III

I found myself inquiring for the New North Cemetery, and after a time

I stood looking through the bars of tall iron gates at long lines of

gravestones and dreary hillocks before me. Then I went in, walking

straight over the grass towards a gravedigger digging in the

sunshine. He looked at me, resting his foot on his spade.

'I want to find a grave.'

'What part was the party buried in?'

'The pauper part,' I said.

'Oh,' said he, losing suddenly his respectful tone. 'When was she

buried? I suppose it was a she by the look o' you.'

'When? I don't know the date.'

'Rather a wide order that, but there's the pauper part.' And he

pointed to a spot at some little distance, where there were no

gravestones and no shrubs. I walked across to this Desert of Poverty,

which seemed too cheerless for a place of rest. I stood and gazed at

the mounds till the black coffins underneath grew upon my mental

vision, and seemed to press upon my brain. Thoughts I had none, only

a sense of being another person.

The man came slowly towards me, and then looked meditatively into my

face. I shall never forget him. A tall, sallow, emaciated man he was,

with cheek-bones high and sharp as an American Indian's, and

straight black hair. He looked like a wooden image of Mephistopheles,

carved with a jack-knife.

'Who are you?' The words seemed to come, not from the gravedigger's

mouth, but from those piles of lamp-blacked coffins which were

searing my eyes through four feet of graveyard earth. By the

fever-fires in my brain I seemed to see the very faces of the

corpses.

'Who am I?' I said to myself, as I thought, but evidently aloud;

'I am the Fool of Superstition. I am Fenella Stanley's Fool, and

Sinfi Lovell's Fool, and Philip Aylwin's Fool, who went and averted

a curse from one of the heads resting down here, averted a curse by

burying a jewel in a dead man's tomb.'

'Not in this cemetery, so none o' your gammon,' said the

gravedigger, who had overheard me. 'The on'y people as is fools

enough to bury jewels with dead bodies is the Gypsies, and _they_

take precious good care, as I know, to keep it mum _where_ they bury

'em. There's bin as much diggin' for them thousand guineas as was

buried with Jerry Chilcott in Foxleigh Parish, where I was born, as

would more nor pay for emptying a gold mine; but I never heard o'

Christian folk a-buryin' jewels. But who are you?'

I felt a hand upon my shoulder, and looking round, I found Sinfi by

my side.

'Does he belong to you, my gal?'

'Yis,' said Sinfi, with a strange, deep ring in her rich contralto

voice. 'Yis, he belongs to me now--leastways he's my pal

now--whatever comes on it.'

'Then take him away, my wench. What's the matter with him? The old

complaint, I s'pose,' he added, lifting his hand to his mouth as

though drinking from a glass.

Sinfi gently put out her hand and brushed the man aside.

'I've bin a-followin' on you all the way, brother,' said Sinfi, as

we moved out of the cemetery, 'for your looks skeared me a bit. Let's

go away from this place.'

'But whither, Sinfi? I have no friend but you; I have no home.'

'No home, brother? The kairengros [Footnote] has got about

everythink, 'cept the sky an' the wind, an' you're one o' the richest

kairengros on 'em all--leastways so I wur told t'other day in

Kingston Vale. It's the Romanies, brother, as 'ain't got no home

'cept the sky an' the wind. Howsumever, that's nuther here nor there;

we'll jist go to the woman they told me on, an' if there's any truth

to be torn out of her, out it'll ha' to come, if I ha' to tear out

her windpipe with it.'

[Footnote: The house-dwellers.]

We took a cab and were soon in Primrose Court.

The front door was wide open--fastened back. Entering the narrow

common passage, we rapped at a dingy inner door. It was opened by a

pretty girl, whose thick chestnut hair and eyes to match contrasted

richly with the dress she wore--a dirty black dress, with great

patches of lining bursting through holes like a whity-brown froth.

'Meg Gudgeon?' said the girl in answer to our inquiries; and at first

she looked at us rather suspiciously, 'upstairs, she's very bad--like

to die--I'm a-seein' arter 'er. Better let 'er alone; she bites when

she's in 'er tantrums.'

'We's friends o' hern,' said Sinfi, whose appearance and decisive

voice seemed to reassure the girl.

'Oh, if you're friends that's different,' said she. 'Meg's gone off

'er 'ead; thinks the p'leace in plain clothes are after 'er.'

We went up the stairs. The girl followed us. When we reached a low

door, Sinfi proposed that she should remain outside on the landing,

but within ear-shot, as 'the sight o' both on us, all of a suddent,

might make the poor body all of a dither if she was very ill.'

