I wondered how he was spending it—where—if he was all by himself at Cottiswoode—perhaps in that library in the chair where I had placed myself leaning upon the desk, where I leant the day I came away, perhaps writing to me—surely thinking of me; yes, I did not think he could let this day pass withoutwishing for me over again, and I wondered if I could get home before his appeal should reach me, for already I could imagine him writing a loving, anxious letter, full of the memories of to-day.
What a strange difference! a pleasant excitement of plans and hopes was busy in the mind which only this morning had been lost in such despairing supplications. I think I had only risen the higher in the rebound for the depth of suffering to which I fell before. The idea of the journey, the return, the joyful surprise to my husband, the joy to myself of perceiving his delight in little Harry, the satisfaction of Alice, and my own content in being once more at home, and carrying with me the heir of Cottiswoode, woke pleasure new and unaccustomed in my heart. I did not question myself about it, I did not pause to think of any humiliation, I permitted the tide of natural gladness to rise at its own sweet will; I thought any degree of joy, and every degree, was possible, when I had thus regained, from the very shadow of death, my beautiful boy.
“I won’t have you sit up to-night, Miss Hester,” said Alice, who had returned to sit beside me, and gaze at him, but who did not disturb my thoughts; “you must lie down, darling; he’ll have a good night, I’m sure, and I’ll sleep in the big chair, it’s very comfortable; now, dear, lie down, you’re wearied out.”
“No, indeed, I am not even tired,” I said; “I want nothing but to sit and look at him, Alice. Oh, is it not a delight to see him now?”
“Ay, dear,” said Alice slowly and sadly; “ay, Miss Hester, especially for them that have seen the like of him pass to heaven out of their own arms.”
I knew now what the griefs of Alice’s life must have been. I, who had often thought lightly of them in comparison with the griefs which I had brought upon myself, I knew better now. I took her hand into my own, and pressed it close, and kissed that dear, kind, careful hand.
“Don’t, darling, don’t,” cried Alice, in a voice choked with tears; “Oh, Miss Hester, have you given thanks to God?”
“I am very thankful, very thankful, Alice,” said I kindly, and there was another pause. “Alice, when do you think he would be able to travel?” I asked at last; “perhaps a change might do him good, do you think so? how soon do you think we could go?”
“Are we to go to another strange place, Miss Hester?” said Alice, with a little dismay: “Dear, I think you should rather stay here; we’re known here now, and nobody takes particular note of us; but to see a young lady like you with a baby, and all by yourself, makes people talk, and I wouldn’t go to a strange place, darling; it’s very pleasant here.”
“I did not think of going to a strange place, Alice,” said I.
“Then you thought of Cambridge, Miss Hester,” continued Alice, rapidly; “for my part, I’ve no heart to go back to Cambridge, I’d rather go anywhere than there; they’d say it was to vex Mr. Southcote you went; they say a deal of malicious things, and everybody knows us there, and it’s a dreary house for you to go back to, dear; you’d be sure to feel it so, even with baby. My darling, don’t go there; I’ve come to like this little place, we have it all to ourselves, and now it’s like home.”
“Then do you think there is no other home I have a right to, Alice?” I asked. I felt very much cast down and humbled because she never seemed to think of that. Perhaps, indeed, Ihadno right to go back to the home I had left.
“If you mean that, if you can think of that, Miss Hester,” cried Alice, in a tremulous voice.
“Should I not think of it? will he not permit me to live there again?” said I, not without some pride, though with more sadness. “I suppose you know my husband’s purposes better than I do; Alice, it is a sad state of matters; but I have been very wrong, and even though he should refuse to admit me, I must go; I have been very unjust to him; my baby belongs asmuch to him as to me. I have deprived my husband of his rights, and now I must restore them to him.”
“I do not understand you, Miss Hester,” said Alice, looking almost frightened.
“Baby has a father as well as a mother, Alice,” I repeated; “and I am wronging my husband. I know he has seen little Harry, but he ought to be able to see him every day as I do. I have no right to keep my darling all to myself; he belongs to his father as much as to me, so I have made a vow to go home.”
“Only because it is right, Miss Hester?” asked Alice.
“Do you think anything else would conquer me?” I cried, keeping back my tears with an effort. “I could die by myself without murmuring. I don’t ask to be happy, as people call it; but I will not do him injustice—he has a right to his child.”
After this petulant speech, which, indeed, excited and unsettled as I was by the sudden idea that my husband might not desire to receive me, I could not restrain, I settled myself in my chair, and half from pure wilfulness, half because my mind was so much occupied that I had no great inclination to rest, I made Alice lie down, and continued in the chair myself. Hushed and nestling close to my breast, Baby slept so sweet a sleep that it was a delight to see him; and my thoughts were free to speculate on my plans. Could it be possible that bringing his son, his heir, with me—or, indeed, coming myself in any guise—I would be unwelcome at Cottiswoode? The thought was overwhelming. I was almost seized again with the same dreadful spasm of heartache and weakness which had attacked me on the day of Baby’s birth. Was it possible—was it complete alienation, and not mere separation?—had I estranged his heart entirely from me? More than that, the fiend began to whisper—it was all deception—it was all a generous impulse; he never did love me at all—he was only anxious to restore to me my lost inheritance, to make up to me for all he had deprived me of.
I tried to fly from the evil suggestion; I put up my hand tofeel for my mother’s miniature, as if it could help me. This hurried, anxious motion awoke Baby. Oh, I was well punished. He cried a great deal, and woke up thoroughly, and his crying brought on a coughing fit. It was nearly an hour before we had composed and lulled him to sleep, for Alice had started up instantly on hearing his voice. All my terrors were roused by this, though it was rather a little infantine temper and fretfulness than anything else. I fancied I had brought it all upon myself; I trembled with a superstitious dread before the wise, and kind, and pitiful Providence which guided me, as if my own constant transgressions were being followed by a strict eye, and quick retribution. Oh, pity, pity!—what was justice to such as me? and what would become of me who dared to judge others, if God dealt with myself only as I deserved?
Then I made up my mind firmly and steadily once more, however I was received there, to go to Cottiswoode, and if my husband did not object, to remain there, that neither of us might lose our child. One wild impulse of giving up my baby to him, and fleeing myself to the end of the earth, was too dreadful to be more than momentary. No, I would go to Cottiswoode; I would tell him that I had wronged him—I would offer him all the justice it was in my power to give. It was now past midnight, and baby was once more fast asleep. Alice was sleeping—everything was perfectly still, except the faint crackling of the fire. Once or twice I had already dropped asleep myself for a few moments, when there was no urgent claim upon my attention, carrying my restless thoughts into dreams as restless. Now I suppose I must have fallen into the deep slumber of exhaustion, holding my baby fast in my arms, for I remember no more of that day.
And that was how I spent the first anniversary of my bridal day.
