ITwas a clear, cold, sunshiny autumn morning, the atmosphere was full of sunshine, yet there was little warmth in the air, and there were thin misty clouds upon the sky, which looked like vapors which the earth had thrown off from her own still bosom, and the wind carried up unchanged. Yet out of doors it was a beautiful fresh day, and the sun beat in through our darkened windows with a full bright flash in mockery of our sombre shade. A dreary dull excitement was in the house—it was the funeral day.
I had been living a strange, miserable, solitary life. Every day Alice brought me some food, and I took it mechanically. Every day I went down stairs, and heard them speaking together. I listened when they addressed me, and answered them with perfect composure. I knew all the arrangements—by no pretext that I was not able, did I permit anything to be hid from me. I was quite able—my frame was strong—my heart was stunned—I could endure anything—there need have been no fears for me.
But my intercourse with them went no further. I heard what they had to say, and answered, but I suffered no approach towards friendship. Alice waited upon me with assiduous tenderness, but I never spoke to her. Mr. Osborne appealed to our long acquaintance—to my father’s old, old friendship for him—to his love for mine and me. My heart was steeled. I made no response. I went and came among them alone—alone—as I was to be alone all my life.
And he—he was always there—always ready to interpose for me if I expressed a wish, or opposed any intention of Mr.Osborne, who managed everything. If I was likely to be annoyed by any importunity, I knew that he interposed and freed me from it. I seemed to see everything he did, present or absent, by some strange magic. He did not persecute me with vain endeavors after a reconciliation—he left me to myself—we scarcely spoke to each other; yet when he was away I chafed and fretted at his absence, and when he returned I knew how he looked—what he did—as well as if I had flown to meet him, or hung upon him with a young wife’s foolish fondness. We were evermore parted, yet evermore united—this feud and antagonism between us was as strong a bond as love.
My father was to be laid in the family grave—this was at a little solitary church half way between Cambridge and Cottiswoode. Some haughty Southcote in the old time had desired to be laid at the boundary and extreme line of his own lands, and hence had arisen a little desolate church and graveyard, and the mausoleum of the race. They had arranged that Edgar Southcote was to be the chief mourner at this lonely funeral—thatI could not bear—I could not see my father carried to his grave with only them two—Mr. Osborne andhim, following up the last journey. I said nothing, but I prepared myself—I wrapped a great black cloak about me, over my mourning dress—black, black, black—it was very neat. I veiled my head and my face, and went out from these doors like something that belonged to the midnight, and not to the day. Alice stood and gazed at me aghast while I robed myself; and when I turned to go out, she fell down at my feet, and clasped her arms round me, and cried and pleaded: “Do not go—it will kill you,” she cried. I drew my dress out of her hands and bade her rise. “It will not kill me,” I said bitterly, “yet if it did, it would be well.”
As I went down stairs I met Mr. Osborne. He stood before me in amazement. “Hester, Hester, you will not think of this!”
“Let me pass!” I said, “let some one who loved him go with him—let me pass—no one shall prevent me—he has none in the world of his own blood but me.”
“My child, my child, you cannot bear it—all shall be done as you shall approve,” he said anxiously. I did not answer, but passed him with an impatient gesture. In the close, I found yet another interruption—buthedid not try to prevent me—he followed me into the carriage—he knew me better than they did.
And so we set out upon our dreary journey—once more I looked from the carriage windows, and wondered if this day was but a common day to the common people round. Once we met a marriage party—a gayer party than ours had been, five weeks ago, with young bright faces, and smiles and jests, and all the natural tokens of a time of joy. I looked at them with the strangest interest. I wondered which was the bride and what was appointed to come to her. Should she be so miserable as I, or was mine a solitary instance? You would fancy a mourner had little room for such thoughts—but I had room for every kind of thought—no wild fancy or speculation in that slow dreadful journey came amiss to me.
Everything looked different from what it had been when I came by this same road to my father’s death-bed; now the people were at work in the fields; there were cries in the air—passengers on the road, everywhere, life and motion, sunshine and hope. I saw the rustic people pause at their labors to look at our solemn procession; I could fancy how they asked each other who it was that came this way to his last rest. My thoughts went back to that night seven years ago, when my father and I drove this way together, leaving our ancestral home. We had never been on the road again, so far as I knew, never till now, and now we were taking him to a home of which no man should ever dispossess him, to rest with his forefathers for ever.
A very low rude wall, one of those fences of the country, was round the church-yard, the church itself was small and poor—a humble little chapel, where only a few scattered worshippers ever came. I do not know why it had been permitted to fall so much into neglect, for the family tomb was in a little chapel closelyadjoining and opening from it. This little shelter of our race was paved with old tombstones, every one bearing the name of a Southcote, and the walls were covered with tablets to the memory of the dead of our house. There were two raised tombs besides, with recumbent figures, memorials of some more distinguished or more ostentatious than the rest; and this house of the dead was lighted by a small Gothic window, filled with scraps of ancient glass; here, under the shelter of this groined roof, within these inscribed and monumental walls, and not where the free air of heaven should visit his grave, we were to lay my father. It was well—better for him than the green grass, the flowers, the sunshine, and the outer human world, was the little family chapel where, withdrawn from the common dust, his race and kindred waited till the end.
In silence and solitude I stood at the head while it was being laid in its place. I did not weep, nor cry, nor faint. I never faltered for an instant from my firmness. In my cold, cold composure I stood and looked on. The words of the service never woke me, yet I heard every one of them. I noticed the very tone of the clergyman’s voice, and the habitual cadence of the words. I knew it was because he said them so often that they rang to that measure. I observed everything; not the smallest incident escaped my eye. By and bye all was silent again—it was over, and we had to go away.
Only then did I linger for a moment—I looked round upon this well frequented place, where so many had been brought and had been left before. I glanced over all the names, how full it was. This place was home. The house we were all born to inhabit—the permanent, lasting dwelling-place. The new comer was not alone here; he was gathered to his fathers; he was entered upon his last and sweet inheritance. I came away with a steady step—I think almost with a smile upon my face. My father had many friends around and beside him—only I was alone.
And then we set out to return to our life, and left the deadbehind. Oh! life inexorable—cruel! how it sweeps upon the traces of the last slow journey, and beats out the mourner’s footprints with its race and tumult! It was not hard to leave him, for he was well; but it was hard to note our quickened pace, to know that we were going back to every-day. No one spoke—I was thankful for that—even Mr. Osborne did not break upon the silence. Once more the people in the fields looked up to see us going back again, and the light came from the west, and the labors were almost over, and we had left our new inhabitant in the grave; that was all the world knew of us as we went home.
When we entered, I saw the table was spread, and it occurred to me, that at my father’s table we ought to be represented, not by Edgar Southcote, nor by Mr. Osborne; and when I had taken off my mantle, I returned and took my place. I saw Mr. Osborne look at me with extreme and uncomprehending wonder. He could not understand my motive, nor what he called the rule of my conduct. He did everything very properly himself, and conformed to all the usual decorums, and he did not know how to judge me. I was aware of his wondering, and almost disapproving glance. I was aware that I ought not to have been able, on this day, to take my place here as I did; but I was not moved by knowing it; I only felt an indignant determination that neither of them two should rule at my father’s board—this was his house still, and I was his heir.
