III

'Oh, ma'am!' Hender broke in, 'you can't think how amusing it was last

night! I never enjoyed myself so much in my life. The place was crammed!

Such a house! And Miss Leslie got three encores and a call after each act.'

'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 deal 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.'

Kate did not know what 'another date' meant, but Hender would be able to

tell her.

'You've only to tell me when you want to see the piece, and I'll give you

places. Would you like to come to-night?'

'Not to-night, thank you, sir. I shall be busy all the evening, and my

husband is not very well.'

The conversation then came to an irritating pause. Mr. Lennox had scraped

up the last fragments of the omelette, and poured himself out another cup

of tea, when Mrs. Ede appeared with the broiled bacon. On seeing Kate

talking to Mr. Lennox, she at once assumed an air of mingled surprise and

regret.

Kate noticed this, but Mr. Lennox had no eyes for anything but the bacon,

which he heaped on his plate and devoured voraciously. It pleased Kate to

see him enjoy his breakfast, but while she was admiring him Mrs. Ede said

as she moved towards the door, 'Can I do anything for you, sir?'

'Well, no,' replied Mr. Lennox indifferently; but seeing that Kate was

going too he swallowed a mouthful of tea hastily and said, 'I was just

telling the lady here that we had a tremendous success last night, and that

she ought to come and see the piece. I think she said she had no one to go

with. You should take her. I'm sure you will like the _Cloches_.'

Mrs. Ede looked indignant, but after a moment she recovered herself, and

said severely and emphatically: 'Thank you, sir, but I'm a Christian woman.

No offence, sir, but I don't think such things are right.'

'Ah! don't you, indeed?' replied the mummer, looking at her in blank

astonishment. But the expression of his face soon changed, and as if struck

suddenly by some painful remembrance, he said, 'You're a Dissenter or

something of that kind, I suppose. We lost a lot of money at Bradford

through people of your persuasion; they jolly well preached against us.'

Mrs. Ede did not answer, and after a few brief apologetic phrases to the

effect that it would not do for us all to think alike, Kate withdrew to her

work-room, asking herself if Mr. Lennox would take offence and leave them.

Hender suspected that something had occurred, and was curious to hear what

it was; but there sat those idiotic little girls, and of course it wouldn't

do to speak before them. Once she hinted that she had heard that Mr.

Lennox, though a very nice man, was a bit quick-tempered, a query that Kate

answered evasively, saying that it was difficult to know what Mr. Lennox

was like. Words were an effort to her, and she could not detach a single

precise thought from the leaden-coloured dreams which hung about her.

Click, click, went the needles all day long, and Kate wondered what a woman

who lived in a thirty-pound house could want with a ten-pound dress. But

that was no affair of hers, and as it was most important she should not

disappoint her, Kate kept Hender to dinner; and as compensation for the

press of work, she sent round to the public for three extra half-pints.

They needed a drink, for the warmth of the day was intense. Along the red

tiles of the houses, amid the brick courtyards, the sun's rays created an

oven-like atmosphere. From the high wall opposite the dead glare poured

into the little front kitchen through the muslin blinds, burning the pot of

green-stuff, and falling in large spots upon the tiled floor; and overcome

by the heat, the two women lay back on the little red calico-covered sofa,

languidly sipping their beer, and thinking vaguely of when they would have

to begin work again. Hender lolled with her legs stretched out; Kate rested

her head upon her hand wearily; Mrs. Ede sat straight, apparently unheeding

the sunlight which fell across the plaid shawl that she wore winter and

summer. She drank her beer in quick gulps, as if even the time for

swallowing was rigidly portioned out. The others watched her, knowing that

when her pewter was empty she would turn them out of the kitchen. In a few

moments she said, 'I think, Kate, that if you're in a hurry you'd better

get on with your dress. I have to see to Mr. Lennox's dinner, and I can't

have you a-hanging about. As it is, I don't know how I'm to get the work

done. There's a leg of mutton to be roasted, and a pudding to be made, and

all by four o'clock.'

Kate calmed the old woman with a few words, and taking Ralph's dinner from

her, carried it upstairs. She found her husband better, and, setting the

tray on the edge of the bed, she answered the questions he put to her

concerning the actor briefly; then begged of him to excuse her, as she

heard voices in the shop. Mr. Lennox had come in bringing two men with him,

Joe Mortimer, the low comedian, and young Montgomery, the conductor; and it

became difficult to prevent Hender from listening at the doors, and almost

useless to remind her of the fact that there were children present, so

excited did she become when she spoke of Bret's love affairs.

