We were now down in Westminster. We had turned back to follow her,having encountered her coming towards us; and Westminster Abbey wasthe point at which she passed from the lights and noise of the leadingstreets. She proceeded so quickly, when she got free of the two currentsof passengers setting towards and from the bridge, that, between thisand the advance she had of us when she struck off, we were in the narrowwater-side street by Millbank before we came up with her. At that momentshe crossed the road, as if to avoid the footsteps that she heard soclose behind; and, without looking back, passed on even more rapidly.

A glimpse of the river through a dull gateway, where some waggons werehoused for the night, seemed to arrest my feet. I touched my companionwithout speaking, and we both forbore to cross after her, and bothfollowed on that opposite side of the way; keeping as quietly as wecould in the shadow of the houses, but keeping very near her.

There was, and is when I write, at the end of that low-lying street,a dilapidated little wooden building, probably an obsolete oldferry-house. Its position is just at that point where the street ceases,and the road begins to lie between a row of houses and the river. Assoon as she came here, and saw the water, she stopped as if she had cometo her destination; and presently went slowly along by the brink of theriver, looking intently at it.

All the way here, I had supposed that she was going to some house;indeed, I had vaguely entertained the hope that the house might be insome way associated with the lost girl. But that one dark glimpse of theriver, through the gateway, had instinctively prepared me for her goingno farther.

The neighbourhood was a dreary one at that time; as oppressive, sad, andsolitary by night, as any about London. There were neither wharves norhouses on the melancholy waste of road near the great blank Prison. Asluggish ditch deposited its mud at the prison walls. Coarse grass andrank weeds straggled over all the marshy land in the vicinity. In onepart, carcases of houses, inauspiciously begun and never finished,rotted away. In another, the ground was cumbered with rusty ironmonsters of steam-boilers, wheels, cranks, pipes, furnaces, paddles,anchors, diving-bells, windmill-sails, and I know not what strangeobjects, accumulated by some speculator, and grovelling in the dust,underneath which--having sunk into the soil of their own weight in wetweather--they had the appearance of vainly trying to hide themselves.The clash and glare of sundry fiery Works upon the river-side, aroseby night to disturb everything except the heavy and unbroken smoke thatpoured out of their chimneys. Slimy gaps and causeways, winding amongold wooden piles, with a sickly substance clinging to the latter, likegreen hair, and the rags of last year's handbills offering rewards fordrowned men fluttering above high-water mark, led down through the oozeand slush to the ebb-tide. There was a story that one of the pitsdug for the dead in the time of the Great Plague was hereabout; anda blighting influence seemed to have proceeded from it over the wholeplace. Or else it looked as if it had gradually decomposed into thatnightmare condition, out of the overflowings of the polluted stream.

As if she were a part of the refuse it had cast out, and left tocorruption and decay, the girl we had followed strayed down to theriver's brink, and stood in the midst of this night-picture, lonely andstill, looking at the water.

There were some boats and barges astrand in the mud, and these enabledus to come within a few yards of her without being seen. I then signedto Mr. Peggotty to remain where he was, and emerged from their shade tospeak to her. I did not approach her solitary figure without trembling;for this gloomy end to her determined walk, and the way in which shestood, almost within the cavernous shadow of the iron bridge, lookingat the lights crookedly reflected in the strong tide, inspired a dreadwithin me.

I think she was talking to herself. I am sure, although absorbed ingazing at the water, that her shawl was off her shoulders, and that shewas muffling her hands in it, in an unsettled and bewildered way, morelike the action of a sleep-walker than a waking person. I know, andnever can forget, that there was that in her wild manner which gave meno assurance but that she would sink before my eyes, until I had her armwithin my grasp.

At the same moment I said 'Martha!'

She uttered a terrified scream, and struggled with me with such strengththat I doubt if I could have held her alone. But a stronger hand thanmine was laid upon her; and when she raised her frightened eyes and sawwhose it was, she made but one more effort and dropped down between us.We carried her away from the water to where there were some dry stones,and there laid her down, crying and moaning. In a little while she satamong the stones, holding her wretched head with both her hands.

