Aylwin Part 49

'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.

If I wur on'y 'arf as drunk as you are the coppers 'ud 'a' run _me_ in hours ago; cuss 'em, an' their favouritin' ways.'

At the truth flas.h.i.+ng in upon me through these fantastic lies, I had pa.s.sed into that mood when the grotesque wickedness of Fate's awards can draw from the victim no loud lamentations--when there are no frantic blows aimed at the sufferer's own poor eyeb.a.l.l.s till the beard--like the self-mutilated Theban king's--is bedewed with a dark hail-shower of blood. More terrible because more inhuman than the agony imagined by the great tragic poet is that most awful condition of the soul into which I had pa.s.sed--when the cruelty that seems to work at Nature's heart, and to vitalise a dark universe of pain, loses its mysterious aspect and becomes a mockery; when the whole vast and merciless scheme seems too monstrous to be confronted save by mad peals of derisive laughter--that dreadful laughter which bubbles lower than the fount of tears--that laughter which is the heart's last language; when no words can give it the relief of utterance--no words, nor wails, nor moans.

'Another quid,' bawled the woman after me, as I turned away, 'another quid, an' then I'll tell you somethink to your awantage. Out with it, and don't spile a good mind.'

What I did and said that morning as I wandered through the streets of London in that state of tearless despair and mad unnatural merriment, one hour of which will age a man more than a decade of any woe that can find a voice in lamentations, remains a blank in my memory.

I found myself at the corner of Ess.e.x Street, staring across the Strand, which, even yet, had scarcely awoke into life. Presently I felt my sleeve pulled, and heard the woman's voice.

'You didn't know as I was cluss behind you all the while, a-watchin'

your tantrums. Never spile a good mind, my young swell. Out with t'other quid, an' then I'll tell you somethink about my pootty darter as is on my mind.'

I gave her money, but got nothing from her save more incoherent lies and self-contradictions about the time of the funeral.

'Point out the spot where she used to stand and beg. No, don't stand on it yourself, but point it out.'

'This is the werry spot. She used to hold out her matches like this 'ere,--my darter used,--an' say texes out o' the Bible. She loved beggin', pore dear!'

'Texts from the Bible?' I said, staggering under a new thought that seemed to strike through me like a bar of hot metal. 'Can you remember any one of them?'

'It was allus the same tex', an' I ought to remember it well enough, for I've 'eerd it times enough. She wur like you for poll-parritin'

ways, and used to say the same thing over an' over ag'in. It wur allus, "Let his children be wagabones and beg their bread; let them seek it also out of desolate places." Why, you're at it ag'in--gurnin' ag'in. You _must_ be drunk.'

Again there came upon me the involuntary laughter of heart-agony at its tensest. I cried aloud: 'Faith and Love! Faith and Love! That farce of the Raxton crypt with the great-grandmother's fool on his knees shall be repeated for the delight of Nin-ki-gal and the Danish skeletons and the ancestral ghosts from Hugh the Crusader down to the hero of the knee-caps and mittens; and there shall be a dance of death and a song, and the burden shall be--

As flies to wanton boys are we to the G.o.ds: They kill us for their sport.'

Misery had made me a maniac at last; my brain swam, and the head of the woman seemed to be growing before me--seemed once more to be transfigured before me into a monstrous mountainous representation of an awful mockery-G.o.ddess and columbine-queen, down whose merry wrinkles were flowing tears that were at once tears of Olympian laughter and tears of the oceanic misery of Man.

'Well, you _are_ a rum un, and no mistake,' said the woman. 'But who the d.i.c.kens _are_ you? _That's_ what licks me. Who the d.i.c.kens _are_ you? Howsomever, if you'll fork out another quid, the Queen of the Jokes'll tell you some'ink to your awantage, an' if you won't fork out the Queen o' the Jokes is mum.'

I stood and looked at her--looked till the street seemed to heave under my feet and the houses to rock. After this I seem to have wandered back to Wilderspin's studio, and there to have sunk down unconscious.

XII

THE REVOLVING CAGE OF CIRc.u.mSTANCE

I

I will not trouble the reader with details of the illness that came upon me as the result of my mental agony and physical exhaustion. At intervals I was aware of what was going on around me, but for the most part I was in a semi-comatose state. I realised at intervals that a medical man was sitting by my side, as I lay in bed. Then I had a sense of being moved from place to place; and then of being rocked by the waves. Slowly the periods of consciousness became more frequent and also more prolonged.

My first exclamation was--'Dead! Have I been ill?' and I tried to raise myself in vain.

'Yes, very ill,' said a voice, my mother's.

'Dangerously?'