When the meal was over, I returned to my room; but I could no longer rest there—there was a visible void in the house—a dull ache and vacancy in my heart. I wandered about from room to room, to his bed-chamber where he died, and where he had been lying like a king in state and rest; from thence I went to the library where his chair stood by the table, where his desk and his books seemed almost to have been used to-day.
There I sat down in my dull, vacant misery; the door was closed, the house was still—save for the branches waving in the evening wind across the window, there was neither sound normotion near. I was quite alone. I sat looking at the diamond ring upon my finger, his last gift. I wondered what he meant by saying it was a misfortune. A misfortune—I had no need, yet no fear of such in my withered life. One great calamity, as I thought, had put me beyond the reach of fate. “No, no!” I repeated to myself unconsciously aloud, “fate has done its worst—I can suffer no more. I can lose no more—there is no misfortune left possible to me.”
As I spoke I heard some motion in the room, and starting saw Mr. Osborne rise from behind the curtain where he had been reading. In proportion to my former confidence in him, was my resentment against him now, and I became very angry when I perceived he had been watching me.
“Then you have made up your mind to be miserable,” he said, somewhat sharply, as he came up to me. “This is very foolish, Hester! it is worse than foolish—it is criminal, and it is weak—you forget your natural grief to nurse your wrath, and confirm yourself in a sense of injury. Where is your poor mother’s miniature which I gave you for a charm to keep those evil thoughts away? It might have soothed your father’s last hour, if you had not thus embittered your heart. Child! child! it is easier to make misery than to heal it—do not throw your life away.”
“I have no life to throw away,” said I, sullenly, “it has been taken from me and all its hopes. I do not care if I should die to-morrow.”
“Do you think that those who make such speeches are in the best mind for dying?” said Mr. Osborne. “Dying is a solemn matter, Hester! and can only be done once. But at present, living is more in your way. Do you know that this revengeful passion of yours will estrange all sympathy from you? Men and women who have lived long in the world have generally known somerealcalamities, Hester! it is only boys and girls who can afford to indulge in despair, and say fate has done its worst. You do not know what you say—instead of fate and itscurse, Providence has blessed you more greatly than you are able to perceive.”
“Not Providence—Providence never works by falsehood,” cried I.
Mr. Osborne’s face flushed with displeasure. “You are very bitter, Hester, very harsh in your judgment,” he said, “and I could not bear with this passion of yours so long if you had not been a dear child to me for many a year—for your father’s and your mother’s sake I overlook your resentment against myself, though I have not deserved it; but, Hester, beware—it is all very well now to be heroically miserable; but you are young—you have a long life before you; and, however long you may dwell upon your injury, some time or other you will begin to want and long for the happiness which now you despise. Hester! come, I will confess you have had a hard initiation into the cares of life; be a woman and a brave one, let us see no more of the girl’s whims and humors. I can promise you all tenderness for your honest sorrow, Hester, but not for your wilful wretchedness.”
“I ask no tenderness, no sympathy. I will not accept it,” I cried, starting from my seat. “You know I have not a true friend in the world—who should sympathize with me? every one of you has deceived me!”
“If that is your conclusion, so be it,” said Mr. Osborne, walking to his seat. “I can only hope that your true friends will not be lost, even before you have real need for them, and that when you come back to look for it, Hester, and find your right senses, your happiness will not be entirely out of your reach.”
I did not wait to hear any more, but left the room, unable to speak with anger and indignation—the stupor of my misery was broken, I was roused almost to madness. It was not yet a week since I had fallen from my happy confidence into this dark abyss of falsehood and betrayal, and already they blamedme—already they called me resentful, revengeful, obdurate. I, the victim of their successful plots, I who stood alone and no onewith me! I saw at once how I would be judged on all sides, how every one would condemn me—how lighthisoffence would be in the eyes of the world—how unpardonable mine! If I had been like to yield before, I could not have yielded after that. I set myself fairly to meet it all. He should have justice! justice! and neither deceit nor pity from me.
In this tumult, my heart awoke. Its dead and sullen inaction gave way to a vivid feeling of reality—and as if I had known it now for the first time, there burst upon me the full sense of my father’s death. Yes! for the first time I felt to my heart, how desolate I was, and with a bitter satisfaction I remembered that I had nothing to wean me from my grief, nothing to distract the mourning of my orphanhood—no wooing tender happiness to lead me away from the grave where I would build all my thoughts. Yet now, also, for the first time I remembered what he had said upon his death-bed—strange words for him, “one event should not poison a life.” I thought I heard the echoing round me of his failing voice—the voice I should hear no more; and I threw myself down before the bed, kneeling and covering my face in passionate and bitter weeping. My father! my father! where was he? where?
When I rose from my knees, it was quite dark. I do not think any one can be in great or real grief without trying to pray. I prayed little in the stupor of my misery, but now broken wandering disconnected petitions came to my lips among my tears. When I appealed to God, though ever so feebly, and, alas! so little as I knew of him! it calmed me in some degree. I rose and bathed my face to put away the tears—I was subdued and melted—my eyes filled in spite of myself. I did not weep over the death-bed or the grave. I felt now as if I could weep continuously, and that it was impossible to stay my tears.
Then I heard a timid step without; I knew it was Alice, and by-and-bye she came softly knocking at the door—under the door crept in the light from her candle. I remembered with a bitter pang the last time she came to me in the darkness—thenight of my betrothal. When I thought of that, I rose firmly and admitted her. How I was changed! Alice came in with a hesitating step, looking wistfully at me to see how far she might venture. Alice was greatly shaken with the events of these last few days. The bright look on her face was overclouded, she was humble and deprecating and uneasy. I had been her child, loving, confiding, almost depending upon her—and there was such a dreary difference in everything now.
She set the light upon the table, and lingered looking at me. I fancy she saw some encouragement in the glance of my wet eyes and the softening of my face. She came behind me under the pretence of doing something, and then she said timidly, “Miss Hester, may I speak?”
I could not say no. I did not answer at all, and she took this for permission.
“You think every one’s deceived you, dear,” said Alice humbly, “and in your great trouble you stand by yourself, and will let nobody help you. I don’t deny, Miss Hester, every one’s done wrong; but, darling, it was all for love of you.”
“Do not say so, Alice,” I exclaimed, eagerly, “you insult me when you speak thus.”
“Oh! Miss Hester, think upon my meaning,” cried Alice. “I thought I knew his look, his step, his voice, from the first time he came under this roof. I pondered and pondered in my mind if it could be him; but he never told me that I should know. You were as like to know as I was, dear—you had seen him all the same; and it was not my part to speak, or I thought so, Miss Hester. Then the night he spoke to you first, he brought the roses here, and said to me, ‘Do you think she would like them, Alice?’ and in my heart I knew where they came from; but never a word was spoken of them by either him or me. On your wedding-day I got more again, by a servant’s hand. I never doubted they came from Cottiswoode, nor that he sent them: but, dear, he never told me, and I had no right to know. You were willing to marry him, Miss Hester, you were boundup in one another; was I to presume that I knew more than you did, darling! and what was it I knew? nothing at all, dear, but the thought in my heart—oh! Miss Hester, you’re all I have in the world—don’t turn away from Alice—don’t think I’ve deceived you, I’m desolate without you.”
“Iam quite desolate, I have no one in the world to trust to,” said I.
“Oh! don’t say it—don’t say it!” cried Alice, “he’s been led into a snare once, Miss Hester, but truth is in his heart!”
