A PARTING IN THE STREET
THE words which rang in Annie’s ears were heard also by her brother,
who stood almost unrecognised amidst the crowd of men, bewildered,
gasping, scarcely knowing where he was, or that all was not some
confusion of a dream. The terrible sight of the body taken from the
river which had encountered him as soon as he reached the town, the
more terrible recognition of its face, the realisation of a death that
had nearly been his own--these things were overwhelming enough without
the appearance of his sister, inexplicable as that was, unlooked for by
any one, and yet affording, to other eyes besides his own, a clue that
might serve to unravel a tragedy. He wished to help her, but he could
not move his limbs, he appeared to be rooted to the ground on which he
stood; but strong arms were round her, and the workmen who supported
her seemed disposed to treat her with pity and tenderness. He saw her
carried past him, pallid as a corpse, with the lamplight on her white
face and streaming hair. He heard them say she was ‘only in a
swounding; that in a little while she would be right again.’ And
then, when he would have followed her he found that he could not stir;
he could only watch, as if fascinated, all the preparations that
surrounded one who would not wake and be ‘right.’ There were doctors
present who had been summoned hastily; there were workmen eager to be
relating all they knew; he could hear their voices, and the sound of
women’s murmurs, and the tale that the better informed poured out upon
the rest--this tale of the man who had been his sister’s lover, who was
the brother of one whom he had loved. They said he had been drinking in
a public-house like a madman, that he had risen suddenly and rushed out
into the night, and that some, following him, had heard a sound in the
water, and hastened, terrified, to the river’s edge. The catastrophe
might have been an accident--none could be sure that it was not--they
could only say that in the darkness it had been impossible to discover
him at first, and that, when he was found and dragged up from the
river, the light on his face showed at once that he was dead. The
doctors talked of some injury which his head had received, but the time
he had been in the water was long enough to account for death--and Nat
realised, with feelings which cannot be described, that another had
gained the fate he had desired. For an instant he saw the dead form on
a shutter, and then, in its turn, it was carried past him and away. And
then, as the crowd of people hastened after it, he knew that Tina
Gillan was standing by his side. He had felt her touch on his arm, and
recognised it; and, as he turned his head, he saw her face.
She was strangely attired, in a black silk evening dress, with necklace
and bracelets upon her neck and arms, and over these things a black
cloak lined with fur, which hung loose except where it was fastened at
her throat; whilst an old black hat had been flung upon her hair, which
was elaborately arranged, and glistening with pins of golden filigree.
It did not seem strange to Nat that he should find her at his side--he
was too much bewildered to be surprised that night--nor, considering
the sight on which she had been looking, could he be amazed at the
expression of her face--her eyes wide and wild, her cheeks and forehead
twitching, whilst her limbs shook so that she could scarcely keep upon
her feet. She clung to his arm, and kept muttering to him to ‘take her
away from the river, to take her away from it,’ and, himself in such a
condition that he was scarcely able to obey her, he half clung to her,
half supported her to the streets. At the bridge he stood still, but
fresh restlessness seized on her, and her low voice began muttering in
his ear again.
‘Take me away from the river. I cannot bear to see it. I am going mad.
Take me away from it.’
Yielding to her impulse, he went with her down a street, not knowing
where to take her, or where to go himself, save that she kept
muttering that he was to ‘take her from the water,’ and that the
horror of the water seemed to accompany them--the river with its
darkness, and streams of quivering light, its black foundry arch, and
dark, strange swarm of men. He paused at length, however, in a
dimly-lighted street, and attempted to gather his strength and speak to
her; his voice sounded hoarse and horrible to himself, he had never
imagined it could have such a sound. But, although he was almost
unnerved by the tightening clutch of her fingers, he was able at least
to say a few words audibly. ‘Tell me what I am to do, Miss Tina, tell
me what I am to do. I will take you wherever you like. Where must I
go.’
Tina only muttered, ‘Take me away from the river-side. I cannot bear
it. Take me right away from it.’
He saw that she was not in a condition to be still, and moving again,
went with her down the street, the horrible throbbings of his heart and
limbs becoming in some degree less overpowering as he moved. The street
was dimly lighted; there were not many people; no one seemed to pay any
attention to them. They crossed it, and turned into another that was
smaller, darker, with a long dark line of wall on one side of it; it
was close to the railway, and he could hear the rush of some distant
train going onwards through the night. He made for the wall, scarcely
knowing why he did so, and leant against it, whilst she clung by his
side. It was dark there, and silent, and no light shone upon them; the
street was deserted, there were no passers-by.
