by George Moore
The room seemed like a sanctuary in which some mysterious rite was being performed. But suddenly the silence was broken by shrieks so passionate and acute that all the earlier ones were only remembered as feeble lamentations.
Dick raised his big face from his hands, the movement threw back the mass of frizzly hair, and in the intensity of this emotion he looked like a lion.
‘Was this life,’ he asked himself, ‘or death? And by whose order was a human creature tortured thus cruelly?’ But the idea of God did not arrest his attention, and his thoughts fixing themselves on the child, he asked himself, what was this new life to him?
‘Oh, I never will again! Oh, how I hate him — I could kill him! I’ll never love him, never no more.’
The cry touched the fat mummer through all the years of gross sensuality, through the indigestion of his big dinner, and, struck by the sense of her words, he shuddered, remembering that it was he who was the cause of this outrageous suffering and not the innocent child. Was it possible, he asked himself, that she would never love him again? He didn’t know. Was it possible that he was culpable? Strange notions respecting the origin, the scheme, the design of the universe, flashed in dim chiaro-oscuro through his thoughts, and for a full hour Dick pondered, philosopher-like, on the remote causes and the distant finalities of men and things.
An hour full of moans and cries of suffering, then a great silence came, and the whole house seemed to sigh with a sense of relief.
‘The baby must be born,’ he said; and immediately after a little thin cry was heard, and in his heart it was prolonged like a note of gladness, and his thoughts became paternal.
He wondered if it were a girl or a boy; he fancied he’d like a girl best. If she were pretty, and had a bit of a voice, he’d be able to push her to the front, whereas with a boy it would be more difficult. Relinquishing his dreams at this point, Dick listened to the silence. He did not dare to knock at the door, but the murmur of satisfied voices assured him that all was right. Still it was very odd that they did not come out and announce the result to him. Did he count for nobody? Did they fancy that it was nothing to him if his wife and child were dead or alive? The idea of being thus completely unconsidered in an affair of such deep concern irritated him, and he walked towards the sofa to brood over his wrongs. Should he, or should he not, knock at the door? At last he decided that he should, and, after a timid rap, tried the handle. He was immediately confronted by the nurse.
‘It’s all right, sir; you shall come in in a moment when the baby is washed.’
‘Yes, but I want to know how my wife is.’
‘She’s doing very well, sir; you shall see her presently.’
The door was then gently but firmly closed, and Dick was kept waiting, and almost collapsing he staggered into the room when the nurse called for him to come in.
Kate lay amid the sheets pale and inert, her beautiful black hair making an ink stain on the pillows. She stretched an exhausted hand to him, and looked at him earnestly and affectionately. To both of them their lives seemed completed.
‘Oh, my darling, my darling!’ he murmured; and his heart melted with happiness at the faint pressure of fingers which he held within his. The nurse standing by him held something red wrapped up in flannels. He scarcely noticed it until he heard Kate say:
‘It’s a little girl. Kiss it, dear.’
He awkwardly touched with his lips the tiny whining mass of flesh the nurse held forward, feeling, without knowing why, ashamed of himself.
‘Hearing that madam was taken all unexpected, I brought these flannels with me,’ said the large woman with the long-tailed cap; ‘but to-morrow I can recommend you, if you like, sir, to a shop where you can get everything required.’
This speech brought Dick with a cruel jerk to the brink of the atrocious situation in which he had so unexpectedly found himself. To-morrow he would have to find money, and a great deal too. How he was going to do it he did not know, but money would have to be found.
‘Yes, yes, I’ll see to all that to-morrow,’ he said, awakening from his lethargy, like a jaded horse touched in some new place by the spur, ‘but now I’m so tired I can scarcely speak.’
‘That’s so,’ said the landlady. ‘These walking tours is dreadful. He’s been over from Rochdale to-day, not counting the runnin’ about he did after his wife. You know they refused to take her in at number fifteen. But, sir, I don’t well know how we shall manage. I don’t see how I’m to offer you a bed. The best I can do for you is to make you up something on the sofa in the parlour.’
‘Oh, the sofa will do very well. I think I could sleep on the tiles; so good-night, dear,’ he said as he leaned over and kissed his wife; ‘I’m sorry to leave you so soon.’
‘It isn’t a bit too soon,’ said the doctor. ‘She must lie still and not talk.’
On this Dick was led away. The nurse and doctor consulted by the bed where the woman would lie for days, too weak even to dream, while the man went off into the Manchester crowd to search for food. Beyond the bare idea of ‘going down to see what they were doing at the theatre,’ he had no plans. The scavenger dog that prowls about the gutter in search of offal could not have less. But he felt sure that something would turn up; he was certain to meet someone to whom he could sell a piano or for whom he could build a theatre. He never made plans. There was no use in making plans; they were always upset by an accident. Far better, he thought, to trust to the inspiration of the moment; and when he awoke in the morning, heavy with sleep, he felt no trepidation, no fear beyond that of how he should get his sore feet into his shoes. It was only with a series of groans and curses that he succeeded in doing this, and the limps by which he proceeded down the street were painful to watch. At the stage-door of the Theatre Royal a conciliatory tone of voice was mechanically assumed as he asked the porter if Mr. Jackson was in. But before the official could answer, Dick caught sight of Mr. Jackson coming along the passage.
