The old trader from Lakemba tried to stop the riot, and so made things worse, for he said: “What’s the d——d row about?” When they told him, and the hubbub had ceased, and several retired women from the streets of New South Wales had fainted with the horror of it all, he continued: “Well, I’ve been about these ’ere parts a d——d sight longer than I orter ’ave been, but I never seed a prettier girl than that ’ere girl who’s a-lodging up at Pink’s.”
As the sunburnt trader finished, there was a tremendous silence; the mob fairly gasped, could hardly believe their ears; then up went a fierce howl of the maddest execration. White hags, scraggy hags, tawny hags, pretty girls and ugly girls shouted as with one voice: “Turn ’er out! Turn ’er out! The sinful woman to trade on the good nature of a Christian woman like Mrs Pink!”
Mrs Pink was overcome with emotion—she sobbed; she seemed to have awakened from a nightmare to find herself famous.
So was Waylao’s fate decided. That same night, with all her best clothes detained for back rent, she left the Pinks’ establishment, and started away, determined to go up the Rewa river and seek her relatives.
It may be imagined I was not in the most pleasant of moods when I sat in Mrs Pink’s parlour on my recovery. After all I’d heard from the people who lived opposite those infernal hypocrites, I had little hope of getting much truthful information. I did not let on that I had heard a word about that scandal or Waylao’s flight as the old woman welcomed me.
“Have you no idea why she went, or where she went?” said I.
I was sitting opposite Mr and Mrs Pink in their little parlour as I made that remark.
“Poor, dear soul, we know not where she went. It was so sudden. Sir, it’s nearly broke our ’earts, that it ’as, the idea of that poor gal being out in this ’ere awful world, ’omeless.”
“You dear, godly woman,” was my mental comment, as I thought of all that the trader who lived next door had told me.
“Don’t weep, Mrs Pink; it’s no good weeping over the inevitable,” said I, as I stared at the wall to hide my real feelings.
Old Mother Pink sobbed the louder as I made that remark; but I must admit that Old Man Pink paused a moment, withdrew his large red pocket-handkerchief, and used one eye in a steady sidelong gaze at my face. I think the holy old beggar heard the sarcastic note in my voice. However that may be, he suddenly rose and hurried out of the room. Then Mrs Pink handed me the bill, the sum total for Waylao’s rent and expenses incurred. I said: “Ah, Mrs Pink, I’ll never forget your kindness. I know human nature so well. I know that all the people living in these parts are good Christians, followers of the preaching of our Lord Jesus Christ, He who had nowhere to lay His head. I know that you all go to chapel here, as they do in the big cities of the world—New York, Paris, Berlin and London. Ah, Mrs Pink, I’ve travelled those cities; you remind me so much of them, sweet soul that you are. I know that a great grief has come into your life and into the lives of your neighbours through the knowledge that a fallen girl is somewhere out in the world homeless. Did it upset you all much, Mrs Pink?”