CHRISTMAS-DAY, 1880.
On Christmas-day Rachel O'Mahony wrote a letter to her lover at
Morony Castle:
Cecil Street, Christmas-day, 1880.
DEAREST FRANK,
You do love me, don't you? What's the use of my loving
you, and thinking that you are everything, only that you
are to love me? I am quite content that it should be so.
Only let it be so. You'll ask me what reason I have to be
jealous. I am not jealous. I do think in my heart that you
think that I'm--just perfect. And when I tell myself that
it is so, I lay myself back in my chair and kiss at you
with my lips till I am tired of kissing the space where
you ain't. But if I am wrong, and if you are having a good
time of it with Miss Considine at Mrs. McKeon's ball, and
are not thinking a bit of me and my kisses, what's the
use? It's a very unfair bargain that a woman makes with a
man. "Yes; I do love you," I say,--"but--" Then there's a
sigh. "Yes; I'll love you," you say--"if--" Then there's
a laugh. If I tell a fib, and am not worth having, you
can always recuperate. But we can't recuperate. I'm to go
about the world and be laughed at, as the girl that Frank
Jones made a fool of. Oh! Mr. Jones, if you treat me in
that way, won't I punish you? I'll jump into the lough
with a label round my neck telling the whole story. But I
am not a bit jealous, because I know you are good.
And now I must tell you a bit more of my history. We got
rid of that lovely hotel, paying L6 10s., when that just
earned L1. And I have brought the piano with me. The man
at Erard's told me that I should have it for L2 10s. a
month, frankly owning that he hoped to get my custom. "But
Mr. Moss is to pay nothing?" I asked. He swore that Mr.
Moss would have to pay nothing, and leave what occurred
between him and me. I don't think he will. L30 a year
ought to be enough for the hire of a piano. So here we
are established, at L10 a month--the first-floor, with
father's bedroom behind the sitting-room. I have the room
upstairs over the sitting-room. They are small stumpy
little rooms,--"but mine own." Who says--"But mine own?"
Somebody does, and I repeat it. They are mine own, at any
rate till next Saturday.
And we have settled this terrible engagement and signed
it. I'm to sing for Moss at "The Embankment" for four
months, at the rate of L600 a year. It was a Jew's
bargain, for I really had filled the house for a
fortnight. Fancy a theatre called "The Embankment"! There
is a nasty muddy rheumatic sound about it; but it's very
prettily got up, and the exits and entrances are also
good. Father goes with me every night, but I mean to let
him off the terrible task soon. He smiles, and says he
likes it. I only tell him he would be a child if he did.
They want to change the piece, but I shall make them
pay me for my dresses; I am not going to wear any other
woman's old clothes. It's not the proper way to begin,
you have to begin as a slave or as an empress. Of course,
anybody prefers to do the empress. They try, and then they
fail, and tumble down. I shall tumble down, no doubt; but
I may as well have my chance.
And now I'm going to make you say that I'm a beast. And
so I am. I make a little use of Mahomet M. M.'s passion
to achieve my throne instead of taking up at once with
serfdom. But I do it without vouchsafing him even the
first corner of a smile. The harshest treatment is all
that he gets. Men such as Mahomet M. will live on harsh
treatment for a while, looking forward to revenge when
their time comes. But I shall soon have made sure of my
throne, or shall have failed; and in either case shall
cease to care for Mahomet M. By bullying him and by
treating him as dust beneath my feet, I can do something
to show how proud I am, and how sure I am of success. He
offers me money--not paid money down, which would have
certain allurements. I shouldn't take it. I needn't
tell you that. I should like to have plenty of loose
sovereigns, so as to hire broughams from the yard, instead
of walking, or going in a 'bus about London, which is very
upsetting to my pride. Father and I go down to the theatre
in a hansom, when we feel ourselves quite smart. But it
isn't money like that which he offers. He wants to pay me
a month in advance, and suggests that I shall get into
debt, and come to him to get me out of it. There was some
talk of papa going to New York for a few weeks, and he
said he would come and look after me in his absence.
"Thank you, Mr. Moss," I said, "but I'm not sure I should
want any looking after, only for such as you." Those are
the very words I spoke, and I looked him full in the face.