“It is I who have been led into a snare,” said I, bitterly, “he has wrecked all my expectations—he has plunged me out of happiness into misery; but that is not all, he has placed me so that I must either yield and be satisfied like a weak fool, or if I resist be known as a passionate ill-tempered woman, who makes him miserable. I see all that is before me. I am doomed like my father. My own life is robbed of every comfort, and the blame of making him unhappy will be added to me—oh, I see it all! I will be called a termagant, a household plague, a scorn to women. It is not enough that my life is wretched—my good name must go from me too.”
“Oh! Miss Hester, not by his will,” cried Alice.
As she spoke, a change came upon me. The pride of a wife came to my mind. I could blame him myself—but I could hear no one else blame him—I could not admit a third person to our domestic discord. My quarrel with Alice was for her own fault, and not for his. My bitterness against Mr. Osborne was because he had deceived me, and not because Edgar Southcote had. No one but himself had any right to speak of his error to me.
“I am not speaking of my husband,” I said coldly; “what is between us can only be settled by ourselves; no one can interfere between him and me. I speak only of circumstances of my unfortunate and unhappy position; that is all I refer to.”
Alice paused, chilled and overcast once more; it was difficult for her, a humble, simple woman, who rarely was offended, and who, when she was, forgave like a Christian, and never sufferedthe sun to go down upon her wrath, to understand or to deal with me; she stole round behind my chair, and bent down on the ground by my feet.
“Miss Hester, will you forgive me? you are used to me—you would not take to another for a long time, dear. I was your nurse, and I have been your maid, Miss Hester, all your life—don’t cast off Alice. May be, I don’t deserve that you ever should trust me more; but let me be beside you, darling; let me serve you, and wait on you, and comfort you if I can. Oh! Miss Hester, my dear sweet young lady trusted in me—and even your papa trusted in me—don’t cast me off, for you are my own child.”
I cried long and bitterly. I could not help it. The pleading of Alice recalled again to me how desolate and solitary I was. I had not a friend in the world, old or young, to whom I could confide my trouble; not one whom I could lean upon if I was ill or suffering; alas, not a woman in existence, except herself, whom I should have wished even to see again! and disappointed as I was in those hopes of perfect sympathy and union with my husband, which every one forms at some time or other; my heart yearned for the natural solace—the comfort of mother or of sister which providence had denied to me. I let my hand fall upon her shoulder—I leaned upon her. “Oh, Alice, Alice, why did you deceive me?” I cried with a great burst of tears.
She did not answer anything, she drew me close to her bosom, and caressed me, and soothed me. My heart beat calmer. I was subdued—I scarcely knew how, as I leant upon Alice. I seemed to have found some rest and comfort for which I had been seeking vainly. When she began to weep over me, my own tears stayed; my heart was eased because I had forgiven her, and then I raised myself up, and we sat together speaking of my father. I had never heard about his last days.
“He never was well after you went away, Miss Hester,” saidAlice; “all that day after Mr. Osborne left, he wandered up and down talking to himself. The most that he said, that I could hear, was, ‘she will be well—she will be well;’ for, dear, his heart was wrapped up in you, though he said little; and then sometimes he would take a turn, as if he was doubtful, and once I heard him say, like trying to persuade himself, ‘She is not like me—she will not resent it as I would have done.’ I was not spying on him to hear this, Miss Hester; but he wandered about so, wherever I was, or whatever we were doing, and never seemed to notice us, and Mary, if she had minded, might have heard as well as me. A week before you came home he took to his bed, and when I was staying in his room waiting on him, he sometimes spoke to me. God was good to him, dear, and gave him time to think, and he was not near so high, as he drew near his latter end; but, Miss Hester, you might not care to hear what your papa said to me.”
“Oh! tell me everything—every word, Alice,” I cried.
“Sometimes he would not say a word for hours—and then all at once would speak as if he thought I had been following all that was in his mind,” said Alice. “In this way, all at once, he said to me, ‘When she comes home, you will stay by her, Alice—let nothing persuade you to go away from her—she has no mother, no friend,’ and then he did not say another word that night. Then it was again, ‘She may have disappointment in her life—few are free of it—the simplest comfort is the best. Alice, you are a simple woman, you live in every day—do you bring fresh heart to comfort my child.’ It looks presuming, Miss Hester, I know it does, dear. I never could have thought such things of myself; but that was what he said.”
“Go on—go on, Alice,” said I, as well as I was able, through my tears.
“Dear, there was not a great deal more; sometimes he said only your name, and ‘My only child, my only child;’ and then he would turn and say, ‘Be sure you never leave her, Alice, she will have need of you.’ I cannot think on much more; butwhen I went and told him you were come (it was in the night we got the news, and I was sitting up with him), he said I was to send away that moment to call you to him—and you came—and oh, darling! what a comfort all your life, that you were in time to see his latter end!”
I was weeping now without restraint, leaning upon Alice. My solitude was less desolate, less miserable, when she was beside me; and I who had always prized so much my father’s few tokens of tenderness, it went to my heart to hear how he had remembered me when I was away. “Do you think he knew, Alice?” I whispered; it was an unnecessary question, for I was sure he did.
“He never said a word, dear; but it was not like he would tell me,” said Alice. “Yes, Miss Hester, he had found it out—I knew it by his eye that very day.”
And now, that I had the clue, so did I; but I no longer felt anger against my father, though all of them had suffered me to sink passively into this gulf and grave of all my hopes.
When I went to rest that night, it was Alice’s kind hand that smoothed away my hair, and said good-night at my pillow. I wept myself to sleep, but my sleep was not haunted by the miserable visions of those nights which were past.
OCTOBERwas over now, and sullen and dark winter weather had oppressed the skies, and settled down upon the country. I was still in Cambridge, living alone in my father’s house. My husband came and went constantly, yet left me unmolested; I almost think he was afraid at once to enter upon the question of my return, and he respected the grief which would not be sympathized with. I believe, indeed, that to have an excuse for delaying any explanation or arrangements between us—to put off fixing that future which we both dreaded, there was a mutual pretence of business which claimed my attention after my father’s death; but there was, indeed, no such thing. He had left one or two legacies, and desired that, except the books he bequeathed to Mr. Osborne, his library should be left intact, and even the house preserved, and a housekeeper placed in it when I returned to my own home—but he had neither debts nor debtors—there were no arrangements to make. I lived a dreary life in the drawing-room, when I was too sick at heart to go near the window, and never left my chair when I could help it. I read earnestly, yet eagerly, whatever books came to my hand—novels when I could get them—I was glad of anything to cheat me from my own brooding unhappy thoughts; yet I never thought of going away. Where could I go to? All the world was alike solitary—alike desolate to me. The heavy listlessness of grief came upon me—I cared for nothing, I scarcely desired anything. I had never had any visitors, and though one or two came to see me now because I was mistress of Cottiswoode, to offer their condolences and sympathy for my loss, I denied them admittance when I could, and when I could not, suffered theircoming and their going so indifferently that they seldom came to trouble me again. Mr. Osborne came now and then, but his visits were only of duty, and there was little pleasure in them for either him or me. By degrees I was left entirely alone with Alice, and with my husband, when he came. People had begun already to speak of me with astonishment. I made Alice confess this was the case; and no one knew me or could take my part; but in my heart I was rather glad than otherwise, to have my first condemnation over so soon.
