Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  ‘Do tell me, doctor, what is the matter with me. I assure you I’d really much sooner know the worst.’

  But the doctor did not seem inclined to be communicative, and in reply to her question he merely mumbled something to the effect that the liver was out of order.

  ‘I will send you over some medicine this evening,’ he said, ‘and if you don’t feel better to-morrow send round for me, and don’t attempt to get up. I think,’ he added, as he took up his hat to go, ‘I shall be able to put you all right. But you must follow my instructions; you mustn’t frighten yourself, and take as little of that stimulant as possible.’

  Kate answered that it was not her custom to take too much, and she tried to look surprised at the warning. She nevertheless derived a good deal of comfort from the doctor’s visit, and during the course of the evening succeeded in persuading herself that her fears of the morning were ill-founded and, putting the medicine that was sent her away for the present, she helped herself from a bottle that was hidden in the upholstery. The fact of having a long letter to write to Dick explaining her conduct, made it quite necessary that she should take something to keep her up; and sitting in her lonely room, she drank on steadily until midnight, when she could only just drag her clothes from her back and throw herself stupidly into bed. There she passed a night full of livid-hued nightmares, from which she awoke shivering, and suffering from terrible palpitations of the heart. The silence of the house filled her with terrors, cold and obtuse as the dreams from which she awakened. Strength to scream for help she had none; and thinking she was going to die, she sought for relief and consolation in the bottle that lay hidden under the carpet. When the drink took effect upon her she broke out into a profuse perspiration, and she managed to get a little sleep; but when her breakfast was brought up about eleven o’clock in the morning, so ill did she seem that the servant, fearing she was going to drop down dead, begged to be allowed to fetch the doctor. But rejecting all offers of assistance, Kate lay moaning in an armchair, unable even to taste the cup of tea that the maid pressed upon her. She consented to take some of the medicines that were ordered her, but whatever good they might have produced was discounted by the constant nip-drinking she kept up during the afternoon. The next day she was very ill indeed, and Mrs. White, greatly alarmed, insisted on sending for Dr. Hooper.

  He did not seem astonished at the change in his patient. Calmly and quietly he watched for some moments in silence.

  The bed had curtains of a red and antiquated material, and these contrasted with the paleness of the sheets wherein Kate lay, tossing feverishly. Most of the ‘make-up’ had been rubbed away from her face; and through patches of red and white the yellow skin started like blisters. She was slightly delirious, and when the doctor took her hand to feel her pulse she gazed at him with her big staring eyes and spoke volubly and excitedly.

  ‘Oh! I’m so glad you’ve come, for I wanted to speak to you about my husband. I think I told you that he’d gone to Manchester to produce a new piece. I don’t know if I led you to suppose that he’d deserted me, but if I did I was wrong to do so, for he has done nothing of the kind. It’s true that we aren’t very happy together, but I dare say that is my fault. I never was, I know, as good a wife to him as I intended to be; but then, he made me jealous and sometimes I was mad. Yes, I think I must have been mad to have spoken to him in the way I did. Anyhow, it doesn’t matter now, does it, doctor? But I don’t know what I’m saying. Still, you won’t mention that I’ve told you anything. It’s as likely as not that he’ll forgive me, just as he did before; and we may yet be as happy as we were at Blackpool. You won’t tell him, will you, doctor?’

  ‘No, no, I won’t,’ said Dr. Hooper, quietly and firmly. ‘But you mustn’t talk as much as you do; if you want to see your husband, you must get well first.’

  ‘Oh yes! I must get well; but tell me, doctor, how long will that take?’

  ‘Not very long, if you will keep quiet and do what I tell you. I want you to tell me how the pain in your side is?’

  ‘Very bad; far worse than when I saw you last. I feel it now in my right shoulder as well.’

  ‘But your side — is it sore when you touch it? Will you let me feel?’

  Without waiting for a reply, he passed his hand under the sheet. ‘Is it there that it pains you?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Oh! You’re hurting me.’

  Then the doctor walked aside with the landlady, who had been watching the examination of the patient with anxious eyes. She said:

  ‘Do you think it’s anything very dangerous? Is it contagious? Had I better send her to the hospital?’

