book 4, as taking place previous to the catastrophe by which Wrayburn

nearly lost his life. The path leads to Marsh Mill, about half a mile from Henley; a large and important paper mill, now in the occupation of Mr. Wells, situated near the weir, with its long wooden bridge leading to the lock. This was the mill at which Lizzie Hexam, secretly leaving London, found refuge and occupation, on the recommendation of her old friend Mr. Riah, her worthy employers being a firm of Hebrew nationality. We first read of this mill in connection with the closing scenes of _Betty Higden’s_ history, as narrated in chapter 8, book 3, and headed “The end of a long journey”—

“There now arose in the darkness a great building full of lighted windows. Smoke was issuing from a high chimney in the rear of it, and there was the sound of a water-wheel at the side. Between her and the building lay a piece of water, in which the lighted windows were reflected, and on its nearest margin was a plantation of trees. ‘I humbly thank the Power and the Glory,’ said Betty Higden, holding up her withered hands, ‘that I have come to my journey’s end!’”

The Death of Betty here occurred; as, sinking on the ground, and supporting herself against a tree “whence she could see, beyond some intervening trees and branches, the lighted windows,” her strength gave way—

“‘I am safe here,’ was her last benumbed thought. ‘When I am found dead at the foot of the Cross, it will be by some of my own sort; some of the working people who work among the lights yonder. I cannot see the lighted windows now, but they are there. I am thankful for all!’”

We have the satisfaction of reading that the poor woman’s hopes were realised, for _Lizzie Hexam_ returning from the mill, found her lying among the trees as described, and tended her at the last, with helpful and loving hands—

“A look of thankfulness and triumph lights the worn old face. The eyes, which have been darkly fixed upon the sky, turn with meaning in them towards the compassionate face from which the tears are dropping, and a smile is on the aged lips as they ask, ‘What is your name, my dear?’ ‘My name is Lizzie Hexam.’ ‘I must be sore disfigured. Are you afraid to kiss me?’ The answer is, the ready pressure of her lips upon the cold but smiling mouth. ‘Bless ye! Now lift me, my love.’ Lizzie Hexam very softly raised the weather-stained grey head, and lifted her as high as Heaven.”

The Burial, as detailed in the following chapter, must have taken place in the little churchyard of the contiguous village of SHIPLAKE (about three-quarters of a mile distant), the service being conducted by the Rev. Frank Milvey, and attended by the Secretary and poor _Sloppy_ as mourners.

“A cry for help.” It may be interesting to indicate the local sequence of events on that memorable Saturday evening, when Bradley Headstone, impelled by wild resentment and furious jealousy, did his best to murder his more favoured rival, as described in chapter 6, book 4, under the above heading. It will be remembered that, on the evening in question, Eugene Wrayburn having forced an appointment with Lizzie Hexam, met her on the path by the river, when a very affecting farewell interview ensued. This interview occurring on the towpath—tolerably secluded at and after twilight—about halfway between Henley and Marsh (see _Marcus Stone’s_ Illustration, “The Parting by the River”), Eugene strolled slowly towards his inn, while Lizzie walked sorrowfully, as a matter of course, in the opposite direction. We read that, passing Bradley Headstone (disguised as a bargeman)—

“Eugene Wrayburn went the opposite way, with his hands behind him, and his purpose in his thoughts. He passed the sheep, and passed the gate, and came within hearing of the village sounds, and came to the bridge. The inn where he stayed, like the village and the mill, was not across the river, but on that side of the stream on which he walked . . . feeling out of humour for noise or company, he crossed the bridge, and sauntered on: looking up at the stars as they seemed one by one to be kindled in the sky, and looking down at the river as the same stars seemed to be kindled deep in the water. A landing-place overshadowed by a willow, and a pleasant boat lying moored there among some stakes, caught his eye as he passed along.”

Thus it will be seen how Eugene, following the _west bank_ of the Thames to Henley, and thereafter crossing Henley Bridge, pursued the course of his meditations past the landing-place on the opposite side, walking onwards by the towpath thence continued, in the direction of POPLAR POINT.

The Murderous Attack upon him by Headstone, in the darkening shades of nightfall, must have here occurred, not far from the bridge, and opposite to the town, Wrayburn being thrown into the river by his assailant, and so left for dead.

Lizzie Hexam, endeavouring to regain composure, went towards Marsh, and must have crossed by The Lock Gates to the main road beyond, turning in the direction of Henley. She thereafter walked slowly onwards in the neighbourhood of the bridge at its eastern side, and thus unconsciously came again near to, and following behind, her lover, on the

Eastern Tow Path beyond the bridge, as above mentioned. Hereabouts, hearing “the sound of blows, a faint groan, and a fall into the river,” she ran towards the spot from which the sounds had come—not far distant, on the riverside path, northward from the bridge. We are all familiar with the story of Lizzie’s heroic rescue of Eugene from the river. Finding a boat on the north side of HENLEY BRIDGE—

“She passed the scene of the struggle—yonder it was—on her left, well over the boat’s stern—she passed on her right the end of the village street (New Street) . . . looking as the boat drove, everywhere, everywhere for the floating face.”

