Part 39 (1/2)

”Going over?” said the girl, with almost a sob, and at the same moment catching his wrist and holding it with both hands tightly, as he tried to withdraw it, while her nostrils seemed to distend, and her breath came heavily as she held him firmly, fearing lest her words might prompt him to the desperate leap.

”No, no, my la.s.s, no,” said Matt wearily, as he sank in a sitting posture upon the stone seat. ”I have thought of such a thing--time back; but not lately. I have thought that it would be putting an end to a weary way when one gets very footsore, and that no one would miss a poor, worn-out fellow like me; but I've thought better of it, and I'll wait till I'm called, my la.s.s. I was only thinking a bit.”

”You looked as if you meant to,” said the girl, loosing his wrist, and kneeling upon the seat in the very att.i.tude the old man had taken a short time before. ”But one can't help thinking of it sometimes, and almost feeling as if the river drew you like. It seems as if you'd go to sleep then, and wake no more. Not much to leave here, is there?” she added slowly.

Old Matt shook his head, and, leaning forward unseen by his companion, he took a firm hold of her dress, for the girl went on dreamily as she looked down on the black water.

”I saw one of our girls once; she went off Waterloo, and they got her out, and she looked so quiet and happy like. But there,” she added in a reckless, offhand way, ”I sha'n't do it, I haven't the heart. There, you needn't hold me, old man;” and she s.n.a.t.c.hed her dress from his grasp.

A deep, hollow cough checked her for a few minutes; and Matt sat in the cold recess gazing on the slight, graceful form, as the well-dressed girl knelt upon the seat--frail, fair, and apparently not twenty.

”Lend me threepence, old man!” she exclaimed suddenly, as she turned to him.

”What for?” said Matt.

”Gla.s.s of brandy,” said the girl, holding her hand pressed to her side, and then battling hard once more with her cough.

”I haven't a halfpenny left,” said Matt drearily, ”or I shouldn't be sitting here, my la.s.s. But you're better without the brandy, and there's no place open now.”

”There! I don't want your money, old man,” said the girl; ”only one gets so used to asking, it comes natural. Are you hard up?”

”Yes,” said Matt drearily, ”close as I can be.”

”Here!” she exclaimed, holding out sixpence. ”You may as well have it, as for me to take it back.”

The old man stared at his companion for a moment, and then raised his hand to take the money, but he suddenly lowered it again.

”No, my la.s.s, no,” he said; ”thank you all the same, but I can do without it.”

The girl's eyes flashed as she looked angrily at the old man, and then raising her hand, she dashed the money over the parapet, and sank down upon the seat sobbing violently.

”There!” she exclaimed pa.s.sionately, as Matt spoke soothingly to her; ”I know, and I deserve it all. I wish I was dead--I wish I was dead!”

”I didn't mean to hurt you,” said Matt kindly. ”Now go home, my la.s.s, and try and forget it.”

”Home!” said the girl, with a forced mocking laugh. ”Yes, when it's time. Good-night old man. You didn't meet Marian, did you?”

”Who?” said Matt absently.

”Marian,” said the girl; ”I'm looking for her. But you don't know her; good-night;” and she went lightly off, humming the s.n.a.t.c.h of a popular air as she went towards the City; while, after waiting until the girlish form had disappeared, old Matt rose himself and began to shuffle back the same way as he had come; looking longingly at a pa.s.sing hay-cart bound for the market, and thinking of the fragrant stack whence the load had been taken, and how pleasant it would have been to have dragged out a heap to nestle in. For the old man was cold, weary, and ill; and as he slowly shuffled along, many a thought of those who rested upon luxurious couches came to his mind. He crossed the great echoing cathedral yard, and pa.s.sed slowly from gaslight to gaslight, too weary now to talk. Now and then he would encounter a policeman, who turned to look after the slow, shambling figure. At intervals, a cab would rattle by him, while once, with its hollow, heavy rumble, a fire-engine dashed by, the light flas.h.i.+ng back from the s.h.i.+ning helmets of the firemen; then there was a short, rus.h.i.+ng vision of something red covered with figures, and drawn by two steaming, plunging horses, a faint dying away of the hurrying wheels, and then all still once more, for it was now the most silent hour of the whole twenty-four in great London. Dull and dreary looked the streets, with hardly a wayfarer in sight, and those, perhaps, women who paced wearily along or talked noisily to a companion.

But no one heeded Matt as he still shuffled onward, more than once as he pa.s.sed through Fleet-street gazing up at the gas-lit windows of the newspaper-offices.

Past Lower Series-place, looking in the dark night like the mouth of a sewer, emptying itself by the bridge--Temple Bar; past Ess.e.x-street, to stand and gaze down it for a few moments thoughtfully; past the last of the four churches, and the street leading to the ”Bridge of Sighs.”

Onward still, and then into one of those hilly lanes, up which in busy day came clattering the heavy teams of wagon--horses with their black load--down one of those river lanes along which came sighing the damp-laden winds, whispering of being lost upon the great stream, and of having wandered from the green trees, where in summer the reeds rustled, and the silver water glided past emerald banks--whispering of cooling groves, and the gladdening, sparkling, dancing wavelets, sheltered woody islets, and the sweet, pure country air; but now lost in wintry weather upon the breast of the great river,--lost, after wandering by muddy pile and slimy, horrid, loathsome drain and sullying sewer; lost, as they had swept past wharf, bridge, pier, and barge; they came in despair, weeping tears from their misty burden, sweeping amongst the gloomy houses, and causing a s.h.i.+ver as they pa.s.sed along.

For a moment some bright recollection of the past seemed to strike the old man, and he paused thoughtfully beneath a gas-lamp; but old Matt's memories of waving reed and rustling tree were few, and he sighed and pa.s.sed on, thinking only of his sought-for resting-place. Onward, and down beneath the great black yawning arch, to where he could hear voices, while above the faint damp fever-reek of the place, came the fumes of tobacco-smoke. On still, with hands outstretched to avoid collision with cart or wagon, but more than once he tripped over a shaft, as some stabled horse rattled halter or chain through the ring of its manger, and Matt sighed with envy as he thought of the warm straw.

To a miserable fire at length, with several miserable objects huddled round, and amidst jest, laughter, and foul language, a voice yelled out a verse or two of a current song, a man and woman dancing hard by, their shadows cast, wildly distorted and grotesque, upon the reeking brickwork, where they almost seemed to cling. Then, too, came that peculiar ”glug-glug” sound of liquid pa.s.sing from a bottle, and a voice shouted to the old man:

”Come on, matey; heaps o' room to-night. Give's a pipe o' baccy.”