Mord Em'ly/Chapter 13

little waitress at Mitchell's dining-rooms was so much absorbed in thought during the day following the contest, that humorous customers, noting this, told her she was in love. To Miss Mitchell's requests for an opinion as to the number of g's in Reggie, she replied absently, and showed so little interest in the momentous question, that Miss Mitchell declared, with satire, that you got a lot of sympathy in this world, upon her conscience, and that, in future, she should discontinue wearing her heart upon her sleeve. Mord Em'ly had matters of greater import to consider. She thought of her mother, and blamed herself for not having done so before; she tried to make up her mind as to the best course now to be adopted. Two things were certain. She must see her mother without delay; for her own sake she must also prevent those who knew her from learning that her father was an ex-convict. She remembered how, down at the Industrial School in Surrey, the girls had made miserable the life of a small, sad-faced creature whose father was at Wormwood Scrubbs for burglary.

"If it gets known," said Mord Em'ly, sighing, "everybody'll give me the chuck."

At eight o'clock she hurried away. She ran as far as New Cross gates, and there, as she went up the steps of a tram, found herself followed by Mr. Wetherell—Wetherell, in a kind of restrained good temper, and even more anxious to talk than usual. He paid her fare, with an important manner, and declined to accept the coppers which she offered. Whispering to her behind his hand, so that the winds should not carry the news afar, he confided to her that he was on a soft business at last, and that he rather thought he was going to make things hum.

"There's money to be made if you've only got a 'ead on your shoulders; it's simply a question of being a bit sharper than other people. This job I've got in and now, for instance! Why, I don't seepose there's a comride amongst 'em except me and my friend that'd know how to manage it like we do, even if they'd got the chance. Not only that! I shall be the means of putting many a odd shilling in the pockets of my fellow-toilers—"

"Some of 'em don't seem to do more toiling than they can 'elp," remarked Mord Em'ly.

"I respect 'em all the more for it," declared Wetherell. "I'm a bit of a miker meself, and I don't 'esitite to acknowledge the fact. That's why, when I see the chance like there is now of picking up a tidy bit simply by my own powers of speech and my own ingenuity, I say, 'Done with you, sir, and I'm your man!' Can't say fairer than that, can I?"

"Sounds all right."

"I can't tell you no more at present," went on Mr. Wetherell mysteriously, "and I don't want what I've mentioned to go no farther. There's good bit of jealousy about amongst the comrides I mix with, and if they was to 'ear of it, there'd be no 'olding of 'em."

"I sha'n't speak."

"Not that they've got any right to interfere, mind you," argued Mr. Wetherell sternly, "and they'd better not try it on. I'm as good a reformer as any one of them. I nail my principles to the mast, I do, and I ain't going to be ordered off the field by nobody."

"Don't see why you should," she said absently.

"Anybody 'tempt to dictate to me what I ought to do and what I ought not to do, and they'll find themselves in a pretty 'ot corner, jolly quick. If I see my way, without sacrificing my principles, to earnin a 'undred pound, why shouldn't I do it? Aye?" Mr. Wetherell glared very fiercely at the lighted shops, and waited for a reply. "I say, why shouldn't I?"

"Oh, don't bother!" said Mord Em'ly impatiently. "I'm worried. 'Sides, it's got nothing to do with me."

"Oh, 'asn't it?" Mr. Wetherell smiled acutely. "Shows what you know about it. Seeposin' I kindly inform you that it'll make all the difference to you and your future? Seeposin', I say, that once I get the 'andling of this money, I prepose  to take 'alf a 'ouse and settle down? Seeposin' I ain't very comfortable where I am, and seeposin' I want someone to look after me?"

"Talk sense!" said Mord Em'ly.

"I am a-talking sense" declared Mr. Wetherell, obstinately. "I put the case to you now, and I want your opinion. How does the idea strike you, aye?" He changed his tone. "Answer me, why don't you, when I ask you a civil question?"

"You're the best judge of your own affairs."

"Granted!" said Mr. Wetherell. "That I know. What I want to ascertain is your views on the question. Do you fall in with the idea?"

"D'you mean that you want me to marry you?"

