Chapter 41 - Page 2

as it came on, like the shadow of an
actual presence, was in accordance with the laws of the physical
world, for all the Light that shone on Betty Higden lay beyond
Death.

The poor old creature had taken the upward course of the river
Thames as her general track; it was the track in which her last
home lay, and of which she had last had local love and knowledge.
She had hovered for a little while in the near neighbourhood of her
abandoned dwelling, and had sold, and knitted and sold, and gone
on. In the pleasant towns of Chertsey, Walton, Kingston, and
Staines, her figure came to be quite well known for some short
weeks, and then again passed on.

She would take her stand in market-places, where there were such
things, on market days; at other times, in the busiest (that was
seldom very busy) portion of the little quiet High Street; at still
other times she would explore the outlying roads for great houses,
and would ask leave at the Lodge to pass in with her basket, and
would not often get it. But ladies in carriages would frequently
make purchases from her trifling stock, and were usually pleased
with her bright eyes and her hopeful speech. In these and her clean
dress originated a fable that she was well to do in the world: one
might say, for her station, rich. As making a comfortable provision
for its subject which costs nobody anything, this class of fable has
long been popular.

In those pleasant little towns on Thames, you may hear the fall of
the water over the weirs, or even, in still weather, the rustle of the
rushes; and from the bridge you may see the young river, dimpled
like a young child, playfully gliding away among the trees,
unpolluted by the defilements that lie in wait for it on its course,
and as yet out of hearing of the deep summons of the sea. It were
too much to pretend that Betty Higden made out such thoughts; no;
but she heard the tender river whispering to many like herself,
'Come to me, come to me! When the cruel shame and terror you
have so long fled from, most beset you, come to me! I am the
Relieving Officer appointed by eternal ordinance to do my work; I
am not held in estimation according as I shirk it. My breast is
softer than the pauper-nurse's; death in my arms is peacefuller than
among the pauper-wards. Come to me!'

There was abundant place for gentler fancies too, in her untutored
mind. Those gentlefolks and their children inside those fine
houses, could they think, as they looked out at her, what it was to
be really hungry, really cold? Did they feel any of the wonder
about her, that she felt about them? Bless the dear laughing
children! If they could have seen sick Johnny in her arms, would
they have cried for pity? If they could