Dinah was comin’, an’ I heard a shout, an’ thin I saw a horse an’ a
tattoo latherin’ down the road, hell-to-shplit, under women. I knew--I
knew! Wan was the Tyrone Colonel’s wife--ould Beeker’s lady--her gray
hair flyin’ an’ her fat round carkiss rowlin’ in the saddle, an’ the
other was Dinah, that shud ha’ been at Pindi. The Colonel’s lady she
charged the head av our column like a stone wall, an’ she all but
knocked Beeker off his horse, throwin’ her arms round his neck an’
blubberin’, “Me bhoy! me bhoy!” an’ Dinah wheeled left an’ came down
our flank, an’ I let a yell that had suffered inside av me for months
and--Dinah came! Will I iver forget that while I live! She’d come on
pass from Pindi, an’ the Colonel’s lady had lint her the tattoo. They’d
been huggin’ an’ cryin’ in each other’s arms all the long night.
‘So she walked along wid her hand in mine, asking forty questions to
wanst, an’ beggin’ me on the Virgin to make oath that there was not a
bullet consaled in me, unbeknownst somewhere, an’ thin I remembered
Love-o’-Women. He was watchin’ us, an’ his face was like the face av
a divil that has been cooked too long. I did not wish Dinah to see
ut, for whin a woman’s runnin’ over with happiness she’s like to be
touched, for harm afterwards, by the laste little thing in life. So I
dhrew the curtain, an’ Love-o’-Women lay back and groaned.
‘Whin we marched into Peshawur Dinah wint to barracks to wait for me,
an’, me feelin’ so rich that tide, I wint on to take Love-o’-Women to
hospital. It was the last I cud do, an’ to save him the dust an’ the
smother I turned the dooli-men down a road well clear av the rest av
the throops, an’ we wint along, me talkin’ through the curtains. Av a
sudden I heard him say:
‘“Let me look. For the mercy av Hiven, let me look.” I had been so tuk
up wid gettin’ him out av the dust an’ thinkin’ av Dinah that I had not
kept my eyes about me. There was a woman ridin’ a little behind av us;
an’, talkin’ ut over wid Dinah afterwards, that same woman must ha’ rid
out far on the Jumrood road. Dinah said that she had been hoverin’ like
a kite on the left flank av the columns.
‘I halted the dooli to set the curtains, an’ she rode by, walkin’ pace,
an’ Love-o’-Women’s eyes wint afther her as if he wud fair haul her
down from the saddle.
‘“Follow there,” was all he sez, but I niver heard a man speak in that
voice before or since; an’ I knew by those two wan words an’ the look
in his face that she was Di’monds-an’-Pearls that he’d talked av in his
disthresses.
‘We followed till she turned into the gate av a little house that stud
near the Edwardes’ Gate. There was two girls in the verandah, an’ they
ran in whin they saw us. Faith, at long eye-range it did not take me
a wink to see fwhat kind av house ut was. The throops bein’ there an’
all, there was three or four such; but aftherwards the polis bade thim
go. At the verandah Love-o’-Women sez, catchin’ his breath, “Stop
here,” an’ thin, an’ thin, wid a grunt that must ha’ tore the heart up
from his stomick, he swung himself out av the dooli, an’ my troth he
stud up on his feet wid the sweat pourin’ down his face! If Mackie was
to walk in here now I’d be less tuk back than I was thin. Where he’d
dhrawn his power from, God knows--or the Divil--but ’twas a dead man
walkin’ in the sun, wid the face av a dead man and the breath av a dead
man, hild up by the Power, an’ the legs an’ the arms av the carpse
obeyin’ ordhers.
‘The woman stud in the verandah. She’d been a beauty too, though her
eyes was sunk in her head, an’ she looked Love-o’-Women up an’ down
terrible. “An’,” she sez, kicking back the tail av her habit,--“An’,”
she sez, “fwhat are you doin’ _here_, married man?”
‘Love-o’-Women said nothin’, but a little froth came to his lips, an’
he wiped ut off wid his hand an’ looked at her an’ the paint on her,
an’ looked, an’ looked, an’ looked.
