“Now, that is too bad,” he said, speaking slowly; “too dashed bad! All sailors are decent fellows at heart, only now and then they tell stories about their wild life. All that I said about the knifing was just a tale.”
“I haven’t mind of what ye said,” Norah replied in a whisper, then in a louder voice: “Go away! do go away and leave me to myself.”
“I’m not goin’ now,” he said in a voice of reproof. “I cannot go; it’s impossible! I’ve plenty of money. Look!” He pulled a handful of gold from his pocket. “My God! I cannot leave ye now, I cannot. Why do ye want me to go away?”
Norah looked at the picture of the Virgin and shuddered as if something had stung her. Suddenly it came to her that Fate had done its worst; that evil and unhappiness had reached their supreme climax. She looked hard at her brother, a fixed and almost defiant look in her eyes, her lips set in a firmly-drawn line.
“Why do ye want me to go away?” he repeated.
“Because I’m yer sister Norah, the one that wouldn’t be grown up when ye went back.” She felt a grim, unnatural satisfaction in repeating the man’s words, and strangely enough her voice was wonderfully calm. “I made a mistake and it was all my own fault. This is how I’m livin’ now—a common woman of the streets. Now go away and leave me to myself. Fergus, I’m grown up!”
“Ye’re my sister, ye’re Norah?” said the man as the girl freed herself, almost reluctantly, from his arms. He stepped backwards, paused as if he wanted to say something, approached the door, fumbled for a moment with the knob, and went out. On the stairway he stood as if trying to collect his thoughts.
“Where am I?” he muttered. “It used to be red creepin’ things before, and besides, I’m not very drunk at present, not more than three sheets.... But the picture of the Blessed Virgin—that was funny! Fergus Ryan, A.B., are ye drunk or are ye mad? Look around ye! This is a flight of stairs, wooden steps; this is an iron railin’, that’s a window. Now, ye aren’t very drunk when ye can notice these things. That’s where the one-armed swine struck me. Now I’ll look at my watch. A quarter past nine. If I was in the D.T.’s I couldn’t tell the time. Besides, I know where I am at present. On the stairway leadin’ to a Glasgow kip-shop, and I’ve been dreamin’. No, I haven’t been dreamin’, I’m mad! Talkin’ to my sister, to Norah! One does dream funny things. She isn’t a person like that.... Seven years is a long time and a lot might happen. I’ll walk along the street to the quay and maybe the air off the river will clear me up a bit. I’ll come back here and free her from the place, for I’ve money, plenty of it.... I’m afraid of nothin’, nothin’ in the world. Why should I, me with the track of two knives in my body? But what is the use of talkin’ when I’m awfully sick with fear at this moment! God! I’ve never ran up against a thing like this in all my life before.... Have I not, though? Are they not all somebody’s sisters, some mother’s children? I’ve never thought of it in that way before. I’ll go up again.”
He reached the top and tried to push the door open. It did not budge. He put his ear to the keyhole and heard sobs, smothered as if by a hand, very near him. On the other side of the door Norah was weeping.
“That’s my sister,” he whispered hoarsely. Looking down he saw the light shining through the splintered door. A cavity through which he might pass his fist lay open before him. He put his hand in his pocket, took out several pieces of gold and shoved them into the room; then turned down the stairs and hurried out into the crowded streets.