The kitchen was not very large, but looked so cheerful, that it always

reminded me of Alice. The walls of the ground floor of the house were

founded on some tiers of massy stonework, and I suppose that gave it a

look of warmth and stability--and in the side of the room, which was of

this same old masonry almost to the roof, there was a little high window

with an arched top, which threw a strange stream of sunlight into the

room, and constantly annoyed Alice, in the summer, by putting out her

fire. There was no sun to put out anybody's fire to-day, but the rain

beat against the panes instead, and the high straggling head of a

withered hollyhock nodded at the window-sill, with the dreariest

impertinence. In the breadth of the kitchen, however, looking out on the

garden, was a broad low lattice, quite uncurtained, which gave the

fullest light of which the day was capable to this cheerful apartment;

and at the great table which stood by it, Alice was standing making some

delicate cakes, in the manufacture of which she excelled. I came up to

her hastily, and threw myself upon the wooden chair beside her. I was

full of those endless metaphysical inquiries which youth--and especially

youth that has nothing to do, abounds in--what was life for--what was

it--what was the good of me, my particular self, and for what purpose

did I come into the world? Before now, I had poured my questionings into

the ears of Alice, but Alice was very little moved by them, I am

constrained to say.

"Have you done, Miss Hester?" said Alice, for I had taken her into my

counsels to discuss the momentous question of the doll's costume, and of

what period it was to be.

"Oh, yes! I am done," said I; "only think, Alice, nothing better to do

all this morning than dress a doll; and now I have nothing at all to

do."

"Dear Miss Hester, you never can want plenty of things to amuse you,"

said Alice; "don't speak to me so--it's unkind to your papa."

"I don't want things to amuse me," said I, "I want something to do,

Alice. What is the use of me--it is very well for you--you are always

busy--but I want to know what's the good of me!"

"You must not say that, dear! don't now," said Alice, "you're but a

child--you're only coming to your life--"

"I don't think life is much better, Alice," said I. "Mr. Osborne and my

father dispute for hours about passages in Greek books; are books life?

I don't think there's any satisfaction in them, more than in dressing a

doll."

"You did not think so on Tuesday night, my dear," said Alice quietly,

"when the light was in your window half through the night, and I know

you were sitting up reading one."

"Ah! but that was a novel," I cried, starting up, "that is the very

thing! May I send Mary to the library? I will have one to-day."

So I ran up stairs to make a list of certain desirable volumes, and sent

off Mary forthwith; then I returned to the table, where Alice made her

cakes, and to my wooden chair.

"No, there is no satisfaction in them," said I, "even a novel has an

end, Alice; but do you think that reading pages of printed paper is all

that people need to care for--do you think that is life?"

"Life is not one thing, but a many things, Miss Hester," said Alice.

"Dear, you're a-coming to it now."

"What am I coming to--only to breakfast, and dinner, and supper, over

and over again, Alice," said I. "I don't think it was so at Cottiswoode,

but it is so here, I know--then you have to work all day to cook for us,

and we have to eat what you cook--and that is our life."

"Don't speak so, Miss Hester," entreated Alice once more, "it is not a

poor woman like me that can tell you what life is; there were ten years

or more in my life that were full of great things happening to me; but

little happened to me before or after--you would think it was not worth

my while living after these years."

I confessed to my thought. "Yes, Alice! I am afraid I did think so;

though I would be a very desolate girl, I am sure, without you."

It seemed to move her a little, this that I said. Her cheeks reddened,

and she paused in her work.

"If you were older, you would know better," said Alice. "After the last

of them were gone, it was a dreary, dreary time. I rose to do my work,

Miss Hester, and laid me down to sleep and forget what a lonesome woman

I was. What was it you said this morning about the new day cheering you,

and the fresh spirit you had when you woke, howsoever you had been at

night? I know what that is--but after my troubles, when I opened my

eyes, and saw the daylight, it made me sick--I used to turn my face to

the wall, and wish and wish that I might sleep on, and never wake to

think about what had befallen me; but still I lived, and still I lived,

and the breakfast and the dinner and the common ways were what God had

appointed me. If I said life was trouble and sorrow, would you like it

better than when its only comfort was quiet, and reading books as it is

with you?"

"But it was not all trouble and sorrow, Alice, in these ten years?"

Her face changed again a little. I knew I was urging her to a painful

subject, yet I did not pause; and I do not think my questions grieved

her, even though they revived her grief.

"When joy turns to sorrow, it's the sorest grief of all, Miss Hester,"

said Alice; "no, I was happy beyond the common lot of women, but one by

one everything I rejoiced in was taken away. Yes, that was _life_--I had

babies in my arms, and plans for them in my heart; I was working and

contriving for their schooling and their clothing, and laying by for

them and considering in my mind how to train them up. We were walking

together, striving for them, using all our strength, my husband and me;

ay, that was life!"

I was a little awed by the words and said nothing. All this had ceased

for Alice--absolutely ceased--yet left a far sorer blank than if it had

never been. As I looked at her, going on very hurriedly with her work,

something I had been reading came to my mind. I said it aloud, watching

her, and wondering if it was true--

"I hold it true whate'er befall,

I feel it when I sorrow most;

'Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all."

Alice turned round to me eagerly with a tear shining in her eye.

"Don't you think I'd rather have been without them, Miss Hester; don't

you think it now! it's hard to lose, but it's blessed to have; that's

true--that's true! I would not have been without one, though they're all

gone: I have read in books many a time, good books, books that were

written on purpose to comfort the sorrowful," said Alice, sinking to her

usual quietness of tone, "that God did but lend our treasures to us, to

take them back at His pleasure. No, Miss Hester, no!--as sure as they

are His, my darling, His first and His always, so sure do I know that

He's keeping them for me."

I was silenced again, and had nothing to say, for the name of God then

was nothing but a sound of awe to me. I held it in the deepest

reverence, this wonderful great name--but _Him_, the august and gracious

Person to whom my poor Alice lived, her bereaved and pious life, was

unknown to me.

