第109章

As I said before, her sympathies were all on that side, so she turned back and picked it up; and then feeling as if in some measure an accessory, she hid it unexamined in her hand, and hastily passed out of the street at the opposite end to that by which she had entered it. And what do you think she felt, when, having walked some distance from the spot, she dared to open the crushed paper, and saw written on it Mary Barton's name, and not only that, but the street in which she lived! True, a letter or two was torn off, but, nevertheless, there was the name clear to he recognised. And oh! what terrible thought flashed into her mind, or was it only fancy? But it looked very like the writing which she had once known well--the writing of Jem Wilson, who, when she lived at her brother-in-law's, and he was a near neighbour, had often been employed by her to write her letters to people, to whom she was ashamed of sending her own misspelt scrawl. She remembered the wonderful flourishes she had so much admired in those days, while she sat by dictating, and Jem, in all the pride of newly-acquired penman ship, used to dazzle her eyes by extraordinary graces and twirls. If it were his! Oh! perhaps it was merely that her head was running so on Mary, that she was associating every trifle with her. As if only one person wrote ill that flourishing meandering style! It was enough to fill her mind to think from what she might have saved Mary by securing the paper. She would look at it just once more, and see if. some very dense and stupid policeman could have mistaken the name, or if Mary would certainly have been dragged into notice in the affair. No! no one could have mistaken the "ry Barton, and it was Jem's handwriting? Oh! if it was so, she understood it all, and she had been the cause! With her violent and unregulated nature, rendered morbid by the course of life she led, and her consciousness of her degradation, she cursed herself for the interference which she believed had led to this; for the information and the warning she had given to Jem, which had roused him to this murderous action. How could she, the abandoned and polluted outcast, ever have dared to hope for a blessing, even on her efforts to do good? The black curse of Heaven rested on all her doings, were they for good or for evil. Poor, diseased mind! and there were none to minister to thee! So she wandered about, too restless to take her usual heavy morning's sleep, up and down the streets, greedily listening to every word of the passers-by, and loitering near each group of talkers, anxious to scrape together every morsel of information, or conjecture, or suspicion, though without possessing any definite purpose in all this. And ever and always she clenched the scrap of paper which might betray so much, until her nails had deeply indented the palm of her hand; so fearful was she in her nervous dread, lest unawares she should let it drop. Towards the middle of the day she could no longer evade the body's craving want of rest and refreshment, but the rest was taken in a spirit vault, and the refreshment was a glass of gin. Then she started up from the stupor she had taken for repose; and suddenly driven before the gusty impulses of her mind, she pushed her way to the place where at that very time the police were bringing the information they had gathered with regard to the all-engrossing murder. She listened with painful acuteness of comprehension to dropped words, and unconnected sentences, the meaning of which became clearer, and yet, more clear to her. Jem was suspected. Jem was ascertained to be the murderer. She saw him (although he, absorbed in deep sad thought, saw her not), she saw him brought handcuffed, and guarded out of the coach. She saw him enter the station,--she gasped for breath till he came out, still handcuffed, and still guarded, to be conveyed to the New Bailey. He was the only one who had spoken to her with hope that she might win her way back to virtue. His words had lingered in her heart with a sort of call to Heaven, like distant Sabbath bells, although in her despair she had turned away from his voice. He was the only one who had spoken to her kindly. The murder, shocking though it was, was an absent, abstract thing, on which her thoughts could not, and would not dwell all that was present in her mind was Jem's danger, and his kindness. Then Mary came to remembrance. Esther wondered till she was sick of wondering, in what way she was taking the affair. In some manner it would be a terrible blow for the poor, motherless girl; with her dreadful father, too, who was to Esther a sort of accusing angel. She set off towards the court where Mary lived, to pick up what she could there of information. But she was ashamed to enter in where once she had been innocent, and hung about the neighbouring streets, not daring to question, so she learnt but little; nothing, in fact, but the knowledge of John Barton's absence from home. She went up a dark entry to rest her weary limbs on a doorstep and think.