CHAPTER IX.

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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