It made the effect of the charming little room complete, and not only carried one to the country, but straight away at once to the seashore. Those who saw it thought of the beech on summer evenings, of the happy days when they were young. It was a picture of waves—waves dancing and in motion, waves with the white froth foaming on them, and the sunlight glancing on their tops. No other life in the picture, neither ship nor bird, but the waves were so replete with their own life that the salt fresh breeze seemed to blow on your face as you gazed.
The effect was so marvellous, so great and strong, that Flo and Mrs Jenks both neglected the flowers, only taking them in as accessories, and went and stood under the picture.
“Ah! there’s the sea,” said Mrs Jenks with a great sigh, and a passing cloud, not of pain, but of an old grief, on her face.
“The sea shall give up her dead,” said a young voice by her side, and turning quickly, Flo saw one of the most peculiar, and perhaps one of the most beautiful, women she had ever looked at. Was she old? The hair that circled her low forehead was snowy white. Was she young? Her voice was round, flexible, full of music, rich with all the sympathy of generous youth.
She might be thirty—forty—fifty—any age. She had a story—who hasn’t?
She had met with sorrow—who hasn’t? But she had conquered and risen above sorrow, as her pale, calm, unwrinkled face testified. She was a brave woman, a succourer of the oppressed, a friend in the house of trouble, or mourning, as the pathetic, dark grey eyes, which looked out at you from under their straight black brows, declared. Long afterwards she told Flo in half-a-dozen simple words her history.
“God took away from me all, child—father—mother—lover—home. He made me quite empty, and then left me so for a little time, to let me feel what it was like: but when I had tasted the full bitterness, He came and filled me with Himself—brim full of Himself. Then I had my mission from Him. Go feed my sheep—go feed my lambs. Is it not enough?”
“You like my picture, Mrs Jenks,” she said now, “and so does the child,” touching Flo as she spoke with the tips of her white fingers. “Come into this room and I will show you another—there.”
She led the way into a little room rendered dark, not by the great tree, but by Venetian blinds. Over the mantel-piece was another solitary picture—again a water-colour.
Some cows, four beautifully sketched, ease-loving creatures, standing with their feet in a pool of clear water: sedgy, marshy ground behind them, a few broken trees, and a ridge of low hills in the background—over all the evening sky.