IWASout upon a household errand to order something for Alice. My father and Alice conspired to keep me still as free of cares and almost of duties, as a child. Alice attended to everything; she was a good careful housekeeper, long accustomed to our house and ways, and needed no help in the administration of our domestic economy; though, perhaps, it would have been better for me, if I had been led to these homely occupations, and found something tangible to employ my mind and thoughts. It was Spring, one of those fresh, sunny, showery, boisterous days, which are so pleasant to youth. I liked my quiet walk along the narrow, old-fashioned streets—I liked the wind which blew my hair loose from my bonnet, and swept the clouds along the blue, blue sky, rushing past the turrets and pinnacles of the collegiate buildings. I was young, and my heart rose with the vague and causeless exhilaration of youth. I scarcely cared to think, but went on with a pure delight in the motion and life which I had within me. I was pleased to feel the shawl escaping from my hand, and my hair curling upon the breeze; and if my step was not quite so bold as its girlish freedom permitted five years ago, it was as firm a tread as it had been among our own fields, or in the lanes that led to Cottiswoode.
I had done my errand and was going home; but I was scarcely contented to return so soon, and would have walked a mile or two with pleasure. When I came to the paved alley, by St. Benet’s, which was the nearest way to our house, I paused a moment in uncertainty, thinking where I should go—but just as I was about to return in the opposite direction, I startedto hear Mr. Osborne’s voice behind me. “Running away, Hester?—nay, I want you at home to-day; come back and tell me how your father is.”
I turned round—Mr. Osborne was not alone—standing a little apart from him, out of regard to his meeting with me, was the young man who had so strangely interested me at the party. I glanced at him involuntarily, and so did he at me; but we had no warrant for knowing each other, and I drew apart as he did, as if by instinct. Mr. Osborne was not paying the least attention to his companion, and seemed quite careless of him, whether he stayed or went away, and the wind at that moment was playing very strange pranks with the elder gentleman’s gown, so that, what with keeping it in order, and addressing me, Mr. Osborne had quite enough to do.
“My father is very well,” I said. “He is at home, of course; are you going to see him?”
“I am going to tell him how his daughter behaved on her entrance into the world,” said Mr. Osborne with much importance. “Were you very much impressed by your first experiences, Hester? There now, that is a little better. We are, at least, out of the road of that vagabond breeze.”
We had turned into the alley, and I had been waiting for Mr. Osborne’s young acquaintance to leave us; but he walked on steadily at the other side, and showed no disposition to go away. I did not quite like answering Mr. Osborne’s questions before this stranger; he made me feel so strangely conscious of all my own words and movements. I no longer did anything easily, but became aware of every step I made.
“Have you not seen him sincethatnight?” said I, “it is quite a long time ago.”
“Thatnight—so it did make some impression on my youngdebutante,” said Mr. Osborne, with a smile. “Do you know I have been out of Cambridge for nearly three weeks, you forgetful young lady? Well, Hester, what ofthatnight?”
“What of it, Mr. Osborne?” said I, with some littleindignation. “I suppose there was nothing very extraordinary about it.”
Mr. Osborne laughed, and I was provoked. “There only was a crowd of people—there is nothing remarkable in a crowd,” said I, impetuously. “Why shouldIthink about it—you do not suppose that I take a party like that for the world?”
“What do you call the world then, Hester?” said Mr. Osborne.
“I do not know,” said I, hesitating a little. “I cannot tell,” I repeated, after another pause, “but I suppose there is as much of it here as there wasyonder. I think so, at least.”
“So that is the verdict of youth, is it?” said Mr. Osborne. “Henry, my boy, what say you?”
I could not help turning my head quickly towards him, but I did not raise my eyes; how I wondered what he would say.
“The party has sometimes more influence on a life than the street can have,” said the young man, with hesitation, “otherwise, I have no doubt, a thronged and busy street in London would look more like the world than a Cambridge drawing-room—but sometimes the drawing-room makes a greater mark in a life.”
“My good youth, you are less intelligible than Hester,” said Mr. Osborne, “but the young lady has no metaphysical bias that I know of, so we will not discuss the question. So we were very prosy, were we, the other night? and you were nearly smothered under the Professor’s shadow, and had nothing but pictures to look at, poor child! The next one will be better, Hester, do not be dismayed.”
I made no answer. I was piqued at Mr. Osborne’s mockery; but I wondered over what the other had said—what did he mean by the drawing-room making a mark in his life. Had it made any mark in mine? why should it? and why was he walking along so quietly by Mr. Osborne’s side, without the least intention of going away? I saw that he kept his eyesaway from me, as carefully as I kept mine from him; but how I observed him for all that. His walk was rather slow and steady—he was not quick and impetuous as I was—I wanted to hasten on, for I was embarrassed a little, not knowing anything about “society,” and being quite at a loss to know whether I was acquainted with this stranger or not; but, of course, Mr. Osborne continuedhisleisurely pace, and so did his young companion. They made me impatient and almost irritated me; they went on so quietly.
When we came to the door, I opened it hastily, for it was an old-fashioned, unsuspicious door, and opened from the outside. Then in my awkwardness I went down the two steps which led from it, and stood below in the door, waiting for Mr. Osborne. I was in a little tremor of expectation—what was he going to do?
“I think I may presume on your father and yourself, Hester, so far as to ask my young friend to come in with me,” said Mr. Osborne, “for we have some business together. This is Mr. Harry Edgar, Miss Southcote—will you admit him within your precincts.”
Of course I had to make a little awkward bow to him, and I do not think his was much more graceful; and then I hurriedly led the way into the house. Mr. Osborne went directly to the library, and I called Alice to show Mr. Edgar up-stairs, then I ran to my own room to take off my bonnet. Must I go to the drawing-room where he was sitting alone—I thought it was very unpleasant—I felt extremely confused and awkward, yet I smoothed my hair, and prepared to go.
When I went into the room, he was looking at the pictures—those dark, hard panel portraits on the wall, and with some interest as I thought—though when I came, he, too, grew a little embarrassed like me. I went to my work-table immediately to look out some work, for I could not sit idle and talk to him. There were countless little bits of work lying half completed on my work-table, I had no difficulty in finding occupation,and when I had selected one, I sat down by the window and wished for Mr. Osborne. He ought to know better, than to leave me alone here.
There was nothing at all to keep us from the necessity of talking to each other, for he immediately gave up looking at the portraits, and the room was in fatal good order, and all the books put away. After the first awkward pause, he said something about the pictures: “they were family portraits, no doubt.”
“No,” said I, “that is, they are not Southcotes; they are portraits of grandmamma’s family, I suppose; but we always count our family on the other side.”
Then we came to another dead pause, and Mr. Edgar advanced to the window where I sat.
“How fresh and green your garden looks,” he said, after the fashion of people who must say something, “what a good effect the grass has—are there really blossoms on the trees? how early everything is this year!”
“We are well sheltered,” said I, in the same tone. “Our trees are always in blossom before our neighbors’.”
“And that is old Corpus,” he said, glancing out at the little gleaming windows of the College, “all this youth and life out of doors, contrasts strangely enough, I am sure, with the musty existence within.”
“The books may be musty, but I don’t think the existence is,” said I, rashly; “everybody ought to be happy that has something to do.”
