and see someone you'd never go and see. It's an unfortunate woman, miserable and despised. She lives in a prostitute's hotel in a bad street in Southwark on the marshy side. And I don't blame you. I don't know any bourgeois woman who'd go and see her. And yet she is my friend and no man ever was her friend. To be her friend I did what you would never do. I told her I was a streetwalker, too. I told her I had a different district. She thinks I walk the streets round here!"
She ended in a tone of bitter heart-rending misery.
"Let's go then," said Caroline Wooller, getting up.
"I must go home first; I must take her some eggs and a jacket."
They headed home. When they were some way along the street, Caroline noticed that Nellie was crying. When they reached the door, Caroline offered Nellie the house key, thinking that she had offended her too deeply; but Nellie begged suddenly, in her pretty quick tones,
"You'll stay tonight? Let me make it up with you, Caroline. Did I offend you? Did I go too deep? I'm a bloody fool, darling, I'm so sincere. I cut across nerves. Will you forgive me, pet, and give me another chance?"
"I'm so unused to talk, you see; I'm afraid I'm ridiculously touchy. You're right, that it's not human."
"Eh, darling, you're all right; you're a fine woman. You remind me of my grandmother, the woman I honor most. Let's have a cup of tea and a bite. I've got to unpack me legs and get going, but I must eat something. The poor woman won't have anything. She's waiting on me."
While they were eating Nellie said vaguely, over her cup and cigarette,
"Yes, my grandmother, as I was saying, Caroline, was my guiding star. I resolved that that great life should not sink unrecorded into the dust of millions. That's my high resolve: to make a beautiful drama of it. It's me great play. She will not have lived in vain."
Caroline asked about the plot; but Nellie did not tell.
"There are things, pet, which cannot be reduced to words, though that spites our poor scribbler's vanity."
Someone came into the house; and Nellie explained that it was Eliza Cook, George Cook's sister. She had a back room on the second floor. She was working now as a door-to-door salesman and had many friends who kept her out.
"You'll get to know her, Caroline. Stay here. I need you both. I made up me mind to get drunk after facing that chamber of horrors at Bridgehead and if there wasn't a homing letter from my George. Wait up for me, darling. I'll bring a bottle and we'll drink it together. We'll steep our tribulations in gin in the good old way; and then we'll look at them fresh. There's nothing better. It keeps you from a world of black. And what faces me in Southwark, Caroline, is pure tragedy. She doesn't see why she should live. She has stuck her knife into the carcass of men's truth; and what's in it, is unspeakable. Only the brave can face it. Ah, I couldn't tell you yet: you haven't faced life yet. . . . Aye, and from tragedy I took the train down here."
"I'm sorry about your mother."
"Ah, she's aged before her time, poor pet, the doctor said. It's my father that's worn her out with his women, his pubs and his debts. They should never have married; that's the root of it all. And the way she clings to him, it's pathetic. It is that. I saw a sad ruin. And she's alone there, I feel so guilty with only my poor sister there; and me brother as good as a deaf-mute to it all."
"And how is your sister now; Peggy—is it?"
"Aye, sweetheart, it's Peggy. I don't know, I don't know. Not much better, I'm afraid. That's the terror and it haunts me. I feel so guilty towards the poor pitiful creature. Ah, the poor thing. The frail white camellia. It's a house of storm. I have bloody dreams; and I wake up in terror, all in a sweat, every night in a sweat, dreaming she's over the edge. The beautiful thing that she was, an early bloom, pure white, and now like a flower crushed by a rough hand, only a dark shred where there was a miracle."
"Isn't she
She ended in a tone of bitter heart-rending misery.
"Let's go then," said Caroline Wooller, getting up.
"I must go home first; I must take her some eggs and a jacket."
They headed home. When they were some way along the street, Caroline noticed that Nellie was crying. When they reached the door, Caroline offered Nellie the house key, thinking that she had offended her too deeply; but Nellie begged suddenly, in her pretty quick tones,
"You'll stay tonight? Let me make it up with you, Caroline. Did I offend you? Did I go too deep? I'm a bloody fool, darling, I'm so sincere. I cut across nerves. Will you forgive me, pet, and give me another chance?"
"I'm so unused to talk, you see; I'm afraid I'm ridiculously touchy. You're right, that it's not human."
"Eh, darling, you're all right; you're a fine woman. You remind me of my grandmother, the woman I honor most. Let's have a cup of tea and a bite. I've got to unpack me legs and get going, but I must eat something. The poor woman won't have anything. She's waiting on me."
While they were eating Nellie said vaguely, over her cup and cigarette,
"Yes, my grandmother, as I was saying, Caroline, was my guiding star. I resolved that that great life should not sink unrecorded into the dust of millions. That's my high resolve: to make a beautiful drama of it. It's me great play. She will not have lived in vain."
Caroline asked about the plot; but Nellie did not tell.
"There are things, pet, which cannot be reduced to words, though that spites our poor scribbler's vanity."
Someone came into the house; and Nellie explained that it was Eliza Cook, George Cook's sister. She had a back room on the second floor. She was working now as a door-to-door salesman and had many friends who kept her out.
"You'll get to know her, Caroline. Stay here. I need you both. I made up me mind to get drunk after facing that chamber of horrors at Bridgehead and if there wasn't a homing letter from my George. Wait up for me, darling. I'll bring a bottle and we'll drink it together. We'll steep our tribulations in gin in the good old way; and then we'll look at them fresh. There's nothing better. It keeps you from a world of black. And what faces me in Southwark, Caroline, is pure tragedy. She doesn't see why she should live. She has stuck her knife into the carcass of men's truth; and what's in it, is unspeakable. Only the brave can face it. Ah, I couldn't tell you yet: you haven't faced life yet. . . . Aye, and from tragedy I took the train down here."
"I'm sorry about your mother."
"Ah, she's aged before her time, poor pet, the doctor said. It's my father that's worn her out with his women, his pubs and his debts. They should never have married; that's the root of it all. And the way she clings to him, it's pathetic. It is that. I saw a sad ruin. And she's alone there, I feel so guilty with only my poor sister there; and me brother as good as a deaf-mute to it all."
"And how is your sister now; Peggy—is it?"
"Aye, sweetheart, it's Peggy. I don't know, I don't know. Not much better, I'm afraid. That's the terror and it haunts me. I feel so guilty towards the poor pitiful creature. Ah, the poor thing. The frail white camellia. It's a house of storm. I have bloody dreams; and I wake up in terror, all in a sweat, every night in a sweat, dreaming she's over the edge. The beautiful thing that she was, an early bloom, pure white, and now like a flower crushed by a rough hand, only a dark shred where there was a miracle."
"Isn't she
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