The girl then opened the door and went in. I heard the woman's voice

say in answer to her,

'Friend? Who is it? Are you sure, Poll, it ain't a copper in plain

clothes come about that gal?'

The girl came out, and signalling me to enter, went leisurely

downstairs. Leaving Sinfi outside on the landing, I entered the room.

There, on a sort of truckle-bed in one corner, I saw the woman. She

slowly raised herself up on her elbows to stare at me. I took for

granted that she would recognise me at once; but either because she

was in drink when I saw her last, or because she had got the idea of

a policeman in plain clothes, she did not seem to know me. Then a

look of dire alarm broke over her face and she said,

'P'leaceman, I'm as hinicent about that air gal as a new-born babe.'

'Mrs. Gudgeon,' I said, 'I only want you to tell a friend of mine

about your daughter.'

'Oh yis! a friend o' yourn! Another or two on ye in plain clothes

behind the door, I dessay. An' pray who said the gal wur my darter?

What for do you want to put words into the mouth of a hinicent dyin'

woman? I comed by 'er 'onest enough. The pore half-starved thing came

up to me in Llanbeblig churchyard.'

'Llanbeblig churchyard?' I exclaimed, drawing close up to the bed.

'How came you in Llanbeblig churchyard?' But then I remembered that,

according to her own story, she had married a Welshman.

'How did I come in Llanbeblig churchyard?' said the woman in a tone

in which irony and fear were strangely mingled. 'Well, p'leaceman, I

don't mean to be sarcy: but seein' as all my pore dear 'usband's kith

and kin o' the name o' Goodjohn was buried in Llanbeblig churchyard,

p'raps you'll be kind enough to let me go there sometimes, an' p'raps

be buried there when my time comes.'

'But what took you there?' I said.

'What took me to Llanbeblig churchyard?' exclaimed the woman, whose

natural dogged courage seemed to be returning to her. 'What made me

leave every fardin' I had in the world with Poll Onion, when we

ommust wanted bread, an' go to Carnarvon on Shanks's pony? I sha'n't

tell ye. I comed by the gal 'onest enough, an' she never comed to no

'arm through me, less mendin' 'er does for 'er, and bringin' 'er to

London, and bein' a mother to 'er, an' givin' 'er a few baskets an'

matches to sell is a-doin' 'er any 'arm. An' as to beggin' she

_would_ beg, she loved to beg an' say texes.'

'Old kidnapper!' I cried, maddened by the visions that came upon me.

'How do I know that she came to no harm with a wretch like you?'

The woman shrank back upon the pillows in a revival of her terror.

'She never comed to no 'arm, p'leaceman. No, no, she never comed to

no 'arm through me. I'd a darter once o' my own, Jenny Gudgeon by

name--p'raps you know'd 'er, most o' the coppers did--as was brought

up by my sister by marriage at Carnarvon, an' I sent for 'er to

London, I did, pl'eaceman--God forgi'e me--an' she went wrong all

through me bein' a drinkin' woman an' not seein' arter 'er, just as

my son Bob tookt to drink, through me bein' a drinkin' woman an' not

seein' arter _him_. She tookt and went from bad to wuss, bad to

wuss; it's my belief as it's allus starvation as drives 'em to it;

an' when she wur a-dyin' gal, she sez to me, "Mother," sez she,

"I've got the smell o' Welsh vi'lets on me ag'in: I wants to be

buried in Llanbeblig churchyard, among the Welsh child'n an' maids,

mother. I wants to feel the snowdrops, an' smell the vi'lets, an'

the primroses, a-growin' over my 'ead," sez she; "but that can't

never be, mother," sez she, a-sobbin' fit to bust; "never, never,

for such as me," sez she. An' I know'd what she meant, though she

never once blamed me, an' 'er words stuck in my gizzard like a thorn,

p'leaceman.'

'But what has all this to do with the girl you kidnapped?'

'Ain't I a-tellin' on ye as fast as I can? When my pore gal dropped

off to sleep, I sez to Polly Onion, "Poll," I sez, "to-morrow mornin'

I'll pop every-think as ain't popped a'ready, an' I'll leave you the

money to see arter 'er, an' I'll start for Carnarvon on Shanks's

pony. I knows a good many on the road," sez I, "as won't let Jokin'

