So far, then, she was at peace.  But a silent sorrow had made its way into her bosom, gnawing there with the noiselessness and certainty of the imperceptible worm, generated by the sunlight, in the richness of the fresh leaf, and wound up within its folds.  She had no word of sorrow in her speech—­she had no tear of sorrow in her eye—­but there was a vacant sadness in the vague and wan expression of her face, that needed neither tears nor words for its perfect development.  She was the victim of a passion which—­as hers was a warm and impatient spirit—­was doubly dangerous; and the greater pang of that passion came with the consciousness, which now she could no longer doubt, that it was entirely unrequited.  She had beheld the return of Ralph Colleton; she had heard from other lips than his of his release, and of the atoning particulars of her uncle’s death, in which he furnished all that was necessary in the way of testimony to the youth’s enlargement and security; and though she rejoiced, fervently and deeply, at the knowledge that so much had been done for him, and so much by herself, she yet found no relief from the deep sadness of soul which necessarily came with her hopelessness.  Busy tongues dwelt upon the loveliness of the Carolina maiden who had sought him in his prison—­of her commanding stature, her elegance of form, her dignity of manner and expression, coupled with the warmth of a devoted love and a passionate admiration of the youth who had also so undesiringly made the conquest of her own heart.  She heard all this in silence, but not without thought.  She thought of nothing besides.  The forms and images of the two happy lovers were before her eyes at all moments; and her active fancy pictured their mutual loves in colors so rich and warm, that, in utter despondency at last, she would throw herself listlessly upon her couch, with sometimes an unholy hope that she might never again rise from it.

But she was not forgotten.  The youth she had so much served, and so truly saved, was neither thoughtless nor ungrateful.  Having just satisfied those most near and dear to him of his safety, and of the impunity which, after a few brief forms of law, the dying confession of the landlord would give him and having taken, in the warm embrace of a true love, the form of the no-longer-withheld Edith to his arms, he felt that his next duty was to her for whom his sense of gratitude soon discovered that every form of acknowledgment must necessarily prove weak.

At an early hour, therefore—­these several duties having been done—­Ralph made his appearance at the village-inn, and the summons of the youth soon brought Lucy from her chamber.