"I don't think you quite grasp my meaning," said Mr. Wetherell, rather nervously. "You see, I belong to rather a—what you might term—advanced school of thought, and—" "You don't want me to marry you, then," remarked Mord Em'ly, bluntly.

"And I've been reading up the subject lately in a few pamphlets that I'll lend you, where it points out that marriage customs, from the earliest ages downwards, 'ave been matters of form created by the country that used them, and that, after all, there's no earthly reason why you should adhere to an arrangement, or a ceremony, or whatever you like to call it, jest because it suits other people to place a lot of importance on it. See my argument?"

"I see your impudence," said Mord Em'ly.

It was necessary that Mr. Wetherell should explain further. He did this at length, dropping unconsciously into his Deptford Broadway manner, and punching one palm with the other fist. Mord Em'ly listened, with an unconvinced expression.

"And d'you mean to say," said Mord Em'ly, as she rose to descend the steps, "that all that's in print?"

"I'll bring you the pamphlets to read."

"Thanks!" said Mord Em'ly. "You needn't trouble. "Pop 'em in the fire instead."

"Pity you're so bigoted," complained Mr. Wetherell. "There's two sides to every argument."

"I know," said Mord Em'ly. "But I can't look at both at once. Good-night!"

Mord Em'ly, going up the narrow stone staircase, found herself pervaded by a filial emotion for her mother that she had rarely felt before. In Walworth Road she had purchased a bunch of big grapes, and these she now held before her by the string, so that her mother should be propitiated by the sight. She would try to kiss her mother if her reception did not make the act too difficult. As she knocked at the green-painted door she tried to remember when it was she last kissed her mother. A long, long time ago.

"Why, 'ere's your daughter come to see you, Mrs. What-is-it!" cried the neighbour, with assumption of much gaiety. She was the woman from next door, and the quarrels that had taken place were forgotten in the present crisis. "Well, this is a nice surprise for you! And if she 'asn't brought the loveliest grapes that was ever growed in the West End!"

There was no answer, and Mord Em'ly held her breath.

"You remember, dear," said the neighbour perseveringly, and winking at Mord Em'ly. "Your daughter that's got such a good situation up 'Yde Park way, that you're always talking about."

"Mother!" said Mord Em'ly, "I—I've come to see you, and I've brought you some—"

The face was half-covered by the sheet, and Mord Em'ly pulled it down gently. The ghost of a smile flickered across the worn face, the tired eyes brightened for a moment.

"Mord Em'ly!"

"There!" cried the neighbour exultingly, "she recognises you! Well done, now! That's capital! Why, I shouldn't wonder if this didn't mean a change for the better." The neighbour shook her head at Mord Em'ly's mother with a facetious air of reproof. "Now, don't let's 'ave any more of your nonsense, young woman. You 'ave a nice long chat with your daughter, whilst I go and get my old man's supper ready, and I'll be back as soon as you give a knock against the wall. I sha'n't be more than a quarter of a hour, and I can hop in directly."

The neighbour bustled off, chattering to herself. Mord Em'ly bent down and adjusted the pillow. She noticed that her mother's mouth was slightly distorted; there was a bruise—a cruel black bruise—just under the ear, and Mord Em'ly bit her lips to keep the tears back.

"See that—that the door's shet."

Mord Em'ly obeyed, and, coming back, took her hat off. She knelt down, and her mother's hand, that was resting on the counterpane, moved very slowly until it found Mord Em'ly's head. It stroked the smooth dark hair. Mord Em'ly kissed her mother, and then a slow tear came down the worn cheek.

"I did want to see you—to see you so, Mord Em'ly; only I didn't know where to send."

The voice very weak, with a far-off sound.

"I know, mother. That was my fault. I was afraid we should quarrel if we met."

The poor old head moved slightly.

"My quarrelin' days are over, Mord Em'ly."

"Don't say that, mother. You'll be all right again soon. What's made you ill?"

"Nothin special! We all 'ave to go, sooner or later."

"Has—has my father been knockin' you about?"

"What are you talkin' about, my gel?" said her mother sharply. "You're wanderin' in your mind. Your father, indeed! Why, 'aven't I told you—"

Mord Em'ly explained. Her mother's lips moved silently, and the lean old features showed distress. She turned her face to the wall for a few moments, until Mord Em'ly kissed her damp forehead. "I wanted to—to keep it from you always."

