CHAPTER XXX.

SECRETS OF A RIVER.

IT had been a stormy night in the London streets. In the Strand the shopkeepers' assistants were hurriedly fastening the shutters upon the windows of their masters' shops, eager to escape the hurricane of rain which swept over the London housetops, and tore through the lanes of brick and mortar like an enraged fiend. Thirsty souls who were draining huge mugs of malt liquor in the many publics along Thames street, looked out with scared faces on the river which was beating its sides angrily against the shipping and lesser craft.

The waters of the Thames ran high and wild, and down in the Pool and by Limehouse Reach, huge ships bearing the colors of many nations at their peaks, swung and rocked in the seething tides, while black night and the angry shades of the coming storm gathered around their twinkling red and blue signal lamps, which lazily danced from their yards over the surface of the river, leaving faint streaks of light that were ever and anon swallowed by the angry waters. Boatmen were anxiously securing wherries and fastening them under bridges and by water-stairs, and all the while the clouds above lowered, and the sweeping gusts of rain stung the faces of those who were unfortunate enough to be in the streets without shelter. Shutters slapped and banged in and out, and chimney pots were whirled about by the fierce and howling winds.

I had been on a tour of inspection, with a friend and a police sergeant, through London during the night, and had left the Alhambra at midnight for Evan's Supper Rooms, in Covent Garden, where we passed an hour listening to the music of the glee and madrigal boys, and on leaving Evan's at one o'clock in the morning, my friend had parted with me to go to bed, and I left him at the corner of Wellington street and the Strand, he going westward to his residence in Westminster, while the police Sergeant and myself called a cab, as I had a desire to see London in the small hours, and Sergeant Scott had insinuated that a stormy night was the best for seeing strange sights. He little thought at the time how truly he spoke.

After some discussion between this veteran of the Old Jewry office and myself, it was decided that we should visit some of the thieves' haunts in the Borough of Southwark, as it was about the hour when these night birds came home to roost, and of a consequence the best time to see their places of residence.

The first place chosen for a visit was a den in the New Kent Road, and to get there it was necessary for us to cross Waterloo Bridge.

[Sidenote: THE STRANGER AT WATERLOO BRIDGE.]

To cross some of the bridges in London it is necessary to pay a trifling toll, which goes toward the repairs of the bridge. The charge for each pedestrian on Westminster and Waterloo Bridges is half a penny each--for a horse one penny. As the cab dashed up to the turnstile at Waterloo Bridge, the toll keeper came out to take his dues, a gruff looking fellow wrapped up in a big hairy coat. He took the two pence grumblingly, and just at that moment I noticed a woman coming up to the toll-house in a gaudy looking silk dress, and having a soiled velvet wrapper about her shivering shoulders. The light from the toll-house shone on her face, which was very pale, the eyes burning with a strange light, and the garments which hung to her figure were dripping with the rain.

"Please let me pass," said she to the gruff toll keeper, with an imploring glance, "I have not a penny in the world--please let me cross the bridge?"

"Please let yer cross the bridge--yer 'aint got a penny? Well wot d'ye want ter cross the bridge for then? If yer 'aint got a h'apenny I thinks yer as well on the one side of the bridge as the other? Well go on with ye, I don't mind a h'apenny, and go to bed as soon as ye can," the toll keeper shouted through the storm after the wretched woman as she dashed through the turnstile on the bridge, and was lost in the storm and darkness of the night.

As she fled into the night, my companion caught sight of her face, and a hasty exclamation escaped his lips.

"My God, that's Mag S----, that we saw to-night at the Alhambra! D'ye remember that pale faced girl who asked you to give her some liquor in the Canteen?"

"The woman who seemed out of her senses or crazed, and who danced and swore?" I asked.

"Yes sir, the same--well that's her, and what she can be doing here on this bridge at this time I don't know. She used to be a highflyer once, did Mag, but her fancy man has left her, and I'm afraid she's dead broke now, at times. My eye, wot a temper she has to be sure, when she blazes hup."

By this time we had reached the end of the bridge at the Southwark side, and the cab dashed madly by a female figure cowering in an alcove of the structure, the cabby swearing an oath as the horse shied at it going by.

As the night advanced, it blew harder and harder, and the storm raged with great violence. The waters under the bridge rebounded against the base of the stone arches, but the rain had ceased. We were now on our route back to the city, having inspected the dens of thievery to my great satisfaction. While going and coming, until we reached the bridge again, the mind of my companion, Sergeant Scott, seemed ill at ease in regard to the woman whom we had met upon the bridge before we had crossed. He was anxious and uneasy, and talked of the meeting incessantly, to my surprise.

"Some'ow or anuther I don't like meeting that gal on the bridge, Sir," said he. "She looked a little desperate, and when they looks that way I don't like to see 'em near water. Its touch and go with 'em then."

"Do you fear that the girl will attempt to commit suicide?" said I to him.

"I do, Sir. You see there's twelve hundred suicides in London every year, and half of 'em or more drowns themselves. The gals are more fonder of the water than the men. A man will blow his brains out or take pison, but a gal allers takes to the water. Why, bless you, Sir, we have as many as a hundred and twenty suicides hoff this here Waterloo Bridge every year. And this is their favorite bridge, this Waterloo Bridge. When they haven't got a penny in the world, and no friends, then they leap hoff the battelmints."

