“I’ve a card somewhere as will tell me,” she answered, and the man, partly relieved, jumped into the boat, which was now pushing off to make way for the arrivals from some steamer.
Mary felt in her pocket for the card, on which was written the name of the street where she was to have met Mr. Bridgnorth at two o’clock; where Job and Mrs. Wilson were to have been, and where she was to have learnt from the former the particulars of some respectable lodging. It was not to be found.
She tried to brighten her perceptions, and felt again, and took out the little articles her pocket contained, her empty purse, her pocket-handkerchief, and such little things, but it was not there.
In fact, she had dropped it when, so eager to embark, she had pulled out her purse to reckon up her money.
She did not know this, of course. She only knew it was gone.
It added but little to the despair that was creeping over her. But she tried a little more to help herself, though every minute her mind became more cloudy. She strove to remember where Will had lodged, but she could not; name, street, everything had passed away, and it did not signify; better she were lost than found.
She sat down quietly on the top step of the landing, and gazed down into the dark, dank water below. Once or twice a spectral thought loomed among the shadows of her brain; a wonder whether beneath that cold dismal surface there would not be rest from the troubles of earth. But she could not hold an idea before her for two consecutive moments; and she forgot what she thought about before she could act upon it.
So she continued sitting motionless, without looking up, or regarding in any way the insults to which she was subjected.
Through the darkening light the old boatman had watched her: interested in her in spite of himself, and his scoldings of himself.
When the landing-place was once more comparatively clear, he made his way towards it, across boats, and along planks, swearing at himself while he did so for an old fool.
He shook Mary’s shoulder violently.
“D– you, I ask you again where you’re bound to? Don’t sit there, stupid. Where are going to?”
“I don’t know,” sighed Mary.
“Come, come; avast with that story. You said a bit ago you’d a card, which was to tell you where to go.”
“I had, but I’ve lost it. Never mind.”
She looked again down upon the black mirror below.
He stood by her, striving to put down his better self; but he could not. He shook her again. She looked up, as if she had forgotten him.
“What do you want?” asked she wearily.
“Come with me and be d—d to you!” replied he, clutching her arm to pull her up.
She arose and followed him, with the unquestioning docility of a little child.
XXIX. A TRUE BILL AGAINST JEM.
“There are who, living by the legal pen, Are held in honour—honourable men.” —CRABBE.
At five minutes before two, Job Legh stood upon the doorstep of the house where Mr. Bridgnorth lodged at Assize time. He had left Mrs. Wilson at the dwelling of a friend of his, who had offered him a room for the old woman and Mary: a room which had frequently been his, on his occasional visits to Liverpool, but which he was thankful now to have obtained for them, as his own sleeping place was a matter of indifference to him, and the town appeared crowded and disorderly on the eve of the Assizes.
He was shown in to Mr. Bridgnorth, who was writing; Mary and Will Wilson had not yet arrived, being, as you know, far away on the broad sea; but of this Job of course knew nothing, and he did not as yet feel much anxiety about their non-appearance; he was more curious to know the result of Mr. Bridgnorth’s interview that morning with Jem.
“Why, yes,” said Mr. Bridgnorth, putting down his pen, “I have seen him, but to little purpose, I’m afraid. He’s very impracticable- -very. I told him, of course, that he must be perfectly open with me, or else I could not be prepared for the weak points. I named your name with the view of unlocking his confidence, but”—
“What did he say?” asked Job breathlessly.
“Why, very little. He barely answered me. Indeed, he refused to answer some questions—positively refused. I don’t know what I can do for him.”
“Then you think him guilty, sir?” said Job despondingly.
“No, I don’t,” replied Mr. Bridgnorth, quickly and decisively. “Much less than I did before I saw him. The impression (mind, ‘t is only impression; I rely upon your caution, not to take it for fact)- -the impression,” with an emphasis on the word, “he gave me is, that he knows something about the affair, but what, he will not say; and so the chances are, if he persists in his obstinacy, he’ll be hung. That’s all.”
He began to write again, for he had no time to lose.
“But he must not be hung,” said Job with vehemence.
Mr. Bridgnorth looked up, smiled a little, but shook his head.
“What did he say, sir, if I may be so bold as to ask?” continued Job.
“His words were few enough, and he was so reserved and short, that, as I said before, I can only give you the impression they conveyed to me. I told him, of course, who I was, and for what I was sent. He looked pleased, I thought—at least his face (sad enough when I went in, I assure ye) brightened a little; but he said he had nothing to say, no defence to make. I asked him if he was guilty, then; and, by way of opening his heart, I said I understood he had had provocation enough, inasmuch as I heard that the girl was very lovely and had jilted him to fall desperately in love with that handsome young Carson (poor fellow!). But James Wilson did not speak one way or another. I then went to particulars. I asked him if the gun was his, as his mother had declared. He had not heard of
