Part 20

To all these influences there was added in the case of two workers that thing which men have agreed to call Love. The chance that Sister Eva might catch diphtheria did not enter into the curate’s head till Badalia had spoken. Then it seemed a thing intolerable and monstrous that she should be exposed not only to this risk, but any accident whatever of the streets. A wain coming round a corner might kill her; the rotten staircases on which she trod daily and nightly might collapse and maim her; there was danger in the tottering coping-stones of certain crazy houses that he knew well; danger more deadly within those houses. What if one of a thousand drunken men crushed out that precious life? A woman had once flung a chair at the curate’s head. Sister Eva’s arm would not be strong enough to ward off a chair. There were also knives that were quick to fly. These and other considerations cast the soul of the Reverend Eustace Hanna into torment that no leaning upon Providence could relieve. God was indubitably great and terrible--one had only to walk through Gunnison Street to see that much--but it would be better, vastly better, that Eva should have the protection of his own arm. And the world that was not too busy to watch might have seen a woman, not too young, light-haired and light-eyed, slightly assertive in her speech, and very limited in such ideas as lay beyond the immediate sphere of her duty, where the eyes of the Reverend Eustace Hanna turned to follow the footsteps of a Queen crowned in a little gray bonnet with white ribbons under the chin.

If that bonnet appeared for a moment at the bottom of a courtyard, or nodded at him on a dark staircase, then there was hope yet for Lascar Loo, living on one lung and the memory of past excesses, hope even for whining sodden Nick Lapworth, blaspheming, in the hope of money, over the pangs of a ‘true conversion this time, s’elp me Gawd, sir.’ If that bonnet did not appear for a day, the mind of the curate was filled with lively pictures of horror, visions of stretchers, a crowd at some villainous crossing, and a policeman--he could see that policeman--jerking out over his shoulder the details of the accident, and ordering the man who would have set his body against the wheels--heavy dray wheels, he could see them--to ‘move on.’ Then there was less hope for the salvation of Gunnison Street and all in it.

This agony Brother Victor beheld one day when he was coming from a death-bed. He saw the light in the eye, the relaxing muscles of the mouth, and heard a new ring in the voice that had told flat all the forenoon. Sister Eva had turned into Gunnison Street after a forty-eight hours’ eternity of absence. She had not been run over. Brother Victor’s heart must have suffered in some human fashion, or he would never have seen what he saw. But the Law of his Church made suffering easy. His duty was to go on with his work until he died, even as Badalia went on. She, magnifying her office, faced the drunken husband; coaxed the doubly shiftless, thriftless girl-wife into a little forethought, and begged clothes when and where she could for the scrofulous babes that multiplied like the green scum on the untopped water-cisterns.

The story of her deeds was written in the book that the curate signed weekly, but she never told him any more of fights and tumults in the street. ‘Mis’ Eva does ’er work ’er way. I does mine mine. But I do more than Mis’ Eva ten times over, an’ “Thank yer, Badalia,” sez ’e, “that’ll do for this week.” I wonder what Tom’s doin’ now long o’ that--other woman. ’Seems like as if I’d go an’ look at ’im one o’ these days. But I’d cut ’er liver out--couldn’t ’elp myself. Better not go, p’raps.’

Hennessy’s Rents lay more than two miles from Gunnison Street, and were inhabited by much the same class of people. Tom had established himself there with Jenny Wabstow, his new woman, and for weeks lived in great fear of Badalia’s suddenly descending upon him. The prospect of actual fighting did not scare him: but he objected to the police-court that would follow, and the orders for maintenance and other devices of a law that cannot understand the simple rule that ‘when a man’s tired of a woman ’e ain’t such a bloomin’ fool as to live with ’er no more, an’ that’s the long an’ short of it.’ For some months his new wife wore very well, and kept Tom in a state of decent fear and consequent orderliness. Also work was plentiful. Then a baby was born, and, following the law of his kind, Tom, little interested in the children he helped to produce, sought distraction in drink. He had confined himself, as a rule, to beer, which is stupefying and comparatively innocuous: at least, it clogs the legs, and though the heart may ardently desire to kill, sleep comes swiftly, and the crime often remains undone. Spirits, being more volatile, allow both the flesh and the soul to work together--generally to the inconvenience of others. Tom discovered that there was merit in whisky--if you only took enough of it--cold. He took as much as he could purchase or get given him, and by the time that his woman was fit to go abroad again, the two rooms of their household were stripped of many valuable articles. Then the woman spoke her mind, not once, but several times, with point, fluency, and metaphor; and Tom was indignant at being deprived of peace at the end of his day’s work, which included much whisky. He therefore withdrew himself from the solace and companionship of Jenny Wabstow, and she therefore pursued him with more metaphors. At the last, Tom would turn round and hit her--sometimes across the head, and sometimes across the breast, and the bruises furnished material for discussion on doorsteps among such women as had been treated in like manner by their husbands. They were not few.

