A GREAT BIG SHAME.
"It's a shame! that's what it is, a downright shame," cried a woman's
voice angrily, "and it's just like you, Jim Adams, to put upon a poor
woman so. As if I had not enough trouble with one child, and you want
to bring your sister's brat here. I never heard of such a thing."
Jim Adams stood with his broad back turned towards her, and he made no
reply.
"Yes! much you care!" she scolded, "but I tell you, Jim Adams, I won't
do it! You can write and tell your precious sister she can make other
arrangements. You are married now and you can't do just as you like;
you've got a wife, and I won't do it! There! you've waked the baby,
shouting at me about your sister; but I won't have anybody else's
child, so there!"
The lusty crying from the adjoining room continuing, she went in,
banging the door behind her, and Jim was left alone, staring doggedly
out at the tall houses opposite.
Should he write to his dying sister at Whitecliff and tell her to make
other arrangements? What other arrangements could she make? Could she
bring back her young sailor husband from his grave in the Red Sea?
Could she stay the progress of the cough, the outward sign of the
fatal sickness which was bringing her to an early death? Could she
send the child, her treasured little boy, to any other relative? Jim
knew she could not. Nellie and he had been alone in the world since
they were children. If he did not take little Harry, the boy must go
into the workhouse.
Should he tell Nellie that she must make that arrangement? He was an
easy-going chap, this Jim Adams, too easy-going. He stood six feet one
in his socks and was big and broad in proportion, a veritable giant in
looks, but his strength was mere physical strength, and he knew it. He
was not strong in himself. This was the very first time, since he
had known and courted Jane Green, that he had resisted her will for
twenty-four hours, and even now he was contemplating the possibility
of giving way.
Jane could make herself very disagreeable indeed if she were thwarted.
He had had nothing but storming since yesterday morning when Nellie's
letter had come, and he had had two half-cooked suppers and a
miserable cold breakfast. He did like a good supper, and if this was
what it was going to be if he had Harry----
The sound of a gay voice singing on the pathway below, startled him.
There were always noises in the street, but this song caught his
attention.
"_They had not been married a month or more
When underneath her thumb went Jim,
It can't be right for the likes of her
To put upon the likes of him.
It's a great big shame, and if she belonged to me
I'd let her know who's who;
Putting on a fellow six foot three
And her only four foot two!_"
Jim smiled grimly to himself; it was so absolutely true. Then his
wrath rose. What business had Jack Turner to be singing that ditty
under _his_ window? He supposed all the neighbours laughed behind his
back at the way his small wife ruled him. If they only had a taste of
her nagging tongue they would not, perhaps, laugh so much. He would
let them see he was not under Jane's thumb!
He turned at the opening of the bedroom door, prepared to have his
say, and there was Jane with their big bouncing baby in her arms.
"Here!" she said crossly, "you just get this kid off to sleep, I'm
going for the supper beer. I've minded him all day, and I'm tired of
him. I believe he wakes up in the evening just to spite me!"
Jim took his baby and his eyes softened as he cuddled the little
fellow in his arms. He thought of Nellie's beseeching letter, and he
thought of himself as dead and of Jane as dead, and this baby left to
face a cold, unloving world. Would not Nellie have taken him? Would
she not have been a mother to him?
Oh! he knew she would. Nellie had been as a mother to himself ever
since they were children together.
Not for what the neighbours would say, nor for triumphing over Jane,
but for love's sake, he would take Nellie's child and be a father to
him.
That was settled finally, but Jane had gone for the beer and there was
no one to listen to his determination.
As he sat there rocking his baby, there was one sentence in Nellie's
letter that came back to his mind and disturbed it.
"Dear Jim, you'll teach my little Harry about our Saviour, won't you?
I've done my best, but children forget so quickly! Tell him that Jesus
Christ is our best Friend."
Our best Friend! A stab of pain shot through Jim's heart. Nellie's
best Friend, perhaps, but not his, not _our_ best Friend, little
sister Nellie!
The baby dropped asleep, but Jane had not returned. She was no doubt
enjoying herself at the Green Dragon.
He rose and with the lamp in his disengaged hand, went into the
bedroom and laid the baby down, and covered him up warm.