‘Well, are you satisfied?’ cried Tina, springing from him, and yet
clutching the front of his jacket with her hands. ‘You have killed my
brother. I have seen it. He is dead. Are you satisfied now? Have you
had your will with us?’
He could feel the clutch of her fingers on his jacket, as he had been
feeling their grasp upon his arm; the thrill seemed to stir him from
his head to his feet, and to take away from him all power to answer
her. But she wished for no answer, her voice went on speaking rapidly,
its wild tone quivering like a cry that is suppressed.
‘Do you know what has happened to me?’ she said quickly, with a laugh.
‘I’ve been turned off this evening from my uncle’s house. Dismissed
like a beggar! He would not even see me. He says I may go to London,
and amuse myself there again. Ha! ha! I’ll shame him,’ cried Tina, as
she ground her teeth together. ‘I’ll let no one forget that I am his
sister’s child.’
Her terrible passion, her wild eyes, grinding teeth, would have been
dreadful enough under any circumstances--they were unspeakably horrible
with her brother’s death so recent, uttered with such vehemence in the
dark, silent night. Nat tried to speak, but his faltered words, ‘Miss
Tina,’ were swept away almost before he had uttered them. And still
she kept clinging and clutching at his jacket, as if but for its
support she would have fallen on the ground.
‘Ha! ha! I’ll shame him, see if I don’t,’ cried Tina. ‘I’ll do harm to
him, and I’ll do injury to you! It was your mother came to the house
this evening, and was clever enough to bring us all to ruin. You
haven’t spared me. You have told about the letter. I couldn’t expect
that you would be good to me. I’ll hurt you. I will. You have brought
us to destruction. My brother is dead .... he is dead .... and you
shall die!’
‘Miss Tina,’ cried Nat, and his breath was lost in sobs. That seemed to
startle her; for a moment she was quiet. Seizing on that instant, he
wrestled with his agitation so as just to be able to speak--he could do
no more than that.
‘Before God, Miss Tina, I’ve done no harm to thee. I’ve not said a word
o’ ye, not to t’ Squire. If my mother knew anything as she’ve told to
your uncle, I don’t know who she knew it from--it’s not from me. I’ve
been beaten and shamed. I’ve been turned out from my place. They say
I’ve stole money. I don’t know the rights of it. I went down to t’
river to-night to drown mysel’. There isn’t no hope in all t’ world for
me. But I can’t bear to see ye .... so alone .... so left alone ....’
the sobs caught his breath, so that he could scarcely speak .... ‘I’ve
got three shillen .... if ye will take ’em from me ... it’ll be the
last thing as I can do for ye.’
He took out the money, and she took it in her hand, and then let it
drop through her fingers to the ground. The clink of the money sounded
strange in the night. They did not speak to each other. They scarcely
seemed to breathe. And then, with a passionate movement, she threw her
arms round him, and broke out into weeping, with her head upon his
breast.
‘Poor Nat!’ she cried out to him, ‘Nat, Nat--poor Nat!--and so you
would be giving your last poor coins to me. I don’t want them, dear. I
can get work to do in London. I won’t do more hurt to you, who are the
only friend I have. Nat, I will confess to you. I opened the Squire’s
letter, although I knew it was wrong--I did, I did!--And the bank note
dropped out, and I never noticed it, until I had fastened the letter
and given it to you. I’m a wicked girl. I didn’t care if I did you
harm--I wanted to see what Mr Lee wrote of James and me .... and now
James is .... dead .... and I’m a wanderer again, and I must go to
London, and live by my singing there .... I must stay here to-night
.... though I know that James is dead .... I knew it from the first
.... he is dead .... oh, he is dead .... and then I will get away from
this place and the river--and you will never see me, or hear of me
again.’
After a while, still clinging to him, ‘I will write to the Squire,
and send him the note. It doesn’t hurt _now_ if I do harm to myself,
and if I tell him the truth I hope it will do you good .... And you
mustn’t think hardly of me, poor, foolish .... though I have been
naughty, and have led you into wrong .... I must kiss your hand ....
oh, I cannot help my crying .... I want to tell you that you have been
kind to me .... Oh, don’t tremble so much, dear, I cannot bear to feel
it .... I have no other friend in the world .... good-bye, good-bye
....’ Blind, suffocated, almost past all consciousness, he felt that
she slipped from his arms, and then she was gone.
An hour later, in intensest midnight blackness, through which the
lights in the streets shone at intervals, Nat found his way through the
night-time, with faltering footsteps, as one scarce waked from a dream.
He must find his sister, his mother, and give them what help he could;
in time he might be able to think how to help himself. The great bell
had tolled, and now every bell was ringing .... he must get back to the
river .... he went on through the night.