The Widow in the Bye Street Part 4

How sweet of you. I'll wear it in my dress.

When you're beside me life is such a joy, You bring the sun to solitariness.'

She brushed his jacket with a light caress, His arms went round her fast, she yielded meek; He had the happiness to kiss her cheek.

'My dear, my dear.' 'My very dear, my Jim, How very kind my Jimmy is to me; I ache to think that some are harsh to him; Not like my Jimmy, beautiful and free.

My darling boy, how lovely it would be If all would trust as we two trust each other.'

And Jimmy's heart grew hard against his mother.

She, poor old soul, was waiting in the gloom For Jimmy's pay, that she could do the shopping.

The clock ticked out a solemn tale of doom; Clogs on the bricks outside went clippa-clopping, The owls were coming out and dew was dropping.

The bacon burnt, and Jimmy not yet home.

The clock was ticking dooms out like a gnome.

'What can have kept him that he doesn't come?

O G.o.d, they'd tell me if he'd come to hurt.'

The unknown, unseen evil struck her numb, She saw his body b.l.o.o.d.y in the dirt, She saw the life blood pumping through the shirt, She saw him tipsy in the navvies' booth, She saw all forms of evil but the truth.

At last she hurried up the line to ask If Jim were hurt or why he wasn't back.

She found the watchman wearing through his task; Over the fire basket in his shack; Behind, the new embankment rose up black.

'Gurney?' he said. 'He'd got to see a friend.'

'Where?' 'I dunno. I think out Plaister's End.

Thanking the man, she tottered down the hill, The long-feared fang had bitten to the bone.

The brook beside her talked as water will That it was lonely singing all alone, The night was lonely with the water's tone, And she was lonely to the very marrow.

Love puts such bitter poison on Fate's arrow.

She went the long way to them by the mills, She told herself that she must find her son.

The night was ominous of many ills; The soughing larch-clump almost made her run, Her boots hurt (she had got a stone in one) And bitter beaks were tearing at her liver That her boy's heart was turned from her forever.

She kept the lane, past Spindle's, past the Callows', Her lips still muttering prayers against the worst, And there were people coming from the sallows, Along the wild duck patch by Beggar's Hurst.

Being in moonlight mother saw them first, She saw them moving in the moonlight dim, A woman with a sweet voice saying 'Jim.'

Trembling she grovelled down into the ditch, They wandered past her pressing side to side.

'O Anna, my belov'd, if I were rich.'

It was her son, and Anna's voice replied, 'Dear boy, dear beauty boy, my love and pride.'

And he: 'It's but a silver thing, but I Will earn you better lockets by and bye.'

'Dear boy, you mustn't.' 'But I mean to do.'

'What was that funny sort of noise I heard?'

'Where?' 'In the hedge; a sort of sob or coo.

Listen. It's gone.' 'It may have been a bird.'

Jim tossed a stone but mother never stirred.

She hugged the hedgerow, choking down her pain, While the hot tears were blinding in her brain.

The two pa.s.sed on, the withered woman rose, For many minutes she could only shake, Staring ahead with trembling little 'Oh's,'

The noise a very frightened child might make.

'O G.o.d, dear G.o.d, don't let the woman take My little son, G.o.d, not my little Jim.

O G.o.d, I'll have to starve if I lose him.'

So back she trembled, nodding with her head, Laughing and trembling in the bursts of tears, Her ditch-filled boots both squelching in the tread, Her shopping-bonnet sagging to her ears, Her heart too dumb with brokenness for fears.

The nightmare whickering with the laugh of death Could not have added terror to her breath.

She reached the house, and: 'I'm all right,' said she, 'I'll just take off my things; but I'm all right, 'I'd be all right with just a cup of tea, If I could only get this grate to light, The paper's damp and Jimmy's late to-night; "Belov'd, if I was rich," was what he said, O Jim, I wish that G.o.d would kill me dead.'

While she was blinking at the unlit grate, Scratching the moistened match-heads off the wood, She heard Jim coming, so she reached his plate, And forked the over-frizzled sc.r.a.ps of food.

'You're late,' she said, 'and this yer isn't good, Whatever makes you come in late like this?'

'I've been to Plaister's End, that's how it is.'

'You've been to Plaister's End?'

'Yes.'

'I've been staying For money for the shopping ever so.

Down here we can't get victuals without paying, There's no trust down the Bye Street, as you know, And now it's dark and it's too late to go.

You've been to Plaister's End. What took you there?'

'The lady who was with us at the fair.'

'The lady, eh? The lady?'

'Yes, the lady.'

'You've been to see her?'

'Yes.'

'What happened then?'

'I saw her.'

'Yes. And what filth did she trade ye?

Or d'you expect your locket back agen?

I know the rotten ways of wh.o.r.es with men.

What did it cost ye?'

'What did what cost?'

'It.

Your devil's penny for the devil's bit.'

'I don't know what you mean.'

'Jimmy, my own.

Don't lie to mother, boy, for mother knows.

I know you and that lady to the bone, And she's a wh.o.r.e, that thing you call a rose, A wh.o.r.e who takes whatever male thing goes; A harlot with the devil's skill to tell The special key of each man's door to h.e.l.l.'

'She's not. She's nothing of the kind, I tell'ee.'

'You can't tell women like a woman can; A beggar tells a lie to fill his belly, A strumpet tells a lie to win a man, Women were liars since the world began; And she's a liar, branded in the eyes, A rotten liar, who inspires lies.'

'I say she's not.'

'No, don't'ee Jim, my dearie, You've seen her often in the last few days, She's given a love as makes you come in weary To lie to me before going out to laze.

She's tempted you into the devil's ways, She's robbing you, full fist, of what you earn, In G.o.d's name, what's she giving in return?'

'Her faith, my dear, and that's enough for me.'

'Her faith. Her faith. O Jimmy, listen, dear; Love doesn't ask for faith, my son, not he; He asks for life throughout the live-long year, And life's a test for any plough to ere Life tests a plough in meadows made of stones, Love takes a toll of spirit, mind and bones.

I know a woman's portion when she loves, It's hers to give, my darling, not to take; It isn't lockets, dear, nor pairs of gloves, It isn't marriage bells nor wedding cake, It's up and cook, although the belly ache; And bear the child, and up and work again, And count a sick man's grumble worth the pain.

Will she do this, and fifty times as much?'

'No. I don't ask her.'

'No. I warrant, no.

She's one to get a young fool in her clutch, And you're a fool to let her trap you so.