Meg want for a crust and a sup, an' when I gits to Carnarvon I'll ax

'er aunt to bury 'er (she sells fish, 'er aunt does,"' sez I, "and

she's got a pot o' money), an' then I'll see the parson or the sexton

or somebody," sez I, "an' I'll tell 'em I've got a darter in London

as is goin' to die, a Carnarvon gal by family, an' I'll tell 'im she

ain't never bin married, an' then they'll bury 'er where she can

smell the primroses and the vi'lets." That's what I sez to Poll

Onion, an' then Poll she begins to pipe, an' sez, "Oh Meg, Meg, ain't

I a Carnarvon gal too? The likes o' us ain't a-goin' to grow no

vi'lets an' snowdrops in Llanbeblig churchyard." An' I sez to her,

"What a d--d fool you are, Poll! You never 'adn't a gal as went wrong

through you a-drinkin', else you'd never say that. If the parson sez

to me, 'Is your darter a vargin-maid?' d'ye think I shall say, 'Oh

no, parson'? I'll swear she is a vargin-maid on all the Bibles in all

the churches in Wales." That's jis' what I sez to Polly Onion, God

forgi'e me. An' Poll sez, "The parson'll be sure to send you to hell,

Meg, if you do that air." An' I sez, "So he may, then, but I _shall_

do it, no fear." That's what I sez to Poll Onion (she's downstairs at

this werry moment a-warmin' me a drop o' beer); it was 'er as showed

you upstairs, cuss 'er for a fool; an' she can tell you the same

thing as I'm a-tellin' on you.'

'But what about her you kidnapped? Tell me all about it, or it will

be worse for you.'

'Ain't I a-tellin' you as fast as I can? Off to Carnarvon I goes, an'

every futt o' the way I walks--Lor' bless your soul, there worn't a

better pair o' pins nowheres than Meg Gudgeon's then, afore the water

got in 'em an' bust 'em; an' I got to Llanbeblig churchyard early one

mornin', and there I seed the pore half-sharp gal. So you see I comed

by 'er 'onest enough, p'leaceman, though she worn't ezzackly my own

darter.'

'Well, well,' I said; 'go on.'

'Yes, it's all very well to say "go on," p'leaceman; but if you'd got

as much water in your legs as I've got in mine, an' if you'd got no

more wind in your bellows than I've got in mine, you'd find it none

so easy to go on.'

'What was she doing in the churchyard?'

'Well, p'leaceman, I'm tellin' you the truth, s'elp me Bob! I was

a-lookin' over the graves to see if I could find a nice comfortable

place for my pore gal, an' all at once I heered a kind o' sobbin' as

would a' made me die o' fright if it 'adn't a' bin broad daylight,

an' then I see a gal a-layin' flat on a grave an' cryin', an' when I

got up to her I seed as she wur covered with mud, an' I seed as she

wur a-starvin'.'

'Good God, woman, you are lying! you are lying!'

'No, I ain't a-lyin'. She tookt to me the moment she clapped eyes on

me; most people does, and them as don't ought, an' she got up an' put

her arms round my neck, and she called me "Knocker."'

'Called you what?'

'Ain't I a-tellin' you? She called me "Knocker"; and that's the very

name as she allus called me up to the day of 'er death, pore dear! I

tried to make 'er come along o' me, an' she wouldn't stir, an' so I

left 'er, meanin' to go back; but when I got to my sister's by

marriage, there was a letter for me an' it wur from Polly Onion,

a-sayin' as my pore Jenny died the same day as I left London,

a-sayin', "Mother, vi'lets, vi'lets; mother, vi'lets, vi'lets!" an'

was buried by the parish. An' that upset me, p'leaceman, an' made me

swownd, an' when I comed to, I couldn't hear nothink only my pore

Jenny's voice a-sobbin' on the wind, "Mother, vi'lets, vi'lets;

mother, vi'lets, vi'lets!" an' that sent me off my 'ead a bit, an' I

run out o' the 'ouse, an' there was Jenny's voice a-goin' on before

me a-sobbin', "Mother, vi'lets, vi'lets; mother, vi'lets, vi'lets!"

an' it seemed to lead me back to the churchyard; an' lo an' be'old!

there was the pore half-starved creatur' a-settin' there jist as I'd

left 'er, an' I sez, "God bless you, my gal, you're a-starvin'!" an'

she jumped up, an' she comed an' throwed 'er arms round my waist, an'

there we stood both on us a-cryin' togither, an' then I runned back

into Carnarvon, an' fetched 'er some grub, an' she tucked into the

grub.--But hullo! p'leaceman, what's up now? What the devil are you

a-squeedgin' my 'and like that for? Are you a-goin' to kiss it? It

ain't none so clean, p'leaceman. You're the rummest copper in plain

clothes ever I seed in all my born days. Fust you seem as if you want

to bite me, you looks so savage, an' then you looks as if you wants

to kiss me; you'll make me laugh, I know you will, an' that'll make

me cough.--Hi! Poll Onion, come 'ere. Bring my best lookin'-glass out

o' my bowdore, an' let me look at my ole chops, for I'm blowed if

there ain't a copper in plain clothes this time as is fell 'ead over

ears in love with me, jist as the young swell did at the studero.'