It was now a month since we had returned home, and save on the first evening and morning after our arrival at Cottiswoode, we had spoken to each other only on indifferent subjects. I knew this could not last. I had always in my mind a certain deadened and dull expectation of our next interview. I feared it, and would have put it off from day to day, yet it seemed the one thread of life in my languid existence. My heart beat when I heard his footsteps come along the close—that springy light rapid step; I knew its faintest echo, and equally well I knew it when duller and fainter it went away. The misery of our position was, that we were not, and could not be, indifferent to each other; when he came, this subdued restrained expectation animated me into temporary vigor; when he went away, I was aware of an aching disappointment, which mingled with a sense of relief. Involuntarily I watched and waited for him—if our meetings had all been joy, they scarcely could have been so breathlessly anticipated, for then we should have known each other’s plans, and intentions, and wishes, and now we knew each other in perfect ignorance of what the other meant to do.
I myself was still worse than that—I did not know my own intentions; I had no plan for the future. I knew we must by-and-by decide upon something; but my mind seemed incapable of any action, save brooding over my own thoughts or speculating on his. Alice had brightened, I could not tell why, since our interview. I suspected she nourished vain hopes that I wasweak, and would yield to him; none of them understood me, or if any one did, it was he.
Things were in this position to-day, when Alice came and told me that he had arrived, and wanted to see me. I told her to show Mr. Southcote upstairs. I was able to compose myself before he entered the room. I am sure he could see no sign of agitation. It was very different with him; his face had an excited, unsteady look, he was very pale, yet sometimes his cheek flushed with a deep faint color. I could not see that he either had any plan. I read in his whole manner that he had come to try once more what entreaty, and persuasion, and penitence would do. This hardened and strengthened me; I was ready to hear him with coolness and self-possession when I saw that he brought neither to his conference with me.
He sat down near to me, and leaned forward to me across my little table. His voice was dry and hoarse with emotion. “Hester,” he said, “I have waited, and been patient. I have not hastened nor troubled you. Have you no comfort, no hope, no forgiveness for me now!”
“It is I that should have comfort—for it is only I that have been in sorrow,” I said.
“Yes, and you have put me away from you. I have not been permitted to say that I grieved with my wife,” he said, “yet I have grieved with you, Hester—you can shut out the man who has offended you, but you cannot shut out the heart—all these wrong nights and days—all this wretched time, I have been with you, Hester. You cannot exclude my thoughts or my love—you cannot make me forget that you are mine.”
“I cannot make myself forget it,” I said. “No, you do well to taunt me. I know that I belong to you. It has all come true—I feel what is upon me like a chain of iron. I remember your cruel words, when you said ‘for ever and ever’—I remember what my father told us—you do not need to repeat my misery to me, I acknowledge it.”
I saw him start and draw back when I said “my misery,” asif it was a pang; but he recovered himself. “For ever and for ever,” he repeated, “do you remember that night—Hester, there was no misery in our way that night, and how is it that we are changed? I have sinned against you, and you have punished me. For a whole month now, and it is only two months since our marriage-day, the meanest passenger in the streets has had as much kindness at your hands as I—is this not enough, Hester? can you not forget now this dark episode, and return to what we were? Let me suppose it is again that night—let us return to the time of our betrothal, and being anew. Will you speak to me, Hester?”
“We cannot return to the time of our betrothal,” said I; “then I was deceived. Now I know, and it is impossible to restore the delusion again.”
“Was there nothing but delusion?” he said hastily, “was it folly to suppose that you cared for me at all—or is vengeance and not mercy the companion of love?”
“I cannot tell,” said I, “I am no poet; but if you think it is easier to be wounded to the heart—to be deceived and ruined, and put to shame, by one who is dear to you than by an enemy, I know you are mistaken. If I had not cared for you, I should have had only myself to mourn for, and would have been a light burden.”
He sank back in his chair for a moment with a look of blank dismay and almost horror. “Deceived and ruined and put to shame!” he repeated. “Hester! what meaning do you put upon these words?”
I felt the blood rush to my face, with indignation and shame and nervous excitement. “It is quite true,” I said, “you have taken the hope and strength out of my life—is not that ruin? and you have disgraced me in my own eyes—I did not leave my father’s home withyou—you know I did not give either heart or hand to you; but I awake and find that I am your wife—you have disgraced and shamed me to myself. I can only bear contempt and scorn for the deceived and foolish girl whom you haveshown to me in her true weakness. I can never hold up my head any more—and by-and-by you will disgrace me to the world.”
“How will I do that, Hester?” he asked; his voice rang sharp and harsh; he felt what I said deeply, and, in addition, I saw that at last I roused a kindred opposition and anger in his mind.
I found a certain pleasure in it. I was glad to rouse him to be like me, in bitterness and enmity; though I was much excited, I had command of myself; I could speak slowly and clearly as I thought. I had never been given to many words—but I appreciated the possession of them now.
“When your neighbors see the disappointed sullen woman who is called by your name, they will know what to think of her,” I said. “I will be pointed at as one whose evil temper, whose bitter disposition makes every one round me miserable. All the hard tales of the old Southcotes will be revived in me—they will say I am a curse instead of a blessing—they will make an example of me, and tell how happy I might be—how miserable I am. No one will know of the secret poison that has come into my life; but they will know that I am bitter and harsh and unlovely, and they will judge from what they see; the very servants, poor Amy who could not leave me till she had told me who she was—they will think me an evil spirit—they will shrink out of my way, and all the world will give their sympathy to you.”
While I spoke thus, though it moved him much, though he changed color, and sometimes for a moment his eye flashed upon me with indignation, I saw at once that I had relieved him in some point. When I thought of it, I perceived that all this speech of mine pointed to no separation; but almost told him that I was ready to follow him home. I had not intended this, indeed I did not know what I had intended—I had formed no plan, and I only spoke, as I so often acted, on the moment’s impulse, without pausing to think what it might leadto. When I discovered his satisfaction, it startled me for a moment; but then I was occupied listening to what he said. He spoke in a softened and hopeful tone.
“This will not last, Hester! your own good heart will interpose for me. I have deceived you once, it is true; but neither I nor any one else will do you injustice.”
I made no answer. I saw he had something more to say, and I waited sullenly to know what it was.
“Will you come home?” he asked. “There is nothing here but memories of sadness. Come, Hester! life and its duties wait upon us while we dally. If you cannot forgive me, still, come with me, Hester. If we do our duty, the blessing will come to us. At present we are paralysed, neither you nor I are good for anything, and our life was not made for our own caprice—come!”
“And what should I be good for?” I asked with some astonishment, for hitherto my life had been of the most complete and total uselessness, and I did not understand what was required from me. When he took this tone, I always acknowledged his influence—it was only when we came to personal matters—when I sat triumphant on the eminence of injury, that I got the better of him.
“What? anything!” he said. “I know what you are, Hester! you have life before you as I have; and happy or not happy, we have all its duties to do—not one thing, but a multitude. Come among your own people, to your own home—you have authority to exercise, charities and kindness to spread around you. You are no less yourself, because, if you will, you are disappointed and deceived in me—I will bear my burden as it is just I should; but, Hester, it becomes you to be no less brave; you must take up yours.”
I gazed upon him with amazement; involuntarily my heart responded to this call he made upon me. No one had ever bidden me rise and work before; but when I heard his voice, I suddenly acknowledged that this was the want of my life. Iwas quite in the mood for it; I might have gone into a nunnery, or joined a sisterhood of mercy, had I been a Catholic, or in a country where such things were. I immediately leaped upon a wild imaginative vision of those things which he described so soberly as the duties of life. I took the heroic view of them at once; I had no eye for patience and meekness, and such tame virtues. My rapid glance sought out the great self-sacrifices, the privations of voluntary humility; I was ready to walk over the burning ploughshares, to be a martyr at once.