And Alice, I believe, had reproached herself already, for bringing her

real griefs, or the shadow of them, to eclipse my cherished discontent.

She returned to me with her face lighting up again in its cheerful kind

humility.

"Ay, Miss Hester, that's life to a woman," said Alice, "and, my dear, in

a year or two, you will find it waiting for you."

But this did not at all chime in with the current of my thoughts.

"Do you think, Alice, that a woman is fit for nothing but to be

married?" I exclaimed, fiercely. Poor Alice was taken by surprise: she

had not expected such a flush of sudden displeasure--she paused in her

work, and looked at my crimsoned face with a glance of real

apprehension. Alice was old-fashioned and held by many primitive

notions--she did not understand what I could mean.

"Miss Hester, if it's the nuns you're thinking of, I'll break my heart,"

said Alice.

"I'm not thinking of the nuns," cried I, indignantly, "why should a lady

be married any more than Mr. Osborne? do you mean I could not be as well

by myself as he is? I do not think you can have any woman-pride when you

speak so, Alice."

Alice smiled with her eyes when I made this speech, but kept her gravity

otherwise. "To be like Mr. Osborne is nothing much to wish for, my

dear," said Alice, quietly, "but I can tell you, Miss Hester, it is not

Mr. Osborne's fault that he is living lone in his rooms, a college

gentleman, instead of having his own house, and a happy family round

him--if it had pleased God. Ah! if Mr. Osborne had been the man!"

"What do you mean?" said I, quickly; I had an instinctive suspicion as

she spoke.

"Long days ago, before ever your papa knew my dear young lady, Mr.

Osborne came a-courting to her," said Alice, "and if you'd have told

that merry young gentleman what he was to come to, he'd have laughed in

your face then; he did not choose for himself in those days to be living

all by himself as he does now."

"Mamma again," said I under my breath, with wonder and curiosity, "did

she break _his_ heart too?"

"To tell the truth I do not think she did, Miss Hester," said Alice,

with a smile, "it's only a heart here and there, my dear, that breaks

when it's crossed in love."

"Alice!" cried I, horror-stricken at her want of feeling--for I had a

very poor opinion of any heart which would not break instantly for such

a weighty reason.

"She did not break his heart, dear; she only disappointed him," said

Alice, "and I never heard how it was that he took so much to learning

and settled down here; but he never had any grudge at Miss Helen, though

I can see he likes you the better for it, that you sometimes have a look

like her sweet face."

"She was my mother," said I doubtfully, "but it was cruel of her to

marry papa, Alice. Why was it, I wonder, that so many people cared for

her?"

"It was because she deserved better love than she ever got in this

world," said Alice, with a start; "why was it cruel of her to marry your

papa, Miss Hester? It was cruel of him--she never gave him cause to

doubt her, she waited on his will as if he had been a king; oh! my dear,

your papa was hard upon my young lady, and all for a fancy of his own."

"It has blighted his life, Alice," said I.

"Your papa is my master, Miss Hester," said Alice, with some pride, "and

you and I can only speak of him as his servant and his daughter

should--but I would have you think upon your mamma sometimes--your dear,

sweet, innocent young mother; she never did harm to any living creature;

she was always a delight to look upon till--"

"Till what, Alice?"

"My dear, till _her_ heart broke."

Alice moved away without saying another word; this was a perplexing new

light upon my meditations, but I was very reluctant to receive it. If it

should happen that my mother had been misconceived and misinterpreted--that

she, after all, was the wronged person, and that my father was to blame,

it might have made a great difference in the influences which just then

were moulding my mind and life; but I rejected this unwelcome

conclusion--I would not permit myself to be convinced of it. I clung

over again to my father, and made my stand by him, and so went on,

unconsciously determining and ripening for my fate.

"Don't take it ill of me, Miss Hester," said Alice, coming back, and I

thought her voice trembled slightly, "but never distrust one that cares

for you, dear--don't do it--you can't tell what ill comes of it in a

house; and when any one speaks to you of a blighted life, be you sure

it's his own doing more or less, and not another's. Take heed to your

way, darling, there's not a speck on your life yet; but the cloud rises

like a man's hand, Miss Hester. Pray that it may never come to you."

"Alice, how can it come to me?" cried I, trying to smile at her

earnestness, yet I was angry for her implied blame of my father, and at

the moment Edgar Southcote's rejected overtures flashed upon my mind.

Yes! if by any chance these had been accepted, the curse of my father's

life would have come to me. I was silent, oppressed by a vague

discomfort; it was foolish, but I could not overcome it, and Alice did

not answer my question, but returned to her work once more.

When Mary came back with the novel I wanted, I confess that I ran up

stairs with it, and that there ensued an immediate dispersion of my

thoughts--nor did I recal them much till the evening when I had galloped

through the three volumes, and was left sitting by the fire in the

sudden reaction of excitement, to cogitate upon the disagreeable

necessity common to stories, of coming to an end. My father, who, from

habit and punctilio, never returned to the library in the evening, sat

at the table as usual with his book, and after a little pause of

impatience at the conclusion of my tale, I resumed the thread of my

previous meditations. I had been a little startled and shaken to-day in

my thoughts. To say that I was inclined to scoff at the youthful notion

of a life determined once and for ever by the misfortune which Alice

mentioned as being "crossed in love," would be to say what was not

true--for my ideal belief in this extraordinary and all-powerful unknown

influence was as devout as that of any girl or boy of my years, and I

had an equal admiration for that melancholy constant faithful lover,

doomed to be unrequited, and never to overcome his disappointment, of

whose existence many a romance had made me aware. But I was

misanthropical to-night from the abrupt ending of my novel--and there

was still the greater part of the evening left vacant with no new story

to begin--so I speculated with a more sceptical mind than usual upon my

great problem. Was it my mother, so many years ago--twenty years or

more, a fabulous and unappreciable period, before I was born--whose

rejection of him had fixed Mr. Osborne in his rooms at Corpus, and made

the records of his life little better than a library catalogue? Was it

my mother, and his disappointment in her, which had cast my father into

his existence of aimless and sombre dignity? Was all this the single

work of a young girl who died nearly seventeen years ago, and who was

not much more than twenty when she died?

