Aylwin Part 53

'Good G.o.d, 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, "G.o.d 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'-gla.s.s 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 a.s.sistance.' 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 n.o.body 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.'

I said to the girl, 'Was she really kind to--to--'

'To her you were asking about,--the Ess.e.x Street Beauty? I should think she just was. She's a drinker, is poor Meg, and drinking in Primrose Court means starvation. Meg and the Beauty were often short enough of grub, but, drunk or sober, Meg would never touch a mouthful till the Beauty had had her fill. I noticed it many a time--not a mouthful. When Meg was obliged to send her into the streets to sell things she was always afraid that the Beauty might come to harm through the toffs and the chaps. The toffs were the worst looking after her--as they mostly are--so I was always watching her in the day-time, and at night Meg was always watching her, and that was what made me know your face, as soon as ever I clapt eyes on it.'

'Why, what do you mean?'

'Well, one rainy night when I was standing by the theatre door, I heard a toff ask a policeman about the Ess.e.x Street Beauty, and I thought I knew what that meant very well. So I ran off to find Meg. I had seen her watching the Beauty all the time. But lo and behold! Meg was gone and the Beauty too. So I run across here, and found Meg and the Beauty getting their supper as quiet as possible. Meg had heard the toff talking to the policeman--though I didn't know she was standing so near--and whisked her off and away as quick as lightning.'

'That was I,' I said. 'G.o.d! G.o.d! If I had only known!'