MR. MOSS IS FINALLY ANSWERED.
Some days after the scene last recorded Rachel was sitting in her
bedroom, partly dressed, but she was, as she was wont to declare
to her father, as weak as a cat with only one life. She had in the
morning gone through a good deal of work. She had in the first place
counted her money. She had something over L600 at the bank, and she
had always supplied her father with what he had wanted. She had told
her future husband that she must sing one month in the year so as
to earn what would be necessary for the support of the Member of
Parliament, and singularly enough her father had yielded. But now
the six hundred and odd pounds was all that was left to take them
both back to the United States. "I think I shall be able to lecture
there," Mr. O'Mahony had said. "Wait till I express my opinion about
queens, and lords, and the Speaker! I think I shall be able to say
a word or two about the Speaker!--and the Chairman of Committees. A
poor little creature who can hardly say bo to a goose unless he had
got all the men to back him. I don't want to abuse the Queen, because
I believe she does her work like a lady; but if I don't lay it on hot
on the Speaker of the British House of Commons, my name is not Gerald
O'Mahony."
"You forget your old enemy, the Secretary."
"Him we used to call Buckshot? I'm not so sure about him. At any rate
he has had a downfall. When a man's had a downfall I don't care about
lecturing against him. But I don't think it probable that the Speaker
will have a downfall, and then I can have my fling."
Rachel had dismissed her brougham, and she had written to Edith
Jones. That, no doubt, had been the greatest effort of the morning.
We need not give here the body of her letter, but it may be
understood that she simply declared at length the nature of the
prospect before her. There was not a word of Frank Jones in it. She
had done that before, and Frank Jones had not responded. She intended
to go with her father direct from Liverpool to New York, and her
letter was full chiefly of affectionate farewells. To Edith and to
Ada and to their father there were a thousand written kisses sent.
But there was not a kiss for Frank. There was not a word for Frank,
so that any reader of the letter, knowing there was a Frank in the
family, would have missed the mention of him, and asked why it was
so. It was very, very bitter to poor Rachel this writing to Morony
Castle without an allusion to the man; but, as she had said, he had
been right not to come and live on her wages, and he certainly was
right not to say a word as to their loss, when neither of them had
wages on which to live. It would have suited in the United States,
but she knew that it would not suit here in the old country, and
therefore when the letter was written she was sitting worn-out, jaded
and unhappy in her own bed-room.
The lodging was still in Cecil Street, from which spot she and her
father had determined not to move themselves till after the marriage,
and had now resolved to remain there till Rachel should be well
enough for her journey to New York. As she sat there the servant,
whom in her later richer days she had taken to herself, came to her
and announced a visitor. Mr. Moss was in the sitting-room. "Mr. Moss
here!" The girl declared that he was in the sitting-room, and in
answer to further inquiries alleged that he was alone. How he had got
there the girl could not say. Probably somebody had received a small
bribe. Mr. O'Mahony was not in,--nor was anybody in. Rachel told
the girl to be ready when she was ready to accompany her into the
parlour, and thus resolving that she would see Mr. Moss she sent him
a message to this effect. Then she went to work and perfected her
dressing very slowly.
When she had completed the work she altered her purpose, and
determined that she would see Mr. Moss alone. "You be in the little
room close at hand," she said, "and have the door ajar, so that you
can come to me if I call. I have no reason to suspect this man, and
yet I do suspect him." So saying, she put on her best manners, as it
might be those she had learned from the earl when he was to be her
husband, and walked into the room. She had often told herself, since
the old days, as she had now told the maid, that no real ground for
suspicion existed; and yet she knew that she did suspect the man.
Rachel was pale and wan, and moved very slowly as though with
haughty gesture. Mr. Moss, no doubt, had reason for knowing that the
marriage with Lord Castlewell was at an end. The story had been told
about among the theatres. Lord Castlewell did not mean to marry Miss
O'Mahony; or else the other and stranger story, Miss O'Mahony did not
mean to marry Lord Castlewell. Though few believed that story, it was
often told. Theatrical people generally told it to one another as a
poetical tale. The young lady had lost her voice and her beauty. The
young lady was looking very old and could never sing again. It was
absolutely impossible that in such circumstances she should decline
to marry the lord if he were willing. But it was more than probable
that he should decline to marry her. The theatrical world had
been much astonished by Lord Castlewell's folly, and now rejoiced
generally over his escape. But that he should still want to marry the
young lady, and that she should refuse,--that was quite impossible.
But Mr. Moss was somewhat different from the theatrical world in
general. He kept himself to himself, and kept his opinion very much
in the dark. Madame Socani spoke to him often about Rachel, and
expressed her loud opinion that Lord Castlewell had never been in
earnest. And she was of opinion that Rachel's voice had never had any
staying property. Madame Socani had once belittled Rachel's voice,
and now her triumph was very great. In answer to all this Mr. Moss
almost said nothing. Once he did turn round and curse the woman
violently, but that was all. Then, when the news had, he thought,
been made certain, either in one direction or the other, he came and
called on the young lady.
"Well, Mr. Moss," said the young lady, with a smile that was intended
to be most contemptible and gracious.
"I have been so extremely sorry to hear of your illness, my dear
young lady."
Her grandeur departed from her all at once. To be called this man's
"dear young lady" was insufferable. And grandeur did not come easily
to her, though wit and sarcasm did.
"Your dear young lady, as you please to call her, has had a bad time
of it."
"In memory of the old days I called you so, Miss O'Mahony. You and I
used to be thrown much together."
"You and I will never be thrown together again, as my singing is all
over."
"It may be so and it may not."
"It is over, at any rate as far as the London theatres go,--as far as
you and I go.
"I hope not."
"I tell you it is. I am going back to New York at once, and do not
think I shall sing another note as long as I live. I'm going to learn
to cook dishes for papa, and we mean to settle down together."