Yes! I began to be ashamed of my expectation that he would plead, and pray, and humble himself at my feet, and that I, injured and deceived, would spurn him from me. I was ashamed of resenting so bitterly my own unhappiness. In a moment I had reached the opposite extreme. What was happiness? a mere bubble on the surface. Duty and labor were the zest of life.
With the speed of lightning these thoughts passed through my mind, and all the time he sat gazing at me across the table. I think he was scarcely prepared for my answer; for he met the first words with a startled look of mingled embarrassment and joy.
“When do you wish to go home?” I said. “I am ready now.”
“Ready now—to go home?” he exclaimed, with a flush of surprise and delight, rising to come to me; but he caught my abstracted, pre-occupied eye, and, with a deeper blush of mortification, sat down again. “You cannot come too soon, Hester,” he continued, in a subdued and disappointed tone, “for everything is disorganized and out of order—there is the greatest want of you—though I will not say how I myself long to see you in your proper place—will you come to-morrow?”
“There are some things to do,” I said, vacantly, delaying without any purpose in the delay. “Will Monday do?”
“Yes, yes!” he said, with eagerness. “I will come for you then; and now, I go away in hope.”
I made no answer—my mind was busied with my own projects—already in my mind I had begun my life of heroism and martyrdom at Cottiswoode. Already I washed the feet of the poor, and watched by the bedside of the plague-stricken. I did not pause to consider possibilities, nor ordinary rules; but followed up my own wild idea, in my own eager fashion. He waited for something further from me; but I said nothing to him, and after a little interval he went away.
It was now Friday, and I had pledged myself to be ready on Monday to go to Cottiswoode. I went immediately to find Alice; I could perceive that she had been waiting with great anxiety the issue of our interview, though, absorbed as I was in my new thought, it did not immediately occur to me why—and when I went to her, Alice was quite nervous with expectation.
“Do you think some one could be got quickly to keep the house, Alice?” said I, “do you think you could find some one to-day or to-morrow?”
Her face lighted up suddenly.
“To be sure I could, Miss Hester,” said Alice; “but, dear, why?”
“Because I have arranged to go home on Monday,” said I, “to go home, Alice, to the duties of my life.”
“Bless you, darling!” she cried; but her color changed when she saw my unresponsive face; “it’s not against your will, dear,” she said timidly, “you’re not forced to go, Miss Hester?”
“Forced?no! unless by my duty, which is there,” said I. “I begin to see what is the use of me, Alice, or what should be, rather; for I have never been of use to any one. I must go to begin my work, there is the proper field for me—and now, when I know what it is, unhappiness will never prevent me from doing my duty.”
“Is that all, Miss Hester?” said Alice, with a wistful look—she was more disappointed than evenhehad been.
“Yes! that is all,” said I, “what more should any one seek for? I wonder you never told me, Alice, how useless I was.”
“Has any one told you now?” said Alice, drawing herself up with a little flush of simple anger; “or, dear, what has put such a thought in your mind to-day?”
“Not any one telling me,” I answered; “but I see it very well, and clearly—perhaps, indeed, after all, I could not have done very much when I was a girl—it is different now; but, Alice, let us see what preparations we have to make, for there is very little time.”
“Yes, Miss Hester, directly,” said Alice, taking up her bonnet. “I’ll go and see after the old woman—don’t you be waiting about the library, dear, it’s a dreary place for you. Wouldn’t you come out now your own self, Miss Hester, and breathe the air—Cambridge streets are no great things, I dare say, to them that’s been in foreign countries and in London, but better than always moping in the house—come, darling—come yourself and see.”
I was persuaded, and went with her. The day was not so miserable out of doors as it looked within, and it was still scarcely past mid-day, and there were many people abroad. We had not gone far before we met Mr. Osborne, who had a clergyman with him—a tall, meagre, middle-aged man, in very precise clerical dress, about whom there was a certain look of asceticism and extreme devotion, which, as it happened, chimed in with my mood of the moment. Mr. Osborne and I met very drily after our late quarrel. I had not softened in my resentment towards him, and he was impatient and angry with me—so that I thought it was mere aggravation, and a desire to exasperate me, which tempted him to introduce his companion to “Mrs. Southcote of Cottiswoode;” it was the first time I had heard my name stated so, and I could not subdue the start and tremor with which I heard it—so that I did not at the instant notice the name of the person introduced to me, and it was only when I heard it repeated, that it struck upon me with a sound more startling than my own.“Mr. Saville is rector of Cottiswoode—the clergyman of your parish—Hester,” said Mr. Osborne—“when do you return home?”
“On Monday,” I said; but my whole attention was fixed upon my new acquaintance—Mr. Saville—I could not think, for the first moment, what association I had with the name, but it was a painful one, and it had something to do with Edgar Southcote.
“I am glad to meet my young relative,” said the clergyman with a stiff bow—his young relative! Could he meanme?
I gazed at him for a moment, but only with a dull astonishment, for it was quite beyond my comprehension what he could mean.
“The parish has been much neglected. I hope to bring its necessities before you soon,” said the clergyman, in his measured, chanting tone. “I do not despair of making the desert rejoice, with your assistance, Mrs. Southcote; but at present it is in a deplorable condition. No church sentiments, no feeling for what is seemly and in order—there has been no resident on the estates for so many years.”
“Ah! the young people will rectify that, no doubt,” said Mr. Osborne, carelessly. “I am glad to see you out of doors, Hester, and glad to hear that you are going home—your own good sense—I always trusted to that.”
“I will be glad to do all I can,” I said, hurriedly answering the clergyman, and taking no notice of Mr. Osborne; “you will have to instruct me at first, for I am quite ignorant of work. Could I take anything with me that could be of service? pray let me know.”
“I will make out a list of useful articles—no trouble, pray do not speak of it,” said the Rev. Mr. Saville, with a wonderful bow.
Mr. Osborne groaned. “I am in some haste,” he said sharply. “Good morning, Hester—I shall see you before you leave Cambridge,” and as he turned away, I heard him mutter—“Poor, foolish child—is she to comfort herself after this fashion.”
I turned away proudly—this worldly man might scorn these self-denying labors, which were to be all the pleasure of my life—but I only clasped them closer on that account. I called Alice to me again, and went on in silence. I persuaded myself how glad I was that I had encountered this clergyman; but in spite of my devotion to the work about which he seemed so anxious, I could not keep my mind from straying back to his name, and what he had said—Saville—Saville—it suddenly burst upon me—that was the name of the man who came with the boy Edgar to Cottiswoode, before we left it. I felt my face burn with indignation and displeasure—he called me his young relative—perhaps he wasthatman’s son, and a relation of Edgar Southcote. I thought it a new insult, that by any chance such a person as the first Saville should be related to me. Yet so strongly was I moved by my new sentiments, that, I think I made the strongest effort which I ever recollect making to put down this feeling. Yes, I had become enamored of mortification and self-abasement. I had my work to begin too, and what did it matter if this clergyman was Saville’s son—what did anything matter to me? Was I not about to court humiliation and offer sacrifices—to forget my worldly comforts and delicate breeding—to wash the feet of pilgrims? and I was glad to find at the very outset a great unexpected mortification in my way. I walked along very rapidly beside Alice. She was anxious to speak to me—very anxious about myself—but I did not think of beginning my labors by doing what I could to lighten the kind heart of Alice.