‘“An’ yet,” she sez, wid a laugh. (Did you hear Raines’ wife laugh whin
Mackie died? Ye did not? Well for you.) “An’ yet,” she sez, “who but
you have betther right,” sez she. “You taught me the road. You showed
me the way,” she sez. “Ay, look,” she sez, “for ’tis your work; you
that tould me--d’you remimber it?--that a woman who was false to wan
man cud be false to two. I have been that,” she sez, “that an’ more,
for you always said I was a quick learner, Ellis. Look well,” she
sez, “for it is me that you called your wife in the sight av God long
since.” An’ she laughed.
‘Love-o’-Women stud still in the sun widout answerin’. Thin he groaned
an coughed to wanst, an’ I thought ’twas the death-rattle, but he
niver tuk his eyes off her face, not for a blink. Ye cud ha’ put her
eyelashes through the flies av an E.P. tent, they were so long.
‘“Fwhat do you do here?” she sez, word by word, “that have taken away
my joy in my man this five years gone--that have broken my rest an’
killed my body an’ damned my soul for the sake av seein’ how ’twas
done. Did your expayrience aftherwards bring you acrost any woman that
give you more than I did? Wud I not ha’ died for you, an’ wid you,
Ellis? Ye know that, man! If iver your lyin’ sowl saw truth in uts life
ye know that.”
‘An’ Love-o’-Women lifted up his head and said, “I knew,” an’ that was
all. While she was spakin’ the Power hild him up parade-set in the sun,
an’ the sweat dhripped undher his helmet. ’Twas more an’ more throuble
for him to talk, an’ his mouth was running twistways.
‘“Fwhat do you do _here_?” she sez, an’ her voice wint up. ’Twas
like bells tollin’ before. “Time was whin you were quick enough wid
your words,--you that talked me down to hell. Are ye dumb now?” An’
Love-o’-Women got his tongue, an’ sez simple, like a little child, “May
I come in?” he sez.
‘“The house is open day an’ night,” she sez, wid a laugh; an’
Love-o’-Women ducked his head an’ hild up his hand as tho’ he was
gyardin’. The Power was on him still--it hild him up still, for, by my
sowl, as I’ll never save ut, he walked up the verandah steps that had
been a livin’ carpse in hospital for a month!
‘“An’ now?” she sez, lookin’ at him; an’ the red paint stud lone on the
white av her face like a bull’s-eye on a target.
‘He lifted up his eyes, slow an’ very slow, an’ he looked at her long
an’ very long, an’ he tuk his spache betune his teeth wid a wrench that
shuk him.
‘“I’m dyin’, Aigypt--dyin’,” he sez. Ay, those were his words, for
I remimber the name he called her. He was turnin’ the death-colour,
but his eyes niver rowled. They were set--set on her. Widout word or
warnin’ she opened her arms full stretch, an’ “Here!” she sez. (Oh,
fwhat a golden mericle av a voice ut was!) “Die here!” she sez; an’
Love-o’-Women dhropped forward, an’ she hild him up, for she was a fine
big woman.
‘I had no time to turn, bekaze that minut I heard the sowl quit
him--tore out in the death-rattle--an’ she laid him back in a long
chair, an’ she sez to me, “Misther soldier,” she sez, “will ye not wait
an’ talk to wan av the girls? This sun’s too much for him.”
‘Well I knew there was no sun he’d iver see, but I cud not spake,
so I wint away wid the empty dooli to find the docthor. He’d been
breakfastin’ an’ lunchin’ iver since we’d come in, an’ he was full as a
tick.
‘“Faith, ye’ve got dhrunk mighty soon,” he sez, whin I’d tould him,
“to see that man walk. Barrin’ a puff or two av life, he was a carpse
before we left Jumrood. I’ve a great mind,” he sez, “to confine you.”
‘“There’s a dale av liquor runnin’ about, docthor,” I sez, solemn as
a hard-boiled egg. “Maybe ’tis so; but will ye not come an’ see the
carpse at the house?”
‘“’Tis dishgraceful,” he sez, “that I would be expected to go to a
place like that. Was she a pretty woman?” he sez, an’ at that he set
off double-quick.
‘I cud see that the two was in the verandah where I’d left them,
an’ I knew by the hang av her head an’ the noise av the crows fwhat
had happened. ’Twas the first and the last time that I’d iver
known woman to use the pistol. They fear the shot as a rule, but
Di’monds-an’-Pearls she did not--she did not.