ITwas now late in September, a true autumnal day, just such a day as one of those which had carried us joyfully over foreign rivers and highways a year ago, when Alice and I made our final preparations and set out on our journey home. The owner of the house—the widow lady, had returned on the previous evening, and she was very well satisfied with the rent I paid her in place of the “notice” to which she was entitled. Baby was perfectly well, I think even stronger and more beautiful than ever; and though I trembled with nervous excitement, anticipating this new step I was about to take, I was tolerably composed, considering everything that was involved. It was very early, I think not much after six o’clock, when we sat down at our homely breakfast-table. I with baby on my lap, fully equipped and well wrapped up for his journey, and Alice with an odd variety of little parcels about her, and far too much agitated to take anything now, though she had carefully provided herself with a basket of “refreshments” to present me withal upon the way. The sunshine slanted with its golden gleam upon the river, and the half-awakened houses on the water’s edge. There were no ships, but only a vacant pleasure-boat, flapping its loose sail idly on the morning wind, and rocking on the rising water as the morning tide came in upon the beach. The air was slightly chill and fresh, as it only is at that hour, and the sun, slanting down upon house after house, shining upon curtained windows and closed doors, seemed calling almost with a playful mocking upon the sleepers. Our little bustle and commotion, the excitement in our pale faces, and the eventful journey before us, though they were not unsuitable for the opening of a commonlaborious day, bore yet a strange contrast tothischarmed house, which was almost as sweet and full of peace as the evening. I stood by the window for a moment, looked out wistfully on the landscape which had grown so familiar to my eyes—how sweet it was! how the water rose and glistened, dilating with the full tide! I suppose we have all picture-galleries of our own, almost surpassing, with their ideal truth, the accomplished works of art; and I know that there is no more vivid scene in mine than that morning landscape on the Thames.
We had but one trunk when we came, but baby’s overflowing wardrobe, and that pretty cradle of his which it had cost us so much trouble to pack, added considerably to our encumbrances; but I was glad to think Alice was not quite so helpless now as when I hurried her, stunned and frightened, away from the peaceful home which she had never left before. It was so strange to go over these rooms, and think it was for the last time; these little humble rooms, where so much had happened to us, where baby had been born!
Stranger still it was to find ourselves travelling, rushing away from our quiet habitation and our banished life. Then, London—Alice was upon terms of moderate acquaintanceship with London now, she had been here all by herself to provide baby’s pretty dresses; so that this was now her third time of visiting it. I was very anxious to lose no time, for there was a long drive between the railway and Cottiswoode, and I wished to arrive before night. In spite of myself new and pleasant emotions fluttered within me, uncertain as I was how my husband would receive me; painful as it was, on many accounts, to ask him to admit me once more to my proper place. I still could not help contriving, with a mother’s anxious vanity, and with a deeper feeling than that, that baby should look well, and not be fretful or tired when his father, for the first time, saw him in my arms—so we scarcely waited at all in London. My heart began to beat more wildly when we were once more seated in the railwaycarriage, and proceeding on our way to Cambridge; for a little while I was speechless with the tumult of agitation into which I fell. Was it real, possible? unasked and uncalled for—was I going home?
We had arranged to stop at a little town where we were quite unknown, and where we were sure to be able to get a chaise to Cottiswoode; I do not think half-a-dozen words passed between us while we dashed along through this peaceful country at express speed; baby slept nearly all the way, the motion overpowered him, and I was very thankful that he made so little claim upon my attention; when he did wake up we were nearly at the station, and Alice took him and held him up at the window. When he was out of my arms, I bowed down my head into my hands and cried, and tried to pray; how my heart was beating! I scarcely saw anything about me, and the din of opening and shutting the carriage doors, the porter shrieking the name of the station, and the bustle of alighting, came to me like sounds in a dream. I stirred myself mechanically and gathered up our parcels, while Alice carefully descended from the carriage bearing baby in her arms. Alice, with careful forethought, considered my dignity in this matter, and for myself I was not displeased at this moment to be relieved from the charge of my child.
How pretty he looked, holding up his sweet little face, looking round him with those bright eyes of his!—even in my pre-occupation I heard passing countrywomen point him out to each other; my heart swelled when I thought of taking him home, and placing him in his father’s arms. Alas, alas! that father, how would he look at me?
We had come to a very small town, scarcely more than a village, save for one good inn in it; it had once been on the high-road to London, but the railway had made sad failure of its pretensions. Here, however, we did not find it difficult to get a post-chaise, and I made Alice take some refreshments while we waited for it; I could not take anything myself; I could not rest nor sit still; I took baby in my arms, and paced about thelong, large, deserted room we were waiting in. Alice did not say anything to me, and as soon as she could, she got little Harry from me again; I was very impatient; I could not understand why they took so long to get ready. It was now nearly two o’clock, but they told me they could drive in two hours to Cottiswoode.
At last we set off. I gave up baby entirely to Alice; I sat with my hand upon the open window looking intently out; I do not think I changed my position once during that entire two hours. My eyes devoured the way as we drove on; my sole impulse all the time was, to watch how fast we went, to see how we drew nearer step by step and mile by mile, my own country! I leant out my head once and drew in a long breath of that wide, free air, coming full and fresh upon us from the far horizon. It seemed to be years instead of months since I had last been here.
When we began to draw very near, when once more we passed Cottisbourne and the Rectory, and made a circuit to reach the entrance of the avenue, my heart beat so fast that I could scarcely breathe; I held out my arms silently to Alice, and she placed baby within them; I held him very close to me for an instant, and bent over him to gain courage; oh! my beautiful, innocent, fearless baby!—nothing knew he of wrong or punishment, of a guilty conscience or a doubtful welcome. He lay looking up in my face smiling, as if to give me courage; but his smile did not give me courage. I must indeed compose and collect myself; or instead of telling my husband that I came to do him justice, I would make a mere appeal to his pity with my weakness and my tears; and that was what, even now, I could not do.
Down that noble avenue under the elm trees; and now we drew up at the door of Cottiswoode. I trembled exceedingly as I descended the steps, though I maintained an outer appearance of firmness. Mr. Southcote was not at home, the man said, gazing at me in astonishment; I was struck with utter dismayby this; I had never calculated on such a chance. I turned round to Alice with stunned and stupid perplexity to ask what we were to do.
But there was a rush from the hall, and the housekeeper and Amy and another woman-servant came forward, the younger ones hanging on the skirts of Mrs. Templeton: “Master will be home immediately, ma’am,” cried the housekeeper; “it’s a new boy, he don’t know who he’s a-speaking to. Please to let me take the dear baby; oh, what a darling it is! and such rejoicings as we had when we heard of its being a son and heir. Master’s but gone to the Rectory. I’ll send off the chaise. Dear heart, Alice, show the way; my lady likes none so well as you.”
I went in faintly. I would not give up my boy to any one of them. I had not a word or a look for the kind, eager women who followed me with anxious eyes. I would not even go into the drawing-room, but turned hastily to the library. When I sat down at last in his chair, I felt as if a few moments would have overpowered me. I was here at home, under the kindly roof where I had been born, holding the heir of Cottiswoode in my arms, waiting for my husband; but my heart was dumb and faint with dismay, and I scarcely knew what I expected as I sat motionless before his table, looking at the materials and the scene of his daily occupations. I could not see a thing there which suggested a single thought of me. No—the desk on which I had laid my note was removed, modern books and papers lay on the table; I could almost fancy he had studiously removed everything which could remind him that I once was here.
My heart sank, my courage gradually ebbed away from me; but baby began to stir and murmur, he was not content to sit so quietly; and I was obliged to rise and walk about with him, though my limbs trembled under me. Then, indeed, could it be in recollection of me? I saw a little table placed as mine had used to be in the little windowed recess where I had spent somuch of my time when I was a girl, and on it a little vase with roses, those sweet pale roses from my favorite tree. I remembered in a moment how this room had looked on the autumn night when Edgar Southcote first came to Cottiswoode. Could this be in remembrance of that, and of me?
