BOOK I.

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THE DAYS OF MY LIFE.

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY,

BY

THE AUTHOR OF

"MARGARET MAITLAND," "LILLIESLEAF,"

&c., &c.

NEW YORK:

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,

FRANKLIN SQUARE.

1857.

BOOK I.

THE DAYS OF MY LIFE.

THE FIRST DAY.

I was going home from the village, and it was an autumn evening, just

after sunset, when every crop was cut and housed in our level country,

and when the fields of stubble and browned grass had nothing on them,

except here and there, a tree. They say our bare flats, in

Cambridgeshire, are neither picturesque, nor beautiful. I cannot say for

that--but I know no landscape has ever caught my eye like the long line

of sunburnt, wiry grass, and the great, wide arch above, with all its

shades of beautiful color. There were no hedgerows to skirt the path on

which I was, and I saw nothing between me and the sky, save a solitary

figure stalking along the highway, and in the other direction the clump

of trees which surrounded Cottiswoode; the sky, in the west, was still

full of the colors of the sunset, and from the horizon it rose upward in

a multitude of tints and shades, the orange and red melting into a rosy

flush which contrasted for a while, and then fell into the sweet, calm,

peaceful tone of the full blue. In the time of the year, and the look of

the night, there was alike that indescribable composure and satisfaction

which are in the sunny evenings after harvest; the work was done, the

day was fading, everything was going home; the rooks sailed over the

sky, and the laborer trudged across the moor. Labor was over, and

provision made, and the evening and the night, peace and refreshment,

and rest were coming for every man. I do not suppose I noticed this at

the time, but I have the strongest impression of it all in my

remembrance now.

And I was passing along, as I always did, quickly and, perhaps, with a

firmer and a steadier step than was usual to girls of my years, swinging

in my hand a bit of briony, which, for the sake of its beautiful

berries, I was carrying home, but which stood a good chance of being

destroyed before we got there--not taking leisure to look much about me,

thinking of nothing particular, with a little air of the superior, the

lady of the manor, in my independent carriage--a little pride of

proprietorship in my firm footstep.

I was going home--when there suddenly appeared two figures before me,

advancing on my way. I say two figures, because in our country

everything stands out so clear upon the great universal background of

sky, that I could not so truly say it was a man and a boy, as two dark

outlines, clearly marked and separated from the low, broad level of the

country, and the arch of heaven, which now approached upon me. I cannot

help an unconscious estimate of character from the tricks of gesture and

carriage, which, perhaps, could not have been so visible anywhere else,

as here, upon this flat, unbroken road. One of these figures was a

stooping and pliant one, with a sort of sinuous twisting motion,

noiseless and sidelong, as if his habit was to twist and glide through

ways too narrow to admit the passage of a man; the other form was that

of a boy--a slight figure, which, to my perfect health and girlish

courage, looked timid and hesitating; the brightness of the sky behind

cast the faces of the strangers into shadow--but my eye was caught by

the unfamiliar outlines; they _were_ strangers, that was sure.

We gradually approached nearer, for I was walking quickly, though their

pace was slow; but before we met my thoughts had wandered off from them,

and I was greatly astonished by the sudden address which brought me to

an abrupt pause before them. "Young lady," the man said, with an

awkward bow, "what is your name?"

I was a country girl, and utterly beyond the reach of fear from

impertinence. I was my father's daughter, moreover, and loftily

persuaded that nothing disrespectful could approach _me_. I answered

immediately with a little scorn of the question--for to be unknown in my

own country was a new sensation--"I am Hester Southcote, of

Cottiswoode," and having said so, was about to pass on.

"Ah, indeed! it is just as I thought, then," said the stranger, wheeling

his young companion round, so as to place him side by side with me. "We

are going back to Cottiswoode--we will have the pleasure of your

company; I am quite happy we have met."

But my girlish disdain did not annihilate the bold intruder; it only

brought a disagreeable smile to his mouth which made him look still more

like some dangerous unknown animal to me. I was not very well versed in

society, nor much acquainted with the world, but I knew by intuition

that this person, though quite as well dressed as any one I had ever

seen, was not a gentleman; he was one of those nondescripts whom you

could not respect either for wealth or poverty--one of those few people

you could be disrespectful to, without blushing for yourself.

"Do you want any thing at Cottiswoode?" I asked accordingly, not at all

endeavoring to conceal that I thought my new companion a very unsuitable

visitor at my father's house.

"Yes! we want a great deal at Cottiswoode," said the stranger,

significantly; and as I raised my head in wonder and indignation, I

could not but observe how the boy lagged behind, and how his companion

constantly attempted to drag him forward close to me.

With an impatient impulse, I gathered up the folds of my dress in my

hand and drew another step apart. I was the only child of a haughty

gentleman. I did not know what it was to be addressed in the tone of a

superior, and I was fully more annoyed than angry--but with a young

girl's grand and innocent assumption, I held my head higher. "You are

not aware whom you are speaking to," I said, proudly; but I was very

much confused and disconcerted when the stranger answered me by a

laugh--and the laugh was still less pleasant than the smile, for there

was irritation mingled with its sneer.

"I am perfectly aware whom I am speaking to, Miss," he said, rather more

coarsely than he had yet spoken; "better aware than the young lady is

who tells me so, or than my lord himself among the trees yonder," and he

pointed at Cottiswoode, to which we were drawing near. "But you will

find it best to be friends," he continued, after a moment, in a tone

intended to be light and easy, "look what I have brought you--here's

this pretty young gentleman is your cousin."

"My cousin!" I said, with great astonishment, "I have no cousin."

"Oh, no! I dare say!" said the man, with such a sneer of insinuation,

that in my childish passion I could have struck him, almost. "I'd disown

him, out and out, if I were you."

"What do you mean, sir?" I said, stopping short and turning round upon

him; then my eye caught the face of the boy, which was naturally pale,

but now greatly flushed with shame and anger, as I thought; he looked

shrinking, and timid, and weak, with his delicate blue-veined temples,

his long, fair hair, and refined mild face. I felt myself so strong, so

sunburnt, so ruddy, and with such a strength and wealth of life, in

presence of this delicate and hesitating boy. "What does he mean," I

repeated, addressing him, "does he mean that I say what is not true?"

"I will tell you what I mean, my dear young lady," said the man,

suddenly changing his tone, "I mean what I have just been to tell your

amiable father; though, of course, both yourself and the good gentleman

have your own reasons for doubting me--I mean that this is your cousin,

Mr. Edgar Southcote, the son of your father's elder brother, Brian

Southcote, who died in India ten years ago--that's what I mean!"

The man had his eyes fixed upon me with a broad full gaze, as if he

expected a contradiction; but, of course, after hearing this, I did not

care in the least how the man looked, or what he had to do with it--I

turned very eagerly to look at the boy.

"Are you really my cousin?" said I, "have you just come from India? why

did we never know before? and your name is Edgar?--a great many of the

Southcotes have been called Edgar--how old are you?--I never knew I had

a cousin, or any near friends, and neither did papa; but I have heard

every body talk of uncle Brian. Poor boy! you have no father--you are

not so happy as I--"

But to my great amazement, and just at the moment I was holding out my

hand to him, and was about to say that my father would love him as he

did me--my new cousin, a boy, a man--he ought to have had more

spirit!--suddenly burst into a great fit of tears, and in the strangest

passionate manner, cried out to the man, "I cannot bear it,

Saville--Saville, take me away!"

I had no longer any curiosity or care about the man; but I was very much

surprised at this, and could not understand it--and I was a little

ashamed and indignant besides to see a boy cry.

"What is the matter?" I asked again, with some of my natural

imperiousness, "why do you cry--is anything wrong? Is your name Edgar

Southcote, and yet you cry like a child? Do you not know we are called

the proudest house in the country; and what is this man doing, or what

does he want here? why should he take you away? you ought to be at

Cottiswoode if you are Edgar Southcote--what do you mean?"

"Cheer up, Master Edgar--your cousin is quite right, you ought to be at

Cottiswoode, and nowhere else, my boy," said the man, giving him such a

blow on the shoulders, in encouragement, that the delicate boy trembled

under it. "Why, where is your spirit! come, come, since the young

lady's owned you, we'll go straight to the old gentleman again; and

you'll see what papa will say to you, Miss, when he sees what you bring

him home."

I did not answer, but turned away my head from this person, who filled

me with disgust and annoyance: then their slow pace roused me to

impatience. I was always a few steps before them, for Saville's gliding

pace was uniformly slow, and the pale boy, who was called my cousin,

lingered still more than his companion. He never answered me--not a

word, though I put so many questions to him, and he seemed so downcast

and sad, so unlike a boy going home--so very, very unlike me, that I

could not understand him. I was so very eager to return to tell my

father, and to ask him if this was truly an Edgar Southcote, that our

slow progress chafed me the more.

We were now drawing very near to Cottiswoode; every dark leaf of the

trees was engraved on the flush of many colors which still showed in the

sky the road where the sun had gone down--and among them rose my

father's house, the home of our race, with its turrets rising gray upon

the sky like an old chateau of France or Scotland, without a hill in

sight to harmonize that picturesque architecture: nothing but the elm

trees and the olive shade of the great walnut, with the flat moors and

sunburnt grass, running away in vast level lines into the sky.

Cottiswoode, the house of all our ancestors, where every room was a

chapter in the history of our name, and every Southcote of renown still

lived upon the ancient walls--I could not fancy one of us approaching,

without a flush and tremor, the family dwelling-place. But Edgar

Southcote's pale cheek was not warmed by the faintest color--I thought

he looked as if he must faint or die--he no longer glanced at me or at

his companion; and when I turned to him, I saw only the pale eyelids

with their long lashes, the drooping head, and foot that faltered now at

every step--a strange boy! could he be of our blood after all?

