He had been away on a lovely summer evening’s ramble into the quiet of the country. He had been verse-making or verse-polishing, and was in a high state of mental exaltation when he reached the darkened main street of the town about ten o’clock. He turned the corner, and walked straight into the arms of a woman, who hugged him with a drunken ardour. Her breath was fiery with gin, and the coarsely-sweet scent of it filled him with an impulse of loathing.
‘Let go,’ said Paul
‘Deed I’ll not let go,’ the woman answered, in a drunken voice. ‘Ye’re just sent here be Providence to see a poor lonely little craychure home.’
‘Let go,’ said Paul again; but she clung and laughed, and, in a sudden spasm of downright horror, he put out more strength than he guessed, and wrenched himself free. The woman tottered backwards, swayed for an instant, and then fell. The back of her head came into sharp contact with the corner of the wall. She lay quite still, and Paul grew frightened. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘take my hand. Let me help you up.’ He had not expected her to answer, but her continued silence seemed dreadful. He kneeled to look closely into her face. She was quite young—not more than two or three and twenty at the outside—and she had a quantity of light auburn hair, which, though untidy, had a soft beauty of its own. Her eyes were closed, and her face was white. ‘Now, don’t lie there pretending to be killed,’ said Paul, in an unsteady voice. She made no movement, and he rose and looked about him in dismay.
There was not a creature in the street, and the public lamps were never lighted in the summer-time. A long way off the windows of a gin-shop cast a light upon the road, and nearer, on the opposite side, a red lamp burned. With a lingering glance of fear and pity at the recumbent figure, Paul sped towards the red lamp as fast as he could lift a leg. In his agitation he gave such a tug at the bell that it clanged like a fire-alarm. The doctor’s assistant, a dashing young gentleman whom Paul knew from afar, and who was remarkable to him chiefly for an expensive taste in clothing, came briskly to the door.
‘There’s a woman at the corner,’ said Paul, ‘badly hurt; I thought it best to let you know.’
The assistant snatched a hat from the hall table, and came out at once.
‘Where is she?’
Paul pointed, and they ran together. The assistant had the quicker turn of speed, and reached the corner first. He was kneeling beside the woman when Paul reached him.
‘Got a handkerchief?’ he asked