“Yes. I always envy a hard student who has an object,” said Mr. Edgar, rather eagerly seizing upon this possibility of conversation—“he is a happy fellow who has a profession to study for, otherwise it is vanity and vexation of spirit.”
Now I had a strong instinct of contradiction in me—a piece of assertion always provoked me to resistance.
“I do not know how that can be,” said I. “I suppose Mr. Osborne only lives for his books, and his spirit shows very littlevexation or vanity, and papa does nothing else but study, and cannot have any object in it—I fancy a good thing ought to be good for its own sake.”
“Mr. Osborne is a very busy man—he has a great many pursuits,” said my new friend, “he is not a fair example. We have an enthusiasm for books when we are young, and suck inspiration from them, and then we come back to them that they may deaden our own feelings and recollections after we have had a life of our own—when we are old.”
“You are not old, to be aware of that,” cried I, though I secretly thought that, at least, in my father’s case this might be true.
“I have lived a very solitary life,” he said, “which is almost as good as grey hairs.”
After that we paused again, very conscious of our silence, but finding conversation a very difficult matter. I was more at my ease than I had expected. I observed him, but not with the same intense observation. A person I knew by name, and spoke to in my father’s house, was a less mysteriously interesting person than the stranger who had attracted my notice so much, when all were strangers. At last, Mr. Edgar began to talk again—it was only to ask me if I had seen the great author who was at the party when he met me first—he did not say “had the pleasure to meet.”
“I saw him, but I did not speak to him—nor even hear him speak,” said I.
Another pause—what were we to say? “Do you like his books?” said the young man.
“I do not care for any books but novels,” said I bluntly. I am afraid I was not above a wish to shock and horrify him.
Mr. Edgar laughed a little, and his color rose. I am sure I did what I could to give him an unfavorable impression of me, in this our first interview. He said—
“You are very honest, Miss Southcote.”
I cannot tell how it was either that he presumed so far, orthat I suspected it—but I certainly did think he had a great mind to say Hester, instead of Miss Southcote, and only checked himself by an effort. It was very strange—I felthaughtyimmediately, but I scarcely felt displeased; but I am sure there was a consciousness in the deep color that rose upon his face, and in my tone as I answered him.
“I am only telling the truth,” said I. “I cannot help it—when it is only thinking about a thing, I would rather think myself. A story is a different matter; I am very sorry for my dulness, but I think there are no really pleasant books except those which tell a story.”
“Even that limit reaches to something more than novels,” said Mr. Edgar; “there is history, and biography besides.”
“Yes—but then I only care for them for the mere story’s sake,” said I, “and not because they are true or good, or for any better reason. I suppose a man’s life is often more like a novel than like anything else—only, perhaps, not so well arranged. The misfortunes do not come in so conveniently, and neither do the pleasures. I think reading a novel is almost next best to having something to do.”
“I am afraid some of us think it a superior good, now and then,” said my companion.
And so our talk came to an abrupt conclusion again. It was my turn to make a new beginning, and I could not. I did not like to ask him any questions about himself—which was his college, or if he was a Cambridgeshire man, or any of the things I wished to know; and, as I glanced up at his thoughtful face, I once more fell a-pondering what he could be thinking of. I do not recollect that I had ever had much curiosity about other people’s thoughts before. My father always had a book before him, which he read, or made a pretence of reading, and my father’s meditations were sacred to me. I guessed at them with reverence, but it would have been sacrilege to inquire into them. As my established right, I claimed to know what Alice was thinking of, and did not need to wonder; but here, with thefull charm of a mystery which I could not inquire into, came back upon me my first curiosity about this stranger. Either his face did express what was in his mind, or I was not acquainted with its language. What was he thinking of?—what did he generally think of? I wondered over his thoughts so much that I had no leisure to think of himself who was standing beside me, though still I was strongly aware of every movement he made.
Just then I heard my father and Mr. Osborne ascending the stairs. I was half sorry, and yet altogether glad that they were coming; and I was a little curious how my father would receive my new acquaintance. My father received him with stately politeness, distant but not ungracious, and as Mr. Osborne and he took their usual places, they began their ordinary conversation. When Mr. Edgar joined in it, I discovered from what they said that he was a student of Corpus, a close neighbor, and it amused me a little to watch the three gentlemen as they talked; of course, my father and Mr. Osborne were in the daily habit of talking, without any greater reference to me than if I had been a very little girl with a doll and a pinafore. I was not intellectual. I did not care for their discussions about books—and I expected no share in their conversation, nor wished it. I was quite pleased to sit by, with the ring of their voices in my ear, doing my needlework. I always worked at something, during these times; and thinking my own thoughts. But Mr. Edgar, who was unused to this, and perhaps did not think me quite so little a girl as my father and his friend did, was puzzled and disconcerted, as I saw, by my exclusion from the stream of talk. I had a certain pleasure in showing him how much a matter of course this was. I had never known a young man of rank and age before, but I had a perverse delight in making myself appear something different to what I was. I turned half aside to the window, and hemmed as only demure little girls can hem, when grave talk is going on over their heads. But I saw very well how uncertainly he was regarding me—how puzzled he was that I should be left out of the conversation, and how he wanted to be polite and amiable, and draw me in.
“How is the garden, Hester?” said Mr. Osborne at last, rising and coming towards me with a subject adapted to the capacity of the little girl, “what! blossom already on that little apple tree—what a sturdy little fellow it is! Now, Southcote, be honest—how many colds has Hester taken this winter in consequence of your trap for wet feet—that grass crotchet of yours?”
“Hester is a sensible girl in some respects,” said my father, “she never takes cold—and your argument against my grass is antiquated and feeble. I will not plan my garden by your advice, Osborne.”
“My advice is always to be depended on,” said Mr. Osborne; “you have taken it in more important matters, and I think I know some matters in which it would be very well you took it again.”
“That is my affair,” said my father coldly. “Advice is a dangerous gift, Mr. Edgar,” he continued, with a somewhat sarcastic smile, “every man who has the faculty thinks himself infallible—and when you bring yourself ill fortune by following good advice and friendly counsel, you are in a dangerous dilemma—to hide your failure or to lose your friend.”
“What do you mean, Southcote?” cried Mr. Osborne with a look of great surprise and almost anxiety in his face.
“Nothing but my old opinion,” said my father, “that every man must stand on his own ground, consult his own discretion, and build only upon his own merits. I have no faith in the kindness and compassion of friends; akindact, done with the noblest good intentions, may make a man’s life miserable. No, no, justice, justice—what you deserve and no galling boon of pity—all is dishonest and unsatisfactory but this.”
Mr. Edgar and Mr. Osborne exchanged a slight rapid glance, and I saw the color rise over the young man’s broad whitebrow; but I was too much concerned and moved by what my father said to observe the others much. His friend even did not comprehend him, I alone knew what he referred to. I alone could enter into his feelings, and understand how deep the iron had gone into his soul.
After that Mr. Edgar was very silent, and listened to what was said, rather than took part in it—so that when Mr. Osborne spoke of going away, the young man had subsided into a chair, as humble and unconsidered as I was. He did not come to talk to me—he sat quite silent looking on—looking round at the pictures sometimes, with a quiet sweep of his eyes, often looking at the speakers, and sometimes examining curiously my work-table. I was sitting close by it, but he never looked at me nor did I look at him.
When they were going away, my father, to my great surprise, bade him return. “Come again, I will be glad to see you,” said my father. I looked up almost with consternation, and Mr. Edgar, though he looked gratified, was surprised too, I could see—however, he answered readily, and they went away.
My father did not leave me immediately after they were gone; he walked up and down the room for a while, pausing sometimes to look at the ivy leaves which waved and rustled as much as the fine tendrils clasping the wall would let them, in the fresh spring breeze. My father seemed to have a certain sympathy with these clusters of ivy—he always went to that window in preference to this one where I was seated, and which looked into the free and luxuriant garden. After standing there for some time, he suddenly turned and addressed me.
“Since you went out, Hester,” said my father, “I have had another letter from your persevering cousin. He is at Cottiswoode, and would fain ‘be friends,’ as he says; though I will not permit him to be anything warm. He is of age—he has entered upon his inheritance—though I hear no one has seen him yet; and he does us the honor to desire to become acquainted with us, whom he calls his nearest relations. What do you say?”
“You will not let him come, papa,” cried I, “why should he come here? Why should he trouble us? We do not want him—you surely will tell him so.”
“I am glad you agree with me so thoroughly, Hester,” said my father. “Osborne is a great advocate for this young man. He has been urging me strongly to receive him—and had you been of his opinion, Hester, I am not sure that I could have held out.”
This was so singular a confession from my father, that I looked up in alarm and dismay.Myopinion! what was that in comparison with his will?
He caught my look, and came towards me slowly, and with a step less firm than usual—then he drew a chair near me, and sat down.
“What I have to say, I must say in so many words,” said my father. “My health is declining, Hester. I have exhausted my portion of life. I do not expect to live long.”
“Papa!” I exclaimed, starting up in sudden terror—the shock was so great that I almost expected to see him sink down before me then. “Papa! shall I send for the doctor? what shall I do? are you ill, father, are you ill? oh! you do not meanthat, I know.”
“Sit down, my love—I am not ill now—there is nothing to be done,” said my father; “only you must listen calmly, Hester, and understand what I mean. You will not be destitute when I die, but you will be unprotected. You will be a very lonely girl, I am afraid. Ignorant of society, and unaccustomed to it; and I have no friend with whom I could place you. This was the argument which Mr. Osborne urged upon me, when he advised me to receive your cousin.”
“Mr. Osborne was very cruel,” I exclaimed, half blinded by tears, and struggling with the hysterical sobbing which rose in my throat. “He knows nothing of me if he thinks—Oh! papa, papa! what would my life be to me if things were as you say?”
My father smiled upon me strangely. “Hester, you will grieve for me, I know,” he said, in his quiet, unmoved tones; “but I know also the course of time and nature; and in a little while, my love, your life will be as much to you, as if I had never been.”
I could not utter the passionate contradiction that came to my lips. This composed and philosophic decision struck me dumb. I would rather he had thought of his daughter and of her bitter mourning for him, than of the course of time and nature. But I sat quite silent before him, trembling a great deal, and trying to suppress my tears. This doctrine, that grief is not for ever—that the heavy affliction which it is agony unspeakable to look forward to, will soften and fade, and pass away, is a great shock to a young heart. I neither could nor would believe it. What was my after life to me? But for once, I exercised self-denial, and did not say what I thought.
“Shall I say any more, Hester? Can you hear me? or is this enough for a first warning?” said my father.
“Oh! say all, papa, say all!” cried I. “I can bear anything now—anything after this.”
“Then I may tell you, Hester, plainly, that it would give me pleasure to see you ‘settled,’ as people call it—to see you married and in your own house, before I am removed from mine. Circumstances,” said my father, slowly, “have made me a harsh judge of those romantic matters that belong to youth. I am not sure that it would much delight me to suppose my daughter the heroine of a passionate love-story. Will you consent to obey me, Hester, in an important matter as readily as in the trifling ones of your childhood? I have no proposal to make to you. I only desire your promise to set my mind at ease, and obey me when I have.”
My face burned, my head throbbed, my heart leaped to my throat. Shame, pride, embarrassment, and the deeper, desolate fear of what was to happen to my father, contended within me. I could not give an assent to this strange request. I could not say in so many words that I gave up utterly to him the onlyveto a woman has upon the fashion of her life. Yet I could not refuse to do what, under these circumstances, he asked of me. I made him no answer. I clasped my hands tightly over my brow, where the veins seemed full to bursting. For an instant I felt, with a shudder, what a grand future that was, full of all joyous possibilities, which I was called upon to surrender. I had thought to myself often that my prospects were neither bright nor encouraging; at this moment I saw, by a sudden light, what a glorious uncertainty these prospects were, and how I clung to them. They were nothing, yet the promise of everything was in them; and my father asked me to give them up—to relinquish all that might be. It was a great trial; and I could not answer him a word.
“You do not speak, Hester,” he said. “Have you no reply, then, to my question?”
“I want no protector, father,” I cried, almost with sullenness. “If I must be left desolate, let me be desolate. Do not mock me with false succor. I want no home. Let Alice take care of me. I will not want very much. Alice is fond of me, though I do not deserve it. Let her take care of me till I die.”
I was quite overcome. I fell into a violent outbreak of tears as I spoke. I could command myself no longer. I was not made of iron to brave such a shock as this “with composure,” as my father said. He rose and went away from me towards the other window, where he stood looking out. Looking after him through my tears, I fancied that already I could see his step falter, and his head droop with growing weakness. I cried out, “Oh, my father! my father!” with passionate distress. Perhaps he had never seen me weeping before since I was a child. Now, at least, he left me to myself, as I could remember him doing when I was a little girl, when I used to creep towards him very humbled and penitent after thefitwas over, and sit down at his feet, and hold his hand, and after a long time get his forgiveness. I could not do that now. I sat still, recovering myself. I was no longer a child, and I had a stubbornspirit. It wounded me with a dull pain that he should care so little for my distress.
He did not return to me. He left the room, only saying as he went away, “You will tell me your decision, Hester, at another time;” and when the door closed upon him I gave way to my tears, and let them flow. If he had only said a word of consolation to me—if he had only said it grieved him to see my grief! But he treated it all so coldly. “The course of time and nature!”—they were bitter in their calmness, those dreadful words.
I wept long; but my tears did not help me. I did not feel it possible to make this promise. To be given to somebody who would take care of me, as if I was a favorite spaniel! I could not help the flush of indignation and discontent which came over me at the thought. And then I began to think of my father’s real state of health in this revulsion of feeling. He was mistaken—he must be mistaken. When I thought over the subject I could find no traces of illness, no change upon him. He was just as he had always been. The longer I considered, the more I convinced myself that he was wrong; and somewhat relieved by this, I went to my room to bathe my eyes and arrange my dress for dinner. How I watched my father while we dined!—how tremulously I noted every motion of his hand, every change of his position. His appetite was good—rather greater than usual; and he had more color in his face. I was sure he had been deceived. He spoke very little during that meal. For the first time a sort of antagonism had risen between my father and me. I could not consent to what he asked of me; and, even if I could have consented, I could not be the first to enter upon the subject again.
And when I crept into my window-seat in the twilight, and watched as I had watched so often, the lights gleaming in the windows of the College, I wondered now with a strange sense of neighborhood and friendship, which of them shone upon thethoughtful face and dark blue eyes of my new friend. I had made many a story in my own mind about the lights; and there was one favorite one, which was lighted sooner, and burned longer than any of the others, which I immediately fixed upon as his. I thought I could fancy him sitting within its steady glow, reading books which I knew nothing of, writing to friends unknown to me, thinking thoughts which I could not penetrate. As I sat still in the darkness, with my eyes upon that little gleaming window, I found a strange society and fellowship in looking at it. If I had had a brother now, like this student, how much happier would I have been. As it was, the idea of him was a relief to me. I forgot my own perplexity as I wondered and pondered about him.
My father came into the drawing-room, as I sat thus in the corner of the window-seat, leaning my cheek upon my hand, and looking out upon the little shining windows of Corpus—he was displeased that the lamp was not lighted, and rang the bell hurriedly; and it was only by some sudden movement I made, that, with a start, he discovered me. “So, Hester, you are thinking,” he said, in a low tone. I started up, emboldened by my own thoughts.
“Papa—papa! you were mistaken in what you said this morning,” I exclaimed eagerly, “you are not ill—how firm your hand is, and I never saw your eyes so bright—you are mistaken, I am sure you are.”
“Do me justice, Hester,” said my father, in a voice which chilled me back out of all my hopes. “I took care not to speak of this till I was sure that I could not be mistaken. Trust me, I have a fearful warrant for what I say.”
His voice neither paused nor faltered—it was a stoic speaking of the mortal pain he despised; but it was hard and bitter, and so cold—oh! so cold! If he had no pity for himself, he might have had pity for me.
I held his hand, grasped it, and clung to it; but I did not cry again, for I felt that he would have been displeased, and it was a long time before his fingers closed upon mine with anyreturn of my eager clasp. “You have been thinking, Hester, of what I said to you—what have you to tell me now?”
“I cannot do it, papa,” I said, under my breath.
He did not answer anything at first, nor loose my hand, nor put me away from him. But after a little while he spoke in his measured low melodious tones. “You think it better to risk your all upon a chance, do you, Hester? Such a chance—happiness never comes of it. It is always an unequal barter—but you prefer to risk that rather than to trust to me.”
“I want to risk nothing—I need nothing!” cried I, “while I have my father, I want no other, and do not bid me think of such misery—do not, papa! You will live longer than I shall—oh! I hope, I pray you will. Papa, do not urge me, I cannot anticipate such a calamity!”
“This is merely weakness; is it compassion for my feelings?” said my father. “I tell you this calamity, if it is a calamity, is coming rapidly, and you cannot stay it. What will you do then?”
“I do not care what I do then,” I said, scarcely knowing what my words were, “but I would rather you left me desolate than gave me to somebody to protect me. Oh! father, I cannot do it—I cannot consent.”
He said nothing more, but turned away from me, and went to his usual seat at the table, and to his book. I sat still in my corner, once more venturing to weep, and struck with a hundred compunctions; but I steadily resisted the strong impulse which came upon me to go to his feet and promise anything he wished—I could not do this—it would kill the very heart in me, and surely I was right.
ITwas now nearly Midsummer, the crown of the year. I was sitting in my own room by the window, idly musing, when Alice came in with some of my light muslin dresses to put them away. I had neither book nor work to veil my true occupation. I was leaning my head upon both my hands, sometimes vacantly looking out at the windows, sometimes closing my fingers over my eyes. I had both scenery and circumstances in my dream—I wanted nothing external to help me in the meditations with which my mind had grown familiar now.
I was not unaware of the entrance of Alice, but I only changed my position a little, and did not speak, hoping to be undisturbed. I saw, with a little impatience, how careful she was about the dresses—how she smoothed down their folds, and arranged them elaborately, that they might not be crushed in the drawer; but she certainly took more time than was necessary for this simple operation, and though Alice had no clue to my thoughts, I scarcely liked, I cannot tell why, to continue them in her presence. But when the drawers were closed at last, Alice still did not go away—she came to the dressing-table, and began to arrange and disarrange the pretty toilette boxes which she kept in such good order, and to loop up and pull down the muslin draperies of the table and the mirror; at last she gathered courage and came close to me.
“May I speak to you, Miss Hester?” said Alice, but it was in a disturbed and nervous tone.
Now I was annoyed to have my own thoughts, which had a great charm for me at that time, interrupted and broken. I looked up with a little petulance—“What is it, Alice?”
She came still closer to where I was sitting, and her bright good face was troubled. “Miss Hester, my darling, I want to consult you,” said Alice, and I thought I saw a tear trembling in her eye. “I am afraid your papa is ill. I am afraid he is very bad. The doctor comes and goes, and he never lets you know; and I have said to myself this three months back: ‘it’s cruel to keep it from her—the longer she is of knowing the worse it will be.’ And now, dear, I’ve taken heart and come myself to tell you. He’s very bad, Miss Hester, he has a deal of trouble; and it’ll come hard—hard upon you.”
I felt that my face was quite blanched and white. What a contrast was this to the terror of my own thoughts! I shrank within myself with a guilty consciousness, that while I had been running in these charmed ways, my father had suffered in secret, making no sign. I cannot say I was startled—Alice’s words fell upon me with a dull heavy pang—I felt as if a blow which had long been hanging over me had fallen at last.
“But Alice, Alice, I see no change in him,” cried I, for a moment struggling against the truth.
“If you went to him as I sometimes go, you would see a change, Miss Hester,” said Alice; “it is not your fault, dear. Well I know that—but the light in his eye and the color in his cheek—hush—that’s the hectic, darling, you’ve heard of that,” and Alice turned to me a glance of fright, and sunk her voice to a whisper, as if this was some deadly enemy lurking close at hand.
And fever and faintness came upon me as she spoke. I rose and threw up the window for a moment’s breath, and then I turned to Alice, and cried upon her shoulder and asked her what I was to do—what I was to do?
With her kind hand upon my head, and her kind voice blessing her “dear child,” Alice soothed and calmed me—and the tears gave me some relief, and I gradually composed myself.“Do you think he will let me nurse him, Alice? He told me he was ill long ago, but I persuaded myself he was mistaken; and you think he is very bad—in great pain? oh! do you think he will let me nurse him, Alice?”
“I cannot tell. Miss Hester,” said Alice, “but, dear, you must try—did he tell you he was ill?—and I was doing him wrong, thinking he was too proud to let his own child see him in weakness: oh, we’re hard judges, every one of us. When was it, dear?”
“In spring, a long time ago; and we were not quite friends then,” said I. “I thought he was cruel; he spoke to me about—about—I mean he told me that I must soon be left alone, and that he wanted to find some one to take care of me. I cannot tell you about it, Alice; and I refused—I said no to my father; and we have never been very good friends since then.”
“Do you mean that your papa wanted you to marry, Miss Hester?” asked Alice.
“I suppose so—yes!” I said, turning away my head—she was looking full at me, and looking very anxiously—she had always been greatly privileged. I feared I might have been questioned, had she caught the expression of my eye.
“And did he say who? Was it M——? Was it your cousin?” said Alice.
“No, it was not my cousin; but why do you speak of that? Alice, let me go to my father,” said I.
“He does not want you now, darling,” said Alice, detaining me. “Dear Miss Hester, don’t you think it wrong of me—you’re my own child. I took you out of your mother’s arms. Speak to me just one word. Is there any one, darling, any one?—Miss Hester, you’ll not be angry with me?”
“Then do not ask me such questions, Alice,” I said, in great shame and confusion, with a burning flush upon my cheek, “does it become us to speak of things like this, when my father so ill—why do you say he does not want me now! he may want me this very moment, let me go.”
“Dear, he’s sleeping,” said Alice, “he has been very ill, andnow he’s at rest and easy, and lying down to refresh himself—you can’t go now, Miss Hester, for it would only disturb him—poor gentleman—won’t you stay, dear, and say a word to me?”
“I have nothing to say to you, Alice,” said I, half crying with vexation and shame and embarrassment, “why do you question me so? I have done nothing wrong—you ought rather to tell me how my father is, if you will not let me go to see.”
“The pain is here,” said Alice, putting her hand to her side, “here at his heart. I know what trouble at the heart is, Miss Hester, and your papa has known it many a day, but it isn’t grief or sorrow now, but sickness, and if the one has brought the other, I cannot tell. It comes on in fits and spasms, and is very bad for a time, and then it goes off again, and he is as well to look at as ever he was. But every time it comes he’s weaker, and it’s wearing out his strength day by day. Yes, dear, it’s cruel to say it, but it’s true.”
“And are you with him when he is ill, Alice?” said I anxiously.
“He rings his bell when he feels it coming,” said Alice, “though I know he has many a hard hour all by himself; and anxiety on his mind is very bad for him, dear,” she continued, looking at me wistfully, “and he is troubled in his spirit about leaving you. If youcangive in to him, Miss Hester, dear, if it’s not against your heart—if you’re fancy-free, and think no more of one than of another—oh! darling, yield to him anything you can. He’s a suffering man, and is your father, and pride is the sin of the house; every one has it, less or more; and there are only two of you in the world, and you are his only child!”
Alice ran breathlessly through this string of arguments, while I listened with a disturbed and a rebellious heart. No, if this was true,—if my father was slowly dying—if he would soon be beyond the reach of all obedience and duty, I would not deny him anything—not even this. It was hard,unspeakably hard, to think of it. I could not see why he should ask such a bitter sacrifice from me. I knew of no self-sacrifice in his history—why should he think it was easy in mine?
Alice left me like a skilful general, when she had made this urgent appeal, and went away down stairs, saying she would call me when my father awoke. I remained at my window, where I had been dreaming before, but what a harsh interruption had come to my dreams—the sunshine without streamed down as full and bright as ever over the trees and flowers, and fresh enclosing greensward of our pretty garden; half an hour of time had come and gone, but it might have been half a year for the change it made in me. Alice had come to my Bower of Bliss, like Sir Guyon, and driven me forth from among the flowers and odors of the enchanted land. My heart became very heavy, I could not tell why. I resolved upon making my submission to my father, if I had an opportunity, and telling him to do what he would with me. This was not a willing or tender submission, but a forced and reluctant one; and I did not try to conceal from myself that I felt it very hard, though when I thought again of his recent suffering, and of the fantastic paradise of dreams in which I was wandering, while he wrestled with his mortal enemy, I felt suddenly humiliated and subdued. My father! my father! I had belonged to him all my life, I had no right to any love but his; I had lived at ease in his care, and trusted to him with the perfect confidence of a child. But now, when it was at last of importance that I should trust him, was this the time to follow my own fancies and leave him to suffer alone?
At that moment Alice called me, and I immediately went down stairs. I went with a tremulous and uncertain step, and an oppressed heart—to make any sacrifice he wished or asked—to do anything he desired of me. When I entered the library, my father looked up from his book with a momentary glance of surprise and inquiry; and with a heartbeating so loud and so uneasily as mine it was hard to look unembarrassed and natural. I said breathlessly: “May I sit beside you, papa? I want to read a little,” but I did not dare to look at him as I spoke—the calm everyday tone of his voice struck very strangely upon my excited ear as he answered me: “Surely, Hester,” he said, with a slight quiet astonishment at the unnecessary question. He was perfectly unexcited—I could see neither care, nor anxiety, nor suffering in his calm and equable looks; and he did not perceive nor suspect the tumult and fever in my mind. Prepared as I was to yield to him with reluctance, and a feeling of hardship, I felt a shock of almost disappointment when I found that nothing was to be asked of me—I sank into the nearest chair and took up the first book I could find to cover my trembling and confusion. The stillness of the room overpowered me—I could hear my heart beating in the silence, and as my eye wandered over all these orderly and ordinary arrangements, and to the calm bright sunshine out of doors, and the shadow of the trees softly waving across the window, I was calmed into quieter expectancy and clearer vision. My father sat in his usual place at his usual studies, with the summer daylight full upon his face, and everything about him arranged with scrupulous propriety and care; if any of his habitual accessories had been disturbed—if he had occupied another seat, or sat in a different attitude, or if I could have detected the slightest sign of faltering or weakness in his manner, I would not have felt so strongly my sudden descent from the heights of terror, anxiety, and expectation, to the everyday level of repose and comfort; but there was no change in his stately person or dress, no perceptible difference in his appearance. He was not old—at this present moment he looked like a man in his prime, handsome, haughty, reserved, and fastidious. As I observed him under the shadow of my book, I felt like a spy watching to detect incipient weakness—was I disappointed that he did not look ill? Was this the man who half an hour ago wassleeping the sleep of exhaustion after a deadly struggle with his malady? I could not believe myself, or Alice—she was mistaken—for it was impossible to reconcile what she told me with what I saw.
But the stillness of the room and his steady occupation influenced me like a spell—I did not go away—and when a slight movement he made startled me into a momentary fear that he might perceive I was watching him, I began to read in earnest the book which, all this time, I had been holding in my hands. It had been lying on the top of a pile of others, and was quite a new book, not entirely cut up, a very unusual thing here. My eye had already travelled vacantly two or three times to the end of the page without knowing a syllable of the lines which I went over mechanically—but now I caught the name of the book, and it strangely awed and startled me. I could almost have cast it from me like a horrible suggestion when I saw that title. It was a medical treatise, and its subject was “Sudden Death”—the words were like a revelation to me—this was why he sat so composed and stately, ready to meet the last enemy like a brave man; this was why he suffered no trace of agitation or of languor to come into this solemn room which at any moment, as my excited fancy whispered, might become the chamber of death. I could almost fancy I saw the shadowy sword suspended over my father’s head, and in another instant it might fall.
My terror now, for himself and for him only, was as insane and wild as it seemed visionary and baseless; for I had seen nothing as yet to point to him as one of the probable victims of this sudden conclusion. But the very manner of the book convinced me of what he thought himself. I went on reading it, scarcely sensible now how my hands trembled, nor how easily he would find me out, if he happened to glance at me. Yes! here was abundant confirmation of my fears. I read with a breathless and overwhelming interest cases and symptoms—to my alarmed fancy, every one seemed to bear some likeness towhat I knew of his; I never read a drama or a tale with such profound excitement as I read this scientific treatise—there seemed to be life and death in its pages—the authoritative mandate which should forbid hope, or silence fear.
“Hester!” said my father. I started violently and looked up at him, I felt the heat and flush of my intense occupation upon my cheek, and I almost expected to see him faint or fall as I sprang towards him. He held up his hand half impatient, half alarmed, at my vehemence. “What are you reading? what has excited you, Hester?” he said.
I retired very rapidly and quietly to my chair, and put my book away with nervous haste. “Nothing, papa,” I said, bending my head to escape his eye.
“Nothing! that is a child’s answer,” said my father, and I felt that he smiled; “I have been watching you these five minutes, Hester, and I know that ‘nothing’ could not make you so earnest. What is it you have been reading—tell me.”
“It is only a book—a new book,” I said slowly.
“I thought so—almost the only new book in my library, is it not?” said my father, in a singular tone, “what do you think of it, Hester?”
I lifted my hands in entreaty—I could not bear to hear him speaking thus.
“It is true,” he said quietly, “and you perceive it does not disturb me—this is what you must make up your mind to, Hester. It will be a trial for you—but not a long and tedious one—and you must hold yourself prepared for it as I do.”
“But father—father! you are not ill. You are not so ill—I cannot believe it,” I cried, scarcely knowing what I said.
“It will prove itself by and by,” he answered calmly, and returned to his book as if we had been speaking of some indifferent matter. I could not think of it so coolly—I cried: “Papa, listen to me, I will do anything, everything you want—do you hear me, papa?”
He looked up at me for a moment—was it suspicion? hecertainly seemed to have forgotten that he had ever asked anything of me which I had refused.
“I require nothing, Hester,” he said, “nothing, my love, and I perfectly believe in your willingness to serve me. Lay down the book, it is not for you, and go out and refresh yourself. I am pleased that you know what may come, but I shall not be pleased if you brood upon it. Now leave me, Hester, but come again when you will, and I will never exclude you. Pshaw, child! it is the common lot. What do you tremble for? what is it you want to do?”
“Is there nothing you wish, papa—nothing I could do to please you?” I said, under my breath. I could not allude more plainly to the former question between us.
“It is time enough to ask such questions,” he said, with a momentary jealousy of my intention, “I am not dying yet.”
He did not understand me—he had forgotten! I hurried out grieved, overwhelmed, yet in spite of myself relieved on this one point. I thought myself the meanest wretch in the world, to be able to derive satisfaction from it at such a moment. Yet I was so! I felt a thrill of delight that I was free, in the midst of my terrors and dismay at the doom which hung over our house. I tried to conceal it from myself, but I could not. I was free to mourn for my dear father for ever, and admit no human consolation. I was not bound under a promise to commit myself to somebody’s hands to be taken care of. I was afflicted, but at liberty.
Alice waited eagerly to speak to me when I came from the library, but I only could speak two or three words to her, and then hastened out, to relieve the oppression on my spirit if I could. It was a dreadful thought to carry with me and ponder upon, and when I was walking fast along a lonely wood, half a mile out of Cambridge, it suddenly occurred to me what danger there was in leaving home, even for an hour. Before I returned, the blow might fall—it might be falling even now. I turned at once and went hastily homewards, my heart sick with anxiety andterror. When I nearly reached the house, I met Mr. Osborne; though I knew he would detain me, I was yet very anxious to speak to him, for perhaps he would give me some hope. He was speaking to some one, but he saw that I waited for him, and immediately left his former companion and came to me. “No other young lady in the world would do me so much honor,” said Mr. Osborne, in the gay good-humored tone which was usual to him, but which jarred so much upon my feelings. “Oh! Hester, what’s this? why do you look so much excited? Have you something important to tell me? I have almost expected it, do you know.”
I was very sorry, but I could not help the burning heat which came to my face; and I could not lift my eyes for the moment to meet his saucy eyes which seemed to read my thoughts. What had I to do with such thoughts! I cast them from me with bitter self-indignation, and looked up at him at last with a face so grave that he smiled on me no more.
“I want to speak to you about papa, Mr. Osborne,” I said. “Willyoutell me?—you must know. He thinks he is very ill. He thinks—oh! tell me if you think he is so bad as that.”
For an instant his face grew very serious. “I am not qualified to give an opinion,” he said, first; and then, regaining his usual look, with an effort, he continued, “He is not well, Hester; but quite well and very ill are a long way from each other. I do not think he is very bad—I do not, indeed. I see no need for your alarming yourself.”
“But he speaks of danger and of sudden—” I could not say the fatal word. “Has he any foundation for it; do you think he is right, Mr. Osborne?” I continued with a shudder.
“I do not think he is right, Hester. I think that you ought not to be frightened with such a ghastly doubt as this,” said Mr. Osborne, seriously, “your father has fancies, as every man in weak health has; but I know enough of his illness, I think—I am almost sure—to give you confidence on this point. If anythingsudden should occur, it will not be without long and abundant warning—a sudden or immediate blow is not to be feared. I assure you I am right, Hester, you may trust to me.”
I did trust to him with gratitude, and a feeling of relief. He walked home with me, moderating my pace, and leading my mind to ordinary subjects. He was very kind to me. He said nothing to embarrass or distress; but calmed my excitement, and made me feel a real confidence in him. When we got home, nothing had happened. The quiet house was as quiet and undisturbed as ever it had been. Mr. Osborne went to the library; and I went up-stairs to the window-seat in the drawing-room. And I do not venture to say that I did not go back to my dreams.
ALICEhad sent me out to walk at sunset—she said I was breaking her heart with my white thin face, and woful looks. I had spent all that afternoon in the garden watching my father at his window. I could do little else but watch him, and listen, and wait near the library; the constant strain of anxiety almost wore me out; yet I had a fond persuasion at the bottom of my heart, that my fears were groundless, and I think I almost kept up my anxiety on purpose as a sort of veil for this hope. Since I had been so much afraid for him, he seemed to have grown better every day—he had begun to take his walks again, and had never had another attack since the time Alice warned me how ill he was.
I obeyed her now tacitly and went out; though it was a beautiful night, few people were walking when I went to walk by the river side, where the last rays of the sun were shining gloriously through the half transparent leaves of the lime-trees. The tender slanting golden light was very sweet to see, as it touched upon the green surface of the lawn at some single ripple or eddy, and left all beside in the deep shadow of the coming twilight. In those great trees overhead, the wind was sighing with a gentle rustle, shaking the leaves against each other, swaying the sunny branches into the shade, and thrusting now and then a dark parcel of leaves into the sunshine, when they suddenly became illuminated and showed you all the life in their delicate veins, quivering against the light. On the one bank of the river was a trim slope of grass descending to the water, and on the other, withdrawn over broad lawns of greensward, with shadows of trees lying on the grass, and the lightfalling on it aslant and tardily, stood the stately College buildings, noble and calm in the sweet leisure of the evening rest. I came here because I saw it solitary; no one interrupted me as I wandered along the broad sandy footpath; no one disturbed my thoughts as I pursued my dream. Sometimes a bird fluttered through the leaves from one branch to another, going home; and there was a low sweet twittering of welcome from the tiny household deep in the heart of the green lime, a forest all bedewed and shining with the last smiles of the sun; but I heard no other sound except my own footsteps, at which I sometimes could almost have blushed and stepped aside, afraid of some spectator of my maiden meditations, or some passer-by who might guess at the secret of my dream.
When I first saw him coming on the same solitary road, no one here but he and I, my first impulse was to turn back and escape. I trembled and blushed, and shrank with conscious conviction, believing he could read all my thoughts whenever he met my eyes. Then I paused and stumbled, and felt how ashamed and hesitating my face had become, and wondered what he would think was the occasion of this nervous foolishness. But I do not think he took time to observe, for he was hastening towards me, with an eager haste which only made me shrink the more. I could not turn back, I could not go steadily onward; I almost thought all nature which had made this seem so beautiful, and all Cambridge who had left it to us, were in a conspiracy against me. On came his light active figure, pushing through the trees, and I with my faltering steps advanced slowly, going towards him, because I could not help myself. When we met at last, he turned and went on with me; I was not able to object to this, and even he did not say anything about it, but merely turned by my side, subdued his hasty pace to my slow one, and accompanied me as though it had been quite a matter of course. I do not think we said much to each other. I do not recollect anything that passed between us—I remember only the twittering of the birds, the rustle of theleaves, the light stealing off the dewy greensward and the darkening river, all those soft sweet distant sounds that belong to a summer’s night were ringing with a subdued and musical echo in the air around us; our own steps upon the path—the beating of our own hearts—these, and not words from each other, were what we listened to.
Then he suddenly seemed to rouse himself, and began to speak—suddenly, in a moment, when I was quite unprepared for it. I cannot tell how I felt while I listened. We went on mechanically, I am sure, not knowing or caring whither we went. He was speaking to me, pleading with me, entreating me; and I listened with a vague, secret delight, half pain, half pleasure, when his voice stopped at last. I became aware how I was hanging upon it—what a great shock and disappointment it was that it should cease. But still, in my trance of embarrassment, in my agitation and perplexity, it never occurred to me that it was I who must speak now—that it was I who had to decide and conclude upon this strange eventful question, and that with still greater excitement than that with which I had listened to him, he was waiting to hear me.
I did not speak—I went slowly on with the echo of his words ringing into my heart—then came his voice again, agitated and breathless. “Hester, have you nothing to say to me?”
I cannot tell why, at this moment, our first conversation together, when he came to our house with Mr. Osborne, returned to my memory. I did not turn towards him nor lift my eyes, but I asked in a tone as low and hurried as his own, “Almost the first time you ever spoke to me, you were going to call me Hester—why was that?”
He did not answer me immediately. “Because your name became the sweetest sound in the world to me, the first time I heard it,” he said, after a moment’s pause. I believed him—I was not vain of it, it seemed to be a merit in him to think so of me, but no merit in me.
“Not a word—not a word—must I go away then—will you answer me nothing?” he said, at last, after another interval, with other wild words of tenderness, such as had never been said to me before, and such as no woman can tell again. I was roused by his outcry, I turned for an instant to look at him, and then I suddenly felt my face burn and my brow throb, and then—it seemed he was satisfied, and wanted no more words from me.
And we wandered on together, out from the shadows of the trees, where the sun came gleaming and glistening upon us like a friend who had found us out. I think there never was such a night of content, and satisfaction, and peace; there was the calm of night, and the flush of hope for another day upon the heavens; and the sweet light blessed the earth, and the earth lay still under it in a great joy, too deep to be expressed. I was leaning with my hand upon his arm—I was leaning my heart upon him, so that I could have wept for the delight of this sweet ease and rest. Yes! it was the love of the Poets that had overtaken us, and put our hands together. As he clasped both his hands over one of mine, he said it was for ever and for ever—for ever and for ever, and lingered on the words. I said nothing—but the clasp of his hands holding me, stirred the very depths in my heart. I was alone no longer, I wanted to tell him everything—my secret thoughts, my fears—all that had ever happened to me. I could not tell him my fancies about himself, though I listened so eagerly to all he said of me, but all my life came brightening up before me, I was eager to show it all to him—I was jealous of having anything in which he had no share.
We went up and down—up and down—the same bit of enchanted ground, and it was only when I felt a chill breath of air, and slightly shivered at it, and when he put up my shawl upon my shoulders, and drew it round me so anxiously and tenderly, that I glanced up at the sky to escape his eyes which were gazing full upon me, and saw that it was getting quite dark, and must be late. “Is it late?” I said, starting suddenlyat the thought of my father; “they will wonder where I am—oh! I must go home.”
“Time has not been to-night,” he said, with the smile upon his lip quivering as if the tears were in his eyes as well as in mine. “Once more, Hester, let me look at this glorious bit of road that has brought me fortune. Here—it was just here—winter should never come to this spot; and there is a faint timid footstep in the sand. My sovereign lady was afraid of me! If you had but known what a poor coward I was, how I trembled for those words which would not come, and how you held my fate in your hand, and played with it. Love is quite bad enough—but Love and Fear! how is a single man to stand against them!”
“I do not think you looked very much afraid,” said I.
“You cannot tell—you never vouchsafed me a glance,” said Harry, “and Fear is the very soul of daring; when a man will rather hear the worst than hear nothing, Hester, his courage is not very cool, I can tell you. And how unmindful you were!”
“Hush! hush! I am sure it is very late,” said I, “I must go home.”
“But not without me, Hester,” said my companion.
I did not want him to leave me, certainly; but I was a little startled. My father! what would he say? how would he receive this unexpected accomplishment of his desires? The idea agitated and excited me. I suddenly felt as if this meeting of ours had been clandestine and underhand. I did not know what I could say to my father, and Alice would be anxious about myself already.
“You would not prolong my suspense, Hester,” said Harry, as we slowly took the way home; “you know I cannot rest till I have spoken to your father—have I a rival, then—do you see difficulties? or is it that you would rather tell him with your own sweet lips what you have never yet told me?”
“No—no—I do not want to speak to him first,” said I, hurriedly, “but he is not well—he is not strong—agitation hurtshim; yet perhaps this would not agitate him,” I continued with involuntary sadness—“perhaps, indeed, it is better he should know.”
“I think it will not agitate him. I think, perhaps, he will not be much surprised, except indeed that I should have won what I have long aimed at,” said Harry. “I met his eye the last time I saw him, Hester!”
“And what then?” I asked eagerly.
“Nothing much, except that I think that he knew the sad condition I was in,” said Harry, with a smile, “and remembered somebody who was the light of his eyes in his own youth—for I think he did not look unkindly on me.”
“But he never could suspect anything,” said I.
“Did you never suspect anything, you hard heart?” he said; “you would not shake hands with me. You would not look at me. You never would come frankly out into the garden where a poor fellow could see you. Do you mean to tell me now that you were not afraid of me, and did not feel that I was your fate?”
“Hush! hush!” I repeated again. “And Mr. Osborne and Alice—you do not mean that everybody knew?”
“You must not be angry with me, if I confess that Mr. Osborne was in my confidence,” said Harry, looking into my face, with some alarm, as I thought. “I was shy of whispering my name of names to any other man; but I betrayed myself once by saying Hester to your old friend. Hester—Hester! Homer never knew the sweet sounds of these two syllables, yet they used to glide in upon his page, and no more intelligence was left in it. Ah! you do not know what you have to answer for. And Alice!—Alice loves you too well not to suspect anybody who approaches you, Hester. She has been very curious about me for a long time. I think she approves of me now at last.”
“It is very strange,” I said, with a little pique and offended dignity, “everybody seems to have been aware except—”
I paused, being so sincere that I could not imply what wasnot true. Had not I been aware? or what were all my dreams about for many a day?
“Except the person most concerned? I suppose it is always so,” said Harry. “But do not blame me for that. If my queen was not aware of her devoted servant’s homage—it was no fault of mine. Ah! Hester! so many jealous glances I have given to this closed door.”