But no very public scandal had occurred till Tom one day saw fit to open negotiations with a young woman for matrimony according to the laws of free selection. He was getting very tired of Jenny, and the young woman was earning enough from flower-selling to keep him in comfort, whereas Jenny was expecting another baby and most unreasonably expected consideration on this account. The shapelessness of her figure revolted him, and he said as much in the language of his breed. Jenny cried till Mrs. Hart, lineal descendant, and Irish of the ‘mother to Mike of the donkey-cart,’ stopped her on her own staircase and whispered: ‘God be good to you, Jenny, my woman, for I see how ’tis with you.’ Jenny wept more than ever, and gave Mrs. Hart a penny and some kisses, while Tom was conducting his own wooing at the corner of the street.

The young woman, prompted by pride, not by virtue, told Jenny of his offers, and Jenny spoke to Tom that night. The altercation began in their own rooms, but Tom tried to escape; and in the end all Hennessy’s Rents gathered themselves upon the pavement and formed a court to which Jenny appealed from time to time, her hair loose on her neck, her raiment in extreme disorder, and her steps astray from drink. ‘When your man drinks, you’d better drink too! It don’t ’urt so much when ’e ’its you then,’ says the Wisdom of the Women. And surely they ought to know.

‘Look at ’im!’ shrieked Jenny. ‘Look at ’im, standin’ there without any word to say for himself, that ’ud smitch off and leave me an’ never so much as a shillin’ lef’ be’ind! You call yourself a man--you call yourself the bleedin’ shadow of a man? I’ve seen better men than you made outer chewed paper and spat out arterwards. Look at ’im! ’E’s been drunk since Thursday last, an’ ’e’ll be drunk s’ long’s ’e can get drink. ’E’s took all I’ve got, an’ me--an’ me--as you see----’

A murmur of sympathy from the women.

‘Took it all, he did, an’ atop of his blasted pickin’ an’ stealin’--yes, you, you thief--’e goes off an’ tries to take up long o’ that’--here followed a complete and minute description of the young woman. Luckily, she was not on the spot to hear. ‘’E’ll serve ’er as ’e served me! ’E’ll drink every bloomin’ copper she makes an’ then leave ’er alone, same as ’e done me! O women, look you, I’ve bore ’im one an’ there’s another on the way, an’ ’e’d up an’ leave me as I am now--the stinkin’ dorg. An’ you _may_ leave me. I don’t want none o’ your leavin’s. Go away. Get away!’ The hoarseness of passion overpowered the voice. The crowd attracted a policeman as Tom began to slink away.

‘Look at ’im,’ said Jenny, grateful for the new listener. ‘Ain’t there no law for such as ’im? ’E’s took all my money, ’e’s beat me once, twice an’ over. ’E’s swine drunk when ’e ain’t mad drunk, an’ now, an’ now ’e’s trying to pick up along o’ another woman. ’Im I give up a four times better man for. Ain’t there no law?’

‘What’s the matter now? You go into your ’ouse. I’ll see to the man. ’As ’e been ’itting you?’ said the policeman.

‘’Ittin’ me? ’E’s cut my ’eart in two, an’ ’e stands there grinnin’ as tho’ ’twas all a play to ’im.’

‘You go on into your ’ouse an’ lie down a bit.’

‘I’m a married woman, I tell you, an’ I’ll ’ave my ’usband!’

‘I ain’t done her no bloomin’ ’arm,’ said Tom from the edge of the crowd. He felt that public opinion was running against him.

‘You ain’t done me any bloomin’ good, you dorg. I’m a married woman, I am, an’ I won’t ’ave my ’usband took from me.’

‘Well, if you _are_ a married woman, cover your breasts,’ said the policeman soothingly. He was used to domestic brawls.

‘Shan’t--thank you for your impidence. Look ’ere!’ She tore open her dishevelled bodice and showed such crescent-shaped bruises as are made by a well-applied chair-back. ‘That’s what ’e done to me acause my heart wouldn’t break quick enough! ’E’s tried to get in an’ break it. Look at that, Tom, that you gave me last night; an’ I made it up with you. But that was before I knew what you were tryin’ to do long o’ that woman----’

‘D’you charge ’im?’ said the policeman. ‘’E’ll get a month for it, per’aps.’

