Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  And giggling, the girls slipped into the private apartment.

  ‘What will you have, dear?’ asked Beaumont in an apologetic whisper.

  ‘I think I’ll have a whisky.’

  ‘You’ll have the same, Dolly?’

  ‘Scotch or Irish?’ asked the barman.

  The girls consulted a moment and decided in favour of Irish.

  With nods and glances, the health of Serpolette was drunk, and then fearing to look as if she were sponging, Kate insisted on likewise standing treat. Fortunately, when the second round had been drunk, closing time was announced by the man in the shirtsleeves, and bidding her friends good-bye, Kate stood in the street trying to think if she ought to return to the theatre to look after Dick or go home and find him there.

  She decided on the latter alternative and walked slowly along the street. A chill wind blew up from the sea, and the sudden transition from the hot atmosphere of the bar brought the fumes of the whisky to her head and she felt a little giddy. An idea of drunkenness suggested itself; it annoyed her, and repulsing it vehemently, her thoughts somewhat savagely fastened on to Dick as the culprit. ‘Where had he gone?’ she asked, at first curiously, but at each repetition she put the question more sullenly to herself. If he had come back to fetch her she would not have been led into going into the public-house with Beaumont; and, irritated that any shadow should have fallen on the happiness of the evening, she walked sturdily along until a sudden turn brought her face to face with her lover.

  ‘Oh!’ he said, starting. ‘Is that you, Kate? I was just cutting back to the theatre to fetch you.’

  ‘Yes, a nice time you’ve kept me waiting,’ she answered; but as she spoke she recognized the street they were in as the one in which Leslie lived. The blood rushed to her face, and tearing the while the paper fringe of her bouquet, she said, ‘I know very well where you’ve been to! I want no telling. You’ve been round spending your time with Leslie.’

  ‘Well,’ said Dick, embarrassed by the directness with which she divined his errand, ‘I don’t see what harm there was in that; I really thought that I ought to run and see how she was.’

  Struck by the reasonableness of this answer, Kate for the moment remained silent, but a sudden remembrance forced the anger that was latent in her to her head, and facing him again she said:

  ‘How dare you tell me such a lie! You know very well you went to see her because you like her, because you love her.’

  Dick looked at her, surprised.

  ‘I assure you, you’re mistaken,’ he said. But at that moment Bret passed them in the street, hurrying towards Leslie’s. The meeting was an unfortunate one, and it sent a deeper pang of jealousy to Kate’s heart.

  ‘There,’ she said, ‘haven’t I proof of your baseness? What do you say to that?’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Don’t pretend innocence. Didn’t you see Bret passing? You choose your time nicely to pay visits — just when he should be out.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Dick, surprised at the ingenuity of the deduction. ‘I give you my word that such an idea never occurred to me.’

  But before he could get any further with his explanation Kate again cut him short, and in passionate words told him he was a monster and a villain. So taken aback was he by this sudden manifestation of temper on the part of one in whom he did not suspect its existence, that he stopped, to assure himself that she was not joking. A glance sufficed to convince him; and making frequent little halts between the lamp-posts to argue the different points more definitely, they proceeded home quarrelling. But on arriving at the door, Kate experienced a moment of revolt that surprised herself. The palms of her hands itched, and consumed with a childish desire to scratch and beat this big man, she beat her little feet against the pavement. Dick fumbled at the lock. The delay still further irritated her, and it seemed impossible that she could enter the house that night.

  ‘Aren’t you coming in?’ he said at last.

  ‘No, not I. You go back to Miss Leslie; I’m sure she wants you to attend to her ankle.’

