The Pinks in their True Colours—A Charitable Community—Waylao thrown
out—I return Too Late—Punishment for the Pinks
I WILL do my best to record all that happened to Waylao after I was
stricken down.
It appeared that she waited and waited my return in absolute faith that
it was no fault of mine that I had not turned up. I cannot describe her
feelings as the days went by and I did not put in an appearance. But I
can easily imagine a good deal from all I heard, not only from the
people that resided in and around Pink’s establishment, but from
Waylao’s lips. It was a long time, though, ere we met once more, ere she
came like a stricken wraith out of the night to Father O’Leary and I,
before she again went away into the darkness.
Mrs Pink was devoutly religious and a typical chapel-goer. She had even
got old Pink to pay for a special pew in the wooden chapel at H——. So it
is not surprising that when the next week’s rent was due she became
extremely suspicious and fearfully pious.
Each morning she would put her head through Waylao’s doorway and,
glaring fiercely with one eye, say: “Hi say, miss, ’e ain’t returned
yet, ’as ’e?”
Then the old bitch (forgive me, reader, you don’t know Old Mother Pink
as I do) would hand her the bill, stand with her arms akimbo across her
wide hips, sneer and say: “Where’s yer money? You’re a fine old miss,
with yer missionarrry, yer pink sash an’ yellow boots!”
Waylao pleaded with the woman, assured her that I would return, that I
must have met with an accident and had been delayed.
“Met with a haccident! It’s _you_ what’s met with the haccident. I don’t
like the looks of it. It’s a plant, that’s what it is. ’Im a-going ter
re—turn! _I knows! I knows!_” So did Mrs Pink rave on as the days went
by, appealing also to the neighbours who lived in the little wooden
houses scattered round that part. They already knew about the pretty
girl who was lodging in the Pinks’ front room, brought there by a young
missionary—who had deserted her—and she like _that_, too! The delight of
that motley crew was immense. The little village homes buzzed like
bee-hives full of humming scandal. It was not unlike a native village at
that spot, only instead of tawny faces and frizzly heads poking out of
the little doors, they were pimply, dough-coloured faces with tawny
wisps of hair and blue, glassy eyes expressing their shocked disapproval
of the affair. Old women who had been fierce enemies, and not spoken to
each other for months, fell into each other’s arms. A kind of
heathenistic carnival commenced: the whole of the population assembled
beneath the palms and started to dance. “Kick ’er out! Kick ’er out! The
faggot!” they yelled. The natives hard by heard the noise and crept
under the bread-fruit trees, then joined in the procession. It must have
been a wonderful sight. Tawny old women, full of wrath, fat old women,
short legs, long legs, brown legs, fierce-looking, tattooed creatures,
some semi-heathens, others Christianised, wearing spectacles as they
searched the books—their Bibles—and shouted forth the Commandments—all
bunched there outside Pink’s stores, staring up at Waylao’s window.
The old trader from Lakemba tried to stop the riot, and so made things
worse, for he said: “What’s the d——d row about?” When they told him, and
the hubbub had ceased, and several retired women from the streets of New
South Wales had fainted with the horror of it all, he continued: “Well,
I’ve been about these ’ere parts a d——d sight longer than I orter ’ave
been, but I never seed a prettier girl than that ’ere girl who’s
a-lodging up at Pink’s.”
As the sunburnt trader finished, there was a tremendous silence; the mob
fairly gasped, could hardly believe their ears; then up went a fierce
howl of the maddest execration. White hags, scraggy hags, tawny hags,
pretty girls and ugly girls shouted as with one voice: “Turn ’er out!
Turn ’er out! The sinful woman to trade on the good nature of a
Christian woman like Mrs Pink!”
Mrs Pink was overcome with emotion—she sobbed; she seemed to have
awakened from a nightmare to find herself famous.
So was Waylao’s fate decided. That same night, with all her best clothes
detained for back rent, she left the Pinks’ establishment, and started
away, determined to go up the Rewa river and seek her relatives.
It may be imagined I was not in the most pleasant of moods when I sat in
Mrs Pink’s parlour on my recovery. After all I’d heard from the people
who lived opposite those infernal hypocrites, I had little hope of
getting much truthful information. I did not let on that I had heard a
word about that scandal or Waylao’s flight as the old woman welcomed me.
“Have you no idea why she went, or where she went?” said I.
I was sitting opposite Mr and Mrs Pink in their little parlour as I made
that remark.
“Poor, dear soul, we know not where she went. It was so sudden. Sir,
it’s nearly broke our ’earts, that it ’as, the idea of that poor gal
being out in this ’ere awful world, ’omeless.”
“You dear, godly woman,” was my mental comment, as I thought of all that
the trader who lived next door had told me.
“Don’t weep, Mrs Pink; it’s no good weeping over the inevitable,” said
I, as I stared at the wall to hide my real feelings.
Old Mother Pink sobbed the louder as I made that remark; but I must
admit that Old Man Pink paused a moment, withdrew his large red
pocket-handkerchief, and used one eye in a steady sidelong gaze at my
face. I think the holy old beggar heard the sarcastic note in my voice.
However that may be, he suddenly rose and hurried out of the room. Then
Mrs Pink handed me the bill, the sum total for Waylao’s rent and
expenses incurred. I said: “Ah, Mrs Pink, I’ll never forget your
kindness. I know human nature so well. I know that all the people living
in these parts are good Christians, followers of the preaching of our
Lord Jesus Christ, He who had nowhere to lay His head. I know that you
all go to chapel here, as they do in the big cities of the world—New
York, Paris, Berlin and London. Ah, Mrs Pink, I’ve travelled those
cities; you remind me so much of them, sweet soul that you are. I know
that a great grief has come into your life and into the lives of your
neighbours through the knowledge that a fallen girl is somewhere out in
the world homeless. Did it upset you all much, Mrs Pink?”
“Indeed it did, indeed it did,” sobbed the old hypocrite, as she bunched
the handkerchief against her eyes and rubbed and rubbed. Then I
proceeded:
“I am a missionary, but a boy in years, but I’m honest, truthful and
would help the fallen.”
“Yes, I know, I know,” sobbed the old woman in her ecclesiastical
anguish, as she gently pushed Waylao’s bill a little nearer to me.
Still I continued: “Ah, Mrs Pink, I know that if a voice said, ‘She who
is without sin _cast the first stone_,’ you of all would indeed be the
one on earth to cast such a missile.” Saying this, I looked at her
ignorant face, and I saw that my remarks had fallen on barren soil. I
rose from the chair, picked up Waylao’s bill for rent and expenses
incurred and tore it into pieces. The expression on the woman’s face
gave me extreme satisfaction. Without a word I strode out of the room. I
passed Old Man Pink in the narrow hall that led down to the steps and
the front door. I suppose he had been listening, so as to confirm his
suspicions. If he had any doubts they must have been quite dispelled as
he fell down the flight of steps and I strode away out into the night.
He was an old man, and I did not intend to push against him in that
narrow hall, but it was dark, and I was in no mood to argue with
obstacles.
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