Wedlock
by
Two bricklayers are building a yellow brick wall to the rear of one of a terrace of new jerry-built houses in a genteel suburb. At their back is the remains of a grand old garden. Only the unexpired lease saves it from the clutch of the speculator. An apple-tree is in full blossom, and a fine elm is lying on the grass, sawn down, as it stood on the boundary of a “desirable lot”; many fair shrubs crop up in unexpected places, a daphne-mezereum struggles to redden its berries amid a heap of refuse thrown out by the caretakers; a granite urn, portions of a deftly carven shield, a mailed hand and a knight’s casque, relics of some fine old house demolished to accommodate the ever-increasing number of the genteel, lie in the trampled grass. The road in front is scarcely begun, and the smart butchers’ carts sink into the soft mud and red brick-dust, broken glass, and shavings; yet many of the houses are occupied, and the unconquerable London soot has already made some of the cheap “art” curtains look dingy. A brass plate of the “Prudential Assurance Company” adorns the gate of Myrtle House; “Collegiate School for Young Ladies” that of Evergreen Villa. Victoria, Albert, and Alexandra figure in ornamental letters over the stained-glass latticed square of three pretentious houses, facing Gladstone, Cleopatra, and Lobelia. The people move into 26 to the ring of carpenters’ hammers in 27, and “go carts,” perambulators, and half-bred fox terriers impede the movements of the men taking in the kitchen boiler to 28.
One of the men, a short, wiry-looking man of fifty, with grizzled sandy hair and a four days growth of foxy beard on his sharp chin, is whistling “Barbara Allen” softly as he pats down a brick and scrapes the mortar neatly off the joinings. The other, tall and swarthy, a big man with a loose mouth and handsome wicked eyes and a musical voice, is looking down the lane-way leading to a side street.
“‘Ere she comes, the lydy wot owns this ‘ere desirable abode. I want ‘er to lend me a jug. Wo-o-a hup, missis! Blind me tight if she ain’t as boozed as they makes ’em! Look at ‘er, Seltzer; ain’t she a beauty, ain’t she a sample of a decent bloke’s wife! She’s a fair sickener, she is. Hy, ‘old ‘ard! She dunno where she are!” with a grin.
But the woman, reeling and stumbling up the lane, neither hears nor sees; she is beyond that. She feels her way to the backyard door of the next house, and, rocking on her feet, tries to find the pocket of her gown. She is much under thirty, with a finely-developed figure. Her gown is torn from the gathers at the back and trails down, showing her striped petticoat; her jacket is of good material, trimmed with silk, but is dusty and lime-marked. Her face is flushed and dirty; and her light golden-brown fringe stands out straight over her white forehead; her bonnet is awry on the back of her head; her watch dangles from the end of a heavy gold chain, and the buttons of her jersey bodice gape open where the guard is passed through; she has a basket on her left arm. She clutches the wall and fumbles stupidly for the key, mumbling unintelligibly, and trying with all her might to keep her eyes open. The tall man watches her with ill-concealed disgust, and tosses a pretty coarse jest to her. The sandy man lays down his trowel and wipes his hands on his apron, and goes to her.