The front of Cottiswoode was somewhat gloomy, for there was only a

carriage-road sweeping through the trees, and a small shrubbery thickly

planted with evergreens before the great door. When we were near enough,

I saw my father pacing up and down hurriedly through the avenue of elms

which reaches up to the shrubbery. When I saw him, I became still more

perplexed than before--my father was reserved, and never betrayed

himself or his emotions to the common eye; I could not comprehend why he

was here, showing an evident agitation, and disturbed entirely out of

his usual calm.

And as quickly as I did, the stranger noticed him. This man fixed his

eye upon my father with a sneer, which roused once more to the utmost,

my girlish passion. I could not tell what it meant, but there was an

insinuation in it, which stung me beyond bearing, especially when I saw

the trouble on my father's face, which was generally so calm. I hurried

forward anxious to be first, yet involuntarily waiting for my strange

companions. The man too quickened his pace a little, but the boy lagged

behind so drearily, and drooped his head with such a pertinacious

sadness--though the very elm trees of Cottiswoode were rustling their

leaves above him--that in my heat, and haste, and eagerness, I knew not

what to do.

"Papa!" I said anxiously; my father heard me, and turned round with a

sudden eager start, as though he was glad of my coming; but when he met

my glance, and saw how I was accompanied, I cannot describe the flash of

resentment, of haughty inquiry, and bitterness that shone from my

father's eye--I saw it, but was too much excited to ask for an

explanation. "Papa," I cried, again springing forward upon his arm,

"this is Edgar Southcote, my cousin--did they tell you? I am sorry he

does not seem to care for coming home, but he has been all his life in

India, I suppose--Uncle Brian's son, papa--and his name is Edgar! did

you send him to meet me? tell him you are glad that he has come home;

look at Cottiswoode, Edgar--dear Cottiswoode, where all the Southcotes

lived and died. What ails him? I believe he will faint. Papa--papa, let

the boy know he is welcome home!"

"Hester!" said my father in an ominous cold tone, "restrain your

feelings--I have no reason to believe there is an Edgar Southcote in

existence. I do not believe my brother Brian left a son--I cannot

receive this boy as Edgar Southcote--he may be this man's son for aught

I know."

The boy's wan face woke up at these words; he shook his long hair

slightly back upon the faint wind, and raised his eyes full of sudden

light and courage. I understood nothing of my father's reluctance to

acknowledge the stranger. I pleaded his cause with all my heart.

"He is not this man's son," I exclaimed eagerly, "papa, he is a

gentleman! Look, he has been so sad and downcast till now, but he wakes

when you accuse him--he is an orphan, poor boy, poor boy! say he is

welcome home."

"You had best," said Saville, and the contrast between my own voice of

excitement, and these significant tones with their constant sneer and

insinuation of evil, struck me very strangely, "the young lady is

wise--it is your best policy, I can tell you, to receive him well in his

own house."

My father's haughty face flushed with an intolerable sense of insult,

and I saw Edgar shrink as if something had stung him. "Hester, my love,

leave me!" said my father, "I will deal with this fellow alone. Go, keep

your kind heart for your friends. I tell you these pretensions are

false--do you hear me, child?"

I never doubted my father before; when I looked from his face which was

full of passion, yet clouded with an indescribable shadow of doubt, to

the insolent mocking of the man beside him, I grew bewildered and

uncertain; did my father believe himself? Yet I neither could nor would

put faith in the elder stranger. I had been so constantly with my

father, and had so much licence given me, that I could not obey him; and

I did what I have always done--I suddenly obeyed my own sudden impulse,

and turned to the boy.

"I do not believe what he will say," I said rapidly, "but I will trust

you; are you Edgar Southcote? are you my cousin? you will not tell a

lie."

The boy paused, hesitated; but he had raised his eyes to mine, and he

did not withdraw them. His face crimsoned over with a delicate yet deep

flush, like a girl's--then he grew pale--and then he said slowly--

"I cannot tell a lie--my father's name was Brian Southcote, I am Edgar;

I will not deny my name."

I cried out triumphantly, "Now, papa!" but my father made an impatient

gesture commanding me away; it was so distinctly a command now, that I

was awed and dared not disobey him. I turned away very slowly through

the thick evergreens, looking back and lingering as I went. I was just

about to turn round by the great Portugal laurel, which would have hid

from me these three figures standing together among the elm trees and

against the sky, when my father called me to him again. I returned

towards him gladly, for I had been very reluctant to go away.

"Hester, these _gentlemen_ will accompany you," he said, with a

contemptuous emphasis, "show them to my library, and I will come to

you."

I cannot tell to what a pitch my anxiety and excitement had risen--it

was so high, at least, that without question or remark, only very

quickly and silently, I conducted my companions to the house, and

introduced them to my father's favorite room, the library. It was a very

long, large room, rather gloomy in the greater part of it, but with one

recessed and windowed corner as bright as day. My life had known no

studies and few pleasures, that were not associated with this un-bright

corner, with its cushioned window-seat and beautiful oriel. When we

entered, it was almost twilight by my father's writing-table, behind

which was the great window with the fragrant walnut foliage

overshadowing it like a miniature forest--but a clear, pale light, the

evening blessing--light, as sweet and calm as heaven itself, shone in

upon my little vase of faint, sweet roses--roses gathered from a tree

that blossomed all the year through, but all the year through was sad

and faint, and never came to the flush of June. Edgar Southcote sank

wearily into a chair almost by the door of the library, but Saville,

whom I almost began to hate, bustled about at once from one window to

another, looking at everything.

"Fine old room--I'd make two of it," said this fellow; "have down a

modern architect, my boy, and make the place something like. Eh, Edgar!

what, tired? you had better pluck up a spirit, or how am I to manage

this worthy, disinterested uncle of yours?"

I could not let the man think I had heard him, but left the room to seek

my father--what could he mean? I met my father at the door, and with a

slight wave of his hand bidding me follow him, he went on before me to

the dining parlor, the only other room we used; my excitement had

deepened into painful anxiety--something was _wrong_--it was a new

thought and a new emotion to me.

"What is the matter, papa?" I said, anxiously, "what is wrong? what has

happened? do you think this is not my cousin, or are you angry that he

has come? Father, you loved my uncle Brian, do you not love his son?"

"Hester!" said my father, turning away his troubled face from my gaze

and the light, "I will not believe that this boy is my brother Brian's

son."

"But he says he is, papa," I answered, with eagerness; I did not believe

in lying, and Edgar Southcote's pale face was beyond the possibility of

untruth.

"It is worth his while to say it," my father exclaimed hurriedly; then a

strange spasm of agitation crossed his face--he turned to me again as if

with an irrestrainable impulse to confide his trouble to me. "Hester!

Brian was my _elder_ brother," he said in a low, quick whisper, and

almost stealthily. I did not comprehend him. I was only a child--the

real cause of his distress never occurred to me.

"I know it would be very hard to take him home to Cottiswoode for a

Southcote, and then to find out he was not uncle Brian's son," I said,

looking up anxiously at my father, "and you know better than I, and

remember my uncle; but papa--_I_ believe him--see! I knew it--he is like

that picture there!"

My father turned to the picture with a start of terror; it was an Edgar

Southcote I was pointing to--a philosopher; one of the few of our house,

who loved wisdom better than houses or lands, one who had died early

after a sad short life. My father's face burned as he looked at the

picture; the refined visionary head drooping over a book, and the large

delicate eyelids with their long lashes were so like, so very like!--it

struck him in a moment. "Papa, I believe him," I repeated very

earnestly. My father started from me, and paced about the room in angry

agitation.

"I have trained you to be mistress of Cottiswoode, Hester," he said,

when he returned to me. "I have taught you from your cradle to esteem

above all things your name and your race--and now, and now, child, do

you not understand me? if this boy is Brian's son, Cottiswoode is

_his!_"

It was like a flash of sudden lightning in the dark, revealing for an

instant everything around, so terribly clear and visible--I could not

speak at first. I felt as if the withering light had struck me, and I

shivered and put forth all my strength to stand erect and still; then I

felt my face burn as if my veins were bursting. "This was what he

meant!"

"What, who meant? Who?" cried my father.

"You believe he is Edgar Southcote, papa?" said I, "you believe him as I

do; I see it in your face--and the man sneers at you--_you_, father!

because it is your interest to deny the boy. Let us go away, and leave

him Cottiswoode if it is his; you would not do him wrong, you would not

deny him his right--father, father, come away!"

And I saw him, a man whose calm was never broken by the usual

excitements of life, a man so haughty and reserved that he never showed

his emotions even to me--I saw him dash his clenched hand into the air

with a fury and agony terrible to see. I could not move nor speak, I

only stood and gazed at him, following his rapid movements as he went

and came in his passion of excitement, pacing about the room; the every

day good order and arrangement of every thing around us; the calm light

of evening, which began to darken; the quiet house where there was no

sound of disturbance, but only the softened hum of tranquil life--the

trees rustling without, the grass growing, and night coming softly down

out of the skies; nothing sympathized with his fiery passion, except his

daughter who stood gazing at him, half a woman, half a child--and

nothing at all in all the world sympathized with me.

Very gradually he calmed, and the paroxysm was over; then my father came

to me, and put his hands on my shoulders, and looked into my strained

eyes; I could not bear his gaze, though I had been gazing at him so

long, and thick and heavy, my tears began to fall; then he stooped over

me and kissed my brow. "My disinherited child!" that was all he

said--and he left me and went away.

Then I sat down on the carpet by the low window, and cried--cried "as if

my heart were breaking," but hearts do not break that get relief in such

a flood of child's tears. I felt something in my hand as I put it up to

my wet eyes. It was the bit of briony which I had carried unwittingly a

long, long way, through all my first shock of trouble. Yes! there were

the beautiful tinted berries in their clusters uninjured even by my

hand--but the stem was crushed and broken, and could support them no

longer; the sight of it roused me out of my vague but bitter distress--I

spread it out upon my hand listlessly, and thought of the low hedge from

which I had pulled it, a bank of flowers the whole summer through. It

was our own land--_our own land_--was it ours no longer now?

