The Gambling Man

had never called him darling. She had said she loved him, that was all. But there was more to love than that, there was a language. Charlotte knew the language. Charlotte . . . Should he fight the pain, try to stay? He could hardly breathe . . . If only they’d give him something.

He closed his eyes for a second; when he opened them again he was looking at Lizzie. There was something in her face that was in none of the others. What was it? Why had he hated her so? It seemed so stupid now. Why had he blamed her as he had done? If there had been anybody to blame it was his father. Where was his father? He was surrounded by women. Where was his father? Where was Jimmy? They’d said Jimmy was near. Jimmy was all right. And his father? His father had a bad leg; his father had been burnt at the blast furnace . . . He had been burnt . . . Burnt. Burnt. He was back in the boathouse gasping, struggling. The floor was giving way. He slid Jimmy from his shoulder. He was getting out, he was getting out . . .

‘He’s asleep again. Leave him be, let him rest.’ Lizzie moved from the bed as she spoke, and Ruth followed her, leaving Janie and Charlotte standing one on each side.

Janie looked down on the man whose face was contorted with agony. She did not see him as the virile young man she had married, nor yet as the boy she had grown up with, but she saw him as the stranger, dressed as a gentleman, who had con­fronted her in the boathouse. Not even when he had looked into her eyes and recognized her a moment ago had she glimpsed the old Rory, but had seen him as someone who had transported himself into an­other world and made that world fit him—and having won that world, so to speak, and being Rory Connor, he was determined to hang on to his winnings.

She was the first to turn away from the bed. She knew she had looked at the face on the pillow for the last time and she could not, even to herself, describe how she felt.

As Charlotte watched her walking towards the door she was amazed that the turmoil in her mind had disappeared; she was feeling no jealousy against this girl now, no hate. Amazingly she was experienc­ing a feeling of pity for her. As Lizzie had said, put yourself in her place; she was the one who had been rejected.

She bent over Rory now and, the tears blinding her, she gently wiped the sweat from his face, murmuring all the while, ‘Oh my dearest, my dearest.’

When the door opened and Jessie entered she said brokenly, ‘I . . . I won’t be a moment. If the master should wake call me immediately,’ and Jessie whispered, ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and took her seat beside the bed once more.

On the landing she stood for a moment drying her face and endeavouring to overcome the choking sensation that was rising from the anguish in her heart, as it cried, ‘Oh Rory, what am I to do without you? Oh my darling, how am I to go on now? Don’t leave me. Please, please don’t leave me.’ Yet as she descended the stairs she knew it was a hopeless cry.

In the hall she showed her surprise when she saw Ruth in her cape and tying on her bonnet. Going to her, she murmured, ‘You’re not leaving? You, you can’t . . .’

Ruth swallowed deeply before she said, ‘Just for . . . for a short while; I’m takin’ Janie back home. And there’s me husband, he’s got to be seen to. He can do nothing with his leg as it is. I’ll be back later in the mornin’.’

‘I’ll call the carriage for you then.’ There was a stiffness in her tone.

‘That would be kind.’

‘But why?’ Charlotte was now looking at Ruth with a deeply puzzled expression. ‘I . . . I should have thought you’d have let Lizzie go back and take care of things . . . Being his mother, you would have—’ she paused as Ruth, nodding at her now, put in quietly, ‘Aye, yes, I know what you’re thinkin’, it’s a mother’s place to be at her son’s side at a time like this. Well, he’ll have his mother with him. For you see, lass, I’m not his mother, ’tis Lizzie.’

‘What!’ The exclamation was soft. ‘Yes, ’tis Lizzie who’s his mother.’

‘But . . . but I don’t understand. He’s never, I mean he’s got such a regard for you, I’m . . .’