"I hope not," he repeated.
"Very well; but at any rate I must say good-bye to you. I am very
weak, and cannot do much in the talking line."
Then she got up and stood before him, as though determined to wish
him good-bye. She was in truth weak, but she was minded to stand
there till he should have gone.
"My dear Miss O'Mahony, if you would sit down for a moment, I have a
proposition to make to you. I think that it is one to which you may
be induced to listen."
Then she did sit down, knowing that she would want the strength which
rest would give her. The conversation with Mr. Moss might probably
be prolonged. He also sat down at a little distance, and held his
shining new hat dangling between his knees. It was part of her
quarrel with him that he had always on a new hat.
"Your marriage with Lord Castlewell, I believe, is off."
"Just so."
"And also your marriage with Mr. Jones?"
"No doubt. All my marriages are off. I don't mean to be married at
all. I tell you I'm going home to keep house for my father."
"Keep house for me," said Mr. Moss.
"I would rather keep house for the devil," said Rachel, rising from
her chair in wrath.
"Vy?--vy?"--Mr. Moss was reduced by his eagerness and enthusiasm to
his primitive mode of speaking--"Vat is it that you shall want of a
man but that he shall love you truly? I come here ready to marry you,
and to take my chance in all things. You say your voice is gone. I am
here ready to take the risk. Lord Castlewell will not have you, but
I will take you." Now he had risen from his chair, and was standing
close to her; but she was so surprised at his manner and at his words
that she did not answer him at all. "That lord cared for you not at
all, but I care. That Mr. Jones, who was to have been your husband,
he is gone; but I am not gone. Mr. Jones!" then he threw into his
voice a tone of insufferable contempt.
This Rachel could not stand.
"You shall not talk to me about Mr. Jones."
"I talk to you as a man who means vat he is saying. I will marry you
to-morrow."
"I would sooner throw myself into that river," she said, pointing
down to the Thames.
"You have nothing, if I understand right,--nothing! You have had
a run for a few months, and have spent all your money. I have got
L10,000! You have lost your voice,--I have got mine. You have no
theatre,--I have one of my own. I am ready to take a house and
furnish it just as you please. You are living here in these poor,
wretched lodgings. Why do I do that?" And he put up both his hands.
"You never will do it," said Rachel.
"Because I love you." Then he threw away his new hat, and fell on his
knees before her. "I will risk it all,--because I love you! If your
voice comes back,--well! If it do not come back, you will be my wife,
and I shall do my best to keep you like a lady."
Here Rachel leant back in her chair, and shut her eyes. In truth she
was weak, and was hardly able to carry on the battle after her old
fashion. And she had to bethink herself whether the man was making
this offer in true faith. If so, there was something noble in it;
and, though she still hated the man, as a woman may hate her lover,
she would in such case be bound not to insult him more than she could
help. A softer feeling than usual came upon her, and she felt that he
would be sufficiently punished if she could turn him instantly out of
the room. She did not now feel disposed "to stick a knife into him,"
as she had told her father when describing Mr. Moss. But he was at
her knees and the whole thing was abominable.
"Rachel, say the word, and be mine at once."
"You do not understand how I hate you!" she exclaimed.
"Rachel, come to my arms!"
Then he got up, as though to clasp the girl in his embrace. She ran
from him, and immediately called the girl whom she had desired to
remain in the next room with the door open. But the door was not
open, and the girl, though she was in the room, did not answer.
Probably the bribe which Mr. Moss had given was to her feeling rather
larger than ordinary.
"My darling, my charmer, my own one, come to my arms!"
And he did succeed in getting his hand round on to Rachel's waist,
and getting his lips close to her head. She did save her face so that
Mr. Moss could not kiss her, but she was knocked into a heap by his
violence, and by her own weakness. He still had hold of her as she
rose to her feet, and, though he had become acquainted with her
weapon before, he certainly did not fear it now. A sick woman, who
had just come from her bed, was not likely to have a dagger with her.
When she got up she was still more in his power. She was astray,
scrambling here and there, so as to be forced to guard against her
own awkwardness. Whatever may be the position in which a woman may
find herself, whatever battle she may have to carry on, she has first
to protect herself from unseemly attitudes. Before she could do
anything she had first to stand upon her legs, and gather her dress
around her.
"My own one, my life, come to me!" he exclaimed, again attempting to
get her into his embrace.
But he had the knife stuck into him. She had known that he would do
it, and now he had done it.
"You fool, you," she said; "it has been your own doing."
He fell on the sofa, and clasped his side, where the weapon had
struck him. She rang the bell violently, and, when the girl came,
desired her to go at once for a surgeon. Then she fainted.
"I never was such a fool as to faint before," she told Frank
afterwards. "I never counted on fainting. If a girl faints, of course
she loses all her chance. It was because I was ill. But poor Mr. Moss
had the worst of it."
Rachel, from the moment in which she fainted, never saw Mr. Moss any
more. Madame Socani came to visit her, and told her father, when she
failed to see her, that Mr. Moss had only three days to live. Rachel
was again in bed, and could only lift up her hands in despair. But to
her father, and to Frank Jones, she spoke with something like good
humour.
"I knew it would come," she said to her father. "There was something
about his eye which told me that an attempt would be made. He would
not believe of a woman that she could have a will of her own. By
treating her like an animal he thought he would have his own way. I
don't imagine he will treat me in that way again." And then she spoke
of him to Frank. "I suppose he does like me?"
"He likes your singing,--at so much a month."
"That's all done now. At any rate, he cannot but know that it is
an extreme chance. He must fancy that he really likes me. A man
has to be forgiven a good deal for that. But a man must be made to
understand that if a woman won't have him, she won't! I think Mr.
Moss understands it now."