But at six o'clock she put on her hat, and there was no dissuading her;

Mrs. Barnes must wait for her dress. There was still much to be done, and

when Mrs. Ede called from the kitchen that tea was ready, Kate did not at

first answer, and when at last she descended she remained only long enough

to eat a piece of bread and butter. Her head was filled with grave

forebodings, that gradually drifted and concentrated into one fixed

idea--not to disappoint Mrs. Barnes. Once quite suddenly, she was startled

by an idea which flashed across her mind, and stopping in the middle of a

'leaf,' she considered the question that had propounded itself. Lodgers

often make love to their landladies; what would she do if Mr. Lennox made

love to her? Such a thing might occur. An expression of annoyance

contracted her face, and she resumed her sewing. The hours passed slowly

and oppressively. It was now ten o'clock, and the tail had still to be

bound with braid, and the side strings to be sewn in. She had no tape by

her, and thought of putting off these finishing touches till the morning,

but plucking up her courage, she determined to go down and fetch from the

shop what was required. The walk did her good, but it was hard to sit down

to work again; and the next few minutes seemed to her interminable: but at

last the final stitch was given, the thread bitten off, and the dress held

up in triumph. She looked at it for a moment with a feeling of pride, which

soon faded into a sensation of indifference.

All the same her day's labour was over; she was now free. But the thought

carried a bitterness: she remembered that there was no place for her to go

to but her sick husband's room. Yet she had been looking forward to having

at least one night's rest, and it exasperated her to think that there was

nothing for her but a hard pallet in the back room, and the certainty of

being awakened several times to attend to Ralph. She asked herself

passionately if she was always going to remain a slave and a drudge?

Hender's words came back to her with a strange distinctness, and she saw

that she knew nothing of pleasure, or even of happiness; and in a very

simple way she wondered what were really the ends of life. If she were good

and religious like her mother or her mother-in-law--But somehow she could

never feel as they did. Heaven seemed so far away. Of course it was a

consolation to think there was a happier and better world;

still--still--Not being able to pursue the thread any further, she stopped,

puzzled, and a few moments after she was thinking of the lady who used to

read Byron and Shelley, and who resisted her lover's entreaties so bravely.

Every part of the forgotten story came back to her. She realized the place

they used to dream in. She could see them watching with ardent eyes the

paling of the distant sky as they listened to the humming of insects,

breathing the honied odour of the flowers; she saw her leaning on his arm

caressingly, whilst pensively she tore with the other hand the leaves as

they passed up the long terrace.

Then as the vision became more personal and she identified herself with the

heroine of the book, she thought of the wealth of love she had to give, and

it seemed to her unutterably sad that it should bloom like a rose in a

desert unknown and unappreciated.

This was the last flight of her dream. The frail wings of her imagination

could sustain her no longer, and too weary to care for or even to think of

anything, she went upstairs, to find Mrs. Ede painting her son's chest and

back with iodine. He had a bad attack, which was beginning to subside. His

face was haggard, his eyes turgid, and the two women talked together. Mrs.

Ede was indignant, and told of all her trouble with the dinner. She had to

fetch cigars and drinks. Kate listened, watching her husband all the while.

He began to get a little better, and Mrs. Ede took advantage of the

occasion to suggest that it was time for evening prayers.

In days when speech was possible, it was Ralph who read the customary

chapter of the Bible and led the way with the Lord's Prayer; but when words

were forbidden to him his mother supplied his place. The tall figure knelt

upright. It was not a movement of cringing humility, but of stalwart

belief, and as she handed her the Bible, Kate could not help thinking that

there was pride in her mother-in-law's very knees.

The old woman turned over the leaves for a few seconds in silence; then,

having determined on a chapter, she began to read. But she had not got

beyond a few sentences before she was interrupted by the sound of laughing

voices and stamping feet.

She stopped reading, and looked from Kate to her husband. He was at the

moment searching for his pocket-handkerchief. Kate rose to assist him, and

Mrs. Ede said:

'It's shameful! it's disgraceful!'

'It's only Mr. Lennox coming in.'

'Only Mr. Lennox!' At that moment she was interrupted by the lighter

laughter of female voices; she paused to listen, and then, shutting the

book fiercely, she said, 'From the first I was against letting our rooms to

a mummer; but I didn't think I should live to see my son's house turned

into a night house. I shall not stop here.'

'Not stop here--eh, eh? We must tell--tell him that it can't be allowed,'

Ralph wheezed.

'And I should like to know who these women are he has dared to bring into--

People he has met in Piccadilly, I suppose!'

'Oh no!' interrupted Kate, 'I'm sure that they are the ladies of the

theatre.'

