The Widow in the Bye Street Part 9

Get up.' 'He can't.' 'O G.o.d, he isn't dead.'

'O G.o.d.' 'Here. Get a basin. Bathe his head.

Ernie, for G.o.d's sake, what are you playing at?

I only give him one like, with the bat.'

Man cannot call the br.i.m.m.i.n.g instant back; Time's an affair of instants spun to days; If man must make an instant gold, or black, Let him, he may, but Time must go his ways.

Life may be duller for an instant's blaze.

Life's an affair of instants spun to years, Instants are only cause of all these tears.

Then Anna screamed aloud. 'Help. Murder. Murder.'

'By G.o.d, it is,' he said. 'Through you, you s.l.u.t.'

Backing, she screamed, until the blacksmith heard her.

'Hurry,' they cried, 'the woman's throat's being cut.'

Jim had his coat off by the water b.u.t.t.

'He might come to,' he said, 'with wine or soup.

I only hit him once, like, with the scoop.

Splash water on him, chaps. I only meant To hit him just a clip, like, nothing more.

There. Look. He isn't dead, his eyelids went.

And he went down. O G.o.d, his head's all tore.

I've washed and washed: it's all one gob of gore.

He don't look dead to you? What? Nor to you?

Not kill, the clip I give him, couldn't do.'

'G.o.d send; he looks d.a.m.n bad,' the blacksmith said.

'Py Cot,' his mate said, 'she wa.s.s altogether; She ha.s.s an illness look of peing ted.'

'Here. Get a gla.s.s,' the smith said, 'and a feather.'

'Wa.s.s you at fightings or at playings whether?'

'Here, get a gla.s.s and feather. Quick's the word.'

The gla.s.s was clear. The feather never stirred.

'By G.o.d, I'm sorry, Jim. That settles it.'

'By G.o.d. I've killed him then.' 'The doctor might.'

'Try, if you like; but that's a nasty hit.'

'Doctor's gone by. He won't be back till night.'

'Py Cot, the feather was not looking right.'

'By Jesus, chaps, I never meant to kill 'un.

Only to bat. I'll go to p'leece and tell 'un.

O Ern, for G.o.d's sake speak, for G.o.d's sake speak.'

No answer followed: Ern had done with dust, 'The p'leece is best,' the smith said, 'or a beak.

I'll come along; and so the lady must.

Evans, you bring the lady, will you just?

Tell 'em just how it come, lad. Come your ways; And Joe, you watch the body where it lays.'

They walked to town, Jim on the blacksmith's arm.

Jimmy was crying like a child, and saying, 'I never meant to do him any harm.'

His teeth went clack, like bones at murmurs playing, And then he trembled hard and broke out praying, 'G.o.d help my poor old mother. If he's dead, I've brought her my last wages home,' he said.

He trod his last free journey down the street; Treading the middle road, and seeing both sides, The school, the inns, the butchers selling meat, The busy market where the town divides.

Then past the tanpits full of stinking hides, And up the lane to death, as weak as pith.

'By G.o.d, I hate this, Jimmy,' said the smith.

VI

Anna in black, the judge in scarlet robes, A fuss of lawyers' people coming, going, The windows shut, the gas alight in globes, Evening outside, and pleasant weather blowing.

'They'll hang him?' 'I suppose so; there's no knowing.'

'A pretty piece, the woman, ain't she, John?

He killed the fellow just for carrying on.'

'She give her piece to counsel pretty clear.'

'Ah, that she did, and when she stop she smiled.'

'She's had a-many men, that pretty dear; She's drove a-many pretty fellows wild.'

'More silly idiots they to be beguiled.'

'Well, I don't know.' 'Well, I do. See her eyes?

Mystery, eh? A woman's mystery's lies.'

'Perhaps.' 'No p'raps about it, that's the truth.

I know these women; they're a rotten lot.'

'You didn't use to think so in your youth.'

'No; but I'm wiser now, and not so hot.

Married or buried, _I_ say, wives or shot, These unmanned, unattached Maries and Susans Make life no better than a proper nuisance.'

'Well, I don't know.' 'Well, if you don't you will.'

'I look on women as as good as men.'

'Now, that's the kind of talk that makes me ill.

When have they been as good? I ask you when?'

'Always they have.' 'They haven't. Now and then P'raps one or two was neither hen nor fury.'

'One for your mother, that. Here comes the jury.'

Guilty. Thumbs down. No hope. The judge pa.s.sed sentence; 'A frantic pa.s.sionate youth, unfit for life, A fitting time afforded for repentance, Then certain justice with a pitiless knife.

For her his wretched victim's widowed wife, Pity. For her who bore him, pity. (Cheers.) The jury were exempt for seven years.'

All bowed; the Judge pa.s.sed to the robing-room, Dismissed his clerks, disrobed, and knelt and prayed As was his custom after pa.s.sing doom, Doom upon life, upon the thing not made.

'O G.o.d, who made us out of dust, and laid Thee in us bright, to lead us to the truth, O G.o.d, have pity upon this poor youth.

Show him Thy grace, O G.o.d, before he die; s.h.i.+ne in his heart; have mercy upon me, Who deal the laws men make to travel by Under the sun upon the path to Thee; O G.o.d Thou knowest I'm as blind as he, As blind, as frantic, not so single, worse, Only Thy pity spared me from the curse.

Thy pity, and Thy mercy, G.o.d, did save, Thy bounteous gifts, not any grace of mine, From all the pitfalls leading to the grave, From all the death-feasts with the husks and swine.

G.o.d, who hast given me all things, now make s.h.i.+ne Bright in this sinner's heart that he may see.

G.o.d, take this poor boy's spirit back to Thee.'

Then trembling with his hands, for he was old, He went to meet his college friend, the Dean, The loiterers watched him as his carriage rolled.

'There goes the Judge,' said one, and one was keen: 'Hanging that wretched boy, that's where he's been.'

A policeman spat, two lawyers talked statistics, '"Crime pa.s.sionel" in Agricultural Districts.'