I cannot tell how long I walked about with baby, acquiring some degree of composure amid my agitation, as my trial was delayed, though I was faint, exhausted, and weary in frame more than I could have fancied possible. I heard the chaise rumble heavily away, and the noise of carrying our luggage up-stairs. I thought I could detect a whispering sound in the next room, as if Alice was being questioned; and in the large lofty house, with its wide staircases and passages, so different from the little refuge we had been lately accustomed to, the opening and closing of distant doors, and steps coming and going, echoed upon my heart. Once Alice entered to beg that she might have baby, while behind came the housekeeper entreating, with tears in her eyes, that I would take something. It cost me a great effort to ask them to leave me, for my lips were parched and dry, and I scarcely could speak; and they had given me a great shock, little as they intended, for I thought it was my husband when I heard some one at the door.
So thus I continued walking about the room, doing what I could to amuse baby. I had neither removed my bonnet nor relieved him of his out-of-doors dress, but it almost seemed as though my sweet little darling knew that to cry would aggravate my distress—how good he was! springing and crowing in my arms, encumbered as he was.
At last I saw a shadow cross the window—my heart fluttered, bounded, was still, as I thought, for a moment—and then my husband was in the room.
I could not speak at first, my lips were so dry. I came to a sudden standstill in the middle of the room, gazing blankly at him, and holding up the child. I saw nothing but astonishment in his face at my first glance; he came rapidly towards me,crying, “Hester! Hester!” but that was all—he never bade me welcome home.
“I have been very wrong,” I said, at last; “I have done you great injustice. I have prided myself on doing right, and yet I have been wrong in everything. I have come back to you to humble myself—he belongs to you as much as to me—he is your son, and I have been unjust and cruel in keeping him away from you; will you let me stay here, that we may both have our boy?”
When I began to speak of wrong and of injustice, he turned away with an impatient gesture and exclamation, but, by this time, had returned and was standing by me, listening, with his head bent, his eyes cast down, and a smile of some bitterness upon his mouth. When I stopped, he looked up at me—strange!—he looked at me—not at my baby—not at his child!
“You have come to do me justice,” he said.
What did he mean? the tone was new to me, I did not comprehend. I said, “Yes,” humbly. I was overpowered with exhaustion, and could scarcely stand, but I suppose he thought me quite composed.
“This house is yours, Hester,” he said, with some emphasis: “it is unjust, since that is to be the word, to ask me such a question. You have come to do me justice, to restore to me some of my rights. I thank you, Hester—though I warned you once that I should not be satisfied, with justice,” he continued hurriedly, once more turning away from me, and making a few rapid strides through the room.
I should have been so relieved if I durst have cried; I was so worn out—so much weakened by fatigue and excitement; but I only stood still in my passive mechanical way, able to do no more than to hold baby fast lest he should leap out of my arms.
In a minute after he came back again and stood by me, but not looking at me, leaning his hand on the table, as if he were preparing to say something; for myself, I was exhausted beyond the power of making speeches, or reasoning or explaining, orcarrying on any sort of warfare; I was reduced to the barest simplicity; I put out my hand and touched his arm; “Will you not take him?” I said, holding out baby; “Edgar, he is your son.”
He glanced at me a moment with the strangest mingling of emotions in his face. After that glance I no longer thought him cold and calm; but then he suddenly snatched baby from me, and kissed and caressed him till I feared he would frighten the child; but he was not frightened, though he was only an infant, my bold, beautiful boy! For myself, I sank into the nearest chair, and let my tired arms fall by my side. I almost felt as if I had not strength enough to rise again, and a dull disappointment was in my heart; was it only to be justice after all? Oh, if he would but come back to me; if he would but forget his dignity, and my right and wrong, and make one more appeal to my true self, to my heart, which yearned for something more than justice! But he did not; oh, and I knew in my heart he was very right; it was I who ought to be thoroughly humbled, it was I who ought to appeal to him; but I was different in my notions now; instinctively I looked for pity, pity, nothing better; and almost hoped that he would remember I was weak and fatigued, a woman, and the mother of his child.
By and by he returned, carrying baby fondly in his arms, his face flushed with undoubted delight and joy. As he drew nearer to me he became graver, and asked me suddenly, “Why did you call me Edgar, Hester?”
“Because it is your proper name,” I said.
I felt that he looked at me anxiously to discover my meaning, but I had not energy enough to raise my head to give him a clearer insight into what I thought. Then I fancied he gradually came to some understanding of what I meant. I never addressed him by any name since our coming home. I would not. I could not call him Harry, and I had so little desire to make peace or to establish any convenient or natural intercourse, that I never tried to adopt the name by which I had always designatedmy cousin. Now, matters were different; I wanted to begin upon a new foundation; I wanted to put all the past, its dream of happiness and its nightmare of misery, alike out of my mind,—and this was why I called him Edgar, not unkindly, rather with a sad effort at friendship. I think he partly understood me before he spoke again.
“Yes, it is my proper name, but so was the other; and the child? you have called your boy?”
“Harry,” I said, in a faltering tone.
He must have known it, but his eye flashed brightly from baby to me, once more with a gleam of delight. “Hester,” he said, bending over me as he placed my child in my arms again; “when you call me once more by that name, I will know that I have regained my bride.”
I bowed my head, partly in assent, partly to conceal the tears which stole out from under my eyelids even when I closed them. I enclosed my child in my arms, but I sat still. I had scarcely power or heart enough to raise myself from that chair.
“Are you ill, Hester?” he asked, anxiously.
“No, only very tired,” I said faintly. His lip quivered. I did not know how it was that the simplest common words seemed to move him so. He ran to the door of the room and called Alice, who was not far distant, to take baby, and then he offered me his arm very gently and kindly, and led me upstairs.
Mrs. Templeton, the housekeeper, stood without, waiting. “Mrs. Southcote has not taken a thing since she came, sir,” she said in an aggrieved tone; “please to tell her, sir, it’s very wrong; it’s not fit for a young lady, and nursing the darling baby herself, too.”
“Mrs. Southcote is fatigued,” said my husband, kindly, sheltering me from this good woman’s importunities. “Will you have something sent upstairs, or shall you be able to come down to dinner, Hester? Nay, not for me,” he added, lowering his voice, “I will be sufficiently happy to know you are at home;and you are sadly worn out, I see. Little Harry has been too much for you, Hester.”
“Oh, no, I have him always,” I said quickly. Alice was carrying him upstairs before us, and he laughed and crowed to me from her arms. When I tried to make some answer to his baby signals, I saw his father look at me with strange tenderness. His father, yes; and I was leaning as I had not leant since the first month of our marriage upon my husband’s arm.
Every face I saw was full of suppressed jubilee; they were almost afraid to show their joy openly, knowing that I—and, indeed, I suspect both of us—were too proud to accept of public sympathy either in our variance or our reconciliation, if reconciliation it was. The face of Alice was the most wondering, and the least joyous of all—she could not quite understand what this return was, or what it portended; she did not accept it as her uninstructed neighbors did, merely as a runaway wife coming home, asking pardon and having forgiveness; and though her eyes shone with sudden brightness when she saw my husband supporting me, and some appearance of conversation between us, she was still perplexed and far from satisfied. My husband left me when we reached my room, and I gladly loosed off my bonnet and mantle, and laid myself down upon the sofa. It was evening again, and the sunshine was coming full in at the west window; the jessamine boughs were hanging half across it with their white stars, and the rich foliage beyond, just touched with the first tints of autumn, rose into the beautiful sky above. My own familiar room, where Alice’s pretty muslin draperies had been, and where, a year ago, my husband had decked a bower for his unthankful bride. I saw all its graceful appointments now in strange contrast with the small white dimity bedroom in which I awoke this morning. How pleasant, I thought,thatlittle house when first we went to it! What an agreeable relief from the etiquettes and services of this statelier dwelling-place! I had become accustomed to the ways and manners of our homely life by this time, and the charm ofnovelty was gone from them. I found a greater charm on this particular evening, in looking about, while I lay overpowered with the languor of weariness on my sofa, upon the costly and graceful articles round me in “my lady’s chamber.” The second change was quite as pleasant as the first.
