The profile was almost perfect, and the mouth would have been lovely too but for a certain proud droop of the lips which gave an impression of hardness and inflexibility; but the dark eyes were very soft and melancholy, and seemed to hold a world of sadness in their depths.
“Mrs. Watkins,” she began hurriedly, in a sweet, cultivated voice, and then stopped and drew back as another person came into the shop; “no, do not let me interrupt you. I was only going to say that one of the young ladies at Miss Martingale’s seems very poorly, and Miss Theresa is a little troubled about her, so I have promised to go back for an hour or two; but I have my key with me if I should be late.”
“Dear bless my heart, Mrs. Trafford,” exclaimed Mrs. Watkins, fussily, as she looked at her lodger’s pale, tired face, “you are never going out on such an evening, and all the streets swept as clean as if with a new broom; and you with your cough, and the fog, and not to mention the rawness which sucks into your chest like a lozenge;” and here Mrs. Watkins shook her head, and weighed out a quarter of a pound of mixed tea, in a disapproving manner.
Mrs. Trafford smiled. “My good friend,” she said, in rather an amused voice, “you ought to know me better by this time; have you ever remembered that either frost, or rain, or fog have kept me in-doors a single day when duty called me out;” and here she folded her cloak round her, and prepared to leave the shop.
“It’s ill tempting Providence, neighbor,” remarked the other woman, who had been standing silently by and now put in her word, for she was an innocent country body with a garrulous tongue; “it’s ill tempting Providence, for ‘the wind and the sea obey Him.’ I had a son myself some fourteen years next Michaelmas,” continued the simple creature, “as brave and bonny a lad as ever blessed a mother’s eyes, and that feared naught; but the snow-drift that swept over the Cumberland Fells found him stumbling and wandering, poor Willie, from the right way, and froze his dear heart dead.”
The lady advanced a few steps, and then stopped as though seized by a sudden impulse, and looked wistfully in the other woman’s face.
“God help you,” she said, very softly; “and was this boy of yours a good son?”
Perhaps in the whole of her simple, sorrowful life Elsie Deans had never seen anything more pathetic than that white face from which the gray hair was so tightly strained, and those anxious questionings. “And was this boy of yours,” she said, “a good son?”
“A better never breathed,” faltered poor Elsie, as she drew her hand across her eyes; “he was my only bairn, was Willie.”
“Why do you weep then?” returned Mrs. Trafford in her sad voice; “do you not know that there are mothers in the heart of this great city who would that their sons had never been born, or that they had seen them die in their infancy. ‘He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow,’” she continued to herself; then aloud, and with a strange flickering smile that scarcely lighted up the pale face, “Good-night to you—happy mother whose son perished on the Cumberland Fells, for you will soon meet him again. Good-night, Mrs. Watkins;” and with this abrupt adieu she went quickly out of the shop and was lost in the surrounding fog.