evening. Lady Marion threw the despatch across the breakfast table to Helen, who read it as coolly as the first; and went on eating. Her indifference so disgusted her aunt, that she could not help saying:
“My dear Helen, I never in all my life came across anyone so utterly selfish, so entirely indifferent to other people’s feelings. I am sorry to say, your mother was right when she told me that one of these days I should find you out.”
The bitterness of the words startled Lady Helen, and for a moment she saw how selfishly she had acted, and how indifferent she had been to the pain she had caused her aunt. Tears welled into her blue eyes, and she threw her arms around Lady Marion’s neck, and begged to be forgiven. She declared that she really loved her aunt better than anyone, and she was sorry to have grieved her. Besides, she remembered that Lady Marion must be kept on her side; for, although she was determined to marry Lewis, she was fully alive to the fact that it would be much better to do so regularly than irregularly.
“My dear aunt, you mustn’t be cross with me,” she said, winningly; “I can’t help it: you don’t know how I love Lewis, and how impossible it is for me to give him up. It is that which makes me appear selfish. Mamma couldn’t, but you will understand what I mean, for you have loved and have been loved yourself; you know how you once loved a painter; and, tell me, do you think, after all, you did well to give him up?”
This was a very clever move on Lady Helen’s part, and the sympathy evoked won Lady Marion over to her side more than a bushel of arguments.
For many years no one had spoken to Lady Marion of her old love, and this sudden allusion startled her more than Lady Helen had expected.
“I suppose your mother told you that,” she said in a low voice, but in a way that showed she was not displeased.
Lady Helen saw that this was her opportunity, and drawing her aunt’s arm through her own, the two women went up to the drawing-room, one to talk of the future, the other of the past.
After luncheon, Lady Helen said she had an appointment with Lewis; her aunt asked her to remain in to meet her father and mother. She declared that it was not possible, but promised to be home at half past five; they could not arrive before then.
Lady Marion had to accept this crumb of comfort, and all the afternoon she sat waiting in the large drawing-room.
No one called, and the time went very slowly. Lady Marion tried to read, but her thoughts wandered; she was very fearful of meeting her sister and brother-in-law; and as it drew near six o’clock, she listened, expecting them ever minute.
At last the servant announced, “Lord and Lady Granderville.”
“My dear Marion,” said Lady Granderville, immediately she had kissed her sister, “this is dreadful news; I am perfectly ill with anxiety.”
Lady Granderville, who was as stout as her sister was thin, was certainly not looking her best. Her fat face was sallow, and her eyes haggard and dim, from the effects of her seasickness.
“I don’t know how you could let such a thing happen; I really don’t. Who is this Mr. Seymour?”
“My dear Harriet, pray be calm, you will make yourself ill,” said Lord Granderville, as he helped his wife off with her cloak.
“Let me show you up to your room, Harriet,” said Lady Marion; “we will talk of this during dinner; will you have a glass of sherry?”
“I really can’t do anything till you tell me where my daughter is,” replied Lady Granderville, sitting down on the sofa.
“She is out with Mr. Seymour.”
“Out with Mr. Seymour! You must be mad, Marion; how could you permit such a thing!”
“My dear Harriet,” said Lady Marion sitting down by her sister, “Helen is the most wilful and disobedient girl I ever knew in all my life. I confess I was mistaken in her; had I known what she was I would never have undertaken the charge of her. Since she contracted this engagement with Mr. Seymour, she has, in defiance of all I could say, been out with him every day. She says she is three-and-twenty, and intends to do as she likes. I did everything I could, I begged and implored, but it is no use arguing with her; she even hinted that if I tried to restrain her, she would leave the house and live at an hotel.”
“Leave the house and live at an hotel!” exclaimed Lady Harriet, aghast; “I never took the same view of Helen as you did, but I must say she never spoke like that to me.”
“I knew you would blame me and say it was my fault, Harriet; but if you can persuade Helen not to marry Mr. Seymour, or even to give up a single appointment with him, I will confess that I am entirely to blame.”
“Then,” said Lord Granderville, who had been attentively following the conversation, “you really think, Marion, that Helen is determined on this marriage?”
“So that I may save you errors in judgment, I will tell you that I am convinced that nothing in the world could prevent that girl from having her way, and the more violently you oppose her the more violently will she carry her point. Now, you have my opinion, you can act as you please.”
“But who in the world is this Mr. Seymour?” asked Lady Granderville.
At this moment, hearing the bell ring, Lady Marion opened the drawing-room door and listened. Lord and Lady Granderville looked at each other, piteously seeking counsel.
Lady Marion returned quickly, and said: “This is Helen; take my advice and do not try to bully her.”
