by George Moore
‘And what was Mr. Lennox like?’
‘Oh, he only played a small part — one of the policemen. He don’t play Pom-poucet; I was wrong. It’s too heavy a part, and he’s too busy looking after the piece. But Joe Mortimer was splendid; I nearly died of laughing when he fell down and lost his wig in the middle of the stage. And Frank Bret looked such a swell, and he got an encore for the song, “Oh, Certainly I Love Clairette.” And he and Miss Leslie got another for the duet. To-morrow they play the Cloches.’
‘But now you’ve seen so much of the theatre I hope you’ll be able to do a little overtime with me. I’ve promised to let Mrs. Barnes have her dress by to-morrow morning.’
‘I’m afraid I shan’t be able to stay after six o’clock.’
‘But surely if they’re doing the same play you don’t want to see it again?’
‘Well ’tisn’t exactly that, but — well, I prefer to tell you the truth; ’tisn’t the piece I go to the theatre for; I’m one of the dressers, and I get twelve shillings a week, and I can’t afford to lose it. But there’s no use in telling Mrs. Ede, she’d only make a bother.’
‘How do you mean, dressing?’
‘The ladies of the theatre must have someone to dress them, and I look after the principals, Miss Leslie and Miss Beaumont, that’s all.’
‘And how long have you been doing that?’
‘Why, about a month now. Bill got me the place.’
This conversation had broken in upon a silence of nearly half an hour; with bent heads and clicking needles, Kate and Hender had been working assiduously at Mrs. Barnes’s skirt.
Having a great deal of passementerie ornamentation to sew on to the heading of the flounces, and much fringe to arrange round the edge of the drapery, Kate looked forward to a heavy day. She had expected Miss Hender an hour earlier, and she had not turned up until after nine. An assistant whose time was so occupied that she couldn’t give an extra hour when you were in a difficulty was of very little use; and it might be as well to look out for somebody more suitable. Besides, all this talk about theatres and actors was very wrong; there could be little doubt that the girl was losing her character, and to have her coming about the house would give it a bad name. Such were Kate’s reflections as she handled the rustling silk and folded it into large plaitings. Now and again she tried to come to a decision, but she was not sincere with herself. She knew she liked the girl, and Hender’s conversation amused her: to send her away meant to surrender herself completely to her mother-in-law’s stern kindness and her husband’s irritability.
Hender was the window through which Kate viewed the bustle and animation of life, and even now, annoyed as she was that she would not be able to get the dress done in time, she could not refrain from listening to the girl’s chatter. There was about Miss Hender that strange charm which material natures possess even when they offend. Being of the flesh, we must sympathize with it, and the amiability of Hender’s spirits made a great deal pass that would have otherwise appeared wicked. She could tell without appearing too rude, how Mr. Wentworth, the lessee, was gone on a certain lady in the new company, and would give her anything if she would chuck up her engagement and come and live with him. When Hender told these stories, Kate, fearing that Mrs. Ede might have overheard, looked anxiously at the door, and under the influence of the emotion, it interested her to warn her assistant of the perils of frequenting bad company. But as Kate lectured she could not help wondering how it was that her life passed by so wearily. Was she never going to do anything else but work? she often asked herself, and then reproached herself for the regret that had risen unwittingly up in her mind that life was not all pleasure. It certainly was not, ‘but perhaps it is better,’ she said to herself, ‘that we have to get our living, for me at least’ — her thoughts broke off sharply, and she passed out of the present into a long past time.
Kate had never known her father; her mother, an earnest believer in Wesley, was a hard-working woman who made a pound a week by painting on china. This was sufficient for their wants, and Mrs. Howell’s only fears were that she might lose her health and die before her time, leaving her daughter in want. To avoid this fate she worked early and late at the factory, and Kate was left in the charge of the landlady, a childless old woman who, sitting by the fire, used to tell stories of her deceptions and misfortunes in life, thereby intoxicating the little girl’s brain with sentiment. The mother’s influence was a sort of make-weight; Mrs. Howell was a deeply religious woman, and Kate was often moved to trace back a large part of herself to Bible-readings and extemporary prayers offered up by the bedside in the evening.