  ‘No, I should scarcely think it worth while doing that; she will be well in a week, that is to say if she is properly looked after. She’s suffering from acute congestion of the liver, brought on by—’

  ‘By drink,’ said Mrs. White. ‘I suspected as much.’

  ‘You’ve too much to do, Mrs. White, with all your children, to give up your time to nursing her; I shall send someone round as soon as possible, but, in the meantime, will you see that her diet is regulated to half a cup of beef-tea, every hour or so. If she complains of thirst, let her have some milk to drink, and you may mix a little brandy with it. To-night I shall send round a sleeping-draught.’

  ‘You’re sure, doctor, there is nothing catching, for you know that, with all my children in the house — —’

  ‘You need not be alarmed, Mrs. White.’

  ‘But do you think, doctor, it will be an expensive illness? for I know very little about her circumstances.’

  ‘I expect she’ll be all right in a week or ten days, but what I fear for is her future. I’ve had a good deal of experience in such matters, and I’ve never known a case of a woman who cured herself of the vice of intemperance. A man sometimes, a woman never.’

  The landlady sighed and referred to all she had gone through during poor Mr. White’s lifetime; the doctor spoke confidingly of a lady who was at present under his charge; and, apparently overcome with pity for suffering humanity, they descended the staircase together. On the doorstep the conversation was continued.

  ‘Very well, then, doctor, I will take your advice; but at the end of a week or so, when she is quite recovered, I shall tell her that I’ve let her rooms. For, as you say, a woman rarely cures herself, and before the children the example would be dreadful.’

  ‘I expect to see her on her feet in about that time, then you can do as you please. I shall call tomorrow.’

  Next day the professional nurse took her place by the bedside. The sinapism which the doctor ordered was applied to the hepatic region, and a small dose of calomel was administered.

  Under this treatment she improved rapidly; but unfortunately, as her health returned her taste for drink increased in a like proportion. Indeed, it was almost impossible to keep her from it, and on one occasion she tried very cunningly to outwit the nurse, who had fallen asleep in her chair. Waiting patiently until the woman’s snoring had become sufficiently regular to warrant the possibility of a successful attempt being made on the brandy-bottle, Kate slipped noiselessly out of bed. The unseen night-light cast a rosy glow over the convex side of the basin, without, however, disturbing the bare darkness of the wall, Kate knew that all the bottles stood in a line upon the chest of drawers, but it was difficult to distinguish one from the other, and the jingling she made as she fumbled amid them awoke the nurse, who divining at once what was happening, arose quickly from her chair and advancing rapidly towards her, said:

  ‘No, ma’am, I really can’t allow it; it’s against the doctor’s orders.’

  ‘I’m not going to die of thirst to please any doctor. I was only going to take a little milk, I suppose there’s no harm in that?’

  ‘Not the least, ma’am, and if you’d called me you should have had it.’

  It was owing to this fortuitous intervention that when Dr. Hooper called a couple of days after to see his patient he was able to certify to a remarkable chan
ge for the better in her. All the distressing symptoms had disappeared; the pain in her side had died away; the complexion was clearer. He therefore thought himself justified in ordering for her lunch a little fish and some weak brandy and water; and to Kate, who had not eaten any solid food for several days, this first meal took the importance of a very exceptional event. Sitting by her bedside Dr. Hooper spoke to her.

  ‘Now, Mrs. Lennox,’ he said, ‘I want to give you a word of warning. I’ve seen you through what I must specify as a serious illness; dangerous I will not call it, although I might do so if I were to look into the future and anticipate the development the disease will most certainly take, unless, indeed, you will be guided by me, and make a vow against all intoxicating liquors.’

  At this direct allusion to her vice Kate stopped eating, and putting down the fork looked at the doctor.

  ‘Now, Mrs. Lennox, you mustn’t be angry,’ he continued in his kind way. ‘I’m speaking to you in my capacity as a medical man, and I must warn you against the continuous nip-drinking which, of course, I can see you’re in the habit of indulging in, and which was the cause of the illness from which you are recovering. I will not harrow your feelings by referring to all the cases that have come under my notice where shame, disgrace, ruin, and death were the result of that one melancholy failing — drink.’

