A Mummer's Wife

by George Moore

The tenor, conductor, and second low comedian had spread a rug over their knees, and were playing nap. They shouted, laughed, and sang portions of their evening music when they made or anticipated making points, and Kate was therefore left to herself, and she looked out of the window.

They were passing through the most beautiful parts of Staffordshire, and for the first time she saw the places that seemed to her just like the spot where the lady with the oval face used to read Shelley to the handsome baronet when her husband was away doctoring the country-folk.

The day was full of mist and sun. Along the edges of the woods the white vapours loitered, half concealing the forms of the grazing kine; and the light shadows floated on the grass, long and prolonged, even as the memories that were now filling the mind of this sentimental workwoman. It seemed to her that she was now on the threshold of a new life—the life of which she had so long dreamed. Her lover was near her, but in a railway carriage filled with smoke and with various men and women; and it seemed to her that they should be walking in sunny meadows by hedgerows. The birds were singing in the shaws; but in her imagination the clicking of needles and the rustling of silk mingled with the songs of the birds, and forgetting the landscape, with a sigh she fell to thinking of what they would be saying of her at home.

She knew Mrs. Ede would have the whole town searched, and when it was no longer possible to entertain a doubt, she would say that Kate's name must never again be mentioned in her presence. A letter! there was much to say: but none would understand. The old woman who had once loved her so dearly would for ever hate and detest her. And Ralph? Kate did not care quite so much what he thought of her; she fancied him swearing and cursing, and sending the police after her; and then he appeared to her as a sullen, morose figure moving about the shop, growling occasionally at his mother, and muttering from time to time that he was devilish glad that his wife had gone away. She would have wished him to regret her; and when she remembered the little girls, she felt the tears rise to her eyes. What explanation would be given to them? Would they learn to hate her? She thought not; but still, they would have to give up coming to the shop—there was no one now to teach them sewing. Her absence would change everything. Mrs. Ede would never be able to get on with Hender, and even if she did, neither of them knew enough of dressmaking to keep the business going, and she asked herself sorrowfully: 'What will become of them?' They would not be able to live upon what they sold in the shop—that was a mere nothing. Poor Ralph's dreams of plate-glass and lamps! Where were they now? Mrs. Ede's thirty pounds a year would barely pay the rent. A vision of destruction and brokers passed before her mind, and she realized for the first time the immense importance of the step she had taken. Not only was her own future hidden, but the future of those she had left behind. The tedium of her life in Hanley was forgotten, and she remembered only the quiet, certain life she might have led, in and out from the shop to the front kitchen, and up to her workroom—the life that she had been born into. Now she had nothing but this man's love. If she were to lose it!

Leslie smiled at the lovers, and moving towards the card-players, she placed her arm round Bret's shoulders and examined his hand. Then the three men raised their heads. Dubois, with the cynicism of the ugly little man who has ever had to play the part of the disdained lover both in real or fictitious life, giggled, leered, and pointed over his shoulder. Montgomery smiled too, but a close observer would detect in him the yearnings of a young man from whose plain face the falling fruit is ever invisibly lifted. Bret looked round also, but his look was the indifferent stare of one to whom love has come often, and he glanced as idly at the picture as a worn-out gourmet would over the bill of fare of a table d'hôte dinner.

A moment after all eyes were again fixed on the game, and Dick began to speak to Kate of the clothes she would have to buy in Derby.

'I can give you twenty pounds to fit yourself out. Do you think you could manage with that?'

'I'm afraid I'm putting you to a lot of expense, dear.'

'Not more than you're worth. You don't know what a pleasant time we shall have travellin' about; it's so tiresome bein' always alone. There's no society in these country towns, but I shan't want society now.'

'And do you think that you won't get tired of me? Will you never care again for any of these fine ladies?' and her brilliant eyes drew down Dick's lips, and when they entered a tunnel the temptation to repeat the kiss was great, but owing to Dubois's attempt to light matches it ended in failure. Dick bumped his head against the woodwork of the carriage; Kate felt she hated the little comedian, and before she recovered her temper the train began to slacken speed, and there were frequent calls for Dick from the windows of the different compartments.