‘No’ said Jenny firmly. It was one thing to expose her man to the scorn of the street, and another to lead him to jail.

‘Then you go in an’ lie down, and you’--this to the crowd--‘pass along the pavement, there. Pass along. ’Taint nothing to laugh at.’ To Tom, who was being sympathised with by his friends, ‘It’s good for you she didn’t charge you, but mind this now, the next time,’ etc.

Tom did not at all appreciate Jenny’s forbearance, nor did his friends help to compose his mind. He had whacked the woman because she was a nuisance. For precisely the same reason he had cast about for a new mate. And all his kind acts had ended in a truly painful scene in the street, a most unjustifiable exposure by and of his woman, and a certain loss of caste--this he realised dimly--among his associates. Consequently, all women were nuisances, and consequently whisky was a good thing. His friends condoled with him. Perhaps he had been more hard on his woman than she deserved, but her disgraceful conduct under provocation excused all offence.

‘I wouldn’t ’ave no more to do with ’er--a woman like that there,’ said one comforter.

‘Let ’er go an’ dig for her bloomin’ self. A man wears ’isself out to ’is bones shovin’ meat down their mouths, while they sit at ’ome easy all day; an’ the very fust time, mark you, you ’as a bit of a difference, an’ very proper too for a man as _is_ a man, she ups an’ ’as you out into the street, callin’ you Gawd knows what all. What’s the good o’ that, I arx you?’ So spoke the second comforter.

The whisky was the third, and his suggestion struck Tom as the best of all. He would return to Badalia his wife. Probably she would have been doing something wrong while he had been away, and he could then vindicate his authority as a husband. Certainly she would have money. Single women always seemed to possess the pence that God and the Government denied to hard-working men. He refreshed himself with more whisky. It was beyond any doubt that Badalia would have done something wrong. She might even have married another man. He would wait till the new husband was out of the way, and, after kicking Badalia, would get money and a long absent sense of satisfaction. There is much virtue in a creed or a law, but when all is prayed and suffered, drink is the only thing that will make clean all a man’s deeds in his own eyes. Pity it is that the effects are not permanent.

Tom parted with his friends, bidding them tell Jenny that he was going to Gunnison Street, and would return to her arms no more. Because this was the devil’s message, they remembered and severally delivered it, with drunken distinctness, in Jenny’s ears. Then Tom took more drink till his drunkenness rolled back and stood off from him as a wave rolls back and stands off the wreck it will swamp. He reached the traffic-polished black asphalte of a side-street and trod warily among the reflections of the shop-lamps that burned in gulfs of pitchy darkness, fathoms beneath his boot-heels. He was very sober indeed. Looking down his past, he beheld that he was justified of all his actions so entirely and perfectly that if Badalia had in his absence dared to lead a blameless life he would smash her for not having gone wrong.

Badalia at that moment was in her own room after the regular nightly skirmish with Lascar Loo’s mother. To a reproof as stinging as a Gunnison Street tongue could make it, the old woman, detected for the hundredth time in the theft of the poor delicacies meant for the invalid, could only cackle and answer--

‘D’you think Loo’s never bilked a man in ’er life? She’s dyin’ now--on’y she’s so cunning long about it. Me! I’ll live for twenty years yet.’

Badalia shook her, more on principle than in any hope of curing her, and thrust her into the night, where she collapsed on the pavement and called upon the devil to slay Badalia.

He came upon the word in the shape of a man with a very pale face who asked for her by name. Lascar Loo’s mother remembered. It was Badalia’s husband--and the return of a husband to Gunnison Street was generally followed by beatings.

‘Where’s my wife?’ said Tom. ‘Where’s my slut of a wife?’

‘Upstairs an’ be ---- to her,’ said the old woman, falling over on her side. ‘’Ave you come back for ’er, Tom?’

‘Yes. ’Oo’s she took up while I bin gone?’

‘All the bloomin’ curicks in the parish. She’s that set up you wouldn’t know ’er.’

‘’Strewth she is!’

‘Oh, yuss. Mor’n that, she’s always round an’ about with them sniffin’ Sisters of Charity an’ the curick. Mor’n that, ’e gives ’er money--pounds an’ pounds a week. Been keepin’ her that way for months, ’e ’as. No wonder you wouldn’t ’ave nothin’ to do with ’er when you left. An’ she keeps me outer the food-stuff they gets for me lyin’ dyin’ out ’ere like a dorg. She’s been a blazin’ bad un has Badalia since you lef’.’

‘Got the same room still, ’as she?’ said Tom, striding over Lascar Loo’s mother, who was picking at the chinks between the pave-stones.

