me concerning her husband. My grandmother, whose
suspicions had been previously awakened, believed
what she said. She exclaimed, “O Linda!
Has it come to this? I had rather see you dead
than to see you as you now are. You are a disgrace
to your dead mother.” She tore from my
fingers my mother’s wedding ring and her silver
thimble. “Go away!” she exclaimed,
“and never come to my house, again.”
Her reproaches fell so hot and heavy, that they left
me no chance to answer. Bitter tears, such as
the eyes never shed but once, were my only answer.
I rose from my seat, but fell back again, sobbing.
She did not speak to me; but the tears were running
down her furrowed cheeks, and they scorched me like
fire. She had always been so kind to me!
So
kind! How I longed to throw myself at her feet,
and tell her all the truth! But she had ordered
me to go, and never to come there again. After
a few minutes, I mustered strength, and started to
obey her. With what feelings did I now close
that little gate, which I used to open with such an
eager hand in my childhood! It closed upon me
with a sound I never heard before.
Where could I go? I was afraid to return to my
master’s. I walked on recklessly, not caring
where I went, or what would become of me. When
I had gone four or five miles, fatigue compelled me
to stop. I sat down on the stump of an old tree.
The stars were shining through the boughs above me.
How they mocked me, with their bright, calm light!
The hours passed by, and as I sat there alone a chilliness
and deadly sickness came over me. I sank on the
ground. My mind was full of horrid thoughts.
I prayed to die; but the prayer was not answered.
At last, with great effort I roused myself, and walked
some distance further, to the house of a woman who
had been a friend of my mother. When I told her
why I was there, she spoke soothingly to me; but I
could not be comforted. I thought I could bear
my shame if I could only be reconciled to my grandmother.
I longed to open my heart to her. I thought if
she could know the real state of the case, and all
I had been bearing for years, she would perhaps judge
me less harshly. My friend advised me to send
for her. I did so; but days of agonizing suspense
passed before she came. Had she utterly forsaken
me? No. She came at last. I knelt before
her, and told her the things that had poisoned my life;
how long I had been persecuted; that I saw no way
of escape; and in an hour of extremity I had become
desperate. She listened in silence. I told
her I would bear any thing and do any thing, if in
time I had hopes of obtaining her forgiveness.
I begged of her to pity me, for my dead mother’s
sake. And she did pity me. She did not say,
“I forgive you;” but she looked at me
lovingly, with her eyes full of tears. She laid
her old hand gently on my head, and murmured, “Poor
child! Poor child!”
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