Part 49 (1/2)

'Here it is, in my hand.'

'Jink it on the stuns.'

I threw it down.

'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 s.h.i.+ny Quaker when fust I tookt her to the studero? I sez to the s.h.i.+ny 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 s.h.i.+ny 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 s.h.i.+ny 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 s.h.i.+ny 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 d.i.c.kens 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 superst.i.tions! 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 superst.i.tions 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 superst.i.tions 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? Rus.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+ny 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 G.o.d! Is there no other ancestral tomfoolery, no other of Superst.i.tion's patent Aylwinian soul-salves for the philosophical Nature-wors.h.i.+pper 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.