In a very short time, I was disturbed by steps and voices, and my

father came into the room with Edgar and his disagreeable companion;

then came Whitehead, bringing in the urn and tea-tray, and I had to make

tea for them. I did not speak at all, neither did my new cousin; and my

father was polite, but very lofty and reserved, and behaved to Saville

with such a grand courtesy, as a prince might have shown to a peasant;

the man was overpowered and silenced by it, I saw, and could no longer

be insolent, though he tried. My father took his cup of tea very slowly

and deliberately, and then he rose and said, "I am quite at your

service," and Saville followed him out of the room.

We two were left together; my new cousin was about my own age I

thought--though indeed he was older--but while I had the courage of

health and high spirits, of an unreproved and almost uncontrolled

childhood, the boy was timid as a weak frame, a susceptible temper, and

a lonely orphanhood could make him. We sat far apart from each other, in

the large dark room, and did not speak a word; a strange sudden

bitterness and resentment against this intruder had come to my heart. I

looked with contempt and dislike at his slight form and pallid face. I

raised my own head with a double pride and haughtiness--this was the

heir of Cottiswoode and of the Southcotes, this lad whose eye never

kindled at sight of the old house--and I was disinherited!

It grew gradually dark, but I sat brooding in my bitterness and anger,

and never thought of getting lights. The trees were stirring without, in

the faint night wind which sighed about Cottiswoode, and I could see the

pensive stars coming out one by one on the vast breadth of sky--but

nothing stirred within. Edgar was at one end of the room, I at the

other--he did not disturb me, and I never spoke to him, but

involuntarily all this time, I was watching him--he could not raise his

hand to his head but I saw it; he could not move upon his chair without

my instant observation; for all so dark as the room was, and so absorbed

in my own thoughts as was I.

At length my heart beat to see him rise and approach towards me. I was

tempted to spring up, to denounce and defy the intruder, and leave him

so--but I did not--I only rose and waited for him, leaning against the

window. He came up with his soft step stealing through the darkness.

"Cousin," he said, in a low voice, which sounded very youthful, yet had

a ring of manhood in it, too, "cousin, it is not Edgar Southcote who has

come to Cottiswoode, but a great misfortune--what am I to do?--you took

part with me, you believed me, Hester: tell me what I am to do to make

myself something else than a calamity to my Uncle and to you?"

He spoke very earnestly, but his voice did not touch my heart, it only

quickened my resentment. "Do nothing except justice," said I, in my

girlish, passionate way. "We are Southcotes, do you think we cannot bear

a misfortune? but you do not know your race, nor what it is. If you are

the heir of Cottiswoode do you think anything you could do, would make

my father keep what is not his? No, you can do nothing except justice.

My father is not a man to be pitied."

"Nor do I mean to pity him," said the boy, gently, "I respect my

father's brother, though my father's brother doubts me. Will _you_ throw

me off then? you judge of me, perhaps, by my companion. Ah! that would

be _just_; I do not care for justice, cousin Hester; I want that which

you reject so bitterly--pity, compassion, love!"

"Pity is a cheat," said I, quoting words which my father had often said,

"and when you have justice you will not need pity."

He stood looking at me for a moment, and though my pride would not give

way, my heart relented. "When I have justice--is that when I have my

father's inheritance?" said Edgar, slowly, "that will not give me a

father, or a mother, or a friend. I will need pity more, and not less,

than now."

He did not speak again, and I could not answer him; no, I could not

answer his gentle words, nor open my heart to him again. A stranger, an

unknown boy; and he was to take from my father his ancestral house, his

lands, his very rank and degree! I clasped my hands and hardened my

heart; let him have justice, I said within myself--justice--we would

await it proudly, and obey it without a murmur; but we rejected the

sympathy of our supplanter; let him, as we did, stand alone.

But I could not help a wistful look after him as Edgar went away with

his most unsuitable companion along the level, dark, long road to the

village inn. My father stood with me at the door gazing after them, with

a strange, fascinated eye, and when they passed into the distance out of

our sight, he drew a long breath of relief, and, in a faint voice, bade

me come in. I followed him to the library where lights were burning. The

large, dim room looked chill and desolate as we entered it, and I saw a

chair thrust aside from the table, where Saville had been sitting

opposite my father. I stood beside him now, for he held my hand and

would not let me go. He had been quite dignified and self-possessed when

we parted with the strangers, but now his face relaxed into a strange

ease and weariness. We were alone in the world, my father and I, but his

thoughts were not often such as could be told to a girl like me; and I

think I had never felt such a thrill of affectionate delight as now,

when I saw him yield before me to his new trouble--when he took his

child into his confidence, and suffered no veil of appearance to

interpose between us.

"Hester," he said, holding my hand lightly in his own; "I have heard all

this story; the man is a relation, he tells me, of Brian's wife; and

though I cannot understand how my brother should so have demeaned

himself, yet the story, I cannot dispute, has much appearance of truth.

I like to be prepared for the worst--Hester! I wish you to think of it.

Do you understand at all what will happen to us if this be true?"

"Scarcely, papa," said I.

"Cottiswoode will be ours no longer; the rank and consideration we have

been accustomed to, will be ours no longer," said my father, with a

slight shudder. "Hester, do you hear what I say?"

"Yes, I am thinking, papa," said I, "poverty, want--I know the words;

but I do not know what they mean."

"We shall not have poverty or want to undergo," said my father quickly,

with a little impatience, "we will have to endure _downfall_,

Hester--overthrow, exile and banishment--worse things than want or

poverty. We shall have to endure--child, child, go to your child's rest,

and close those bright, questioning eyes of yours! You do not understand

what this grievous calamity is to me!"

I withdrew from him a little, pained and cast down, while he rose once

more, and paced the room with measured steps. I watched his lofty figure

retiring into the darkness and returning to the light with reverence and

awe. He was not a country gentleman dispossessed of his property to my

overstrained imagination, but a king compelled to abdicate, a sovereign

prince banished from his dominions; and his own feelings were as

romantic, as exalted, I might say as exaggerated as mine.

After a little while he returned to me, restored to his usual composure.

"It is time to go to rest, Hester--good-night. In the morning I will

know better what this is; and to-morrow--to-morrow," he drew a long

breath as he stooped over me, "to-morrow we will gird ourselves for our

overthrow. Good-night!"

And this was now the night-fall on the first day which I can detach and

separate from all the childhood and youthful years before it--the

beginning of the days of my life.

THE SECOND DAY.

It was late in October, and winter was coming fast; in all the paths

about Cottiswoode the fallen leaves lay thick, and every breath of air

brought them down in showers. But though these breezes were so

melancholy at night when they moaned about the house, as if in

lamentation for us, who were going away, in the morning when the sun was

out the chilled gale was only bracing and full of wild pleasure, as it

blew full over the level of our moors, with nothing to break its force

for miles.

My own pale monthly rose had its few faint blossoms always; but I do not

like the flowers of autumn, those ragged dull chrysanthemums and grand

dahlias which are more like shrubs than flowers. The jessamine that

waved into my window was always wet, and constantly dropping a little

dark melancholy leaflet upon the window-ledge--and darker than ever were

the evergreens--those gloomy lifeless trees which have no sympathy with

nature. Before this, every change of the seasons brought only a varied

interest to me; but this year, I could see nothing but melancholy and

discouragement in the waning autumn, the lengthening nights and the

chilled days. I still took long rambles on the flat high roads, and

through the dry stubble fields and sun-burnt moors--but I was restless

and disconsolate; this morning I returned from a long walk, tired, as it

is so unnatural to feel in the morning--impatient at the wind that

caught my dress, and at the leaves that dropped down upon me as I came

up the avenue--wondering where all the light and color had gone which

used to flush with such a splendid animation the great world of sky,

where everything now was cold blue and watery white--looking up at

Cottiswoode, where all the upper windows were open, admitting a damp

unfriendly breeze. Cottiswoode itself, for the first time, looked

deserted and dreary; oh, these opened windows! how comfortless they

looked, and how well I could perceive the air of weary excitement about

the whole house--for we were to leave it to-day.

The table was spread for breakfast in the dining-parlor; but already a

few things were away, an old-fashioned cabinet which had been my

mother's and the little book-case where were all the books in their

faded pretty bindings which had been given to her when she was a young

lady and a bride--these were mine, and had always been called mine, and

the wall looked very blank where they had stood; and my chair, with the

embroidered cover of my mother's own working; I missed it whenever I

came into the room. There were other things gone too, everything which

was my father's own, and did not belong to Cottiswoode, and everybody

knows how desolate a room looks which has nothing but the barely

necessary furniture--the table and the chairs. To make it a little less

miserable, a fire had been lighted; but it was only raw, and half

kindled, and, I think, if possible, made this bare room look even less

like home. My tears almost choked me when I came into it; but I was very

haughty and proud in my downfall and _would_ not cry, though I longed to

do it. My father was still in the library, and I went to seek him there.

He was sitting by his own table doing nothing, though he had writing

materials by him, and a book at his hand. He was leaning his head upon

both his hands, and looking full before him into the vacant air, with

the fixed gaze of thought--I saw, that from his still and composed

countenance, his proud will had banished every trace of emotion--yet I

saw, nevertheless, how underneath this calm exterior, his heart was

running over with the troubles and remembrances of his subdued and

passionate life.

For I knew my father was passionate in everything, despite his habitual

restraint and quietness--passionate in his few deep-seated and

unchanging loves--and passionate in the strong, but always suppressed

resentment which he kept under as a Christian, but never subdued as a

man. I stood back as I looked, in reverence for the suffering it must

have cost him to retrace, as I saw he was doing, all his life at

Cottiswoode; but he heard the rustle of my dress, and, starting with an

impatient exclamation, called me to him. "Breakfast, papa," said I,

hesitating, and with humility--a strange smile broke on his face.