'Oh, the river!' she cried passionately. 'Oh, the river!'

'Hush, hush!' said I. 'Calm yourself.'

But she still repeated the same words, continually exclaiming, 'Oh, theriver!' over and over again.

'I know it's like me!' she exclaimed. 'I know that I belong to it.I know that it's the natural company of such as I am! It comes fromcountry places, where there was once no harm in it--and it creepsthrough the dismal streets, defiled and miserable--and it goes away,like my life, to a great sea, that is always troubled--and I feel thatI must go with it!' I have never known what despair was, except in thetone of those words.

'I can't keep away from it. I can't forget it. It haunts me day andnight. It's the only thing in all the world that I am fit for, or that'sfit for me. Oh, the dreadful river!'

The thought passed through my mind that in the face of my companion,as he looked upon her without speech or motion, I might have read hisniece's history, if I had known nothing of it. I never saw, in anypainting or reality, horror and compassion so impressively blended. Heshook as if he would have fallen; and his hand--I touched it with myown, for his appearance alarmed me--was deadly cold.

'She is in a state of frenzy,' I whispered to him. 'She will speakdifferently in a little time.'

I don't know what he would have said in answer. He made some motion withhis mouth, and seemed to think he had spoken; but he had only pointed toher with his outstretched hand.

A new burst of crying came upon her now, in which she once more hidher face among the stones, and lay before us, a prostrate image ofhumiliation and ruin. Knowing that this state must pass, before we couldspeak to her with any hope, I ventured to restrain him when he wouldhave raised her, and we stood by in silence until she became moretranquil.

'Martha,' said I then, leaning down, and helping her to rise--she seemedto want to rise as if with the intention of going away, but she wasweak, and leaned against a boat. 'Do you know who this is, who is withme?'

She said faintly, 'Yes.'

'Do you know that we have followed you a long way tonight?'

She shook her head. She looked neither at him nor at me, but stood ina humble attitude, holding her bonnet and shawl in one hand, withoutappearing conscious of them, and pressing the other, clenched, againsther forehead.

'Are you composed enough,' said I, 'to speak on the subject which sointerested you--I hope Heaven may remember it!--that snowy night?'

Her sobs broke out afresh, and she murmured some inarticulate thanks tome for not having driven her away from the door.

'I want to say nothing for myself,' she said, after a few moments. 'Iam bad, I am lost. I have no hope at all. But tell him, sir,' she hadshrunk away from him, 'if you don't feel too hard to me to do it, thatI never was in any way the cause of his misfortune.' 'It has never beenattributed to you,' I returned, earnestly responding to her earnestness.

'It was you, if I don't deceive myself,' she said, in a broken voice,'that came into the kitchen, the night she took such pity on me; was sogentle to me; didn't shrink away from me like all the rest, and gave mesuch kind help! Was it you, sir?'

'It was,' said I.

'I should have been in the river long ago,' she said, glancing at itwith a terrible expression, 'if any wrong to her had been upon my mind.I never could have kept out of it a single winter's night, if I had notbeen free of any share in that!'

'The cause of her flight is too well understood,' I said. 'You areinnocent of any part in it, we thoroughly believe,--we know.'

'Oh, I might have been much the better for her, if I had had a betterheart!' exclaimed the girl, with most forlorn regret; 'for she wasalways good to me! She never spoke a word to me but what was pleasantand right. Is it likely I would try to make her what I am myself,knowing what I am myself, so well? When I lost everything that makeslife dear, the worst of all my thoughts was that I was parted for everfrom her!'

Mr. Peggotty, standing with one hand on the gunwale of the boat, and hiseyes cast down, put his disengaged hand before his face.

'And when I heard what had happened before that snowy night, from somebelonging to our town,' cried Martha, 'the bitterest thought in all mymind was, that the people would remember she once kept company with me,and would say I had corrupted her! When, Heaven knows, I would have diedto have brought back her good name!'

Long unused to any self-control, the piercing agony of her remorse andgrief was terrible.

