'Quid seems to jink all right, anyhow,' she said, 'though I'm more
used to the jink of a tanner than a quid in these cussed times. You
won't skear me if I come down?'
'No, no.'
At last I heard her fumbling inside at the lock, and then the door
opened.
'Why, man alive! your eyes are afire jist like a cat's wi' drownded
kitlins.'
'She was not your daughter.'
'Not my darter?' said she, as she stooped to pick up the sovereign.
'You ain't a-goin' to catch me the likes o' that. The Beauty not my
darter! All the court knows she was my own on'y darter. I'll swear
afore all the beaks in London as I'm the mother of my own on'y darter
Winifred, allus' wur 'er mother, and allus wull be; an' if she went
a-beggin' it worn't my fort. She liked beggin', poor dear; some gals
does.'
'Her name Winifred!' I cried, with a pang at my heart as sharp as
though there had been a reasonable hope till now.
'In course her name was Winifred.'
'Liar! How came she to be called Winifred?'
'Well, I'm sure! Mayn't a Welshman's wife give her own on'y Welsh
darter a Welsh name? Us poor folks is come to somethink! P'raps
you'll say I ain't a Welshman's wife next? It's your own cussed lot
as killed her, ain't it? What did I tell the shiny Quaker when fust I
tookt her to the studero? I sez to the shiny un, "She's jist a bit
touched here," I sez' (tapping her own head), '"and nothink upsets
her so much as to be arsted a lot o' questions," I sez to the shiny
un. "The less you talks to her," I sez, "the better you'll get on
with her," I sez, "and the better kind o' pictur you'll make out on
her," I sez to the shiny un; "an' don't you go an' arst who her
father is," I sez, "for that word 'ull bring such a horful look on
her face," I sez, "as is enough to skear anybody to death. I sha'n't
forget the look the fust time I seed it," I sez. That's what I sez to
the shiny Quaker. An' yit you did go an' worrit 'er, a-arstin' 'er a
lot o' questions about 'er father. You _did_--I know you did! You
_must_ 'a done it--so no lies; for that wur the on'y thing as ever
skeared 'er, arstin' 'er about 'er father, pore dear....Why, man
alive! what _are_ you a-gurnin' at? an' what are you a-smackin' your
forred wi' your 'and like that for, an' a-gurnin' in my face like a
Chessy cat? Blow'd if I don't b'lieve you're drunk. An' who the
dickens are you a-callin' a fool, Mr. Imperance?'
It was not the woman but myself I was cursing when I cried out,
'Fool! besotted fool!'
Not till now had the wild hope fled which had led me back to the den.
As I stood shuddering on the doorstep in the cold morning light,
while the whole unbearable truth broke in upon me, I could hear my
lips murmuring,
'Fool of ancestral superstitions! Fenella Stanley's fool! Philip
Aylwin's fool! Where was the besotted fool and plaything of besotted
ancestors, when the truth was burning so close beneath his eyes that
it is wonderful they were not scorched into recognising it? Where was
he when, but for superstitions grosser than those of the negroes on
the Niger banks, he might have saved the living heart and centre of
his little world? Where was the rationalist when, but for
superstitions sucked in with his mother's milk, he would have gone to
a certain studio, seen a certain picture which would have sent him on
the wings of the wind to find and rescue and watch over the one for
whom he had renounced all the ties of kindred? Where was then the
most worthy descendant of a line of ancestral idiots--Romany and
Gorgio--stretching back to the days when man's compeers, the mammoth
and the cave-bear, could have taught him better? Rushing down to
Raxton church to save her!--to save her by laying a poor little
trinket upon a dead man's breast!'
After the paroxysm of self-scorn had partly exhausted itself, I
stood staring in the woman's face.
'Well,' said she, 'I thought the shiny Quaker was a rum un, but blow
me if you ain't a rummyer.
'Her name was Winifred, and the word "father" produced fits,' I said,
not to the woman, but to my soul, in mocking answer to its own woe.
'What about my father's spiritualism now? Good God! Is there no other
ancestral tomfoolery, no other of Superstition's patent Aylwinian
soul-salves for the philosophical Nature-worshipper and apostle of
rationalism to fly to? Her name was Winifred.
'Yis; don't I say 'er name wur Winifred?' said the woman, who thought
I was addressing her. 'You're jist like a poll-parrit with your
"Winifred, Winifred, Winifred." That was 'er name, an' she 'ad a
shock, pore dear, an' it was all along of you at the studero
a-talkin' about 'er father. You _must_ a-talked about 'er father: so
no lies. She 'ad fits arter that, in course she 'ad. Why, you'll make
me die a-larfin' with your poll-parritin' ways, sayin' "a shock, a
shock, a shock," arter me. In course she 'ad a shock; she 'ad it when
she was a little gal o' six. My pore Bill (that's my 'usband as now
lives in the fine 'Straley) was a'most killed a-fightin' a Irishman.
