The Ballad and the Source (9 page)

“What! Did Grandma never see her again?”

“Oh yes. She sor 'er again.” Tilly's head jigged with increased violence. “When others 'ad cast 'er off, she sor 'er. Till the deed was done that put a finish to it all. Yes, and after. For she sor 'er on 'er deathbed. … Ah, you can wipe out the score when it comes to the last, but you can't unplay the game that was played and never should 'ave been.”

This doom-fraught speech, delivered with appropriate power, penetrated me like a probe, exploring depths that terrified me. With passionate reluctance, I insisted:

“What did she do, Tilly?”

I must have it, the worst, the Sin, straight out. But Tilly was creating drama. She had no intention of destroying her suspense to gratify a child's banal curiosity. She busied herself with the fur, turning it this way and that, looking haughty and malicious. Presently she thrust obliquely at her object, from a different angle.

“I was never one to set myself up to judge the rights and wrongs of a thing. Leave that to the preachers and all the old nosey-parkers that trots off to church in their best bonnets to pray for sinners of a Sunday. Forgive us as we forgive them—Ha! The whited sepulchrums, I know 'em! They gives out a nasty sickish sort of a smell.
I
can smell 'em
!
What she wanted was a flesh and blood man to govern 'er. Break 'er and make 'er. Mark my words, 'e was better furnished in the top storey than 'e was elsewhere, was that joker.”

A convulsion of laughter seized Tilly. Aware of its lewdness, I wrestled fruitlessly to attach nameless implications to a whirling composite picture of wardrobes, chairs, tables, beds, and, at the very tip-top of a perpendicular staircase, one well-set-up gentleman tinkling with china fingers on the harpsichord.

Tilly continued in a meditative way:

“It would come over 'er like, gradual, unknown to 'erself at first, I dare say, she could do with a bit less in the attics and a bit more in the basement. She'd dwell on that —only natchral—I been through it myself. And she'd plenty of time on 'er 'ands. Sooner or later it would stick in 'er mind there was somethink wrong.
Somethink wrong!
—
tra-la
—
somethink wrong.
…”
A cracked midget's voice came out of Tilly's throat, piping and humming. “There was a music 'all song went like that when I was a girl. … Ah dear!” She mopped her eyes.

I smiled politely, but said at once, to re-direct her wavering grip:

“
Was
there something wrong?”

“That's as may be,” she answered primly. “It's accordin' to 'ow you might look at it if you wasn't one of them Saintly Sammys throwin' up their soapy 'ands and rubbin' 'em over a pretty woman gone wrong. Not that it didn't seem all peace and purrin' on the 'earth at the first. The baby come along—pretty prompt, I will say—and oh Lor'!—the letters that was wrote then! You'd 'ave thought the Queen of England 'ad give birth to the Second Comin'! And what 'er eyes and 'er ears and 'er 'air was, somethink never seen on earth before, and she took the breast like a blessed archangel. And Mr. Charles as proud as a dog with two tails, dandlin' 'er in 'is arms and singin' 'er to sleep. The 'appiest couple in Christendom they was now. And bless you, the bringin' up she was to 'ave. She was to stand godmother, of course—”

“Who? Grandma?”

“That's what I said. And they'd picked on I-anthe, because any one called that was bound to grow up into a beauty. … Ah dear!”

A human expression softened Tilly's face. She leaned back; and her myopic eyes, charged as I had never before seen them with pity and retrospective sadness, stared out of the window towards the treetops.

“She did get to be a pretty little thing too—winnin'. She favoured 'is side—and they was a good-lookin' lot. Oh, 'e thought the world of 'er. 'E 'ad 'is natchral feelin's, I wouldn't wish to deny. It broke 'is pride when she 'opped it. It turns a man sour when a woman breaks 'is pride. You couldn't expect generosity of 'im—though she did. She would.”

“Miss Sibyl?”

“Yes, Miss Sibyl. Whatever she done was always right, and oh, the surprise when others didn't see it that way, and raised objections!”

“She broke his pride?”