'And where's the difference?' Mrs. Ede asked fiercely. Sectarian hatred of

worldly amusement flamed in her eyes, and made common cause with the

ordinary prejudice of the British landlady. Mr. Ede shared his mother's

opinions, but as he was then suffering from a splitting headache, his chief

desire was that she should lower the tone of her voice.

'For goodness' sake don't speak so loud!' he said plaintively. 'Of course

he mustn't bring women into the house; but he had better be told so. Kate,

go down and tell him that these ladies must leave.'

Kate stood aghast at hearing her fate thus determined, and she asked

herself how she was to tell Mr. Lennox that he must put his friends out of

doors. She hesitated, and during a long silence all three listened. A great

guffaw, a woman's shriek, a peal of laughter, and then a clinking of

glasses was heard. Even Kate's face told that she thought it very improper,

and Mrs. Ede said with a theatrical air of suppressed passion:

'Very well; I suppose that is all that can be done at present.'

Feeling very helpless, Kate murmured, 'I don't see how I'm to tell them to

go. Hadn't we better put it off until morning?'

'Till morning!' said Mr. Ede, trying to button his dirty nightshirt across

his hairy chest. 'I'm not going to listen to that noise all night. Kate,

you g-go and tur-r-rn them out.'

'I'm sorry, dearie,' said Mrs. Ede, seeing her daughter-in-law's distress.

'I'll soon send them away.'

'Oh no! I'd rather go myself,' said Kate.

'Very well, dear. I only thought you might not like to go down among a lot

of rough people.'

The noise downstairs was in the meanwhile increasing, and Ralph grew as

angry as his asthma would allow him. 'They're just killing me with their

noise. Go down at once and tell them they must leave the house instantly.

If you don't I'll go myself.'

Mrs. Ede made a movement towards the door, but Kate stopped her, saying:

'I'll go; it's my place.' As she descended the stairs she heard a man's

voice screaming above the general hubbub:

'I'll tell you what; if Miss Beaumont doesn't wait for my beat another

night, I'll insist on a rehearsal being called. She took the concerted

music in the finale of the first act two whole bars before her time. It was

damned awful. I nearly broke my stick trying to stop her.'

'Quite true; I never saw the piece go so badly. Bret was "fluffing" all

over the shop.'

Kate listened to these fragments of conversation, asked herself how she was

to walk in upon those people and tell them that they must keep quiet.

'And the way Beaumont tries to spoon with Dick. She nearly missed her cue

once with sneaking after him in the wings.'

A peal of laughter followed. This sally determined Kate to act; and without

having made up her mind what to say, she turned the handle of the door and

walked into the room.

The three gas-burners were blazing, wine-glasses were on the table, and Mr.

Lennox stood twisting a corkscrew into a bottle which he held between his

fat thighs. On the little green sofa Miss Lucy Leslie lay back playing with

her bonnet-strings. Her legs were crossed, and a lifted skirt showed a bit

of striped stocking. Next her, with his spare legs sprawled over the arm of

the easy-chair, was Mr. Montgomery, the thinnest being possible to imagine,

in grey clothes. His nose was enormous, and he pushed up his glasses when

Kate came into the room with a movement of the left hand that was clearly

habitual. On the other side of the round table sat Mr. Joe Mortimer, the

heavy lead, the celebrated miser in the _Cloches_. A tall girl

standing behind him playfully twisted his back hair. He addressed paternal

admonitions to her from time to time in an artificially cracked voice.

'Please, sir,' said Kate pleadingly, 'I'm very sorry, but we cannot keep

open house after eleven o'clock.'

A deep silence followed this announcement. Miss Leslie looked up at Kate

curiously. Mr. Lennox stopped twisting the corkscrew into the bottle, and

the low comedian, seizing the opportunity, murmured in his mechanical voice

to the girl behind him, 'Open house! Of course, she's quite right. I knew

there was a draught somewhere; I felt my hair blowing about.'

Everybody laughed, and the merriment still contributed to discountenance

the workwoman.

'Will he never speak and let me go?' she asked herself. At last he did

speak, and his words fell upon her like blows.

'I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Ede,' he said in a loud, commanding

voice. 'I made no agreement with you that I wasn't to bring friends home

with me in the evening. Had I known that I was taking lodgings in a church

I wouldn't have come.'

She felt dreadfully humiliated, and nothing was really present in her mind

but a desire to conciliate Mr. Lennox.

'It isn't my fault, sir. I really don't mind; but my mother-in-law and my

husband won't have people coming into the house after ten o'clock.'