"Surely, Hester, let us go to breakfast," he said, rising slowly as if

his very movements required deliberation to preserve their poise and

balance--and then he took me by the hand, as he had done when I was a

child, and we went from the one room to the other, and sat down at a

corner of the long dining-table--for our pleasant round table at which

we usually breakfasted, had, like the other things, been taken away.

My father made a poor pretence to eat--and kept up a wavering

conversation with me about books and study. I tried to answer him as

well as I was able; but it was strange to be talking of indifferent

things the day we were to leave Cottiswoode, and my heart seemed to

flutter at my throat and choked me, when I ventured a glance round the

room. More than a month had passed since that visit of misfortune had

brought a new claimant upon our undisturbed possession, and Edgar

Southcote's rights had been very clearly made out, and this was why we

were to leave to-day.

We were still sitting at the breakfast-table, when the letters were

brought in. My father opened one of them, glanced over it, and then

tossed it to me. It was a letter from my cousin, such a one as he had

several times received before, entreating him with the most urgent

supplications to remain in Cottiswoode. It was a very simple boyish

letter, but earnest and sincere enough to have merited better treatment

at our hands--I have it still, and had almost cried over it, when I saw

it the last time--though I read it with resentment this morning, and

lifted my head haughtily, and exclaimed at the boy's presumption: "I

suppose he would like to give us _permission_ to stay in Cottiswoode," I

said bitterly, and my father smiled at me as he rose and went back to

the library--I knew him better than to disturb him again, so I hurried

out of the room which was so miserable to look at, and went to my own

chamber up-stairs.

My pretty room with its bright chintz hangings, and its muslin draperies

which I did not care for, and yet loved! for I was not a young lady at

this time, but only a courageous independent girl, brought up by a man,

and more accustomed to a library than a boudoir; and feminine tastes

were scarcely awakened in me. I was more a copy of my father than

anything else; but still with a natural love of the beautiful, I liked

my pretty curtains, and snowy festoons of muslin--I liked the delicacy

and grace they gave--I liked the inferred reverence for my youth and

womanhood which claimed these innocent adornments; and more than all I

loved Alice, who provided them for me. Alice was my own attendant, my

friend and guide and counsellor; she was a servant, yet she was the only

woman whom I held in perfect respect, and trusted with all my heart.

After my father, I loved Alice best of all the world; but with a very

different love. In my intercourse with my father, he was the actor and I

the looker-on, proud when he permitted me to sympathize with him, doubly

proud when he opened his mind, and showed me what he felt and thought.

To bring my little troubles and annoyances, my girlish outbreaks of

indignation or of pleasure to disturb his calm, would have been

desecration--but I poured them all in the fullest detail into the ear of

Alice, and with every one of the constant claims I made upon her

sympathy, I think Alice loved me better. When I was ill, I would rather

have leaned upon her kind shoulder than on any pillow, and nothing ever

happened to me or in my presence, but I was restless till Alice knew of

it. I think, even, her inferior position gave a greater charm to our

intercourse--I think an old attached and respected servant is the most

delightful of confidants to a child; but, however that may be, Alice

was my audience, my chorus, everything to me.

Alice was about forty at this time, I suppose; she had been my mother's

maid, and my nurse, always an important person in the house; she was

tall, with rather a large face, and a sweet bright complexion, which

always looked fresh and clear like a summer morning; she was not very

remarkable for her taste in dress--her caps were always snow-white, her

large white aprons so soft and spotless, that I liked to lay my cheek on

them, and go to sleep there, as I did when I was a child; but the gown

she usually wore was of dark green stuff, very cold and gloomy like the

evergreens, and the little printed cashmere shawl on her shoulders would

have been almost dingy, but for the white, white muslin kerchief that

pressed out of it at the throat and breast. She had large hands, brown

and wrinkled, but with such a soft silken touch of kindness;--and this

was my Alice as she stood folding up the pretty chintz curtains in my

dismantled room.

"Oh, Alice! isn't it miserable?" I cried while I stood by her side,

looking round upon the gradual destruction--I did not want to cry; but

it cost me a great effort to keep down the gathering tears.

"Sad enough, Miss Hester," said Alice, "but, do you know, if you had

been brought up in a town, you would not have minded a removal; and you

shall soon see such a pretty room in Cambridge that you will not think

of Cottiswoode--"

"No place in the world can ever be like Cottiswoode to me," said I with

a little indignation that my great self-control should be so little

appreciated. "Of course, I should not wish to stay here when it is not

ours," I went on, rubbing my eyes to get the tears away, "but I will

always think Cottiswoode _home_--no other place will ever be home to

me."

"You are very young, my dear," said Alice quietly. I was almost angry

with Alice, and it provoked me so much to hear her treating my first

grief so composedly that the tears which I had restrained, came fast

and thick with anger and petulance in them.

"Indeed, it is very cruel of you, Alice!" I said as well as I was able,

"do you think I do not mean it?--do you think I do not know what I say?"

"I only think you are very young, poor dear!" said Alice, looking down

upon me under her arm, as she stretched up her hands to unfasten the

last bit of curtain, "and I am an old woman, Miss Hester. I saw your

poor mamma come away from _her_ home to find a new one here; it was a

great change to her, for all so much as her child likes

Cottiswoode--_she_ liked her own home very dearly, Miss Hester, and did

not think this great house was to be compared to it--but she came away

here of her own will after all--"

"But that was because she was married, Alice," said I hastily.

"Yes! it was because she was married, and because it is the common way

of life," said Alice; "but, the like of me, Miss Hester, that has parted

with many a one dear to me, never to see them again, thinks little,

darling, of parting with dead walls."

"Alice, have you had a great deal of grief," said I reverently; my

attention was already diverted from the main subjects of my morning's

thoughts--for I was very young, as she said, and had a mind open to

every interest, that grand privilege of youth.

"I have lost husband and children, father and mother, Miss Hester," said

Alice quietly; she had her back turned to me, but it was not to hide her

weeping, for Alice had borne her griefs with her for many, many years. I

knew very well that it was as she had said, for she had often told me of

them all, and of her babies whom she never could be quite calm

about--but she very seldom alluded to them in this way, and never dwelt

upon her loss, but always upon themselves. I did not say anything, but I

felt ashamed of my passion of grief for Cottiswoode. If I should lose

Alice--or, still more frightful misfortune, lose my father, what would

Cottiswoode be to me.

"But, my dear young lady was pity herself," said Alice, after a short

pause, "I think I can see her now, when I could not cry myself, how she

cried for me; and I parted with her too, Miss Hester. I think she had

the sweetest heart in the world; she could not see trouble, but she

pitied it, and did her best to help."

"Alice," said I hastily, connecting these things by a sudden and

involuntary conviction, "why is it that papa says: 'pity is a cheat.'"

"It is a hard saying, Miss Hester," said Alice, pausing to look at me;

and then she went on with her work, as if this was all she had to say.

"He must have reason for it," said I, "and when I think of _that_ Edgar

Southcote presuming to pity us, I confess it makes me very angry--I

cannot bear to be pitied, Alice!"

But Alice went on with her work, and answered nothing; I was left to

myself, and received no sympathy in my haughty dislike of anything which

acknowledged the superiority of another. I was piqued for the moment. I

would a great deal rather that Alice had said, "no one can pity

you"--but Alice said nothing of the kind, and after a very little

interval my youthful curiosity conquered my pride.

"You have not answered me, but I am sure you know," said I, "Alice, what

does papa mean?"

Alice looked at me earnestly for a moment. "I am only a servant," she

said, as if she consulted with herself, "I have no right to meddle in

their secrets--but I care for nothing in the world but them, and I have

served _her_ all her days. Yes, Miss Hester, I will tell you," she

concluded suddenly, "because you'll be a woman soon, and should know

what evil spirits there are in this weary, weary life."

But though she said this, she was slow to begin an explanation--she put

away the curtains first, carefully smoothed down and folded into a great

chest which stood open beside us, and then she began to lift up my few

books, and the simple furniture of my toilette-table, and packed them

away for the removal. It was while she was thus engaged, softly coming

and going, and wiping off specks of dust in a noiseless, deliberate way,

that she told me the story of my father and mother.

"My young lady was an only child, like you, Miss Hester," said Alice,

"but her father's land was all entailed, and it has passed to a distant

cousin now, as you know. I think she was only about eighteen when the

two young gentlemen from Cottiswoode began to visit at our house. Mr.

Brian came as often as your father--they were always together, and I

remember very well how I used to wonder if both of the brothers were in

love with Miss Helen, or if the one only came for the other's sake. Mr.

Brian was a very different man from your papa, my dear--there was not

such a charitable man in the whole country, and he never seemed to care

for himself--but somehow, just because he was so good, he never seemed

in earnest about anything he wished--you could not believe he cared for

anything so much, but he would give it up if another asked it from him.

It's a very fine thing to be kind and generous, Miss Hester, but that

was carrying it too far, you know. If I had been a lady I never would

have married Mr. Brian Southcote, for I think he never would have loved

me half so much as he would have loved the pleasure of giving me away.

"But you know how different your papa was; I used to think it would be a

pleasure to trust anything to Mr. Howard, because whatever he had and

cared for, he held as fast as life; and my young lady thought so too,

Miss Hester. They _were_ both in love with Miss Helen, and very glad

_her_ papa would have been had she chosen Mr. Brian, who was the heir of

all. It used to be a strange sight to see them all, poor Mr. Brian so

pleasant to everybody, and Mr. Howard so dark and passionate and

miserable, and my sweet young lady terrified and unhappy--glad to be

good friends with Mr. Brian, because she did not care for him; and so

anxious about Mr. Howard, though she scarcely dared to be kind to him,

because she thought so much of him in her heart. Your papa was very

jealous, Miss Hester, it is his temper, and I am not sure, my dear, that

it is not yours; and he knew Mr. Brian was pleasanter spoken than he

was, and that everybody liked him--so, to be sure, he thought his

brother was certain to be more favored than he--which only showed how

little your papa knows, for all so learned a man as he is," said Alice,

shifting her position, and turning her face to me to place a parcel of

books in the great chest; "for Mr. Brian was a man to like, and not to

love."

