THE DARK-STREET MYSTERY.

South Canterbury Times, Issue 5023, 3 June 1889, Page 4

THE DARK-STREET MYSTERY.

LITERATURE

A DOCTOR’S STORY. CHAPTEE IV. It was a straige, tragic scene upon which I had chanced. No grimmer drama than this had been played al Breymouth Theatre —no greater coup de theatre had been carried out on the boards than this sudden death of Noah Nash, the comedian. Never were men and women more completely taken aback ; they had played many parts of the kind; looked down upon many mimic deaths, and formed living tableaux of despair, astonishment, and confusion thereat j but the real thing had turned them to stone. It was so very unlike play-acting; there was something so striking in the silence and the intensity of it all ; everybody ior a while was so still j the humming and the whistling of the gasladders and battens were the only sounds in the theatre, keeping time to the wind and rain which were rioting without doors. Mr Kench was the first to break the silence ; everybody Lad waited for him ; he was stagemanager. ... He stood with his hands in his empty pockets, and apostrophised the dead man.

‘Poor Nash!’ he murmured. ‘I didn’t think you were so near the end of it all, old boy, when you stood four of Scotch over the way just now, and we both drank good luck to the benefit. Poor old boy, lam sor ’ And Mr Kench grew very husky, turned away his head, and walked to the side-wings, as though his part was ended.

Meanwhile the actors and actresses continued to stare at Noah Nash. ‘ I wonder whai on earth Kencb will do ? ’ remarked at last a stout gentleman in long black ringlets and a green cotton velvet jacket very much out ot repair. ‘ He’ll have to chuck the show up till Easter —and a blazing good job too,’ muttered the low comedian, and a very low comedian he was. 1 I’m beastly sick of it all round, and that’s straight.’ Nobody was affected by this statement. What Mr Tanks was beastly sick of was not a matter of primary importance just then. ‘ What’s to be done, Mr Lissamer ? ’ said Mr Kench, returning to my side. ‘ What’s the next thing 7 ’ ‘ The case must be reported to the Registrar. There will be an inquest.’ ‘ Can’t you give a certificate ? ’ f I’m afraid I cannot.’ ‘ Ah ! 1 suppose not,’ said Mr Kesch. * Weil, we must pick him up, and pack him back to bis lodgings, and—and— telegraph to his daughters. I suppose they’ll come down and bury him ; Delia will—that is, if she can afford it. A good, sharp, clever girl, Delia—something of her father’s shrewdness in her. This is a hard slap in the face for her'—a blow, sir.’ 1 And for her sister P ’

‘Ob, yea—most likely, I should say. Although Hyacintha and her father did not agree very well together. Hum girl, Hyacintha. She takes after the mother, you know.’ I did not know, but I said ‘ Indeed,’ by way of comment to this. ‘ Not a bad sort either —but a’devil of a temper. Women do have tempers sometimes. Goah ! ’ he exclaimed, as though a vision of a certain female with a temper which had tried him —could it be that of the late Mrs Kench ? had suddenly risen up before him. Half an-hour afterwards, and Noah Nash was lying very still and stark in a miserable little bed-room down a narrow turning between the theatre and the quay, a place much Irequented by the poorest class ol fishermen. Mr Kench did not leave me—or I did not leave Mr Kench—till the comedian was lying in his o.vn room. Then we looked at each other, as if to ask what was to be done next, and who was to do it P

It was no business of mine, and Mr Noah Nash had been no irienci of mine ; but the utter desolateness of the dead man seemed to impress me strangely. Sudden death was no uncommon way of slipping out of the world ; at times it bad even struck me that it was an easy and merciful method of shaking off the ills that flesh is heir to. I had seen much of it ; but the death ol Mr Nash was an event in my life, and already a part of it. The two daughters in London—one clever, and one a cripple—waiting to hear from him, dreaming not of the calamity that had occurred at Breymoutb, perhaps praying for him at that very moment, were all parts of my own story. The two daughters ot Dark Street, what wore they doing that memorable night ? I held the torn scrap of paper towards Mr Kench, who had become very thoughtful within the last quarter of an hour.

‘ls that where the Misses Nash live ? ’ I asked.

He took the paper from me, and fumbled in both waistcoat-pockets with shaking hands. ‘ I cannot read without my glasses, which I have mislaid somewhere. Tut, tut! Whore the deuce can I have put theta ? Never mind,’ he said, returning the fragment of paper to me; ‘ what does it say ? ’ • 99, Dark Street.’ £ The girls have just moved there, I suppose,’ was the answer. ‘ Noah was speaking of their making a change this evening.’ ‘ Where is Dark Street 7 ’

‘ Somewhere in Camberwell, I think he told mb,* Mr Kench said, ‘ But dashed if I quite remember,’ ‘'ll will be necessary to telegraph to his daughters.’ ‘ Yea,’ said Mr Kench dolefully, and his hands went involuntarily into his hrecehes-f ockets again. ‘ It is tpo late tonight.’ ‘The first thing in the morning. Will you see to this 7 ’ Mr Kench jingled a hunch of keys in his pocket. ‘ Look hera, Mr Lissamer,’ ho blurted forth; ‘ I may as well give you

the straight tip. Things are not with me what they seem. I’m up a tree — clean stone-broke till Easter. I pawned every available and pawnable article to meet the gas bill—even my goldmounted eye-glasses ; that’s why I couldn’t read, just now, that bit o£ paper. If I begin telegraphing, I telegraph my dinner away to-raorrow. 1 would do anything if I could, but I can’t.

‘lam sorry to hear of your disf Oh, it’ll be all right at Easter,’ he said confidently. ‘ Everybody knows that ; and the company sticks by me like trumps, till the ghost walks again. That poor fellow lying there hasn’t had a penny out of the business for the last five weeks. God knows how he has managed to live—hut he had faith. He knew I should pay him in time—l always did : everybody knows John Kench. He’s thorough. Ask anybody you like in the prolession—or out of it either —they’ll tell you the same tale.’

* I am sorry,’ I began again ; ‘ but it’s ’ ‘ But it’s no business of yours. Ot course not,’ he said, interrupting me ; ‘ I was just going to say as much myself.’

‘ I was not going to say that.’ ‘ You have every right, sir. Pray don’t apologise,’ he ran on in the same voluble way, and I began to wonder whether he had had more than ‘four of Scotch’ with the late Noah Nash that evening. ‘ Men of talent are reduced to this pitiful pass more often than the world is aware. There is not a finer company than ours in England—of its size. It’s a star company ; but Breymouth does not encourage stars. Noah was a star in his line, and if he had taken my advice a little more often, he would have made more headway. There is not a bad actor in our lot—though I say it myself.’ 1 thought of Noah Nash’s disparaging criticism on the gentleman thus blowing vigorously at his own trumpet, but I listened respectfully. Something was to come of all this flourishing, I thought. And it came with his next eloquent outburst. (To be Continued .)