“So this is Cottiswoode, Alice,” I said, in a half reverie, “and we are at home.”
“Oh, never to leave it again, Miss Hester—never to leave it till God calls,” cried Alice, anxiously. “I don’t ask for a word, not a word, more than you’re ready to give; but, tell me, you’ve made up your mind to that, dear, and I’m content?”
“I will never go away of my own will—no, happy or unhappy, it is right I should be here,” I said. “Does that satisfy you, Alice?”
“Miss Hester, I’d rather hear less of right and more of kindly wish and will,” said Alice, with most unlooked-for petulance. “You oughtn’t to be unhappy—God has never sent it, and it’s time enough when He sends to seek grief.”
I looked at her with a little astonishment, but took no notice of her momentary impatience—I had given her cause enough, one time and another; and now Amy came in with a tray, and something that Mrs. Templeton was sure I would like, and another maid came with her to light a fire for the comfort of Master Harry. When the fire began to blaze, Alice undressed him, while I partook—and I was almost ashamed to feel, with some appetite—of the housekeeper’s good things. Then I had a low easy chair drawn to the chimney corner, and a footstool, and had my baby back again. I think he looked even prettier in his nightgown and close cap, for his evening refreshment. The dormant ambition to have him admired, sprung up very strongly within me; and I think but that poor little Harry was very hungry and sleepy, I would have summoned courage to send him down stairs, as Alice suggested, to bid his papa good-night.
“What did they all say of him, Alice?” I asked.
“What could they say, dear?” said the impartial and candid Alice, appealing to my honor; “Mrs. Templeton thought he was the sweetest little angel that ever was born; and as for the maids!—it’s like bringing light into a house to bring a baby, Miss Hester. Blessings on his dear, sweet face! and he’s the heir of Cottiswoode.”
“Did any one say who he was like?” I asked, timidly. This was a question I had never attempted to settle even in my own mind; though, like every other mother, I saw mind, and intelligence, and expression in the sweet little features, I never could make out any resemblance—I could not persuade myself that he was like his father.
“Well, he’s very like the Southcotes, dear,” said Alice, pronouncing an unhesitating yet ambiguous judgment; “there’s a deal about his little mouth and his eyes; and, Miss Hester, dear, what did his papa think of him?”
“I think he was very glad, Alice,” I said, with a sigh. Why were we so far from what we should be?—why, why could we not discuss the beauty of our child as other young fathers and mothers did? I only had seen the joy in Edgar’s face—he had not said a word to me on this subject, though it was the only subject in which there could be no pain.
After baby was laid to sleep in the cradle, I sat still by the fireside, musing by myself, while Alice went down stairs. I was left alone for a long time quite without interruption, but I did not make use of the interval as I might have done, to form my plans for our new life. I could not project anything; a fit of ease and idleness had come upon me—wandering, disconnected fancies rather than thoughts, were in my mind; the exhaustion of the day had worn me out, and I was resting, reposing almost, more completely than if I had been asleep.
I almost thought that he would have come upstairs to see me once more and look at baby’s sleep. I thought he ought to have come, for I was a stranger here. And my heart beat when I heard the step of Alice corning along the great roomy corridor—but it was only Alice; and when she had set candles upon the table, she came to me with the look of a petitioner—“Dear heart, the Squire’s all by himself; won’t you go down and sit an hour, Miss Hester?—maybe he thinks he must not come here.”
I rose when Alice spoke to me, without once thinking of disobeying her. I was glad to be told to do it, though I scarcely should have moved of my own will. I was still in the very plain dress in which I had travelled, which was, indeed, the only kind of dress which I had worn since leaving Cottiswoode, with my mother’s miniature at my neck, and that fatal hereditary ring upon my hand. I paused nervously before the mirror a moment to see if my hair was in order. I looked pale, and somewhat worn-out, I thought, and I wondered what he would think of my wearied, thoughtful face, so unlike what it used to be. Alice would fain have had me change my dress, which, indeed, was not very suitable for Cottiswoode, but I would not do that to-night.
When I went into the drawing-room, he was sitting moodily by himself, bending down with his arms upon the table, and his head resting upon them. He started when he heard me, lifted a thoughtful, clouded face, which made me think he had been fighting some battle with himself, and rose hurriedly to place a chair for me. We sat opposite to each other for a little time in awkward silence; a hundred things rushed to my lips, but I had not courage to say them, and I waited vainly till he should address me. At last I made a faint attempt at conversation; “What did you think of baby?” I asked, scarcely above my breath.
“Think of him, think of him—opinion is out of the question,” he cried in great haste and eagerness, as if I had broken a charm of silence, and set him free. “He is your baby and mine, Hester, there is nothing more to be said. Let us understand each other,” he continued, hurriedly drawing his chair close to the table with nervous agitation; “are we to endeavor to do our duty by each other—to live under the same roof, to fulfil ourrelative duties as justice and right demand? Is this the foundation we are to build upon, and is this all? Tell me, Hester, let me know what it is.”
“It is so, yes, I suppose so,” I answered, faltering with confusion and almost fear; for he was almost more excited now than I had ever seen him. I could not have given any answer but assent. I could not, though my heart had broken for it.
For a long time after that nothing was said between us. I saw that he struggled and struggled vainly to subdue himself, and I, a strange new task to me, tried to do what I could to soothe him. I spoke of baby, told of his illness, of our journey; I seemed to myself another person, and almost felt as if I were playing a part, while I made this desperate attempt to get up a quiet conversation with my husband, while this whole ocean of unsettled principles lay still between us—indifferent conversation! for I tried to direct him to the books upon the table, but I saw very well how little I made by my efforts, and how impossible it was that he could fully control and master himself till I went away.
When I had stayed long enough—it was hard to remain, it was hard to go away, I did not know which to choose—I went forward and held out my hand to him to say good-night. He took it and detained it, and looked up at me with again that doubtful impulse on his face; would he speak? No. He grasped my hand closely again, and let it fall.
“I am poor company to-night, Hester, very poor company,” he said, turning hastily away; “but I thank you for your generous efforts, I will be able to respond to them better to-morrow.”
And though he rose and opened the door for me, and attended me with the delicate respectfulness of old, that was all the good-night I received from him. It cost me some tears when I reached the shelter of my own room; yet my heart was strangely at ease, and would not be dismayed, and when I took my baby to my breast and went to sleep, I gave God thanks that we had come home.
ITwas now October, and the weather was still very bright and pleasant. I had become quite settled and established once more at Cottiswoode; had resumed my former use and wont, and more than that, for though my life was still sadly meagre and deficient in one point, it stillwaslife, and that was something. I might no longer wander everywhere with my baby in my arms, but I had elected the sweet-tempered and kind-hearted Amy to be his maid, and he was growing a great boy now, and soon fatigued me; though in our own rooms I kept possession of him still. But I had begun with better understanding and more discreetness to help the poor people at Cottisbourne. I had ceased to spend my days in a dream. I was active and full of occupation. The nightmare had passed off from me, though some of its influences remained.