They brought 'im 'um an' laid 'im afore her werry eyes, an' the sight
throw'd 'er into high-strikes, an' arter that the name of "father"
allus throwed her into high-strikes, an' that's why I told 'em at the
studero never to say that word. An' I know you _must_ 'a' said it,
some o' your cussed lot must, or else why should my pore darter 'a'
'ad the high-strikes? Nothin' else never gev 'er no high-strikes only
talkin' to 'er about 'er father. An' as to me a-sendin' 'er
a-beggin', I tell you she liked beggin'. I gev her baskets to sell,
an' flowers to sell, an' yet she _would_ beg. I tell you she liked
beggin'. Some gals does. She was touched in the 'ead, an' she used to
say she _must_ beg, an' there was nothink she used to like so much as
to stan' with a box o' matches a-jabberin' a tex' out o' the Bible
unless it was singin'. There you are, a-larfin' and a-gurnin' ag'in.
If I wur on'y 'arf as drunk as you are the coppers 'ud 'a' run _me_
in hours ago; cuss 'em, an' their favouritin' ways.'
At the truth flashing in upon me through these fantastic lies, I had
passed into that mood when the grotesque wickedness of Fate's awards
can draw from the victim no loud lamentations--when there are no
frantic blows aimed at the sufferer's own poor eyeballs till the
beard--like the self-mutilated Theban king's--is bedewed with a dark
hail-shower of blood. More terrible because more inhuman than the
agony imagined by the great tragic poet is that most awful condition
of the soul into which I had passed--when the cruelty that seems to
work at Nature's heart, and to vitalise a dark universe of pain,
loses its mysterious aspect and becomes a mockery; when the whole
vast and merciless scheme seems too monstrous to be confronted save
by mad peals of derisive laughter--that dreadful laughter which
bubbles lower than the fount of tears--that laughter which is the
heart's last language; when no words can give it the relief of
utterance--no words, nor wails, nor moans.
'Another quid,' bawled the woman after me, as I turned away, 'another
quid, an' then I'll tell you somethink to your awantage. Out with it,
and don't spile a good mind.'
What I did and said that morning as I wandered through the streets of
London in that state of tearless despair and mad unnatural merriment,
one hour of which will age a man more than a decade of any woe that
can find a voice in lamentations, remains a blank in my memory.
I found myself at the corner of Essex Street, staring across the
Strand, which, even yet, had scarcely awoke into life. Presently I
felt my sleeve pulled, and heard the woman's voice.
'You didn't know as I was cluss behind you all the while, a-watchin'
your tantrums. Never spile a good mind, my young swell. Out with
t'other quid, an' then I'll tell you somethink about my pootty darter
as is on my mind.'
I gave her money, but got nothing from her save more incoherent lies
and self-contradictions about the time of the funeral.
'Point out the spot where she used to stand and beg. No, don't stand
on it yourself, but point it out.'
'This is the werry spot. She used to hold out her matches like this
'ere,--my darter used,--an' say texes out o' the Bible. She loved
beggin', pore dear!'
'Texts from the Bible?' I said, staggering under a new thought that
seemed to strike through me like a bar of hot metal. 'Can you
remember any one of them?'
'It was allus the same tex', an' I ought to remember it well enough,
for I've 'eerd it times enough. She wur like you for poll-parritin'
ways, and used to say the same thing over an' over ag'in. It wur
allus, "Let his children be wagabones and beg their bread; let them
seek it also out of desolate places." Why, you're at it
ag'in--gurnin' ag'in. You _must_ be drunk.'
Again there came upon me the involuntary laughter of heart-agony at
its tensest. I cried aloud: 'Faith and Love! Faith and Love! That
farce of the Raxton crypt with the great-grandmother's fool on his
knees shall be repeated for the delight of Nin-ki-gal and the Danish
skeletons and the ancestral ghosts from Hugh the Crusader down to the
hero of the knee-caps and mittens; and there shall be a dance of
death and a song, and the burden shall be--
As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods:
They kill us for their sport.'
Misery had made me a maniac at last; my brain swam, and the head of
the woman seemed to be growing before me--seemed once more to be
transfigured before me into a monstrous mountainous representation of
an awful mockery-goddess and columbine-queen, down whose merry
wrinkles were flowing tears that were at once tears of Olympian
laughter and tears of the oceanic misery of Man.
'Well, you _are_ a rum un, and no mistake,' said the woman. 'But who
the dickens _are_ you? _That's_ what licks me. Who the dickens _are_
you? Howsomever, if you'll fork out another quid, the Queen of the
Jokes'll tell you some'ink to your awantage, an' if you won't fork
out the Queen o' the Jokes is mum.'
I stood and looked at her--looked till the street seemed to heave
under my feet and the houses to rock. After this I seem to have
wandered back to Wilderspin's studio, and there to have sunk down
unconscious.