A Mummer's Wife Part 52

'I know, d.i.c.k, I know,' Kate cried painfully, 'but I promise you that I never will again. You may go where you please and do what you please. I will never say a word to you again.'

'I'm sure you believe all that you say, Kate, but I cannot get you a job. I may hear of something. Meanwhile----'

'Meanwhile I shall have to stay here and alone and no way of escaping from the hours, those long dreary hours, no way but one. d.i.c.k, I'm sorry they did not keep me in the asylum, it would have been better for both of us if they had; and if I could go back there again, if you will take me back, I will try to deceive the doctors.'

'You mean, Kate, that you would play the mad woman? I doubt if any woman could do it sufficiently well to deceive the doctors. There was an Italian woman,' and they talked of the great Italian actress for some time and then d.i.c.k said: 'Well, Kate, I must be about my business. I'm sorry to leave you.'

'No, d.i.c.k, you're not.'

'I am, dear, in a way. But if I hear of anything----' and he left the house knowing that there was no further hope for himself. He was tied to her and might be killed by her in his sleep, but that would not matter. What did matter was the thought that was always at the back of his mind, that she was alone in that Islington lodging-house craving for drink, striving to resist it, falling back into drink and might be coming down raving to the theatre to insult him before the company. Insult him before the company!

That had been done, she had done her worst, and he was indifferent whether she came again, only she must not meet Mrs. Forest. On the whole he felt that his sorrow was with Kate herself rather than himself or with Mrs.

Forest. 'G.o.d only knows,' he said as he rushed down the stairs, 'what will become of her.'

Kate was asking herself the same question--what was to become of her? Would it be possible for her to find work to do that would keep her mind away from the drink? She seemed for the moment free from all craving, but she knew what the craving is, how overpowering in the throat it is, and how when one has got one mouthful one must go on and on, so intense is the delight of alcohol in the throat of the drunkard. But there was no craving upon her, and it might never come again. Every morning she awoke in great fear, but was glad to find that there was no craving in her throat, and when she went out she rejoiced that the public-houses offered no attraction to her. She became brave; and fear turned to contempt, and at the bottom of her heart she began to jeer at the demon which had conquered and brought her to ruin and which she had in turn conquered. But there was a last mockery she did not dare, for she knew that the demon was but biding his time. He seemed, however, to go on biding it, and d.i.c.k, finding Kate reasonable every evening, came home to dinner earlier so that the day should not appear to her intolerably long. But his business often detained him, and one night coming home late he noticed that she looked more sullen than usual, that her eyes drooped as if she had been drinking. A month of scenes of violence followed; 'not a single day as far as I can remember for a fortnight' he said one day on leaving the house and running to catch his bus to the Strand, 'have we had a quiet evening.' When he returned that night she ran at him with a knife, and he had only just time to ward off the blow. The house rang with shrieks and cries of all sorts, and the Lennoxes were driven from one lodging-house to another. Trousers, dresses, hats, boots and shoes, were all p.a.w.ned. The comic and the pitiful are but two sides of the same thing, and it was at once comic and pitiful to see d.i.c.k, with one of the tails of his coat lost in the scrimmage, talking at one o'clock in the morning to a dispa.s.sionate policeman, while from the top windows the high treble voice of a woman disturbed the sullen tranquillity of the London night.

And yet d.i.c.k continued with her--continued to allow himself to be beaten, scratched, torn to pieces almost as he would be by a wild beast. Human nature can habituate itself even to pain, and it was so with him. He knew that his present life was as a Nessus s.h.i.+rt on his back, and yet he couldn't make up his mind to have done with it. In the first place, he pitied his wife; in the second, he did not know how to leave her; and it was not until after another row with Kate for having been down to the theatre that he summoned up courage to walk out of the house with a fixed determination never to return again. Kate was too tipsy at the time to pay much attention to the announcement he made to her as he left the room.

