It was a bleak, lowering, windy day, and they were out upon the Downs with nothing but a bare sweep of land between them and the sky. The mother, with a querulous satisfaction in the monotony of her complaint, was still repeating it in a low voice from time to time, and the proud form of her daughter moved beside her slowly, when there came advancing over a dark ridge before them, two other figures, which in the distance, were so like an exaggerated imitation of their own, that Edith stopped.
Almost as she stopped, the two figures stopped; and that one which to Edith’s thinking was like a distorted shadow of her mother, spoke to the other, earnestly, and with a pointing hand towards them. That one seemed inclined to turn back, but the other, in which Edith recognised enough that was like herself to strike her with an unusual feeling, not quite free from fear, came on; and then they came on together.
The greater part of this observation, she made while walking towards them, for her stoppage had been momentary. Nearer observation showed her that they were poorly dressed, as wanderers about the country; that the younger woman carried knitted work or some such goods for sale; and that the old one toiled on empty-handed.
And yet, however far removed she was in dress, in dignity, in beauty, Edith could not but compare the younger woman with herself, still. It may have been that she saw upon her face some traces which she knew were lingering in her own soul, if not yet written on that index; but, as the woman came on, returning her gaze, fixing her shining eyes upon her, undoubtedly presenting something of her own air and stature, and appearing to reciprocate her own thoughts, she felt a chill creep over her, as if the day were darkening, and the wind were colder.
They had now come up. The old woman, holding out her hand importunately, stopped to beg of Mrs. Skewton. The younger one stopped too, and she and Edith looked in one another’s eyes.
“What is it that you have to sell?” said Edith.
“Only this,” returned the woman, holding out her wares, without looking at them. “I sold myself long ago.”
“My Lady, don’t believe her,” croaked the old woman to Mrs. Skewton; “don’t believe what she says. She loves to talk like that. She’s my handsome and undutiful daughter. She gives me nothing but reproaches, my Lady, for all I have done for her. Look at her now, my Lady, how she turns upon her poor old mother with her looks.”
As Mrs. Skewton drew her purse out with a trembling hand, and eagerly fumbled for some money, which the other old woman greedily watched for—their heads all but touching, in their hurry and decrepitude—Edith interposed:
“I have seen you,” addressing the old woman, “before.”
“Yes, my Lady,” with a curtsey. “Down in Warwickshire. The morning among the trees. When you wouldn’t give me nothing. But the gentleman, he give me something! Oh, bless him, bless him!” mumbled the old woman, holding up her skinny hand, and grinning frightfully at her daughter.
“It’s of no use attempting to stay me, Edith!” said Mrs. Skewton, angrily anticipating an objection from her. “You know nothing about it. I won’t be dissuaded. I am sure this is an excellent woman, and a good mother.”
“Yes, my Lady, yes,” chattered the old woman, holding out her avaricious hand. “Thankee, my Lady. Lord bless you, my Lady. Sixpence more, my pretty Lady, as a good mother yourself.”
“And treated undutifully enough, too, my good old creature, sometimes, I assure you,” said Mrs. Skewton, whimpering. “There! Shake hands with me. You’re a very good old creature—full of what’s-his-name—and all that. You’re all affection and et cetera, ain’t you?”
“Oh, yes, my Lady!”
“Yes, I’m sure you are; and so’s that gentlemanly creature Grangeby. I must really shake hands with you again. And now you can go, you know; and I hope,” addressing the daughter, “that you’ll show more gratitude, and natural what’s-its-name, and all the rest of it—but I never did remember names—for there never was a better mother than the good old creature’s been to you. Come, Edith!”
As the ruin of Cleopatra tottered off whimpering, and wiping its eyes with a gingerly remembrance of rouge in their neighbourhood, the old woman hobbled another way, mumbling and counting her money. Not one word more, nor one other gesture, had been exchanged between Edith and the younger woman, but neither had removed her eyes from the other for a moment. They had remained confronted until now, when Edith, as awakening from a dream, passed slowly on.
“You’re a handsome woman,” muttered her shadow, looking after her; “but good looks won’t save us. And you’re a proud woman; but pride won’t save us. We had need to know each other when we meet again!”
XLI
New Voices in the Waves
All is going on as it was wont. The waves are hoarse with repetition of their mystery; the dust lies piled upon the shore; the seabirds soar and hover; the winds and clouds go forth upon their trackless flight; the white arms beckon, in the moonlight, to the invisible country far away.
With a tender melancholy pleasure, Florence finds herself again on the old ground so sadly trodden, yet so happily, and thinks of him in the quiet place, where he and she have many and many a time conversed together, with the water welling up about his couch. And now, as she sits pensive there, she hears in the wild low murmur of the sea, his little story told again, his very words repeated; and finds that all her life and hopes, and griefs, since—in the solitary house, and in the pageant it has changed to—have a portion in the burden of the marvellous song.
And gentle Mr. Toots, who wanders at a distance, looking wistfully towards the figure that
