As the lapse of time and change of circumstances have wrought a remarkable alteration in the appearance of the poor widow, it may not be improper to notice it here. When first brought under consideration, she was a miserable and forlorn object; squalid in attire, haggard in looks, and emaciated in frame. Now, she was the very reverse of all this. Her dress, it has just been said, was neatness and simplicity itself. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion — still pale, but without its former sickly cast — contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. One marked difference between the poor outcast, who, oppressed by poverty, and stung by shame, had sought temporary relief in the stupifying draught — that worst “medicine of a mind diseased,”— and those of the same being, freed from her vices, and restored to comfort and contentment, if not to happiness, by a more prosperous course of events, was exhibited in the mouth. For the fresh and feverish hue of lip which years ago characterised this feature, was now substituted a pure and wholesome bloom, evincing a total change of habits; and, though the coarse character of the mouth remained, in some degree, unaltered, it was so modified in expression, that it could no longer be accounted a blemish. In fact, the whole face had undergone a transformation. All its better points were improved, while the less attractive ones (and they were few in comparison) were subdued, or removed. What was yet more worthy of note was, that the widow’s countenance had an air of refinement about it, of which it was utterly destitute before, and which seemed to intimate that her true position in society was far above that wherein accident had placed her.
“Well, Mrs. Sheppard,” said the carpenter, advancing to meet her, and trying to look as cheerful and composed as he could; “what brings you to town, eh? — Nothing amiss, I trust?”
“Nothing whatever, Sir,” answered the widow. “A neighbour offered me a drive to Paddington; and, as I haven’t heard of my son for some time, I couldn’t resist the temptation of stepping on to inquire after him, and to thank you for your great goodness to us both, I’ve brought a little garden-stuff and a few new-laid eggs for you, Ma’am,” she added turning to Mrs. Wood, who appeared to be collecting her energies for a terrible explosion, “in the hope that they may prove acceptable. Here’s a nosegay for you, my love,” she continued, opening her basket, and presenting a fragrant bunch of flowers to Winifred, “if your mother will allow me to give it you.”
“Don’t touch it, Winny!” screamed Mrs. Wood, “it may be poisoned.”
“I’m not afraid, mother,” said the little girl, smelling at the bouquet. “How sweet these roses are! Shall I put them into water?”
“Put them where they came from,” replied Mrs. Wood, severely, “and go to bed.”
“But, mother, mayn’t I sit up to see whether Thames returns?” implored Winifred.
“What can it matter to you whether he returns or not, child,” rejoined Mrs. Wood, sharply. “I’ve spoken. And my word’s law — with you, at least,” she added, bestowing a cutting glance upon her husband.
The little girl uttered no remonstrance; but, replacing the flowers in the basket, burst into tears, and withdrew.
Mrs. Sheppard, who witnessed this occurrence with dismay, looked timorously at Wood, in expectation of some hint being given as to the course she had better pursue; but, receiving none, for the carpenter was too much agitated to attend to her, she ventured to express a fear that she was intruding.
“Intruding!” echoed Mrs. Wood; “to be sure you are! I wonder how you dare show your face in this house, hussy!”
“I thought you sent for me, Ma’am,” replied the widow, humbly.
“So I did,” retorted Mrs. Wood; “and I did so to see how far your effrontery would carry you.”
“I’m sure I’m very sorry. I hope I haven’t given any unintentional offence?” said the widow, again meekly appealing to Wood.
“Don’t exchange glances with him under my very nose, woman!” shrieked Mrs. Wood; “I’ll not bear it. Look at me, and answer me one question. And, mind! no prevaricating — nothing but the truth will satisfy me.”
Mrs. Sheppard raised her eyes, and fixed them upon her interrogator.
“Are you not that man’s mistress?” demanded Mrs. Wood, with a look meant to reduce her supposed rival to the dust.
“I am no man’s mistress,” answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone.
“That’s false!” cried Mrs. Wood. “I’m too well acquainted with your proceedings, Madam, to believe that. Profligate women are never reclaimed. He has told me sufficient of you —”
“My dear,” interposed Wood, “for goodness’ sake —”
“I will speak,” screamed his wife, totally disregarding the interruption; “I will tell this worthless creature what I know about her — and what I think of her.”
“Not now, my love — not now,” entreated Wood.
“Yes, now,” rejoined the infuriated dame; “perhaps, I may never have another opportunity. She has contrived to keep out of my sight up to this time, and I’ve no doubt she’ll keep out of it altogether for the future.”
“That was my doing, dearest,” urged the carpenter; “I was afraid if you saw her that some such scene as this might occur.”
“Hear me, Madam, I beseech you,” interposed Mrs. Sheppard, “and, if it please you to visit your indignation on any one let it be upon me, and not on your excellent husband, whose only fault is in having bestowed his charity upon so unworthy an object as myself.”
“Unworthy, indeed!” sneered Mrs. Wood.
“To him I owe everything,” continued the widow, “life itself — nay, more than life — for without his assistance I should have perished, body and soul. He has been a father to me and my child.”
“I never doubted the latter point, I assure you, Madam,” observed Mrs. Wood.
“You have said,” pursued the widow, “that she, who has once erred, is irreclaimable. Do not believe it, Madam. It is not so. The poor wretch, driven by desperation to the commission of a crime which her soul abhors, is no more beyond the hope of reformation than she is without the pale of mercy. I have suffered — I have sinned — I have repented. And, though neither peace nor innocence can be restored to my bosom; though tears cannot blot out my offences, nor sorrow drown my shame; yet, knowing that my penitence is sincere, I do not despair that my transgressions may be forgiven.”
“Mighty fine!” ejaculated Mrs. Wood, contemptuously.
“You cannot understand me, Madam; and it is well you cannot. Blest with a fond husband, surrounded by every comfort, you have never been assailed by the horrible temptations to which misery has exposed me. You have never known what it is to want food, raiment, shelter. You have never seen the child within your arms perishing from hunger, and no relief to be obtained. You have never felt the hearts of all hardened against you; have never heard the jeer or curse from every lip; nor endured the insult and the blow from every hand. I have suffered all this. I could resist the tempter now, I am strong in health — in mind. But then— Oh! Madam, there are moments — moments of darkness, which overshadow a whole existence — in the lives of the poor houseless wretches who traverse the streets, when reason is well-nigh benighted; when the horrible promptings of despair can, alone, be listened to; and when vice itself assumes the aspect of virtue. Pardon what I have said, Madam. I do not desire to extenuate my guilt — far less to defend it; but I would show you, and such as you — who, happily, are exempted from trials like mine — how much misery has to do with crime. And I affirm to you, on my own conviction, that she who falls, because she has not strength