‘The docthor touched the long black hair av her head (’twas all
loose upon Love-o’-Women’s tunic), an’ that cleared the liquor out
av him. He stud considherin’ a long time, his hands in his pockets,
an’ at last he sez to me, “Here’s a double death from naturil causes,
most naturil causes; an’ in the present state av affairs the rig’mint
will be thankful for wan grave the less to dig. _Issiwasti_,” he sez.
“_Issiwasti_, Privit Mulvaney, these two will be buried together in the
Civil Cemet’ry at my expinse; an’ may the good God,” he sez, “make it
so much for me whin my time comes. Go you to your wife,” he sez. “Go
an’ be happy. I’ll see to this all.”
‘I left him still considherin’. They was buried in the Civil Cemet’ry
together, wid a Church av England service. There was too many buryin’s
thin to ask questions, an’ the docthor--he ran away wid Major--Major
Van Dyce’s lady that year--he saw to ut all. Fwhat the right an’ the
wrong av Love-o’-Women an’ Di’monds-an’-Pearls was I niver knew, an’ I
will niver know; but I’ve tould ut as I came acrost ut--here an’ there
in little pieces. _So_, being fwhat I am, an’ knowin’ fwhat I knew,
that’s fwhy I say in this shootin’-case here, Mackie’s that dead an’ in
hell is the lucky man. There are times, sorr, whin ’tis better for the
man to die than to live, an’ by consequince forty million times betther
for the woman.’
* * * * *
‘H’up there!’ said Ortheris. ‘It’s time to go.’
The witnesses and guard formed up in the thick white dust of the
parched twilight and swung off, marching easy and whistling. Down
the road to the green by the church I could hear Ortheris, the black
Book-lie still uncleansed on his lips, setting, with a fine sense of
the fitness of things, the shrill quickstep that runs--
‘Oh, do not despise the advice of the wise,
Learn wisdom from those that are older,
And don’t try for things that are out of your reach--
An’ that’s what the Girl told the Soldier!
Soldier! soldier!
Oh, that’s what the Girl told the Soldier!’
THE RECORD OF BADALIA HERODSFOOT.
The year’s at the spring
And day’s at the dawn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hill-side’s dew-pearled;
The lark’s on the wing;
The snail’s on the thorn:
God’s in his heaven--
All’s right with the world!--_Pippa Passes._
This is not that Badalia whose spare names were Joanna, Pugnacious, and
M‘Canna, as the song says, but another and a much nicer lady.
In the beginning of things she had been unregenerate; had worn the
heavy fluffy fringe which is the ornament of the costermonger’s girl,
and there is a legend in Gunnison Street that on her wedding-day she,
a flare-lamp in either hand, danced dances on a discarded lover’s
winkle-barrow, till a policeman interfered, and then Badalia danced
with the Law amid shoutings. Those were her days of fatness, and they
did not last long, for her husband after two years took to himself
another woman, and passed out of Badalia’s life, over Badalia’s
senseless body; for he stifled protest with blows. While she was
enjoying her widowhood the baby that the husband had not taken away
died of croup, and Badalia was altogether alone. With rare fidelity
she listened to no proposals for a second marriage according to the
customs of Gunnison Street, which do not differ from those of the
Barralong. ‘My man,’ she explained to her suitors, ‘’e’ll come back
one o’ these days, an’ then, like as not, ’e’ll take an’ kill me if I
was livin’ ’long o’ you. You don’t know Tom; I do. Now you go. I can do
for myself--not ’avin’ a kid.’ She did for herself with a mangle, some
tending of babies, and an occasional sale of flowers. This latter trade
is one that needs capital, and takes the vendor very far westward,
insomuch that the return journey from, let us say, the Burlington
Arcade to Gunnison Street, E., is an excuse for drink, and then, as
Badalia pointed out, ‘You come ’ome with your shawl arf off of your
back, ’an your bonnick under your arm, and the price of nothing-at-all
in your pocket, let alone a slop takin’ care o’ you.’ Badalia did
not drink, but she knew her sisterhood, and gave them rude counsel.
