They were dirty with prison dirt, and were as soft and pliable as the hands of a lady. At this point, as he stood with his hand in the hand of our Reporter, the woman who had been knocked about by the crowd rose from the doorstep.
Our Reporter felt a nervous twitching in the hand he held, and, looking up into the face of Antony Cowlrick, saw with surprise that it was agitated by a sudden and powerful emotion. Antony Cowlrick’s eyes were fixed upon the woman, who was walking slowly away.
She was young and fair, and in her movements there was an aimlessness which did not speak well for her character. But, as Mr. Goldberry observed, we live in levelling times, and it is hard to judge accurately of a person’s social position from dress and manner. The locality was against this young and pretty woman; her being young and pretty was against her; her apparent want of occupation was against her. But she spoke to no one, looked at no one.
Antony Cowlrick hastened after her. Our Reporter did not follow him. He was not acting the part of a detective. What he did was in pursuance of his duty, and it is not in his nature to give offence. Therefore he stood where Antony Cowlrick left him, and waited for events.
When Antony Cowlrick reached the woman’s side, he touched her arm, and spoke to her. She did not reply, but glanced carelessly at him, and, averting her eyes with a gesture of repugnance, pursued her way. Before she had taken three steps, Antony Cowlrick was again by her side. Again he touched her arm and addressed her; and this time, instead of attempting to avoid him, she turned and looked up at him. For a moment doubt was expressed in her face—only for a moment. As though a sudden and wonderful light had entered her soul, her face became illumined with joy. She was pretty before; now she was beautiful.
Some words of delight struggled to her lips, but died in their utterance. Antony Cowlrick placed his hand on her mouth so that they should not be spoken aloud—directing his eyes at the same time towards the spot occupied by our Reporter.
The woman pressed her hand upon the man’s hand, still at her lips, and kissed it passionately.
Then she and Antony Cowlrick conversed hurriedly. Evidently questions were being asked and answered—questions upon which much depended. The last question asked by Antony Cowlrick was answered by the woman with a sad shake of her head. He held her fingers in his hand, and seemed to look at them inquiringly. Did he expect to find rings there which he could convert into money? Her fingers were bare of ornament. He looked at her ears, then at the bosom of her dress. She possessed neither ear-rings nor brooch.
Under such circumstances as these, speech was not needed for the understanding of what was passing between the haggard, unshaven, poverty-stricken man and the equally poor and beautiful woman.
Antony Cowlrick did not hesitate long. A dozen strides brought him to our Reporter.