The wind moaned and sighed, and mingled with the poor girl’s cries; the chains rattled noisily, and the waters seemed to leap and dash angrily at the steps, rising higher and higher minute by minute, fearful of losing their prey; while Matt stole nearer and nearer, trembling in every limb—nearer and nearer still, with his eyes fixed upon that pale, staring face, till a policeman laid a hand upon his breast to stay him from interrupting the mourner’s sorrow; but, putting back the hand, Matt pressed on with a chaos of thoughts hurrying through his brain, bright amongst which seemed to shine forth the face of Lucy Grey, as, stooping lower, he now looked down upon this countenance which he had, ere now, seen raised wildly and appealingly to his, when he had gruffly talked of time, and then, shivering as if stricken with some paralysing seizure, he gasped almost to himself—“It’s that poor girl!”
Volume Three—Chapter Ten.
By Day.
The public might have been present in force, but they were not; for inquests upon bodies found in Thames’ stream are common events, such as find their way into corners of the morning papers in the shape of short paragraphs. And in this instance there was a very seedy-looking staff to represent the Press—namely, a man who winked solemnly at old Matt as he passed him on his way to a side-table beside the jury. The necessary witnesses were there apparently, and the inquest dragged on its slow length as they told all they knew. But Matthew Space must be quoted as an exception; he did not tell all, only that he knew the poor woman by sight, while he rightly said that he was ignorant of her name and home. It would be time, he thought, to tell all when there was no more danger of publicity, and so he allowed himself to be huffed by the coroner for taking up his valuable time.
But now came forward a pale, well-dressed, weeping girl, who stated that her name was Eleanor.
“Eleanor what?” said the coroner, frowning very severely, and oozing all over his very high, bald forehead with the quintessence of morality; for the poor girl shivered before him, and looked appealingly from face to face of the jurymen. “Eleanor what?” said the coroner again, with quite a snap.
“Anderson,” said the girl sobbing; and then for a few minutes she could not proceed to tell her tale; how that for a year past she had always tried to see those girls who were taken out of the river. She hardly knew why, only that she had known some of them, as she knew poor Marian; and there seemed something which drew her towards the river. She met the policemen, and they let her go with them, for she was looking for Marian, and somehow she was not surprised to find her there.
Had known her a long time—years, she thought—and they lodged together. She had often said that she was tired of life, but never talked about her friends, or anything of the past: thought she came from the country. Had not seen her before for days, and had been uneasy, and fancied she had gone over the bridge, as many did—could not tell why, unless because she was tired of her life, and had the feeling of being drawn to do it. Her name was Marian—that was what she was called—but thought it was not her real name; did not know why; but many girls like her gave themselves fresh names. She gave witness a little Bible once, with passages marked in it, but there was no name in it. Never spoke of anyone else, or of herself, but was always very kind, and had nursed witness once through a bad fever, not long back, and never left her night or day, when no one else dared come near; and now she was gone.