Otherwise she kept herself to herself, and meditated a great deal upon
Tom Herodsfoot, her husband, who would come back some day, and the baby
who would never return. In what manner these thoughts wrought upon her
mind will not be known.
Her entry into society dates from the night when she rose literally
under the feet of the Reverend Eustace Hanna, on the landing of No. 17
Gunnison Street, and told him that he was a fool without discernment in
the dispensation of his district charities.
‘You give Lascar Loo custids,’ said she, without the formality of
introduction; ‘give her pork-wine. Garn! Give ’er blankits. Garn ’ome!
’Er mother, she eats ’em all, and drinks the blankits. Gits ’em back
from the shop, she does, before you come visiting again, so as to
’ave ’em all handy an’ proper; an’ Lascar Loo she sez to you, “Oh, my
mother’s that good to me!” she do. Lascar Loo ’ad better talk so, bein’
sick abed, ’r else ’er mother would kill ’er. Garn! you’re a bloomin’
gardener--you an’ yer custids! Lascar Loo don’t never smell of ’em
even.’
Thereon the curate, instead of being offended, recognised in the
heavy eyes under the fringe the soul of a fellow-worker, and so bade
Badalia mount guard over Lascar Loo, when the next jelly or custard
should arrive, to see that the invalid actually ate it. This Badalia
did, to the disgust of Lascar Loo’s mother, and the sharing of a black
eye between the three; but Lascar Loo got her custard, and coughing
heartily, rather enjoyed the fray.
Later on, partly through the Reverend Eustace Hanna’s swift recognition
of her uses, and partly through certain tales poured out with moist
eyes and flushed cheeks by Sister Eva, youngest and most impressionable
of the Little Sisters of the Red Diamond, it came to pass that Badalia,
arrogant, fluffy-fringed, and perfectly unlicensed in speech, won a
recognised place among such as labour in Gunnison Street.
These were a mixed corps, zealous or hysterical, faint-hearted or only
very wearied of battle against misery, according to their lights. The
most part were consumed with small rivalries and personal jealousies,
to be retailed confidentially to their own tiny cliques in the pauses
between wrestling with death for the body of a moribund laundress,
or scheming for further mission-grants to resole a consumptive
compositor’s very consumptive boots. There was a rector that lived
in dread of pauperising the poor, would fain have held bazaars for
fresh altar-cloths, and prayed in secret for a large new brass bird,
with eyes of red glass, fondly believed to be carbuncles. There was
Brother Victor, of the Order of Little Ease, who knew a great deal
about altar-cloths but kept his knowledge in the background while he
strove to propitiate Mrs. Jessel, the Secretary of the Tea Cup Board,
who had money to dispense but hated Rome--even though Rome would, on
its honour, do no more than fill the stomach, leaving the dazed soul to
the mercies of Mrs. Jessel. There were all the Little Sisters of the
Red Diamond, daughters of the horseleech, crying ‘Give’ when their own
charity was exhausted, and pitifully explaining to such as demanded
an account of their disbursements in return for one half-sovereign,
that relief-work in a bad district can hardly be systematised on the
accounts’ side without expensive duplication of staff. There was the
Reverend Eustace Hanna, who worked impartially with Ladies’ Committees,
Androgynous Leagues and Guilds, Brother Victor, and anybody else who
could give him money, boots, or blankets, or that more precious help
that allows itself to be directed by those who know. And all these
people learned, one by one, to consult Badalia on matters of personal
character, right to relief, and hope of eventual reformation in
Gunnison Street. Her answers were seldom cheering, but she possessed
special knowledge and complete confidence in herself.
‘I’m Gunnison Street,’ she said to the austere Mrs. Jessel. ‘I know
what’s what, _I_ do, an’ they don’t want your religion, Mum, not a
single ----. Excuse me. It’s all right when they comes to die, Mum, but
till they die what they wants is things to eat. The men they’ll shif’
for themselves. That’s why Nick Lapworth sez to you that ’e wants to be
confirmed an’ all that. ’E won’t never lead no new life, nor ’is wife
won’t get no good out o’ all the money you gives ’im. No more you can’t
pauperise them as ’asn’t things to begin with. They’re bloomin’ well
pauped. The women they can’t shif’ for themselves--’specially bein’
always confined. ’Ow should they? They wants things if they can get ’em
anyways. If not they dies, and a good job too, for women is cruel put
upon in Gunnison Street.’