He would make a cup of tea for himself, as Jane had not brought the
beer. He wished Jane would give up beer, she might be getting a bit
too fond of it, and he would give it up himself if she would.
He rather enjoyed making his tea and a couple of pieces of toast, and
setting it out neatly. His supper had left him unsatisfied in every
way.
As he poured out his first cup of tea there was a tap at the door, and
on his calling out, "Come in," a young fellow, so like Jane as to be
instantly recognised as her brother, entered.
"Hullo!" said he.
"Hullo, Tom! What's brought you over to-night? Will you have a cup of
tea?"
"That I will!" said Tom. "Where's Jane?"
"Gone for the beer," said Jim shortly.
"You'd be a deal better off and a deal happier, both of you, if you
didn't take any of that stuff," said Tom. "It makes Jane quarrelsome,
I'm certain of it."
"I'd give it up if she would," said Jim valiantly. Then he added in a
shamefaced sort of way, "you see, when I do give it up for a bit, she
has it, and the smell and everything--well, I want it again!"
Tom nodded, gulped down his tea and set down his cup.
"You asked what brought me over," he said. "Pattie has given me up!"
"What!" demanded Jim incredulously, "given you up! Why?"
Tom's face worked. He was a simple-hearted fellow, and he loved
foolish little worldly-minded Pattie very dearly.
"I believe," he said unsteadily, "I believe it's money what's done it.
She was always so fond of me, was Pattie, and I thought she loved me
with all her heart, as I did her. But one of her young ladies has got
engaged to a gentleman as is pretty well off, and I s'pose--in fact,
Pattie allowed it was so--they got talking, as girls will, and it's
turned Pattie's head. 'She don't want to marry poor'--them's just her
words--and so she's----"
"Chucked you," said Jim grimly.
Tom sighed deeply. "I told her as my wage, though not big, was
reg'lar, winter and summer, and that was better than a big wage in
the summer and being out of work in the winter; and I don't drink--nor
smoke--and them two things makes a hole in any fellow's wages; but
there--talking ain't no good--argufying don't bring love. I suppose
she don't care for me and that's all about it." He reached out his cup
for more tea and gulped it down; it seemed to help him to gulp down
his feelings.
"I feel a bit done," he said after a minute's silence. "I'll be better
to-morrow. I never thought as how my love-making would end like this."
Jim got up and gave him a hearty thump on his back.
"Don't you be downhearted," he said, "you keep on steady and wait a
bit. You'll be seeing her looking downhearted soon, you mark my word,
and then you can step up and say, 'Is't me you want, my girl?' You're
a right down good fellow, Tom, and she don't know yet what she's
giving up."
Tom looked a little more cheerful. "You can tell Jane," he said,
rising to go.
"That's her on the stairs," answered Jim. "I'm going off to bed, so
you can stay and tell her yourself. She's out of sorts with me."
So Jane, with her jug of supper beer, found only her brother waiting
for her.
She greeted him effusively, and insisted on spreading the table afresh
with meat and bread and cheese, talking incessantly and laughing loud
and long as she did so, and Tom, knowing what it meant, wished he had
gone before her return.
But being there and having come on purpose, in a moment's lull in her
stream of talk, he told her about Pattie.
Her anger against Pattie was unbounded. She hugged Tom and called him
"poor dear," till he pushed her away, and then she said she would pay
the girl out. She would make her repent having used an honest fellow
like that! She was going into Old Keston on Monday for a day's
charring, and she knew well enough where Pattie lived. The garden of
the house where she worked ran down to Pattie's garden, and she would
give Pattie a bit of her mind.
"Then I hope you won't see her," said Tom. "I don't want any words.
Words won't make her care for me, and that's all I wanted."
He turned to the door, but Jane intercepted him with the jug of supper
beer.
"Have a glass, Tom, my lad! It'll comfort you and make you forget
your troubles. There's a deal of comfort in a glass when you're
low-spirited."
But the jug was struck from her hand and lay in twenty pieces on
the floor, and the beer ran hurriedly over the boards and sank away
between the crevices as if anxious to hide itself. "You _dare_ to
tempt me!" said Tom hoarsely.