“I quite agree with Marion,” said Lord Granderville; “do not let us broach the subject; we will speak of it gradually during dinner.”
Lord Granderville, besides being very fond of his beautiful daughter, knew from past experience that her mother’s upbraidings would intensify rather than weaken any resolution Lady Helen might have made. Besides, he did not profess to have that innate horror of art that his wife had, and he could not see that there was anything so very awful after all in the abstract idea of marrying an artist.
Lord Granderville was a kind, easy-going man, and whatever ruggedness there may have formerly been in him had long ago been smoothed down by the pettishness and ill-humour of his wife. No longer had he the strength to quarrel with anybody; and he would submit to anything to preserve the tranquillity of his home. He was determined to use every effort to break off the match, but flying into a rage, he thought, would only precipitate it. He and his wife had agreed on a common plan of action: it was to refuse to give Helen a sixpence if she persisted in disobeying them — on this point he determined to remain firm.
After the general inquiries had been made, the conversation fell to the ground; Lady Marion had made up her mind not to have anything further to do with the matter; Helen was determined to be quiet, but resolute; Lord Granderville was embarrassed; Lady Granderville, who could not conceal her pettishness, began a little lamentation about being dragged all the way across the Atlantic, which, to the relief of everyone, was cut short by the dressing-bell.
All were glad to go to their rooms, and put off the dreaded discussion. During dinner it was introduced; but, partly on account of Lord Granderville’s reserve, and partly because on account of the servants, the conversation had to be carried on in French, nothing occurred of particular note.
It was not until they were all sitting in the drawing-room round the reading lamp that the real war began. The opening was left to Lord Granderville, who, drawing his daughter towards him, began to question her seriously about Mr. Seymour.
But she had not got well into the explanation when the high notes of her mother’s voice interrupted:
“I never heard of such a thing in my life; a young girl running about London with a painter, whom she hardly knows! Oh, Helen, how could you? And you, Marion, I shall never forgive you. How could you allow it?”
Lady Marion attempted to explain; Lady Helen replied tartly enough to her mother; Lord Granderville tried to pacify them all. When at last silence was obtained, he pursued his cross-examination. Lady Helen did not mind answering him, for she knew that all she had to do was to remain firm, and the game was in her hands.
Question succeeded question, until the final point could no longer be avoided, and Lady Helen cried, in reply to her father’s demand, that she loved Lewis very dearly, and that nothing could induce her to give him up, but that, otherwise, she hoped she would always prove a dutiful child. Lady Granderville could no longer restrain herself. She declared that with so disobedient a child parents were never cursed; with uplifted hands she asserted that she did not envy Mr. Seymour. She went back to the past, and showed how Helen had manifested her real disposition at the age of three, when she positively refused to wear a blue riband with a pink frock. Lord Granderville tried to interpose, but she would not be interrupted. She sat up on the sofa; her face got red and her stupid eyes glittered with passion. She showed how basely ungrateful Helen had always been, how selfish, how indifferent to the feelings of others. Then, having pretty well demolished her daughter’s character, she turned round on her sister, declaring that she had acted in a shameful, if not criminal manner. Passing on to her husband, she accused him of having encouraged his daughter in wilful ways from her earliest childhood, illustrating her argument, as she went along, with numerous anecdotes.
Then she paused, like a ratter considering which of the dead was most deserving of a concluding shake. Her husband tried to break in, but she cut him short, and turned back upon her daughter, who sat whispering to her aunt, knowing well that she would annoy her mother more by pretending not to hear her than by any retort.
She was right; Lady Granderville blazed forth again, and repeated all she had said before, only concluding this time with the prophecy that Helen would prove as great a curse to her husband as she had to her parents. Lord Granderville tried mildly to interpose, but the word husband had suggested a new train of ideas to Lady Granderville. She had forgotten Lewis, and hastened to retrieve the oversight. She criticised him as effeminate, as a man that no girl could like, a man that looked like an ugly girl, a soft dreamy creature. Up till now Lady Helen had kept her patience wonderfully, but she could not hear Lewis maligned and sit silent, so a violent dispute arose between mother and daughter.
Lady Helen attacked her mother vigorously; told her how her perpetual discontent and violent temper made life a hell for those who had to live with her; that if her daughter were self-willed she had only herself to thank for it; and that she, Lady Helen, could stand it no longer, and was glad enough to get a home of her own, even if it were by marrying a painter. These recriminations drove Lady Granderville quite beyond herself, and for a moment she did not know how to reply; but collecting herself with a supreme effort, she said:
“And a nice kind of creature he is, this Mr. Seymour; he has been trying after Mrs. Bentham for the last five years, and now that he can’t get her, he wants to marry you.”