Mr. Lennox's face showed that his heart had softened towards her, and when

she mentioned that her husband was lying ill in bed, turning round to his

company, he said:

'I think we are making too much noise; we shouldn't like it ourselves if--'

But just at that moment, when all was about to end pleasantly, Mrs. Ede was

heard at the top of the stairs.

'I'm a Christian woman, and will not remain in a house where drinking and

women--'

This speech changed everything. Mr. Lennox's eyes flashed passion, and he

made a movement as if he were going to shout an answer back to Mrs. Ede,

but checking himself, he said, addressing Kate, 'I beg that you leave my

rooms, ma'am. You can give me warning in the morning if you like, or

rather, I'll give it to you; but for this evening, at least, the place is

mine, and I shall do what I like.' On that he advanced towards the door and

threw it open.

Tears stood in her eyes. She looked sorrowfully at Mr. Lennox. He noticed

the pitiful, appealing glance, but was too angry to understand. The look

was her whole soul. She did not see Miss Leslie sneering, nor Mr.

Montgomery's grinning face. She saw nothing but Mr. Lennox, and, stunned by

the thought of his leaving them, she followed her mother-in-law upstairs.

The old woman scolded and rowed. To have that lot of men and women smoking

and drinking after eleven o'clock in the house was not to be thought of,

and she tried to force her son to say that the police must be sent for. But

it was impossible to get an answer from him: the excitement and effort of

speaking had rendered him speechless, and holding his moppy black hair with

both hands, he wheezed in deep organ tones. Kate looked at him blankly, and

longed for some place out of hearing of his breath and out of the smell of

the medicine-bottles. His mother was now insisting on his taking a couple

of pills, and called upon Kate to find the box. The sharp, sickly odour of

the aloes was abominable, and with her stomach turning, she watched her

husband trying vainly to swallow the dose with the aid of a glass of water.

Stop in this room! No, that she couldn't do! It would poison her. She

wanted sleep and fresh air. Where could she get them? The mummer was in the

spare room; but he would be gone to-morrow, and she would be left alone.

The thought startled her, though she soon forgot it in her longing to get

out of her husband's sight. Every moment this desire grew stronger, and at

last she said:

'I cannot stay here; another night would kill me. Will you let me have your

room?'

'Certainly I will, my dear,' replied the old woman, astonished not so much

at the request, but at the vehemence of the emphasis laid upon the words.

'You're looking dreadfully worn out, my dear; I'll see to my boy.'

As soon as her request had been granted, Kate hesitated as if she feared

she was doing wrong, and she looked at her husband, wondering if he would

call her back.

But he took no heed; his attention was too entirely occupied by his breath

to think either of her or of the necessity of sending for the police, and

he waved his mother away when she attempted to speak to him.

'Are those men going to stop there all night?' Mrs. Ede asked.

'Oh, I really don't know; I'm too tired to bother about it any more,'

replied Kate petulantly. 'It's all your fault--you're to blame for

everything; you've no right to interfere with the lodgers in my house.'

Mrs. Ede raised her arms as she sought for words, but Kate walked out of

the room without giving her time to answer. Suddenly a voice cried in a

high key:

'Who do you take me for, Dick? I wasn't born yesterday. A devilish pretty

woman, if you ask me. What hair!--like velvet!'

Kate stopped. 'Black hair,' she said to herself--'they must be talking of

me,' and she listened intently.

The remark, however, did not appear to have been particularly well-timed,

for after a long silence, a woman's voice said:

'Well, I don't know whether he liked her, and I don't care, but what I'm

not going to do is to wait here listening to you all cracking up a

landlady's good looks. I'm off.'

A scuffle then seemed to be taking place; half a dozen voices spoke

together, and in terror of her life Kate flew across the workroom to Mrs.

Ede's bed.

The door of the sitting-room was flung open and cajoling and protesting

words echoed along the passage up and down the staircase. It was

disgraceful, and Kate expected every minute to hear her mother-in-law's

voice mingling in the fray; but peace was restored, and for at least an

hour she listened to sounds of laughing voices mingling with the clinking

of glasses. At last Dick wished his friends good-night, and Kate lay under

the sheets and listened. Something was going to happen. 'He thinks me a

pretty woman; she is jealous,' were phrases that rang without ceasing in

her ears. Then, hearing his door open, she fancied he was coming to seek

her, and in consternation buried herself under the bedclothes, leaving only

her black hair over the pillows to show where she had disappeared. But the

duplicate drop of a pair of boots was conclusive, and assuring herself that

he would not venture on such a liberty, she strove to compose herself to

sleep.