Nelly coloured, and avoided meeting Susan’s eye.
“I’ve heard other folk speak of you. He never named your name.”
This respect of silence came like balm to Susan: balm not felt or heeded at the time it was applied, but very grateful in its effects for all that.
“He is at my house,” continued Susan, determined not to stop or quaver in the operation—the pain which must be inflicted.
“At your house? Yew Nook?” questioned Eleanor, surprised. “How came he there?”—half jealously. “Did he take shelter from the coming storm? Tell me,—there is something—tell me, woman!”
“He took no shelter. Would to God he had!”
“O! would to God! would to God!” shrieked out Eleanor, learning all from the woful import of those dreary eyes. Her cries thrilled through the house; the children’s piping wailings and passionate cries on “Daddy! Daddy!” pierced into Susan’s very marrow. But she remained as still and tearless as the great round face upon the clock.
At last, in a lull of crying, she said,—not exactly questioning, but as if partly to herself—
“You loved him, then?”
“Loved him! he was my husband! He was the father of three bonny bairns that lie dead in Grasmere churchyard. I wish you’d go, Susan Dixon, and let me weep without your watching me! I wish you’d never come near the place.”