The Yellow Book Volume I Part 21

"That yer 'ave. I knows yer 'ave, dearie. There, there, don't yer take on like that. Yer'll only make yerself bad again."

"Tell me--tell me," she wailed. "I've been a good sort to you, Liz."

"Well, they wasn't talkin' of no ballet-woman--that's straight," the woman blurted out savagely.

"What did he say?--tell me." Her voice was weaker now.

"I can't tell yer--don't yer ask me--for G.o.d's sake, don't yer ask me."

With a low crooning the girl cried again.

"Oh! for G.o.d's sake, don't yer take on like that--it's awful--I can't stand it. There, dearie, stop that cryin' an' I'll tell yer--I will indeed. It was jest this way--I slips my shoes off, an' I goes down as careful--jest as careful as a cat--an' when I gets to the door I crouches myself down, listenin' as 'ard as ever I could. The first things as I 'ears was Mr. d.i.c.k speakin' thick-like--like as if 'ee'd bin drinkin'--an t'other chap 'ee says somethin' about lungs, using some long word--I missed that--there was a van or somethin' rackettin' on the road. Then 'ee says 'gallopin', gallopin',' jest like as 'ee was talkin'

of a 'orse. An' Mr. d.i.c.k, 'ee says, 'ain't there no chance--no'ow?' and 'ee give a sort of a grunt. I was awful sorry for 'im, that I was, 'ee must 'ave been crool bad, 'ee's mostly so quiet-like, ain't 'ee? An', in a minute, ee sort o' groans out somethin', an' t'other chap 'es answer 'im quite cool-like, that 'ee don't properly know; but, anyways, it 'ud be over afore the end of February. There I've done it. Oh! dearie, it's awful, awful, that's jest what it is. An' I 'ad no intention to tell yer--not a blessed word--that I didn't--may G.o.d strike me blind if I did! Some'ow it all come out, seein' yer chokin' that 'ard an' feelin'

at the wall there. Yer 'ad no right to ask me to do it--'ow was I to know 'ee was a doctor?"

She put the two corners of her ap.r.o.n to her eyes, gurgling loudly.

"Look 'ere, don't yer b'lieve a word of it--I don't--I tell yer they're a 'umbuggin' lot, them doctors, all together. I know it. Yer take my word for that--yer'll git all right again. Yer'll be as well as I am, afore yer've done--Oh, Lord!--it's jest awful--I feel that upset--I'd like to cut my tongue out, for 'avin' told yer--but I jest couldn't 'elp myself." She was retreating towards the door, wiping her eyes, and snorting out loud sobs--"An', don't you offer me that half quid--I couldn't take it of yer--that I couldn't."

She s.h.i.+vered, sat up, and dragged the cloak tight round her shoulders.

In her desire to get warm she forgot what had happened. She extended the palms of her hands towards the grate: the grate was delicious. A smoking lump of coal clattered on to the fender: she lifted the tongs, but the sickening remembrance arrested her. The things in the room were receding, dancing round: the fire was growing taller and taller. The woollen scarf chafed her skin: she wrenched it off. Then hope, keen and bitter, shot up, hurting her. "How could he know? Of course he couldn't know. She'd been a lot better this last fortnight--the other doctor said so--she didn't believe it--she didn't care----Anyway, it would be over before the end of February!"

Suddenly the crooning wail started again: next, spasms of weeping, harsh and gasping.

By-and-by she understood that she was crying noisily, and that she was alone in the room; like a light in a wind, the sobbing fit ceased.

"Let me live--let me live--I'll be straight--I'll go to church--I'll do anything! Take it away--it hurts--I can't bear it!"

Once more the sound of her own voice in the empty room calmed her. But the tension of emotion slackened, only to tighten again: immediately she was jeering at herself. What was she wasting her breath for? What had Jesus ever done for her? She'd had her fling, and it was no thanks to Him.

"'Dy-sy--Dy-sy----'"

From the street below, boisterous and loud, the refrain came up. And, as the footsteps tramped away, the words reached her once more, indistinct in the distance:

"'I'm jest cryzy, all for the love o' you.'"

She felt frightened. It was like a thing in a play. It was as if some one was there, in the room--hiding--watching her.

Then a coughing fit started, racking her. In the middle, she struggled to cry for help; she thought she was going to suffocate.

Afterwards she sank back, limp, tired, and sleepy.

The end of February--she was going to die--it was important, exciting--what would it be like? Everybody else died. Midge had died in the summer--but that was worry and going the pace. And they said that Annie Evans was going off too. d.a.m.n it! she wasn't going to be chicken-hearted. She'd face it. She'd had a jolly time. She'd be game till the end. h.e.l.l-fire--that was all stuff and nonsense--she knew that.

It would be just nothing--like a sleep. Not even painful: she'd be just shut down in a coffin, and she wouldn't know that they were doing it.

Ah! but they might do it before she was quite dead! It had happened sometimes. And she wouldn't be able to get out. The lid would be nailed, and there would be earth on the top. And if she called, no one would hear.

Ugh! what a fit of the blues she was getting! It was beastly, being alone. Why the devil didn't d.i.c.k come back?

That noise, what was that?

Bah! only some one in the street. What a fool she was!

She winced again as the fierce feeling of revolt swept through her, the wild longing to fight. It was d.a.m.ned rough--four months! A year, six months even, was a long time. The pain grew acute, different from anything she had felt before.

"Good Lord! what am I maundering on about? Four months--I'll go out with a fizzle like a firework. Why the devil doesn't d.i.c.k come?--or Liz--or somebody? What do they leave me alone like this for?"

She dragged at the bell-rope.

He came in, white and blear-eyed.

"Whatever have you been doing all this time?" she began angrily.

"I've been chatting with the doctor." He was pretending to read a newspaper: there was something funny about his voice.

"It's ripping. He says you'll soon be fit again, as long as you don't get colds, or that sort of thing. Yes, he says you'll soon be fit again"--a quick, crackling noise--he had gripped the newspaper in his fist.

She looked at him, surprised, in spite of herself. She would never have thought he'd have done it like that. He was a good sort, after all.

But--she didn't know why--she broke out furiously:

"You infernal liar!--I know. I shall be done for by the end of February--ha! ha!"

Seizing a vase of flowers, she flung it into the grate. The crash and the shrivelling of the leaves in the flames brought her an instant's relief. Then she said quietly:

"There--I've made an idiot of myself; but" (weakly) "I didn't know--I didn't know--I thought it was different."

He hesitated, embarra.s.sed by his own emotion. Presently he went up to her and put his hands round her cheeks.

"No," she said, "that's no good, I don't want that. Get me something to drink. I feel bad."

He hurried to the cupboard and fumbled with the cork of a champagne bottle. It flew out with a bang. She started violently.

"You clumsy fool!" she exclaimed.

She drank off the wine at a gulp.

"Daisy," he began.

She was staring stonily at the empty gla.s.s.

"Daisy," he repeated.

She tapped her toe against the fender-rail.

At this sign, he went on: