“If you wish it, I will go,” said I; “I do not want to hear anything he has got to say myself; but if it will please you, Miss Saville—I know you must have thought me very heartless once—if it pleases you, I will go.”
She said, “thank you, my dear,” breathlessly, and hurried me on—though, even now, not without a lament for my bonnet. As we came near, I saw once more the face of the Rector peering out from the corner window. Miss Saville saw it too, and burst into a hurried involuntary recital of their troubles. “William is miserable!” she cried with excitement, “you don’t know what William is, all you people who look at the appearance, and not at the heart—he is the best brother—the kindest friend!—and now, when he had come to the station he was entitled to, and was in the way of doing his duty and beingrespected as he deserves, here comes Richard to wring our hearts and expose us to disgrace!—If we had money to give him he would not stay long with us, but William would rather sacrifice everything in the world than refuse a kind home to his brother—and then he is taking care of him—and the rector’s study smelling of brandy and water, and bits of cigars upon his mantel-shelf and his writing-table—and he as patient as an angel—oh, Mrs. Southcote, it’s very hard!”
As we entered at the trim gate, and went up through the orderly, neat garden, where not a weed was to be seen, I could understand this small aspect of Miss Saville’s affliction, the ends of cigars, and the smell of brandy and water, as well as her greater and sorer sorrow over the fallen brother, who still was dear to her—but the idea of an interview with him was not more agreeable on this account—I waited while she hurriedly dried her eyes, and went in with her very reluctantly. What could this man want with me! and all my old abhorrence of him returned upon me as I prepared for this unpleasant meeting. He was the first messenger of misfortune to us, and I had never tried to surmount my first disgust and aversion to him.
The Rev. Mr. Saville’s trim, snug study, was indeed sadly desecrated. He himself, the good Rector, was coughing in the atmosphere of smoke which hovered round the fire where Saville sat, with his legs upon a chair, in insolent ease and luxury. There was no brandy and water visible, but the heated look in the man’s face, and the close, disagreeable air of the room, was quite enough to justify what his sister said. I suppose it was in the haste of her agitation that she ushered me immediately into the room, where we did not seem to be expected, and where I scarcely could breathe.
“You should not have brought Mrs. Southcote here, Martha,” said the Rector, who was no less stiff and formal than of old, though a painful embarrassment mingled with elaborate courtesies; “this is not a fit place for a lady; we will join you in the drawing-room, Martha.”
“Any place will do to tell good news in,” said Saville, withdrawing his feet from the chair, and sitting erect. “Give the lady a seat, Martha, and leave us. Glad to see you, Mrs. Southcote; glad to have an opportunity of making my statement to you; had you heard it sooner it might have saved you trouble. Now, good people, why are you waiting? This piece of news does not concern you. William, take Martha away.”
“Oh, don’t leave me, Miss Saville,” I said, retreating a little, and grasping her hand.
“What, afraid!” said the man with a sneer; “you had more spirit when I saw you first, young lady; but as this that I have to say to you,” he continued, gravely, “is of the greatest importance to your family, I leave it with yourself to judge whether it would not be best to keep it for your ears alone.”
What could it be? I looked earnestly at him and he at me. I was no coward; and here, when I had only dislike, and no other feeling which could betray me, I was brave enough after the first moment. I turned to the Rector and Miss Saville, who stood behind, half-frightened, half-displeased, and full of anxious curiosity. “Pray leave us, as he says,” said I. “If it is anything worth your hearing, I will tell you what it is; but in the meantime he will not speak till you are gone.”
The Rector made a bow to me, and withdrew slowly, much agitated, and very nervous, as I could see. Miss Saville went more reluctantly. “It was a very strange thing to turn the Rector out of his own study for a secret conference,” she muttered, as she went away. Saville laughed—“Though it will be worth their hearing, I’ll warrant you do not tell them a word of it,” he said, with the same coarse insinuation of something wrong or untruthful, which I remembered so well on that first day when he came to Cottiswoode. “They are very curious, the fools!—as if they had anything to do with it. Now, Mrs. Southcote, of Cottiswoode, are you ready to hear me?”
I had drawn my chair away to the window, out of reach of his smoky atmosphere and his immediate presence—an artificeat which he laughed again. I bowed slightly in assent; and now he rose, and coming towards me, stood leaning upon the corner of the recess which inclosed the window, looking down into my face.
“I hear that my friend Edgar and you don’t get on together,” said the man, with rude familiarity; “pity when such things arise in families—and generally very bad policy, too. But, however, that can’t be helped in the present case. He’s disposed to be master, I suppose; and, after all, though you’ve humbled your pride to marry him, you’ve not got Cottiswoode.”
“If you wish only to insult me,” I said, starting from my chair, “not even for your good brother and sister’s sake can I endure this wretched impertinence. How do you dare to speak in such a tone to me?”
“I dare worse things than facing a pretty young lady,” said Saville, with his insolent laugh, “but that is not the question, and you shall have none of my impertinence if you like it so little; but I thought you were too honest to sham a reason for this marriage of yours: however, as I have said, that is not the question. As for your familyhappiness, every clown in the district knows what that is, as, of course, you are aware. And if I had been you, I’d have stayed away, and not made a fool of myself by coming back.”
I said nothing. I felt my face burn, and there was an impulse of fury in my heart—fury, blind wild rage, murderous passion. I could have struck him down when he stood before me, with his odious sneer upon his face, but I did not move. I compressed my lip and clasped my hands together till the pressure was painful, but I made no other indication of how I felt the insult of his words. Yes, this was justice—I acknowledged it—my fitting punishment.
“Well, things being so,” continued Saville, drawing a chair towards him and sitting down upon it, after he had gazed at me maliciously to see the effect of his words, and had been disappointed—“I think you are a very fit client for me: Edgar hasdone me more than one shabby trick—I give him up—I do as I am done by—that’s my principle—and a very honest one, I maintain; so if you choose to make it worth my while, I’ll put you in possession of all I know, and give you my zealous assistance to recover your rights. These fools, here,” he said, waving his hand contemptuously to indicate his brother and his sister, “will tell you, perhaps, what a dissipated fellow I am, in this wretched hole of a place—give me excitement, and I don’t care a straw how it’s come by; I owe Edgar Southcote a hard hit yet—and hang me, but he shall have it, one way or another.”
This speech awoke me at once out of anger, mortification, every personal feeling; I no longer feared or hated him—I was roused to a cool and keen observation, a self-possession and firmness which I did not know I possessed. I felt the stirring of strength and spirit in me like a new life. I was on the verge of a dangerous secret—a conspiracy—a plot against Edgar! the fool! the fool! to betray his evil counsels to Edgar’s wife. My heart beat quicker, my courage rose; I was like one inspired; a little caution, a little prudence, and I might save my husband! How warmly the blood came to my heart.
I looked at him eagerly; I did not care to suppress the sparkle of excitement in my eyes: I knew his evil imagination would interpret it very differently from the truth; his evil intent and my own conscious purpose gave me perfect confidence in addressing him, for he had no perception of truth, or love, or honor, and would not suspect what lay beneath my eager willingness to hear him now.
“There is some secret, then,” said I—“what is it? what are the rights that you will help me to regain? Such a startling speech makes me anxious of course—what do you mean?”
“I suppose,” said Saville, very slowly to pique my curiosity, “that before you can be expected to put any dependence on me, I must tell you my story: first, let me collect my evidences,” and he took a pocket-book from his pocket, and collected severalpapers out of it with great care and deliberation, now and then glancing at me under his eye-brows to see if I was impatient. I was not impatient—I watched him keenly—coolly—not a movement or a glance escaped my notice; I was Edgar’s advocate, and I was watching his enemy.
“Mr. Brian Southcote,” said Saville, going on slowly, and now and then looking up at me as he sorted his papers, “was an extremely benevolent person—so much so, that ill-natured people said he had no will of his own, and that he did not care how wrong or how foolish anything was, so long as it was generous; perhaps you object to such plain speaking when your respectable relation is the subject,” he said, stopping short with a low bow.
“Pray, go on, go on,” said I impatiently.
I suppose he thought now that he had tantalized and irritated me sufficiently, for he proceeded at a less deliberate pace.
“It is said that his younger brother, Mr. Howard, had married the lady to whom they were both attached, and lived in his father’s house, in possession of all the ordinary privileges of an heir, while the elder brother was self-banished in Jamaica, on pretence of looking after an estate, which he knew nothing about, and had not activity enough to have done anything for, even if he had been informed. Now, Mrs. Southcote, under these circumstances, your uncle being still a young man, of course, married the first woman who made herself agreeable to him—and this woman happened to be my cousin, the widow of a young naval officer, a young penniless widow with one boy.”
I started involuntarily—I could see already where the serpent was winding—was this the secret?
“With one boy,” he continued significantly, “called Harry Southern—you see there is not much difference even in the name; this child, as I will show you by a paper executed by your uncle some time before his marriage, he had already chosen for his heir, directing that he should take his name, and,after his death, be called Harry Southcote. It is not to be supposed that after Mr. Southcote married Mrs. Southern, his partiality for the boy should diminish, and this boy I have every reason to suppose is your husband, whom, by politeness, I will still call Edgar Southcote of Cottiswoode.”
I was stunned for the moment—the story looked reasonable, true—it was no exaggerated malicious lie coined on the spot. I looked up with dismay into the hard exultation of this man’s face, but when I caught his cunning, evil eye, my heart revived.
“Had you always reason to suppose this?” I said, keeping my eyes fixed upon him.
For a moment, only a moment, his confident glance fell. “Of course not, of course not,” he said, with a little bustle and swagger, which I could see was to conceal some embarrassment. “WhenItook steps in the matter, you may be sure I thought I had got hold of the right person; it is only lately that I have found my error out.”
“And how did you find it out?” I asked perseveringly.
“Upon my word, young lady, you try a man’s patience,” cried my respectable adviser—“Ididfind it out—what concern have you with the how? If you are disposed to take advantage of my information, it is at your service—but I will not be badgered by the person for whose sole benefit I have taken so much trouble. Will that convince you, look?”
He almost threw at me one of the papers in his hand—I lifted it up mechanically—I was so sure what it would say from his description, that I almost fancied I had read it before. It was a will, bequeathing all the personal property of the writer to Harry Southern, the son of the late George Southern, Lieutenant R.N., on condition of his assuming the name of Southcote; I read it over twice, and it struck me strongly enough, that after the first words of the bequest there was a parenthesis, “(if he survives me),” which was repeated every time the name of Harry Southern occurred. I held it out—holding it fast, however—to Saville, and asked him what it meant.
“A mere point of law,” he answered indifferently, “what could it be else! Ladies, I know, never understand business; but these trifling matters have nothing to do with the main question—you see very clearly who this child was, there can be no mistake about that.”
“I see nothing to identify him with Edgar Southcote,” I said.
“You are sceptical,” said Saville—“let me see if I can convince you there are some papers which throw light upon the matter.”
These papers were letters—three of them bearing dates very near each other—all referring in terms of tender fondness to some little Harry; the first was signed “Maria Southern,” the other two “Maria Southcote,” but little Harry had quite as much part in the former as in the latter, and these documents were evidently true. I was greatly disturbed;—could it be so? could it be so? Was my husband only the heir, and not the son of Brian Southcote? The evidence was very startling to my unused and ignorant eyes. I kept the papers closely in my hand, resolved not to give them up again. I did not know what arguments to use to myself to cast off this fear;—at last I cried abruptly—“If this was the case he could not be like the Southcotes, he would be like your family—but he is like Edgar the Scholar; I found out the resemblance at once.”
“It is easy to find resemblances when your mind is turned to it,” said Saville. “Is he as like now?—and suppose he had been introduced to you as Harry Southern, would you ever have cared to examine who he was like?”
Harry Southern! the idea was intolerable. I started from my seat—I could not bear it any longer. “I will think over this, and let you know what I will do,” I said hurriedly. “It is very startling news—I must have some time to accustom myself to it, and then I will be able to tell you what I can do.”
“Be so good as to return me my papers then,” said Saville; “by all means think it over—it is no joke—you had best beprudent; but, in the meantime, let me have my papers—they are my property, not yours.”
“I will not give them back—they concern me too nearly,” said I. “Stay—if you try to take them I shall call your brother. I will not endure your touch, sir;—stand back—these letters are Miss Saville’s—I will undertake that no harm shall happen to them, that you shall come to no loss—but I will not give them back.”
I did not move, but stood within the reach of his arm, fixing my eyes full upon him as I spoke. He could not bear an honest gaze; he stared at me with impotent fury, but he dared not resist me. I saw his terror at the thought of summoning his brother, and how he lowered his voice and drew back his hand at the very mention of the Rector’s name.
“You are a bold young lady—but I like your spirit,” he said, with a scowl which belied his words. “Well, I consent that you shall keep the papers—that is to say, I trust them to your honor;—shall I have your decision to-morrow?”
“I cannot tell—I must have time,” I said, growing nervous at last, and drawing nearer the door; “have you ever mentioned this?—does Mr. Southcote know?”
“You will not tellhim?” cried Saville fiercely, starting and following me, “you will not be so foolish as to showhimyour hand before the play begins? I knew women were fools in business, but I did not expect this from you—from you, Mrs. Southcote! you do not mean to pretend you are so loving and true a wife. No, I am not a likely person to have mentioned it—I know my man too well; small evidence I should have had, if it had ever come to his knowledge—I will not permit you to risk my papers in Edgar South—in Harry Southern’s hands.”
As he advanced upon me, I retreated—as he grew vehement, I threw the door open and walked hastily away—he followed me with great strides, yet restrained by a strange cowardice which I knew how to take advantage of—and when his sister suddenly appeared from the next room, he stopped short, and threw a lookof cowardly threatening, and yet entreaty upon me. “Do not let him follow me,” I whispered to her—but I knew they would take care of that—and though I managed to leave the house at a decorous pace, whenever I got into the lane I began to run. I had always been swift-footed from a child—now I flew along the solitary lane, scarcely feeling that I touched the ground, holding the papers close under my mantle. When I came to Cottiswoode, flushed, and eager, and breathless, I did not pause even to throw back my hood, but hastened to the library. There was no one there—I hurried out disappointed, and asked for Mr. Southcote. He had gone out some time ago, I was told, and had left a message for me with Alice. I ran upstairs—the message was that he was suddenly called to Cambridge, and could not expect to return till late at night—and he hoped I would not think of waiting up for him—it was sure to be very late when he came home.
I cannot tell, indeed, whether I was most relieved or disappointed to hear this; though I think the latter—yet now, at least, I would have time to think over this tale, to try if it was a fable, a monstrous invention, or if it could be true. It was late, and I got little leisure till baby was asleep, but when he was laid down to his rest, and Alice left the room, I sat down by her little table and unfolded my papers. My heart beat loud while I read them over—my fears sickened me. I had no longer the presence of Saville before me, strengthening me in disbelief and opposition. Alas, poor perverse fool! this was a fit conclusion to all the misery I had made; this long year of troubles ever since my marriage I had been bitterly and cruelly resenting the discovery that my husband was Edgar Southcote—now how gladly would I have hailed, how wildly rejoiced in, an assurance that he had indeed a title to that name. The more I examined, the more I pondered, the more my fears grew upon me. If Edgar was an unwitting, involuntary impostor—the thought was terrible—and still more terrible it was to think that Cottiswoode would then bemine. I thought I could have borne to leave awrongful inheritance with him, had it been pure loss to both of us; but thatIshould be “righted” by his downfall—ah, that was a justice I had not dreamed of! I could not rest—I wanted to do something immediately to settle this question; but that it was so late, I think I would have followed him to Cambridge—but that was not to be thought of now; so I wandered up and down from the library to my own room, always returning to the letters—and tried to conceal from myself how the hours went on, and how the household was going to rest. I still hoped that I might have gone to him at once on his return, and it was only when Alice, with a sleepy face, came calling me to baby, that I yielded at last, and went to bed, but not to sleep. Through all the dreary midnight hours after that I lay still and listened, hearing every sound, and supposing a hundred times over that I heard him return. Now and then I started up after a few moments’ sleep, and went to the door to look out and listen—but there was still the dull light burning in the hall, the silence in the house, the drowsy stir of the man who waited for his master below—then my restlessness made my baby restless also, and I had to occupy myself with him, and subdue my anxiety for his sake. It was a dreary night; but I had nothing for it but to submit—lying still, sleeping in snatches, dreaming, thinking—thoughts that ran into dreams, and longing, as only watchers long, for the morning light.
IWASastir by dawn; but before even Alice came to me I was aware that my husband had not returned. The sleepy light in the hall still burned through the early morning darkness, and the watcher still stirred the fire, which had not gone out all night. When I made sure of this I hastened down to relieve the man from his uncomfortable vigil, and on my way met Mrs. Templeton, newly roused, who began immediately to assure me that “something very particular must have detained master—it was a thing he had never done before all his life,—but she hoped I would not be uneasy, for he’d be sure not to stay from home an hour longer than he could help.” I do not know how it was, but this speech of the housekeeper’s roused me into unreasonable anger. I was offended that any one should suppose my husband’s conduct wanted defence to me; or worse still, that any one should presume to know him better than I did. I answered briefly, that I was aware Mr. Southcote had business to detain him, and hastened to my room to complete my dress. Almost unconsciously to myself, I put on a dark, warm travelling dress; the morning was brisk, frosty, and cheerful, and for the moment I was roused with the stimulus of having something to do. Somehow, even his absence and the long watch of the night did not dismay me—all at once it occurred to me, not how miserable, but howfoolishour discords were; the ordinary view—the common sense of the matter flashed upon me with a sudden light. I blushed for myself, yet I was roused; half-a-dozen frank words on either side, I suddenly thought, would set us right at once. I moved about my room with a quickened step, a sentiment of freedom; Saville’s papers, myown fears, all the dismay and anxiety of the night, united, I cannot tell how, to give an impulse of hearty and courageous resistance to my mind. There was something to do; I forgot my own guilt in the matter, and all the deeper feelings which were concerned. I thought of it all with impatience, as I have sometimes thought of the entanglements of a novel, which a spark of good sense would dispel in a moment—I forgot—though I was about the last person in the world to whom such a forgetfulness should have been possible—that good sense could not restore love, nor heal the bitterness of wounded affection. I determined for my own part not to lose a moment, not even to think it over, but to go direct to my husband at once, and say those same half-dozen sensible, frank, good-humored words which should put an end to it all; strange enough, my mind never misgave me as to the result.
I breakfasted in tolerably good spirits. I made no account of the anxious looks of Alice; I was occupied with thinking of everything we could do, of the world of possibilities which lay before us, if we were but right with one another; how I could have lulled myself into ease so long, I cannot tell. I awoke out of it all with a start and cry when I heard the great clock strike twelve, and looking out—out of my lonely chamber window, out of my new dreams—saw the broad country lying under the broad, full, truthful sunshine; the morning mists dispersed and broken, and the day come to its noon.
Noon! my bright figments perished in a moment: he had not come home, he had not written nor sent any message; had he forsaken me, as I forsook him?
I got up from my seat at once, feeling nevertheless as if some one had stunned me by a sudden blow. Though Alice was in the room, I did not make her my messenger, as it was my custom to do, but rang the bell myself, ordered the carriage instantly, and put on my bonnet. Alice came to help me without saying anything; my fears caught double confirmation from her silence. Something must have happened! she never askedwhere I was going, nor if she should accompany me, yet helped me to get ready as if I had told her all my thoughts.
“Where did he say he was to go?” I asked under my breath.
She told me; he had gone to a lawyer’s in Cambridge, about some justice business—nothing that could detain him; I said nothing more, except to bid her be careful of baby, whom I had never before left so long as I most likely should leave him now. Then I hastened away. The winter noon was bright, the road crisp and white with frost, the air exhilarating and joyous. I leaned forward at the carriage window, looking out eagerly, if perhaps I might meet him returning; but the only person I saw was Saville, his enemy, pacing up and down the lane between the rectory and Cottiswoode, waiting, as I supposed, to see me. The sight of this man brought my emotion to a climax. Any one who knows what anxiety is, will readily know that I had already leaped the depths of a dozen calamities—accident, illness, death itself—which might have happened to my husband—and when it occurred to me now, that I might be going to his sick-bed or his death-bed, with these papers which pretended to prove that he was not what he seemed, folded into my hand, I scarcely could bear the intolerable thought. I could not venture to anticipate how he would receive me if downfall came to him. I had deprived myself of all that generous joy of helping and lightening which might have given a certain pleasure to a good wife even in her husband’s misfortune. I!—I dared not be generous to Edgar—dared not appear to come closer to him in his humiliation, if humiliation there was. I went on blindly in a kind of agony, scarcely venturing to think how I should speak, or what I should do. If anything had happened to Edgar—any of those physical misfortunes which people speak of, as calling forth the disinterested and unselfish devotion of women, what could I do, who, all these weary months, had been resenting so bitterly his disinterested affection for me? And if Saville was right—if I, and not Edgar, was the true heir after all, howwould it become me to rejoice as any other wife could have done, in the certainty that all that was mine, was his as well. In a moment our positions were changed. I thought of my husband—Edgar—Harry! as a poor man, having no title to anything save through his wife. I thought of him solitary and in suffering, able to make no exertion for himself, depending for all care and tenderness upon me. Heaven help me! this was the recompense I had labored to secure for myself; our positions were changed; and how could I dare to offer to him the same love and benefits which I had rejected so bitterly when he offered them to me?
Yet we still went on at full speed to Cambridge. When we came to our destination I alighted breathlessly, half expecting to encounter him at once, and without the faintest notion of what I was to say, or how to account for my errand. But he was not there—he had left this house, and, indeed, had left the town, early in the previous evening. I turned away from the door, sick to the heart. I asked no more questions. I would not betray my ignorance of his movements to strangers. He had left Cambridge to go home, but he had not come—had he left me?—had something happened to him?—what could I do?
And there stood Joseph at the carriage door asking where we were to go next. How could I tell? When I recollected myself, I bade him go to our old house, my father’s house, and to drive slowly. I do not know why I wished to go slowly—perhaps with some unreasonable idea of meeting Edgar on the way.
When I reached the house this time, I alighted and went in; for the first time since my father’s death. That strange old, dreary, silent house where dwelt the past—what had I to do there? I went wandering about the rooms, up and down, in a kind of stupor, looking at everything with dull curiosity,—noticing the decay of the furniture, and some spots of damp on the walls, as if I had nothing more important on my mind. I cannot account for the strange pause I made in my agony of anxiety, fear, and bewilderment. I did not know what to do—Icould not even think—there seemed a physical necessity for standing still somewhere, and recovering the power of myself.
I was in the library, looking round, seeing everything, yet only half aware where I was—when I started almost with superstitious terror to hear in the passage behind a well-known alert footstep, and the rustle of Mr. Osborne’s gown. He had seen the carriage at the door as he passed—for he lived so near that he could not go anywhere without passing this way—and came to me in haste when he heard I was here. He came up anxiously, took my hand, and asked me what was the matter? I looked ill, I suppose.
And my heart yearned to have somebody to trust to—the sound of his voice restored me to myself. “I am in great trouble,” I said; “have you seen Edgar, Mr. Osborne?—is he here?”
“Here! it would indeed have been a strange place to find him.”
“I do not mean in this house,” said I, with a little impatience; “is he in Cambridge? have you seen him?—I want to know where he is.”
“It is a strange question, Hester, yet I am glad to hear you ask it,” said Mr. Osborne; “I presume, now, you are both coming to your right mind.”
“No—soon I shall not care for anything, right or wrong,” said I. “Edgar—he is a man—he should have known better—he has gone away.”
Then immediately I contradicted myself in my heart. He could not have gone away! And yet—and yet!—“Where is he?” I cried. “I have to speak to him: I have a great deal to say. Mr. Osborne!—he had better not do what I did; he is not a fool like me; he was not brought up like me, among ghosts in this house: he ought to know better than I!”
Mr. Osborne took my hand again, made me sit down, and tried to soothe me. Then I told him of Edgar’s absence. It was only one night; it was no such great matter; he smiled at my terror. But, at the same time, he bade me wait for himhere, and went out to make inquiries. I remained for some time alone in the house—alone, with recollections of my father—of myself—of Harry—of all those young thoughts without wisdom, hopes without fear! I started up with renewed impatience. I could not, would not, suffer this unnatural folly to continue. Ah! it was very well to say that; but what could I do?
When Mr. Osborne came back, he looked a little grave. I penetrated his thoughts in a moment;—he thought some accident had befallen Edgar. He advised me to go home immediately and see if there was any word—if I did not hear before to-morrow he would come out and advise with me, he said. So I went away again, alarmed, unsatisfied—reluctant that Mr. Osborne should come, yet clinging to the idea, and full of the dreariest anxiety to know what news there might be at home. As I drove along in the twilight of the sharp winter night, I tried to settle upon what I should do. Saville! If Edgar had left me, what could I do with this man? for I made up my mind to destroy the papers, and that my husband should never know of the doubt thrown upon him, if he had really gone away.
We were very near Cottisbourne on the Cambridge side, driving rapidly, and it was now quite dark. The first sharp sparkles of light from the village windows were just becoming visible along the dreary length of road, and a few cold stars had come into the sky. My heart was beating fast enough already, quickening with every step we advanced on the road home, when some one shouted to us to stop. We did stop after a moment’s confused parley, in which I could only distinguish that it was the Rector’s name which induced the coachman to draw up. Mr. Saville! It was his office to communicate calamities—to tell widows and orphans when a sudden stroke made them desolate. A sudden horror overpowered me. I leaned out of the window speechless, gazing into the darkness; and when I saw the light of the carriage lamps falling upon the Rector’s troubled face, I waved my hand to him imperiously, almost fiercein my terror. “Tell me!” I cried; “I can bear it. I can bear the very worst. Tell me!” He drew near with a fluttered, agitated air, while I tried to open the carriage door. With a sudden pang of joy and relief I saw that he did not understand me—that he had noworstto tell; but was holding back by the arm the other Saville, the enemy of our house.
“Here!Ihave something to tell you,” cried this man, struggling forward. “Do you call this keeping your word, young lady? What do you mean by keeping my papers, and then running away?”
“Mr. Saville,” I said, hastily appealing to the Rector, “I have nothing to say to him yet. The papers are not his, but Miss Saville’s. When I have anything to say to him I will come to the Rectory. Just now I am very anxious to get home. Oh, I beg of you, bid them drive home!”
“Don’t do anything of the sort, William,” said Saville. “Stop, you fellow! So your precious husband’s run away; I thought as much. Stop, do you hear! I’ve something to say to the lady. Why, Mrs. Southcote, have you forgotten the appointment you made with me to-day?”
“Is he mad?” cried I—for he had jumped upon the step, and stood peering in at me through the open window. I was not frightened now, but I was very angry. I shrank back to the other side of the carriage, disgusted by his near vicinity, and called to Joseph. “No, ma’am, he’s not mad, he’s only drunk,” said Joseph. While they struggled together, the coachman drove on again, and Saville was thrown to the ground. The poor Rector! he stood by, looking on with dismay and fright and horror—thinking of the disgrace, and of his “position,” and of what people would say; but the only way to save him as well as myself, was to hasten on.
And there was Cottiswoode at last—the open door, the ruddy light; but Edgar was not standing by to help me—my husband had not come home! I had begun to hope that he had—I stepped into the hall with the heaviest disappointment; I couldhave thrown myself down on the floor before the servants in an agony of self-humiliation. It was all my own doing, he had gone away.
Just then, Mrs. Templeton made her appearance in considerable state, holding a letter. No doubt she, as well as myself, concluded what it was—a leave-taking—a final explanation—such a wretched letter as I had once left for him. “This came immediately you were gone, ma’am,” said Mrs. Templeton, who looked as if she had been crying. “It ought to have come last night; but I gave the fellow such a talking to as he won’t forget yet awhile. Please to remember, ma’am, it wasn’t master’s fault.”
I took no notice of this—my whole mind was on the letter. I hastened in with it, without a word, and closed upon myself the door of the library. With trembling hands I tore it open—after that I think I must have fallen down on my knees in the extreme thankfulness which, finding no words, tried to say by attitude and outward expression what it could not say with the lips—for this was all that Edgar said:—
“My Dear Hester,—I have met with an old friend unexpectedly, and have engaged to go with him to look after some business of importance. I am grieved to be absent without letting you know, and I have no time now to explain. I shall endeavor to be home to-morrow night. Affectionately,“Harry E. Southcote.”
“My Dear Hester,—I have met with an old friend unexpectedly, and have engaged to go with him to look after some business of importance. I am grieved to be absent without letting you know, and I have no time now to explain. I shall endeavor to be home to-morrow night. Affectionately,
“Harry E. Southcote.”
I remained on my knees, holding by a chair, trembling, looking at the name; did he always sign himself so? I—I knew nothing at all about my husband;—since he was my husband I had never got a letter from him before. Harry!—was he Harry and not Edgar to every one but me?
Then I sprang up in the quick revulsion and change of all my thoughts; I ran out to call for Alice—to call for Mrs. Templeton—to make preparations for his return, as if he had beenyears away. They were all glad, but amazed, and did not understand me. No; I was far too unreasonable for any one to understand. I was in wild, high spirits now—singing to myself as I ran up-stairs for baby. I said to myself—Life was coming—life was beginning—and that our old misery should not go on longer—not for a day!
And then the evening stole on by gentle touches—growing late before I knew. I went myself to see everything prepared: I watched the fires, which would not keep at the climax point of brightness, but constantly faded and had to be renewed again. I exhausted myself in assiduous attention to all the lesser comforts which might refresh a traveller on this wintry night. I went out to the avenue to see what a cheerful glow the windows of the library threw out into the darkness; and within, it was pleasant to see how the whole house warmed and brightened under my unusual energy. The servants contemplated all this with evident surprise and bewilderment. From Joseph, who came to tell me that he had seen Saville safely housed in the Rectory, though with great trouble to the Rector, who scarcely could keep his brother from following me to Cottiswoode—and Mrs. Templeton, whose manners towards me all the day had been very stately and disapproving—up to Alice, who never asked a question, but looked on—a most anxious spectator—only able to veil her interest by entire silence; every one watched me and wondered. I knew, as if by intuition, how these lookers-on waited for the crisis of the story which had progressed before their eyes so long. Yes, my pride had need to have been humbled—it was I that had made of our household life a drama of passion and misery for the amusement of this humble audience—and I had my reward.
The evening grew late, but still no one came—I could not help growing very anxious once more;—then, stirred into excitement by the sound of some arrival, I was bitterly disappointed to see only Miss Saville, coming, as anxious as I, though after a different fashion, to find out if she could what thesubject was, which had been discussed between her brother and myself. I was grieved for her distress, but I could not answer her—my own trouble was full occupation for me—and I said only, “To-morrow, to-morrow!”—that to-morrow which, one way or other, would be another era—a new time.
All this day I had avoided even looking at the papers which were Saville’s evidence against Edgar. I kept them safe as I might have kept a loaded pistol, afraid of meddling with them. But after Miss Saville left me, I did what I could to compose myself, and endeavored to examine them again. When I read them I grew faint with the terror of ignorance. I knew nothing about laws of evidence; and worse than that, I knew nothing of my husband’s early history, and could not tell whether there might not be some other explanation of these letters. One thing in them struck me with a gleam of hope; there was a strange scarcely explainable shade of difference between the first letter and the other two. I could not define it; but the impression left on my mind was, that the little Harry of the former paper was a child a few years old, while the expressions in the other letters were such as I myself used when speaking ofmylittle Harry, and seemed to point so clearly to a baby that I was quite puzzled and disconcerted. It was a woman’s discovery—I do not suppose any man would have observed it; but I did not at all know what to do with it, after I had found it out.
I put them away again—I waited, waited, far into the night; I would not be persuaded that it was near midnight, nor even permit the servants to go to rest. I kept the whole household up, the whole house alight and glowing. If he had been years instead of hours away, I could not have made a greater preparation for him. At length, very late, or rather very early, in the deep, cold gloom of the winter morning, about two o’clock, I heard horses’ hoofs ringing down the avenue. I heard the sound before any one else did. I was at the door waiting when they came up—they!for I saw with a momentary impulse of passionate anger and resentment that my husband was not alone.
The person with him was a grave, plain, middle-aged man, whom I had never seen before. Edgar sprang from his horse and came to me quickly—came with an exclamation of surprise, a look half of pain, half of pleasure; but began immediately to apologize and to thank me for waiting till he came—thanks! I hastened in, I almost ran from him to restrain myself; it seemed an insult, after all I had been thinking, all I had been suffering, to meet my new-born humbleness with those thanks, which always wounded me to the heart.
And then he brought in his companion to the bright room where I had been trimming the fire, and spreading the table forhim, meaning to open all my mind and thoughts, to confess my sins against him, to make of this once cold abiding-place a genial household hearth—he brought in here the stranger whom I had never seen before. The new comer took the very chair I had placed for Edgar, and spread out his hands over the cheerful fire. I am afraid to say how I felt towards him, and how his evident comfort and commonplace satisfaction excited me. They sat down together to the table—they began to talk of their business, which I knew nothing of.Iwas rather an unexpected embarrassment to my husband—he had no need then ofme.
So I withdrew to my room, sick at heart—mortified, disappointed, wounded—feeling all my efforts thrown away. I could have borne it better, I think, but for the comfortable aspect of that stranger seated in my husband’s chair. I think I could have done him an injury with satisfaction and pleasure. I felt a ludicrous grudge against him mingle with my serious trouble. And this was how this strange day of trial, hope, and resolution came to an end.
IHADbeen asleep—this was a privilege which seemed to belong to my perfect health and vigor of frame—for even in the midst of my troubles I could sleep. I woke up suddenly in the grey and feeble daylight of the winter morning to remember, in a moment, everything that had occurred last night. My own great vexation and disappointment were far enough off now to bear a calmer contemplation, and I started up suddenly inspired with the growing purpose in my heart. I could not see how it was to be done, nor what my first step should be, but I felt, as if by an inspiration, that somehow, however hard it was, the wall of division between us must be broken down to-day.
I hastened my simple morning toilette, and went immediately down stairs. Breakfast was on the table—breakfast! how strange, in the midst of agitation and excitement like mine, seemed these common necessities of life. And there was the same chair standing in the same position as I had placed it for Edgar last night. Patience! but the recollection of the stranger in the house came over me like a cold shadow—what if he should come to interrupt us again?
I had Saville’s papers in my hand, and was putting them away in a drawer of the old carved cabinet which I had brought back to Cottiswoode from Cambridge, when I heard the door open and some one come in. Some one! I began to tremble so much that I scarcely could turn my head—but I knew it was my husband—that he was alone—and that the crisis had come. He came up to me at once, but with no apparent agitation to counterbalance mine. Scarcely knowing what I did, I took the letters again from the drawer, and stood waiting for him. Yes,he was a little excited—with curiosity at least, if nothing more—he looked keenly at me and at the papers which trembled in my hand—and I waited helplessly, unable to say a word, my heart fluttering to my lips. He could not help but see the extreme agitation which overpowered me.
“Hester,” he said slowly, his own voice faltering a little, “I heard you were seeking me yesterday in Cambridge.”
“Yes”—
“Yes?—had you anything to say?—I heard you were disturbed and anxious—I see you are troubled now—can I help you, Hester? It distressed me greatly to leave home-without letting you know—but when you hear the circumstances, I am sure you will pardon”—
“Edgar! never mind,” I cried, unable to bear his explanation, “don’t speak of that—don’t—oh, pray, don’t speak to me like this to-day!”
I put up my hand—I almost grasped his arm—but he—he only went to bring me a chair—to draw another for himself near me, and to take his place there with what seemed a painful but serious preparation for some renewal of our past contests. It was a significant action—we were to treat—to discuss—even to advise with each other, after a solemn and separate fashion; nothing violent or passionate was to come between us. But I, who had neither calmness nor moderation to bring to this interview, what wasIto do? So many words came rushing to my lips that I could not find one reasonable enough and calm enough to say.
And glad to divert me from the personal subject, he took the initiative again. He looked at the papers in my hand—“Is it some business matter that troubles you, Hester—are these the cause of your distress?—will you show them to me?”
“By and bye,” I said, “after—afterwards—first I have something else to say. Edgar! I want to tell you that I have been wrong all this time since ever we were married. I want you to know that I feel I have been wrong—very, very, miserablywrong. I want you to know; I cannot tell how you feel now, nor what is to happen to us—but I have been wrong—I want you to know.”
A violent color came to his face, rising high to his very hair. He rose up from his seat and went away from me the whole length of the room, with hasty and agitated steps. As for me I rose also, and stood trembling and breathless, looking after him. I could say nothing more—my future was in his hands.
Then he came back trying to be calm and self-possessed. “Hester,” he said, “you told me the same when you came home, but I do not see any difference it has made. We are no better than we were.”
I was growing sick, sick to the very heart—but it was not in my nature to throw myself at his feet. “Yes,” I exclaimed, “but it is not my fault now—it is notmyfault! Why do you leave everything to me?”
Once more he started, and made a desperate effort to be calm. He saw the crisis had come as well as I did, and like me had no moderation, no composure, to bring to it. He tried hard again to return to an indifferent subject, to put the passion and the earnestness away. “I will leave nothing to you, Hester, in which I can help you,” he said, with a voice which faltered in spite of himself; “Why do you agitate yourself and me with these vain discussions? you know very well that I shall thank you heartily for asking my assistance.”
“Yes,” I cried, “you thank me a great many times—you thank me always—you make everything bitter to me by your gratitude. Thanks, thanks! you should keep them for strangers. Why do you thankme?”
I had meant to humble myself—to the very dust if that was needful—and now in bitterness, feeling my repentance rejected, I was only falling into an angry despair instead,—but the two things were not so different after all. He was roused at least,—at last—out of all further possibility of self-control. He paced about the room, keeping himself down, keeping back the wordsfrom his lips. Then he paused for an instant before me. “I thank you because you are kind,” he said abruptly; “because—do you think I am so blind that I cannot see all the pains you take for me? I know very well the efforts you make—am I wrong to thank you for that?”
“Kind!” what a word! I echoed it sharply, with a positive cry of pain and injury. I waskindto him! It was come to that.
He turned upon me sharply, too; he also exclaimed with impatience. “What can I say?—what would you have me to say? Other standing-ground seems lost between us—how am I to speak to you? What do you want?”
I felt the air darkening round me as if I was about to faint; but, with a great effort, recovered myself. “I want to speak to you,” I said low and quick, with a feeling that it was not I that spoke, but only my voice. “I have not rested since you left home. I have been waiting for you, longing for you, ever since you went away. I have something to say to you, Edgar! No—Oh, Harry, Harry, Harry!” I cried, carried on far before my thoughts by a passion not to be repressed, “it is not a stranger I have come to. I want to consult my husband. I wantyou, Harry,—you whom I have lost so long!”
I know he did not come to me at once, for the darkness gathered close, and I threw out my arms to support myself in that terrible, blind, falling faintness. I do not know what he did, nor what he said, nor how long a time it was before I came to myself. When I came to myself I was seated in his chair, trembling and shaken as if by some great convulsion, with Harry at my side, chafing my hands and kneeling down to look into my face. Was it all a dream? had we never been married? never been parted? I could not tell. There was a ringing in my ears, and my eyes were dim—I saw nothing but him, close by me, and not even him distinctly, and what this new thing was, which had happened to us, I could not tell.
At this time I do not think I even knew that his heart wasmelted as well as mine; and whether our terrible life of separation was to end or to continue, I did not ask and could not tell. For myself, I sat quite still, trembling, exhausted, yet at ease, like one who has just passed the crisis of a fever; and even when he spoke, I scarcely knew what words he said.
I came to understand them at last—he was praising me in the quick revulsion of his generous heart—he had been hard to win, hard to move—he had shut himself up as obstinately as I did at first—and now that it was all over, he was giving me the praise.
The praise! but I was humbled to the depths of my heart—I did not even feel it a mockery—I went back to my old, natural humbleness, and gave him all the merit for seeing any good in me. I bent my head before him like a forgiven child. “Harry,” I said, “Harry! is it all over?” When he caught my look, wistful and beseeching as I know it was, Harry’s composure failed him as mine had done. He was as weak as I! as glad as I! as little able to receive it quietly—for it was all over!—all over! vanished like a dream.
“But you are right, Hester—I should not have left it to you—you have punished me nobly!” cried Harry, “had I done what you have done now, it might have been all over when you came home.”
“This is best,” I said, under my breath. I knew myself better than he did—I was glad of it all now—glad of everything—glad that I had been driven desperate, and compelled to put myself right at last. I kissed my husband’s hand humbly and thanked God. I had been very wrong—I had nearly cast away my own life—nearly ruined his—nearly thrown aside the best and holiest influences from my boy; but God had saved me again and again on the very edge of the stream, and now I was delivered for ever. Yes, I might fall into other follies, other sins; but at once and for ever I was delivered from the power of this.
But as I withdrew my hand from Harry’s I remembered Saville’s papers which were crushed together in my grasp; I started with an exclamation of pain when I saw them. Personalmisfortune falling on her lover may do very well to awake into action the shy affections of a girl—but I could not bear to be supposed generous to my husband—I trembled lest he should think so; a violent heat and color came to my face—I shut my hand again with an instinct of concealment. Another time! another time would surely do—I dared not disturb our new-found happiness so soon.
But Harry saw my sudden confusion, pain, and embarrassment. He took my hand again half anxiously, half playfully. “What are these?—what were you going to consult me about—must I not be your adviser now, Hester?” he said with a smile. I put them away out of my hand upon the table with momentary terror. “Not now,” I said eagerly, “not now; I got them from your enemy, Saville,thatman—do not look at them now.”
His face darkened, his brow knit—once more, once more! it was such a look as women love to see upon the faces of their husbands, but it made him for the moment like my father as I had once fancied him before. “So!” he said, “he has fulfilled his threat—the miserable rascal! he thought to involve my wife in it. Hester, is it because of these papers that you have come to me to-day?”
“Oh, no, no—do not think it!” I cried, anxiously. “I am not escaped long enough from my own delusions to have no fear of them; do not fancy it was any secondary motive—do not, Harry! I could not bear the life we were living; and whenever I really had to speak to you, all that was lying in my heart burst forth. It was so, indeed;—do not take up my sin where I leave it, Harry; do not suspect me—oh, we have had enough of that!”
The tears were shining in his kind eyes I could see—he looked as he used to look in the brief charmed days before our marriage;—no, better than that—for through sorrow, and bitterness, and estrangement—strange lessons!—I knew him now, as then I had no chance to know him. “Do not fear, Hester,” he said; “I am not afraid of your generosity. I told you longago I could bear to be pitied—the only thing I could not bear wasjustice;—and so long as what you give me is not barely my ‘rights,’ I will permit you to be as generous as evenyournature can be. Now, Hester, at last may I speak of that long ago—that day when I came to Cottiswoode? and of the brave girl who brought me here, and her bit of briony? Not yet?—do you say not yet?”
“Harry, there are graver matters first,” I said; “there is a plot against you—they want to say—hewants to say—that—that—you are only Brian Southcote’sheir—you are not his son. I suppose he thought it would give me pleasure;—he told me—it is horrible! that Cottiswoode would bemine. Harry! think, if this should be true, what a frightful punishment to me! I should never have believed it for a moment, had it not looked so just a penalty for all my sins against you. Tell me, Harry—say it is impossible that such a fatal mistake should be.”
The color rose upon my husband’s face, and he raised his head with an involuntary gesture of pride and defiance. Itwasa Southcote face! I could not be mistaken—all around were the portraits of our race, and I read them with a quick inspection as my anxious eye glanced from him for a moment. He was not like Edgar the Scholar now—my Harry could never have planned a demon’s revenge upon unborn children—he was not like any one of them perhaps—but in his face I saw, as in a glass, reflections, momentary glances, of all the pictured faces round us. And when I turned to gaze upon himself again, once more I was overwhelmed with that shadow of my father in his resolute expression. Oh, monstrous invention!—how could any one have found all these shadowy likenesses in the face of a stranger?
“Hester,” he said gravely, “when Saville came to me last winter with some vague threats of his power to prove me an impostor, I almost wished at first that I could have yielded to him, and so restored to you the rights you were born to. But a man must be very wretched and debased indeed, when he canmake up his mind to deprive himself of his name. Do you remember that you forbade me telling you what he had come to say? I carefully went over then, both by myself and with my lawyer, the proofs which were thought conclusive at a former time. I found no reason to doubt them, Hester—there was neither break nor weakness in the chain. You look at me doubtfully, wistfully—what do you wish me to say?”
“That you are quite sure—quite sure,” I said, “I am speaking folly, I know—but that you remember your father—that you are sure you are my uncle Brian’s son.”
“That is easily done—I am quite sure,” he said with perfect calmness; “but now, Hester, let me know what the fiction is. What does the fellow call me? I do not think his imagination is very brilliant—let me see.”
He took the papers—smoothed them out, and read them—at first with interest, then, as I thought, with surprise and amazement. “What does it mean?” he exclaimed, at last, turning to me; “I suppose you have the interpretation, Hester. What is all this about my poor little brother?—what does it mean?”
I made no answer, but only looked closely at him. As he caught my eye, the color flushed to his face and he started up. “Do you mean to say that he tries to identify me with my mother’s eldest son?” he cried, with considerable excitement; “is this the story?—and her own letters—how are they pressed into the service?—is this what you have heard, Hester? Why do you not speak?—this is what you have heard!”
“Yes,” I said, under my breath, feeling something like a culprit under his eye.
And Harry began to stride about the room, in considerable excitement, muttering words which I am afraid were not very commendatory to Saville. “The rascal!—the villain!—and only to deceive her—only to make my wife a party against me?” he exclaimed, as he paced through the apartment—then gradually subduing himself he came back and resumed his place by my side.
“If it were not that the results of his scheming have blessed me beyond my hopes, I am afraid I should lack power to restrain myself,” he said, “and all the more because this invention could only have been to deceiveyou, Hester, for it could not stand a moment’s examination. I see what his abominable purpose was—to show to the world husband and wife contending with each other over this disputed inheritance. He must have trusted to your ignorance of the world—to your own truthful and open nature, which was beyond suspicion—and, good Heavens, Hester, think of it! to your hatred of me.”
To the very depths of my heart I was humiliated; it was a palpable fraud then, a trick, which could only have been tried upon a credulous fool, a woman, or a child. My last eminence sank beneath my feet; I had no longer even discrimination enough to judge between the false and the true.
“Harry,” I said faltering, “it may be only that I cannot bear you to think me so foolish: but I think indeed it might have deceived even a wiser person than I. I was prepared to think it a lie, but it looked very like truth, Harry; indeed it is difficult to consent to it that I have been so veryeasilydeceived.”
“Ah, Hester, it all comes of our past circumstances,” said my husband, “you were deceived because you did not know my story; shall I tell it to you now?”
I said “yes,” eagerly—then my eye caught the forsaken breakfast table, the poor kettle subsided into noiseless quietness, all its cheerful boiling over. “But you have had no breakfast!” I exclaimed. How Harry laughed, how his face shone, and the tears came to his eyes! Strange that it was always some simplest word that moved him most. He threw the papers down, and caught me in his kind arms, and rejoiced over me. These common things put him in mind of what had happened to us, of the life that lay before us now, the union that began to-day.
And when I began to arrange the breakfast once more, to put the kettle on the fire, and ring for hot coffee, and arrange his neglected meal for him, he sat looking at me, not caring to do anythingelse, I thought—and it was strange what a pleasure I found in these housewifely matters. I believe when one comes to the very truth, when youth and its first romances are over, that there is no such pleasure for a woman as in these little domestic services, which are natural to her. How gladly and lightly I went about them! and my heart was full. I could not be content without the third little member of our family; I ran up-stairs and brought down in my arms our beautiful boy. I think we were happy enough at that moment to make up for a whole year’s trouble; and when Amy came into the room for baby, some time after, I saw her joyous, astonished glance from one to another, for Harry was dancing his son in his arms, and I was standing close by looking on, talking and clapping my hands to him. Amy did not like to be inquisitive or “unmannerly,” but in the simplicity of her heart she gave me such a wistful, questioning, delighted look when I put baby into her arms. Poor Amy! involuntarily I patted her stout shoulder with my hand as she went away, and I knew very well she went immediately to tell her tale of a new era to Alice—I saw it in her face.
And then Harry gathered up these scattered papers and drew my arm within his, and led me to the library. How strangely this room was connected with the principal events in my life! We went to the pretty recessed corner where my hours of girlish study used to be spent, and there my husband told me, for the first time, the story of his young life.
“I remember that I could once recollect my father, Hester,” he said; “but I think that is all. My mother I remember well enough; and I have the most perfect recollection of the stone in memory of Brian Southcote, to which she used to lead me; and the little grave close by, where I have seen her prostrate herself in passionate sorrow, and where my little brother, Harry Southern, lay. This little brother fills up a great part of my earliest memory. He was a blight and shadow upon my life, though I was full of vague, childish sympathy and admirationfor him. He had died just before my mother’s second marriage, and when I was born I was named after him, and my mother’s greatest desire seemed to be to make me a sort of shadow of her best-beloved child. I recollect quite well her frequent exclamation: ‘Your father calls you Edgar, but you are Harry to me—always Harry to me—not my lost Harry, but, at least, his name—oh! I cannot give up his name.’ I suppose I was precocious, as lonely children are so often; and I do not think I was quite satisfied even then to be only the reflection of another. However, that time was followed by a dismal one of friendlessness and solitude. And then a sailor brother of the Savilles came by chance with his ship to Jamaica. My poor mother had been in regular correspondence with her cousin, Miss Saville, and the brother was commissioned to find me out. I came home to England with him. All that my father had left in Jamaica had got into very uncertain hands by that time; and, though the amount sounded well, it was, I am afraid, only a fabulous inheritance; and I was a very poor child, indeed, when our good Rector here, then a poor curate, took me in and gave me shelter. I owed everything to their kindness, Hester. They were humble people, and I had ‘no claim upon them,’ as people say; but they were angels of charity to me.
“A year or two after I came to England, the attorney brother came down from London to visit them. He was not then what he is now: he was unscrupulous, and not very respectable, perhaps, but he had a good deal of acuteness, and was prudent enough to restrain his evil appetites. In mere idleness, at first, he began investigating who I belonged to, as he called it. There had been a rumor in the family that my poor mother had made a great match; and Saville soon discovered what his simple relatives never could have discovered—who Brian Southcote was, and what his heir was entitled to. My father had been a man of foolish benevolence. He had taken no precautions for me; done nothing that he could help; so that it required no small research, and perseverance, and industry, to get proofs ofmy identity together. I always disliked the man, but I was indebted to him; and during the whole time of my minority he restricted my means greatly. Then, when I came of age, I pensioned him; but he has not been satisfied with this: he has gradually fallen in character and habits into the miserable reprobate, who is nothing but disgrace to his kind kindred who will not disown him. I have been obliged to resist his exactions again and again; and after he threatened me, of course my honor was concerned, and I could not permit myself to be bullied into further concessions. These letters, you see, are addressed to Miss Saville. Are you able to go to the Rectory with me, Hester, and hear her account of her cousin’s children? and we will see this man together. The facts are very simple, plausible as this fiction is; but Harry Southern was five or six years old before my father’s marriage: did not that occur to you, my timid wife?”
