“Ay, that I will,” cried she, “go with you through the wide world.”
She burst into tears, and wept bitterly for some time.
“Ah! now I feel right again,” said she; “this is what I wanted; but could not cry this many a day—never since the word came to me that you was going, and all was lost.”
I assured her that I now expected to be happier than I had ever been.
“Oh!” cried she: “and have you never been happy all this time? What a folly it was for me, then, to do so wicked a thing! and all my comfort was, the thinking you was happy, dear. And what will become of you now? And is it on foot you’ll go?”
Her thoughts rambled again.
“Whatever way I go, you shall go with me,” said I. “You are my mother; and now that your son has done what he knows to be honest and just, he will prosper in the world, and will be truly happy; and so may you be happy, now that you have nothing more to conceal.”
She shook her head.
“It’s too late,” said she, “quite too late. I often told Christy I would die before you left this place, dear; and so I will, you will see. God bless you! God bless you! and pray to him to forgive me! None that could know what I’ve gone through would ever do the like; no, not for their own child, was he even such as you, and that would be hard to find. God bless you, dear; I shall never see you more! The hand of death is upon me—God for ever bless you, dear!”
She died that night; and I lost in her the only human being who had ever shown me warm, disinterested affection. Her death delayed for a few days my departure from Glenthorn Castle. I stayed to see her laid in the grave. Her funeral was followed by crowds of people: by many, from the general habit of attending funerals; by many, who wished to pay their court to me, in showing respect to the memory of my nurse.