‘Yes, but so fine you wouldn’t know it.’

Tom went up the stairs and the old lady chuckled. Tom was angry. Badalia would not be able to bump people for some time to come, or to interfere with the heaven-appointed distribution of custards.

Badalia, undressing to go to bed, heard feet on the stair that she knew well. Ere they stopped to kick at her door she had, in her own fashion, thought over very many things.

‘Tom’s back,’ she said to herself. ‘An’ I’m glad ... spite o’ the curick an’ everythink.’

She opened the door, crying his name.

The man pushed her aside.

‘I don’t want none o’ your kissin’s an’ slaverin’s. I’m sick of ’em,’ said he.

‘You ain’t ’ad so many neither to make you sick these two years past.’

‘I’ve ’ad better. Got any money?’

‘On’y a little--orful little.’

‘That’s a ---- lie, an’ you know it.’

‘’Taint--and, oh Tom, what’s the use o’ talkin’ money the minute you come back? Didn’t you like Jenny? I knowed you wouldn’t.’

‘Shut your ’ead. Ain’t you got enough to make a man drunk fair?’

‘You don’t want bein’ made more drunk any. You’re drunk a’ready. You come to bed, Tom.’

‘To you?’

‘Ay, to me. Ain’t I nothin’--spite o’ Jenny?’

She put out her arms as she spoke. But the drink held Tom fast.

‘Not for me,’ said he, steadying himself against the wall. ‘Don’t I know ’ow you’ve been goin’ on while I was away, yah!’

‘Arsk about!’ said Badalia indignantly, drawing herself together. ‘’Oo sez anythink agin me ’ere?’

‘’Oo sez? W’y, everybody. I ain’t come back more’n a minute fore I finds you’ve been with the curick Gawd knows where. Wot curick was ’e?’

‘The curick that’s ’ere always,’ said Badalia hastily. She was thinking of anything rather than the Rev. Eustace Hanna at that moment. Tom sat down gravely in the only chair in the room. Badalia continued her arrangements for going to bed.

‘Pretty thing that,’ said Tom, ‘to tell your own lawful married ’usband--an’ I guv five bob for the weddin’-ring. Curick that’s ’ere always! Cool as brass you are. Ain’t you got no shame? Ain’t ’e under the bed now?’

‘Tom, you’re bleedin’ drunk. I ain’t done nothin’ to be ’shamed of.’

‘You! You don’t know wot shame is. But I ain’t come ’ere to mess with you. Give me wot you’ve got, an’ then I’ll dress you down an’ go to Jenny.’

‘I ain’t got nothin’ ’cept some coppers an’ a shillin’ or so.’

‘Wot’s that about the curick keepin’ you on five poun’ a week?’

‘’Oo told you that?’

‘Lascar Loo’s mother, lyin’ on the pavemint outside, an’ more honest than you’ll ever be. Give me wot you’ve got!’

Badalia passed over to a little shell pin-cushion on the mantelpiece, drew thence four shillings and threepence--the lawful earnings of her trade--and held them out to the man who was rocking in his chair and surveying the room with wide-opened rolling eyes.

‘That ain’t five poun’,’ said he drowsily.

‘I ain’t got no more. Take it an’ go--if you won’t stay.’

Tom rose slowly, gripping the arms of the chair. ‘Wot about the curick’s money that ’e guv you?’ said he. ‘Lascar Loo’s mother told me. You give it over to me now, or I’ll make you.’

‘Lascar Loo’s mother don’t know anything about it.’

‘She do, an’ more than you want her to know.’

‘She don’t. I’ve bumped the ’eart out of ’er, and I can’t give you the money. Anythin’ else but that, Tom, an’ everythin’ else but that, Tom, I’ll give willin’ and true. ’Taint my money. Won’t the dollar be enough? That money’s my trust. There’s a book along of it too.’

‘Your trust? Wot are you doin’ with any trust that your ’usband don’t know of? You an’ your trust! Take you that!’

Tom stepped towards her and delivered a blow of the clenched fist across the mouth. ‘Give me wot you’ve got,’ said he, in the thick abstracted voice of one talking in dreams.

‘I won’t,’ said Badalia, staggering to the washstand. With any other man than her husband she would have fought savagely as a wild cat; but Tom had been absent two years, and, perhaps, a little timely submission would win him back to her. None the less, the weekly trust was sacred.

The wave that had so long held back descended on Tom’s brain. He caught Badalia by the throat and forced her to her knees. It seemed just to him in that hour to punish an erring wife for two years of wilful desertion; and the more, in that she had confessed her guilt by refusing to give up the wage of sin.

