And we kept very quiet for a few minutes. The man was talking earnestly with the woman, who seemed half crazy with drink or excitement, we could not tell which, as we could only hear snatches of the conversation now and then.
It was the man's voice which we now heard.
"Come home, for God's sake, Margaret, and all will be well. You will be forgiven, and nothing will ever be cast up to you. I'll pledge you my word to that. Your mother is in the city, and your father is dead. She has come up from Glastonbury to see you, and I've spent eight nights walking for you, and hoping to get a sight of a face that was once dearer to me than life, and is now even still dear to me, if it only was to see you reformed, poor, unfortunate girl. Come home, for God's sake. Make the attempt, and it will be all well once more."
WEARY OF LIFE.
The girl was sobbing now very hard. The man seemed to implore her by all that had ever been sacred or dear to the lost girl, and she was evidently moved by his tone and earnestness, and the recollections that he had called forth.
"He's doin' of his best, and we can't do any think more—hany of us," said the Sergeant, who seemed a little touched.
"You talk to me of my mother, Harry? Why, I have not heard that name in three years. I thought I'd never hear it again. I have thought of her, too. But it's too late, Harry. The girl that my mother expects to see is the bright little Maggie, the school-girl who never had a hard word or an unkind look from her. I had an innocent face then, and was not afraid to meet her kind old eyes. But now, to meet her in this garb"—and she shook her flaunting silks—"I dare not—I dare not. Harry, I tell you it is too late. Too late. Too late."
"It's never too late, poor girl," said the stranger, "come home at once, or if you'll wait here a moment I'll go and call a cab and take you home to your mother at once. Wait here a moment and I will get a cab. Wait a moment, Maggie, only a moment:" and the stranger ran across the bridge, up King William street, and in the direction of the Bank, where he expected to find a cab.
The lost girl was left alone. Alone with night and solitude. Alone with naught but her past life, which arose from the waters like a shadow to keep her company. Alone and miserable, with the cruel sky darkling above her as if to shut out all hope, while the river yawned and gaped beneath, seeking an offering. God unheeded, her bosom cold as a stone; no prayer to conquer her anguish; with memories of promises broken and tender words unsaid; the passionate love of a fond mother given in vain; and at last an atonement is to be made. The old, old story—betrayal, dishonor, and the grave.
We crept nearer by some unknown impulse, to where she stood, and could hear her talking to herself, though we could not see her features, or anything definite, but a weird figure looming up like a shadow against the balustrade of the bridge. Her voice, which had fallen to a murmur almost, was like some forgotten music, the strains of which are heard in a dream. Who was this lone, wretched girl, and why came she here at this hour?