From the gathering at meal-times she must not
shrink. She must show no sign of weakness. But, oh! the relief,
after that walk, to sit in her own room, locked up, so that
neither Mary nor Elizabeth could come by surprise, and to let her
weary frame (weary with being so long braced up to rigidity and
stiff quiet) fall into a chair anyhow--all helpless, nerveless,
motionless, as if the very bones had melted out of her!
The peaceful rest which her mind took was in thinking of Leonard.
She dared not look before or behind, but she could see him well
at present. She brooded over the thought of him, till she dreaded
his father more and more. By the light of her child's purity and
innocence, she saw evil clearly, and yet more clearly. She
thought that, if Leonard ever came to know the nature of his
birth, she had nothing for it but to die out of his sight. He
could never know--human heart could never know, her ignorant
innocence, and all the small circumstances which had impelled her
onwards. But God knew. And if Leonard heard of his mother's
error, why, nothing remained but death; for she felt, then, as if
she had it in her power to die innocently out of such future
agony; but that escape is not so easy. Suddenly a fresh thought
came, and she prayed that, through whatever suffering, she might
be purified. Whatever trials, woes, measureless pangs, God might
see fit to chastise her with, she would not shrink, if only at
last she might come into His presence in heaven.
Pages:
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385