She was blaming my father, and, perhaps, she had more blame to say; but

her blame inferred more than praise, I thought, and I listened eagerly.

Yes! my father was a man to love and not to _like_.

"They say courting time is a happy time," said Alice with a sigh, "it

was not so _then_, Miss Hester. However, they all came to an explanation

at last. I cannot tell you how it came about, but we heard one day that

Mr. Brian was going abroad, and that Mr. Howard was betrothed to Miss

Helen. _I_ knew it before any one else, for my young lady trusted me;

and when I saw your papa the next day, his face was glorious to behold,

Miss Hester. I think he must have had as much joy in that day as most

men have in all their lives, for I don't think I ever saw him look quite

happy again."

"Alice!"

"My dear, it is quite true," said Alice quietly, and with another sigh:

"I could not tell for a long time what it was that made him so overcast

and moody, and neither could my young lady. It could not be Mr. Brian,

for Mr. Brian gave her up in the kindest and quietest way; you could not

have believed how glad he was to sacrifice himself to his brother--and

went away to the West Indies where your grandmamma had an estate, to

look after the poor people there; so then the marriage was over very

soon, and your grandpapa Southcote took the young people home to live

with him at Cottiswoode, and any one that knew how fond he was of Miss

Helen, would have thought Mr. Howard had got all the desire of his

heart. But he had not, Miss Hester! The heart of man is never satisfied,

the Bible says--and I have often seen your papa's face look as black and

miserable after he was married, as when he used to sit watching Mr.

Brian and my poor dear young lady. Your mamma did not know what to think

of it, but she always hung about him with loving ways and was patient,

and drooped, and pined away till my heart was broken to look at her.

Then she revived all at once, and there was more life in the house for a

little while--she had found out what ailed him: but oh! Miss Hester, a

poor woman may set her life on the stake to change a perverse fancy, and

never shake it till she dies. Your papa had got it into his head that my

young lady had married him out of _pity_; and all her pretty ways, and

her love, and kindnesses, he thought them all an imposition, my

dear--and that is the reason why he says that hard, cruel saying, 'Pity

is a cheat!'"

"And then, Alice?" said I, eagerly.

"And then? there was very little more, Miss Hester--she was hurried out

of this world when you were born; she had never time to say a word to

him, and went away with that bitterness in her heart, that the man she

had left father and mother for, never understood her. Death tries faith,

my dear, though you know nothing of it! think how I stood looking at her

white face in her last rest! Thinking of her life and her youth, and

that this was the end of all; so carefully as she had been trained and

guarded from a child, and all her education and her books, and such

hopes as there were of what she would be when she grew up a woman; but

soon I saw that she grew up only to die--God never changes, Miss

Hester--he tries a poor woman like me very like the way he tried

Abraham--and that was what I call a fiery passage for faith!"

"And my mother, Alice? and poor, poor papa! oh! how did he ever live

after it?" cried I, through my tears.

"He lived because it was the will of God--as we all do," said Alice, "a

sad man, and a lonely he is to this day: and will never get comfort in

his heart for the wrong he did my dear young lady--never till he meets

her in heaven."

At that moment Alice was called and went away. Poor, poor papa! he was

wrong; but how my heart entered into his sufferings. I did not think of

the bitterness of love disbelieved and disturbed, of my mother's silent

martyrdom--I thought only of my father, my first of men! He loved her,

and he thought she _pitied_ him. I started from my seat at the touch of

this intolerable thought. I realized in the most overwhelming fulness,

what he meant when he said, "Pity is a cheat!" Pity! it was dreadful to

think of it--though it was but a mistake, a fancy--what a terrible cloud

it was!

I will not say that this story filled my mind so much, that I do not

recollect the other events of that day; on the contrary, I recollect

them perfectly, down to the most minute detail; but they are all

connected in my mind with my grief for my father--with the strange,

powerful compassion I had for him, and some involuntary prescience of my

own fate. For it was him I thought of, and never my mother, whom I had

never seen, and whose gentle, patient temper was not so attractive to my

disposition. No--I never thought he was to blame! I never paused to

consider if it was himself who had brought this abiding shadow over his

life. I only echoed his words in my heart, and clung to him, in secret,

with a profound and passionate sympathy. Pity! I shuddered at the word.

I no longer wondered at his haughty rejection of the slightest approach

to it--for did not I myself share--exaggerate this very pride.

This mournful tedious day went on, and its dreary business was

accomplished: all our belongings were taken away from Cottiswoode, and

Alice and another servant accompanied them to set our new house in order

before we came. Just before she went away, at noon, when the autumn day

was at its brightest, I found Alice cutting the roses from my favorite

tree. I stood looking at her, as she took the pale faint flowers one by

one, but neither of us spoke at first: at last I asked her, "why do you

take them, Alice?" and I spoke so low, and felt so reverential that I

think I must have anticipated her reply.

I had to bend forward to her, to hear what she said. "They were your

mother's," said Alice, "I decked her bride chamber with them, and her

last bed. They are like what she was when trouble came."

She had only left one rose upon the tree, a half blown rose, with dew

still lying under its folded leaves, and she went away, leaving me

looking at it. I felt reproved, I know not why, as if my young mother

was crying to me for sympathy, and I would not give it. No! I went back

hastily to the dreary half-emptied library where my father sat. My place

was by him--this solitary man, who all his life had felt it rankling in

his heart, that he was pitied where he should have been loved.

In the evening, just before sunset, I heard wheels approaching, and on

looking out, saw the post-chaise which was to take us to Cambridge

coming down the avenue. My father saw it also; we neither of us said

anything, but I went away at once to put on my bonnet. It was dreadful

to go into these desolate rooms, which were all the more desolate

because they were not entirely dismantled, but still had pieces of very

old furniture here and there, looking like remains of a wreck. After I

had left my own room--a vague dusty wilderness now, with the damp air

sighing in at the open lattice, and the loose jessamine bough beating

against it, and dropping its dreary little leaves--I stole into the

dining parlor for a moment to look at that picture which was like Edgar

Southcote. I looked up at it with my warm human feelings, my young,

young exaggerated emotions, full of resentful dislike and prejudice; it

looked down on me, calm, beautiful, melancholy, like a face out of the

skies. Pity, pity, yes! I hurried away stung by the thought. Edgar

Southcote had the presumption to pity my father and me.

With a last compunctious recollection of my poor young mother, I went to

the garden and tenderly brought away that last rose. I could cry over

_it_, without feeling that I wept because Cottiswoode was my cousin's

and not mine. "I will always keep it!" I said to myself, as I wrapped

some of the fragrant olive-colored leaves of the walnut round its stalk;

and then I went in to my father to say I was ready. He had left the

library, and was walking through the house--I could hear his slow heavy

footsteps above me as I listened breathlessly in the hall. Whitehead,

and the other servants, had collected there to say good-bye. Whitehead,

who was an old man, was to remain in charge of the house; but all the

others, except his niece Amy, were to go away this very night. While I

stood trying to speak to them, and trying very hard not to break down

again, my father came down stairs, went into the dining-parlor, and

passed through the window into the garden. I thought he wished to escape

the farewell of the servants, so I said good-bye hurriedly and followed

him; but he was only walking up and down, looking at the house. He took

my hand mechanically, as I came up to him, and led me along the walk in

silence; then I was very much startled to find that he took hold of my

arm, and leaned on it as if he wanted a support. I looked up at him

wistfully when he paused at last--_he_ was looking up at a window above;

but he must have felt how anxiously my eyes sought his face, for he said

slowly, as if he were answering a question, "Hester, I have _lived_

here." I did not dare to say anything, but I held very close to my heart

my mother's rose; he was thinking of her then, he was not thinking of

pity nor of any bitterness.

In a few minutes he was quite himself once more, and drew my hand upon

his arm, and went in with me to say farewell to the servants; he did so

with grace and dignity like an old knight of romance--for he was never

haughty to his inferiors, and they all loved him. They were crying and

sobbing, every one of them--even old Whitehead--and I cried too, I could

not help it; but my father was quite unmoved. He put me into the chaise,

took his seat beside me, waved his hand out of the window, smiling as

he did so--and then he closed the blinds rapidly on that side, and the

carriage drove away. It was all over like a dream. I dared not and could

not, look back upon the home which had been the centre of my thoughts

all my life; and with the cold night wind blowing in our faces, we were

hurrying to a new life, altogether severed from our old existence, and

from Cottiswoode.

Yes! the wind was in our faces, fresh and cold--and I never feel it so

now without an instant recollection of that long silent drive to

Cambridge, through the darkening October night. The long dark levels of

the fields rushed past us so swiftly, and with such a desolate

quietness; and the long luminous line of the horizon, and the dull

clouds of night kept us company with such a ghost-like constancy,

travelling at as quick a pace as ours. I was soon tired of weeping under

my veil, for I had all the restlessness of my years; and I can see now

how the darkness brooded upon the flat meadows, how there seemed no

human divisions of fence or hedge upon them, but only one blank line of

grass from which the night had taken all color, and of ploughed land

stretching back its lessening furrows over many acres, which the eye

ached to see. Sometimes miles away, a pollard willow bristled up upon

the sky, showing its every twig with a strange exaggeration as it stood

guarding some dreary point of road--and the solitary haystack which

belonged to some one of those poor stray cottages belated among the

fields, threw up its bulk like a goblin against that clear universal

background--that pale line of sky which brought out every outline with

such a ghostly distinction. Distance, space, the wild idea of an

unending and unreposing journey, are the very spirit and sentiment of

this country--I think sometimes its dull unfeatured outline is half

sublime; there are no mountain heights to attain to, no sweet valleys

charming you to rest; only the long lines converging into the infinite

sky--the fresh breeze in your face--and the rushing of your own

footsteps through the silence, crying--on--on!