"It's better I should know, mother."

"You only 'eard last night?"

"Only last night, mother."

"And you never guessed before?"

"Why, no!"

There was another pause, and Mord Em'ly kept her cool hand on her mother's head.

"I used to go down and see him—once a year—when I got a order."

A look of decision came to Mord Em'ly's face.

"If he puts his fist up to you again, I'll set a friend of mine on to him—name of Barden."

The worn face turned towards her.

"Are you a good gel, Mord Em'ly?"

"Yes, mother."

"Ah!" The head went back on the pillow. "I'm glad of that. Always be a good gel."

"I don't see no particular catch in being otherwise," said Mord Em'ly.

"And did—did I ever seem too 'arsh with you, Mord Em'ly, when you was at 'ome with me?"

"You?" repeated Mord Em'ly, with astonishment. "You 'arsh? Why, no, mother. We always got on well enough together."

"Since I've bin ill, I've thought sometimes I was little too—"

"Now, don't you go filling your 'ead with a lot of nonsense," said Mord Em'ly lightly. "You keep yourself quiet, or else me and you will fall out."

Her mother stroked the smooth hair again, with an affectionate touch.

"You're better-looking than you used to be, Mord Em'ly."

"Rather!" said Mord Em'ly cheerfully. "I'm a type of English beauty, I am."

"Your 'air's done up nice. Wonder what your father'll say when he sees you?"

"He'd better be a bit careful," said Mord Em'ly strenuously, "of what he says to me. I sha'n't forgive him for the way he's treated you, mother."

"I wish," she repeated, "it had been kept from you."

"It's just as well I should know. Why was he put away, mother?"

"Only garrottin', Mord Em'ly. He nearly killed me, too. It was just after you come to town. I was in the 'orspital for monse and monse. I've ofen wanted to tell you. But I never did."

"And they punished him well," said Mord Em'ly approvingly.

"They was a bit 'ard on him," said her mother slowly. "A bit too 'ard. I 'member when I 'eard what he'd got, I let you drop-out of me arms. And they told me he said he'd do for somebody—if he ever come out."

"And he has been 'ere, and he's 'urt you?"

"He's an awk'ard man, your father, Mord Em'ly," she said apologetically.

"I'll be awk'ard with him if he dares touch you again," cried Mord Em'ly. "If he so much as—"

"’Ush, Mord Em'ly! The neighbours 'll all 'ear."

"And do you think they don't all know, mother?"

"I'd just as lief," she said, rather wistfully, "that nobody know'd nothing about it—'cept myself. Besides," with a queer touch of pride, "it's pneumonier."

She closed her eyes, and the poor, distorted mouth went a little more awry; Mord Em'ly, affrighted, knocked at the wall, and the neighbour hurried in. The neighbour's cheerful voice rallied the patient slightly, but the tired eyes soon closed again.

"How long before she gets over it?" asked Mord Em'ly anxiously, in a whisper.

"Some time early in the mornin'," said the neighbour quietly. "’Bout four."

"But—you don't mean—"

"It'll be all over," whispered the neighbour confidently, "by that time. Is there anyone you'd like to send for? My little Johnny can run a arrand."

Wherefore is little Johnny despatched, with many warnings not to loiter, or to look in shops, or to play with other young gentlemen, but to find Miss Gilliken, for Mord Em'ly feels that she wants the presence of someone who is good. Little Johnny goes clattering down the stairs, swollen with a sense of importance, and in twenty minutes returns, scarlet-faced and breathless, having hunted and captured Miss Gilliken, and receives as payment for his success in the chase the sum of twopence, which, the month being June, he places in a wooden box containing his savings for the coming fifth of November.

It is a pleasant sight to see Miss Gilliken take off her cloak and set instantly to work and brush up the fireplace, dust the mantelpiece, and busily set the place in order, leaving, for a space, Mord  Em'ly, who sits on the bed near to the patient. Miss Gilliken talks cheerfully the while. She knows the doctor who is attending Mord Emly's mother, and says, encouragingly, that if anyone knows how to treat pneumonia, it is he. Presently, the work being done, and the room presenting to the tired patient an infinitely more gracious appearance than before, Miss Gilliken comes over to the bed, and asks if Mord Em'ly's mother is fond of being read to, and, if so, how would it be if she (Miss Gilliken) read, say, about half a chapter?