I was much perplexed to answer this question; though it flattered my

pride as a woman shortly to enter upon the field myself, and perhaps

make decisions of equally momentous result to somebody, it sadly

bewildered my perceptions of right and wrong. I felt humbled rather than

exalted in my own self-opinion by the idea, that anything _I_ said or

did could produce such consequences; and I could not understand about

Mr. Osborne. He, with his shrewd merry eyes, his regard for all his own

comforts and luxuries, his want of sentiment and melancholy--that _he_

should be the disappointed lover, almost exceeded my powers of belief. I

was glad to think that he must have "got over it," but I was greatly

puzzled to make the conclusion whether it could be this that decided the

manner of his life.

My father was extremely absorbed in _his_ book to-night--more than

usually so I thought; and I am afraid that circumstance made me still

more disposed to question him, unoccupied and idle as I was. I had

disturbed him two or three times already by stirring the fire, and

moving my seat, and had perceived his quick upward glance of impatience,

but I was not deterred from beginning my investigations.

"Papa, have you known Mr. Osborne a very long time?" said I, looking at

his face in the lamplight, and at the ray of reflection which came from

the diamond on his finger. He looked up sharply as if not quite

comprehending.

"Known Mr. Osborne?--yes, a long time, Hester--since I was a boy."

"And do you know why he lives here--why he is not married, papa?" I

continued quietly.

My father looked up with a smile. "He is not married because he did not

choose it, I suppose; and because he is a fellow, and has his income on

that condition. Osborne is a scholar, and not a family man."

"I wonder now what is the good of being a scholar," said I. "Is Mr.

Osborne poor? Does he do it for the sake of his income? Yes! I know all

these colleges are for making scholars--but then, what is the good of

it, papa?"

"Hester, you speak like a child," said my father with a little anger;

"you might say in the same foolish words what is the good of

anything--what is the good of life?"

"And so I do," said I with a little terror, and in an undertone.

"So! I have a young misanthrope on my hands--have I?" said my father;

"we will not enter on that question, but return to Mr. Osborne, if you

please, for I am busy. Are you very sorry for Mr. Osborne, Hester?"

"No, papa," said I.

"I am glad to hear it--there is no such prolific source of evil in the

world," said my father gradually becoming vehement, "as false and

injudicious pity--take care you never let _that_ fictitious principle

sway your conduct, Hester. Justice--let every man have justice--and he

who is not content with that deserves no more."

He ceased abruptly, and returned to his book with a stern face. This was

enough for me; all my questionings disappeared at once, in the greatness

of my sympathy for my father. I thought again upon Edgar Southcote, and

upon his "generous impulse." I unconsciously associated myself with my

father, and took his place, and tried to fancy the intolerable misery

with which I should feel the substitution of pity and generosity in my

own case, for that unknown love, that wonderful visionary influence

which was in my favorite stories, and in my girlish dreams--and my heart

returned to its former confidence in my father, and passionate feeling

of his great wrong. His life _had_ been blighted--who could deny it! he

who was so well worthy of the loftiest affection, he had found nothing

better than pity in its place.

It is not my wish to trace all we did hour by hour in our solitary

house, or I might record many a day like this. This was not a day of

very vital moment in my life--but it was one which confirmed into

singular strength and obstinacy, the influences which have guided and

led me through many a more momentous day.

THE FIFTH DAY.

All this day, with a degree of expectation and excitement, of which I

felt somewhat ashamed, I had been preparing for a party to which, at the

instance of Mr. Osborne, I was to go in the evening. It was a ridiculous

thing for a girl of nineteen--that was my age now--to think so much of a

party which was by no means a great party, nor had anything remarkable

about it; but, though I was so old, I had never been out anywhere

before, and much as I denied it to myself, this was really an event for

me. Our days were all so like each other, of such a uniform color and

complexion, that it was something to be roused even to anxiety for a

becoming dress. We were not precisely poor--this old house in which we

lived was my father's property, and though I did not know what was the

amount of the income which he inherited, along with this house, from his

mother, I knew it was enough to maintain us in comfort, and that nothing

in the household was ever straitened. But, I had never gone out in the

evening before, and I did not very well know what to wear. Alice and I

had a great many consultations on the subject. For my own part, I

thought white muslin was only suitable for _girls_, and very young

people, and at nineteen I no longer thought myself very young; and I had

no patience for the pink and blue in which dolls were dressed as well as

young ladies--it was very hard to please me--and the question remained

still undecided, even to the afternoon of this very day--

When I went up to my room and summoned Alice for our last deliberation.

I found a white muslin dress elaborately propped up on a chair, waiting

my inspection at one side of my dressing-table; and at the other: yes,

I was no stoic, I confess to a throb of pleasure which I can still

recollect and feel--at the other, rich full folds of silk, of what I

thought, for a moment, the most beautiful color in the world, a soft

creamy amber crossed with white, attracted my delighted eye. Alice stood

behind me, watching the effect it would have, and Alice, I am sure, had

no reason to be disappointed; but when I cried eagerly, "Where did you

get it, Alice?" the smile faded from her kind face.

"My dear, it was given to your mamma just before you were born," said

Alice, "and she would not permit it to be made, for I don't doubt, Miss

Hester, she had a thought how it was to happen with her--and from that

day to this, I have kept it safe, and nobody has ever known of it but

me; and I thought I would take upon me to have it made, Miss Hester.

Dear! you have very few things that were your mamma's."

