“Nonsense. Who ever knew a man to sacrifice all his money — all he had in the world, perhaps — for the sake of love? I know what men are too well. Besides, he was quite rude to me once in the carriage.”
“Well, since he has the ring, and intends to keep it, he has the best of the bargain. Go on with your own adventures. What did the agents say?”
“They all took half-crowns from me, and put my name on their books. They are to write to me if they can procure me an engagement; but I saw enough to convince me that there is not much chance. They are all very agreeable — that is, they thought themselves so — except one grumpy old man, who asked me what I expected when I could neither walk nor speak. That, and my sensations on the stage at Windsor, convinced me that I need some instruction; and I have set Mrs Simpson, the woman in Church Street, to find somebody who can teach me. However, to finish my story, when I saw that there was nothing more to be done that day or the next either, I told the cabman to drive me home, where I found father nearly in hysterics. As soon as the family recovered from their amazement at seeing me, we began to scold and abuse one another. They were so spiteful that father at last took my part; and poor mother vainly tried to keep the peace. At last they retreated, one by one crying, and left me alone with father. I fancy we gave them as good as they brought; for no allusion has been made to my escapade since.
Mary looked at her friend for a while. Then she said, “Madge: you are quite mad. There is not a doubt of it: that episode of the ring settles the question finally. I suppose you regard this bedlamite adventure as the most simple and natural thing in the world.”
“When I have my mind made up to do something, it seems the most natural thing in the world to go and do it. I hope you are not going to lecture me for adopting a profession, after all your rhapsodies about high art and so forth.”
“But opera bouffe is not high art, Madge. If you had appeared in one of Shakespeare’s characters, I should sympathize with you.”
“Yes, make a fool of myself as a lady amateur! I have no more ambition to play Shakespeare than you have to paint Transfigurations. Now, don’t begin to argue about Art. I have had enough of argument lately to last me for life.”
“And you mean to persist?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“Of course, if you have talent—”
“Which you don’t believe, although you can see nothing ridiculous in your own dreams of being another Claude Lorraine. You are just like Myra, with her pet formula of, ‘Well, Madge, the idea of you being able to act!’ Why should I not be able to act as well as anybody else? I intend to try, at any rate.”
“You need not be angry with me, Madge. I don’t doubt your cleverness; but an actress’s life must be a very queer one. And I never said I could paint better than Claude. If you knew how wretched my own productions seem to me, you—”
“Yes, yes: I know all that stuff of Adrian’s by heart. If you don’t like your own pictures, you may depend upon it no one else will. I am going to be an actress because I think I can act. You are going to be a painter because you think you can’t paint. So there’s an end of that. Would you mind coming over to Polly’s with me?”
“Who is Polly?”
“Our old landlady’s sister — my accomplice — the woman who keeps the lodging house in Church Street, Mrs Simpson.”
“You don’t mean to run away again?”
“No. At least not yet. But she has a lodger who teaches elocution; and as he is very poor, Mrs. Wilkins — Polly’s other sister and my late chaperon — thinks he would give me some cheap lessons. And I must have them very cheap, or else go without; for father will hardly trust me with a shilling now. He has never even given me back my purse I have only the remainder of the man’s money, and ten pounds that I had laid up.”
“And are you going toke a lesson today?”
“No, no. I only want to see the man and ask his terms. If I try to go alone, I shall be watched and suspected. With you I shall be safe: they regard you as a monument of good sense and propriety. If we meet any of the girls, and they ask where we are going, do not mention Church Street.”
“But how can we evade them if they ask us?”
“We won’t evade them. We will tell them a lie.”
“I certainly will not, Madge.
“I certainly will. If people interfere with my liberty, and ask have no business to ask, I will meet force with fraud, and fool them to the top of their bent, as your friend Shakespeare says. You need not look shocked. You, who are mistress of your house, and rule your father with a rod of iron, are no judge of my position. Put on your hat, and come along. We can walk there in five minutes.”
“I will go with but I shall not be a party to any deception.
Madge made a face, but got her bonnet without further words. They went out together, and traversed the passage from Kensington Palace Gardens to Church Street, where Magdalen led the way to a shabby house, with a card inscribed Furnished Apartments in the window.
“Is Mrs Simpson in her room?” said Magdalen, entering unceremoniously as soon as the door was opened.
“Yes, ma’am,” said the servant, whose rule it was to address women in bonnets as ma’am, and women in hats as Miss. “She ‘ave moved to the second floor since you was here last. The parlors is let.”
“I will go up,” said Magdalen. “Come on, Mary.” And she ran upstairs, followed more slowly by Mary, who thought the house close and ill kept, and gathered her cloak about her to prevent it touching the banisters. When they reached the second floor, they knocked at the door; but no one answered. Above them was a landing, accessible by a narrow uncarpeted stair. They could hear a shrill voice in conversation with a deep one on the third floor, Whilst they waited, the shrill voice rose higher and higher; and the deep voice began to growl ominously.
“A happy pair,” whispered Mary. “We had better go downstairs and get the servant to find Mrs Simpson.”
“No: wait a little. That is Polly’s voice, I am sure. Hark!”
The door above was opened violently and a powerful voice resounded, saying, “Begone, you Jezebel.”
“The man!” exclaimed Madge.
Mr Jack!” exclaimed Mary. And they looked wonderingly at one another, and listened.
“How dare you offer me sich language, sir? Do you know whose ‘ouse this is?”
“I tell you once for all that I am neither able nor willing to pay you one farthing. Hold your tongue until I have finished.” This command was emphasized by a stamp that shook the floor. “I have eaten nothing today; and I cannot afford to starve. Here is my shirt. Here is my waistcoat. Take them — come! take them, or I’ll stuff them down your throat — and give them to your servant to pawn: she has pawned the shirt before; and let her get me something to eat with the money. Do you hear?”
“I will not have my servant go to the pawnshop for you and get my house a bad name.”
“Then go and pawn them yourself. And do not come to this room again with your threats and complaints unless you wish to be strangled.*
“I’d like to see you lay a finger on me a married woman. Do you call yourself a gentleman—”
Here there was a low growl, a sound of hasty footprints, an inarticulate remonstrance, a checked scream, and then a burst of sobbing and then the words, “You’re as hard as a stone, Mr Jack. My poor little Rosie. Ohoo!”
“Stop that noise, you crocodile. What is the matter with you now?”
“My Rosie.”
“What