Besides, 'Wolf!' had been cried so often that it had now lost its terror in her ears, and it was not until next day that she began to experience any very certain fear that d.i.c.k and she had at last parted for ever. But when, with a clammy, thirsty mouth, she sat rocking herself wearily, and the long idleness of the morning hours became haunted with irritating remembrances of her shameful conduct, of the cruel life she led the man she loved, the black gulf of eternal separation became, as it were, etched upon her mind; and she heard the cold depths reverberating with vain words and foolish prayers. Then her thin hands trembled on her black dress, and waves of s.h.i.+vering pa.s.sed over her. She thought involuntarily that a little brandy might give her strength, and as soon hated herself for the thought. It was brandy that had brought her to this. She would never touch it again. But d.i.c.k had not left her for ever; he would come back to her; she could not live without him. It was terrible! She would go to him, and on her knees beg his pardon for all she had done. He would forgive her. He must forgive her. Such were the fugitive thoughts that flashed through Kate's mind as she hurried to and fro, seeking for her bonnet and shawl. She would go down to the theatre and find him; she would be sure to hear news of him there, she said, as she strove to brush away the mist that obscured her eyes. She could see nothing; things seemed to change their places, and so terrible were the palpitations of her heart that she was forced to cling to any piece of furniture within reach. But by walking very slowly she contrived to reach the stage-door of the Opera Comique, feeling very weak and ill.

'Is Mr. Lennox in?' she asked, at the same time trying to look conciliatingly at the hard-faced hall-keeper.

'No, ma'am, he ain't,' was the reply.

'Who attended the rehearsal to-day, then?'

'There was no rehearsal to-day, ma'am--leastways Mr. Lennox dismissed the rehearsal at half-past twelve.'

'And why?'

'Ah! that I cannot tell you.'

'Could you tell me where Mr. Lennox would be likely to be found?'

'Indeed I couldn't, ma'am; I believe he's gone into the country.'

'Gone into the country!' echoed Kate.

'But may I ask, ma'am, if you be Mrs. Lennox? Because if you be, Mr. Lennox left a letter to be given to you in case you called.'

Her eyes brightened at the idea of a letter. To know the worst would be better than a horrible uncertainty, and she said eagerly:

'Yes, I'm Mrs. Lennox; give me the letter.'

The hall-keeper handed it to her, and she walked out of the narrow pa.s.sage into the street, so as to be free from observation. With anxious fingers she tore open the envelope, and read,

'MY DEAR KATE,

'It must be now as clear to you as it is to me that it is quite impossible for us to go on living together. There is no use in our again discussing the whys and the wherefores; we had much better accept the facts of the case in silence, and mutually save each other the pain of trying to alter what cannot be altered.

'I have arranged to allow you two pounds a week. This sum will be paid to you every Sat.u.r.day, by applying to Messrs. Jackson and Co., Solicitors, Arundel Street, Strand.

'Yours very affectionately, 'RICHARD LENNOX.'

Kate mechanically repeated the last words as she walked gloomily through the glare of the day. 'Two pounds a week.' she said, and with nothing else; not a friend, and the thought pa.s.sed through her mind that she could not have a friend, she had fallen too low, yet from no fault of her own nor d.i.c.k's, and it was that that frightened her. A terrible sense of loneliness, of desolation, was created in her heart. For her the world seemed to have ended, and she saw the streets and pa.s.sers-by with the same vague, irresponsible gaze as a solitary figure would the universal ruin caused by an earthquake. She had no friends, no occupation, no interest of any kind in life; everything had slipped from her, and she s.h.i.+vered with a sense of nakedness, of moral dest.i.tution. Nothing was left to her, and yet she felt, she lived, she was conscious. Oh yes, horribly conscious. And that was the worst; and she asked herself why she could not pa.s.s out of sight, out of hearing and feeling of all the crying misery with which she was surrounded, and in a state of emotive somnambulism she walked through the crowds till she was startled from her dreams by hearing a voice calling after her, 'Kate! Kate!--Mrs. Lennox!'

It was Montgomery.

'I'm so glad to have met you--so glad, indeed, for we have not seen much of each other. I don't know how it was, but somehow it seemed to me that d.i.c.k did not want me to go and see you. I never could make out why, for he couldn't have been jealous of me,' he added a little bitterly. 'But perhaps you've not heard that it's all up as regards my piece at the Opera Comique,' he continued, not noticing Kate's dejection in his excitement.

'No, I haven't heard,' she answered mechanically.

'It doesn't matter much, though, for I've just been down to the Gaiety, and pretty well settled that it's to be done in Manchester, at the Prince's; so you see I don't let the gra.s.s grow under my feet, for my row with Mrs.

Forest only occurred this morning. But what's the matter, Kate? What has happened?'

'Oh, nothing, nothing. Tell me about Mrs. Forest first; I want to know.'

'Well, it's the funniest thing you ever heard in your life; but you won't tell d.i.c.k, because he forbade me ever to speak to you about Mrs.

