And Nick’s mother—I knew no other name, then, to call her by—looked up at the brilliant windows and the open hall-door, and laughed again.
“Times are changed,” I heard her say, quite loud. “Who would think now, that this used to be my house? Yet those women, going up the steps, would hold aside their skirts from the touch of mine, to-day. Oh, I have done well by myself and others, and this is my reward.”
“Take yourself off, you,” says a constable, hustling her roughly, “or I shall have to lock you up.”
She laughed again for all her answer and walked away, heading down towards the Strand this time.
“We’d best go home, my dear,” I says to Nick, “it’s getting late!”
But he tugged at my hand and his eyes looked at me, so wild and wistful in the light of the street lamps, we was a-standing under, that I gave in, and we followed on.
When the great buildings of Somerset House rose up before us, I knew where we were. The traffic had fallen off, the streets were nearly empty; we only met one or two passengers, as we turned out on to Waterloo Bridge.
The night was very fine and still, and the great, wide river ran under the arches, as silently as Time itself rolls on to meet the eternal sea. Black barges and hulks lay quiet at their moorings—the yellow lights of the great city seemed to twinkle, jeering-like, at the pure shining stars overhead. And Nick’s mother went on before us with light, unsteady steps to the End, that was in store.
About the middle of the bridge she stopped, and began to wave her arms and talk to herself, as wildly as before.
Some of the words she said were plainly to be heard; the rest were lost in muttering; and, with the dread, that had been growing in me for some time, cold and heavy at my heart, I bid the boy wait where he was, and went forward by myself and spoke to her.