When we were returning, after visiting a woman whom Alice knew, and whom she arranged with—for though this might have been a very suitable beginning of my labors, I did not think of making it so, but was shy and stood aloof; we began at last to speak. Alice no longer understood or could deal with me; she hesitated and was timid, and never knew what to say in ourconversations. I do not wonder at it—for when I look upon those days, I do not always find it easy to comprehend myself.
We had just passed a group of young ladies. Three handsome, tall, well-dressed girls, evidently sisters, and full of talk and eager interest in something they were discussing. “Dear,” said Alice, with a sigh, “if you had but had a sister, Miss Hester, or some good young lady to be company for you at Cottiswoode.”
“I want no company, Alice,” said I.
“You never knew what it was, dear,” said Alice; “a friend is a great blessing and comfort, more than you think for. Couldn’t you now, Miss Hester, darling, think upon some one to keep you company this dull winter? You’ll be lone in the country, and nothing to amuse you—do think upon it, dear.”
“I do not want to be amused. I am going to work like a rational creature,” said I; “do you think I am good for nothing but amusing myself, Alice? No, I have lived long enough for my own pleasure, and now that pleasure is out of the question, I want to live for others. I must have been very selfish all my life. I want to sacrifice myself now, and live for the good of the poor and the distressed.”
“Dear, it’s a blessed thing to hear a young lady like you speak such words,” said Alice, with tears in her eyes; “and to serve God and to be good to his poor, is the way to be happy, darling; but you never need to live solitary, or give up a good friend for that.”
“You do not understand me, Alice. I don’t want to be happy,” said I, sternly—“I want to do my duty—happiness is all over in this world for me. Do not say anything; you will only vex me; and you know I have no good friend to give up, even if I cared for it.”
Alice paused again, disconcerted, eager, ready to say a great deal, but afraid of offending me, I fancy; at last she thought it best to let me have my own way.
“And what will you do, Miss Hester?” said Alice.
“I scarcely know,” said I, “the clergyman will tell me, and Iwill learn, and I am sureyouknow, Alice, what ladies can do in the country. I could go to nurse the sick in the village—that is one thing.”
“But, dear Miss Hester,” said Alice, “if the Queen had come to nurse your papa, do you think she could have made up to him, poor gentleman, for the want of you?”
“No, no, no! why do you say such things?” said I.
“Because poor folks feel just the same,” said Alice, with a little dignity; “a poor man would sooner have his own wife, and a poor woman her mother, or her child, to nurse her, than the greatest lady in the land.”
I was slightly offended at what Alice said. “I will only go where I am of use, you may be sure,” I said; “I will seek out the poor, and work for them. I will teach the children. I will take care of the old people. There is a great deal of misery everywhere—I can understand it now, and I will find plenty to do.”
“Yes, dear, there’s plenty of trouble,” said Alice, with a heavy sigh: “plenty of God’s own sending, and plenty of our own making, Miss Hester—and old folks like me, that have seen grief, it goes to our heart to see the young and the great that have happiness at their feet, and will not stoop down to lift it—and that’s the truth.”
“If you speak of me—I do not wish to hear of happiness. I have no longer anything to do with it,” said I, angrily.
How I clung to this! how I closed myself up in a gloomy panoply, and defied their vain consolations. We went the rest of the way home in silence. I was displeased with Alice, and she was grieved for me. I do not know how she comforted herself; but I took refuge in my intended martyrdom. I did not wish it to be agreeable. I was impatient of being told that I could do all this, yet not diminish either my comforts or enjoyments. I was anxious to suffer, to scorn delights, to meet with trials—not the Lady Bountiful of a village, but the heroine of some dangerous mission, was it my desire to be. I had the true ascetic mood upon me. I was not disposed to “endurehardness” for the sake of doing good; but rather to endure doing good for the sake of the sacrifice and suffering which I anticipated so eagerly; and this was how I intended to act upon my husband’s sober exhortation to come to my own home and my own people—to take up my burden and do the duties of my life.
MONDAYdawned bright and genial; one of those rare November days, when summer seems to come back again to see how the world looks under the reign of winter. The air was not cold, but so clear that, on these wide plains of ours, you could see for miles around you. There was no wind; white clouds lay entranced upon the deep blue sky, which was mellowed and warmed with a flood of sunshine, and against it the few trees stood out with a distinctness which became almost ridiculous where it was a bristling pollard willow, which outlined all its bare twigs, like the hair of a frightened rustic standing on end, upon that wonderful background. The sandy path sparkled with minute crystals; the mosses on the low stone fences caught the eye like banks of flowers; here and there a little rivulet of water, bridged with a plank, came sparkling through a meadow with a line of trees on either side; and under this full sunshine, an occasional morsel of new-ploughed field gave diversity to the vast, level, and long lonely roads; while a single horseman or foot-passenger, coming clear out on the sky, broke through the sunburnt meadows, hedgeless and naked, raising up, now and then, another leafless affrighted willow—a far-seeing sentinel—scared by something coming which it could see, though you could not. The sky itself, falling out of its glorious full blue, into wonderful grays and olive tints deepening and deepening, yet everywhere breaking into streaks of light to the very edge of the horizon, gave a wonderful charm to everything below; and upon our faces came the fresh air, which was not wind, without violence, yet full of exhilaration, so fresh, so pure, so limitless—a world of sweet existence initself. Though I closed my heart against its influence, I could not help but note the day—I could not help comparing it to that bright face of Alice opposite me from which youth had passed, which had little hope for this world, and on whom sorrow had fallen with its utmost weight, yet which was happy still. When I looked at my husband, there was the light and the hope of manhood upon his face, yet it was clouded; and what was I—a sullen spring-day, ungenial, ungladdened. So I carried out my involuntary metaphor.
Everything had been suitably arranged in Cambridge—a housekeeper was established in the house, and Mary remained with her—nothing was disturbed of all our old household arrangements. My father had left his income to me, of course; and I was able to maintain this for myself. It was equally a thing of course that Alice should accompany me—no one needed to speak on the subject, it was so clearly understood between us, and my husband, and Alice, and I travelled very silently to Cottiswoode. I had sent there the previous night, a large box full of things which Mr. Saville, in a very stiff polite note, had recommended me to bring. Among its contents were some prayer-books and catechisms, but I am afraid one of the most bulky items was dark cloth for a sort of uniform which Mr. Saville recommended to be worn by the lady visitors in his parish, for he had hopes, he said, of establishing a devout and energetic sisterhood to assist him in his work. I was much occupied with my own intentions and purposes in this respect. I saw myself in the gloomy mantle of the order, going about sternly, sadly, awing other people only to mortify and humiliate myself. I did not pause to ask whether, with my clouded face and obdurate, dull, determined breast, I would be an acceptable visitor anywhere. The poor were merely the passive objects of my own martyrdom. I never took them into account in the matter, nor paused to consider whether or notmyministrations would be a comfort to any one. My whole wild plan sprang entirely from thoughts of myself.