For in the most vital point of all we made little progress; my husband and I were no nearer each other, had come to no better understanding. I studied his comfort now with the eagerest attention. I grew punctilious, formal in my excess of care for him. I saw that he was served with devotion and humility as a prince might have been. I could not forgive any piece of neglect or forgetfulness in the household which touched upon his comfort. I almost think he knew how anxious I was, and attributed it—alas, were we never to know each other! to my extreme desire to “do my duty,” to do him justice. He was, and yet he was not right in judging me so. I was shut out from all the ordinary modes of showing my regard; we were on ceremonious terms with each other, and I wanted to prove to him that whatever barriers there might be between us, there wasalways affection. What do I say—I did not want to prove anything—I only did all I could, eagerly, timidly, and with anxious devotion, everything that I could for him. And he received them as my father might have received my mother’s regard to his comfort, as kindnesses, things to thank me for, exertions of duty for which he was obliged to me. Oh, how his thanks galled me! It sometimes was very hard ado to keep my composure, to hide how my heart and my feelings were wounded, or to keep the old bitterness from rushing back. In these days I behaved better than he did; we had changed positions; it was he who was restless, thoughtless, and self-reproachful now; it was he who thought of being right, and adhering to his resolution. He had promised not to molest me, to accept what I yielded to him, to leave it all in my own hands—and he was keeping his word.
Immediately after our arrival at Cottiswoode I had written a very brief note to Flora, telling her I was here, and begging her to come if mamma would permit. I was almost anxious for the judgment of mamma. I did not know how I should be received by the country ladies, who, doubtless, had already sat in judgment on me—whether they had pronounced me without the pale, or if my return had covered the sin of my flight. It was nearly a week, and I had received no answer from Flora. I was somewhat nervous about it. I did not feel that it would be at all agreeable to be excommunicated by the little society which was the world at Cottiswoode; and everything made me see more plainly how ill-advised and foolish I was to go away. Even Miss Saville patronized me grimly with a tacit disapprobation. It was not so much because I had done wrong, as because I had exposed my own affairs, and thrown off the privacy which belongs alike to family feuds and family happiness. I tried to persuade myself that I never had cared for society,—and that was very true; but rejecting society is a much easier thing than being rejected by it,—and I by no means liked the latter alternative.
This morning, I was sitting by myself in the drawing-room.My husband spent a great deal of time out of doors, and was seldom with me except at table, and for a short time in the evening. Baby was out with Amy, his maid. The external circumstances did not differ much from those in which Flora Ennerdale found me last winter, on her first visit to Cottiswoode; but there was, in reality, a great change. I no longer sat in listless indolence, neither doing, nor caring to do anything. I was working busily at some little frocks for baby. The flowers on my table were no longer without interest to me. I was not ignorant now of the management of the Cottiswoode School, and the wants of the old women at Cottisbourne. I had begun to use all the natural and innocent means of occupation that lay around me; and if I was not yet quite a Lady Bountiful, I had already made my peace with the clamorous villagers, who did not quite smile upon me at my first return.
I was singing softly to myself as I sat at work—not because my heart was light—but Alice was not near me to talk to, and, truth to tell, I no longer wished for too much commerce with my own thoughts. The sound was a great deal more cheerful than the meaning was; but when I was thus occupied, I heard the sound of some arrival, and immediately, not Flora only, but Mrs. Ennerdale, were ushered into the room.
I was so much surprised that it made me nervous, especially as I was at once enfolded in the wide, warm, odorous embrace of Mrs. Ennerdale: here, at least, there was no lack of cordiality. I breathed more freely when I emerged from under the shadow of her great shawl and ample draperies, and Flora was so bright, so happy in what she supposed to be my happiness, that my heart melted under the sunny gleam of kindred and kindness. I was grateful to Mrs. Ennerdale for acknowledging my presence in her own person. I was glad to be relieved thus from one phase of anxiety; at least, thus far, I was not tutored.
“And how well you are looking!” cried Mrs. Ennerdale; “Flora told me you were quite pale and thin when she saw you—ah, there’s nothing like native air, my dear—you’ve got quitea bloom—you look better than ever I saw you look, though that is quite natural—where is baby?—not asleep or out of doors, I hope. Do you know you ought not to let me see him, for I shall begin to envy you immediately—I envy every woman I see with a baby in her arms. Ah, my dear, it’s the very happiest time of your life.”
I could very well understand how it should be so, and though I could not help sighing, I liked Mrs. Ennerdale the better for what she had said.
“May I run and look for him, cousin Hester?” cried Flora, eagerly. “I have been telling Mamma what a sweet baby he is, and I do so want to see him again; oh, I see Alice in the garden; there he is, I will run and bring him in myself to show Mamma.”
“My dear, I wish you would tell Flora that she ought to be a little more sober now,” said Mrs. Ennerdale, appealing to me with motherly consequence, and a look half of raillery, half of anxiety; “she will mind you when she will not mind me, and she ought to be sober, and think of what’s before her now; do you not think so, Mrs. Southcote?”
“Oh, Mamma!” cried Flora, springing out from the window; we both looked after her light, bounding figure as she ran across the lawn towards Alice. “I know she told you all about it,” said the good-humored Mrs. Ennerdale; “don’t you think she is too young to be married? to fancy that such a child would even think of it! but indeed I’ve taken great pains with Flora, and she is the eldest of the family, and knows a great deal about housekeeping, and I really believe will make a very good little wife; though marriage is a sad lottery, my dear,” said the good lady sympathetically, shaking her head and looking into my face.
I turned away my head, and felt my cheeks burn; first I was almost disposed to resent this lottery as an insult, but nothing was further from the thoughts of the speaker than any unkindness to me. It was the first indication I had of what “sympathy” was in such a case as mine, and it stung me bitterly.
“My dear,” continued Mrs. Ennerdale, drawing close to me, laying her hand upon my shoulder, and lowering her tone; “I am glad that Flora is gone, just that I may say a word to you; I was grieved, of course all your friends must have been, though I don’t doubt you thought you had good reason; but, dear, it’s far best to make up your mind to everything, and do your duty where Providence has placed you. We are relations, you know, in a way, and you’ve no mother to advise you; if you ever should have such a plan again, my dear, will you come and speak to me about it? I’m no great wise woman, but I know what life is; will you ask my opinion, dear?”
“But I never can, nor will, have such a plan again,” I answered rapidly.
“That’s all the better, my love, all the better,” said Mrs. Ennerdale, “but if you should, I’ll rely upon your coming to me. Hush, here’s Flora, and is that baby? Now are you not proud of him? What a great boy! What a true Southcote! I can’t tell whether he’s like his papa or you? but I can see he’s got the family face.”
Mrs. Ennerdale bustled out from the window to meet the advancing couple—Flora and little Harry—who, I think, without any vanity, would indeed have made as pretty a picture as could be imagined. I lingered behind a little to get over the pain and irritation of this first probing of my wound. It was kindly done, and I might have looked for it; but no one had ever ventured to speak to me in such a plain and matter-of-fact way before, and I felt both shocked and wounded. My own act it was, too, which had exposed me to this, which had made it possible for any one to speak so to me! Well, well! there was baby and Flora laughing, calling to me, inviting me. I smoothed my disturbed brow as well as I could, and went out to them. I had no reason to be offended with Mrs. Ennerdale, but I certainly was not grateful to her.
But her raptures were so real over my boy, her admiration so sincere and so ample, that I was gradually mollified. She“knew about babies,” too; that experience which a young mother prizes so highly; and knowing about them still pronounced my little Harry almost unrivalled—“almost like what Gus was when he was a baby, Flo,” said Mrs. Ennerdale, with a sweet sigh, which I knew by instinctive sympathy was to the memory of some one sweeter than all others, who was only a name now, even to the fond remembrance of the mother. After that, I could remember no offence. I began to tell her of little Harry’s illness, to all the symptoms of which she listened with profound attention; now and then suggesting something, and wishing, with great fervor, that she had but been near at hand. “And if anything should happen again, my dear,” said Mrs. Ennerdale, taking hold of my hand in her earnestness, “be sure you send for me; send for me with as little hesitation as you send for the doctor. I’ve nursed all my own through all their little troubles—all but one—and I have experience. My dear, whatever hour it is, don’t hesitate to send for me!”