‘How do you do, old man? Haven’t seen you for a long time.’
‘What, you, Dick, in Manchester? Come and have a drink, old man. Very glad to see you. Stopping long here?’
‘Well, I’m not quite decided. My wife was confined, you know, last night.’
‘What! you a father, Dick?’
Mr. Jackson leered, poked him in the ribs, and commenced a list of anecdotes. To these Dick had to listen, and in the hopes of catching his friend in an unwary moment of good-humour, he laughed heartily at all the best points. But digressive as conversation is in which women are concerned, sooner or later a reference is made to the cost and the worth, and at last Mr. Jackson was incautious enough to say:
‘Very expensive those affairs are, to be sure.’
This was the chance that Dick was waiting for, and immediately buttonholing his friend, he said:
‘You’re quite right, they are: and to tell you the truth, old man, I’m in the most devilish awkward position I ever was in my life. You heard about the breaking up of Morton and Cox’s company? Well, that left me stranded.’
At the first words gaiety disappeared from Mr. Jackson’s face, and during Dick’s narrative of the tour in Lancashire he made many ineffectual wriggles to get away. Dick judged from these well-known indications that to borrow money might be attended with failure, and after a pathetic description of his poverty he concluded with:
‘So now, my dear fellow, you must find something for me to do. It does not matter what — something temporary until I can find something better, you know.’
It was difficult to resist this appeal, and after a moment’s reflection Mr. Jackson said:
‘Well, you know we’re all made up here. There’s a small part in the new drama to be produced next week; I wouldn’t like to offer it as it is, but I might get the author to write it up.’
‘It will do first rate. I’m sure to be able to make something of it. What’s the screw?’
‘That’s just the point. We can’t afford to pay much for it; our salar
y list is too big as it is.’
‘What did you intend giving for it?’
‘Well, we meant to give it to a super, but for you I can have it written up. What do you say to two-ten?’
Dick thought it would be judicious to pause, and after a short silence he said:
‘I’ve had, as you know, bigger things to do; but I’m awfully obliged to you, old pal. You’re doing me a good turn that I shan’t forget; we can consider the matter as settled.’
This was a stroke of luck, and Dick congratulated himself warmly, until he remembered that £2 10s. at the end of next week did not put a farthing into his present pocket. Money he would have to find that day, how he did not know. He called upon everybody he had ever heard of; he visited all the theatres and ball-rooms, drank interminable drinks, listened to endless stories, and when questioned as to what he was doing himself, grew delightfully mendacious, and, upon the slight basis of his engagement for the new drama at the Royal, constructed a fabulous scheme for the production of new pieces. In this way the afternoon went by, and he was beginning to give up hopes of turning over any money that day, when he met a dramatic author. After the usual salutations— ‘How do you do, old boy? How’s business?’ etc. — had been exchanged, the young man said:
‘Had a bit of luck; just sold my piece — you know the drama I read you, the one in which the mother saves her child from the burning house?’
‘How much did you get?’
‘Seventy-five pound down, and two pounds a night.’
At the idea of so much money Dick’s eyes glistened, and he immediately proceeded to unfold a scheme he had been meditating for some time back for the building of a new theatre. The author listened attentively, and after having dangled about the lamp-post for half an hour, they mutually agreed to eat a bit of dinner together and afterwards go home and read another new piece that was, so said the fortunate author, a clinker. No better excuse than his wife’s confinement could be found for fixing the meeting hour at the young man’s lodging, and in the enthusiasm which the reading of the acts engendered, it was easy for Dick to ask for, and difficult for his friend to refuse, a cheque for £15.
XXIII
IN ABOUT A week Kate was sufficiently restored to sit up in bed. Her very weakness and lassitude were a source of happiness; for, after long months of turmoil and racket, it was pleasant to lie in the covertures, and suffer her thoughts to rise out of unconsciousness or sink back into it without an effort. And these twilight trances flowed imperceptibly into another period, when with coming strength a feverish love awoke in her for the little baby girl who lay sleeping by her side. And for hours in the reposing obscurity of the drawn curtains mother and child would remain hushed in one long warm embrace. To see, to feel, this little life moving against her side was enough. She didn’t look into the future, nor did she think of what fate the years held in store for her daughter, but content, lost in emotive contemplation, she watched the blind movements of hands and the vague staring of blue eyes. This puling pulp that was more intimately and intensely herself than herself developed strange yearnings in her, and she often trembled with pride in being the instrument through which so much mystery was worked; to talk to herself of the dark dawn of creation, and of the day sweet with maternal love that lay beyond, was a great source of joy; to hear the large, hobbling woman tell of the different babies she had successfully started that year on their worldly pilgrimage never seemed to weary her. She interested herself in each special case, and when the nurse told her she must talk no more she lay back to dream of the great boy with the black eyes who had so nearly been the death of his little flaxen haired mother.