'To have died, would not have been much--what can I say?---I wouldhave lived!' she cried. 'I would have lived to be old, in the wretchedstreets--and to wander about, avoided, in the dark--and to see the daybreak on the ghastly line of houses, and remember how the same sun usedto shine into my room, and wake me once--I would have done even that, tosave her!'

Sinking on the stones, she took some in each hand, and clenched themup, as if she would have ground them. She writhed into some new postureconstantly: stiffening her arms, twisting them before her face, asthough to shut out from her eyes the little light there was, anddrooping her head, as if it were heavy with insupportable recollections.

'What shall I ever do!' she said, fighting thus with her despair. 'Howcan I go on as I am, a solitary curse to myself, a living disgrace toeveryone I come near!' Suddenly she turned to my companion. 'Stamp uponme, kill me! When she was your pride, you would have thought I haddone her harm if I had brushed against her in the street. You can'tbelieve--why should you?---a syllable that comes out of my lips. Itwould be a burning shame upon you, even now, if she and I exchanged aword. I don't complain. I don't say she and I are alike--I know thereis a long, long way between us. I only say, with all my guilt andwretchedness upon my head, that I am grateful to her from my soul, andlove her. Oh, don't think that all the power I had of loving anything isquite worn out! Throw me away, as all the world does. Kill me for beingwhat I am, and having ever known her; but don't think that of me!'

He looked upon her, while she made this supplication, in a wilddistracted manner; and, when she was silent, gently raised her.

'Martha,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'God forbid as I should judge you. Forbidas I, of all men, should do that, my girl! You doen't know half thechange that's come, in course of time, upon me, when you think itlikely. Well!' he paused a moment, then went on. 'You doen't understandhow 'tis that this here gentleman and me has wished to speak to you. Youdoen't understand what 'tis we has afore us. Listen now!'

His influence upon her was complete. She stood, shrinkingly, before him,as if she were afraid to meet his eyes; but her passionate sorrow wasquite hushed and mute.

'If you heerd,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'owt of what passed between Mas'rDavy and me, th' night when it snew so hard, you know as I havebeen--wheer not--fur to seek my dear niece. My dear niece,' he repeatedsteadily. 'Fur she's more dear to me now, Martha, than she was dearafore.'

She put her hands before her face; but otherwise remained quiet.

'I have heerd her tell,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'as you was early leftfatherless and motherless, with no friend fur to take, in a roughseafaring-way, their place. Maybe you can guess that if you'd had sucha friend, you'd have got into a way of being fond of him in course oftime, and that my niece was kiender daughter-like to me.'

As she was silently trembling, he put her shawl carefully about her,taking it up from the ground for that purpose.

'Whereby,' said he, 'I know, both as she would go to the wureld'sfurdest end with me, if she could once see me again; and that she wouldfly to the wureld's furdest end to keep off seeing me. For though sheain't no call to doubt my love, and doen't--and doen't,' he repeated,with a quiet assurance of the truth of what he said, 'there's shamesteps in, and keeps betwixt us.'

I read, in every word of his plain impressive way of delivering himself,new evidence of his having thought of this one topic, in every featureit presented.

'According to our reckoning,' he proceeded, 'Mas'r Davy's here, andmine, she is like, one day, to make her own poor solitary course toLondon. We believe--Mas'r Davy, me, and all of us--that you are asinnocent of everything that has befell her, as the unborn child. You'vespoke of her being pleasant, kind, and gentle to you. Bless her, I knewshe was! I knew she always was, to all. You're thankful to her, and youlove her. Help us all you can to find her, and may Heaven reward you!'

She looked at him hastily, and for the first time, as if she weredoubtful of what he had said.

'Will you trust me?' she asked, in a low voice of astonishment.

'Full and free!' said Mr. Peggotty.

'To speak to her, if I should ever find her; shelter her, if I have anyshelter to divide with her; and then, without her knowledge, come toyou, and bring you to her?' she asked hurriedly.

We both replied together, 'Yes!'

