THE WIFE OF FRANCIS TRENT.
Far away from the eminently respectable quarter of London, adorned by
the habitation of families like the Brookes, the Kenyons, and the
Romaines, you may find an unsavory district in Whitechapel which is
known as Truefit Row. It is a street of tall and mean-looking houses,
which seem to be toppling to their fall; and the pavement is strewn with
garbage which is seldom cleared away. Many of the windows of the houses
are broken; many of the doors hang ajar, for the floors are let out in
flats, and there is a common stair for at least five and twenty
families. It is a dreary-looking place, and the dwellers therein look as
dreary as their own abode.
In one of these houses Mr. Francis Trent had found a resting-place for
the sole of his foot. It was not a fashionable lodging, not even a
particularly clean one; but he had come down in the world, and did not
very much care where he lived, so long as he had plenty to drink, and a
little money in his pockets. But these commodities were not as plentiful
as he wanted them to be. Therefore he passed a good deal of his time in
a state of chronic brooding and discontent.
He had one room on the third storey. The woodwork of this apartment was
so engrained with grime that scarcely any amount of washing would have
made it look clean; but it had certainly been washed within a
comparatively recent date. The wall paper, which had peeled off in
certain places, had also been repaired by a careful hand; and the
curtains which shaded the unbroken window were almost spotlessly clean.
By several other indications it was quite plain that a woman's hand had
lately been busy in the room; and compared with many other rooms in the
same building, it was quite a palace of cleanliness and comfort.
But Francis Trent did not think so. He sat over his small and
smouldering fire one dark November afternoon, and shivered, partly from
cold and partly from disgust. He had no coals left, and no money
wherewith to buy them: a few sticks and some coke and cinders were the
materials out of which he was trying to make a fire, and naturally the
result was not very inspiriting. The kettle, which was standing on the
dull embers, showed not the slightest inclination to "sing." Francis
Trent, outstretched on a basket-chair (the only comfortable article of
furniture that the room contained), gave the fire an occasional stir
with his foot, and bestowed upon it a deal of invective.
"It will be out directly," he said at last, sitting up and looking
dismally about him; "and it's nearly five o'clock. She said she would be
here at four. Ugh! how cold it is! If she doesn't come in five minutes I
shall go to the Spotted Dog. There's always a fire there, thank
goodness, and they'll stand me a glass of something hot, I daresay."
He rose and walked about the room by way of relieving the monotony of
existence, and causing his blood to circulate a little faster. But this
mode of activity did not long please him, and he threw himself back in
his chair at last, and uttered an exclamation of disgust.
"Confound it! I shall go out," he said to himself.
But just at that moment a hand fumbled at the latch. He called out "Come
in," an unnecessary call, because the door was half open before he
spoke, and a woman entered the room, shutting the door behind her.
She was slight, trim, not very tall: she had a pale face and dark eyes,
dark, glossy hair, and delicate features. If Lesley had been there, she
would have recognized in this woman the ladies' maid who called herself
Mary Kingston. But in this part of the world she was known as Mrs.
Trent.
Francis did not give her a warm welcome, and yet his weak, worn face
lighted up a little at the sight of her. "I thought you were never
coming," he said, grumblingly, and his eyes fell greedily to the basket
that she carried on her arm. "What have you got there?"
"Just a few little things for your tea," said Mary, depositing the
basket on the table. "And, oh--what a wretched fire! Have you no coals?"
"Neither coals nor food nor drink," he answered, sullenly, "nor money in
my pocket either."
The woman stood and looked at him. "You had two pounds the day before
yesterday," she said.
"Billiards," he answered, laconically. But he turned away so as not to
see her face.
She gave a short, sharp exclamation. "You promised to be careful!"
"The luck was against me," he said. "I thought I should win, but my
hand's taken to shaking so much that I couldn't play. I don't see why
you should blame me--I've precious few amusements."
She did not answer, but began to take the parcels, one by one, from her
basket, and place them on the table. Her own hands shook a little as she
did so. Francis turned again to watch her operations. She took out some
tea, bread, butter, eggs, and bacon. There was a bottle of brandy and a
bundle of cigars. Francis Trent's eyes glistened at the sight. He stole
closer to his wife, and put his arm around her.
