Mord Em'ly/Chapter 19
CHAPTER XIX.
It was certainly not inclination that took Mord Em'ly by the ear that evening, and led her slowly but determinedly to Greenwich. Fear was mainly responsible, aided, perhaps, by a reckless spirit of fatalism. The little woman had kissed Henry Barden's letter a good many times before she had started out—had pinned it carefully inside her blouse with a vague, confused hope that it might act as a charm. Her nerves were so much unstrung that she started at every unusual sound in the streets; when a passer-by stopped her, and inquired civilly the way to St. John's, she shivered, and felt unable to comprehend the question. Stopping, from force of habit, to look in the window of a milliner's shop, she glanced at the mirror by the side, and found herself wondering curiously who the large-eyed, white-faced young woman was whom she saw reflected there. In her pre-occupation of mind she walked straight on up Blackheath Hill, instead of turning to Greenwich, and she was, in consequence, somewhat late in arriving.
It had been a day which Mord Em'ly decided was not one of her days—a day when everything went awry, and nothing prospered. That evening she had almost quarrelled with Miss Gilliken, and having in this been entirely in the wrong, had seized upon the dispute as an additional reason for feeling indignant. Miss Gilliken had remarked that Mord Em'ly was showing want of courage and want of sense, and Mord Em'ly had replied sharply. Miss Gilliken had said she hoped that Mord Em'ly was not near to contemplating a wicked act, and Mord Em'ly had spiritedly answered her. Miss Gilliken had said that Mord Em'ly would look back with sorrow and remorse on that day if she were not careful, and Mord Em'ly had then felt it necessary to say that she would always think of it as the happiest day in her life, and that she should be careful or careless as she pleased. Miss Gilliken, going off to work with a fellow-official, Lambeth way, had remarked that she should pray for Mord Em'ly, and Mord Em'ly's fierce reply to this will not be written here, Her resentful attitude towards the world being thus helped, Mord Em'ly was not so much herself as a new and a separate person with a hot, confused brain—one who looked on the ground as she walked along by the Seamen's Hospital to wards the river, and felt that in the present action somebody was taking an independent stand that gave to somebody distinction. Indeed, she began to show a casual interest in observing what happened, and when this deception now and again gave way, she tried to console herself with platitudes and soothing reflections. As follows:
That the dread of being followed everywhere for a fortnight by a revengeful man was intolerable.
That it was not her fault if everything went wrong.
That if the worst came to the worst, Henry Barden would find someone else who—(but Mord Em'ly did not finish this).
That girls in the Salvation Army knew nothing of the world.
That what was to be would be.
And that anyhow it would be all the same a hundred years hence.
Nevertheless when, in the light, she saw the soft hat of Mr. Wetherell approaching, she turned and ran wildly, furiously, blunderingly along the river side passage until she reached Park Row. There she waited, breathless. A large steamer went up the river with its lower decks lighted; under the awning-covered upper deck the passengers were singing. The large steamer hurried along in a burly, blustering way, and when it had gone all the small boats tied to the riverside wall rocked distractedly, and jostled against each other. There were lights on the opposite side of the river that seemed to Mord Em'ly a good deal like stars resting for a while until they went on duty in the sky; scarlet-eyed tugs were awake out on the broad, dark river; away off, a burst of white electric light illumined the giant ships, and found a reflection in the water. From the open windows of a club came cheering by a dinner-party at the finish of a speech, and confused shouting of someone's name. There are ghosts at Greenwich in the misty evenings: ghosts of old bucks who dined at hotels here in the early fifties, and got perfectly drunk before they rattled home to London by coach; ghosts, too, of ladies who come to see where their wedding breakfast was held, and to recall how dear papa was affected by the port and other circumstances, and broke down in the middle of his speech; how everybody wished the bridegroom that good luck in the Crimea which he never obtained. But Mord Em'ly had no superstitions, and these shadows she did not see. Moreover, her small head was busy and perturbed with other thoughts.