'Go on, Mrs. Gudgeon,' I said; 'go on. She ate the food?'

'Oh, didn't she jist! And the pore half-sharp thing took to me, an' I

took to she, an' I thinks to myself, "She's a purty gal, if she's

ever so stupid, an' she'll get 'er livin' a-sellin' flowers o' fine

days, an' a-doin' the rainy-night dodge with baskets when it's wet ";

an' so I took 'er in, an' in the street she'd all of a suddent bust

out a-singin' songs about Snowdon an' sich like, just as if she was

a-singin' in a dream, and folk used to like to 'ear 'er an' gev 'er

money; an' I was a good mother to 'er, I was, an' them as sez I

worn't is cussed liars.'

'And she never came to any harm?' I said, holding the great muscular

hands between my two palms, unwilling to let them go. 'She never came

to any harm?'

'Ain't I said so more nor wunst? I swore on the Bible--there's the

very Bible, under the match-box, agin the winder--on that very Bible

I swore as my port Jenny brought from Wales, an' as I've never popped

yit that this pore half-sharp gal should never go wrong through me;

an' then, arter I swore that, my pore Jenny let me alone, an' I never

'eard 'er v'ice no more a-cryin'. "Mother, vi'lets, vi'lets; mother,

vi'lets, vi'lets!" An' many's the chap as 'as come leerin' after 'er

as I've sent away with a flea in 'is ear. Cuss 'em all; they's all

bad alike about purty gals, men is. She's never comed to no wrong

through _me_. Didn't I ammost kill a real sailor capting when I used

to live in the East End 'cause he tried to meddle with 'er? An'

worn't that the reason why I left my 'um close to Radcliffe 'Ighway

an' comed 'ere? Them as killed 'er wur the cussed lot in the

studeros. I'm a dyin' woman; I'm as hinicent as a new-born babe. An'

there ain't nothink o' 'ern in this room on'y a pair o' ole shoes an'

a few rags in that ole trunk under the winder.'

I went to the trunk and raised the lid. The tattered, stained remains

of the very dress she wore when I last saw her in the mist on

Snowdon! But what else? Pushed into an old worn shoe, which with its

fellow lay tossed among the ragged clothes, was a brown stained

letter. I took it out. It was addressed to 'Miss Winifred Wynne at

Mrs. Davies's.' Part of the envelope was torn away. It bore the

Graylingham post-mark, and its superscription was in a hand which I

did not recognise, and yet it was a hand which seemed half-familiar

to me. I opened it; I read a line or two before I fully realised what

it was--the letter, full of childish prattle, which I had written to

Winifred when I was a little boy--the first letter I wrote to her.

I forgot where I was, I forgot that Sinfi was standing outside the

door, till I heard the woman's voice exclaiming, 'What do you want to

set on my bed an' look at me like that for?--you ain't no p'leaceman

in plain clothes, so none o' your larks. Git off o' my bed, will ye?

You'll be a-settin' on my bad leg an' a-bustin' on it in a minit. Git

off my bed, else look another way; them eyes o' yourn skear me.'

I was sitting on the side of her bed and looking into her face.

'Where did you get this?' I said, holding out the letter.

'You skears me, a-lookin' like that,' said she. 'I comed by it

'onest. One day when she was asleep, I was turnin' over 'er clothes

to see how much longer they would hold together, when I feels a

somethink 'ard sewed up in the breast; I rips it open, and it was

that letter. I didn't put it back in the frock ag'in, 'cause I

thought it might be useful some day in findin' out who she was. She

never missed it. I don't think she'd 'ave missed anythink, she wur

so oncommon silly. You ain't a-goin' to pocket it, air you?'

I had put the letter in my pocket, and had seized the shoes and was

going out of the room; but I stopped, took a sovereign from my purse,

placed it in an envelope bearing my own address which I chanced to

find in my pocket, and, putting it into her hand, I said, 'Here is my

address and here is a sovereign. I will tell your friend below to

come for me or send whenever you need assistance.' The woman clutched

at the money with greed, and I left the room, signalling to Sinfi

(who stood on the landing, pale and deeply moved) to follow me

downstairs. When we reached the wretched room on the ground-floor we

found the girl hanging some wet rags on lines that were stretched

from wall to wall.

'What is your name?' I said.