"I won't do it," says Miss Gilliken gently, "unless you'd like me to. S'pose we wait a bit—say a few minutes' time. And, oh, there's been such a lark this afternoon! What do you think?"

Not really a very fine lark, but Gilliken tells the story with such gusto that the poor soul in the bed, feeling, perhaps, that this is the last joke to which she will listen in this world, smiles faintly, and Gilliken's end is achieved. It is only a description of Lieutenant Gilliken herself going—as is the useful habit of members of her service—to some untidy rooms to instruct the lady who rented them in the gentle art of scrubbing floors, of the husband returning from work, and seeing the reformed apartments, and thereupon saying apologetically, "Beg pardon! Made mistake in the number. Thought this was my rooms."

"Didn't recognise 'em," declares Gilliken delightedly, repeating the point of the story. "Abs'utely didn't know his own 'ome. 'Oh,' he says, 'I beg pardon! Made mistake in the number. Thought this—’"

Thus adroitly does Gilliken lighten the atmosphere. Mord Em'ly, stroking her mother's hand very gently, asks presently that Gilliken shall read a chapter; and Gilliken finds a little Testament in her pocket, and goes over to the little oil lamp to make a selection.

"I want to tell you, Mord Em'ly."

"Yes, mother."

"There's a Post Office Savings book under my pillor."

"Yes, mother."

"With two fifteen in it. Beadle out in East Street always promised to put me away for two fifteen."

"mother!"

"And don't let your father 'ave nothing to do with it."

"You trust me."

"Promise!"

"I promise that I'll see to it all me own self—if you don't get well."

"Ah!" Another sigh. "I 'ope I sha'n't get well. I'm very tired."

"I wish—I wish"—this is said brokenly—"I wish I'd been a better daughter to you, mother. Before I went away I was a trouble to you. What I mean is, I didn't 'elp to make your life no 'appier."

"I ain't been un'appyy—on the whole. I've 'ad me worries, it's true, but—"

"More than your share, mother."

"No," she says obstinately, "Not more'n me share!"

Lieutenant Gilliken comes forward with the oil-lamp, the little Testament open.

"Any partic'lar choice?" she asks cheerfully.

The question is repeated by Mord Em'ly.

"I used to know the tenth of John—off be 'eart—when I was a gel. 'Ver'ly, ver'ly, I say unto you—’" She stops and sighs. "That's all I can remember now," she whispers helplessly, and her eyes close.

The two girls wait patiently until she awakes. Outside, in the narrow passage, the neighbour has been arguing loudly with a man; the words of the disputants cannot be heard, but it is clear that there is want of agreement. The eyes, now that they are opened, look straight at the ceiling, following slowly the shadows made by the flickering oil-lamp.

"‘In my Father's house are many mansions; if it were not so—’"

Miss Gilliken reads through the chapter in a respectful monotone. Presently she comes to the last verse, and the face resting on the pillow relaxes its strained attention.

"It's soothin'," she said. Mord Em'ly, "put your arm—round my neck—on'y—on'y don't touch my brewse."

"Yes, mother!"

"That's good!"

She sighed contentedly.

"I shall 'ave to go soon, mother."

"Ah!"

"Back to my place."

"Yes." She turned to Gilliken. "Beau'ful place she's got," she said dreamily, "in gentleman's family—West End."

"But Gilliken will stop 'ere the night with you, and I'll try and get a little time off in the morning, and run round and see you."

A feeble, negative shake of the head, but no reply.

"Are you quite comfortable, mother?"

"I don't know when—don't know when I've been more so."

At ten o'clock Mord Em'ly takes her arm very tenderly from under her mother's neck, and Gilliken's arm takes its place. Mord Em'ly's throat is too full, and her eyes are too full, to permit her to say what she wants to say, but Gilliken nods vigorously to indicate that she knows Mord Em'ly is very much obliged, and that there is no necessity to speak. Her mother is asleep now, and does not wake when Mord Em'ly kisses her. Mord Em'ly, in her hat and cloak, rushes to the door, and then returns to kiss her mother once more, and her mother half wakes.