I promised most heartily and cordially; I forgot she had ever said a word disagreeable to me; I only thought how kind she was, and how much interested in my boy.
Yes, Mrs. Ennerdale had several motives for coming to see me; a lurking kindness for myself, fond regard for Flora’s wishes, a half intent to lecture and warn, and establish herself as my prudent adviser; but, above all, the crowning inducement was, baby; nothing either whole or half grown up had anything like the same charm as a baby had to Mrs. Ennerdale; she might have resisted all the other motives, but baby was irresistible; and so she had fairly won over and vanquished me.
I made them stay till Edgar came in, and they had lunch with us; but my husband, to my surprise, did not relax the state of his manners towards me in their presence. I could see that both mother and daughter were amazed at his elaborate politeness; he thanked me for everything I did for him; he feared he gave me trouble; and Flora and Mrs. Ennerdale glanced at us with troubled looks, as if to ask, “Is there still something wrong;are you at variance still.” My own heart sank within me; I had scarcely been prepared for this; I thought, for my honor and for his own, that he would have made an effort to be like himself to-day.
“Flora ought not to be away from home; she ought not, indeed, at such a time as this,” said Mrs. Ennerdale, “but she wishes very much to stay till to-morrow. Will you keep her, my dear? not if it is to inconvenience you; but she says you would not let her come again when you were,—ah!—in the country, and that you owe her an invitation now. We have spoiled her. She is quite rude, asking for an invitation; but if you like, my dear, I will leave her with you till to-morrow. She has a great deal to tell you, she says.”
“What, a great dealmore, Flora?” I asked; “I will keep her very gladly, longer than to-morrow, if you will let me, and I should like so much to help if I could. Is there anything you can trust me with, Mrs. Ennerdale?”
“My dear, you have plenty to do with your baby,” said Mrs. Ennerdale, conclusively. “What a beautiful present that was you gave her—far too valuable, indeed; but her papa says he has seen your mamma wear it, and she is so proud of being called like your mamma. Is that the miniature you told me of? May I see it? Well, indeed, Flora, though it is a great compliment to you, I do think there is a resemblance—ah, she was a pretty creature; but of course you cannot recollect her, my dear?”
I said, “No,” briefly, and there was a momentary pause, which, however, Mrs. Ennerdale soon interrupted; she was very full of kind counsels to me concerning my baby, and of motherly importance in her own person, full of care and bustle as she was on the eve of the “first marriage in the family.” After luncheon, Mrs. Ennerdale went away, leaving strict injunctions with Flora to be ready to return on the next day; my husband returned to his own constant occupations, and I was left alone with my sweet young cousin.
Flora made no investigations, asked no questions, yet even shelooked up wistfully into my eyes as she exclaimed, “How glad I am you are at home—oh! are you not pleased, cousin Hester, to have baby at home?”
“Yes, Flora, very glad,” I said, though I could not help sighing. She, sweet simple heart, knew nothing of my troubles; she never could know how far astray I had gone, nor what very poor compromise, in real truth, was my position now.
“And you will come,” Flora said, blushing all over her pretty face. “It is to be in a month. You will be sure to come, cousin Hester? though I am afraid you will think it noisy and a great bustle, for there are to be a great many—six bridesmaids. Do you think it is wrong to be gay at such a time?—but indeed I could not help it, cousin Hester?”
“And, indeed, I do not think it wrong, cousin Flora,” said I, smiling at her seriousness; “and I only wish I could do something to show how very right I think it to do honor to a bride. Is there nothing you would like yourself that Mamma is indifferent about? Not anything at all that I could do for you, Flora?”
By dint of close questioning, it turned out that there were two or three things which Flora had set her heart upon, and which Mamma was not remarkably favorable to; and the result of our conference was, that I was seized with a strong desire to drive to Cambridge immediately with my young guest, and make some certain purchases. There was time enough yet to do it, and Flora was in great delight at the proposal, which gave me also no small degree of pleasure. After the usual fears that it was troubling me, Flora ran up stairs very willingly to get ready, and I, with a little tremor, knocked softly at the door of the library. My husband was seated as usual at his table—busy, or seeming so. When I entered he looked up, as he always did now when I went to him, with a startled look of expectation. I told him we were going to Cambridge, but hoped to be back in time for dinner. It always confused and disturbed me, this look of his.
“And am I to go with you, Hester?” he said, rising with some alacrity.
“Oh, no!” I said, confused and hesitating, “I did not mean to trouble you. I—of course, if you pleased, we would be very glad; but I only wanted to tell you—I did not think——”
“Very well,” he said, sitting down, and interrupting my tremulous explanation. “I thank you for letting me know. Perhaps Mrs. Templeton had better delay dinner to give you full time. I hope you will have a pleasant drive. Ah, there is the carriage—you should lose no time, Hester.”
Thus dismissed, I hastened away—always, alas!—always bringing with me when I left him a sore heart. Would he have been pleased to go?—should I have asked him? How I tormented myself with these questions. If we had been living in full mutual love and confidence, I would have said to him, gaily—“We do not want you; this is quite a confidential woman’s expedition—a thing with which you have nothing to do;” but now I went away pondering whether I should not spoil our little piece of impromptu business, and making the drive and the afternoon alike miserable by returning once more, and entreating him to go.
When we came to the hall door—Flora so bright and smiling, I so careworn and disturbed—he was waiting to put us in the carriage; and my heart rose again when he held my hand a moment, and asked if I was sufficiently wrapped up. It was impossible to resist the influence of the rapid motion, and of Flora’s pleasant company. I recovered my spirits in spite of myself. We had a very quick drive to Cambridge; a round of calls at the principal shops, to the great satisfaction and delight of Flora; and then it suddenly occurred to me that I would like to see, if only for a moment, our old house.
But when we came to the door my heart failed me. I had never been there since I left it after my father’s death, and one glance at the familiar place was enough to fill my eyes with tears, and to bring back the pang of parting to my mind. Itwas now about a year since my father died. I had not mourned for him with the heavy, lasting, languid sorrow that wears out a mind at peace. I had mourned him with pangs of bitter grief, with brief agonies, more severe but less permanent, and looking again at this retired and quiet dwelling-place as associated with him, and from which it was so impossible to believe him departed. I felt as if I had been stricken down at the threshold and could not enter. It looked something mysterious, awful, withdrawing thus in its perfect stillness—the past was dwelling in that deserted place.
While I sat hesitating, gazing at the closed door, I saw Mr. Osborne’s familiar cap and gown approaching. I saw it was Mr. Osborne at the first glance, and, yearning for the sight of a familiar face, I looked out from the window, and almost beckoned to him. He came forward with a ceremonious bow, and greeted me very statelily. But my heart was touched, and in spite of this I began to tell him that I had intended to alight but dared not. He saw the tears in my eyes, and his manner, too, was softened. “No,” he said, “you are quite right, you could not bear it. I, myself, find it hard enough, passing by this familiar door.”
He paused a moment, looked at me keenly and then said, “Will you take me with you, Hester?—are you in haste?—I have an old engagement with Harry—where are you going?—ah, then I will join you in half an hour, and in the meantime don’t stay here. There now, close the window. I will tell them to drive on, and join you in half an hour.”