By this time we had reached the toll gate again, and the cab horse was walking slowly over the stone floor of the bridge, making echoes with his feet. The bridge was quite dark, yet I could see the buildings and spires on the London side piercing the skies, and the railway depot at Charing Cross Bridge, the towers of the Parliament Houses, and the square roofs of the St. Thomas' Hospitals rising vaguely and in shadows above the river.

There are stone alcoves on all the London bridges, which bulge out in a semi-circular form over the water on either side, and they will each accommodate a dozen persons, should such a number wish to sit down and look at the river. There are eight of these alcoves on Waterloo Bridge, and a raised sidewalk runs along on each side of the road, of solid and smooth flagging. The middle of the bridge is taken up by a causeway fifty or sixty feet wide, and this causeway is paved with a sort of Russ, or rather large Belgian pavement.

The cabby had stopped his horse to give me an opportunity to take a look at the river.

[Sidenote: THREE O'CLOCK.]

One boom--two booms--three booms! The bell in the Clock Tower at Westminster rolled out over the river. Three o'clock of a stormy morning, and all London asleep. It was a grand and impressive sight, the dark river, with bridge after bridge girdling it, and nothing to be heard but the champing of the horse in the awful stillness of that lone hour. Hark! There are voices on the bridge, voices passionate and imploring, that seem to shudder over the water and to creep through the arches of the bridge.

"Let us get out of the cab and see what it is, Sir, if you please. There's some cadgers a bunking in this vicinity, I imagines," said the police officer.

We walked along the bridge for a hundred feet or so, but could see nothing, although we heard the voices still.

"There's something wrong a-goin' on, but I don't know wot it is," said he again.

We advanced still further, and could see a woman's figure half hidden by the alcove which was across on the other side of the bridge from us. The woman was in earnest conversation with a man, who spoke in a clear, manly voice to her.

"This is the woman that begged the toll-gate man to let her cross to-night cos she hadn't a tanner," said the officer to me. "Let's watch 'em," said he; and feeling that it was an adventure of some sort, I silently acquiesced. We concealed ourselves in an alcove or embrasure.

"Keep quiet, now, and we'll see something, sure," said the Sergeant.

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."

[Sidenote: 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?

"My God, why should I go back to shame my poor old mother? I never will. I cannot do it. The sight of her would blast me. And Charley, for whom I lost all, where is he? In India, and no one here to-night, and I alone with my black thoughts on this spot. Why am I here? What do I live for? My life has been wretched enough. Why prolong it any longer? I will settle the matter now and forever. Good-by, Mother," said the wretched girl, looking up at the sky, and before she could be stopped in her fearful purpose, she had mounted the parapet by the embrasure, and leaped with a shriek into the devouring river beneath.

"By Heavens," said the Sergeant, darting forward and making an effort to catch at her clothes as her figure disappeared, "she has made a hole in the water with herself." At this moment a patrolman, hearing the girl scream and the shouts of the policeman, appeared upon the parapet. All three of us dashed down the stairs of the old bridge, and it was the work of a moment only to get a boat out, which, fortunately, had the oars inside. In a minute we were all out on the river, and the tide running very fast in the direction of the Pool--after pulling towards the middle arch the Sergeant cried out:

"Steady your rudder, there; what's that bobbing up and down on the water? That's a woman's head, sure; she's got hoops, too; that's lucky. Pull away, for your lives!"

In a few moments we were alongside of the dark, floating object, and the patrolman, drawing his lantern out, threw its reflection over the waters, while the head of the boat was kept well up to the dismal object.

The policeman leaned over the gunwale of the skiff and caught at the dress, and dragged in what he supposed to be a woman's body, but was only a bundle of rags and straw, the refuse of some lodging-house bed.

This was a severe disappointment to all in the boat, and we looked at each other without speaking, for a minute. The Sergeant had a scared look, and said aloud:

[Sidenote: SADLY IMPORTUNATE.]

"I'm afraid poor Mag's gone. She must have struck the bottom of the arches when she went down, and if she did, all's over and settled. The tide's running fast, too, and we will have hard work to find her."

For half an hour the most diligent search was made for her body, but no traces could be found of it but a bonnet and shawl, which were caught in some floating wood below the bridge.

We left the bridge, and the cab was driven home slowly, after the nearest police station had been notified of the poor girl's death or disappearance. The Sergeant of the Police District said that he would have another search in the morning, and I remained at the station to accompany the police in their visit.

A little after daybreak we were on Waterloo bridge again, and even at that hour a small assemblage had gathered around some object at the Southwark end of the bridge, where we could see the tall helmets of two policemen in the midst of the crowd of carters and market gardeners, who were en route to Covent Garden Market, and had stopped to look upon the body of a woman who had been fished up from the river.

Yes, there lay the body of the girl whose toll to eternity had been paid by her own rash act--stretched out on the cold stones, her garments dripping, her fingers clinched, and her eyes stark wide open. A young woman she was, but oh, how worn! The face was pinched, and the long, silken lashes sunk into the eyebrows.

The day was breaking in the East, but the policemen held their lanterns, which they had not yet extinguished, over the poor, pale features, and the grimy garments, revealing the long, matted, and tangled hair, and the stark, cold body, which had once held an Immortal Soul, but was now all that remained of the gay, merry-hearted, lost girl, who had fully reaped the harvest of vice--the Wages of Sin--called by the Evangelist, Death.

Last year, the number of suicides in London amounted to 1,160, and of this number 415 committed self-destruction by drowning. The Thames Watermen fish many a ghastly body from the River, and for each carcass--the result of their terrible trolling, they receive three pounds from the City authorities.