Complete works of hall c.., p.537
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 537
Then she put one in an envelope and addressed it to Owen Owens, and though it had only to cross the street, she went out after dark to a pillar-box a long way off lest anybody should see her posting it.
Next day she said, “He’ll have it now, for he always comes home to dinner. He’ll take it up to his bedroom, look you, and stand it on the washstand, and if either of those sisters touch it he’ll give them what’s what.”
After that she waited anxiously for an acknowledgment, and every time the postman passed down our street her pretty pale face would be at the door, saying, “Anything for me to-day?” or “Are you sure there’s nothing for me, postman?”
At length a letter came, and Maggie Jones trembled so much that she dared not open it, but at last she tripped up to her room to be “all of herself,” and then . . . then there was a “wild screech,” and when Emmerjane ran upstairs Maggie was stretched out on the floor in a dead faint, clutching in her tight hand the photograph which Owen Owens had returned with the words, written in his heavy scrawl across the face — Maggie Jones’s bastard.
It would be impossible to say how this incident affected me. I felt as if a moral earthquake had opened under my feet.
What had I been doing? In looking forward to the child that was to come to me I had been thinking only of my own comfort — my own consolation.
But what about the child itself?
If my identity ever became known — and it might at any moment, by the casual recognition of a person in the street — how should the position of my child differ from that of this poor girl?
A being born out of the pale of the law, as my husband would say it must be, an outcast, a thing of shame, without a father to recognise it, and with its mother’s sin to lash its back for ever!
When I thought of that, much as I had longed for the child that was to be a living link between Martin and me, I asked myself if I had any right to wish for it.
I felt I had no right, and that considering my helpless position the only true motherly love was to pray that my baby might be still-born.
But that was too hard. It was too terrible. It was like a second bereavement. I could not and would not do it.
“Never, never, never!” I told myself.
EIGHTY-SIXTH CHAPTER
Thinking matters out in the light of Maggie Jones’s story, I concluded that poverty was at the root of nearly everything. If I could stave off poverty no real harm could come to my child.
I determined to do so. But there was only one way open to me at present — and that was to retrench my expenses.
I did retrench them. Persuading myself that I had no real need of this and that, I reduced my weekly outlay.
This gave me immense pleasure, and even when I saw, after a while, that I was growing thin and pale, I felt no self-pity of any sort, remembering that I had nobody to look well for now, and only the sweet and glorious duty before me of providing for my child.
I convinced myself, too, that my altered appearance was natural to my condition, and that all I needed was fresh air and exercise, therefore I determined to walk every day in the Park.
I did so once only.
It was one of those lovely mornings in early spring, when the air and the sky of London, after the long fog and grime of winter, seem to be washed by showers of sunshine.
I had entered by a gate to a broad avenue and was resting (for I was rather tired) on a seat under a chestnut tree whose glistening sheaths were swelling and breaking into leaf, when I saw a number of ladies and gentlemen on horseback coming in my direction.
I recognised one of them instantly. It was Mr. Vivian, and a beautiful girl was riding beside him. My heart stood still, for I thought he would see me. But he was too much occupied with his companion to do so.
“Yes, by Jove, it’s killing, isn’t it?” he said, in his shrill voice, and with his monocle in his mole-like eye, he rode past me, laughing.
After that I took my walks in the poorer streets behind Bayswater, but there I was forced back on my old problem, for I seemed to be always seeing the sufferings of children.
Thank God, children as a whole are happy. They seem to live in their hearts alone, and I really and truly believe that if all the doors of the rich houses of the West End of London were thrown open to the poor children of the East End they would stay in their slums and alleys.
But some of them suffer there for all that, especially the unfortunate ones who enter the world without any legal right to be here, and I seemed to be coming upon that kind everywhere.
One evening I saw a tiny boy of five sheltering from the rain under a dripping and draughty railway arch, and crying as if his little heart would break. I tried to comfort him and could not, but when a rather shame-faced young woman came along, as if returning from her work, he burst out on her and cried:
“Oh, muvver, she’s been a-beating of me awrful.”
“Never mind, Johnny,” said the young woman, kneeling on the wet pavement to dry the child’s eyes. “Don’t cry, that’s a good boy.”
It needed no second sight to look into the heart of that tragedy, and the effect of it upon me was to make me curtail my expenditure still further.
Looking back on those days I cannot but wonder that I never tried to find employment. But there was one delicate impediment then — my condition, which was becoming visible, I thought, to people in the street, and causing some of them, especially women, to look round at me. When this became painful I discontinued my walks altogether, and sent Emmerjane on my few errands.
Then my room became my world.
I do not think I ever saw a newspaper. And knowing nothing of what was going on, beyond the surge and swell of the life of London as it came to me when I opened my window. I had now, more than ever, the sense of living in a dungeon on a rock in the middle of the sea.
Having no exercise I ate less and less. But I found a certain joy in that, for I was becoming a miser for my child’s sake, and the only pain I suffered was when I went to my drawer, as I did every day, and looked at my rapidly diminishing store.