"Mord Em'ly," she murmured, "my li'l Mord Em'ly."

At the doorway leading from Pandora out into the street, a man was standing—standing with his hands in the pockets of his new tweed jacket and with feet apart, facing the roadway, so that it was necessary to touch him and request permission to pass. He turned without giving up any room, and, striking a match, held it up to Mord Em'ly's face.

"’Ave you jest come from Number Three-forty?" he asked gruffly. "Seen your face afore somewhere."

"Are you my father?"

"Rather fancy so," he said acutely. "They told me you was in there, acting the fool. Now that you're gone, p'raps I may be allowed to trot up."

"You don't trot up if I can 'elp it," said Mord Em'ly firmly. "You!" he said scornfully. "A bit of a girl like you stop me. You're a nice daughter, to go and turn against your lorful father the first time you meet him!"

"I could 'ave done without you," said Mord Em'ly, trembling.

"Ah!" he said regretfully. "Children ain't like they was in my young day. You tike a lot of trouble over 'em, and trine 'em up in the way they should go, and when they're growed up, blow me, if they don't turn round and cheek you."

"I should 'ave thought you'd had your warning," said Mord Em'ly. "Whatever made you come out? Nobody wanted you."

"I come out," he said, lowering his voice, "because I didn't want to out-stay me welcome. I come out because I'd got a score or two to clear off. I come out because I'd got a daughter that could be made to earn money and keep her affectionate father without putting him to the trouble of work."

"I wouldn't give you a penny-piece, not if I was rolling in money."

"Let's look at that savings book you've got in your 'and."

"If you touch that, you'll regret it."

He turned upon her savagely.

"Give it to me, you foul-mouthed little—"

He pushed her against the wall, and she screamed for assistance. Heads came out of the doorways leading into the ground-floor passage, and Mord Em'ly appealed to them.

"I want three men to come out," she cried, "whilst I go and find someone to look after this creature. My mother's upstairs, dying."

"It's a" (several adjectives) "lie!" he interjected.

"And this is my father, and I want her to go off in peace, and if he goes upstairs it'll make her last moments miserable. Isn't there three men—"

Three men in their shirt-sleeves came out of separate doors. They frowned at Mord Em'ly's father, and spat on their hands.

"Good-evening," said Mord Em'ly's father, with great cordiality. "Who's going to stand a glass afore closing time?"

"We'll stand you one on the smeller!" said the spokesman of the three, "if you go kicking up all this rah!"

"Rah!" echoed Mord Em'ly's father, with much astonishment. "Who's kicking up a rah?"

"You are!"

"Look 'ere," he said menacingly, "don't you go tiking my good name away. You do what you like, but don't you interfere with my kerricter. I'm as fond of a quiet life as any man, but I ain't going to 'ave things said against me without defending meself. I'll take all three of you on—one down, t'other come on—if you begin to—"

"Keep him 'ere," she begged, "for ten minutes, till I fetch Enry Barden! He'll make him mind what's said to him."

"Who's that?" demanded Mord Em'ly's father gruffly. "That chap I saw boxing last night! Why, what the— Look 'ere." He turned to the serious-faced, shirt-sleeved men who were still eyeing him steadily. There seems to be a lot of fuss about nothing at all. I don't want to make no disturbance. I'm the peacefullest man you ever come acrost. I'm a perfect babe in arms, in a manner of speaking. I only want to be treated properly."

"Rise your voice," remarked one of the three men definitely, "So much as say another word in a loud voice till we give you permission, and we'll take you out, and we'll blooming well throw you into the blooming canal. See?"

"Now that we thor'ly understand one another," said Mord Em'ly's father, with the most agreeable air in the world, "I'll retire."

When Mord Em'ly returned with Henry Barden, her father had disappeared. The three men went off duty when they saw Mord Em'ly, and Pandora closed itself, and went to bed. But Mr. Barden decided to remain on sentry-go at the doorway of Block C of Pandora during the night.

"Just in case," said Mr. Barden.