Her school-days were unimportant. She learnt to read and write and to do sums; that was all. Kate grew, softly and mystically as a dark damask rose, into a pretty woman without conversions or passions: for notwithstanding her early training, religion had never taken a very firm hold upon her, and despite the fact that she married into a family very similar to her own, although her mother-in-law was almost a counterpart of her real mother — a little harder and more resolute, but as God-fearing and as kind — Kate had caught no blast of religious fervour; religion taught her nothing, inspired her with nothing, could influence her in little. She was not strong nor great, nor was she conscious of any deep feeling that if she acted otherwise than she did she would be living an unworthy life. She was merely good because she was a kind-hearted woman, without bad impulses, and admirably suited to the life she was leading.
But in this commonplace inactivity of mind there was one strong characteristic, one bit of colour in all these grey tints: Kate was dreamy, not to say imaginative. When she was a mere child she loved fairies, and took a vivid interest in goblins; and when afterwards she discarded these stories for others, it was not because it shocked her logical sense to read of a beanstalk a hundred feet high, but for a tenderer reason: Jack did not find a beautiful lady to love him. She could not help feeling disappointed, and when the London Journal came for the first time across her way, with the story of a broken heart, her own heart melted with sympathy; the more sentimental and unnatural the romance, the more it fevered and enraptured her. She loved to read of singular subterranean combats, of high castles, prisoners, hair-breadth escapes; and her sympathies were always with the fugitives. It was also very delightful to hear of lovers who were true to each other in spite of a dozen wicked uncles, of women who were tempted until their hearts died within them, and who years after threw up their hands and said, ‘Thank God that I had the courage to resist!’
The second period of her sentimental education was when she passed from the authors who deal exclusively with knights, princesses, and kings to those who interest themselves in the love fortunes of doctors and curates.
Amid these there was one story that interested her in particular, and caused her deeper emotions than the others. It concerned a beautiful young woman with a lovely oval face, who was married to a very tiresome country doctor. This lady was in the habit of reading Byron and Shelley in a rich, sweet-scented meadow, down by the river, which flowed dreamily through smiling pasture-lands adorned by spreading trees. But this meadow belonged to a squire, a young man with grand, broad shoulders, who day after day used to watch these readings by the river without venturing to address a word to the fair trespasser. One day, however, he was startled by a shriek: in her poetical dreamings the lady had slipped into the water. A moment sufficed to tear off his coat, and as he swam like a water-dog he had no difficulty in rescuing her. Of course after this adventure he had to call and inquire, and from henceforth his visits grew more and more frequent, and by a strange coincidence, he used to come riding up to the hall-door when the husband was away curing the ills of the country-folk. Hours were passed under the trees by the river, he pleading his cause, and she refusing to leave poor Arthur, till at last the squire gave up the pursuit and went to foreign parts, where he waited thirty years, until he heard Arthur was dead. And then he came back with a light heart to his first and only love,
who had never ceased to think of him, and lived with her happily for ever afterwards. The grotesque mixture of prose and poetry, both equally false, used to enchant Kate, and she always fancied that had she been the heroine of the book she would have acted in the same way.
Kate’s taste for novel-reading distressed Mrs. Howell; she thought it ‘a sinful waste of time, not to speak of the way it turned people’s heads from God’; and when one day she found Kate’s scrap-book, made up of poems cut from the Family Herald, she began to despair of her daughter’s salvation. The answer Kate made to her mother’s reproaches was: ‘Mother, I’ve been sewing all day; I can’t see what harm it can be to read a little before I go to bed. Nobody is required to be always saying their prayers.’