"You're a good soul, Mary. You'll forgive me, won't you? Upon my honor,
I never meant to lose the money."
"I have to work hard enough for it," she said dryly.
"I know you have! It's a shame--a d----d shame! If I had my way, you
should be dressed in satin, and sit all day with your hands before you,
and ride in your own carriage--you know you should!"
"I don't know that I should particularly care about that kind of life,"
said Mary, still coldly, but with a perceptible softening of her eye and
relaxation of the stiff upper lip. "I would rather live on a farm in the
country, and do farm-work. It's healthier, yes, and it's happier--to my
thinking."
"So it is; and that's the life we'll lead by and by, when Oliver pays us
what he has promised," said Francis, eagerly. "We will have some land of
our own, and get far away from the temptation of the city. Then you will
see what a different fellow I'll be, Mary. You shan't have reason to
complain of me then."
"Well, I hope so, Francis," she said, but not too hopefully. Perhaps she
noticed that his hand and eye both strayed, as if involuntarily, towards
the bottle of spirits on the table. And at that moment, the last flicker
of light from the fire went out.
"Have you no candles?" she asked, abruptly.
"Not one."
"I'll go out and fetch them, and some coal too. Sit down quietly, and
wait. I won't be long. And as I haven't a corkscrew, I'll take the
bottle with me, and get it opened downstairs."
Francis dared not object, but his wife's course of action made him
sulky. He did not see why she should not have left him the bottle during
her absence: he could have broken its neck on the fender. But he knew
very well that she could not trust him to drink only in moderation if he
were left alone with the bottle; and, like a wise woman, she therefore
took it with her.
She was back again in a few minutes, bringing with her fuel and lights.
Francis was lying in his bed, his face turned sullenly to the wall. Mary
poured a little brandy into a glass, and brought it to him to drink.
"You will feel better when you have had that," she said, "and you shall
have some more in your tea if you want it. Now, I'm going to light up
the fire."
So well did she perform her task that in a very short time the flames
were leaping up the chimney, the shadows dancing cheerfully over the
ceiling, the kettle hissing and puffing on the fire. The sight and sound
drew Francis once more from his bed to the basket chair, where he sat
and lazily watched his wife as she cut bread, made tea, fried bacon and
eggs, with the ease and celerity of a woman to whom domestic offices are
familiar. When at last the tea-table was arranged, he drew up his chair
to it with a sigh of positive pleasure.
"How homelike and comfortable it looks: Why don't you always stay with
me, Mary, and keep me straight?"
"You want so much keeping straight, Francis," she said, but a slight
smile flickered about the comers of her lips.
It was characteristic of the pair that he allowed her to wait on him,
hand and foot: he let her cut the bread, pour out the tea, carry his
plate backwards and forwards, and pour the brandy into his cup, without
a word of remonstrance. Only when he had been well supplied and was not
likely to want anything more just then, did he say to her----
"Sit down, Mary, and get yourself a cup of tea."
Mary did not seem to resent the condescending nature of this invitation.
She thanked him simply, and sat down; pouring out for herself the dregs
of the tea, and eating a piece of dry bread with it. Francis had the
grace to remonstrate with her on the poverty of her fare.
"It doesn't matter what I eat now," she said. "I have the best of
everything where I'm living, and I don't feel hungry."
"I hope you're comfortable where you are," said Mr. Trent, politely.
"Yes, I'm very comfortable, thank you, Francis. Though," said Mrs.
Trent, deliberately, "I think I should be more comfortable if I wasn't
in a house where Mr. Oliver visited."
"Oliver! Do you mean my brother Oliver? Why do you call him _Mr._
Oliver? It is so absurd to keep up these class-distinctions."
"So I think," said Mary, "but when other people keep them up it's not
much use for me to be the first to cast them over board. Your brother
Oliver comes to the house where I'm living much oftener than I think he
ought."
"What house is it? You never told me."
"It's Mr. Brooke's. Mr. Caspar Brooke--him as wrote 'The Unexplored.' I
brought it to you to read, I remember--a good long time ago."
"Awful rot it was too!" said Francis, contemptuously. "However, I
suppose it paid. What are you doing there? Wasn't it his wife who ran
away from him? I remember the row some years ago--before I went under.
