CHAPTER XXX
BY THE RIVER IN THE NIGHT
AND now let us attempt to realise his position—the position of Nat, alone, and in the night, condemned, chastised, his teeth ground in helpless fury, dismissed from his employment, and left henceforth to contempt. The first few instants were like delirium, he knew not what he did or what he meant to do, until his head struck against one of the shadowy trunks of the trees, and the pain of the blow restored him to himself. He was not quite certain that he had not tried to hurt himself, but it had been only a half-conscious action, at any rate, and he was conscious now. With his hands raised to his head to still the pain and throbbing, he leant against the tree in the darkness, and he thought.
‘He says I am afraid,’ said Nat, ‘afraid—afraid.’
He did not think any longer. He gathered himself together, and found his way as he could amongst the trees—as he could, because the night was of more than usual darkness, and the singing in his brain still almost blinded him. But every moment seemed to restore his consciousness—a strange consciousness of a purpose that held him tenaciously. By the next night, or even before the morning came, they would not be able to say that he was afraid to act. They would be sorry, nothing else would make them sorry, but when he had done this they would be sorry then. And he would do it before more time was over; in one way or another, it would not be difficult.
If anything had been needed to keep his purpose firm it would have been the continual smart of pain, which stung him perpetually to unbearable frenzy, and rendered him physically almost unfit to walk. He got out, however, from the trees to the road; and as his head grew quieter, and it became more possible to see, he could look down upon the gloom that lay in front of him, and two station-lamps shining like eyes through the night. He was trembling with pain, but he could not make any pause, he would go on quickly until it all was done.
Oh, how would it have been possible for him to go back to his mother, the mother who despised him, who had never cared for him? She would be sorry now that she had not loved him like his sister. He was glad that he would vex her, that she would be grieved for him at last. All sorts of strange sounds were floating through his brain, but he had not time to attend to them, not time. If only no one appeared on the road to interrupt him, he felt that he would be driven to madness if there were any obstacle.
No! the night was dark, there was no one on the road, the trees and the roofs of the village were confused into gloom; only, far to the left, beyond long miles of darkness, the lights of the city shone upon the hill. He would not go round by the pathway to the station, for fear lest he might still meet some passer-by, but climbed into the wide field, shadowy in the night-time, and ran across it with footsteps that were noiseless on the grass. By the station he climbed into the road again; the station-lights were bright on the lines and the canal, and he was almost afraid to cross the railway, for fear lest he should be seen and recognised. But in the station there was no visible human being; he crossed the lines quickly, and was not stopped or disturbed; and, going through the little white gate upon the path, he stood in front of the river, flowing onwards through the night. The sight was a shock, and brought his heart into his throat, but he had made up his mind, and he would not be frightened now.
He stood on the path, and thought—before him were many lights, the lights of the distant city, and the signal-lights on the way, whilst a steady glow from the station signal-box cast the shadows of window-bars along the path. He could not help being afraid that he might be seen by the signal-man; and, in any case, the path to the town was too public a place for him; so he found his way round to the rougher path and grass on the other side of the signal-box, and crept along beneath the platform of the station, which was raised to some height above the river-bank. All was dim and confused; but lights shone from the station, and he wished to get quite away from any light, so he went creeping onwards till he was beyond the platform, and the distant country lay in gloom and stillness. There again he paused; behind him were brilliant lights, but he looked only once at them, and then turned his face away; he preferred the dark country with confused outlines of trees, and the wan river flowing between banks shadowy in the night. He must make preparations—he took comforter and handkerchief, in order that he might bind with them his ankles and hands; he could not swim, but he thought it possible that he might struggle, and he wished to render it certain that no struggles could save his life. Ah! the sound of footsteps! with his ankles bound together, he lay down on the grass that he might not be seen. Some men must be passing upon the railway-bank above; they would go by directly, and then his task would soon be done. But the men did not pass, they lingered to end their conversation, and through the darkness their voices reached to him.
*****
‘I say, Jim,’ it was the voice of our old acquaintance, Bill, ‘I can go on tellin’ ’ee now as there’s no one near to hear. I wish as I’d not got this bit job to do, or I’d ’a followed Mrs Salter to the town. It did make me skeared to see her white an’ bruised, an’ not a man near her to give help to her.’
After a while; ‘I says to her, says I, “Mrs Salter, an’ where be ye goin’ upon this stormy night?” an’ she says, “Don’t stop me, I’m goin’ on to t’ town, to see ’em as has harmed my chil’en, that they may give account to me. I’ll help my chil’en,” she cried, an’ she bursted out in tears. (I can’t bear t’ wimmin’s cryin’,’ added Bill, in parenthesis). ‘“He may push me agen t’ wall an’ say he’ll kill me, but I’ll foller him to t’ town, an’ see him there.”’
Again after a while, ‘I says to her, “Mrs Salter, an’ aren’t ye a bit afraid o’ being kilt?” but she cries out to me, “Oh, you’ve not had no children, or ye wouldn’t know what it was to be afraid. They’re as dear to me one as the t’other,” she says, all a-cryin’ still, “they’ve lain in my arms, an’ I’ve fed ’em from my breast; they’re my lad an’ my girl, though t’ world cries shame on ’em; an’ I’d sooner be kilt mysel’ than do nought to help ’em now.” An’ I says to her, “Go, then, Mrs Salter, though I don’t understan’ what ye mean; go then, if ye must, an’ t’ Lord be wid’ ye as ye go!” an’ she seemed to rush past me, she was in such a takin’; an’ she went down t’ river path, an’ away into t’ night. I hope as she’ll come to no harm, though I be skeared, for she seem so alone i’ t’ darkness, wi’ no one near to help. She be a good mother, she be, poor Jenny Salter, though t’ lass an’ t’ lad have not done well by her.’
*****
The voices had died away along the path, and the sound of the footsteps too had died away, when the boy, who had been prostrate upon the grass beneath, rose up in the darkness, and sat upon the ground. There was no light by which his features could be seen, or that light might have shone upon an altered face. He only knew that his eyes were full of tears, and that through that blindness there shone a newer life. With steady hands he undid the bandage he had tied, and arranged his comforter once more round his neck—his life should have steadier purposes in future than that of obeying and following his own insanity. With tearful eyes, but without any articulate confession, he let himself kneel for an instant on the grass; and, then, with a heart full of the strength that turns remorse to penitence, he prepared to follow his mother to the town. It should not be in vain—oh! it should not be in vain—that he had heard those words which he felt were meant for him. It might yet be possible to find his mother in the darkness; and when he had found her he would stay with her.
No doubt it would have been better if poor Jenny could have had her son by her side during her lonely walk in the night-time, but nearly an hour had passed now since her light footsteps made soft echoes on the path between the river and the town. She had gone on through darkness, looking straight in front of her, as if her glance could embrace the distant city, with a far more definite purpose than might have been imagined from her slight figure, and fixed, straining eyes. The darkness was nothing, pain and weariness were nothing, the throbbing of the bruise on her head, or the loneliness of night, she might remember these things when they were over, but at present they were scarcely able to touch her consciousness. In one way or another she would save her children; after that it would not matter what became of her.