A Girl of the People | Page 6

second draught, then she placed her hand with the air of a professional
nurse on his wrist.
"You're better now, father."
"That I am, gel, and thank you. You're by no means a bad sort, Bet--
worth twenty of her, I can tell you."
"Leave her out of the question, if you please, father, or you'll get no
help from me. You'd like to wash your face, mebbe?"
"Yes, yes, with cold water. Give me your hand, child, and I'll get up."
"Set you still--I'll fetch the water."
She brought it in a tin pail, with a piece of flannel and soap and a

coarse towel.
"Now, wash--wash and make yourself as clean as you can--for you has
got to see summut--leastways you can take the outside dirt away; there,
make yourself clean while I lets the daylight in."
The man washed and laved himself. He was becoming gradually sober,
and Bet's words had a subduing effect; he looked after her with a
certain maudlin admiration, as she drew up the blind, and let the
uncertain daylight into the poor little room. Then she went behind the
screen, and he heard her for a moment or two moving about. He dried
his face and hands and hair and was standing up, looking comparatively
fresh and another man, when she returned to him.
"You're not a bad sort of a gel," he said, attempting to chuck her under
the chin, only she drew away from him. "You know what a man wants,
and you get it for him and don't hurl no ugly words in his face. Well,
I'm off to the docks now. I'll let the old 'ooman sleep on, this once, and
tell her what I think on her, and how much more I set store by that
daughter of hers, tonight."
"You'll let her sleep on, will you?" said Bet.
Her tone was queer and constrained; even her father noticed it.
"She is asleep now; come and look at her; you may wake her if you
can."
"No, no, gel; let me get off--Jim Targent will get my berth unless I look
sharp. Let me be, Bet--your mother can sleep her fill this morning,"
"Come and look at her, father; come--you must."
She took his hand--she was very strong--stronger than him at that
moment, for his legs were not steady, and even now he was scarcely
sober.
"I don't want to see an old 'ooman asleep," he muttered, but he let the

strong hand lead him forward. Bet pushed back the screen, and drew
him close to the bed.
"Wake her if you can," she said, and her eyes blazed into his.
Granger looked. There was no mistaking what he saw.
"My God!" he murmured. "Bet, you shouldn't have done it--you
shouldn't have broke it to me like this!"
He trembled all over.
"Martha dead! Let me get away. I hate dead people."
"Put your hand on her forehead, father. See, she couldn't have got your
tea for you. It were no fault of her'n--you beat her, and you kicked her,
and you made life awful for her; but you couldn't hurt her this morning;
she's above you now, you can't touch her now."
"Let me go, Bet--you're an awful girl--you had no call to give me a turn
like this. No, I won't touch her, and you can't force me. I'm going out--I
won't stay in this room. I'm going down to the docks--I mustn't lose my
work. What do you say--that I shan't go? Where will you all be if I
don't arn your bread for you?"
"Set down there on the side of the bed, father. I'll keep you five minutes
and no more. You needn't be all in a tremble--you needn't be showing
of the white feather. Bless you, she never could hurt you less than she
does now. Set there, and look at her face. I've a word or two to say, and
I can only say it with you looking at her dead face. Then you can go
down to the docks, and stay there for always as far as it matters to me."
She pushed the man on to the bed. He could see the white, still face of
his dead wife. The tired look had left it; the wrinkles had almost
disappeared. Martha Granger looked twenty years younger than she had
done yesterday.
Around the closed eyelids, around the softly smiling mouth, lay an

awful peace and grandeur. The drunken husband looked at the wife
whom he had abused, whose days he had rendered one long misery,
and a lump arose in his throat; a queer new sensation, which he could
not recognize as either remorse or repentance, filled his breast. He no
longer opposed Bet; he gazed fixedly, with a stricken stare,