The people of the inn came forward to meet them, in a little
silent, solemn convoy. In the doorway, clinging together, appeared the
two bereaved women. Mrs. Hudson tottered forward with outstretched hands
and the expression of a blind person; but before she reached her son,
Mary Garland had rushed past her, and, in the face of the staring,
pitying, awe-stricken crowd, had flung herself, with the magnificent
movement of one whose rights were supreme, and with a loud, tremendous
cry, upon the senseless vestige of her love.
That cry still lives in Rowland's ears. It interposes, persistently,
against the reflection that when he sometimes--very rarely--sees her,
she is unreservedly kind to him; against the memory that during the
dreary journey back to America, made of course with his assistance,
there was a great frankness in her gratitude, a great gratitude in her
frankness. Miss Garland lives with Mrs. Hudson, at Northampton, where
Rowland visits his cousin Cecilia more frequently than of old. When he
calls upon Miss Garland he never sees Mrs. Hudson. Cecilia, who, having
her shrewd impression that he comes to see Miss Garland as much as to
see herself, does not feel obliged to seem unduly flattered, calls him,
whenever he reappears, the most restless of mortals.
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