The next two years passed away unperceived by either mother or daughter, and then an event occurred of some importance. Their neighbours at the corner of the street got into difficulties, and were eventually sold out and their places taken by strangers, who changed the oil-shop into a drapery business. The new arrivals aroused the keenest interest, and Mrs. Howell and her daughter called to see what they were like, as did everybody else. The acquaintance thus formed was renewed at church, and much to their surprise and pleasure, they discovered that they were of the same religious persuasion.
Henceforth the Howells and Edes saw a great deal of each other, and every Sunday after church the mothers walked home together and the young people followed behind. Ralph spoke of his ill-health, and Kate pitied him, and when he complimented her on her beautiful hair she blushed with pleasure. For much as she had revelled in fictitious sentiment, she had somehow never thought of seeking it in nature, and how that she had found a lover, the critical sense was not strong enough in her to lead her to compare reality with imagination. She accepted Ralph as unsuspectingly as she hitherto accepted the tawdry poetry of her favourite fiction. And her nature not being a passionate one, she was able to do this without any apparent transition of sentiment. She pitied him, hoped she could be of use in nursing him, and felt flattered at the idea of being mistress of a shop.
The mothers were delighted, and spoke of the coincidence of their religions and the admirable addition dressmaking would be to the drapery business. Of love, small mention was made. The bridegroom spoke of his prospects of improving the business, the bride listened, interested for the while in his enthusiasm; orders came in, and Kate was soon transformed into a hard-working woman.
This change of character passed unperceived by all but Mrs. Howell, who died wondering how it came about. Kate herself did not know; she fancied that it was fully accounted for by the fact that she had no time— ‘no time for reading now’ — which was no more than the truth; but she did not complain; she accepted her husband’s kisses as she did the toil he imposed on her — meekly, unaffectedly, as a matter of course, as if she always knew that the romances which used to fascinate her were merely idle dreams, having no bearing upon the daily life of human beings — things fit to amuse a young girl’s fancies, and to be thrown aside when the realities of life were entered upon. The only analogy between the past and present was an ample submission to authority and an indifference to the world and its interest. Even the fact of being without children did not seem to concern her, and when her mother-in-law regretted it she merely smiled languidly, or said, ‘We are very well as we are.’ Of the world and the flesh she lived almost in ignorance, suspecting their existence only through Miss Hender. Hender was attracted by her employer’s kindness and softness of manner, and Kate by her assistant’s strength of will. For some months past a friendship had been growing up between the two women, but if Kate had known for certain that Hender was living a life of sin with the stage carpenter she might not have allowed her into the house. But the possibility of sin attached her to the girl in the sense that it forced her to think of her continually. And then there was a certain air of bravado in Miss Hender’s freckled face that Kate admired. She instituted comparisons between herself and the assistant, and she came to the conclusion that she preferred that fair, blonde complexion to her own clear olive skin; and the sparkle of the red frizzy hair put her out of humour with the thick, wavy blue tresses which encircled her small temples like a piece of black velvet.
As she continued her sewing she reconsidered the question of Hender’s dismissal, but only to perceive more and more clearly the blank it would occasion in her life. And besides her personal feeling there was the fact to consider that to satisfy her customers she must have an assistant who could be depended upon. And she did not know where she would find another who would turn out work equal to Hender’s. At last Kate said:
‘I don’t know what I shall do; I promised the dress by to-morrow morning.’
‘I think we’ll be able to finish it to-day,’ Hender answered. ‘I’ll work hard at it all the afternoon; a lot can be done between this and seven o’clock.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ replied Kate dolefully; ‘these leaves take such a time to sew on; and then there’s all the festooning.’
‘I think it can be managed, but we must stick at it.’
On this expression of good-will the conversation ceased for the time being, and the clicking of needles and the buzzing of flies about the brown-paper patterns were all that was heard until twelve o’clock, when Mrs. Ede burst into the room.
‘I knew what it would be,’ she said, shutting the door after her.
‘What is it?’ said Kate, looking up frightened.
‘Well, I offered to do him a chop or some fried eggs, but he says he must have an omelette. Did you ever hear of such a thing? I told him I didn’t know how to make one, but he said that I was to ask you if you could spare the time.’