Lascar Loo’s mother waited on the pavement without for the sounds of lamentation, but none came. Even if Tom had released her gullet, Badalia would not have screamed.

‘Give it up, you slut!’ said Tom. ‘Is that ’ow you pay me back for all I’ve done?’

‘I can’t. ’Tain’t my money. Gawd forgive you, Tom, for wot you’re----,’ the voice ceased as the grip tightened, and Tom heaved Badalia against the bed. Her forehead struck the bed-post, and she sank, half kneeling, on the floor. It was impossible for a self-respecting man to refrain from kicking her: so Tom kicked with the deadly intelligence born of whisky. The head drooped to the floor, and Tom kicked at that till the crisp tingle of hair striking through his nailed boot with the chill of cold water, warned him that it might be as well to desist.

‘Where’s the curick’s money, you kep’ woman?’ he whispered in the blood-stained ear. But there was no answer--only a rattling at the door, and the voice of Jenny Wabstow crying ferociously, ‘Come out o’ that, Tom, an’ come ’ome with me! An’ you, Badalia, I’ll tear your face off its bones!’

Tom’s friends had delivered their message, and Jenny, after the first flood of passionate tears, rose up to follow Tom, and, if possible, to win him back. She was prepared even to endure an exemplary whacking for her performances in Hennessy’s Rents. Lascar Loo’s mother guided her to the chamber of horrors, and chuckled as she retired down the staircase. If Tom had not banged the soul out of Badalia, there would at least be a royal fight between that Badalia and Jenny. And Lascar Loo’s mother knew well that Hell has no fury like a woman fighting above the life that is quick in her.

Still there was no sound audible in the street. Jenny swung back the unbolted door, to discover her man stupidly regarding a heap by the bed. An eminent murderer has remarked that if people did not die so untidily, most men, and all women, would commit at least one murder in their lives. Tom was reflecting on the present untidiness, and the whisky was fighting with the clear current of his thoughts.

‘Don’t make that noise,’ he said. ‘Come in quick.’

‘My Gawd!’ said Jenny, checking like a startled wild beast. ‘Wot’s all this ’ere? You ain’t----’

‘Dunno. ’Spose I did it.’

‘Did it! You done it a sight too well this time.’

‘She was aggravatin’,’ said Tom thickly, dropping back into the chair. ‘That aggravatin’ you’d never believe. Livin’ on the fat o’ the land among these aristocratic parsons an’ all. Look at them white curtings on the bed. _We_ ain’t got no white curtings. What I want to know is----’ The voice died as Badalia’s had died, but from a different cause. The whisky was tightening its grip after the accomplished deed, and Tom’s eyes were beginning to close. Badalia on the floor breathed heavily.

‘No, nor like to ’ave,’ said Jenny. ‘You’ve done for ’er this time. You go!’

‘Not me. She won’t hurt. Do ’er good. I’m goin’ to sleep. Look at those there clean sheets! Aint you comin’ too?’

Jenny bent over Badalia, and there was intelligence in the battered woman’s eyes--intelligence and much hate.

‘I never told ’im to do such,’ Jenny whispered. ‘’Twas Tom’s own doin’--none o’ mine. Shall I get ’im took, dear?’

The eyes told their own story. Tom, who was beginning to snore, must not be taken by the Law.

‘Go,’ said Jenny. ‘Get out! Get out of ’ere.’

‘You--told--me--that--this afternoon,’ said the man very sleepily. ‘Lemme go asleep.’

‘That wasn’t nothing. You’d only ’it me. This time it’s murder--murder--murder! Tom, you’ve killed ’er now.’ She shook the man from his rest, and understanding with cold terror filled his fuddled brain.

‘I done it for your sake, Jenny,’ he whimpered feebly, trying to take her hand.

‘You killed ’er for the money, same as you would ha’ killed me. Get out o’ this. Lay ’er on the bed first, you brute!’

They lifted Badalia on to the bed, and crept forth silently.

‘I can’t be took along o’ you--and if you was took you’d say I made you do it, an’ try to get me ’anged. Go away--anywhere outer ’ere,’ said Jenny, and she dragged him down the stairs.

‘Goin’ to look for the curick?’ said a voice from the pavement. Lascar Loo’s mother was still waiting patiently to hear Badalia squeal.

‘Wot curick?’ said Jenny swiftly. There was a chance of salving her conscience yet in regard to the bundle upstairs.

‘’Anna--63 Roomer Terrace--close ’ere,’ said the old woman. She had never been favourably regarded by the curate. Perhaps, since Badalia had not squealed, Tom preferred smashing the man to the woman. There was no accounting for tastes.