She felt great interest in this infant, who, if he went on growing at the present rate, it was prophesied would be in twenty years’ time the biggest man in Manchester. But the nurse admitted that all the children were not so strong and healthy. Indeed, it was only last week that a little baby she had brought into the world perfectly safely had died within a few days of its birth, for no cause that anyone could discover; it had wilted and passed away like a flower. The tears rolled down Kate’s cheeks as she listened, and she pressed her own against her breast and insisted on suckling her infant although expressly forbidden to do so by the doctor.
These days were the best of her life. She felt more at peace with the world, she placed more confidence in her husband than she had ever done before; and when he came in of an afternoon and sat by her side and talked of herself and of their little baby, softened in all the intimate fibres of her sex, she laid her hand in his, and sighed for sheer joy. The purpose of her life seemed now to show a definite sign of accomplishment.
The only drawback to their happiness was their poverty. The fifteen pounds of borrowed money had gone through their hands like water, and God knows what would have become of them if Dick had not been fortunate to make another tenner by looking after a piece given at a morning performance. What with the doctor’s bills, the nurse’s wages, the baby’s clothes, they were for ever breaking into their last sovereign. Dick spoke of their difficulties with reluctance, not wishing to distress her, but he felt he must rouse her out of the apathy into which she had fallen, and he begged of her to take the next engagement he could find for her. It seemed to him that she was now quite well, but when he pressed for a promise the first time she answered: ‘Yes, Dick, I should like to get to work again,’ but when he came to her with a proposal of work, she was quick to find excuses. The baby was foremost among them; she did not like to put the child out to nurse. ‘If the child were to die, I should never forgive myself,’ she would say. ‘Don’t ask me, Dick, don’t ask me.’
‘But, Kate, we cannot go on living here on nothing. We owe the landlady for three weeks.’
At these words Kate would burst into tears, and when he succeeded in consoling her she would remind him that if she went back to work before she was quite well she might be laid up for a long time, which would be much worse than the loss of a miserable three or four pounds a week. To convince Dick completely she would remind him that as she had been playing leading parts it would not be wise to accept the first thing she could get. ‘If one lets oneself down, Dick, in the profession, it’s difficult to get up again.’
‘Well, dear,’ Dick would answer, ‘I must try and find something to do myself. You shall not be asked again to go back to work until you feel like it. When you come to tell me that you’re tired of staying at home.
‘Don’t speak like that, Dick, for it seems as if you were laying blame upon me, and I’m not to blame. You will be able to judge for yourself when I’m fit to go back to work, and one of these days you will come with the news of a leading part.’
Accompanying him to the door she said she would like to return to the stage in a leading part, but not in any of the parts she had already played in, but in something new. These objections and excuses brought a cloud into Dick’s face which she did not notice, but when he had gone she would begin to think of his kindness towards her and of what she could do to reward him. His shirts wanted mending, and as soon as they were mended she made hoods and shoes for the baby.
In many little ways the old life that she thought she had left behind in Hanley began to reappear, and when Dick came into the room and found her reading a novel by the fire she reminded him of Ralph’s wife rather than of his own.
While she was touring in the country she had given up reading without being aware that she had done so. She had once bought a copy of the Family Herald, hoping that it would help away the time on the long railway journey, but having herself come into a life of passion, energy and infinite variety, she could not follow with any interest the story of three young ladies in reduced circumstances who had started a dressmaking business and who were destined clearly to marry the men they loved and who loved them and who would continue to love them long after the silver threads had appeared among the gold. But now in the long lonely days spent with her baby in the lodging (Dick went away early in the morning and some
times did not return till twelve o’clock at night), a story in a copy of The Family Herald lent to her by the landlady, on the whole a very kind and patient soul, took hold of Kate’s imagination, and when she raised her eyes a tear of joy fell upon the page, and in the effusion of these sensations she would take her little girl and press it almost wildly to her breast.
Before leaving, the nurse had given Kate many directions. The baby was to have its bath in the morning; to be kept thoroughly clean, and to be given the bottle at certain times during the day and night. Kate was devoted to her child, but the attention she gave it was unsustained, a desultory attention. Sometimes she put too much water in the milk, sometimes too little.
The christening had awakened in her many forgotten emotions, and now that she was an honest married woman, she did not see why she should not resume her old church-going ways. The story she was reading was full of allusions to the vanity of this world and the durability of the next; and her feet on the fender, penetrated with the dreamy warmth of the fire, she abandoned herself to the seduction of her reveries. Everything conspired against her. Being still very weak the doctor had ordered her to keep up her strength with stimulants; a table-spoonful of brandy and water taken now and then was what was required. This was the ordinance, but the drinks in the dressing-rooms had taught her the comforts of such medicines, and during the day several glasses were consumed. Without getting absolutely drunk, she rapidly sank into sensations of numbness, in which all distinctions were blurred, and thoughts trickled and slipped away like the soothing singing of a brook. It was like an amorous tickling, and as her dreams balanced between a tender declaration of love and the austere language of the Testament, the crying of the sick child was unheeded.
