They entered the room which fronted them on the landing. The thick stench of tobacco-smoke, mingled with the fumes of ale and whisky, almost overpowered them. The room would have been quite dark had it not been for the flickering remnants of two candles, which still glared in the heated sockets of a large old-fashioned branch candlestick. James went to the window, opened the shutters, and let down the sash. The glorious sunshine streamed into the reeking apartment, with the blessed air of the Sabbath. How strange—how painful was the paling glimmer of those expiring candles in that holy light! The three young men were lying on the floor at some distance from each other, around the legs of a crazy table in the centre of the room. On the table were huddled together the fragments of salt herrings, the parings of cheese, broken glasses, half-emptied decanters, and the other usual paraphernalia of a low debauch. The whole meaning of the scene was taken in at a glance by James Kavanagh, as soon as he had opened the window. He stooped over one of the prostrate forms—it was that of Richard. He turned up the face—great God! it was the face of a livid corpse! A smothered groan burst from James: he rushed towards the next—Matt Kavanagh was dead also, quite dead and stiff! James and his friends looked at each other solemnly, and without speaking a word. They turned their glance simultaneously to the place where Gerald was lying. They moved or rather tottered to the spot. There he lay, with Alice in a swoon beside him, his eyes glazed, the skin of his face tightened over his nose and cheek-bones, his lips covered with viscid froth, and his beautiful brown hair tossed backwards from his damp forehead, glistening in a streak of sunshine which came full upon it from the window. “He is alive still!” they all three exclaimed: “he may yet be saved!”
One of them ran to the window and made a sign to the neighbours to come in. The room was soon full of horrified spectators.
They parted Alice from her dying brother, and both were brought out into the open air as quickly as possible.
Amidst the cries and lamentations of the bystanders Alice recovered. She sat for a while on the grass, trying to recall her scattered senses. The sight of Gerald lying near her, as the crowd opened to admit the air to his face with a freer freshness, brought the whole terrible truth to her mind. She rose with difficulty, but, gathering strength with recollection, she succeeded in breaking from the woman who had her in charge, and in a moment the head of Gerald was pillowed upon her bosom.
The soft cooling breeze had restored the unfortunate boy to a momentary consciousness. He was barely able to turn his head towards Alice in recognition of their presence. A faint pleasure was expressed in his glassy eyes as he did so.
“Won’t you speak to me, Gerald? Won’t you speak to your own Alley?”
The boy shook with a convulsive shudder, but could not utter a syllable.
“Don’t die, dear Gerald; don’t leave poor Alley all alone in the world! Och, och, och!” said the little girl in the very agony of childish despair, “he’ll never be the same again—he’ll never speak to me again!”
The boy made an effort to bring Alice’s ear to his clammy lips; she strove to hear the almost inarticulate whisper which hovered upon them.
“Is—uncle James—here?” gasped the dying lad; “tell him—I—couldn’t—help it! Oh! Alley! oh!”