"Why, what do you expect from me?" he said. "Insult," I
replied, as bold as brass. And then we are playing the
two lovers at "The Embankment." Isn't it a pretty family
history? He said nothing at the moment, but came back in
half an hour to make some unnecessary remarks about the
part. "Why did you say just now that I insulted you?"
he asked. "Because you do," I replied. "Never, never!"
he exclaimed, with most grotesque energy. "I have never
insulted you." You know, my dear, he has twenty times
endeavoured to kiss my hand, and once he saw fit to stroke
my hair. Beast! If you knew the sort of feeling I have for
him--such as you would have if you found a cockroach in
your dressing-case. Of course in our life young women have
to put up with this kind of thing, and some of them like
it. But he knows that I am going to be married, or at any
rate am engaged, Mr. Frank. I make constant use of your
name, telling everybody that I am the future Mrs. Jones,
putting such weight upon the Jones. With me he knows that
it is an insult; but I don't want to quarrel with him if
I can help it, and therefore I softened it down. "You hear
me say, Mr. Moss, that I'm an engaged young woman. Knowing
that, you oughtn't to speak to me as you do." "Why, what
do I say?" You should have seen his grin as he asked me;
such a leer of triumph, as though he knew that he were
getting the better of me. "Mr. Jones wouldn't approve
if he were to see it." "But luckily he don't," said my
admirer. Oh, if you knew how willingly I'd stand at a
tub and wash your shirts, while the very touch of his
gloves makes me creep all over with horror. "Let us have
peace for the future," I said. "I dislike all those
familiarities. If you will only give them up we shall
go on like a house on fire." Then the beast made an
attempt to squeeze my hand as he went out of the room.
I retreated, however, behind the table, and escaped
untouched on that occasion.
You are not to come over, whatever happens, until I tell
you. You ought to know very well by this time that I can
fight my battles by myself; and if you did come, there
would be an end altogether to the L200 which I am earning.
To give him his due, he's very punctual with his money,
only that he wants to pay me in advance, which I will
never have. He has been liberal about my dresses, telling
me to order just what I want, and have the bill sent in
to the costume manager. When I have worn them they become
the property of the theatre. God help any poor young woman
that will ever be expected to get into them. So now you
know exactly how I am standing with Mahomet M. M.
Poor father goes about to public meetings, but never is
allowed to open his mouth for fear he should say something
about the Queen. I don't mean that he is really watched,
but he promised in Ireland not to lecture any more if they
would let him go, and he wishes to keep his word. But I
fear it makes him very unhappy. He has, at any rate, the
comfort of coming home and giving me the lecture, which
he ought to have delivered to more sympathetic ears. Not
but what I do care about the people; only how am I to
know whether they ought to be allowed to make their own
petticoats, or why it is that they don't do so? He says
it's the London Parliament; and that if they had members
in College Green, the young women would go to work at
once, and make petticoats for all the world. I don't
understand it, and wish that he had someone else to
lecture to.
How are you getting on with all your own pet troubles? Is
the little subsiding lake at Ballintubber still a lake?
And what about poor Florian and his religion? Has he told
up as yet? I fear, I fear, that poor Florian has been
fibbing, and that there will be no peace for him or for
your father till the truth has been told.
Now, sir, I have told you everything, just as a young
woman ought to tell her future lord and master. You
say you ought to know what Moss is doing. You do know,
exactly, as far as I can tell you. Of course you wouldn't
like to see him, but then you have the comfort of knowing
that I don't like it either. I suppose it is a comfort,
eh, my bold young man? Of course you want me to hate the
pig, and I do hate him. You may be sure that I will get
rid of him as soon as I conveniently can. But for the
present he is a necessary evil. If you had a home to give
me, I would come to it--oh, so readily! There is something
in the glitter of a theatre--what people call the boards,
the gaslights, the music, the mock love-making, the
pretence of being somebody, the feeling of mystery which
is attached to you, and the feeling you have that you are
generally unlike the world at large--which has its charms.
Even your name, blazoned in a dirty playbill, without any
Mister or Mistress to guard you, so unlike the ways of
ordinary life, does gratify one's vanity. I can't say why
it should be so, but it is. I always feel a little prouder
of myself when father is not with me. I am Miss O'Mahony,
looking after myself, whereas other young ladies have to
be watched. It has its attractions.
But--but to be the wife of Frank Jones, and to look after
Frank's little house, and to cook for him his chicken and
his bacon, and to feel that I am all the world to him, and
to think--! But, oh, Frank, I cannot tell you what things
I think. I do feel, as I think them, that I have not been
made to stand long before the glare of the gas, and that
the time will certainly come when I shall walk about
Ballintubber leaning on your arm, and hearing all your
future troubles about rents not paid, and waters that have
come in.
Your own, own girl,
RACHEL O'MAHONY.