For we had reached home; and with a beating heart I opened the door and entered before him. It was so dark here in the close, that I could only hear, and could not see the ivy rustling on the wall; and the air was chill, though it was August; and I trembled with a nervous shiver. He held me back for a moment as I was about to hasten in. “Hester, give me your hand, give me your promise,” he said, in a low, passionate tone. “Your father may not be content with me; but you—you will not cast me off? You will give me time to win him to my side? Say something to me, Hester—say a kind word to me!”
I could see, even in the darkness, how he changed color; and I felt his hands tremble. I gave him both mine very quietly; and I said: “He will consent.” Then we parted. I hurried in, and called Alice to show Henry to the drawing-room where my father was; and, without pausing to meet her surprised and inquiring look, I ran up-stairs, and shut myself into my own room. I wanted to be alone. It was not real till I could look at it by myself, and see what it was.
Yes! there was the dim garden underneath, with the trees rising up solemnly in the pale summer night, and all the color and the light gone out of this flowery little world. There were the lights in the little gleaming windows of Corpus like so many old friends smiling at me. I had come home to my own familiar room; but I was not the same Hester Southcote, who had lived all her life in this environment. In my heart, I brought another with me into my girlish bower. The idea of him possessed all my thoughts—his words came rushing back, I think almost every one of them, into my ears. I dropped upon myseat with the shawl he had placed there still upon me, without removing my bonnet or doing anything. I sat down and began to live it over again, all this magical night. It stood in my memory like a picture, so strange, so beautiful, so true! could it be true? Did he think me the first, above all others? and all these words which sent the blood tingling to the very fingers he had clasped, had he really spoken them, and I listened? and all this wonderful time had been since I left the little dark room, where I had even now again to look at my altered fate. All the years before were nothing to this single night.
And then I remembered where he was, and how occupied now. He was telling my father—asking my father to give up his only child.
My father was ill—in danger of his life—and was I willing to leave him alone? but then the proud thought returned to me—not to leave him alone—to add to him a better companion than I, a friend, a son, a man of nature as lofty as himself; but I was not willing to enter into details, and as I thought upon the interview going on so near me, I grew nervous once more. Then I heard a step softly approaching my door. Then a light gleamed through it, and I went to open it with a great tremor. It was Alice, with a light, and she said my father had sent for me to come to him now.
Alice did not ask me why I sat in the dark with my bonnet on; instead of that she helped to take off my walking dress, and kept her eyes from my face, in her kindness—for she must have seen how the color went and came, how I trembled, and how much agitated I was. She brushed back my hair with her own kind hands, and took a rose out of a vase on the table, and fastened it in my dress.
I had been so full of my own thoughts, that I had not observed these roses, but I knew at once when she did this. They were from my own tree at Cottiswoode. I did not ask Alice how she got them, yet I had pleasure in the flower. It reminded me of my mother—my mother—if I had a mother now!
“They are waiting for you, Miss Hester,” said Alice—they?how strange the combination was—yet I lingered still. I could not meet them both together. I could have borne to hear my father discuss it afterwards; but to look at each of them in the other’s presence, was more than I thought I could endure. I went away slowly, Alice lingering over me, holding the light to show me the way I knew so well, and following me with her loving ways. My Alice, who had nobody but me! I turned round to her suddenly, for a moment, and leaned upon her breast, and sought her kiss upon my cheek—then I went away comforted. It was all the mother-comfort I had ever known.
When my hand touched the drawing-room door, it was suddenly thrown open to me, and there he stood to receive me with such joy and eagerness, that I shrunk back in terror for my father. My father was not there.
“We are alone,” said Henry, “your father would not embarrass you, Hester, and he gives his consent under the most delightful of all conditions. Do you think me crazy? indeed, I will not answer for myself, for you belong to me, Hester, you are lawfully made over—my wife!”
I was almost frightened by his vehemence; and though I had feared it so much, I was sorry now that my father did not stay. “Did it trouble him? Was he disturbed? What did he say?” I asked eagerly.
“I am not to tell you what he said—he will tell you himself,” said Henry, “but the condition—have you no curiosity to hear what this condition is?”
“No,” I said, “it seems to please you. I am glad my father cared to make conditions; and you are sure he was not angry? What did he say?”
“I will tell you whatIsaid,” was all the answer I got; “but all the rest you are to hear from himself. Now, Hester,” he continued, pleadingly, holding my hands and looking into my face, “don’t be vexed at the condition. I don’t expect you are to like it as well as I do; but you will consent, will you not? You cantrust yourself to me as well as if you knew me another year? Hester! don’t turn away from me. There is your father coming; and I promised to leave you when I heard him. It is very hard leaving you; but I suppose I must not break my word to him. I am to come to-morrow. You will say good-night to me, surely—good-night to your poor slave. Princess—good-night!”
My father was just at the door, when at last he left me. There was a brief leave-taking between them; and then I heard his rapid step descending the stair, and my father entered the room. I had gone to my usual seat at the table, and scarcely ventured to look up as he entered. I thought he hesitated for a moment as he stood at the door looking in upon me. Perhaps he thought of giving me a kinder greeting; but, if he did, he conquered the impulse, and came quietly to his chair opposite me, and, without saying a word, took his place there, and closed the book which had been lying open upon the table. Then he spoke. My heart beat so loud and wild that it almost took away my breath. He was my father—my father! and I wanted to throw myself at his feet, and pour out all my heart to him. I wanted to say that I never desired to leavehim—never! and that I would rather even give up my own happiness than forsake him now.
He gave me no opportunity; he spoke in his grave, calm tone of self-possessed and self-commanded quietness, which chilled me to the heart. “Hester!” he said, “I have been listening to a young man’s love-tale. He is very fervid, and as sincere as most youths are, I have no doubt. He says he has thought of nothing but how to win you, since we first admitted him here; and he says that you have promised him your hand if he can gain my consent. I have no doubt you recollect, Hester, the last conversation we had on this subject. You have chosen for yourself, what you would not permit me to choose for you, and I hope your choice will be a happy one. I have given my consent to it. What he says of his means seems satisfactory;and I waive the question of family, in which his pretensions, I presume, are much inferior to your own. But I earnestly desire that you should have a proper protector, Hester! and I give my consent to your marriage, on condition—” he paused, and I glanced up at him, I know not with what dismayed and apprehensive glance; for his solemn tone struck me with terror: “on condition,” he continued, with a smile. “Do not fear—it is nothing very terrible—on condition that your marriage takes place within three weeks from this time.”
“Papa!”
I started to my feet, no longer shrinking and embarrassed. Oh! it was cruel—cruel! To seize the first and swiftest opportunity to thrust me from him, while he was ill, perhaps dying, and when he knew how great my anxiety was. I could not speak to him; I burst into a passionate fit of tears. I was wounded to the heart.
“I suppose it is natural that you should dislike this haste, Hester,” said my father, in a slightly softened tone; “I can understand that it is something of a shock to you; but I cannot help it, my love. The circumstances are hard, and so is the necessity. I yield to you in the more important particulars; you must yield to me in this.”
“Papa! I cannot leave you. Do not bid me,” I cried, eagerly, encouraged by his tone; “to go away now would kill me. Father, father! have you no pity upon me? you cannot have the heart to send me away!”