When I found Mr. Osborne sitting opposite to me as we set out again homeward, I cannot tell how strangely I felt. My cheeks were tingling still with the name he had used—Harry—and I was overpowered with all the recollections which his presence brought to me. The last time we had been together in the same carriage was at my father’s funeral, and all the recollections of that most eventful time—my betrothal, my marriage, my father’s illness and death—came rushing back upon mein the sound of his voice. I had hard ado to preserve my composure outwardly. I was scarcely able to do more than introduce him to Flora, to whom he began to talk with pleasure and surprise, as I thought, pleased with her for her name’s sake, though, in the twilight, he could scarcely see her sweet face, and then I sank back into my corner, and gave all my strength to subdue the tumult of memories and emotions which rose in my mind. That I should be taking him home to Cottiswoode—that he should still speak of my husband as Harry—that he should come to see my defeat and anxious struggle to do my duty—how strange it was!
I remember that night as people remember a dream—our rapid progress through the dark—the gleam of the carriage lamps—the sound of the horses’ feet—the conversation going on between Mr. Osborne and Flora, and the long sigh of the wind over the bare expanse of country. We went at a great rate, and reached home sooner than I expected. It looked so home-like; so bright; so full of welcome; the hall-door wide open; the warm light streaming out; and my husband standing on the threshold waiting for us. Oh, if these were but real tokens, and not false presentiments! It was bitter to see all this aspect of happiness, and to know how little happiness there was.
My husband greeted Mr. Osborne with surprise and pleasure. Flora ran up-stairs, and I went into the drawing-room with our new guest, though, in my heart, I longed to be with baby, from whom I never had been so long absent before. My husband came with us, though he and I scarcely said anything to each other. I could see how Mr. Osborne’s acute eye watched what terms we were on. Then Edgar left us to make some arrangements for our visitor’s comfort, and my old friend turned his full attention upon me.
I had taken off my mantle, and he saw the miniature at my neck. In a kindly, fatherly fashion he caught the little chain with his finger, and drew me nearer to him, and looked into myface. I could not meet his eye. I drooped my head under his gaze, and, in spite of myself, the tears came.
“Well, Hester,” he said gently, and in his old kind, half-sarcastic tone, “now that you have experience of it, what do you think of life?”
“It is very hard,” said I, under my breath.
“Ay, that is the first lesson we all learn,” he said; “have you not got beyond this alphabet—is it only hard, and nothing more?”
I heard baby’s voice outside. Alice was looking for me. I ran from him, opened the door, took my beautiful boy out of the arms of Alice and brought him in, and held him out to Mr. Osborne—his face brightened into the pleasantest smiles I had ever seen upon it.
“Ah, this is your bitter lesson, is it, young mother?” he said, laying his hand caressingly on my head, while he bent to look at my boy; “this life is something more than hard which yields such blossoms, Hester—is that what this famous argument of yours would say? and this irresistible piece of logic is a boy, is he? God bless you, little man, and make you the happiest of your race.”
“I must go away, Mr. Osborne, baby wants me,” said I.
“Yes, go away; I am quite contented, Hester,” said Mr. Osborne, once more patting my head; “go away, my dear child—you are going to cheat me once more into entire approval, I can see.”
I was pleased; yet I went away with a heavy heart, under my first flush of gratification. I could not help remembering again and again what he had said—it was easy to make misery, but who should mend it when it was made!
Oh, my boy, my baby! what a disturbed and troubled heart you laid your little head upon! but its wild and painful beating never woke or startled you.
After dinner, when Flora and I were by ourselves in the drawing-room, we had our parcels in and examined them oncemore—such quantities of bright ribbons and pretty cotton frocks! Flora, though much delighted, was not quite confident that she had been right—she was afraid mamma would think it was a great shame to let cousin Hester put herself to all this trouble, “and expense too,” said Flora, looking doubtfully up at me, “and all for my school-children at Ennerdale. I am so much afraid I was very wrong to tell you of it, and what will mamma say?”
“Who can we get to make them, Flora?” said I.
“That is just what I was thinking of,” said Flora, immediately diverted from her self-reproaches; “Mamma’s maid is a famous dressmaker, and I can cut out things very well myself, and they might have a holiday and meet in the schoolroom, and all of us work at them together; there is Mary and Janna and Lettie from the hall, and our own Annie and Edie, and myself; and oh, cousin Hester, would you come?”
“I should like to come,” said I, “but what shall I do with baby? and I am too old, Flora, for you and your bridesmaidens; I am more fit to stay beside mamma.”
Flora threw her arms round me caressingly, and a voice behind me said, “Does Hester say she is old? Do not believe her, Miss Ennerdale, she is a true girl at heart and nothing better—growing younger every day—though you never were very mature nor experienced, Hester, I must say that for you,” and Mr. Osborne came forward very affectionately and stood by my side.
My husband entered the room after him; had they been talking, I wonder—talking of me? I could not tell, but I was learned now in all the changes of his face, and I saw that something had excited him. All this evening Mr. Osborne continued to speak of me so, in a tone of fatherly affectionateness, praise, and blame, of which it was impossible to say that one was kinder than the other. He told little simple stories of my girlish days—things that I had forgotten long ago—which made Flora laugh and clap her hands, but which embarrassed medreadfully, and brought tears of real distress to my eyes. What was my husband thinking?—how did he receive all this? I scarcely dared lift my eyes to him, and then Mr. Osborne touched upon the time of our wooing, and of our marriage. What could he mean?—this could not be mere inadvertence. I sat trembling, bending down my head over the work in my hand, my eyes full of tears, afraid to move lest I should betray myself, and even Flora grew grave and smiled no longer, while Mr. Osborne went on unmoved. Oh, my husband, what washethinking? I was glad to say faintly that I heard baby crying, and to escape from the room—it was more than I could bear.
Baby was not crying, but sleeping sweetly in his pretty cradle. I bent over him to get calmness and courage from his sleeping face. Alice was sitting by the fire, covering a soft ball with scraps of bright-colored cloth; just one of those occupations which give the last touch of permanence and security to the appearance of home. It was for baby, of course—he had already one or two toys of the simplest baby kind, and we had been delighted to perceive the other day how he observed something thrown up into the air like a ball. Alice looked up when I came to her, and saw at once my disturbed face—she guessed what it was, though only imperfectly—and she drew my chair into the corner, and made me sit down and rest—“I thought it would be too much for you, Miss Hester,” said Alice, tenderly, “it brings back everything—I know it does—but it’s only the first, dear.”
I was content to wait beside her, and recover myself; though all the time my thoughts were busy downstairs, wondering what he might be saying now; and I am not sure that I was not more eager to return than I had been to make my escape. When I went back, I entered the room very quietly, for I was considerably excited; and in my anxiety to appear calm, overdid my part. My husband was seated nearer Mr. Osborne than he had been, and was bending down with his arms resting upon hisknees, supporting his head in his hands, and gazing into the fire—while Mr. Osborne talked after his lively fashion to Flora as if he was not aware of having any other auditor—he was speaking when I came in.
“I flatter myself, I am Hester’s oldest friend,” he said, “and we have quarrelled in our day. She had many disadvantages in her childhood. She wanted a mother’s hand; but I always did justice to her noble qualities. Hester is—well, she is more my own child than any one else ever can be. I feel as if I had found her again—and she is—”
“I am here, Mr. Osborne,” cried I—“oh, don’t, don’t; you only humiliate me when you praise me!”