‘Aye, it is a bit bewilderin’ and it’s a long story, but put simply, me husband gave Lizzie a child when she was but seventeen. Rory regarded me as his mother for years and when he found out I wasn’t and it was Lizzie who had borne him he turned against her. I’m not surprised that you didn’t know. It’s something very strange in his nature that he should be ashamed of her, for she’s a good woman, and she’s suffered at his hands. I shouldn’t say it at this stage, but to be fair I must; many another would have turned on him as he did on her, but all she did was give him the length of her tongue. Her heart remained the same towards him always. She’s a good woman is Lizzie . . . So there it is, lass, that’s the truth of it. Well, I’ll be away now, but I’ll be back.’

When the door had closed on her Charlotte remained standing. The hall to herself, she looked about it; then in a kind of bewilderment she walked down the step into the office and, sitting behind the desk, she put her forearms on it and patted the leather top gently with her fingers. He had admitted to her the theft of the five pounds; he had told her everything about himself; he had confessed his weaknesses, and boasted of his strength; yet he had kept the matter of his birth to himself as if it were a shameful secret. Why? Why couldn’t he have told her this? She felt a momentary hurt that he should have kept it from her. She had wondered at times at him calling his mother, Ruth. He had appeared very fond of the gentle-voiced, quiet little woman, even proud of her. And yet of the two women she was the lesser in all ways, body, brain, intelligence. She remembered that Rory had once referred to Lizzie as ignorant, and she had replied that she should imagine her ignorance was merely the lack of opportunity for her mind always seemed lively.

It was strange, she thought in this moment, that he could never have realized that all the best in him stemmed from Lizzie—for now she could see he was a replica of her, in bulk, character, obstinacy, bumptiousness . . . loving. Her capacity for loving was even greater than his, for, having been rejected, she had gone on loving.

There came a knock on the door and when she said, ‘Come in,’ it opened and Lizzie stood on the threshold.

‘I was wondering where you were, I couldn’t see you. You mustn’t sit by yourself there broodin’, it’ll do no good. Come on now out of this.’

Like a child obeying a mother, Charlotte rose from the chair and went towards Lizzie. Then standing in front of her, she looked into her eyes and said quietly, ‘I’ve just learned that you’re his mother. Oh, Lizzie. Lizzie.’

‘Aye.’ Lizzie’s head was drooping. ‘I’m his mother an’ he’s always hated the fact, but nevertheless, it was something he could do nowt about. I am what I am, and he was all I had of me own flesh and blood an’ I clung to him; even when he threw me off I clung to him.’

‘Oh, Lizzie, my dear.’ When she put her arms around Lizzie, Lizzie held her tightly against her breast, and neither of them was capable of further words, but they cried together.

It was three days later when Rory died. He was unconscious for the last twelve hours and the final faint words he spoke had been to Charlotte, ‘If it’s a lad, call him after me,’ he murmured.

She didn’t know how she forced herself to whisper, ‘And if it should be a girl?’

He had looked at her for some time before he gasped, ‘I’ll . . . I’ll leave that to you.’

It was odd but she had hoped he would have said, ‘Name her Lizzie,’ for then it would have told her of his own peace of mind, but he said, ’I’ll leave it to you.’ His very last words were, ‘Thank you, my dear . . . for everything.’

Through a thick mist she gazed down on to the face of the man who had brought her to life, who had made her body live, and filled it with new life—his life. She was carrying him inside of her; he wasn’t dead; her Rory would never die.

When she fainted across his inert body they thought for a moment that she had gone with him.

7

Rory’s funeral was such that might have been accorded to a prominent member of the town for the sympathy of the town had been directed towards him through the newspaper reports of how he had been fatally injured in saving his brother from the blazing building, and the likelihood that charges, not only of arson, but of murder or manslaughter as well, would soon be made against local men now being questioned by the police.

No breath of scandal. No mention of former wife reappearing.

Other reports gave the names of the town’s notable citizens who had attended the funeral. Mr Frank Nickle’s name was not on it. Mr Nickle had been called abroad on business.

Two of the Pittie brothers had already been taken into custody. The police were hunting the third. And there were rumours that one of the brothers was implicating others, whose names had not yet been disclosed. Not only