“Ah, you could tell that's where it got 'im by the way 'e took it. I'd never go so far to say there was much love spilt when
that
tray was dropped—not at the end. A broken 'eart's more easy put together, and don't leave such nasty jagged edges where the break's been stuck. 'E was the proudest feller—gentleman—I ever struck. She took and crushed 'is pride.”

I saw that dual figure, the dove-girl-Mrs.
Jardine,
wrench something hard, like a seal or a charm, from the breast of a shadowy male figure, and crush it into fragments with the strong, short, ringed fingers I knew. In doubt and perplexity I ventured:

“She did it when she hopped it?”

“She did.”

“How did she do that?”

“Oh, she tucked up 'er flouncy skirts and was off one summer's evenin'.”

“I see,” I said, untruthfully.

“'E'd give a ring at the bell.
‘
Where is Ma
dame?
'
'E'd be all ready dressed up, you see, to take 'er to the opera or the ball.
‘
Oh, Ma
dame?
She went out some hours ago, Moossew. She left a note for you in 'er boodwar.'” Tilly minced, rolled her eyes stagily in the style of an imaginary French lady's maid. “
‘
Ah, thank you, Maree. You may go.'
‘
Oui,
Moossew. Mercy, Moossew.'
Up the stairs 'e'd walk, very slow and dignified—smellin' a rat, I wouldn't be surprised. There was the letter propped up on the mantel—scented and sealed. 'E opens it.
Gone,
'e reads.
Gone with the one I love.
…”

“Oh!” I gasped, fatally interrupting. “Is that what she really said?”

There was a dead pause; then Tilly said peevishly:

“'Ow should I know? I wasn't there, lookin' over 'is shoulder, was I?”

But presently, observing my mortification, she relented and said:

“I'll lay my best seal jacket it was somethink after that style, though. 'Igh-flown. 'Owever she put it, that's what she done.”

“She went with the one she loved?”

“Well, you can put it that way. No doubt she would. And mean it at the time. 'E was a nasty bit of work.”

“Was his name—was it a gentleman called Major
Jardine?”
I asked, trembling.

“No, it wasn't nothink of the sort. What's come over you with your
Jardine?
Gentleman indeed
!
Is it likely? It was one of them furriners. I can't lay my 'ands on 'is name. Best forgotten too. An artist, or one of that sort of lot, so I 'eard.”

“Did Mr. Charles—was he very sorry?”

“Ah!
…
sorry
…”
Tilly shook her head dubiously.

“More cross?”

“What she'd done, you see, she'd caught 'im a slap clean acrost the face in front of the 'ole world. And 'im in 'is position! Somethink stronger than sorry 'e'd feel. I'd 'eard a bit about 'er before the scandal. There was a young girl, lady's maid to Lady—the name's gone—out there at the time. Swiss, she was, a nice steady girl. She come over to England with 'er lady, and 'er and me scraped up an acquaintance when yer grandmother visited. She told me what a lot of talk went on. I was ever so grieved and shocked to 'ear it. Of course, mind you, she was a beauty. I dare say the flattery turned 'er 'ead—though I never would 'ave thought it in the old days. She might 'ave wore 'er face back to front for all the notice she took of other people's noticin' it. You couldn't spoil 'er … so I'd 'ave said. But she changed. It's a funny thing, but some girls do when they gets to be married—in partickler them innocent, wild-spirited­­­­ sort—all over the place and up in the air—straight out of their schoolrooms. Anythink for a sensation!—that's what three years' 'igh society marriage done for Miss Sibyl. The more eyes was on 'er, the more outrageious she'd act—just to give 'em somethink extra to wag their tongues about. Like as if it was strong drink and sent 'er frantic. And spend, spend, spend!
…
Them French dressmakers aren't too bad; they got 'er up to advantage, I dare say. She was short built, but all in proportion, and carried 'er 'ead like a queen. I'd like to 'ave seen 'er in some of 'er toilets. And goin' about with a white monkey or some such nasty mucky animal on 'er shoulder. And parties. Gettin' that little mite—Ianthe—up out of 'er cot in the middle of the night—winter, mind you—in a bit of gauze and spangly wings, to be set on the table in a basket and lifted out as the Spirit of the Noo Year and made to throw rose petals, or some such silliness. But it was all show-off, if you understand. She caused talk, but I'll lay my oath she never done anythink she shouldn't. Though she 'ad the men all round 'er. 'E couldn't master 'er, so 'e let 'er 'ave 'er 'ead. It came like a thunderclap at the end. She run off with a nobody.”

