LONG HICKS raved and tore at his hair, striding about the shop, and
cursing himself with whatever words he could find. Johnny was excited
still, but he grew thoughtful. There was more in this business, he saw
now, than the mere happy riddance of Butson. What of the future? His
mother was prostrated, and lay moaning on her bed. No one was there to
tend her but Bessy, and there was no likelihood of help; they had no
intimacy with neighbours, and indeed the stark morality of Harbour Lane
womankind would have cut it off if they had. For already poor Nan was
tried and condemned (as was the expeditious manner of Harbour Lane in
such a matter), and no woman could dare so much as brush skirts with her.
"It's my fault--all of it!" said the unhappy Hicks. "I shouldn't 'a' bin
such a fool! But how was I to know she'd go on like that, after what
she'd agreed to? Oh, damme, I shouldn't 'a' meddled!"
Johnny calmed him as well as he might, pulled him into a chair in the
shop parlour, and sought to know the meaning of his self-reproaches.
"Why not meddle?" Johnny asked. "When you found her kicking up that
row--"
"Ah, but I didn't, I didn't!" protested Hicks, rolling his head
despairingly and punching his thigh. "I brought her here! It's all my
fault! I thought I was doin' somethin' clever, an' I was silly fool! O,
I'd like to shoot meself!"
"Brought her here? Well, tell us about it--no good punching yourself.
When did you find out he was married?"
"Knew it years ago; didn't know the woman was alive, though. Thought she
must 'a' bin dead when you told me he'd married your mother."
Some light broke on Johnny. "And you took these days off to look for
her--was that it?"
"That's it. An' I was a fool--made things wuss instead o' better!"
"Never mind about that--anything's better than having that brute here.
What changed your mind about her being dead?"
"Oh, I dunno. I'll tell you all there is to it. Long time ago when I
was workin' at Bishop's an' lodgin' in Lime'us, my lan'lady she knew
Butson an' 'is wife too, an' she told me they led a pretty cat an' dog
life, an' one day Butson hops the twig. Well his missus wasn't sorry to
lose 'im, an' she sets to washin' an' ironin' to keep 'erself an' the
kid. But when Butson gets out of a job ('e was never in one long) 'e
goes snivellin' round to 'er, an' wants to go back, an' be kep'. Well
the missis makes it pretty 'ot for 'im, you may guess; but she stands 'im
for a week or two, givin' it 'im pretty thick all the time, till Butson
'e cuts away again, an' never comes back. His missis never bothered
about 'im--said she was well quit. This was all before I went to live at
Lime'us, but she used to be pals with my lan'lady. I kep' a bottle o'
whisky then, case of a friend comin', an' them two give it what for,
between 'em, on the quiet."
"And did you know her then--his wife?"
"On'y by sight, an' not to say to speak to, me bein' a quiet sort. I
knew Butson since--in the shops; most took 'im for a bachelor. Well, I
wasn't at Lime'us very long; I came away to this part an' see no more of
'er--though o' course I see 'im, often. When you told me 'e'd married
your mother it took me aback a bit at first. But then, thinks I, I
expect the first one's dead--must be. But after that, the other day,
when you told me what a right down bad 'un 'e was, I begun to think wuss
of 'im. I knew 'e'd bin livin' idle, but I didn't guess 'e treated 'er
so bad. An' when you talked o' wantin' to get rid of 'im, I got a
notion. If 'e's bad enough for what 'e's done, thinks I, 'e's bad enough
for anythink. P'raps 'is fust wife 's alive after all, an' if she is,
why the job's done! Anyway, I puts it, I'll risk a day or two auf on it.
An' I did, an' 'ere's a nice old bloomin' mess I made! Oh, I ought to be
poleaxed!"
"Well of course there's been a row," Johnny said gloomily, "an' I expect
it'll knock trade to pieces here, an' half kill mother. But you couldn't
very well help a row in a thing like this."
"I bin three days findin" 'er. My old lan'lady's dead, an' I 'ad to try
an' find 'er sister. Nobody knew where the sister was, but after a lot
o' bother a old woman sends me to a cousin--in the workus. Cousin in the
workus thinks the sister's dead too, but tells me to go an' ask at a
newspaper-shop in Bromley. Newspaper-shop's shut up--people gone. Find
the man as moved 'em, an' 'e sends me to Bow--another newspaper-shop.
People there send me right back to Poplar; party o' the name o' Bushell.
Party o' the name o' Bushell very friendly, an' sends me to Old Ford;
then I went to Bow again, an' so I dodged about, up an' down, till I run
across Mrs. Butson up on 'Omerton Marshes, keepin' a laundry. That was
to-day, that was.
"Well, she took it mighty cool at first. When I told 'er I knew where
'er 'usband was, she told me I might keep my knowledge to myself, for she
didn't want 'im. Very cool she was, till I told 'er 'e'd married again,
an' at that she shut 'er jaw with a snap, an' glared at me. So I just
told 'er what I knew, an' 'ow it 'ud be a charity to give 'im a scare on
the quiet, an' send 'im away from 'ere, an' 'All right,' she says. 'Jest
you show me where they live,' she says; 'I'll give 'im a scare!'
'Right,' says I, but I made conditions. She wus to wait at the
street-corner, an' I was to send in a message for 'im to come out. Then
we was to give 'im ten minutes to go an' git 'is clo'es, if 'e wanted
any, make any excuse 'e liked, an' clear out; so as to do it all quiet
an' peaceable, an' nobody the wiser. 'All right,' she says, 'jest you
show me the place, that's all!' So I brought 'er. But when we got to
the corner an' I told 'er which 'ouse, auf she went at a bolt, an'--an'
set up all that row 'fore I could stop 'er! Who'd 'a' thought of 'er
actin' contradictory like that?"
It was not altogether so dense a mystery to Johnny as it was to the
simpler Hicks, twice his age, though more a boy than himself. But he
assured Hicks that after all he had done a good turn, and no price was
too high for riddance of Butson. "Mother'll be grateful to you, too,
when she's a bit quieter, an' knows about it," he said. And presently he
added thoughtfully, "I think I ought to have guessed something o' the
sort, with his sneaking in an' out so quiet, an' being afraid o' the
p'lice. There's lots o' things I see through now, that I ought to have
seen through before: not wantin' the new name over the door, for one!"
. . . . .
Till the shutters were up that night, and the door well bolted, Nan May
was urgent that that horrible woman must be kept out. And when at last
she slept, in mere exhaustion, she awoke in a fit of trembling and
choking, beseeching somebody to take the woman away.
Bessy, like Johnny, had a sense of relief, though she slept not at all,
and dreaded vaguely. But withal she was conscious of some intangible
remembrance of that red-faced woman with the harsh voice; and it was
long--days--ere it returned to her that she had heard the voice high
above the shouts of the beanfeasters in the Forest on the day when Uncle
Isaac had brought Butson to the cottage.