For there was he sitting silent while I was commended, hearing about my youth, and perhaps smiling at it bitterly in his heart. It struck me down to the very dust to be commended before him; I would rather have been blamed, for then the unconscious comparison which I always supposed him making between what he knew and what he heard would have been less to my disadvantage. Mr. Osborne did not know how his kind word and the affectionate tone which even now touched my heart, and would have made me very grateful under any other circumstances, wounded and abased me now.
When I spoke, my husband raised his head, and threw a furtive glance at me—what could he be thinking? I shrank before his eye, as if I had been practising some guilty act, as if I had conspired with Mr. Osborne to insinuate to him that he had not sufficient regard for me.
“Ipraise you, Hester! did you ever hear me?” said Mr. Osborne, smiling; “I was but telling Miss Ennerdale how you exhibited your baby to-day; and your young cousin, Hester, is not to be moved out of the opinion that your boy is thebeau-idealof boys—my dear child,” he said, suddenly lowering his voice, and coming to take a seat beside me, “she is very like your mother.”
“Will you sing to Mr. Osborne, Flora?” said I. “I thinkshe is very like my mother, indeed, and she is very happy, and will be very happy; there is no cloud coming to her.”
He shook his head, but was silent, as Flora began to sing. My husband took a book, but I know he did not read a word of it. He sat listening as I did to some of those velvety drawing-room love-songs, which Flora had purely because they were “the fashion,” and some others of a better kind, which the girl’s own better taste had chosen. Mr. Osborne did not admire them as I did. He shook his head again slightly, and said, “A very good girl—a very good girl,” as Flora’s sweet young voice ran over verse after verse to please him. “That is not like your mother, Hester,” he said; but it was Mr. Osborne that was changed, it was not the music. He had been no connoisseur in the old days.
When Flora closed the piano it was nearly time to go to rest—and I was very glad to find it so. My husband and I were left last in the room when our visitors had retired—and when I went to bid him good night, he took my hand in both of his and put it to his forehead and his lips. I was very much agitated—I faltered out, “Have you anything to say to me?” I could find no other words, and he said, “No—no, nothing but good night.”
MR. Osborne was gone—Flora was gone—and we had relapsed into our former quietness. The neighboring ladies called upon me, and I called upon them in return; but I had no heart either to give or to accept invitations, for our personal relations to each other were unchanged; and though there was peace, entire dead peace, never broken by an impatient word or a hasty exclamation, there was no comfort in this gloomy house of ours. We were so courteous to each other, so afraid to give trouble, so full of thanks for any little piece of service! To my vehement temper strife itself was even better than this, and many times I almost fled out of the house, hurried, at least as much as I coulddecorously, to refresh my fevered mind in the fresh air, and ponder over our position again and again.
Why did he not make an end of this?—but then the question would come, why did not I make an end of it? I had come home to do him justice, but he had warned me long beforehand that justice would not satisfy him, and had promised solemnly to leave it all in my hands. Had I all the responsibility?—what could I say?—what could I do?—and it was not always easy to keep down a spark of the former bitterness, a momentary resentment against him who would not step in to assist me, but who left all the guilt and all the burden of this unnatural state upon me. For my own part, I persuaded myself that I had done everything I could do—I had made my submission—I had brought him justice;—what more could be done by me?
Every time he made his thanks to me, I was on the point of breaking forth in a passionate protest against being so addressed, but I know not what failing of the heart prevented me. I neverdid it; I learned to thank him myself after the same fashion, to try if that would sting him into giving up this obnoxious practice. I could see itdidsting him, but not so far as this; and we were still polite—oh, so dreadfully courteous, grateful, indebted to each other!
Upon this day I had burst out after my usual fashion, in desperation, able to bear no more. Had Mrs. Ennerdale or any other prudent adviser been able to see into my heart, and to take me to task for it, I could have given no proper reason for my perturbation. My husband had not been unkind, but perfectly the reverse—he was considerate, careful, attentive in the highest degree; I had noreasonablecause to find fault with him—but—I could not be patient to-day. I had suffered a great deal, and permitted no sign of it to appear in my behavior. I had tried to learn the true secret of wifely forbearance, mildness, gentleness; but I was of an impetuous character by nature, and had never been taught to rule or restrain myself. My endurance was worn out—it was in my mind to make an appeal to him, to tell him he was unjust—unjust!—here was I using the term again, when I had wished so often that there was not such a word in the world.
I had my mantle on, and the hood drawn over my head. It was not unusual for me to wander along this quiet country lane in such a simple dress, for there were no passengers here, except the rectory people or villagers from Cottisbourne, and I was close by home. It was late in the afternoon the first day of November, and the weather was dark and cloudy. My husband was in the library, where he always sat; baby was in his cosy nursery up-stairs, in the careful hands of Alice. He, dear little fellow, always wanted me, and I was never unhappy while with him—but darkness and discontent had settled on me now. I realized to myself vividly that gloomy picture of a household—two dull large rooms closely adjoining each other, the young husband shut up in one, the wife in another. Why was it?—he was the first to blame;—why did he fail to yield me nowwhat was due to a woman? Would it not have been generous to take the explanation on himself, and disperse this dreadful stifling mist which every day grew closer around us;—to say—“we have been wrong; let us forget it all, and begin our life again.” He ought to say it—it was my part to wait for him, not he for me; he owed me this, as the last and only reparation he could make for the first deceit which I had forgiven. So I reasoned to myself as I wandered along this solitary road; there was more resentment, more displeasure in my mind than there had been for many a day. It was unnatural, it was shocking, the state of things which now existed. I began to grow indignant at him for not doing what it so clearly seemed his part to do. At this moment I saw Miss Saville advancing very slowly and dully along the road. She was so active and brisk a person at all times, that I was surprised to see the heaviness of her look and face to-day. She came forward reluctantly, as if every step she took added to her burden. Her mind was evidently oppressed and ill at ease, for she looked round her on every side, and started at trivial sounds as if in fear. When she saw me she suddenly stopped, and a red color came to her face. She was not young, and had never been at all pretty. I cannot call this a flush, but only a painful burning red which came to her cheeks—shame, and distress, and fear. I did not want to embarrass and distress her—I knew how much good lay under her formality and her pretensions now.
“Do not let me disturb you,” I said eagerly; “do not mind me at all, pray, Miss Saville; I see you are engaged.”
She waited till I came up to her, looking at me all the time. “I was coming to seek you,” she said; “where were you going, Mrs. Southcote? are you at leisure? I have something to say to you.”
“I was going nowhere,” I said. “I am quite at your service—what is it?”
She looked at me again for a moment; “I can’t tell you what it is—I don’t know—I want you to come with me to therectory; but, my dear,” she continued, her “sense of propriety” coming to her aid, even in the midst of her agitation, “had you not better go back and get your bonnet? it is not becoming to walk so far in such a dress.”
“No one will see me,” I said briefly; “but what am I to do at the rectory—can you not tell me here?”
“It is not I, Mrs. Southcote,” said Miss Saville, with suppressed agitation; “I told you once before that we had trouble in our family, and that there was one among us who gave great sorrow to William and me; but you did not mind my story, for you were like other young people, and thought no trouble so bad as your own. But my poor brother Richard is back again here, and he has not improved his ways, and he is always raving about you. He says he wants to see you. We won’t let him go up to Cottiswoode, for when he sees Mr. Southcote I know he constantly seeks money from him, and we cannot bear that; so to pacify him, I promised to come out to-day, and try to persuade you to come to the rectory with me. Now, my dear, will you do it! You would not speak to him before, and I could not blame you; but he speaks as if something lay upon his conscience—oh, Mrs. Southcote, will you see him and hear what it is?”