“Did she take Ianthe with her?”

I had a vision of a white form, all veils and flying flounces, running in the night through city streets with a naked winged cherub on her shoulder.

“No, that she didn't.”

Though tempted, I refrained from asking: “Did she take the monkey?” and after a pause, Tilly continued in a bitter voice: “No. She 'ad other fish to fry. Any little 'elpless 'angers-on wouldn't 'ave suited 'er book just then. No—she didn't give it a lot of thought at the time—it and its precious upbringin' and that extra special future it was to 'ave.”

“Fancy leaving her own little girl behind!” For the first time I felt shocked.

“Ah, you may well say.” Tilly shook her head, fetched a brooding sigh. “Ah, and it turned out a serpent to bite 'er, that night's work. It's against nature to forsake your own flesh and blood, and when you go against nature, nature pays out. And once you done it, it's done. You can declare till you come out like a 'Ighland tartan you didn't mean it, and done it for the best, it won't butter no parsnips. You don't get back the child you've lost.”

At these fatal words, tears, real ones, from the depths of her unstanched woe, began to pour down Tilly's cheeks. I got up and hugged her and gave her a kiss. I knew the phantom of the Little Feller had risen, troubled by this
contemplation
of maternal shortcomings.

“God took him, Tilly, you know he did,” I urged in broken tones.

“Ah,” said Tilly perfunctorily. “No doubt.”

God took him, I said so because she always said so; but it seemed, not for the first time, as if these comfortable words administered no comfort. God took him because He loved him, because He wished to confer distinction on Tilly by selecting her little one to go before, and await her in the Better­­­­ Land. Oh yes!—he was in a Better Place, she'd meet him by and by. … No. God took him to spite her, punish her for neglect or ignorance, something she'd left undone that might have saved him to grow up like other women's sons.

“I never left his bedside day nor night.
‘
Put on your coat, Mammy,' 'e says, all of a sudden. Let's go out.'
‘
When you're a bit better, my duck,' I says.
‘
'As Dadda wound the clock?' 'e says. Fancy 'is little mind bein' on that! 'E always took an interest in that clock. It was one of them cuckoo-clocks—come from Bo'emia. It was carved pretty—just what would take a child's fancy.
‘
'As Dadda wound the clock?
'
'e says. Them was 'is last words. A bit after that I saw the change. 'E never struggled. Just let out one sort of a sigh. And breathed 'is little last.”

Often and with passionate attention I had assisted at this death-bed, extracting with Tilly the bitter-sweet savour of every harrowing detail. But to-day, time pressed: I could not linger at it. So soon as her voice told me that emotion had begun to be recollected in tranquillity, I eased her tactfully back on to her true course.

“Fancy Ianthe not having her mother there if ever she was ill and wanted her.”

“Ah,” agreed Tilly. “You got the
marrer
of it there. They all said what a blessin' she's only a baby—she won't remember 'er nor miss 'er. But I know different. I sor it. It left its mark. She was a funny little soul. The questions she'd ask!—You couldn't answer 'em. It's my belief you never know what a child won't remember—without knowin' it remembers, like. And she 'ad enough to remember!—what with that, and what come on a bit later. Sometimes, the more a child 'as too much to remember, the more it won't let on. But it left its mark.”

“How do you know, Tilly? Did you see her?”

“Yes, I sor 'er. At one time. See 'er? I should think I did.” Tilly spoke with a mixture of emphasis and reticence. “But an end was put to
that.”

“Did you go and stay with her—like you do with us?”

“In a manner of speakin'.”

“I expect,” I suggested, “she was very fond of you.”

“Well, she took a sort of fancy to me.”

“All children take a fancy to you, Tilly. I don't see how they could possibly help it.” I spoke with sincerity and guile.

“I was bright,” said Tilly judicially. “I could sing a bit and dance a bit in those days. Children like a bit of larkiness. It makes a change for 'em.”