When we came to the great avenue of elms, I gazed up at it steadily. They were grand old trees. The free wide air about them had strengthened the noble life in these stout retainers of our house. They threw abroad their great branches with a glorious freedom. They had no bias nor stoop in one direction or another, but stood boldly upright, impartial, indifferent from what point of the compass the wind might blow; and behind the forest of boughs and twigs, at every countless crevice and opening, the sky looked through, marking the intertwining lines, great and small, like some grand lacework, upon the white rounded clouds poised upon its surface, and upon its own magnificent full hue. I saw how excited and nervous Alice became as we neared home—she gazed about her with eager glances—she folded her hands together, wrung them close, put them to her eyes. It was hard for her to keep still, harder still to be silent, as glimpse after glimpse of the familiar road burst upon us. My husband spoke to me once or twice in sympathy. I said nothing. When we passed the village, I saw the clergyman standing in the garden at the Rectory, looking at us as we passed by, and there were many little groups in the neighborhood of Cottiswoode, and the children set up a chill hurrah as we drove through the village; but I sat back in my corner, and cared for nothing. At last we drew up and alighted. This time I suffered his hand to help me, though the memory of that former night returned upon me, so that I scarcely could keep my composure. Once more I looked up at the arms of our house sculptured above the door—once more I saw the servants ranged within, and then I suffered him to lead me through them, and bowed, though I could not smile. I saw they looked at me now with a new and wondering curiosity. I saw that I was an object of more personal and eager interest than when they gathered with smiles to greet their master’s bride. Yes! my reputation had come before me—they were prepared to wonder, to comment, to criticize—but I was not wounded at the thought, I only passed by them with a little additional haughtiness, and went tothe room which was prepared for me—the same room where I spent that first dreadful night after our coming home.
When I had arranged my dress, I went down stairs to the room which now was the drawing-room, but which had been our dining-parlor in past days. It was a large long room, spacious but not bright, with one great window opening to the lawn, and a smaller one in the corner of the wall. When I entered, he was walking about with an expectant look upon his face—he started and made a step forward as if to advance to me as I came in, but though I saw him perfectly, I did not look at him, and he stopped and returned again. I went to the window to look out upon the lawn, and the great walnut tree, which I could only see imperfectly from this point—then I took a seat in silence. A painful interval followed. I sat quite still, vacantly looking out. He paced about the room with unequal steps—sometimes rapidly and with impatience. We were neither of us doing anything—we were like two enemies watching each other, ready to strike. I do not think that till that moment either of us realized what a frightful thing it was to live together, confined within the same walls, and with this feud between us.
“How are you pleased, Hester, with the new arrangements—the furniture—the house?” he said, throwing down a book upon the table, somewhat noisily, in his extreme agitation.
“I am quite pleased—it is all very well,” I answered. I found it difficult to command my own voice. I suddenly was seized with a wild wonder, why we were placed here to torture each other. It might preserve appearances, but we surely would have been better with the whole world between us, than together as we were.
“When we were boy and girl we had a conversation here,” he went on rapidly, now coming up to me: “do you recollect it, Hester?”
“Yes,” I said, “then I believed in you, and pointed to my father the picture you resembled. My dear father! I thank God he does not see us to-day.”
“What picture did I resemble, Hester?” he asked, with a good deal of emotion in his voice. I pointed to it with a quick gesture, I could not trust myself to speak.
“You took my part,” he said, “you had compassion for me. You bore me witness that I was no deceiver; and, Hester, your face, your voice, your generous, brave, girlish frankness, have made my heart warm since that day.”
I held up my hand in entreaty. I could not bear it.
“No, I will not persecute you,” he said; “no, do not fear me. We will gain nothing by discussions of the old question. I bid you welcome home to your own house. I will say nothing else. I will now relieve you of my presence, and I am sure you will thank me for that, at least.”
But I did not even thank him for that. What had been wretched, while he was with me, became intolerable when he was gone. I drew the chairs aside, and walked up and down the long apartment in restless misery. Day after day, year after year, were we to live thus?—together, yet with a world between us—with nothing to say to each other—nothing to do with each other—a sullen, dreary silence, or half-a-dozen forced words, making all our domestic intercourse. I had anticipated much vague misery, but the actual exceeded the ideal; and yet, though it was miserable to be together, I was impatient and jealous of his absence; and when I threw myself into a chair by the fire, and began to gaze into it, and to brood over our new life, my thoughts settled down upon a nearer object, and I only wondered where he had gone to, when he would come back again, and if he came again, what he would say.
It was so strange to raise my head, and look round, and see the familiar faces of those family portraits looking down upon me. Instinctively I turned to that portrait which I had said he resembled as a boy. I did not think it was like him now; his face was no longer the face of a student, with those downcast, thoughtful eyelids, and lines of visionary pensiveness. My husband was no visionary; he was not a man to be consumed ofover-much thought; he loved the free, open air—he loved exertion and wholesome labor. With a strange perception I found out that this was the case. We seemed to have changed characters since the time of our youth. It was I, now, who lived the unwholesome inner life, who shut myself up with my thoughts. I, whose nature was not so—whose spirit was eager, and courageous, and enterprising—who all my life, till now, had loved adventure and freedom—I was paralysed. I was contented to sit still, brooding and wretched. I cared no longer for the healthful functions of life.
But I was glad when Alice came into the room, and interrupted my thoughts. I had still sufficient discretion to know that, at this moment at least, it was safer not to indulge them. I made Alice sit down by me, and talk to me, though she looked wistfully round the room, and into my face, as if to ask me where he had gone. Alice had learned caution now, and was silent about him. We began to speak of my father. The harsh tempest of my unhappiness had swallowed the tears, the tenderness, the complaints of grief. I had scarcely mourned at all for my father, as people call mourning. His loss added a perfect desolation to my other misfortunes, but I did not weep for it as for a great calamity. It shut up my heart in a closer seclusion—it did not soften and lay me prostrate. I was under a process of hardening, and not of subduing. Contact with death did not humble me—it only made me withdraw myself the more into my own disturbed and darkened world, my own desolated and solitary heart. But since I had been reconciled to her, I found a little refuge, a little comfort with Alice. I sat and wept when she spoke of him. I was glad to hear her do it. I felt myself lightened and eased by a conversation such as we were having now.
While we talked thus, my eye happened to fall upon my father’s ring. I had to wear it on my forefinger, it was so much larger than the other; and I did not like to have profane hands touch it, or to give it away from me, even for an hour, to haveit altered. A misfortune! I had no clue to what my father meant when he called it so.
“Did you ever hear any story of this, Alice?” I said, holding it up to her; “he said it was a misfortune. I cannot tell what he meant.”
“Yes, Miss Hester! I’ve heard the story,” said Alice; “it belongs to the family, dear. And there’s a strange tale to it, and a prophecy, though whether it’s just fancy, or true, or what trust you may put upon it, it’s not for the like of me to tell. But I never believe myself, Miss Hester, that there’s power in a bit of gold and a shining stone, even if it’s as precious as that.”
“I have never heard of it. Tell me, Alice,” I said.
“It’s called the Star of Misfortune, dear,” said Alice, lowering her voice with some awe, though she had professed her scepticism, “and I’ve heard say it was a very grand diamond, and could buy up many a poor man’s house; but this I know to be true, Miss Hester, that though it’s been sold, and lost, and given away, the house of Cottiswoode never can keep it from them—it always comes back again—and it never can be lost till the time, let them do what they will.”
“But I do not understand this. Tell me the story, Alice,” said I.