  This was too absurd, and Dick expostulated gently. But nothing he could say was of the slightest avail, and she refused to move from the doorstep. Then began a long argument; and in brief phrases, amid frequent interruptions, all sorts of things were discussed. The wind blew very cold; Kate did not seem to notice it, but Dick shivered in his fat; and noticing his trembling she taunted him with it, and insultingly advised him to go to bed. Not knowing what answer to give to this, he walked into the sitting-room and sat down by the fire. How long would she remain on the doorstep? he asked himself humbly, until his reflections were interrupted by the sound of steps. It was Montgomery, and chuckling, Dick listened to him reasoning with Kate. The cold was so intense that the discussion could not be continued for long; and when the two friends entered Dick was prepared for a reconciliation. But in this he was disappointed. She merely consented to sit in the armchair, glaring at her lover. Montgomery tried to argue with her, but he could scarcely succeed in getting her to answer him, and it was not until he began to question Dick on the reason of the quarrel that she consented to speak; and then her utterances were rather passionate denials of her lover’s statements than any distinct explanation. There were also long silences, during which she sat savagely picking at the paper of the bouquet, which she still retained. At last Montgomery, noticing the supper that no one cared to touch, said:

  ‘Well, all I know is, that it’s very unfortunate that you should have chosen this night of all others, the night of her success, to have a row. I expected a pleasant evening.’

  ‘Success, indeed!’ said Kate, starting to her feet. ‘Was it for such a success as this that he took me away from my home? Oh, what a fool I was! Success! A lot I care for the success, when he has been spending the evening with Leslie.’ And unable to contain herself any longer, she tore a handful of flowers out of her bouquet and threw them in Dick’s face. Handful succeeded handful, each being accompanied by a shower of vehement words. The two men waited in wonderment, and when passionate reproaches and spring flowers were alike exhausted, a flood of tears and a rush into the next room ended the scene.

  XVII

  AS SOON AS it was announced that Miss Leslie suffered so much with her ankle that she would be unable to travel, the whole company called to see the poor invalid; the chorus left their names, the principals went up to sit by the sofa-side, and all brought her something: Beaumont, a basket of fruit; Dolly Goddard, a bouquet of flowers; Dubois, an interesting novel; Mortimer, a fresh stock of anecdotes. Around her sofa sprains were discussed. Dubois had known a première danseuse at the Opera House, in Paris, but the handing round of cigarettes prevented his story from being heard, and Beaumont related instead how Lord Shoreham in youth had broken his legs out hunting. The relation might not have come to an end that evening if Leslie had not asked Bret to change her position on the sofa, and when he and Dick went out of the room a look of inquiry was passed round.

  ‘You needn’t be uneasy. I wouldn’t let Bret stop for anything. I shall be very comfortable here. My landlady is as kind as she can be and the rooms are very nice.’

  A murmur of approval followed these words, and continuing Miss Leslie said, laying her hand on Kate’s:

  ‘And my friend here will play my parts until I come back. You must begin to-night, my dear, and try to work up Clairette. If you’re a quick study you may be able to play it on Wednesday night.’

  This was too much; the tears stood in Kate’s eyes. She had in her pocket a little gold porte-bonheur which she had bought that morning to make a present of to her once hated rival, but she waited until they were alone to slip it on the good natured prima donna’s wrist. The parting between the two women was very touching, and being in a melting mood Kate made a full confession of her quarrel with Dick, and, abandoning herself, she sought for consolation. Leslie smiled curiously, and after a long pause said:

  ‘I know what you mean, dear, I’ve been jealous mys
elf; but you’ll get over it, and learn to take things easily as I do. Men aren’t worth it.’ The last phrase seemed to have slipped from her inadvertently, and seeing how she had shocked Kate she hastened to add, ‘Dick is a very good fellow, and will look after you; but take my advice, avoid a row; we women don’t gain anything by it.’

  The words dwelt long in Kate’s mind, but she found it hard to keep her temper. Her temper surprised even herself. It seemed to be giving way, and she trembled with rage at things that before would not have stirred an unquiet thought in her mind. Remembrances of the passions that used to convulse her when a child returned to her. As is generally the case, there was right on both sides. Her life, it must be confessed, was woven about with temptations. Dick’s character easily engendered suspicion, and when the study of the part of Clairette was over, the iron of distrust began again to force its way into her heart. The slightest thing sufficed to arouse her. On one occasion, when travelling from Bath to Wolverhampton, she could not help thinking, judging from the expression of the girl’s face, that Dick was squeezing Dolly’s foot under the rug; without a word she moved to the other end of the carriage and remained looking out of the window for the rest of the journey. Another time she was seized with a fit of mad rage at seeing Dick dancing with Beaumont at the end of the second act of Madame Angot. There were floods of tears and a distinct refusal ‘to dress with that woman.’ Dick was in despair! What could he do? There was no spare room, and unless she went to dress with the chorus he didn’t know what she’d do.