Forest--not that there is anything but business between them; that I swear to you. But do tell me, Kate, what is the matter? I never saw you look so sad in my life. Have you had any bad news?'

'No, no. Tell me about Mrs. Forest and your piece; I want to hear,' she exclaimed excitedly.

'Well, this is it,' said Montgomery, who saw in a glance that she was not to be contradicted, and that he had better get on with his story. 'In the first place, you know that the old creature has gone in for writing librettos herself, and has finished one about Buddhism, an absurdity; the opening chorus is fifty lines long, but she won't cut one; but I'll tell you about that after. I was to get one hundred for setting this blessed production to music, and it was to follow my own piece, which was in rehearsal. Well, like a great fool, I was explaining to Dubois the bosh I was writing by the yard for this infernal opera of hers. I couldn't help it; she wouldn't take advice on any point. She has written the song of the Sun-G.o.d in hexameters. I don't know what hexameters are, but I would as soon set Bradshaw--leaving St. Pancras nine twenty-five, arriving at--ha!

ha! ha!--with a puff, puff accompaniment on the trombone.'

'Go on with the story,' cried Kate.

'Well, I was explaining all this,' said Montgomery, suddenly growing serious, 'when out she darted from behind the other wing--I never knew she was there. She called me a thief, and said she wouldn't have me another five minutes in her theatre. Monti, the Italian composer, was sent for. I was shoved out, bag and baggage, and there will be no more rehearsals till the new music is ready. That's all.'

'I'm very sorry for you--very sorry,' said Kate very quietly, and she raised her hand to brush away a tear.

'Oh, I don't care; I'd sooner have the piece done in Manchester. Of course it's a bore, losing a hundred pounds. But, oh, Kate! do tell me what's the matter; you know you can confide in me; you know I'm your friend.'

At these kind words the cold deadly grief that encircled Kate's heart like a band of steel melted, and she wept profusely. Montgomery drew her arm into his and pleaded and begged to be told the reason of these tears; but she could make no answer, and pressed d.i.c.k's letter into his hand with a pa.s.sionate gesture. He read it at a glance, and then hesitated, unable to make up his mind as to what he should do. No words seemed to him adequate wherewith to console her, and she was sobbing so bitterly that it was beginning to attract attention in the streets. They walked on without speaking for a few yards, Kate leaning upon Montgomery, until a hackney coachman, guessing that something was wrong signed to them with his whip.

'Where are you living, dear?'

Kate told him with some difficulty, and having directed the driver, he lapsed again into considering what course he should adopt. To put off the journey was impossible; d.i.c.k had promised to meet him there. It was now three o'clock. He had therefore three hours to spend with Kate--with the woman whom he had loved steadfastly throughout a loveless life. He had no word of blame for d.i.c.k; he had heard stories that had made his blood run cold; and yet, knowing her faults as he did, he would have opened his arms had it been possible, and crying through the fervour of years of waiting, said to her, 'Yes, I will believe in you; believe in me and you shall be happy.' There had never been a secret between them; their souls had been for ever as if in communication; and the love, unacknowledged in words, had long been as sunlight and moonlight, lighting the s.p.a.ces of their dream-life. To the woman it had been as a distant star whose pale light was a presage of quietude in hours of vexation; to the man it seemed as a far Elysium radiant with sweet longing, large hopes that waxed but never waned, and where the sweet breezes of eternal felicity blew in musical cadence.

And yet he was deceived in nothing. He knew now as he had known before, that although this dream might haunt him for ever, he should never hold it in his arms nor press it to his lips; and in the midst of this surging tide of misery there arose a desire that, glad in its own anguish, bade him increase the bitterness of these last hours by making a confession of his suffering; and, exulting savagely in the martyrdom he was preparing for himself, he said:

'You know, Kate--I know you must know--you must have guessed that I care for you. I may as well tell you the truth now--you are the only woman I ever loved.'

'Yes,' she said, 'I always thought you cared for me. You have been very kind--oh! very kind, and I often think of it. Ah! everybody has, all my life long, been very good to me; it is I alone who am to blame, who am in fault. I have, I know I have, been very wicked, and I don't know why. I did not mean it; I know I didn't, for I'm not at heart a wicked woman. I suppose things must have gone against me; that's about all.'

Montgomery pushed his gla.s.ses higher on his nose, and after a long silence he said:

'I've often thought that had you met me before you knew d.i.c.k, things might have been different. We should have got on better, although you might never have loved me so well.'