“Well, Miss Hester, it belonged to the second son of Cottiswoode many a long year ago,” said Alice; “it was in a time when there was little learning—far different from now. But them that were learned had great arts that are never heard of now-a-days. The story goes that he got it from a spirit—but you’re not to think, dear, that I put faith in that—he had been a strange gentleman, given up to learning and caring for nothing else—though good to the poor and kind-hearted, as I have heard. There was but two sons of them, and the eldest, the Squire that was, a great gentleman at court, gave Cottiswoode to his brother to live in; and then he used to live all solitary, reading his books and studying everything in the earth and the skies, and was counted a great scholar in his day. And wherever he wentand wherever he was seen, he wore that ring on his left hand.”
Involuntarily, without thinking what I did, I removed my ring to my left hand as Alice spoke. In spite of her professions of unbelief, Alice spoke very reverentially, and impressed her hearer with a strong conviction of the truth of what she said.
“Yes, dear, there he is,” said Alice, pointing suddenly to one of the portraits, “if you look close, you’ll see the ring on his finger; and I don’t doubt he was a fine young gentleman, and all the look of a scholar about his brow.”
I started with great surprise—the portrait—the one which I thought like Edgar Southcote when he was a boy—was the very same one at which I had been looking before she came in. “I have heard of him often,” I said—“but I never heard this story—and, Alice, my father never wore this diamond while we were in Cottiswoode.”
“It was because of the tale, Miss Hester. Hush, dear, and I will tell you,” said Alice. “His name was Mr. Edgar, and he was the Squire’s only brother, as I said—and for long they were loving friends—the one was great at court and the other a great scholar, and Cottiswoode was a grander estate, and a grander Hall there than it is now. But Mr. Edgar chanced to see a young lady nigh and fell in love with her, Miss Hester—and the Squire came down on a visit, and he fell in love with her too—and strife came between the brothers, as it comes between many a generation of the name since—and the lady chose the Squire and cast off Mr. Edgar, and there was sad work in the house. But the end was that Mr. Edgar left all his books, and went away to foreign parts—to foreign parts—to the wars—and though his brother and the lady wanted to make friends, he would not, but held his left hand to them, and said he would leave their children an inheritance. Well, as the story goes, Miss Hester, no one thought more of that, except to be sorry for the poor gentleman, and the Squire and the lady settled down at Cottiswoode, and had two beautiful boys, and were as happy as a summer-day;but when ten years were gone, an old man from over the sea brought a letter to the Squire—and what was this but Mr. Edgar’s ring, and a prophecy about the house and the name of Southcote—the ring was always to go to the second son, and it was to be called the Star of Misfortune; and trouble was never to depart from the race till it was lost.”
“But you said it would not be lost,” I said, eagerly.
“Neither it can, till its time,” said Alice with solemnity; “when there is no second son born to the house of Cottiswoode, but only an heir, then the curse was to be over; and when it was worn upon a woman’s finger it was to lose its power; if it had not been for that, dear—though I put no trust in such things—I could neither have told you the tale, nor seen that evil thing shining on your innocent finger. Well, it came to pass, Miss Hester, that when the poor lady at Cottiswoode read the words Mr. Edgar had written, and saw the diamond, she screamed out it was shining and looking at her like a living eye, and fell down in a fit, and was brought to bed of a dead baby, and died before the week’s end, and the Squire’s heart broke, and the two boys grew up with no one minding them. There was strife between them from that very day, the story goes, and when they came to be men—it was the time of the civil wars—and one took one side and one the other; and the youngest boy went off from the house by night with that jewel on his finger, and nothing else but his sword; and Cottiswoode was taken by the rebels, and blood shed upon the kindly threshold—brother’s blood, Miss Hester, but neither of them was killed—and when that young man died, the ring came back to the hall by a strange messenger, though it had been sold to buy bread. And so it has been ever since. When there was more than two sons in Cottiswoode, there was less harm—but that has only been twice in all the history of the house. Brother has warred against brother, Miss Hester, from Edgar the scholar’s time down to Mr. Brian and your papa; but one way or another, dear, the ring has come back to the house, and never gone to any but the second son of Cottiswoodetill now. When your papa was master here, he put it away, and maybe he thought the curse was past; but them that knew the tale, knew well that the curse would not be past till there was a born heir, and only one son in the house. And when the present young squire came, your papa put on the ring again—it goes to my heart to see you wear it, Miss Hester. It never was but a token of evil. I think it put thoughts of strife into the mind of every one that ever wore it; thoughts and examples of ill, darling, and we’re all too ready to follow iniquity, God help and preserve us! and that is the story of the ring.”
“And, Alice, tell me again how it is to be lost?” I asked anxiously.
“When there is but one heir, and no second son; and when love and peace is in the house of Cottiswoode, and when those that are nearest in blood are dearest in heart; then the ring that never could be lost before, will fall from the hand of a born Southcote, and never be seen again—that is the prophecy, Miss Hester,” said Alice, “and if I saw it come to pass, I would give thanks to God!”
I was much excited by this story—it threw a strange weird ghostly romance about us and our race. I fitted the ring closer upon the fore-finger of my left hand, and held it up sparkling with its living quivering radiance, in the firelight. For myself, I felt no desire to lose it—it had gained a superstitious importance in my eyes: I resolved to keep it sacred, and preserve for ever, as my father had bidden me, this strange inheritance. I was not pleased with my exemption, as a woman, from its magic power—women, as I had cause to know, were quite as accessible to passions of resentment, and even to the desire for revenge, as men were, and I should have been better satisfied had there been some place for me in this grand system of family vengeance. With a different, yet a stronger interest, I looked up at the picture of Edgar the scholar, with its contemplative student face and pensive eyes. How strange that this man should be the origin of such bitter retribution—for it was very bitter, pitiless,almost fiend-like, an inheritance of animosity to be borne by brother against brother. I wondered as I looked up at the regular calm features, the undisturbed refined face, I could see no cruelty in it, as it looked down upon me thoughtfully from the familiar wall.
“It should be called the star of strife, and not of misfortune, Alice,” I said.
“It has been of misfortune, too,” she answered; “never one has thriven with that ring upon his finger; there never is strife in a house, dear, but trouble comes. They say the lands are not half so great as when that diamond came to Cottiswoode, and though it is a precious stone itself, Miss Hester, it’s never been reckoned in the wealth of this house. There’s violent death, there’s great grief and sin, there’s losses and misfortunes among the Southcotes ever since it came; and the second son of Cottiswoode has never had children to leave it to. I never heard of one that gave it to his own child, but your papa.”
Once more we relapsed into silence. I had a new subject for my thoughts in Alice’s tale; and, perhaps, it may be thought strange that I should receive it with such entire faith. Family superstitions have always a great hold upon the imagination. It is hard to disbelieve stories that come to us on the voucher of our own ancestors, and which are part of the family creed, and concern the whole race; but even without these claims upon my attention, I should have at once believed and received this story. I was quite in the mood for it, and though I did not fear “ghosts,” nor show any of the popular signs, I had a natural tinge of superstition in my mind.
But Alice warned me how late it was, and I had to go upstairs with her and dress. I cared nothing about my dress. I suffered her to adorn me as she would. But I would wear no ornaments—notthatbracelet, nothing but the storied and fatal ring. Like a real star it glittered on my finger—catching the ruddy gleam of the firelight, and shining in the darkened air of the winter twilight. He could not know this story, and I couldnot tell him of it—it was very strange to be so near, yet so far apart.