There was not a word exchanged between us all the way--my father sat

quite still, looking out from one window, engaged I know not how, while

I looked from the other, feeling a strange enjoyment in the mere motion

and progress, and in the silence and dreamy dreariness of all those

flat, unvarying lines, that glided past us in the twilight and the

night.

There were neither moon nor stars, yet it was not very dark, even when

we reached Cambridge--I had been in the town before, but I knew little

of it, and I had no knowledge of where we were, when we stopped beside

the old church of St. Benet, and my father assisted me to alight. I was

surprised, for there were only some mean houses and a shop before

us--but he drew my hand within his arm, and led me along a paved and

narrow lane, on one side of which was the churchyard. The light seemed

quite shut out here--it was like descending a well to go boldly into

that darkness; but we went on, past the little new houses on the one

hand, and the old conventual buildings, which loomed on us so strangely

from the other, till we paused at a door where some one stood with a

lantern. As the man raised his lantern and the light flashed up, I saw

that we were to enter under this arched doorway, which had a coat of

arms in the keystone. There were two or three steps to descend, and then

the door was closed, and we went along a narrow path, where there was a

blank wall covered with ivy on one side, and the house on the other. The

light of the lantern gleamed in those dark glistening ivy leaves, and in

the square projecting windows of this new home of ours. I was glad to

see how different from the massy glories of Cottiswoode, was this

strange house, with its two projections, one supported on dark oaken

beams, and the other built up from the ground. The building was only

wood, and lath and plaster, except the heavy and unlighted ground story,

which was grey and aged stone; and the broad square windows on the upper

floor which filled the whole front of each projecting part, were formed

of small diamond panes. But I saw no mode of entrance, nothing but tall

ungainly rose bushes, and withered creepers nestling up against the

walls, till we turned a corner and came to a door in the end of the

house, where Alice was standing to receive us. We had to make our way in

here through a ragged regiment of tall straggling hollyhocks--I have

hated them ever since that night.

But my father had not once addressed me yet, and my own mind was so

full, that I had never observed his silence. He spoke now when we were

on the threshold, and I started at the sound of his voice. He only said,

"Hester, this is your new home!" but I think there was the most

wonderful mixture of emotions in his voice that I had ever

heard--determined composure, and yet highly excited feeling--disdain of

this poor place he brought me to, yet a fixed resolution to show content

in it, and stronger and greater pride than ever. My heart echoed the

resolution and the pride, as I sprang in--but my heart was young and

full of the pleased excitement of novelty and change. I knew nothing of

what he felt as he followed me with his slow and stately step--nothing,

for I was impatient to see all these rooms that we were to live in, and

to make acquaintance with my new home.

So I ran on, leaving him to follow me--I could not have done better, had

I been laboring to find something which would comfort and cheer him. My

eagerness gave a certain interest to the poor house. I remember that he

held me back for a moment, and looked into my face with a slow smile

gradually breaking upon his own. Mine, I know, was full of light and

animation--I remember how my cheeks glowed from the wind, and how the

warmth and the lights had brought water into my eyes; and, I suppose, I

looked quite as bright and eager as if I had never known the girlish

heroical despair for leaving Cottiswoode which possessed me an hour ago.

I ran from one apartment to another, exclaiming at everything, sometimes

with pleasure, sometimes with astonishment. The two broad windows which

I had seen outside, represented two large apartments, occupying the

whole breadth of the house, and each with a window at the other end,

looking out upon a great dim silent garden, fenced in by other gardens,

and on one side by a dark mass of building, along which a light twinkled

here and there. These rooms were not fully furnished, but they were

already in a habitable state, and in one of them a bright fire blazed

pleasantly, sparkling in the old silver kettle and tea-pot, and antique

china, which we always used at home--at home! The words meant these

strange rooms, and had no other reference now for my father and me.

But when I went to lay aside my bonnet, I found a room prepared for me,

prettier, if that were possible, than the pretty chamber at Cottiswoode,

where Alice had tended me all my life. The white draperies were so

white, and full, and soft--the pretty chintz hangings were so fresh with

their new bands of ribbons, and there was so much care and tenderness in

the hands which had restored my old room perfect and unbroken, yet made

it brighter than ever, that I clung to Alice with an April face where

the tears had somehow lost their bitterness, and the smile its pride.

Now and then in my life, I have found out suddenly, in a moment, of how

little importance external things were to me. The conviction came upon

my mind at this instant, like a sunbeam. What did it matter to me

standing here in my triumphant youthfulness, with my father to be loved

and cared for, and Alice to love and care for me--what did it matter who

lost or who won such outside and external matters as houses and lands? I

threw off my mantle upon the kind arm of Alice, and danced away to make

tea for my father. In proportion to the depth of my sadness at leaving

Cottiswoode, was the height of my exhilaration now to find another home.

We had expected this to be a very dreary evening--instead of that I had

seldom been so happy, so vivacious, so daring, in my girl's talk; and

there sat my father, his face brightening in the firelight, smiling at

my boldness, my enthusiasms, my denunciations, my girlish superlative

emotion. When tea was over, he fell into a fit of musing, and was not

to be disturbed, I knew--and then I examined the room with its wainscot

pannels, its carved mantel-shelf, and its pannel pictures, hard flat

portraits, which had no pretension to the roundness or the breadth of

life, but were as level as the Cambridgeshire flats, and almost as much

like each other. And then I went to the further window, and coiled

myself up upon the bench within the curtains, to solace myself with my

own thoughts. The garden lay dark beneath, with shadowy bare trees here

and there, lifting up their branches to the sky, and some fantastic

little green-house, or summer-house, half way down, showing a dull

glimmer of glass under the boughs. But insensibly my eyes turned from

the garden and the darkness, to count the scattered lights in the

windows of this dark building, which marked its embrasures upon the sky

at my right hand. A light in a window is a strange lure to

imagination--I watched them with interest and pleasure--they were

unknown, yet they were neighbors--and it was pleasant from hearing the

wind without, and seeing the dark, to turn upon the glimmering tapers

with a certain friendly warmth and satisfaction, as though some one had

said good-night.

And so we were settled to our new beginning, and our new home.

THE THIRD DAY.

I was in the garden, where I almost lived in the sweet summer days in

those times of my youth; it was June, and I did not fear the windows of

Corpus, which looked out upon the trees with their numberless leaves,

the trees which were quite shelter enough for me. If I had begun to have

visions of the universal romance of youth, my thoughts were much too

exalted to think of vulgar fallings in love, and though I constantly

hailed as neighbors these kindly lights in the windows of the collegiate

buildings, I was troubled by no thought of the young gownsmen, the

possible possessors of the same; and so it came about that I went as

freely to the garden of our quaint old house, overlooked by the windows

of Corpus Christi College as I had been used to go in the garden of

Cottiswoode, which was not overlooked by anything within a dozen miles,

save the fruit trees in the orchard, and the great walnut by the house.

This was now the second summer since we came to Cambridge, and this

garden was no longer the wilderness which it was when I saw it first. My

father had a peculiar fancy in gardening--everything in this sunny strip

of land was enclosed in a soft frame of greensward--where a path was

indispensable, it was a hard, yellow sandy path that glistened in the

sun, and threw off the moisture; but instead of geometrical divisions

and cross-roads through our garden, you could scarcely see either gravel

or soil for the velvet turf that pressed over the roots of the trees,

and round the flower-beds; and for the thick and close luxuriance of the

flowers that grew within. The one or two Cambridge ladies who came to

see me sometimes, shook their heads at our grassy garden, and hoped I

took care never to go out when the turf was damp; but, indeed, I took

no such care, and was very proud of our full and verdant enclosure in

comparison with other people's flower-beds, where nothing grew so well

as ours, though everything had more room to grow. On this day of which I

am now speaking, the sweet greensward was warm with sunshine in every

corner. It was afternoon, and the streets were sultry, the wayfarers

flushed and weary, the fields parched and dry; but the sun was playing

in the leaves about me, and making playful figures with his light and

shadow on the grass under my feet--figures which changed and varied with

sweet caprice as the wind swayed the leaves about, and as the sun stole

by invisible degrees towards the west--and everything was fresh and

sweet and full of fragrance in this charmed country of mine. I was

within the little fanciful greenhouse which was no less a bower for me,

than a shelter for the rarer flowers, and I was busy about some of my

favorites, which I used to care for with great devotion by fits, making

up for it by such negligence at other times, that this pretty place

would soon have been a very woeful one had it been left to me. Just on

the threshold of this green-house door, was the stool on which I had

been sitting, with a piece of embroidery at which I had been working

thrown down upon it, and beyond that, on the grass, was a book which I

had not been reading; for it was not in my girlish, impatient nature to

dally with anything readable--I either devoured it, or I let it alone. I

was busy among the plants, and so enclosed by them that I was not

visible from the garden--but at this moment I was not aware of that.

I did not hear their footsteps upon the soft grass, but I heard the

voices of my father and his friend, Mr. Osborne, a fellow of Corpus, who

visited us constantly, and always seemed in my father's confidence. They

came to the green-house door and lingered there, and Mr. Osborne stood

before the door, with his gown streaming and rustling behind him,

effectually concealing me if I had not been concealed already. I had no

reason to suppose that their talk concerned me; nor was I much

interested to listen to it. I went on with my occupation, plunging some

slips of favorite plants into little pots of rich vegetable mould, and

singing to myself half under my breath. I was quite unsuspicious and so

were they.

"No," said my father, "Hester does not know of it. Hester is a girl,

Osborne--I have no desire to make a woman of her before her time."