‘I’ll make him an omelette,’ said Kate, rising. ‘Have you got the eggs?’
‘Yes. The trouble that man gives us! What with his bath in the morning, and two pairs of boots to be cleaned, and the clothes that have to be brushed, I’ve done nothing but attend to him since ten o’clock; and what hours to keep! — it is now past eleven.’
‘What’s the use of grumbling? You know the work must be done, and I can’t be in two places at once. You promised me you wouldn’t say anything more about it, but would attend to him just the same as any other lodger.’
‘I can’t do more than I’m doing; I haven’t done anything all the morning but run upstairs,’ said Mrs. Ede very crossly; ‘and I wish you’d take the little girls out of the kitchen; I can’t look after them, and they do nothing but look out of the window.’
‘Very well, I’ll have them up here; they can sit on the sofa. We can manage with them now that we’ve finished the cutting out.’
Hender made no reply to this speech, which was addressed to her. She hated having the little girls up in the workroom, and Kate knew it.
Kate did not take long to make Mr. Lennox’s omelette. There was a bright fire in the kitchen, the muffins were toasted, and the tea was made.
‘This is a very small breakfast,’ she said as she put the plates and dishes on the tray. ‘Didn’t he order anything else?’
‘He spoke about some fried bacon, but I’ll attend to that; you take the other things up to him.’
As Kate passed with the tray in her hand she reproved the little girls for their idleness and told them to come upstairs, but it was not until she motioned them into the workroom that she realized that she was going into Mr. Lennox’s room.
After a slight pause she turned the handle of the door and entered. Mr. Lennox was lying very negligently in the armchair, wrapped in his dressing-gown. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, sir; I didn’t know—’ she said, starting back. Then, blushing for shame at her own silliness in taking notice of such things, she laid the breakfast things on the table.
Mr. Lennox thanked her, and without seeming to notice her discomfiture he wrapped himself up more closely, drew his chair forward, and, smacking his lips, took the cover off the dish. ‘Oh, very nice indeed,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid I’ve given you a great dea
l of trouble; the old lady said you were very, very busy.’
‘I’ve to finish a dress to-day, sir, and my assistant—’
Here Kate stopped, remembering that if Mr. Lennox had renewed his acquaintance with Hender at the theatre, any allusion to her would give rise to further conversation. ‘Oh yes, I know Miss Hender; she’s one of our dressers; she looks after our two leading ladies, Miss Leslie and Miss Beaumont. But I don’t see the bacon here.’
‘Mrs. Ede is cooking it; she’ll bring it up in a minute or two,’ Kate answered, edging towards the door.
‘We’ve nothing to do with the dressers,’ said Mr. Lennox, speaking rapidly, so as to detain his landlady; ‘but if you’re as pressed with your work as you tell me, I dare say, by speaking to the lessee, I might manage to get Miss Hender off for this one evening.’
‘Thank you, sir; I’m sure it’s very kind of you, but I shall be able to manage without that.’
The lodger spoke with such an obvious desire to oblige that Kate could not choose but like him, and it made her wish all the more that he would cover up his big, bare neck.
‘‘Pon my word, this is a capital omelette,’ he said, licking his lips, ‘There is nothing I like so much as a good omelette, I was very lucky to come here,’ he added, glancing at Kate’s waist, which was slim even in her old blue striped dress.
‘It’s very kind of you to say so, sir,’ she said, and a glow of rose-colour flushed the dark complexion. There was something very human in this big man, and Kate did not know whether his animalism irritated or pleased her.
‘You weren’t at the theatre last night?’ he said, forcing a huge piece of deeply buttered, spongy French roll into his mouth.
‘No, sir, I wasn’t there; I rarely go to the theatre.’
‘Ah! I’m sorry. How’s that? We had a tremendous house. I never saw the piece go better. If this business keeps up to the end of the week I think we shall try to get another date.’