'Polly Unwin,' replied she, turning round with a piece of damp linen

in her hand.

'And what are you?'

'What am I?'

'I mean what do you do for a living?'

'What do I do for a living?' she said. 'All kinds of things--help the

men at the barrows in the New Cut sell flowers, do anything that

comes in my way.'

'Never mind what she does for a livin', brother,' said Sinfi; 'give

her a gold balanser or two, and tell her to see arter the woman.'

'Here is some money,' I said to the girl. 'See that Mrs. Gudgeon

upstairs wants for nothing. Is that story of hers true about her

daughter and Llanbeblig churchyard?'

'That's true enough, though she's a wunner at a lie: that's true

enough.'

But as I spoke I heard a noise like the laugh or the shriek of a

maniac. It seemed to come from upstairs.

'She's a-larfin' ag'in,' said the girl. 'It's a very wicked larf,

sir, ain't it? But there's wuss uns nor Meg Gudgeon for all 'er

wicked larf, as I knows. Many a time she's kep' me from starvin'. I

mus' run up an' see 'er. She'll kill herself a-larfin' yit.'

The girl hurried upstairs and I followed her, leaving Sinfi below. I

re-entered the bedroom. There was the woman, her face buried in the

pillow, rocking and rolling her body half round with the regularity

of a pendulum. Between the peals of half-smothered hysterical

laughter that came from her, I could hear her say:

'_Dear Lord Jesus, don't forget to love dear Henry who can't git up

the gangways without me_.'

The words seemed to fall upon my heart like a rain of molten metal

dropping from the merciless and mocking skies. But I had ceased to

wonder at the cruelty of Fate. The girl went to her and shook her

angrily. This seemed to allay her hysterics, for she rolled round

upon her back and stared at us. Then she looked at the envelope

clutched in her hand, and read out the address,

'Henry, Henry, Henry Halywin, Eskeuer! An' I tookt 'im for a copper

in plain clothes all the while! Henry, Henry, Henry Halywin, Eskeuer!

I shall die a-larfin', I know I shall! I shall die a-larfin', I know

I shall! Poll! don't you mind me a-tellin' you about my pore darter

Winifred--for my darter she _was_, as I'll swear afore all the beaks

in London--don't you mind me a-sayin' that if she wouldn't talk when

she wur awake, she could mag away fast enough when she wur asleep;

an' it were allus the same mag about dear little Henry, an' dear

Henry Halywin as couldn't git up the gangways without 'er. Well, pore

dear Henry was 'er sweet'airt, an' this is the chap, an' if my eyes

ain't stun blind, the werry chap out o' the cussed studeros as killed

'er, pore dear, an' as is a-skearin' me away from my beautiful 'um in

Primrose Court; an' 'ere wur I a-talkin' to 'im all of a muck sweat,

thinkin' he wur a copper in plain clothes!'

At this moment Sinfi entered the room. She came up to me, and laying

her hand upon my shoulder she said: 'Come away, brother, this is

cruel hard for you to bear. It's our poor sister Winifred as is dead,

and it ain't nobody else.'

The effect of Sinfi's appearance and of her words upon the woman was

like that of an electric shock. She sat up in her bed open-mouthed,

staring from Sinfi to me, and from me to Sinfi.

'So my darter Winifred's your _sister_ now, is she?' (turning to me).

'A few minutes ago she was your sweet'airt: an' now she seems to ha'

bin your sister. An' she was _your_ sister, too, was she?' (turning

to Sinfi). 'Well, all I know is, that she was my darter, Winifred

Gudgeon, as is dead, an' buried in the New North Cemetery, pore dear;

an' yet she was sister to both on ye!'

She then buried her face again in the pillows and resumed the rocking

movement, shrieking between her peals of laughter: 'Well, if I'm the

mother of a six-fut Gypsy gal an' a black-eyed chap as seems jest

atween a Gypsy and a Christian, I never knowed _that_ afore. No, I

never knowed _that_ afore! I allus said I should die a-larfin', an'

so I shall; I'm a-dyin' now--ha! ha! ha!'

She fell back upon the pillow, exhausted by her own cruel merriment.

'She always said she'd die a-larfin', an' she will, too--more nor I

shall ever do,' said the girl, after we had gone downstairs.

'Did you notice what she said about Winnie a-callin' her Knocker?'

said Sinfi.

'Yes, and couldn't understand it.'

'_I_ know what it meant. Winnie knowed all about the Knockers of

Snowdon, the dwarfs o' the copper mine, and this woman, bein' so

thick and short, must look ezackly like a Knocker, I should say, if

you could see one.'