“Yes—yes,” I said eagerly; “a great many things occurred to me. I felt almost sure that the first of these letters referred to an older child than the others; but I had no clue—nothing to guide me; and the thought that itmightbe true was enough to make me miserable. I am quite able: I promised to let him know what I would do. Come, come; let us go at once, Harry.”
He smiled at my eagerness now; but went first to his desk, unlocked it, and a concealed drawer in it, and drew from thence a little bundle of papers. One was a certificate of his parents’ marriage, the other of the birth of Harry Edgar Southcote; and the others corroborative documents. I returned them to him hastily. I was almost offended. “Why do you offer me these?” I said, impatiently; “is your word not enough for me?” “You must consider what is enough for law and the world, Hester,” said my husband; “enough to secure to our boy an unblemished name—he is the principal person to be considered in this argument; though there is no fear of his inheritance between us, we must take care to establish his perfect right tobe called Southcote. My family pride is all of your teaching—but I have caught it fully now. Shall you get ready, then? Ah, Hester, is all this nightmare that is past only a dream?”
“Only a dream, Harry, only a dream!” I cried, as we stood together hand in hand; so much a dream that I scarcely could suppose now how it had been with us yesterday—and when at last I left him to get my bonnet, I ran upstairs almost with a lighter foot than Flora’s; the cloud was gone—gone—absolutely gone; and instead of being sceptical of my own happiness, it was the misery now that I was sceptical of—I could scarcely believe it, scarcely understand how I could have defied and rejected all these blessings of Providence so long.
When I went into my room, Alice was there, looking excited, heated, full of anxiety and trouble. How hastily she tied the ribbons of baby’s cloak, and sent Amy away with him! How impatient she looked while I bent over him, and kissed the sweet face which brightened every day into more beautiful intelligence! Then she waited to know what I wanted, and when I told her what it was, she came behind me, arranging my cloak upon my shoulders with tremulous hands—and I caught a glimpse of her wistful agitated face looking at me in the glass, trying to read in my eyes what had happened to me. As she did this, I turned round upon her suddenly, and looked full in her face; she faltered, retired a little, and I saw was almost crying with extreme agitation and anxiety. I took both her hands and drew her very close to me.
“Alice, can you believe it?” said I; “God has cured me by great blessings, and not by great calamities, as you once feared He would. It is all over—it is all over, there will never be any more misery in this house. Have you been praying for it, Alice? Is it through you?”
“Oh, my darling, my precious child!” cried Alice, suddenly clasping me in her arms as if I had been a child indeed; “it’s through His mercy! I’d be glad to die now!”
“Hush, hush, hush! there would be little joy then,” said I,when I was able to draw myself from her arms, “we are all to be very happy now, Alice, like a fairy tale.”
“Like them that love God,” said Alice solemnly.
I bowed my head; these words overpowered me. Was it He who had guided me through all those dark and wilful ways? He who had filled me with the fruit of my own doings; given me my own will, till I knew what a miserable inheritance that was? He who had saved my baby; at whose feet I had prostrated myself, vowing to sacrifice the sin which I regarded in my heart? I bent my head into my hands and wept. I think every tear was a thanksgiving, for they relieved my heart.
That rectory lane! how dull it used to be—how full of beautiful life it was to-day. We did not look much as if we were going about a serious piece of business—we were so occupied and absorbed with ourselves—and it never once occurred to me what should be said to Saville till we were entering at the rectory gate. On the road my husband told me—a very strange coincidence too—that the stranger who accompanied him last night, and for whom he had left a message, had sought him out about the lost West Indian property, which still might be recovered. When we came at last to the rectory, I asked, “What will you say to Saville, Harry?” But there was no time to answer my question. Miss Saville met us in the hall—she looked disturbed, alarmed, anxious—she knew our visit must have some reference to my yesterday’s conference with her brother, and she was very anxious for him. I ran to her eagerly, took her hand, and kissed her. I was very little given to this species of affectionateness, and she was completely taken by surprise. “Mrs. Southcote, my dear, what is it?” she said, sinking down upon one of the stiff hall chairs, and doing what she could to keep herself from crying. “Hester never knew before how much I owed to you,” said Harry, coming to my help, for indeed I was nothing loth to cry too! “Come, dear friend, we want your kind assistance. Where is the Rector—and Richard—but, Miss Saville, let us first speak to you.”
She led the way into a little housekeeping parlor, which was her own special sanctuary, and there sat down trembling to hear what we had to say. Then Harry told her the entire story; she was grievously distressed. She could not bear to blame her brother, yet the way in which he had taken advantage of her, wounded her to the heart. “Myletters!” she said faintly. “Dear boy, dear Harry, you don’t think I ever meant to do harm to you? He made me give him poor Maria’s letters to amuse him, he said—he’s got them all—can they do you any harm? can they? Tell me!—for he’s got them all.”
“They can do me no harm—they have done me the greatest good,” said Harry, “they have restored to me my wife; but I must see him in your presence, and have this matter set at rest. He must be mad to think of injuring me by such an expedient as this.”
“Hush! I sometimes think,” said Miss Saville, under her breath, “that it is telling on his mind—I do, indeed. He raves of nights; and whatever William and I can say, he won’t give up that dreadful drinking; he’ll kill himself, Harry dear—that’s what he’ll do—and such a man as he was once—oh! such a man as he might have been!”
And tears of love and anguish—love, most undeserved, most long-suffering—fell slowly and bitterly from this good woman’s eyes. I had scorned her once, but I felt very poor and mean beside her now.
When she had sufficiently composed herself, she took us into another room, and left us to bring her brothers. The Rector came immediately, the other refused. Miss Saville returned in great distress to say, that he would not come—that he refused to see us—that I had broken faith with him.
“We must go to him, then,” said my husband, steadily; “the Rector will give you his arm, Hester. Do not be nervous, Miss Saville—this must be settled—but he shall be spared, be sure. Come, lean upon me—my kind, old friend, can you not trust me?”
“Oh, yes, yes!” she said, but her distress was so great and evident, that I scarcely could bear it. We went in this solemn order—the Rector, in great perturbation, giving me his arm, but looking afraid of me, to the study. Saville was sitting smoking by the fire; he started up, and dashed his cigar to the ground as we entered: he turned fiercely round upon us like a wild beast at bay, and asked, with an oath, what was the meaning of this?—was he never to be left alone?
“Yes, in half-an-hour,” said my husband; “but first I must speak to you. Saville, you have been a very good friend to me—I acknowledge it; you know I have always been glad to say as much. What motive could you have to tell this false story—this story you know so well to be false—to my wife?”
“Motive?—I had motive enough, you may be sure,” answered Saville, shortly—“that is my concern—it is yours to prove the story false, as you call it—false! What do you know about it?—there’s not a man qualified to speak on the subject but me.”