"Yet girls find out for themselves what interest they have in these

matters," said Mr. Osborne, in his quiet, half sarcastic tone, "and have

speculations in those quiet eyes of theirs, whether we will or no, my

friend."

"There are few girls like Hester," said my father, proudly; "pardon me,

Osborne, but you have no child--I want to preserve her as she is--why

should I bring a disturbing element into our peaceful life?"

"Why? do you think your little girl is safely through her probation,

when she has had the measles and the hooping-cough?" said Mr. Osborne,

laughing. "Nonsense, man--d'ye think ye save her from the epidemic of

youth by shutting her up in this garden here? Take my word for it, these

obnoxious things that you call the world and society, are much better

preventives than this leisure and solitude. Why look at these windows,

and be a sensible man, Southcote; d'ye think nobody in Corpus but an old

fellow like me has seen your Proserpine among the flowers? How old is

the child? tell me that, and I will tell you how soon there will be

moonlight meditations, and breaking hearts, disturbing your peaceful

life for you. Hester is a very good girl--of course, she is--but what is

that to the question, I should be glad to know?"

I was very indignant by this time. I had very nearly caught his

streaming gown, and shaken it with vehement displeasure, but, withal, I

was very curious to know what was the origin of this conversation, and I

subsided into a perfect guilty silence, and listened with all my might.

"You do not understand Hester, Osborne," said my father.

"Granted," said his friend, quickly, "and perhaps the young lady is not

quite an orthodox subject of study, I allow you; but pray what do you

intend to do with her? is she to live in this garden for ever, like that

fantastic boy's lady of Shalott?"

My father paused and I listened eagerly. It was some time before he

answered, and there was hesitation in his usually firm tones.

"Life has deluded _me_," he said, slowly. "I am at a loss to know how to

guard Hester, that it may not delude her also."

"Southcote," said his companion, earnestly, "listen to me a moment. Life

deludes no man. You are a self-devourer. You have deluded yourself; nay,

take offence and, of course, I have done at once. I do not know the

innocent mind of a young girl, very true; but I know that imagination is

the very breath of youth--it must look forward, and it must dream--what

is Hester to dream about, think you? not of the triumph of an

examination, I suppose, nor of going in for honors; you have not even

tried to kill the woman in her, and make her a scholar. The child is

shamefully ignorant, Southcote. Why here's this feminine rubbish lying

under my very feet--look here!" and he pulled up my mangled embroidery.

"I should not be surprised now if it pleased your fancy to see her

bending her pretty head over this stuff--what's she thinking of all this

time, my friend? Nothing, eh? or only how to arrange the stitches, and

make one little turn the same as another? I'll trust Hester for that."

There was another pause, and there he stood turning over my work, and I

not able to rush forward and snatch it out of his hand. My cheeks burned

with shame and anger--how dared any man discuss my thoughts and fancies

so!

"Well, here is the real matter," said my father, slowly; "Edgar

Southcote, it appears, is eighteen--two years older than my Hester, and

old enough, he thinks, as he tells me, to decide upon the most

important event of his life for himself--so he sends me a formal

proposal for the hand of his cousin. My difficulty is not whether to

accept the proposal--you understand that, Osborne--but whether, before

giving it a peremptory and decided negative, I ought to make it known to

Hester?"

"I understand. Well now, waiving that principal difficulty, might one

ask why this young man's very reasonable proposal should have such a

peremptory negative?" said Mr. Osborne; "for my own part I do not see

that this is at all a necessary conclusion."

"I am afraid it must suffice that _I_ think it so," said my father, in

his firmest and coldest tone.

"On your high horse again, Southcote? Patience a little, now. Your

brother Brian was not a strong-minded man--but a very good fellow for

all that. What's your objection now to his son?"

I almost trembled for this cool scrutinizing of my father's motives and

opinions, which he never revealed to any one--yet I too listened with

interest for the answer. No answer came. My father spoke hurriedly and

with irritation; but he did not reply.

"I presume you will permit us some little exercise of our own will as to

the person whom we admit into our family," he said; "but enough of this.

Do you advise me to tell Hester, or to dispose of the affair on my own

responsibility?"

Mr. Osborne seemed bent upon provoking my father's slumbering

resentment.

"Well," he said with a pause of much consideration, "had the boy

proposed to _you_, the answer would have lain with you of course--but I

think it quite possible that some time or other in her life, Hester

might remember that her old home in all its revenues, and, I have no

doubt, a very worthy and generous youth along with them, had been laid

at her feet, and her father, on his own responsibility, threw them

away."

"Osborne!" cried my father--I almost expected he would command him

away, and bid him never more enter our house. I am sure I felt that I

never could address him with ordinary civility again--but instead of

that, after a moment's pause, my father resumed, in vehement tones

certainly, but not in tones of anger at the speaker. "Generous! and you

think I would give my daughter to one who sought her from a generous

impulse; you forget my life and you forget me."

How my heart throbbed and resounded in its quick and painful beating!--I

cannot tell how strangely I felt the possibility that I myself might one

day or other realize in my own person the misfortune of my father's

life. Yes, Mr. Osborne was right thus far, I had not been thinking of

nothing while I sat in the sunshine working at my embroidery. I had

already seen dimly through the golden mists the hero, the prince, the

red cross knight. I had already seen myself worshipped with the pure

devotedness of chivalry. I had already, like a true girl and woman,

imagined all manner of glories and honors won for me by my true knight,

and prized because they made _him_ nobler, and not because they exalted

me. Yes! I had been dreaming innocent, beautiful, unworldly dreams--when

lo! there fell upon me a vision of my cousin Edgar, and his _generous_

impulse. I clenched my hands upon my little plant in a passion of

indignation. The words stung me to the heart.

"Well--I am not astonished that you regard it in this light," said Mr.

Osborne, "but you must confess, at the same time, Southcote, that there

is a more common sense way of looking at it. The boy is a good boy, and

feels that he has been the means of injuring his cousin--what more

natural than that the two branches of the family should unite their

claims in this most satisfactory way--what is your objection to it? A

punctilio? Come, don't talk of it to Hester yet--let's have a fight, old

friend. I flatter myself you were none the worse in the old days of

arguing out the matter with Frank Osborne. Now, then, for your

arguments. Heigho! Howard, my boy, do you recollect the last time?"

There was so long a pause that I could not help stealing forward to look

what was the reason. My father's face was as black as night, and he

stood opposite his friend in a rigid fixed attitude, vacantly looking at

him--then he turned suddenly on his heel, "Excuse me--I am faint--I will

return to you instantly," he said, as he hurried in. Mr. Osborne

shrugged his shoulders, gazed after him, shrugged again, began to

whistle, and then suddenly turning round found himself face to face with

me.

For the first moment I think I was the least disconcerted--for I was

very angry and indignant beyond measure; but, as his face gradually

brightened into its usual expression of shrewdness and good-humored

sarcasm, my own courage fell. I had been eavesdropping, finding out my

father's secrets without his knowledge--playing a very shabby part--I

who piqued myself upon my sense of honor.

"So!" said Mr. Osborne, "your father is right, young lady. I see I did

not understand Hester; pray what may you be doing here?"

And I, who had intended to denounce his paltry views, and to pour out

the full tide of my indignation upon him for thwarting and chafing my

father--I was ready to cry with vexation and mortified pride. "I did not

intend to listen--I was only here by chance--and, at first, I thought

you knew I was here," said I, making a pause between each sentence,

swallowing down my ire and my humiliation. After all I had heard, to

have to excuse myself to him!

"Well, your father's run away," said Mr. Osborne; "suppose we finish the

argument, Hester. It is your concern after all; but I suppose such a

thing as a sweetheart, or the dim possibility of being wooed and married

never entered your guileless thoughts at all?"

I did not answer him--my girlish pride was on fire, and my cheeks burnt,

but I could find nothing sufficiently annihilating to reply to Mr.

Osborne.

We heard the noise of an opened door just then, and of a footstep in the

passage which led to the garden. Mr. Osborne glanced hastily round him,

and then bent forward to me.

"Hester, attend to me. You are very young, and have had a wild

education; try, if you can think before you permit your father to decide

on this. Do you mark me? I know this boy--he is a better boy than you

are, and he has a fantastic fancy for you, as great as you could desire.

Hester, here's your father. I'll keep your secret, and do you think of

what I say."

My father joined us immediately. If it surprised him to find me there,

he took no notice of it, and I was glad to pick up my embroidery and

hurry away. I was impressed with an uncomfortable necessity for thinking

about it, from what Mr. Osborne had said, and I went to my own room to

recollect myself. I could not deny either that I was a little excited

and agitated about this new appearance of Edgar Southcote. It did not

soften my heart to him, but it awoke my curiosity, and it made a step in

my life. I said to myself with a beating heart--a heart disturbed with

wonder, with anger, with surprise, and something like affright, that I

was no longer a girl, but a woman now, standing upon the threshold of my

life. I was sixteen. I thought I was rapidly maturing and growing old,

for in this old house of ours, so quiet and withdrawn from common

company, the days were peopled with fancies and imaginary scenes, and I

did not know how very, very young and girlish were my secret conceptions

of life and of the world.

Life! Here was my father, a man in whom I could see no blemish--what was

his existence? Such as it was, he lived it in his library, among his

books; talking with me now and then, and coming forth to take a long

silent solitary walk, or a stroll in the garden in the evening, once or

twice a week. Was this all? yes! and I said within myself in reverent

explanation of it, that his life had been blighted and cast down by one

wrong that always gnawed at his heart; he had married for love; but my

mother had married him for pity. Was not this enough to account for the

sombre shade in which he lived and walked? I said yes, yes! in eager

youthful enthusiasm--yes, this was surely enough to decide for good or

evil the whole tenor of a life.