‘Do you believe that--that Mrs. Herodsfoot is altogether a proper
person to trust funds to?’ said Mrs. Jessel to the curate after this
conversation. ‘She seems to be utterly godless in her speech at least.’
The curate agreed. She was godless according to Mrs. Jessel’s views,
but did not Mrs. Jessel think that since Badalia knew Gunnison Street
and its needs, as none other knew it, she might in a humble way be, as
it were, the scullion of charity from purer sources, and that if, say,
the Tea Cup Board could give a few shillings a week, and the Little
Sisters of the Red Diamond a few more, and, yes, he himself could
raise yet a few more, the total, not at all likely to be excessive,
might be handed over to Badalia to dispense among her associates.
Thus Mrs. Jessel herself would be set free to attend more directly
to the spiritual wants of certain large-limbed hulking men who sat
picturesquely on the lower benches of her gatherings and sought for
truth--which is quite as precious as silver, when you know the market
for it.
‘She’ll favour her own friends,’ said Mrs. Jessel. The curate refrained
from mirth, and, after wise flattery, carried his point. To her
unbounded pride Badalia was appointed the dispenser of a grant--a
weekly trust, to be held for the benefit of Gunnison Street.
‘I don’t know what we can get together each week,’ said the curate to
her. ‘But here are seventeen shillings to start with. You do what you
like with them among your people, only let me know how it goes so that
we shan’t get muddled in the accounts. D’you see?’
‘Ho yuss! ’Taint much though, is it?’ said Badalia, regarding the
white coins in her palm. The sacred fever of the administrator, only
known to those who have tasted power, burned in her veins. ‘Boots is
boots, unless they’re give you, an’ then they ain’t fit to wear unless
they’re mended top an’ bottom; an’ jellies is jellies; an’ I don’t
think anything o’ that cheap pork-wine, but it all comes to something.
It’ll go quicker ’n a quartern of gin--seventeen bob. An’ I’ll keep a
book--same as I used to do before Tom went an’ took up ’long o’ that
pan-faced slut in Hennessy’s Rents. We was the only barrer that kep’
regular books, me an’--’im.’
She bought a large copy-book--her unschooled handwriting demanded
room--and in it she wrote the story of her war; boldly, as befits a
general, and for no other eyes than her own and those of the Reverend
Eustace Hanna. Long ere the pages were full the mottled cover had been
soaked in kerosene--Lascar Loo’s mother, defrauded of her percentage
on her daughter’s custards, invaded Badalia’s room in 17 Gunnison
Street, and fought with her to the damage of the lamp and her own hair.
It was hard, too, to carry the precious ‘pork-wine’ in one hand and the
book in the other through an eternally thirsty land; so red stains were
added to those of the oil. But the Reverend Eustace Hanna, looking at
the matter of the book, never objected. The generous scrawls told their
own tale, Badalia every Saturday night supplying the chorus between the
written statements thus:--
_Mrs. Hikkey, very ill brandy 3d. Cab for hospital, she had to go, 1s.
Mrs. Poone confined. In money for tea (she took it I know, sir) 6d. Met
her husband out looking for work._
‘I slapped ’is face for a bone-idle beggar! ’E won’t get no work becos
’e’s--excuse me, sir. Won’t you go on?’ The curate continued--
_Mrs. Vincent. Confid. No linning for baby. Most untidy. In money 2s.
6d. Some cloths from Miss Evva._
‘Did Sister Eva do that?’ said the curate very softly. Now charity was
Sister Eva’s bounden duty, yet to one man’s eyes each act of her daily
toil was a manifestation of angelic grace and goodness--a thing to
perpetually admire.
‘Yes, sir. She went back to the Sisters’ ’Ome an’ took ’em off ’er own
bed. Most beautiful marked too. Go on, sir. That makes up four and
thruppence.’