Lady Helen’s white face flushed red to the roots of her saffron-coloured hair; she trembled with passion at her mother’s brutality; but before she could reply, Lord Granderville interposed.
“My dear Harriet,” he said, pleadingly, “really, really you are a little premature in your judgment; remember, you never saw this young man but once in your life, and you have no right to make such accusations against Mrs. Bentham.”
Lady Granderville did not answer; her strength was spent, she could say no more; and she lay back on the sofa, her expansive bosom heaving like an ocean after a storm.
As for Lady Helen, her tears overcame her, and for some seconds only the girl’s sobs broke the rich and shaded silence of the vast drawing-room. Lord Granderville spoke in whispers to his wife, who eventually rose to leave; but as she passed her daughter, she stopped before her, and said:
“As far as I am concerned, Helen, you shall never have my consent; of course, you are a free agent, and you can go and spend your fortune upon whom you like; but I will never allow your father to add one penny to it.”
With that she swept out of the room. Lord Granderville and Lady Marion were so shocked that they attempted to apologise for her; but Lady Helen only shook her head, and begged of her father to tell her about the voyage, how he had left America, anything he liked save the matter in hand, she said; she could not bear to discuss the subject any more that evening; but they were all so excited that their thoughts wandered insensibly to the point they were trying to avoid; so, after a few attempts at conversation, Lady Marion proposed that they should retire for the night. Kissing his daughter, Lord Granderville told her he would go and call on Lewis to-morrow morning; then they bade each other good-night, and gradually the lights went out in the different windows.
Lady Helen sat on her bed thinking. Her father was going to see Lewis the next morning; she would give worlds to see him for five minutes, just to explain to him what had happened, and tell him how she wished him to act. Without having precisely come to the conclusion that her lover was weak-minded, and could not be trusted to hold his own in an argument, she was sure that it would be advisable to forewarn him of what the family opinions were on the subject, so that he might meet her father on equal terms.
This idea gradually shaped itself in her mind till she became convinced that, by some means or other, she must see Lewis that night. In the morning there would be no time, for doubtless her father would start early, and she never would be able to get out of the house unperceived. Looking at her watch, she saw it was only eleven o’clock, and she suddenly remembered she had not yet returned the latch-key her aunt had given her; nothing, therefore, would be easier than to slip out, a hansom would take her to Chelsea and back in an hour. In a minute she had put on a hat and cloak, and was stealing downstairs. The hall door opened without a creak, and, hailing a passing cab, she was soon driving rapidly towards Fulham.
When she arrived at Lewis’s, she saw he was in by the light in the studio. She knocked, but received no answer. This appeared to her strange; she knocked again, and after some time the door was opened, and by Lewis himself. He was more than astonished, and her presence visibly embarrassed him. But she was too agitated to perceive anything, and she rapidly explained that she must see him, and was preparing to pass into the studio, when he said, hesitatingly:
“I have a model.”
“Ah! then send her away, because what I have to say to you is most private.”
“Well, then, wait there a minute,” he said, leaving her in the ante-room hung with Japanese draperies.
He came back in a minute, and asked her to come in; Lady Helen did not doubt what he said about the model. Briefly she told him what had occurred; how her mother had absolutely refused to give her consent, and how bitterly she had told her that she must not count on sixpence more than her child’s portion, which was only five thousand pounds; and how he might expect a visit from her father in the morning.
“But what am I to do?” asked Lewis, helplessly; “I can’t say that I won’t marry you unless they give me more money.”
The answer caused Lady Helen a delicious little thrill of pleasure, for she did not suspect that it was not a perfectly disinterested observation.
“No,” she exclaimed, drawing him towards her and kissing him; “but you can talk a little about the money if he mentions it, and tell him that it will be very hard for you to keep me in the position I have been accustomed to unless he assists you. He will have to give way, you know, for everybody has heard of our engagement; and my aunt tells me that there is no doubt but that I have compromised myself in driving and walking about with you. You see what a good manager I am,” she murmured, as she kissed him again; “I thought of all that before.”
This was not true; but it pleased Lady Helen to take the credit of it when it seemed likely that her imprudence was likely to prove a trump card. Lewis looked at her admiringly.
“Now I must be off,” said Lady Helen, moving towards the door; “and mind you be firm with papa to-morrow, and tell him straight that nothing will induce you to give me up.”
As they paused in the street to bid each other good-bye, Lady Helen said, laying her hand on Lewis’s arm:
“But I forgot; mamma said worse than all I have told you; she said that you had been flirting with Mrs. Bentham for years, and that it was only because she wouldn’t marry you that you proposed to me; tell me, is it true?”
Lady Helen spoke as if her heart would break; a pale moon had risen and was whitening the roadway; the street was deserted, and their voices took a strange sonority in the silence.