And then there was Alice! Nothing in this house or about it, not even

the sunshine, cheered my heart like the smile of Alice; yet she was not

merry, and had little to be merry for. Alice was like one who had come

out of a desert, leaving all her loves and treasures there behind

her--she had lost everything, everything but her life--what had she to

live for? I shuddered while I said so; for without Alice how dreary

would my days be; and then I paused to recollect that on the borders of

this grand and momentous existence, where my father had failed in his

own enterprise for happiness, and in which Alice had lost all she loved,

my own feet were standing now.

This was what I thought on the subject which Mr. Osborne recommended to

my consideration; when I thought again of Edgar, it was with a renewed

flush of anger and mortification. My cousin pitied me, who dreamed of

inspiring some true knight with the loftiest ambitions, and rewarding

him sufficiently with a smile. I was to be subjected to the humiliating

proposals which Edgar Southcote's "generous impulse" suggested to him!

These were unfortunate words--how often they have clamored in my ear,

and haunted me since then.

I did not go into the garden again that day; not even when it was

twilight, and the dews were culling out the odors, and the murmur of

hushed sounds and distant voices from the quiet town charmed the dim air

into an enchanted calm. In my new-born consciousness, I walked up and

down the dim close, at the other side of the house, where there were no

windows overlooking the high walls and its glistening ivy. I would be no

Proserpine among the flowers, to any foolish boy who dared spy upon my

retirement from the college windows. Proserpine! if Mr. Osborne had

known I heard him, he never would have called me by that name, nor

supposed that any gownsman of Corpus could ever interest _me!_ I had a

great contempt for my next neighbors in my girlish loftiness and

maturity. I could not have been more insulted than by such an

insinuation as this.

And then I went to the drawing-room, and stationed myself at my usual

place in the window; the long room was nearly dark, though the pale

half-light streamed through it from window to window, and it was strange

to look across the whole length of the room to the ivy leaves faintly

quivering on the wall at the other side. My father and Mr. Osborne, who

had dined with us, were walking in the garden, talking earnestly, and

with some indignation I watched them, wondering if they still talked of

me. Then there came out, one by one, these lights in the windows, some

of them looking faint and steady like true students' lamps, some

suspiciously bright as though there was merry-making within. It pleased

me to watch them, as window after window brightened on the night. I

scorned the inmates; but I did not scorn these neighborly and kindly

lights.

My father came in very soon, and Mr. Osborne called me to say

good-night; I went down to him where he stood at the door, and he held

my hand a moment, and looked into my face. "Now, Hester, good

night--think of what I said," he repeated. These words induced me to

return very quickly upstairs, where my father had gone, following Alice

with the lamp. When she had placed it on the table and left the room, I

went to my father and stood beside him, till he lifted his eyes from the

book. He looked at me with a kind loving look, as if he had pleasure in

seeing me--a look not very usual to my father--and took my hand as he

always used to do, when I stood at his knee, to ask anything of him as a

child, and said, "Well, Hester?" I was full of excitement and

resolution, and came to my subject at once, without remembering that I

might be blamed for what I had to say first. "I was in the greenhouse,

papa, when you were talking there with Mr. Osborne to-day," I said,

firmly--and then I paused with a sudden recollection that this was not

quite consistent either with my father's code of honor or my own.

"I did not intend to listen--it was very wrong--but I could not conceal

it from you, now it is done," I proceeded hurriedly, "and I have come to

say, papa, that I heard what you told Mr. Osborne about Edgar Southcote.

I wonder how he dares presume upon us so; I think a true gentleman would

be sorry to let us see that he was able to be generous to us; and I hope

you will write to him at once, papa, and if it is necessary to say

anything from me, let it be that I hope there never will be any

communication between us, nor any need for me to tell him what I think

in plain words."

My father continued to smile upon me, holding my hand, but without

speaking--then he said, still with a smile--"This is a very enigmatical

message, Hester--I am afraid I must make it plainer; for this young man,

your cousin, has not dared nor presumed so much as you seem to think, my

love; I am to tell him that we cannot entertain any proposal for an

alliance between the rival branches of the house of Southcote, that we

beg his overtures may not be repeated, and though sensible of the great

honor he does us, we must beg to decline any further correspondence on

the subject--is that what you mean, Hester? I think that is about as

much as we are entitled to say."

I was scarcely pleased at the playful manner in which my father now

treated a matter which he evidently had not looked on in a playful light

a few hours ago; but, at the same time, his tone made me ashamed of my

own vehemence, and I assented hastily. He still held my hand, and his

face became quite grave--he seemed to see that I was surprised, and

wanted explanation of what he had said.

"I am afraid we are thinking of this young man with a little bitterness,

Hester," said my father, raising his lofty head, "which is not very

creditable to us, I fear, my love;--that he has claimed and won what is

justly his own, can be no wrong or offence to us. It is rather my part

to thank him that he has set me right, than to imply that he has injured

me. This last is by no means a dignified assumption, Hester, and it is

more or less implied in every harsh judgment we give against your

cousin--whereas he is simply indifferent to us, and in rejecting this

proposal, I do it with civility, you perceive, just as I would any

proposal which was distasteful, from whomsoever it came."

This speech of my father's impressed me very greatly; I left him holding

my head erect, yet feeling humbled. Yes, I had been very bitter in my

heart against Edgar Southcote--I had felt resentment against him, strong

and violent, as the supplanter of my father; but it was mean to dislike

him on such a ground--it was what Alice called "a poor pride;" yet I

confess, it was somewhat difficult to rise, in anything but words, to

the altitude of the other pride, and say "he is quite indifferent to

me--he has done me no wrong--it is not possible that I can have any

grudge against my cousin."

It was thus that I returned to my window-seat; when I placed myself in

my favorite corner, I looped up the curtain, so that I could look in as

well as out. The room was dim with that summer dimness which only the

evening firelight drives away, and the mild light of the lamp shone

softly in the middle of the silent apartment, throwing every piece of

furniture near in shadows on the carpet, and leaving all the corners in

a faint half-shade of darkness. The point of light in the room was my

father's high white forehead, looking like marble with that illumination

on it, and contrasting so strangely with his black hair. I looked at him

as I might have looked at a picture. On one of his thin white fingers he

had a ring, a very fine diamond in a slender circle of gold, which

flashed and shone in the light as he raised his hand, now and then, to

turn a leaf--behind him and around him there was shadow and darkness,

but the light had gathered on his face, and shone there like a star to

me, as I lay within the curtain looking out into the stillness: and on

my other hand was the soft gloom of a summer night lying close with its

downy plumes upon the trees, and the soft pale skies with a faint star

in them here and there, and the lights in the college windows glowing

upon youth and untried strength like mine. Rest and calm, and the mild

oblivion of the night enclosed us like the arms of angels, but did not

silence the swell of the rising tide in my heart.

THE FOURTH DAY.

It was winter again, a gloomy November day, ungenial and cold. The rain

was beating on the dark buildings of the college, and saturating the

dreary greensward in our garden, till it sunk under the foot like a

treacherous bog. There was not a leaf on the trees, and the ivy on the

high wall of the close at the other side, glistened and fluttered under

the rain. There was nothing very cheerful to be seen out of doors. I was

alone in our drawing-room, and it was still early, and nothing had

occurred to break the morning torpor of this unbrightened day. I was

sitting at the table, working with great assiduity, with scraps of my

materials lying round me on every side. My occupation was not a very

serious one, though I pursued it with devotion. I was only dressing a

doll for a little girl, who was niece to Alice, and named after me; but

as it did not consist with my ambitious desires to have a doll of my

dressing arrayed like a doll which could be bought by any one, I was

attiring this one in elaborate historical costume, like a lady of the

age of Elizabeth, or even--so stiff and so grand was she--like that grim

and glorious sovereign herself.

The fire burned with a deep red glow, so full that it warmed and

reddened the very color of the room; and though it was a very subdued

and gloomy light which came through the rain, from those heavy leaden

skies, there was a warmth and comfort in the stillness here, which was

rather increased than diminished by the dreary prospect without. It was

very still--the great old clock ticking on the stair, the rain pattering

upon the gravel and on the broad flag-stones at the kitchen door below,

the faint rustle of the ivy leaves upon the wall, and sometimes the

footsteps of Alice, or of Mary, as they went up and down about their

household work, were all the sounds I could hear; and as the excitement

of my enterprise subsided, and my occupation itself was almost done, I

began to be restless in the extreme quietness. It is true, I was very

well used to it, and made up to myself largely by dreams and by visions;

but I am not sure that I was much of a dreamer by nature. I had a strong

spirit of action and adventure stirring within me. I was moved by the

swiftest and most uncontrollable impulses, and had such a yearning upon

me to do something now and then, that there was about the house a score

of things begun, which it was impossible I could ever finish, and which,

indeed, I never tried to finish, except under a momentary inspiration.

If any one had tried to direct me, I might have applied to better

purpose my superfluous energy--but no one did--so I wasted it in wild

fancies, and turbulent attempts at doing something, and sometimes got so

restless with the pressure of my own active thoughts and unemployed

faculties, that I could rest nowhere, but wandered about as perverse and

unreasonable as it was possible for a lonely girl to be, and generally

ended by quarrelling with Alice, and finding myself to be in the wrong,

and miserable to my heart's content.

This stillness! it began to get intolerable now--to sit and look at

these ivy leaves, and at the rain soaking into the spongy grass--to feel

the warm full glow of the fire actually make me sleepy in the vacancy of

my life--I started up in high disdain, and threw down the doll which

caricatured Queen Elizabeth. I wanted something to do--something to

do--I was sixteen and a half, high spirited, warm tempered, a Southcote!

and I had nothing better to do with my youth and my strength, than to

fall asleep over the fire, before it was noon in the day! I rushed down

stairs immediately, with one of my sudden impulses to make some sort of

attack upon Alice. I would have been glad to think that it was

somebody's fault that my life was of so little use; and I ran along the

passage leading to the kitchen with an impatient step; on the same

floor was my father's study, and a little odd parlor where we now and

then sat; but I did not disturb my father with my perverse thoughts.