The Money

The Money written by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

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 They found her cold upon the bed.
 The cause of death, the doctor said,
 Was nothing save the lack of bread.

 Her clothes were but a sorry rag
 That barely hid the nakedness
 Of her poor body's piteous wreck:
 Yet, when they stripped her of her dress,
 They found she was not penniless;
 For, in a little silken bag,
 Tied with red ribbon round her neck,
 Was four-pound-seventeen-and-five.

 "It seems a strange and shameful thing
 That she should starve herself to death,
 While she'd the means to keep alive.
 Why, such a sum would keep the breath
 Within her body till she'd found
 A livelihood: and it would bring . . .
 But, there is very little doubt
 She'd set her heart upon a grand
 And foolish funeral — for the pride
 Of poor folk, who can understand.
 And so, because she was too proud
 To meet death penniless, she died."

 And talking, talking, they trooped out:
 And, as they went, I turned about
 To look upon her in her shroud;
 And saw again the quiet face
 That filled with light the shameful place,
 Touched with the tender, youthful grace
 Death brings the broken and outworn
 To comfort kind hearts left to mourn.

 And, as I stood, the sum they'd found
 Rang with a queer, familiar ring
 Of some uncouth, uncanny sound —
 Heard in dark ages underground;
 And "four-pound-seventeen-and-five"
 Through all my body seemed to sing,
 Without recalling anything
 To help me, strive as I might strive.

 But, as I stumbled down the stairs
 Into the alley's gloom and stench —
 A whiff of burning oil
 That took me unawares —
 And I knew all there was to tell.
 And, though the rain in torrents fell,
 I walked on, heedless through the drench . . .
 And, all the while, I seemed to sit
 Upon a tub in Lansel pit;
 And in the candle-light to see
 John Askerton, a deputy,
 Who paused awhile to talk with me,
 His kind face glistening black with toil.

 "Twas here I found him dead, beside
 His engine. All the other men
 Were up—for things were slack just then —
 And I'd one foot upon the cage;
 When, all at once, I caught the smell
 Of burning. Even as I turned
 To see what it could be that burned,
 The drift behind was filled with stife.
 And so I dropped on hands and knees,
 And crawled along the gallery,
 Beneath the smoke that I might see
 What ailed; and as I crept, half-blind,
 With smarting eyes, and breath awheeze,
 I scarcely knew what I should find.
 At times I thought I'd never know . . .
 And 'twas already quite an age
 Since I set out ... I felt as though
 I had been crawling all my life
 Beneath the stifling cloud of smoke
 That clung about me, fit to choke:
 And when, at last, I'd struggled here,
 'Twas long ere I could see things clear . . .

 That he was lying here . . . and he
 Was dead . . . and burning like a tree . . .
 A tree-trunk soaked in oil. . . No doubt,
 The engine had caught fire, somehow;
 And when he tried to put it out,
 His greasy clothes had caught. . . and now!
 As fine a lad as you could see . . .
 And such a lad for singing ... I
 Had heard him, when I worked hard by:
 And often quiet I would sit
 To hear him, singing in the pit,
 As though his heart knew naught of it,
 And life was nothing but a song.

 "He'd not been working with us long:
 And little of his ways I knew:
 But, when I'd got him up, at last;
 And he was lying in the shed,
 The sweet song silent in his breast;
 And there was nothing more to do:
 The notion came into my head
 That he had always been well-dressed;
 And seemed a neat and thrifty lad . . .
 And lived in lodgings ... so, maybe,
 Would carry on him all he had.
 So, back into the cage I stepped:
 And, when it reached the bottom, crept
 Along the gallery again;
 And in the dust where he had lain,
 I rummaged, until I found all
 That from his burning pockets fell.
 And when it seemed there was no more,
 I thought how happy, and alive,
 And recking naught what might befall,
 He, too, for all that I could tell,
 Just where I stood, had reckoned o'er
 That four-pound-seventeen-and-five.

 "Aye, like enough ... for soon we heard
 That in a week he'd looked to wed.
 He'd meant to give the girl that night
 The money to buy furniture.
 She came and watched till morning-light
 Beside the body in the shed:
 Then rose: and took, without a word,
 The money he had left for her."

 Then, as I wandered through the rain,
 I seemed to stand in awe again
 Beside that lonely garret-bed.
 And it was good to think the dead
 Had known the wealth she would not spend
 To keep a little while alive —
 His four-pound-seventeen-and-five —
 Would buy her houseroom in the end.

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