I expressed no more delight after that. I almost think she thought me

angry, her explanation silenced me so suddenly; but she said no more,

and neither did I. There were other little things arranged for me on my

table which I turned to with measured satisfaction. I think poor Alice

was disappointed now, for I saw her cast furtive glances at me as she

smoothed down the silk with a tender hand, trying as I thought to draw

my attention to it; and I would gladly have spoken, if I could, to

please her; but I was strangely moved by this occurrence, and could not

speak.

And when I came up again to dress, and Alice began to brush out my hair,

I saw her face in the glass, and that it was troubled and tears were in

her eyes. She did not think I saw her, while she stood behind me busy

with my hair, and when she looked up and saw that my eyes were fixed

upon her in the glass, she started and reddened, and was painfully

confused for a moment. I knew what she was thinking--she was pained in

her good heart for what she thought the hardness of mine.

When I was dressed and looked in the mirror again, I scarcely knew

myself in my unusual splendor. Yet I was not very splendid--I had not a

single ornament, not so much as a ring or bracelet--and I am not sure

the color of my dress was the best in the world for my brown hair; but,

I had a very fair complexion, Alice said, and some color in my cheeks,

though I was not ruddy; and my uncovered arms, with their very short

sleeves and rich frill of lace, and the unusual elaboration of my hair,

and the beautiful material of my dress, made me look a very different

person from the plain everyday girl who had entered the room an hour

before.

"There is one thing I would like to have," said I, as I contemplated my

own appearance, and saw with how much proud, yet tremulous satisfaction,

Alice stood behind, arranging the folds of my dress, and regulating,

with anxious touches, the beautiful trimmings of lace, and the braids of

my hair.

"What is that, dear?" cried Alice eagerly.

"One of the roses that you brought from Cottiswoode--one from _that_

tree--to put here at my breast," said I. "Alice, I will think all

to-night, that this dress is from mamma."

Alice kissed me suddenly before I had finished speaking.

"Lord bless my darling!" she said in a low voice, turning her face away

from me; I knew she did so that I might not see how very near crying she

was.

When I went to show myself to my father--he was not going--but a lady, a

friend of Mr. Osborne's, was to come for me--he looked at me with some

surprise.

"What fairy princess gave you your gown, Hester?" he said, with a smile.

I could not help hesitating and looking embarrassed, when I answered

almost under my breath,

"Alice had it, papa."

He became grave immediately, and the color flushed to his cheek. Then he

opened a cabinet which always stood in his library, both here and at

Cottiswoode, and took out a box.

"These are yours, Hester--it is time they were given to you," he said,

almost with coldness; "you will use your own discretion in wearing

them, only I beg you will not show them to me to-night. Good-night, my

love, take what pleasure you can, and be ready when your friend calls

for you--good-night."

I carried the box away mechanically, and returned to the drawing-room to

wait for Mrs. Boulder. I was surprised, but still sufficiently curious

to open the box at once. It contained a number of smaller morocco jewel

cases, which I examined eagerly; I was as ignorant as my father of the

ancient fashion of these ornaments, but I think an uncultivated and

savage taste such as mine was, is generally disappointed with the

appearance of precious stones. I was extremely interested, but I did not

admire them, and that I should wear them did not occur to me at the

first moment. But there was one little spot of quivering living light

which changed my opinion; it was a small diamond pendant attached to a

very little chain, which puzzled me into a deliberation whether it was

intended for the neck or the arm. I tried it on, however, and settled

the question in the most satisfactory manner possible; and then there

was a bracelet of pearls, and then--but Mrs. Boulder's carriage came up

to the door with a great rush and din, and I hurried away my store of

treasures, and suffered myself to be wrapped up, and went away to make

my first entrance into the world.

The world! had I been a boy I would have been an adventurer, and sought

my fortunes in toils, and fights, and travel: but it was strange to look

round upon this Cambridge drawing-room, and think of it and of its

well-dressed, commonplace company as representing the great stormy

universe, of which I had my grand thoughts, like every other

inexperienced spirit. There was a large company, I thought, being unused

to evening parties. Mr. Osborne and a few more of his rank and standing,

scholars who looked shorn and diminished for want of their habitual cap

and gown, some young undergraduates, and a background of county people

made up the number--and a stray lion from London, who had been caught in

the neighborhood, was reported to be somewhere in the room. My

chaperone, Mrs. Boulder, was a professor's wife, and herself a

scientific person, who seldom condescended to talk of anything but

literature, geology, and the gossip of the colleges; she was very much

interested about this unknown author. From the sofa where she had

established herself, and where her professional black satin swept its

ample folds over my pretty dress, she was constantly thrusting her head

into the groups of people who gathered before her, searching with her

spectacles for somebody who might be the distinguished visitor.

"That must be he, talking to the Master," she exclaimed, "no, there is

another stranger, I declare, a very remarkable looking personage, beside

Mr. Selwyn. I wonder why nobody brings him to me. Mr. Osborne--Mr.

Osborne! Professor! I cannot make any of them hear me; my love, would

you mind stepping to Mr. Osborne? There he is talking to that very old

Fellow. Call him to me."

I rose with considerable trepidation to obey--an old Fellow, it must be

understood, is by no means a contemptuous expression in a University

town; and this was a very old white-haired man with whom Mr. Osborne was

engaged. He held out his hand when I came up to him, and looked at me

with a glance of pleased satisfaction, almost as if he were proud of me,

which warmed my heart in spite of myself. I told my message, but he made

no haste to obey it. He only nodded his head, with a smile, in answer to

Mrs. Boulder's urgent beckoning.

"Should _you_ like to see him, Hester?" said Mr. Osborne, "there he is,

that young dandy there, among all the young ladies--he prefers

worshippers to critics, like a sensible man. Should you like to hear the

great lion roar, Hester?"

"I am very glad to have seen him," said I, "but he has enough of

worshippers. No, thank you: but Mrs. Boulder wants to see him, Mr.

Osborne."

"Presently," he said, once more nodding at that tantalized and

impatient lady, "presently--and how do you like the party, Hester?"

