Page:The Yellow Book - 08.djvu/142

"To your mother's house?" I asked, in astonishment.

"No, no; take me to my bride."

"Your bride?" I gasped.

"Yes, my bride," he repeated, petulantly, and called to the cabman to drive to the Albert Embankment, opposite Lambeth Palace.

He was very much in earnest, so I let him have his way, and babbled of our next holiday, and green fields, of anything, in fact, that might distract his mind. Arrived at our destination he dismissed the cab, and, clinging to my arm, guided me towards Lambeth pier. Bearing to the right we descended the steps that lead down to the water's edge. A boat was waiting. I pushed off, under his directions, and in another moment collided against a raft. We landed, and picked our steps over the old boats and the refuse of half a century scattered there. I heard the oily lap, lap, of the waves against the raft, but could see little for the fog that hung motionless in the still air—so wet and chill. With each step my companion leant heavier upon my arm. A horrible idea flashed into my mind. By his bride did he—could he mean this unseen river oozing past in the dark like some huge prehistoric reptile. I shuddered at the thought, and at that moment we confronted the outline of a low log-hut at the eastern end of the raft. Warm welcome light streamed from the little window. My companion knocked at the door, which was immediately thrown open by a young girl—pale, work-weary, and wistful, like a Fillipino Lippi Madonna.

"I'm ill, Mary," he said simply.

She gave a little start, and cried, "Oh, my beloved." The voice was not the voice of a gentlewoman.

Then warm arms enfolded him, and he was carried within.

The door closed, and friendship's victim was left alone, withthe