FOUND DROWNED.
THREE days after Rodney's disappearance, Bessie was sitting at an
apple-stall in her old place by the landing-stages, when the news ran
along the line of basket-women that the body of a drowned man had just
been brought ashore at one of the wharves near at hand. Bessie's heart
sank within her. There had been no tidings of Rodney since the evening
she had first missed him, though she had sought everywhere for him; and
she recollected too well the threat he had often made of putting an end
to his life. She felt sick and giddy at the mere thought of recognizing
him in this drowned man, yet she left her basket and stall in charge
of a neighbour, and ran in search of the crowd which would be sure to
gather about the ghastly object.
Bessie pushed through the circle of bystanders, and looked down on the
dripping form lying upon the stones. The face was livid and disfigured,
and the scanty hair was smooth and dark; yet it was like him, so like
him that Bessie fell upon her knees beside him, sobbing passionately.
"Oh! I know him!" she cried. "He saved me from being drowned once, and
now he's gone and drowned himself. Oh! I wish he could be brought to
life again! Is he quite dead? Are you sure he's quite dead?"
"He's been in the water two or three days," said one of the lookers-on,
speaking to another who stood near.
"Oh! Then, it must be him!" sobbed Bessie. "It must be him. It's three
days since little Nelly set herself on fire while he was drunk; and he
went and drowned himself. He used to say he'd do it, and I hindered
him. Why wasn't I there to hinder him again?"
"Are you his daughter?" asked a policeman.
"No, I was nothing to him," answered Bessie, "only he saved me from
being drowned when I was a little girl. He ought never to have come to
this; he oughtn't. He was a good man, and as kind as kind could be when
he was himself. Oh! Why wasn't I here, Mr. Rodney, when you came to
drown yourself?"
"Do you know where his family lives?" asked the policeman again.
"He hasn't got any family now," said Bessie, with fresh tears; "his
wife died at Easter, and little Nelly is dying in the hospital. They
say they think she'll die to-day, but I'm to go again this evening.
He's got nobody but a mother down in the country thirty miles away; and
as soon as I can walk it, I was going to tell her about Nelly; and now
there 'll be this to tell her as well. And he was such a good man once."
"You must tell me where you live," said the policeman; "we shall want
you on the inquest, you know."
"Oh, yes," she answered, "but I haven't got any more to tell. Only I
was very fond of him and Nelly, I was."
She rose from her knees and wiped her eyes, watching them earnestly as
they carried the corpse into a small public-house near at hand, where
it was not unwelcome, as it brought custom to the bar. The next morning
she gave her evidence at the inquest, and the corpse was buried as that
of John Rodney. Bessie gave up the key of the house, which she had kept
in her possession; and the few poor articles of furniture in it were
sold by the landlord to pay the rent that was due to him.
In the meantime, and for several weeks after, Rodney lay on the verge
of death, crazy and delirious with brain-fever. His wretched life hung
upon a thread, and only the marvellous skill and patience of those
about him could have saved it. Nothing was known of him, and when the
delirium was over, his mind and memory were at first too weak for him
to give any account of himself.
As recollection returned and conscience awoke, he kept silence,
brooding over the terrible history of the past. There were time and
opportunity now, during the long hours, day and night, while he lay
enfeebled, but sober, calling up one by one all the memories of his sad
life. He knew that he should be compelled to live now, and compelled
to enter upon the desolate future, with its sore burden of remorse and
shame. He vowed to himself that if ever he went out into the streets
again, where temptations beset him on every hand, nothing should induce
him to fall again into sin.
When the time came for him to leave, he was asked where his home was,
and what he intended to do. Rodney's white and sunken face flushed a
little as he answered, "I've no home now," he said. "I had one once as
good as a man could wish for. I earned good wages, and I'd a dear wife
and little children to meet me when I came in from my day's work. But
I threw it all away for drink. All my children are dead—the last that
died was little Nelly. And my poor wife is dead, thank God! I've nobody
in the world belonging to me, save my old mother, and I've broken her
heart. I think I'll go home to her; I know she'll take me in."
With half-a-crown to pay his fare down to his mother's house in the
country, Rodney left the infirmary, and found himself once more in the
familiar streets, with their common, everyday sounds and sights, and
their gin-palaces thrusting themselves upon his notice at every other
minute of his progress through them.
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