"I like very well to look at it," said I, glancing round the handsome,

well-proportioned, well-lighted room, "it is a picture, but I do not

know any one here."

"We will remedy that, by and by," said Mr. Osborne, "see there is

something to look at in the meantime; and I will bring Mrs. Boulder to

you here."

As he spoke, he wheeled in a chair for me, close to a table, covered

with plates and drawings. I could not help being pleased at the kindness

of his manner and tone, and at the pride he seemed to have in me, as if

he wished other people to see that I belonged to him. A young man was

standing at the table, minutely examining some of the prints--at least,

I supposed so, they occupied him so long; and the old gentleman who had

been speaking to Mr. Osborne, remained by me when he went to Mrs.

Boulder, and said a word now and then, to encourage me, and set me at my

ease I thought--for I was shy and embarrassed, and not very comfortable

at being left alone. The young man on the other side of the table--how

very long he held that print! it made me impatient to watch his

examination of it, and ashamed of myself for finding so little in the

others to detain me. When he laid it down at last--it was one of those

street landscapes of the old quaint Flemish towns--the old gentleman

made some remark upon it, and the young one replied. They had both been

there. I have no doubt that was the reason why he looked at it so long.

"These Low Countries--you have not seen them, Miss Southcote?" said Mr.

Osborne's friend, "they are about as dull and unimpressive as our own

Cambridgeshire." I had a great deal of local pride and was piqued at

this--it restored me to my self-possession better than his kindness had

done. "Do you think Cambridgeshire is unimpressive?" I asked quickly,

looking up at him.

"Why, yes, I confess I think so," said the old Fellow. "I have forgotten

my native fells a little, after living here nearly fifty years; but I

have never learned yet to find any beauty in the country here. Pray what

are its impressive features, Miss Southcote?"

I paused a moment that I might not be angry. "There is the sky," said I.

The youth, on the other side of the table, bent towards me to listen;

the old gentleman laughed a polite little critical laugh. "The sky is

scarcely a part of the Cambridgeshire scenery, I am afraid," he said.

As I paused, not quite knowing what to answer, the young man came to my

aid. "I am not sure of that, sir," he said, with a look of eagerness,

which struck me with some wonder. "The sky is as much a portion of the

Cambridgeshire scenery as Michael Angelo's roof is a part of the Sistine

chapel. Where else have you such an extent of cloud and firmament? You

must yield us the sky."

"The sky belongs equally to every county in England, and to every

country in the world," said our white-haired critic. "I will yield you

no such thing--there is but one Sistine chapel in the world, and one

roof belonging to it. You must find a better argument."

"You can see so far--you are bounded by nothing but heaven," said I.

"Yes," said my new supporter, "there is the true sense of infinitude in

that wonderful vast blank of horizon; you never find the same thing in a

hilly country, and it is perfect of its kind."

"My young assailants," said the old gentleman, smiling, "if you mean to

maintain that your county has no features at all, I have no controversy

with you; that is exactly my own opinion."

It happened that as we both glanced up indignantly, and both paused,

hesitating what next to say to such an obdurate infidel, our eyes met.

He looked at me earnestly, almost sadly, and with a rising color--I felt

my cheeks burn, yet could not help returning his gaze for an instant.

It was a contemplative face, with fine and regular features, and large

dark blue eyes; the oval outline of the cheeks was quite smooth, and the

complexion dusky and almost colorless; but I was surprised to find

myself wondering over this stranger's features, as if they were familiar

to me. Where was it possible I could have seen them before? but, indeed,

if he was a Cambridgeshire man, as his words implied, it was easy to

account for having seen him.

For the moment, looking at each other, we forgot the cause we were

defending, and our antagonist stood contemplating us with a pleasant

smile; he did not say anything, but when I looked up and caught his eye,

I withdrew my own in confusion. I did not know why, and there was,

indeed, no cause, but though I could not explain, I felt a strange

embarrassment, and hastened to speak to shake it off.

"I know what I mean, though I may not be able to say it," said I; "I

think in our country you are never master of the landscape--you can

never see it all, as you could if it was shut in with hills; it is

always greater than you--and it is because our eyes are not able, and

not because there is any obstacle in nature, that we cannot see twice as

far--to the end of the world."

"It is quite true," said the young man hurriedly, "these flat fields are

boundless like the sky--or like a man's desires which are limited by

nothing but heaven."

"My dear boy, a man's desires are limited by very trifles, sometimes,"

said our old friend; "happy are they whose wishes reach like your

Cambridge fields as far as the horizon. If you come to that," he

continued, going on with a smile, "and give a figurative significance to

those dreary levels, I will not quarrel with you. In my north country,

which, by the way, I have quite lost acquaintance with--the extent of

our ambition is, to have our hills recognised as mountains, and get to

the top of them; but your land, I confess, Miss Southcote, gets to the

sky as soon as we do; there is no dispute about that."

I was obliged to be content with this, satirical as it was, and began to

occupy myself immediately with the prints on the table. The old

gentleman fell back a step, and began conversing with some one else. The

youth still stood opposite, holding an engraving in his hands and going

over it minutely. It was very strange--I cannot tell how it came

about--but in this crowded room, and among all these echoes of

conversation, I felt myself in some extraordinary way alone with this

young stranger. I never lifted my eyes from the picture before me, yet I

was aware of every motion he made--and though he did not once look up, I

felt his eye upon me. We did not exchange a single word, but we remained

opposite each other perfectly still, watching each other with a sort of

fascination. I do not know how the time went for those few moments--I

know it looked like an hour to me before Mrs. Boulder came back; yet

when she did come back, she exclaimed at having lost sight of me for

full ten minutes, and began to overpower me with an account of the

unknown lion, and the clever things he said--and to pull about and turn

over the prints which had been passing so slowly and so unwittingly

through my hands.