  ‘Oh, sir!’ cried Kate, broken-hearted, ‘if you only knew how unhappy I’ve been, how miserable I am, you would not speak to me so. I’ve my failing, it is true, but I’m driven to it. I love my husband better than anything in the world, and I see him mixed up always with a lot of girls at the theatre, and it sends me mad, and then I go to drink so as to forget.’

  ‘We’ve all got our troubles; but it doesn’t relieve us of the burden; it only makes us forget it for a short time, and then, when consciousness returns to us, we only remember it all the more bitterly. No, Mrs. Lennox, take my advice. In a few days, when you’re well, go to your husband, demand his forgiveness, and resolve then never to touch spirits again.’

  ‘It’s very good of you to speak to me in this way,’ said Kate, tearfully, ‘and I will take your advice, The very first day that I am strong enough to walk down to the Strand I will go and see my husband, and if he will give me another trial, he will not, I swear to you, have cause to repent it. Oh!’ she continued, ‘you don’t know how good he’s been to me, how he has borne with me. If it hadn’t been that he tried my temper by flirting with other women we might have been happy now.’

  Then, as Kate proceeded to speak of her trials and temptations, she grew more and more excited and hysterical, until the doctor, fearing that she would bring on a relapse, was forced to plead an engagement and wish her good-bye.

  As he left the room she cried after him, ‘The first day I’m well enough to go out I’ll go and see my husband.’

  XXIX

  THE NEXT FEW days passed like dreams. Kate’s soul, tense with the longing for reconciliation, floated at ease over the sordid miseries that lay within and without her, and enraptured with expectation, she lived in a beautiful paradise of hope.

  So certain did she feel of being able to cross out the last few years of her life, that her mind was scarcely clouded by a doubt of the possibility of his declining to forgive her — that he might even refuse to see her. The old days seemed charming to her, and looking back, even she seemed to have been perfect then. There her life appeared to have begun. She never thought of Hanley now. Ralph and Mrs. Ede were like dim shadows that had no concern in her existence. The potteries and the hills were as the recollections of childhood, dim and unimportant. The footlights and the applause of audiences were also dying echoes in her ears. Her life for the moment was concentrated in a loving memory of a Lancashire seashore and a rose-coloured room, where she used to sit on the knees of the man she adored. The languors and the mental weakness of convalescence were conducive to this state of mental exaltation. She loved him better than anyone else could love him; she would never touch brandy again. He would take her back, and they would live as the lovers did in all the novels she had ever read. These illusions filled Kate’s mind like a scarf of white mist hanging around the face of a radiant morning, and as she lay back amid the pillows, or sat dreaming by the fireside in the long evenings that were no longer lonely to her, she formed plans, and considered how she should plead to Dick in this much-desired interview. During this period dozens of letters were written and destroyed, and it was not until the time arrived for her to go to the theatre to see him that she could decide upon what she could write. Then hastily she scribbled a note, but her hand trembled so much that before she had said half what she intended the paper was covered with blotched and blurred lines.

  ‘It won’t do to let him think I’m drunk again,’ she said to herself, as she threw aside what she had written and read over one of her previous efforts. It ran as follows:

  ‘MY DARLING DICK, —

  ‘You will, I am sure, be sorry to hear that I have been very ill. I am now, however, much better; indeed, I may say quite recovered. During my illness I have been thinking over our quarrels, and I now see how badly, how wickedly, I have behaved to you on many occasions. I do not know, and I scarcely dared to hope, that you will ever forgive me, but I trust that you will not refuse to see me for a few minutes. I have not, I assure you, tasted spirits for some weeks, so you need not fear I will kick up a row. I will promise to be very quiet. I will not reproach you, nor get excited, nor raise my voice. I shall be very good, and will not detain you but for a very short time. You will not, you cannot, oh, my darling! deny me this one little request — to see you again, although only for a few minutes.

  ‘Your affectionate wife,

  ‘KATE’

  Compared with the fervid thoughts of her brain, these words appeared to her weak and poor, but feeling that for the moment, at least, she could not add to their intensity, she set out on her walk, hoping to find her husband at the theatre.