I knew that my Welsh landlady was beginning to call me close, meaning mean; but that did not trouble me in the least, because I told myself that every penny I saved out of my own expenses was for my child, to keep her from poverty and all the evils and injustices that followed in its train.
As my appointed time drew near my sleep was much broken; and sometimes in the middle of the night, when I heard a solitary footstep going down the street I would get up, draw aside one of my blinds, and see a light burning in some bedroom window opposite, and afterwards hear the muffled cry of the small new being who had come as another immigrant into our chill little world.
But I made no arrangements for myself until my Welsh landlady came up to my room one day and asked if I had settled with a doctor. When I answered no, she held up her hands and cried:
“Good gracious! Just as I thought. Thee’st got to lose no time, though.”
Happily there was a doctor in our street nearly every day, and if I wished it she would call him up to me. I agreed and the doctor came next morning.
He was a tall, elderly man with cold eyes, compressed lips, and a sour expression, and neither his manner nor his speech gave any hint of a consciousness (which I am sure every true doctor must have) that in coming to a woman in my condition he was entering one of the sacred chambers of human life.
He asked me a few abrupt questions, told me when he would come again, and then spoke about his fee.
“My fee is a guinea and I usually get it in advance,” he said, whereupon I went to my drawer, and took out a sovereign and a shilling, not without a certain pang at seeing so much go in a moment after I had been saving so long.
The doctor had dropped the money into his waistcoat pocket with oh! such a casual air, and was turning to go, when my Welsh landlady said:
“Her’s not doing herself justice in the matter, of food, doctor.”
“Why, what do you eat?” asked the doctor, and as well as I could, out of my dry and parched throat, I told him.
“Tut! tut! This will never do,” he said. “It’s your duty to your child to have better food than that. Something light and nourishing every day, such as poultry, fish, chicken broth, beef-tea, and farinaceous foods generally.”
I gasped. ‘What was the doctor thinking about?
“Remember,” he said, with his finger up, “the health of the child is intimately dependent on the health of the mother. When the mother is in a morbid state it affects the composition of the blood, and does great harm to the health of the offspring, both immediately and in after life. Don’t forget now. Good day!”
That was a terrible shock to me. In my great ignorance and great love I had been depriving myself for the sake of my child, and now I learned that I had all the time been doing it a grave and perhaps life-long injury!
Trying to make amends I sent out for some of the expensive foods the doctor had ordered me, but when they were cooked I found to my dismay that I had lost the power of digesting them.
My pain at this discovery was not lessened next day when my Welsh landlady brought up a nurse whom I had asked her to engage for me.
The woman was a human dumpling with a discordant voice, and her first interest, like that of the doctor, seemed to centre in her fee.
She told me that her usual terms were a guinea for the fortnight, but when she saw my face fall (for I could not help thinking how little I had left) she said:
“Some ladies don’t need a fortnight, though. Mrs. Wagstaffe, for instance, she never has no more than five days, and on the sixth she’s back at her mangle. So if five will do, ma’am, perhaps ten and six won’t hurt you.”
I agreed, and the nurse was rolling her ample person out of my room when my Welsh landlady said:
“But her’s not eating enough to keep a linnet, look you.”
And then my nurse, who was what the doctor calls a croaker, began on a long series of stories of ladies who, having “let themselves down” had died, either at childbirth or soon afterwards.
“It’s after a lady feels it if she has to nurse her baby,” said the nurse, “and I couldn’t be responsible neither for you nor the child if you don’t do yourself justice.”
This was a still more terrible possibility — the possibility that I might die and leave my child behind me. The thought haunted me all that day and the following night, but the climax came next morning, when Emmerjane, while black-leading my grate, gave me the last news of Maggie Jones.
Maggie’s mother had been “a-naggin’ of her to get work,” asking if she had not enough mouths to feed “without her bringin’ another.”
Maggie had at first been afraid to look for employment, thinking everybody knew of her trouble. But after her mother had put the young minister from Zion on to her to tell her to be “obejent” she had gone out every day, whether the weather was good or bad or “mejum.”
This had gone on for three months (during which Maggie used to stay out late because she was afraid to meet her mother’s face) until one wet night, less than a week ago, she had come home drenched to the skin, taken to her bed, “sickened for somethink” and died.
Three days after Emmerjane told me this story a great solemnity fell on our street.
It was Saturday, when the children do not go to school, but, playing no games, they gathered in whispering groups round the house with the drawn blinds, while their mothers stood bareheaded at the doors with their arms under their aprons and their hidden hands over their mouths.
I tried not to know what was going on, but looking out at the last moment I saw Maggie Jones’s mother, dressed in black, coming down her steps, with her eyes very red and her hard face (which was seamed with labour) all wet and broken up.