Mrs. Boulder had not been seated by our table for five minutes when she

had a ring of potent people round her, whom she had called out of the

crowd. I sat by her timidly on a stool, which some one brought me when I

gave up my easy chair to the great lady--and bent my head, half with

awkwardness and half to find breathing room, oppressed as I was by the

bulky figure of the Professor leaning over me in earnest discussion with

another pillar of learning. Mr. Osborne was not far off; but though this

might be pleasant enough for Mrs. Boulder, who was the centre of the

group, it was very much the reverse for me, stifled and overwhelmed by

half-a-dozen people pressing over me to pay their court to the eminent

woman, who had taken charge of a bewildered and shy girl to her own

inconvenience, and who, if she ever thought of me at all, thought no

doubt that I was only too greatly privileged, had I been entirely,

instead of only half, stifled with the pressure of this learned crowd.

But the young stranger whom I followed, not with my eyes, but with my

attention, remained still very near us, and still I felt strongly that

though our eyes had only met once, we had been observing each other all

the time.

I saw Mr. Osborne speak to him, as to a familiar acquaintance--I saw him

honored with a nod from Mrs. Boulder--and I wondered greatly who he was.

He was certainly not older than myself, and of a slight youthful figure,

which made him look even younger, I thought--was he a Cambridge man? a

traveller, though so young, and a scholar too, of course, or he would

not be here. I was very curious about this young man; would he speak to

me again? what could we have to do with each other which could account

for this strange mutual attraction? for I felt sure that he was

wondering and inquiring in his own mind about me, as I was about him.

After a little while, he drew nearer to us, and joined our little

circle, and turning round to answer some question for Mr. Osborne, I was

surprised to find him still by my side. Then, still under cover of the

prints, he spoke to me. I would have gladly spoken to any one else, but

I was uncomfortably embarrassed, I could not tell why, in speaking to

him. He began to tell me of those Dutch towns, and then we returned to

talk of our own country, and insensibly grew into a kind of

acquaintance. Then when the greater people dispersed, Mrs. Boulder

perceived him, and entered into a condescending conversation with him,

touching, in a professional tone, on the progress of his studies, and

putting hard questions to him, which puzzled and somewhat irritated me.

He answered them quietly and with a smile, and was evidently in great

favor with her; and still I sat by watching him, and still he stood at

my side observing me.

"How well he gets on!" said Mrs. Boulder, in a loud whisper to Mr.

Osborne, behind her chair. Mrs. Boulder did not think it necessary to

conceal her favorable judgment from the happy object of it.

"Who? oh! Harry Edgar," said Mr. Osborne, glancing at him; "that will be

a distinguished man!"

I had nothing to do with it, yet it pleased me, and set me on a new

train of questions--how would he distinguish himself? Not after the

fashion of my heroes--not like Columbus or Buonaparte--in books then, I

supposed. Now I had few literary tastes, though I read novels with

devotion; yet I paused to marvel what kind of books they could be, which

should distinguish this youth; but without finding any answer to my

secret question. More than ever now was I anxious about him. I wondered

what he was thinking now--what he would think to-morrow. I felt a great

desire to see into the mind of my new acquaintance, not by any means to

see how he thought, or if he thought at all, of me; it was simply

himself whom I wanted to understand. Harry Edgar--I did not think it was

a Cambridgeshire name--it sounded hard to me, like a north country one;

but it did not throw the least light upon who he was.

When Mr. Osborne put me into Mrs. Boulder's carriage at the door, I saw

Mr. Edgar's face again turned towards us for a moment. He, too, was

going away--and when Mr. Osborne asked me how I liked the party, it was

with difficulty I restrained the words on my lips: "I wonder who he is!"

I had no doubt he was thinking the same of me; yet I am sure we were not

attracted by each other, as people might suppose, who heard what I say.

For my part, it was a species of fascination. I did not either like or

dislike this stranger; but somehow I wanted to penetrate his thoughts,

and to know what manner of man he was.

Alice, of course, was waiting for me, and a fire was burning in my room,

to make it more cheerful. When Alice loosed off the great shawl I was

wrapped in, I could not comprehend, for a moment, what caused her sudden

exclamation of pleasure, and the heavy sigh with which it was followed.

It was the little diamond ornament which I wore round my neck. I had

forgotten it. Yes, this had been my mother's too; but I was tired and

sleepy, and not communicative. Had I liked the party? Yes, I thought I

had--pretty well--quite as much as I expected; sometimes it was very

pretty, that was taking it in the picture point of view--for I did not

think it necessary to tell Alice how I had been interested by the

stranger. What a pity, I thought, that he was a _young_ man! for people

would laugh at me, if I expressed any interest in him.

So I lay down to rest in the firelight, to watch the ruddy shadows

dancing on the walls, and wakefully and long to consider this evening

and all its novelties. It was all novel to me. My dress and my jewels

were enough to have woke me for a little out of the usual torpor of my

life; but this party which I had been rather ashamed of desiring to go

to, I felt I should never forget it now. Why? I could not tell why--but

I went to sleep wondering which was Harry Edgar's college, and what he

might be thinking of. I even looked into the future with a little

eagerness, marvelling what sort of career his was to be, and if I should

ever know more of him. It was very strange--for certainly his thoughts,

and the subjects they might be occupied with, were nothing to me.

THE SIXTH DAY.

I was out upon a household errand to order something for Alice. My

father and Alice conspired to keep me still as free of cares and almost

of duties, as a child. Alice attended to everything; she was a good

careful housekeeper, long accustomed to our house and ways, and needed

no help in the administration of our domestic economy; though, perhaps,

it would have been better for me, if I had been led to these homely

occupations, and found something tangible to employ my mind and

thoughts. It was Spring, one of those fresh, sunny, showery, boisterous

days, which are so pleasant to youth. I liked my quiet walk along the

narrow, old-fashioned streets--I liked the wind which blew my hair loose

from my bonnet, and swept the clouds along the blue, blue sky, rushing

past the turrets and pinnacles of the collegiate buildings. I was young,

and my heart rose with the vague and causeless exhilaration of youth. I

scarcely cared to think, but went on with a pure delight in the motion

and life which I had within me. I was pleased to feel the shawl escaping

from my hand, and my hair curling upon the breeze; and if my step was

not quite so bold as its girlish freedom permitted five years ago, it

was as firm a tread as it had been among our own fields, or in the lanes

that led to Cottiswoode.