  It was about eight o’clock in the evening. A light, grey fog hung over the background of the streets, and the line of the housetops was almost lost in the morose shadows that fell from a soot-coloured sky. Here and there a chimney-stack or the sharp spire of a church tore the muslin-like curtains of descending mist; and vague as the mist were her thoughts. The streets twisted, wriggling their luminous way through slime and gloom, whilst at every turning the broad, flaring windows of the public-houses marked the English highway. But Kate paid no attention to the red-lettered temptations. Docile and hopeful as a tired animal thinking of its stable, she walked through the dark crowd that pressed upon her, nor did she even notice when she was jostled, but went on, a heedless nondescript — a something in a black shawl and a quasi-respectable bonnet, a slippery stepping-stone between the low women who whispered and the workwoman who hurried home with the tin of evening beer in her hand. Like one held and guided by the power of a dream, she lost consciousness of all that was not of it. Thoughts of how Dick would receive her and forgive her were folded, entangled and broken within narrow limits of time; half an hour passed like a minute, and she found herself at the stage-door of the theatre. Drawing the letter from her pocket, she said to the hall-keeper:

  ‘Will you kindly give Mr. Lennox this letter? Has he arrived yet?’

  ‘Yes, but he’s busy for the moment. But,’ the man added, as he examined Kate’s features narrowly, ‘you’ll excuse me, I made a mistake; Mr. Lennox isn’t in the theatre.’

  At that moment the swinging door was thrust open, and the call-boy screamed:

  ‘Mr. Lennox says you’re not to let Miss Thomas pass to-night, and if there are any letters for him I’m to take them in.’

  ‘Here’s one; will you give it to Mr. Lennox?’ said Kate, eagerly thrusting forward her note. ‘Say that I’m waiting for an answer.’

  The stage-door keeper tried to interpose, but before he could explain himself the boy had rushed away.

  ‘All letters should be given to me,’ he growled as he turne
d away to argue with Miss Thomas, who had just arrived. In a few minutes the call-boy came back.

  ‘Will you please step this way,’ he said to Kate.

  ‘No, you shan’t,’ cried the hall-keeper; ‘if you try any nonsense with me I shall send round for a policeman.’

  Kate started back frightened, thinking these words were addressed to her, but a glance showed her that she was mistaken.

  ‘Oh! how dare you talk to me like that? You’re an unsophisticated beast!’ cried Miss Thomas.

  ‘Pass under my arm, ma’am,’ said the hall-keeper; ‘I don’t want this one to get through.’ And amid a storm of violent words and the strains of distant music Kate went up a narrow staircase that creaked under the weight of a group of girls in strange dresses. When she got past them she saw Dick at the door of his room waiting for her. The table was covered with letters, the walls with bills announcing, ‘a great success.’

  He took her hand and placed her in a chair, and at first it seemed doubtful who would break an awkward and irritating silence. At last Dick said:

  ‘I’m sorry to hear, Kate, that you’ve been ill; you’re looking well now.’

  ‘Yes, I’m better now,’ she replied drearily; ‘but perhaps if I’d died it would have been as well, for you can never love me again.’

  ‘You know, my dear,’ he said, equivocating, ‘that we didn’t get on well together.’

  ‘Oh, Dick! I know it. You were very good to me, and I made your life wretched on account of my jealousy; but I couldn’t help it, for I loved you better than a woman ever loved a man. I cannot tell you, I cannot find words to express how much I love you; you’re everything to me. I lived for your love; I’m dying of it. Yes, Dick, I’m dying for love of you; I feel it here; it devours me like a fire, and what is so strange is, that nothing seems real to me except you. I never think of anything but of things that concern you. Anything that ever belonged to you I treasure up as a relic. You know the chaplet of pearls I used to wear when we played The Lovers Knot. Well, I have them still, although all else has gone from me. The string was broken once or twice, and some of the pearls were lost, but I threaded them again, and it still goes round my neck. I was looking at them the other day, and it made me very sad, for it made me think of the happy days — ah, the very happy days! — we have had together before I took to —— . But I won’t speak of that. I’ve cured myself. Yes, I assure you, Dick, I’ve cured myself; and it is for that I’ve come to talk to you. Were I not sure that I would never touch brandy again I would not ask you to take me back, but I’d sooner die than do what I have done, for I know that I never will. Can you — will you — my own darling Dick, give me another trial?’