At this stage Grinnell proposed “glasses round,” in which proposition he was warmly supported by all those present, Jerry offering to pay the expense.
It was late that night when Jerry got home. He was left at the door of his lodgings by Mons and Sebright, and managed to stagger upstairs.
Katey, who had been sitting alone all evening in growing anxiety for his unexplained absence, heard the unusual sound he made in ascending. She knew the step that was her husband’s, and yet not his, and her heart stood still in deadly fear. She was afraid to go to the door lest she should see something to horrify her, and so sat still.
The door opened and Jerry staggered in, with hair tossed, clothes all awry, and, worst pain of all to Katey’s loving heart, with the bright eyes opaque, the erect form collapsing, and the firm mouth relaxed with the drunkard’s feeble maundering gape.
Katey said no word but fell on her knees, lifting her hands as she lifted her soul towards heaven for forgiveness for her poor husband.
It was the first time Jerry had ever been drunk, and it struck his poor wife a blow as cruel as the stroke of death.
“Oh, Jerry, Jerry,” she moaned in her heart, “my love, my husband, better we had stayed at home than this — oh, God, than this.”
Chapter 6 — A Summons
The next morning was a bitter one. Katey had been crying all night, whilst Jerry lay in his drunken sleep, tears which even her prayers could not stop. To her this fall of Jerry’s was but the beginning of the end, and she had wept as one who looks into the future, and sees there the moving shadow of hopeless misery, blighting and darkening everything. Towards morning her tears had stopped, partly from exhaustion, and partly because she had made a noble effort to overcome her feelings, in order that Jerry might see hope, and not despair, in her face, when he awoke.
Now, as the pale cold light was stealing in through the little window, all seemed cheerless indeed.
There is something dreadfully severe in the test of early morning light. Under it everything assumes its most real aspect; there is no use trying to hide or conceal anything from it, for out the truth will surely come. Those who fear it have no option but to shut it out altogether, and wait in darkness or artificial light, till a sun that has shone on more iniquity and untruth can look on them and their deeds, without crying shame to all the world.
Poor Katey had cause for her grief. As she sat up in their poor bed, nursing her baby, and shivering with cold and misery, the light fell on Jerry’s face — a changed face to her — for on it was still the remains of a stupid frown, and the old firmness of the mouth had not yet returned. For the first time she noticed the cut on her husband’s head, and with a cry, suppressed lest it should wake him, bent over to look at it. She was terribly frightened, for she had not had even a suspicion that he had been hurt. Now, having placed her baby beside her, she made a careful examination, and was horrified at the appearance which the wound presented. It was carefully dressed, but the very carefulness of the dressing increased her fear, for she should not see the actual extent of the wound, but could only fear, and of course she feared the worst. So she watched and waited till the morning light grew clearer and clearer, and then at his usual hour Jerry awoke.
There are different ways of waking, and those who take the trouble to study the matter can see for themselves how much good or evil conscience has to do with it. Jerry awoke with an evil conscience, that which makes “cowards of us all,” and as the whole of yesterday, with its temptation, yielded to and its last prolonged debauch, rushed back upon his mind, he covered his eyes with his hands to shut out the reproach which he felt should be in the eyes of his wife. Katey saw the motion and understood it, and it wrung her heart with a bitter pain. She put her arms round his neck and said, with the tenderness that can only be in the voice of a loving wife exercising the sweet woman’s virtue of forgiveness:
“Oh, Jerry, Jerry, don’t turn from me. Look to me, Jerry, dear. Can you find love and comfort anywhere but in the heart of your wife.”
Jerry could not look her in the face, but blindly groping, as if in the dark, he put his arms round her and hid his face in her bosom.
Neither spoke for a while, but Katey rocked his head on her breast, as a while ago she had rocked her baby’s. Presently she said:
“Don’t speak, Jerry, not one word to me. Let me dress your poor hurt head, and then you can go to your work amongst your mates, knowing that there is no cloud between us.”
Jerry raised his head and looked at her, with his eyes full of honest tears and his mouth with something of the old firmness. He held her from him, at arm’s length, in a loving way, and said, slowly:
“Katey, I have done wrong. Don’t speak. I must say it, for it is true; but I hope it will be the last time. Trust me this once, and you won’t have more cause for fear.”
He did not wish her to answer, and so she stayed silent.
All that day Jerry worked very hard, and resisted all temptations, both those from within — for his excess of the night before had parched him — and those from his friends; and he went home that night to Katey with a good conscience.
The next day was the same, and the next, and the next. Thus his old confidence in himself came back to him: “Ye that stand take heed lest ye fall.” With his confidence came a temptation to do things to test it, and conscious of his own strength of purpose, Jerry went across to Grinnell’s “just to prove,” he thought to himself, “that I am not afraid.”
Great efforts were made by those present, who included Mons, Sebright, and Popham, to induce him to take something, but he consistently refused, but with good humour. Still he felt it pleasant to be in a cheerful room amongst a lot of companions, much better than grubbing away at piles of wood grimy with the dust of months, and he thought that now that he felt how strong he was he would often take a run across the road and hear some of the gossip of the day between his spells of work.
These days were pleasant for Katey, for she saw that Jerry was quite his old self, and she was beginning to get reconciled to the new life. Jerry never told her of his visits to Grinnell’s, for he thought to himself, “What is the use of telling her. There is no harm in it, but she will only be imagining harm, and worrying herself about nothing.”
Sebright came to see him one evening. Katey made her husband’s friend welcome, as every good wife does. The two men chatted pleasantly, Katey occasionally joining in. She saw that Jerry enjoyed the evening, and she herself, devoid as she was of friends, enjoyed it too, and asked their guest to come again. He was not a man to stand on ceremony in such matters, and he did come again, and his visits grew more frequent till at last his coming was a matter to be expected every second night or so.
Mons also paid a visit, and was made welcome, and repeated his visits also. Katey did not like either man, but she disliked the latter. She had known Sebright long ago, and he had at least the title of old acquaintanceship to be liked; but Mons was a newcomer, and one that she felt was, for her husband’s sake, not to be encouraged.
Thus things went on for some time. Occasionally letters came from Dublin telling of the progress of affairs. At last Katey received one, which she opened with some curiosity, as the writing was not familiar to her. It ran as follows:
Dear Mrs. Katey
I have some news to tell you wh you will be glad to hear. I am going to be married. You will never guess who to, wh is Miss M’Anaspie, who I met at your home. Margaret — that is, Miss M’Anaspie, desires me to say she hopes you’re well, and that my young god-son or god-daughter, or whatever the brat is, is quite well. I hope some day to be something else but a god-father. [Here was inserted in a feminine hand — “Don’t mind him; he is a wretch.”] We, who we is I and Margaret — Miss M’Anaspie