I had done my errand and was going home; but I was scarcely contented to

return so soon, and would have walked a mile or two with pleasure. When

I came to the paved alley, by St. Benet's, which was the nearest way to

our house, I paused a moment in uncertainty, thinking where I should

go--but just as I was about to return in the opposite direction, I

started to hear Mr. Osborne's voice behind me. "Running away,

Hester?--nay, I want you at home to-day; come back and tell me how your

father is."

I turned round--Mr. Osborne was not alone--standing a little apart from

him, out of regard to his meeting with me, was the young man who had so

strangely interested me at the party. I glanced at him involuntarily,

and so did he at me; but we had no warrant for knowing each other, and I

drew apart as he did, as if by instinct. Mr. Osborne was not paying the

least attention to his companion, and seemed quite careless of him,

whether he stayed or went away, and the wind at that moment was playing

very strange pranks with the elder gentleman's gown, so that, what with

keeping it in order, and addressing me, Mr. Osborne had quite enough to

do.

"My father is very well," I said. "He is at home, of course; are you

going to see him?"

"I am going to tell him how his daughter behaved on her entrance into

the world," said Mr. Osborne with much importance. "Were you very much

impressed by your first experiences, Hester? There now, that is a little

better. We are, at least, out of the road of that vagabond breeze."

We had turned into the alley, and I had been waiting for Mr. Osborne's

young acquaintance to leave us; but he walked on steadily at the other

side, and showed no disposition to go away. I did not quite like

answering Mr. Osborne's questions before this stranger; he made me feel

so strangely conscious of all my own words and movements. I no longer

did anything easily, but became aware of every step I made.

"Have you not seen him since _that_ night?" said I, "it is quite a long

time ago."

"_That_ night--so it did make some impression on my young _debutante_,"

said Mr. Osborne, with a smile. "Do you know I have been out of

Cambridge for nearly three weeks, you forgetful young lady? Well,

Hester, what of _that_ night?"

"What of it, Mr. Osborne?" said I, with some little indignation. "I

suppose there was nothing very extraordinary about it."

Mr. Osborne laughed, and I was provoked. "There only was a crowd of

people--there is nothing remarkable in a crowd," said I, impetuously.

"Why should _I_ think about it--you do not suppose that I take a party

like that for the world?"

"What do you call the world then, Hester?" said Mr. Osborne.

"I do not know," said I, hesitating a little. "I cannot tell," I

repeated, after another pause, "but I suppose there is as much of it

here as there was _yonder_. I think so, at least."

"So that is the verdict of youth, is it?" said Mr. Osborne. "Henry, my

boy, what say you?"

I could not help turning my head quickly towards him, but I did not

raise my eyes; how I wondered what he would say.

"The party has sometimes more influence on a life than the street can

have," said the young man, with hesitation, "otherwise, I have no doubt,

a thronged and busy street in London would look more like the world than

a Cambridge drawing-room--but sometimes the drawing-room makes a greater

mark in a life."

"My good youth, you are less intelligible than Hester," said Mr.

Osborne, "but the young lady has no metaphysical bias that I know of, so

we will not discuss the question. So we were very prosy, were we, the

other night? and you were nearly smothered under the Professor's shadow,

and had nothing but pictures to look at, poor child! The next one will

be better, Hester, do not be dismayed."

I made no answer. I was piqued at Mr. Osborne's mockery; but I wondered

over what the other had said--what did he mean by the drawing-room

making a mark in his life. Had it made any mark in mine? why should it?

and why was he walking along so quietly by Mr. Osborne's side, without

the least intention of going away? I saw that he kept his eyes away

from me, as carefully as I kept mine from him; but how I observed him

for all that. His walk was rather slow and steady--he was not quick and

impetuous as I was--I wanted to hasten on, for I was embarrassed a

little, not knowing anything about "society," and being quite at a loss

to know whether I was acquainted with this stranger or not; but, of

course, Mr. Osborne continued _his_ leisurely pace, and so did his young

companion. They made me impatient and almost irritated me; they went on

so quietly.

When we came to the door, I opened it hastily, for it was an

old-fashioned, unsuspicious door, and opened from the outside. Then in

my awkwardness I went down the two steps which led from it, and stood

below in the door, waiting for Mr. Osborne. I was in a little tremor of

expectation--what was he going to do?

"I think I may presume on your father and yourself, Hester, so far as to

ask my young friend to come in with me," said Mr. Osborne, "for we have

some business together. This is Mr. Harry Edgar, Miss Southcote--will

you admit him within your precincts."

Of course I had to make a little awkward bow to him, and I do not think

his was much more graceful; and then I hurriedly led the way into the

house. Mr. Osborne went directly to the library, and I called Alice to

show Mr. Edgar up-stairs, then I ran to my own room to take off my

bonnet. Must I go to the drawing-room where he was sitting alone--I

thought it was very unpleasant--I felt extremely confused and awkward,

yet I smoothed my hair, and prepared to go.

When I went into the room, he was looking at the pictures--those dark,

hard panel portraits on the wall, and with some interest as I

thought--though when I came, he, too, grew a little embarrassed like me.

I went to my work-table immediately to look out some work, for I could

not sit idle and talk to him. There were countless little bits of work

lying half completed on my work-table, I had no difficulty in finding

occupation, and when I had selected one, I sat down by the window and

wished for Mr. Osborne. He ought to know better, than to leave me alone

here.