Is she dead?"
"No, she's living with her father, Lord Courtleroy. It's her daughter
I've come to wait on: Miss Lesley Brooke."
"Brooke's daughter!" said Francis, thoughtfully. "I remember Brooke. Not
half a bad fellow. Lent me ten pounds once, and never asked for it
again. So it's _Brooke's_ daughter you--hm--live with. Sort of
companion, you are, eh, Mary?"
"Maid," said Mary, stolidly. "Ladies' maid. And Miss Lesley's the
sweetest young lady I ever come across."
Francis shrugged his shoulders. "Your employment is causing you to
relapse into the manner--and grammar--of your original station, Mary.
May I suggest 'came' instead of 'come'?"
Mrs. Trent looked at him with a still disdain. "Suggest what you like,"
she said, "and think what you like of me. I never took myself to be your
equal in education and all that. I may be your equal in sense and heart
and morals; but of course that goes for nothing with such as you."
"Don't be savage, Mary," said Francis, in a conciliatory tone. "I only
want you to improve yourself a little, when you can. You're the best
woman in the world--nobody knows it better than I do--and you should not
take offense at a trifle. So you like Brooke's daughter, eh?"
"Yes, I like her. But I don't like your brother Oliver."
"I know that. What is he doing at Brooke's house? Let me see--he isn't
engaged to _that_ girl? It's the actress he's going to marry, isn't it?"
He had finished his meal by this time, and was smoking one of the cigars
that his wife had brought him. She, meanwhile, turned up her sleeves,
and made ready to wash the cups and plates.
"Tell me all about it," said Francis, who was now in high good humor.
"It sounds quite like the beginning of a romance."
"There's no romance about it that I can see," said Mrs. Trent, grimly.
"Your brother is engaged to Miss Kenyon--a nice, pretty young lady:
rich, too, I hear."
"Yes, indeed! As you and I are going to find out by and by, old lady,"
and he chuckled to himself at the thought of his prospective wealth.
"And he ought to be content with that. Instead of which, he's never out
of our place; and when he's there he never seems to take his eyes off
Miss Lesley. Playing the piano while she sings, reading to her,
whispering, sitting into her pocket, so to speak. I can't think what
he's about, nor other people neither."
"What does Miss Kenyon say?" asked Francis, with sudden sharpness. For
it occurred to him that if that match were broken off he would not get
his two thousand pounds on Oliver's wedding-day.
"She doesn't seem to notice much. Once or twice lately I've seen her
look at them in a thoughtful, puzzled kind of way, as if something had
set her thinking. She looks at Miss Lesley as if she could not quite
make her out--though the two have been friends ever since Miss Lesley
came home from school."
"And the girl herself?" said Francis, with considerable and increasing
interest. "What does she do?"
"She looks troubled and puzzled, but I don't think she understands.
She's as innocent as a baby," said Mrs. Trent, with compassion in her
tone.
"I wonder what he's doing it for," soliloquized Francis. "He can't marry
her."
Mary Trent paused for a moment in her housewifely occupations. "Why
_can_ he not?"
"Because----well, I may as well tell you as not I've never mentioned
it--I don't know why exactly--but I'll tell you now, Mary. A few weeks
ago, when we were so down on our luck, you know--just before you began
to work again--I met Oliver in Russell Square, and told him what I
wanted and what I thought of him. I brought him to terms, I can tell
you! He had just got himself engaged to Miss Kenyon; and she has twenty
thousand pounds besides her profession; and he promised me two thousand
down on his wedding-day. What do you say to that? And within six months,
too! And if he doesn't keep his word, I shall not hold my tongue about
the one or two little secrets of his that I possess--do you see?"
"Perhaps," said Mrs. Trent, slowly, "he thinks he could manage to pay
you the money even if he married Miss Brooke? So long as you get the two
thousand, I suppose you don't mind which girl it is?"
"Not a bit," answered her husband frankly. "All I want is the money.
Then we'll go off to America, old girl, and have the farm you talk
about. But Brooke's daughter won't have two thousand pounds, so if he
marries her instead of Miss Kenyon, he'll have to look out."
Mrs. Trent had finished her work by this time. As she stood by the table
drying her hands there was a look of fixed determination on her features
which Francis recognized with some uneasiness.