Finding and recovering the body, she rowed “back against the stream,” landing at the lawn of the RED LION INN as previously described.

The Rambler may now take a short trip by boat down the river six miles from Henley, for visiting THE LOCK where _Rogue Riderhood_ acted for a time, as deputy superintendent.

Leaving HENLEY, we may note, on the left, the mansion of _Fawley Court_, beyond which, passing REGATTA ISLAND, we arrive at GREENLANDS, in the occupation of the Right Hon. W. H. Smith (not unknown in political and literary circles). The house is pleasantly situated at the bend of the river. We next arrive at _Hambledon Lock_, two miles from Henley; thereafter reaching ASTON, as we proceed down the stream to MEDMENHAM, with its picturesque Abbey, founded in the reign of King John, standing on the north bank. Below Medmenham is Hurley Lock, which is our present destination. It is contiguous to NEW LOCK WEIR, and to the village of HURLEY, situated on the right bank of the river. This is known to readers of “Our Mutual Friend” as Plashwater Weir Mill Lock, at whose gates _Riderhood_—whilom a “waterside character,” the partner of _Gaffer Hexam_—officiated as deputy lock-keeper. We are introduced to him as not very wide-awake in this capacity, in chapter 1, book 4—

“PLASHWATER WEIR MILL LOCK looked tranquil and pretty on an evening in the summer-time. A soft air stirred the leaves of the fresh green trees, and passed like a smooth shadow over the river, and like a smoother shadow over the yielding grass. The voice of the falling water, like the voices of the sea and the wind, was an outer memory to a contemplative listener; but not particularly so to Mr. Riderhood, who sat on one of the blunt wooden levers of his lock-gates, dozing.”

To this locality came Bradley Headstone, who, for sinister reasons of his own, cultivated Riderhood’s acquaintance, making The Lock House a convenient place of call, as he pursued Eugene Wrayburn in his quest, full details of which may be found in chapters 1 and 7, book 6. Here also was enacted the final scene of the tragedy, as narrated in chapter 15, book 4, when Bradley Headstone drowned himself and Riderhood in the Lock—

“Bradley had caught him round the body. He seemed to be girdled with an iron ring. They were on the brink of the Lock, about midway between the two sets of gates. . . . ‘Let go!’ said Riderhood. ‘Stop! What are you trying at? You can’t drown me. Ain’t I told you that the man as has come through drowning can never be drowned? I can’t be drowned.’ ‘I can be!’ returned Bradley, in a desperate, clenched voice. ‘I am resolved to be. I’ll hold you living, and I’ll hold you dead. Come down!’ Riderhood went over into the smooth pit, backward, and Bradley Headstone upon him. When the two were found, lying under the ooze and scum behind one of the rotting gates, Riderhood’s hold had relaxed, probably in falling, and his eyes were staring upward. But he was girdled still with Bradley’s iron ring, and the rivets of the iron ring held tight.”

By road, HURLEY LOCK is but four miles distant from Henley; a pedestrian, therefore, could make an easy short cut, as against a rower up the stream; hence the assurance given by the deputy lock-keeper to his impatient visitor (see book 4, chapter 1):—

“‘Ha, ha! Don’t be afeerd, T’otherest,’ said Riderhood. ‘The T’other’s got to make way agin the stream, and he takes it easy. You can soon come up with him. But wot’s the good of saying that to you! You know how fur you could have outwalked him betwixt anywheres about where he lost the tide—say Richmond—and this, if you had had a mind to it.’”

Travelling homeward on the return to London, it may be desirable to break the journey at SLOUGH—eighteen miles from Paddington—whence may be conveniently visited the rustic village and cemetery of Stoke Pogis, about a mile and a half northward from the station. The latter contains the tomb of the poet Gray, and is the scene of his famous “Elegy in a Country Churchyard.” It may be remembered that from this well-known poem Mr. Micawber’s Quotation was taken, as an appropriate conclusion to one of his many friendly but grandiloquent epistles, confirming an important appointment. In “David Copperfield,” at the end of chapter 49, we read of Micawber’s expressed determination to unmask his “foxey” employer, and to crush “to undiscoverable atoms that transcendent and immortal hypocrite and perjurer, Heep”; and we may recall his “most secret and confidential letter,” soon afterwards received by David, as containing the following reference:—

“The duty done, and act of reparation performed, which can alone enable me to contemplate my fellow mortal, I shall be known no more. I shall simply require to be deposited in that place of universal resort, where

‘Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.’

With the plain Inscription, WILKINS MICAWBER.”

So, as the evening shades prevail, “near and nearer drawn” through “the glimmering landscape,” we again approach the lights of London Town, with (it may be hoped) pleasant reminiscences of the foregoing excursions. Should the Rambler, like Mr. John Harmon on a similar occasion, be accompanied by a friend, who perchance may be “nearer and dearer than all other,” he may appropriately endorse John Harmon’s reflections as he made the same journey under blissful circumstances (see “Our Mutual Friend,”