She lifted up her eyes, and solemnly declared that she would devoteherself to this task, fervently and faithfully. That she would neverwaver in it, never be diverted from it, never relinquish it, while therewas any chance of hope. If she were not true to it, might the objectshe now had in life, which bound her to something devoid of evil, in itspassing away from her, leave her more forlorn and more despairing, ifthat were possible, than she had been upon the river's brink that night;and then might all help, human and Divine, renounce her evermore!

She did not raise her voice above her breath, or address us, but saidthis to the night sky; then stood profoundly quiet, looking at thegloomy water.

We judged it expedient, now, to tell her all we knew; which I recountedat length. She listened with great attention, and with a face that oftenchanged, but had the same purpose in all its varying expressions. Hereyes occasionally filled with tears, but those she repressed. It seemedas if her spirit were quite altered, and she could not be too quiet.

She asked, when all was told, where we were to be communicated with, ifoccasion should arise. Under a dull lamp in the road, I wrote our twoaddresses on a leaf of my pocket-book, which I tore out and gave toher, and which she put in her poor bosom. I asked her where she livedherself. She said, after a pause, in no place long. It were better notto know.

Mr. Peggotty suggesting to me, in a whisper, what had already occurredto myself, I took out my purse; but I could not prevail upon her toaccept any money, nor could I exact any promise from her that she woulddo so at another time. I represented to her that Mr. Peggotty couldnot be called, for one in his condition, poor; and that the idea of herengaging in this search, while depending on her own resources, shockedus both. She continued steadfast. In this particular, his influenceupon her was equally powerless with mine. She gratefully thanked him butremained inexorable.

'There may be work to be got,' she said. 'I'll try.'

'At least take some assistance,' I returned, 'until you have tried.'

'I could not do what I have promised, for money,' she replied. 'I couldnot take it, if I was starving. To give me money would be to take awayyour trust, to take away the object that you have given me, to take awaythe only certain thing that saves me from the river.'

'In the name of the great judge,' said I, 'before whom you and all of usmust stand at His dread time, dismiss that terrible idea! We can all dosome good, if we will.'

She trembled, and her lip shook, and her face was paler, as sheanswered:

'It has been put into your hearts, perhaps, to save a wretched creaturefor repentance. I am afraid to think so; it seems too bold. If any goodshould come of me, I might begin to hope; for nothing but harm has evercome of my deeds yet. I am to be trusted, for the first time in a longwhile, with my miserable life, on account of what you have given me totry for. I know no more, and I can say no more.'

Again she repressed the tears that had begun to flow; and, putting outher trembling hand, and touching Mr. Peggotty, as if there was somehealing virtue in him, went away along the desolate road. She had beenill, probably for a long time. I observed, upon that closer opportunityof observation, that she was worn and haggard, and that her sunken eyesexpressed privation and endurance.

We followed her at a short distance, our way lying in the samedirection, until we came back into the lighted and populous streets. Ihad such implicit confidence in her declaration, that I then put it toMr. Peggotty, whether it would not seem, in the onset, like distrustingher, to follow her any farther. He being of the same mind, and equallyreliant on her, we suffered her to take her own road, and took ours,which was towards Highgate. He accompanied me a good part of the way;and when we parted, with a prayer for the success of this fresh effort,there was a new and thoughtful compassion in him that I was at no lossto interpret.

It was midnight when I arrived at home. I had reached my own gate, andwas standing listening for the deep bell of St. Paul's, the soundof which I thought had been borne towards me among the multitude ofstriking clocks, when I was rather surprised to see that the door of myaunt's cottage was open, and that a faint light in the entry was shiningout across the road.

Thinking that my aunt might have relapsed into one of her old alarms,and might be watching the progress of some imaginary conflagration inthe distance, I went to speak to her. It was with very great surprisethat I saw a man standing in her little garden.

He had a glass and bottle in his hand, and was in the act of drinking. Istopped short, among the thick foliage outside, for the moon was up now,though obscured; and I recognized the man whom I had once supposed to bea delusion of Mr. Dick's, and had once encountered with my aunt in thestreets of the city.

He was eating as well as drinking, and seemed to eat with a hungryappetite. He seemed curious regarding the cottage, too, as if it werethe first time he had seen it. After stooping to put the bottle on theground, he looked up at the windows, and looked about; though with acovert and impatient air, as if he was anxious to be gone.

