CHAPTER XXXIV
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.