"It's no use," said Mord Em'ly, with despair. "If I go 'ome to Gilliken, I shall only feel that he's on the watch for me. I must see him, and argue it all out."
She walked very slowly back to the spot where they had arranged to meet. There were but few people about, and most of these were young lovers in couples, who looked at her resentfully. Presently she heard voices, and she stopped and held the railings. He was talking to a man whose tones she seemed to have heard before. This man re-lighted his cigarette with a fusee, and then she could see that he was the comrade of Wetherell's whom she had seen with him on more than one occasion: whom she had noticed, too, that day in Old Kent Road.
"You call yourself a man," said the comrade, in tones of suppressed fury; "why, I'd make a better man than you out of a cigarette paper. I've trusted you, I 'ave, all along, and now I've found you out."
"You're kickin' up a jolly row about nothing at all," said Wetherell complainingly. "How do you know I 'aven't got an explanition of everything ready?"
"When you say an explanition," said Suppressed Fury loudly, "you mean a lie."
"It's not my 'abit to lie," he said.
"Not your 'abit to lie?" echoed Suppressed Fury. "Why, you can't tell the truth without being put under chloriform. You told me you got ten pound out of those sugar meetings."
"Ten pound," agreed Mr. Wetherell. "And I give you five. Two into ten's five. Was, at any-rate, when I went to school."
"And what's two into thirty, my friend?"
"What the 'ell's that got to do with it?"
"Brast your eyes, it's got all to do with it," screamed Suppressed Fury. "Ain't I seen the gent what paid you the money; ain't he showed me your signature for it, ain't he got a witness to prove it? Now then!"
"Well," said Mr. Wetherell, after a pause, "what of it? What are you going to do? Going to put me in the county court for it?"
"I'd sooner put you in the (adjective) river," remarked Suppressed Fury strenuously.
"Joking apart," said the other, "why not let bygones be bygones? If I've made a mistake in taking slightly more than my share in the past, why, now that I understand how much you take it to 'eart I shall nat'rally be more careful another time."
"Gimme my ten pound."
"Beg pardon?"
"Gimme," repeated Suppressed Fury, with a stop between each word, "my—ten—pound."
"Look 'ere," said Mr. Wetherell. "You seem rather a dabster at figures. Do you mind substracting ten from nought? How many does that leave?"
"Nought!"
"Then that's what you'll get out of me, my friend. I've spent those little goblins, I 'ave, and you can no more get your ten pound—"
Suppressed Fury growled some oaths with great fierceness.
"Bad language," said Mr. Wetherell, "is a thing I don't 'old with. Bad language is a thing that grows on you, and after a bit you can't do without it. If we're going to argue, do let's stick to the Queen's English. Use bad language, and you enter a field where I can't foller you."
"And d'you mean to stand there and tell me you've spent every penny of that money?"
"Every blessed penny," said Wetherell lightly. "After all, what's the good of 'oarding it. Capital locked up is no longer capital. Capital should be kept moving; capital should be passed round for the benefit of the labouring—"
"It's a wonder to me," said Suppressed Fury curiously, "that I don't knock your silly 'ead off."
"Don't do that," said Wetherell, with some nervousness. "I may want it again."
"It's a wonder to me," said Suppressed Fury, coming nearer, "That I don't wring your bloomin' neck."
"Sport," said Wetherell, edging back to the railings, "is a thing I'm always on for, but a man has to dror the line."
"It's a wonder to me," said Suppressed Fury again, with his face very close to the other's, "that I don't up with you, and chuck you over the railings, and—"
"I'm as fond of a practical joke," remarked Mr. Wetherell, his face white, "as 'ere and there a one; but unless they're hoomorous they're no good at all. Without a spice of fun they become foolish."
"But I ain't going to do none of them things. I might do one, or I might do all, but I refrain."
"Shows your good sense," said Wetherell, with great relief, "Moderation's my motto, and moderation's your motto, and moderation ought to be the motto of all who—who wish to see the working-classes conquer. Therefore I'll be off. I've got an appointment."