_Mrs. Junnet to keep good fire coals is up. 7d._
_Mrs. Lockhart took a baby to nurse to earn a triffle but mother can’d
pay husband summons over and over. He won’t help. Cash 2s. 2d. Worked
in a ketchin but had to leave. Fire, tea, and shin of beef 1s. 7½d._
‘There was a fight there, sir,’ said Badalia, ‘Not me, sir. ’Er
’usband, o’ course ’e come in at the wrong time, was wishful to ’ave
the beef, so I calls up the next floor an’ down comes that mulatter man
wot sells the sword-stick canes, top o’ Ludgate-’ill. “Muley,” sez I,
“you big black beast, you, take an’ kill this big white beast ’ere.”
I knew I couldn’t stop Tom Lockart ’alf drunk, with the beef in ’is
’ands. “I’ll beef ’m,” sez Muley, an’ ’e did it, with that pore woman
a-cryin’ in the next room, an’ the top banisters on that landin’ is
broke out, but she got ’er beef-tea, an’ Tom ’e’s got ’is gruel. Will
you go on, sir?’
‘No, I think it will be all right. I’ll sign for the week,’ said
the curate. One gets so used to these things profanely called human
documents.
‘Mrs. Churner’s baby’s got diptheery,’ said Badalia, turning to go.
‘Where’s that? The Churners of Painter’s Alley, or the other Churners
in Houghton Street?’
‘Houghton Street. The Painter’s Alley people, they’re sold out an’
left.’
‘Sister Eva’s sitting one night a week with old Mrs. Probyn in Houghton
Street--isn’t she?’ said the curate uneasily.
‘Yes; but she won’t sit no longer. _I’ve_ took up Mrs. Probyn. I can’t
talk ’er no religion, but she don’t want it; an’ Miss Eva she don’t
want no diptheery, tho’ she sez she does. Don’t _you_ be afraid for
Miss Eva.’
‘But--but you’ll get it, perhaps.’
‘Like as not.’ She looked the curate between the eyes, and her own eyes
flamed under the fringe. ‘Maybe I’d like to get it, for aught you know.’
The curate thought upon these words for a little time till he began to
think of Sister Eva in the gray cloak with the white bonnet ribbons
under the chin. Then he thought no more of Badalia.
What Badalia thought was never expressed in words, but it is known in
Gunnison Street that Lascar Loo’s mother, sitting blind drunk on her
own doorstep, was that night captured and wrapped up in the war-cloud
of Badalia’s wrath, so that she did not know whether she stood on her
head or her heels, and after being soundly bumped on every particular
stair up to her room, was set down on Badalia’s bed, there to whimper
and quiver till the dawn, protesting that all the world was against
her, and calling on the names of children long since slain by dirt and
neglect. Badalia, snorting, went out to war, and since the hosts of the
enemy were many, found enough work to keep her busy till the dawn.
As she had promised, she took Mrs. Probyn into her own care, and began
by nearly startling the old lady into a fit with the announcement that
‘there ain’t no God like as not, an’ if there _is_ it don’t matter to
you or me, an’ any’ow you take this jelly.’ Sister Eva objected to
being shut off from her pious work in Houghton Street, but Badalia
insisted, and by fair words and the promise of favours to come so
prevailed on three or four of the more sober men of the neighbourhood
that they blockaded the door whenever Sister Eva attempted to force an
entry, and pleaded the diphtheria as an excuse. ‘I’ve got to keep ’er
out o’ ’arm’s way,’ said Badalia, ‘an’ out she keeps. The curick won’t
care a ---- for me, but--he wouldn’t any’ow.’
The effect of that quarantine was to shift the sphere of Sister Eva’s
activity to other streets, and notably those most haunted by the
Reverend Eustace Hanna and Brother Victor, of the Order of Little Ease.
There exists, for all their human bickerings, a very close brotherhood
in the ranks of those whose work lies in Gunnison Street. To begin
with, they have seen pain--pain that no word or deed of theirs can
alleviate--life born into Death, and Death crowded down by unhappy
life. Also they understand the full significance of drink, which is a
knowledge hidden from very many well-meaning people, and some of them
have fought with the beasts at Ephesus. They meet at unseemly hours
in unseemly places, exchange a word or two of hasty counsel, advice,
or suggestion, and pass on to their appointed toil, since time is
precious and lives hang in the balance of five minutes. For many, the
gas-lamps are their sun, and the Covent Garden wains the chariots of
the twilight. They have all in their station begged for money, so that
the freemasonry of the mendicant binds them together.