The Ladies Lindores · Chapter 29 (2/2)

“When we had no home,” the mother said, shaking her head. But she, too, got a wistful look in her eyes at the recollection. Those days when they were poor, wandering, of no account; when it mattered little to anyone but themselves where they went, what the children might do, what alliances they made⁠—what halcyon days these were to look back on! In those days this miserable union, which had ended so miserably, could never have been made. Was it worth while to have had so many additional possessions added to them⁠—rank and apparent elevation⁠—for such a result? But she could not permit herself to think, with Carry sitting by, too ready to relapse into those feverish musings which were so terrible. She put her arm round her child and drew her tenderly away. They left the room with the lights against the wall, and the firelight giving it a faux air of warmth and inhabitation. Its emptiness was scarcely less tragic, scarcely less significant, than the chill of the other great room⁠—the state chamber⁠—in the other wing, where, with lights burning solemnly about him all night, the master of the house lay dead, unwatched by either love or sorrow. There were gloom and panic, and the shock of a great catastrophe, in the house. There were even honest regrets; for he had not been a bad master, though often a rough one: but nothing more tender. And Carry lay down with her mother’s arms round her and slept, and woke in the night, and asked herself what it was; then lay still in a solemn happiness⁠—exhausted, peaceful⁠—feeling as if she desired nothing more. She was delivered: as she lay silent, hidden in the darkness and peace of the night, she went over and over this one certainty, so terrible yet so sweet. “God forgive me! God forgive me!” she said softly to herself, her very breathing hushed with the sense of relief. She had come out of death into life. Was it wrong to be glad? That it was a shame and outrage upon nature was no fault of poor Carry. Sweet tears rolled into her eyes, her jarred and thwarted being came back into harmony. She lay and counted the dark silent hours striking one by one, feeling herself all wrapped in peace and ease, as if she lay in some sacred shrine. Tomorrow would bring back the veils and shrouds of outside life⁠—the need of concealment, of self-restraint, almost of hypocrisy⁠—the strain and pain of a new existence to be begun; but tonight⁠—this one blessed night of deliverance⁠—was her own.