"I know," said Suppressed Fury. "I know all."
"There's nothing I can learn you then, is there?" remarked the other cheerfully. "Which way are you going?"
"I ain't going to move for a minute or two, my friend. I'll trouble you to listen for a bit, and to listen attentive. What I'm going to say now is worth 'earing."
"That," said Mr. Wetherell, "will make a nice change. Only I must be going soon."
"I can finish it all in two minutes, and I can put a few facts before you in that time that I rather beg to seegest will make you open your eyes. I may look something of a fool, and I may, in the past, 'ave been something of a fool, but at the present moment—"
"It's in all probability," said Mr. Wetherell, "something that I know a'ready, and I sha'n't be one 'apeth the wiser. As to me forking out the money—nice moon up there, isn't it?"
"Moon's right enough."
"When you see a blue one," said Wetherell humorously, "you shall 'ave that money. But," he went on, "I can't for the life of me see what good you and me are to gain by quarrelling. Remember the old motto, 'United we stand, divided we fall.’"
"This ain't a job that can be settled by mottoes; it's got to be settled in quite a different way, and I may perhaps inform you that I've already made up me mind."
"That wasn't a long job. Good-evening."
"’Alf a sec," said the other man, "'alf a sec. I ain't done with you. I thought you wouldn't fork out nothing."
"That's all right, then. You can't say you've been disappointed, can you?"
"I ain't been altogether disappointed," acknowledged Suppressed Fury, "but I've got meself to thank for that. I don't mind telling you that my first thought was to knock your face about like that chap Barden did when you was braggin' about what you were going to do to that girl at Mitchell's, but I sha'n't. Tell ye why! I found an address one day that you dropped out of your pocket, and I've always kep' it, not knowing but what it might come in 'andy. Address of a lady bearing your name. Now then!"
"A bounder!" muttered Wetherell to the railings.
"And when I found out about this money this afternoon, the first thing I did was to spend a tanner on a wire to Mrs. Wetherell—"
"A low bounder!"
"Of Priory Street, Tonbridge, Kent, asking her to come up 'ere at once. It occurred to me, friend, that you might 'ave forgot her existence from one or two remarks that you've let drop lately."
"A dirty, low bounder!" growled Wetherell.
"I met the lady," said Suppressed Fury, "and I explained to her—not about the ten quid you swindled me out of—but about a certain project that I've 'eard of concerning you and another lady."
"A dirty, low, sneaking bounder!"
"Consequence of which she is now at the present moment waiting at your lodgings, and what you've got to do is to go and persuade her that there's nothing in it. She tells me that she's been making you a certain allowance because she understood you was making your way in the world, and unless you can make her believe that you're true to her, I rather fancy your allowance 'll get stopped."
"A dirty, low, sneaking, rotten bounder," said Mr. Wetherell, still to the railings, "if ever there was one."
Mord Em'ly came along by the railings touching them as she walked, for she was dazed. As she came into the light, near which the two men were standing, Wetherell saw her white face, and made a threatening move towards her.
"If you don't make yourself scarce, my gel," he said, fiercely and defiantly, "I'll make you. Don't you let me see your face within a mile of where I am, or, by Gawd—"
"Make your mind quite easy about that," said Mord Em'ly, trembling.
"You're the cause of all my trouble," complained Wetherell. "Some of you gels ain't 'appy unless you're making mischief between man and wife. If you don't make yourself jolly well scarce, I'll—"
"Tell you what you'd better do, Wetherell," said Suppressed Fury, as Mord Em'ly hurried away. "You'd better sprint back to your lodgings about as quick as you can. Her temper won't be none the better for being kept on the boil. I'd give a dollar to see the meeting, 'pon my word I would."
Wetherell looked at him as though endeavouring to think of a new phrase that could be applied.
"Thank goodness," said Wetherell, falling back on his old expression, "I never was a bounder."