The light in the passage was obscured for a moment, and my aunt cameout. She was agitated, and told some money into his hand. I heard itchink.

'What's the use of this?' he demanded.

'I can spare no more,' returned my aunt.

'Then I can't go,' said he. 'Here! You may take it back!'

'You bad man,' returned my aunt, with great emotion; 'how can you use meso? But why do I ask? It is because you know how weak I am! What haveI to do, to free myself for ever of your visits, but to abandon you toyour deserts?'

'And why don't you abandon me to my deserts?' said he.

'You ask me why!' returned my aunt. 'What a heart you must have!'

He stood moodily rattling the money, and shaking his head, until atlength he said:

'Is this all you mean to give me, then?'

'It is all I CAN give you,' said my aunt. 'You know I have had losses,and am poorer than I used to be. I have told you so. Having got it, whydo you give me the pain of looking at you for another moment, and seeingwhat you have become?'

'I have become shabby enough, if you mean that,' he said. 'I lead thelife of an owl.'

'You stripped me of the greater part of all I ever had,' said my aunt.'You closed my heart against the whole world, years and years. Youtreated me falsely, ungratefully, and cruelly. Go, and repent of it.Don't add new injuries to the long, long list of injuries you have doneme!'

'Aye!' he returned. 'It's all very fine--Well! I must do the best I can,for the present, I suppose.'

In spite of himself, he appeared abashed by my aunt's indignant tears,and came slouching out of the garden. Taking two or three quick steps,as if I had just come up, I met him at the gate, and went in as he cameout. We eyed one another narrowly in passing, and with no favour.

'Aunt,' said I, hurriedly. 'This man alarming you again! Let me speak tohim. Who is he?'

'Child,' returned my aunt, taking my arm, 'come in, and don't speak tome for ten minutes.'

We sat down in her little parlour. My aunt retired behind the roundgreen fan of former days, which was screwed on the back of a chair, andoccasionally wiped her eyes, for about a quarter of an hour. Then shecame out, and took a seat beside me.

'Trot,' said my aunt, calmly, 'it's my husband.'

'Your husband, aunt? I thought he had been dead!'

'Dead to me,' returned my aunt, 'but living.'

I sat in silent amazement.

'Betsey Trotwood don't look a likely subject for the tender passion,'said my aunt, composedly, 'but the time was, Trot, when she believed inthat man most entirely. When she loved him, Trot, right well. When therewas no proof of attachment and affection that she would not have givenhim. He repaid her by breaking her fortune, and nearly breaking herheart. So she put all that sort of sentiment, once and for ever, in agrave, and filled it up, and flattened it down.'

'My dear, good aunt!'

'I left him,' my aunt proceeded, laying her hand as usual on the back ofmine, 'generously. I may say at this distance of time, Trot, that I lefthim generously. He had been so cruel to me, that I might have effecteda separation on easy terms for myself; but I did not. He soon made ducksand drakes of what I gave him, sank lower and lower, married anotherwoman, I believe, became an adventurer, a gambler, and a cheat. What heis now, you see. But he was a fine-looking man when I married him,' saidmy aunt, with an echo of her old pride and admiration in her tone; 'andI believed him--I was a fool!--to be the soul of honour!'

She gave my hand a squeeze, and shook her head.

'He is nothing to me now, Trot--less than nothing. But, sooner than havehim punished for his offences (as he would be if he prowled about inthis country), I give him more money than I can afford, at intervalswhen he reappears, to go away. I was a fool when I married him; and I amso far an incurable fool on that subject, that, for the sake of whatI once believed him to be, I wouldn't have even this shadow of my idlefancy hardly dealt with. For I was in earnest, Trot, if ever a womanwas.'

MY aunt dismissed the matter with a heavy sigh, and smoothed her dress.

'There, my dear!' she said. 'Now you know the beginning, middle, andend, and all about it. We won't mention the subject to one another anymore; neither, of course, will you mention it to anybody else. This ismy grumpy, frumpy story, and we'll keep it to ourselves, Trot!'