Her very words seemed not her own, and beyond her power of control, for she found herself speaking quite differently to what she meant. One by one her hopes had fallen away, and left her desolate; and though a chance yet remained, she could no longer hope. She felt certain it, too, would fade and vanish. She sank into a kind of stupor. All outward objects harmonized with her despair,--the gloomy leaden sky,--the deep, dark waters below, of a still heavier shade of colour,--the cold, flat, yellow shore in the distance, which no ray lightened up,--the nipping cutting wind. She shivered with her depression of mind and body. The sails were taken down, of course, on the return to Liverpool, and the progress they made, rowing and tacking, was very slow. The men talked together, disputing about the pilots at first, and then about matters of local importance, in which Mary would have taken no interest at any time, and she gradually became drowsy; irrepressibly so, indeed, for in spite of her jerking efforts to keep awake she sank away to the bottom of the boat, and there lay couched on a rough heap of sails, ropes, and tackle of various kinds. The measured beat of the waters against the sides of the boat, and the musical boom of tile more distant waves, were more lulling than silence, and she slept sound. Once she opened her eyes heavily, and dimly saw the old gray, rough boatman (who had stood out the most obstinately for the full fare) covering her with his thick pea-jacket. He had taken it off on purpose, and was doing it tenderly in his way, but before she could rouse herself up to thank him she had dropped off to sleep again. At last, in the dusk or the evening, they arrived at the landing-place from which they had started some hours before. The men spoke to Mary, but though she mechanically replied, she did not stir; so, at length, they were obliged to shake her. She stood up, shivering and puzzled as to her whereabouts. "Now tell me where you are bound to, missus," said the gray old man, "and maybe I can put you in the way." She slowly comprehended what he said, and went through the process of recollection; but very dimly, and with much labour. She put her hand into her pocket and pulled out her purse, and shook its contents into the man's hand; and then began meekly to unpin her shawl, although they had turned away without asking for it. "No, no!" said the old man, who lingered on the step before springing into the boat, and to whom she mutely offered the shawl. "Keep it! we donnot want it. It were only for to try you,--some folks say they've no more blunt, when they've getten a mint." "Thank you," said she, in a dull, low tone. "Where are you bound to? I axed that question afore," said the gruff old fellow. "I don't know. I'm a stranger," replied she, quietly, with a strange absence of anxiety under the circumstances. "But you mun find out, then," said he, sharply;" pier-head's no place for a young woman to be standing on, gape-saying." "I've a card somewhere as will tell me," she answered, and the man partly relieved, jumped into the boat, which was now pushing off to make way for the arrivals from some steamer. Mary felt in her pocket for the card, on which was written the name of the street where she was to have met Mr Bridgenorth at two o'clock; where Job and Mrs Wilson were to have been, and where she was to have learnt from the former the particulars of some respectable lodging. It was not to be found. She tried to brighten her perceptions, and felt again, and took out the little articles her pocket contained, her empty purse, her pocket-handkerchief, and such little things, but it was not there. In fact she had dropped it when, so eager to embark, she had pulled out her purse to reckon up her money. She did not know this, of course. She only knew it was gone. It added but little to the despair that was creeping over her. But she tried a little more to help herself, though every minute her mind became more cloudy. She strove to remember where Will had lodged, but she could not; name, street, everything had passed away, and it did not signify; better she were lost than found. She sat down quietly on the top step of the landing, and gazed down into the dark, dank water below. Once or twice a spectral thought loomed among the shadows of her brain; a wonder whether beneath that cold dismal surface there would not be rest from the troubles of earth. But she could not hold an idea before her for two consecutive moments; and she forgot what she thought about before she could act upon it. So she continued sitting motionless, without looking up, or regarding in any way the insults to which she was subjected. Through the darkening light the old boatman had watched her; interested in her in spite of himself, and his scoldings of himself. When the landing-place was once more comparatively clear, he made his way towards it, across boats, and along planks, swearing at himself while he did so for an old fool. He shook Mary's shoulder violently. "D-- you, I ask you again where you're bound to? Don't sit there, stupid.
Where are you going to?" "I don't know," sighed Mary. "Come, come; avast with that story. You said a bit ago you'd a card, which was to tell you where to go." "I had, but I've lost it Never mind." She looked again down upon the black mirror below. He stood by her, striving to put down his better self; but he could not.
He shook her again. She looked up, as if she had forgotten him. "What do you want?" asked she, wearily. "Come with me, and be d--d to you!" replied he, clutching her arm to pull her up. She arose and followed him, with the unquestioning docility of a little child.