  ‘My God!’ he exclaimed to Mortimer, as he rushed across the stage after the ‘damned property-man,’ ‘never have your woman playing in the same theatre as yourself; it’s awful!’

  For the last couple of weeks everything he did seemed to be wrong. Success, instead of satisfying Kate, seemed to render her more irritable, and instead of contenting herself with the plaudits that were nightly showered upon her, her constant occupation was to find out either where Dick was or what he had been doing or saying. If he went up to make a change without telling her she would invent some excuse for sending to inquire after him; if he were giving some directions to the girls at one of the top entrances, she would walk from the wing where she was waiting for her cue to ask him what he was saying. This watchfulness caused a great deal of merriment in the theatre, and in the dressing-rooms Mortimer’s imitation of the catechism the manager was put to at night was considered very amusing.

  ‘My dear, I assure you you’re mistaken. I only smoked two cigarettes after lunch, and then I had a glass of beer. I swear I’m concealing nothing from you.’

  And this is scarcely a parody of the strict surveillance under which Dick lived, but from a mixture of lassitude and good nature it did not seem to annoy him too much, and he appeared to be most troubled when Kate murmured that she was tired, that she hated the profession and would like to go and live in the country. For now she complained of fatigue and weariness; the society of those who formed her life no longer interested her, and she took violent and unreasoning antipathies. It was not infrequent for Mortimer and Montgomery to make an arrangement to grub with the Lennoxes whenever a landlady could be discovered who would undertake so much cooking. But without being able to explain why, Kate declared she could not abide sitting face to face with the heavy lead. She saw and heard quite enough of him at the theatre without being bothered by him in the day-time. Dick made no objection. He confessed, and, willingly, that he was a bit tired of disconnected remarks, and the wit of irrelevancies; and Mortimer, he said, fell to sulking if you didn’t laugh at his jokes. Montgomery continued to board with them, the young man very uncertain always whether he would be as unhappy away from her as he was with her. He often dreamed of sending in his resignation, but he could not leave the company, having begun to look upon himself as her guardian angel; and, without consulting Dick, they arranged deftly that Dubois should be asked to take Mortimer’s place. Dick approved when the project was unfolded to him, the natty appearance of the little foreigner was a welcome change after Mortimer’s draggled show of genius. He could do everything better than anybody else, but that did not matter, for he was amusing in his relations. Whether you spoke of Balzac’s position in modern fiction or the rolling of cigarettes, you were certain to be interrupted with, ‘I assure you, my dear fellow, you’re mistaken’ uttered in a stentorian voice. On the subject of his bass voice a child could draw him out, and, under the pretext of instituting a comparison between him and one of the bass choristers, Montgomery never failed to induce him to give the company an idea of his register. At first to see the little man settling the double chin into his chest in his efforts to get at the low D used to convulse Kate with laughter, but after a time even this grew monotonous, and wearily she begged Montgomery to leave him alone. ‘Nothing seems to amuse you now’ he would say with a mingled look of affection and regret. A shrug of the shoulder she considered a sufficient answer for him, and she would sink back as if pursuing to its furthest consequences the train of some far-reaching ideas.

  And in wonder these men watched the progress of Kate’s malady without ever suspecting what was really the matter with her. She was homesick. But not for the house in Hanley and the dressmaking of yore. She had come to look upon Hanley, Ralph, Mrs. Ede, the apprentices and Hender as a bygone dream, to which she could not return and did not wish to return. Her homesickness was not to go back to the point from which she had started, but to settle down in a house for a while.

  ‘Not for long, Dick,’ she said, ‘a month; even a fortnight would make all the difference. We spent a fortnight at Blackpool, but we have never stayed a fortnight at the same place since.’

