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The Record of Badalia Herodsfoot
165
of Rome. 'She wants to say something; you know her better
than I.'
The curate bent very low.
'Send for Miss Eva,' said Badalia, with a cough.
'In the morning. She will come in the morning,' said the curate,
and Badalia was content. Only the Church of Rome, who knew
something of the human heart, knitted his brows and said nothing.
After all, the law of his order was plain. His duty was to watch till
the dawn while the moon went down.
It was a little before her sinking that the Rev. Eustace Hanna
said, 'Hadn't we better send for Sister Eva? She seems to be going
fast.'
Brother Victor made no answer, but as early as decency admitted
there came one to the door of the house of the Little Sisters of the
Red Diamond and demanded Sister Eva, that she might soothe the
pain of Badalia Herodsfoot. That man, saying very little, led her to
Gunnison Street, No. 17, and into the room where Badalia lay.
Then he stood on the landing, and bit the flesh of his fingers in
agony, because he was a priest trained to know, and knew how the
hearts of men and women beat back at the rebound, so that Love
is born out of horror, and passion declares itself when the soul is
quivering with pain.
Badalia, wise to the last, husbanded her strength till the coming
of Sister Eva. It is generally maintained by the Little Sisters of the
Red Diamond that she died in delirium, but since one Sister at least
took a half of her dying advice, this seems uncharitable.
She tried to turn feebly on the bed, and the poor broken human
machinery protested according to its nature.
Sister Eva started forward, thinking that she heard the dread
forerunner of the death-rattle. Badalia lay still conscious, and
spoke with startling distinctness, the irrepressible irreverence of the
street-hawker, the girl who had danced on the winkle-barrow,
twinkling in her one available eye.
'Sounds jest like Mrs Jessel, don't it? Before she's 'ad 'er lunch
an' 'as been talkin' all the mornin' to her classes.'
Neither Sister Eva nor the curate said anything. Brother Victor
stood without the door, and the breath came harshly between his
teeth, for he was in pain.
'Put a cloth over my 'ead,' said Badalia. 'I've got it good, an' I
don't want Miss Eva to see. I ain't pretty this time.'
166 Rudyard Kipling
'Who was it?' said the curate.
'Man from outside. Never seed 'im no more'n Adam. Drunk, I
s'pose. S'elp me Gawd that's truth! Is Miss Eva 'ere? I can't see
under the towel. I've got it good, Miss Eva. Excuse my not shakin'
'ands with you, but I'm not strong, an' it's fourpence for Mrs
Imeny's beef-tea, an' wot you can give 'er for baby-linning. Alius
'avin' kids, these people. I 'adn't oughter talk, for
my
'usband 'e
never come a-nigh me these two years, or I'd a-bin as bad as the
rest; but 'e never come a-nigh me. . . . A man come and 'it me over
the 'ead, an' 'e kicked me, Miss Eva; so it was just the same's if I
had ha' had a 'usband, ain't it? The book's in the drawer, Mister
'Anna, an' it's all right, an' I never guv up a copper o' the trust
money — not a copper. You look under the chist o' drawers — all
wot isn't spent this week is there. . . . An', Miss Eva, don't you
wear that gray bonnick no more. I kep' you from the diptheery, an'
- an' I didn't want to keep you so, but the curick said it 'ad to be
done. I'd a sooner ha' took up with 'im than any one, only Tom 'e
come, an' then — you see, Miss Eva, Tom 'e never come a-nigh me
for two years, nor I 'aven't seen 'im yet. S'elp me —, I 'aven't. Do
you 'ear? But you two go along, and make a match of it. I've
wished otherways often, but o' course it was not for the likes o'
me. If Tom 'ad come back, which 'e never did, I'd ha' been like the
rest - sixpence for beef-tea for the baby, an' a shilling for layin' out
the baby. You've seen it in the books, Mister 'Anna. That's what it
is; an' o' course, you couldn't never 'ave nothing to do with me.
But a woman she wishes as she looks, an' never you 'ave no doubt
about 'im, Miss Eva. I've seen it in 'is face time an' agin - time an'
agin. . . . Make it a four pound ten funeral - with a pall.'
It was a seven pound fifteen shilling funeral, and all Gunnison
Street turned out to do it honour. All but two; for Lascar Loo's
mother saw that a Power had departed, and that her road lay clear
to the custards. Therefore, when the carriages rattled off, the cat
on the doorstep heard the wail of the dying prostitute who could
not die —
'Oh, mother, mother, won't you even let me lick the spoon!'
O. H E N R Y • 1 8 6 7 - 1 9 1 0
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