"What do you think about it? What are you going to do?" he asked, almost
timidly.
"I am not going to see Miss Lesley badly treated, at any rate."
"How can you prevent it?"
"I don't know, but I _shall_ prevent it, please God, if necessary. Your
brother Oliver is engaged to one girl, and making love to another,
that's the plain English of it; and sooner than see him break Miss
Lesley's heart, I'd up and tell everybody what I know of him, and get
him turned out of the house."
"And spoil my game?" cried Francis, rising to his feet. His faced had
turned white with anger, and his eyes were aflame. She looked at him
consideringly, as if she were measuring his strength against her own.
"Well--no," she said at length, "I won't spoil your game if I can help
it--and I think I can get my own way without doing that. I want you to
win your game, Francis. For you know"--with a weary smile--"that if you
win, I win too."
Her husband's face relaxed. "You're not a bad sort, Polly: I always said
so," he remarked. "Come and give me a kiss. You wouldn't do anything
rash, would you? Choke Oliver off at Brooke's as much as you like; but
don't endanger his relations with Ethel Kenyon. His marriage with her is
our only chance of getting out of this accursed bog we seem to have
stuck fast in."
"I'll be careful," said Mrs. Trent, drily.
Francis still eyed her with apprehension. "You won't try to stop that
marriage, will you?"
"No, why should I? Miss Kenyon's nothing to me."
Francis laughed. "I didn't know where your sympathies might be carrying
you," he said. "Brooke's daughter is no more to you than the other
girl."
"I suppose not. But I feel different to her. You can't explain these
things," said Mrs. Trent, philosophically, "but it's certain sure that
you take a liking to one person and a hate to another, without knowing
why. I liked Miss Lesley ever since I entered that house. She's kind,
and talks to me as if I was a woman--not a machine. And I wouldn't like
to see any harm happen to her."
"Oh, you may indulge your romantic fondness for Miss Brooke as long as
you like, if you don't let it interfere with Oliver's marriage," said
Francis, with a rather disagreeable laugh. "It's lucky that you did not
go to live with Miss Kenyon instead of the fair Lesley. You might have
felt tempted to tell _her_ your little story."
"Ay, so I might," said the woman, slowly. "For she's a woman, after all.
And a nice life she'll have of it with Oliver Trent. I'm not sure----"
She stopped, and a sombre light came into her deep-set eyes.
"Oh, for goodness' sake, don't get on that old grievance," said Francis,
hastily, almost rudely. "Don't think about it--don't mention it to me.
It's all very well, Polly, for you to take on so much about your sister;
and, indeed, I'm very sorry for her, and I think that Oliver behaved
abominably--I do, indeed; but, my dear girl, it's no good crying over
spilt milk, and Oliver's my brother, after all----"
"And he's going to pay you two thousand pounds on his wedding-day," said
Mrs. Trent, with cruel curtness. "I know all about it. And I understand.
Why should I be above making my profit out of him like other people? All
right, Francis: I won't spoil your little game at present. And now I
must be getting back."
She took up her bonnet and shawl and began to readjust them. Francis
watched her hands: he saw that they trembled, and he knew that this was
an ominous sign. It sometimes betokened anger, and when she was angry he
did not care to ask her to give him money. And he wanted money now.
But she was not angry in the way that he thought. For after a moment's
silence her hands grew steady again, and her face recovered its usual
calm.
"I've got three pounds here for you, Francis," she said. "And I hope
you'll make it last as long as you can--you will, won't you? For I
shan't have any more for some little time to come."
He nodded and took the sovereigns from her hand. A touch of compunction
visited him as he did so.
"Keep one, Polly," he said. "I don't want them all."
"Oh, yes, you do. And I have no need of money where I am. You'll not
spend it all at billiards, or on brandy, will you?"
"No, Polly, I won't. I promise you."
And he meant to keep his promise. But as matters fell out, he was
blindly, madly drunk before the same night was out, and he had lost
every penny that he possessed over a game at cards. And plunging
recklessly across the street, in the darkness of the foggy night, he was
knocked down by passing cab, and was carried insensible to the nearest
hospital. Where let us leave him for a time in good and kindly hands.