The “young minister” followed (a beardless boy who could have known nothing of the tragedy of a woman’s life), and stepping into the midst of the group of the congregation from Zion, who had gathered there with their warm Welsh hearts full of pity for the dead girl, he gave out a Welsh hymn, and they sang it in the London street, just as they had been used to do at the cottage doors in the midst of their native mountains:
“Bydd myrdd o ryfeddodau
Ar doriad boreu wawr.”
I could look no longer, so I turned back into my room, but at the next moment I heard the rumble of wheels and knew that Maggie Jones was on her way to her last mother of all — the Earth.
During the rest of that day I could think of nothing but Maggie’s child, and what was to become of it, and next morning when Emmerjane came up she told me that the “young minister” was “a-gettin’ it into the ‘ouse.”
I think that was the last straw of my burden, for my mind came back with a swift rebound from Maggie Jones’s child to my own.
The thought of leaving my baby behind now terrified and appalled me. It brought me no comfort to think that though I was poor my father was rich, for I knew that if he ever came to know of my child’s existence he would hate it and cast it off, as the central cause of the downfall of his plans.
Yet Martin’s child alone, and at the mercy of the world! It could not and must not be!
Then came a fearful thought. I fought against it. I said many “Hail Marys” to protect myself from it. But I could not put it away.
Perhaps my physical condition was partly to blame. Others must judge of that. It is only for me to say, in all truth and sincerity, what I felt and thought when I stood (as every woman who is to be a mother must) at the door of that dark chamber which is Life’s greatest mystery.
I thought of how Martin had been taken from me, as Fate (perhaps for some good purpose still unrevealed) had led me to believe.
I thought of how I had comforted myself with the hope of the child that was coming to be a link between us.
I thought of the sweet hours I had spent in making my baby’s clothes; in choosing her name; in whispering it to myself, yes, and to God, too, every night and every morning.
I thought of how day by day I had trimmed the little lamp I kept burning in the sanctuary within my breast where my baby and I lived together.
I thought of how this had taken the sting out of death and victory out of the grave. And after that I told myself that, however sweet and beautiful, all this had been selfishness and I must put it away.
Then I thought of the child itself, who — conceived in sin as my Church would say, disinherited by the law, outlawed by society, inheriting my physical weaknesses, having lost one of its parents and being liable to lose the other — was now in danger of being left to the mercies of the world, banned from its birth, penniless and without a protector, to become a drudge and an outcast or even a thief, a gambler, or a harlot.
This was what I thought and felt.
And when at last I knew that I had come to the end of my appointed time I knelt down in my sad room, and if ever I prayed a fervent prayer, if ever my soul went up to God in passionate supplication, it was that the child I had longed for and looked forward to as a living link with my lost one might be born dead.
“Oh God, whatever happens to me, let my baby be born dead — I pray, I beseech Thee.”
Perhaps it was a wicked prayer. God knows. He will be just.
EIGHTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER
It was Saturday, the seventh of June. The summer had been a cold one thus far; the night was chill and heavy rain was beating against the window-pane.
There was a warm fire in my room for the first time for several months; the single gas jet on the window side of the mantelpiece had been turned low, and the nurse, in list slippers, was taking my little flannel and linen garments out of the chest of drawers and laying them on the flat steel fender.
I think I must have had intervals of insensibility, for the moments of consciousness came and went with me, like the diving and rising of a sea-bird in the midst of swelling waves.
At one such moment I became aware that the doctor and my Welsh landlady, as well as my nurse, were in the room, and that they were waiting for the crisis and fearing for my life.
I heard them talking in low voices which made a drumming noise in my ears, like that which the sea makes when it is rolling into a cave.
“She’s let herself down so low, pore thing, that I don’t know in the world what’s to happen to her.”
“As God is my witness, look you, I never saw anybody live on so little.”
“I’m not afraid of the mother. I’m more afraid of the child, if you ask me.”
Then the drumming noise would die out, and I would only hear something within myself saying:
“Oh God, oh God, that my child may be born dead.”
At another moment I heard, above the rattle of the rain, the creaking of the mangle in the cellar-kitchen on the other side of the street.
At still another moment I heard the sound of quarrelling in the house opposite. A woman was screaming, children were shrieking, and a man was swearing in a thick hoarse voice.
I knew what had happened — it was midnight, the “public-houses had turned out,” and Mr. Wagstaffe had came home drunk.
The night passed heavily. I heard myself (as I had done before) calling on Martin in a voice of wild entreaty:
“Martin! Martin!”
Then remembering that he was gone I began again to pray. I heard myself praying to the Blessed Virgin:
“Oh, Mother of my God, let my child . . .”
But a voice which seemed to come from far away interrupted me.
“Hush, bâch, hush! It will make it harder for thee.”
At length peace came. It seemed to me that I was running out of a tempestuous sea, with its unlimited loneliness and cruel depth, into a quiet harbour.
There was a heavenly calm, in which I could hear the doctor and the nurse and my Welsh landlady talking together in cheerful whispers.
I knew that everything was over, and with the memory of the storm I had passed through still in my heart and brain. I said:
