He stood and looked at me in dumb amazement, and left the house without
a word. I thought I should be happy in my triumph over him. But now
that the truth was out, and my relatives would hear of it, I felt
wretched. Humble as were their circumstances, they had pride in my good
character. Now, how could I look them in the face? My self-respect was
gone! I had resolved that I would be virtuous, though I was a slave. I
had said, “Let the storm beat! I will brave it till I die.” And now,
how humiliated I felt!
I went to my grandmother. My lips moved to make confession, but the
words stuck in my throat. I sat down in the shade of a tree at her door
and began to sew. I think she saw something unusual was the matter
with me. The mother of slaves is very watchful. She knows there is no
security for her children. After they have entered their teens she
lives in daily expectation of trouble. This leads to many questions. If
the girl is of a sensitive nature, timidity keeps her from answering
truthfully, and this well-meant course has a tendency to drive her from
maternal counsels. Presently, in came my mistress, like a mad woman,
and accused 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!”