  ‘I know what’s the matter with you, Kate,’ he answered; ‘you want a holiday; so do I; we all want a holiday. One of these days we shall get one when the tour comes to an end.’

  It did not seem to Kate that the tour would ever come to an end: she would always be going round like a wheel.

  Dick begged her to have patience, and she resolved to have patience, but one Saturday night in the middle of her packing the vision of the long railway journey that awaited her on the morrow rose up suddenly in her mind, and she could not do else than spring to her feet, and standing over the half-filled trunk she said:

  ‘Dick, I cannot, I cannot; don’t ask me.’

  ‘Ask you what?’ he said.

  ‘To go to Bath with you to-morrow morning,’ she answered.

  ‘You won’t come to Bath!’ he cried. ‘But who will play Clairette?’

  ‘I will, of course.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Kate,’ Dick replied.

  ‘I only want one day off. Why shouldn’t I spend the Sunday in Leamington and go to church? I want a little rest. I can’t help it, Dick.’

  ‘Well, I never! You seem to get more and more capricious every day.’

  ‘Then you won’t let me?’ said Kate, with a flush flowing through her olive cheeks.

  ‘Won’t let you! Why shouldn’t you stay if it pleases you, dear? Montgomery is staying too; he wants to see an aunt of his who lives in the town.’

  Dick’s unaffected kindness so touched Kate’s sensibilities that the tears welled up into her eyes, and she flung herself into his arms sobbing hysterically. For the moment she was very happy, and she looked into the dream of the long day she was going to spend with Montgomery, afraid lest some untoward incident might rob her of her happiness. But nothing fell out to blot her hopes, everything seemed to be happening just as she had foreseen it, and trembling with pleasurable excitement the twain hurried through the town inquiring out the way to the Wesleyan Church. At last it was found in a distant suburb, and her emotion almost from the moment she entered into the peace of the building became so uncontrollable that to hide the tears upon her cheeks she was forced to bury her face in her hands, and in the soft snoring of the organ, recollections of her life frothed up; but as the psalm proceeded her excitement abated, until at last it subsided into a state of languid ecsta
sy. Nor was it till the congregation knelt down with one accord for the extemporary prayer that she asked pardon for her sins. ‘But how could God forgive her her sins if she persevered in them?’ she asked herself. ‘How could she leave Dick and return to Hanley? Her husband would not receive her; her life had got into a tangle and might never get straight again. But all is in the hands of God,’ and thinking of the woman that had been and the woman that was, she prayed God to consider her mercifully. ‘God will understand,’ she said, ‘how it all came about; I cannot.’

  Montgomery was kneeling in the pew beside her, and he wondered at seeing her so absorbed in prayer; he did not know that she was so pious, and thought that such piety as hers was not in accord with the life she had taken up and the company with which they were touring. But perhaps it was a mere passing emotion, a sudden recrudescence of her past life which would fade away and never return again; he hoped that this was the case, for he believed in her talent, and that a London success awaited her. He kept his eyes averted from her, knowing that his observation would distress her, and after church she said she would like to go for a walk and he suggested the river.

  In the shade of spreading trees they watched the boats passing, and in the course of the afternoon talked of many things and of many people, and it pleased and surprised them to find that their ideas coincided, and in the pauses of the conversation they wondered why they had never spoken to each other like this before. He was often tempted to hold out prospects of a London success with a view to cheering her, but he felt that this was not the moment to do so. But she, being a little less tactful, spoke to him of his music with a view to pleasing him, but he could not detach his thoughts from her, and could only tell her that he heard her voice in the music as he composed it.

  ‘The afternoon is passing,’ he said; ‘it’s time to begin thinking of tea.’ Whereupon they rose to their feet and walked a long way into the country in search of an inn, and finding one they had tea in a garden, and afterwards they dined in a sanded parlour and enjoyed the cold beef, although they could not disguise from themselves the fact that it was a little tough. But what matter the food? It was the close intimacy and atmosphere of the day that mattered to them, and they returned to Leamington thinking of the day that had gone by, a day unique in their experience, one that might never return to them.