There was nothing at all to keep us from the necessity of talking to

each other, for he immediately gave up looking at the portraits, and the

room was in fatal good order, and all the books put away. After the

first awkward pause, he said something about the pictures: "they were

family portraits, no doubt."

"No," said I, "that is, they are not Southcotes; they are portraits of

grandmamma's family, I suppose; but we always count our family on the

other side."

Then we came to another dead pause, and Mr. Edgar advanced to the window

where I sat.

"How fresh and green your garden looks," he said, after the fashion of

people who must say something, "what a good effect the grass has--are

there really blossoms on the trees? how early everything is this year!"

"We are well sheltered," said I, in the same tone. "Our trees are always

in blossom before our neighbors'."

"And that is old Corpus," he said, glancing out at the little gleaming

windows of the College, "all this youth and life out of doors, contrasts

strangely enough, I am sure, with the musty existence within."

"The books may be musty, but I don't think the existence is," said I,

rashly; "everybody ought to be happy that has something to do."

"Yes. I always envy a hard student who has an object," said Mr. Edgar,

rather eagerly seizing upon this possibility of conversation--"he is a

happy fellow who has a profession to study for, otherwise it is vanity

and vexation of spirit."

Now I had a strong instinct of contradiction in me--a piece of assertion

always provoked me to resistance.

"I do not know how that can be," said I. "I suppose Mr. Osborne only

lives for his books, and his spirit shows very little vexation or

vanity, and papa does nothing else but study, and cannot have any object

in it--I fancy a good thing ought to be good for its own sake."

"Mr. Osborne is a very busy man--he has a great many pursuits," said my

new friend, "he is not a fair example. We have an enthusiasm for books

when we are young, and suck inspiration from them, and then we come back

to them that they may deaden our own feelings and recollections after we

have had a life of our own--when we are old."

"You are not old, to be aware of that," cried I, though I secretly

thought that, at least, in my father's case this might be true.

"I have lived a very solitary life," he said, "which is almost as good

as grey hairs."

After that we paused again, very conscious of our silence, but finding

conversation a very difficult matter. I was more at my ease than I had

expected. I observed him, but not with the same intense observation. A

person I knew by name, and spoke to in my father's house, was a less

mysteriously interesting person than the stranger who had attracted my

notice so much, when all were strangers. At last, Mr. Edgar began to

talk again--it was only to ask me if I had seen the great author who was

at the party when he met me first--he did not say "had the pleasure to

meet."

"I saw him, but I did not speak to him--nor even hear him speak," said

I.

Another pause--what were we to say? "Do you like his books?" said the

young man.

"I do not care for any books but novels," said I bluntly. I am afraid I

was not above a wish to shock and horrify him.

Mr. Edgar laughed a little, and his color rose. I am sure I did what I

could to give him an unfavorable impression of me, in this our first

interview. He said--

"You are very honest, Miss Southcote."

I cannot tell how it was either that he presumed so far, or that I

suspected it--but I certainly did think he had a great mind to say

Hester, instead of Miss Southcote, and only checked himself by an

effort. It was very strange--I felt _haughty_ immediately, but I

scarcely felt displeased; but I am sure there was a consciousness in the

deep color that rose upon his face, and in my tone as I answered him.

"I am only telling the truth," said I. "I cannot help it--when it is

only thinking about a thing, I would rather think myself. A story is a

different matter; I am very sorry for my dulness, but I think there are

no really pleasant books except those which tell a story."

"Even that limit reaches to something more than novels," said Mr. Edgar;

"there is history, and biography besides."

"Yes--but then I only care for them for the mere story's sake," said I,

"and not because they are true or good, or for any better reason. I

suppose a man's life is often more like a novel than like anything

else--only, perhaps, not so well arranged. The misfortunes do not come

in so conveniently, and neither do the pleasures. I think reading a

novel is almost next best to having something to do."

"I am afraid some of us think it a superior good, now and then," said my

companion.

And so our talk came to an abrupt conclusion again. It was my turn to

make a new beginning, and I could not. I did not like to ask him any

questions about himself--which was his college, or if he was a

Cambridgeshire man, or any of the things I wished to know; and, as I

glanced up at his thoughtful face, I once more fell a-pondering what he

could be thinking of. I do not recollect that I had ever had much

curiosity about other people's thoughts before. My father always had a

book before him, which he read, or made a pretence of reading, and my

father's meditations were sacred to me. I guessed at them with

reverence, but it would have been sacrilege to inquire into them. As my

established right, I claimed to know what Alice was thinking of, and did

not need to wonder; but here, with the full charm of a mystery which I

could not inquire into, came back upon me my first curiosity about this

stranger. Either his face did express what was in his mind, or I was not

acquainted with its language. What was he thinking of?--what did he

generally think of? I wondered over his thoughts so much that I had no

leisure to think of himself who was standing beside me, though still I

was strongly aware of every movement he made.

Just then I heard my father and Mr. Osborne ascending the stairs. I was

half sorry, and yet altogether glad that they were coming; and I was a

little curious how my father would receive my new acquaintance. My

father received him with stately politeness, distant but not ungracious,

and as Mr. Osborne and he took their usual places, they began their

ordinary conversation. When Mr. Edgar joined in it, I discovered from

what they said that he was a student of Corpus, a close neighbor, and it

amused me a little to watch the three gentlemen as they talked; of

course, my father and Mr. Osborne were in the daily habit of talking,

without any greater reference to me than if I had been a very little

girl with a doll and a pinafore. I was not intellectual. I did not care

for their discussions about books--and I expected no share in their

conversation, nor wished it. I was quite pleased to sit by, with the

ring of their voices in my ear, doing my needlework. I always worked at

something, during these times; and thinking my own thoughts. But Mr.

Edgar, who was unused to this, and perhaps did not think me quite so

little a girl as my father and his friend did, was puzzled and

disconcerted, as I saw, by my exclusion from the stream of talk. I had a

certain pleasure in showing him how much a matter of course this was. I

had never known a young man of rank and age before, but I had a perverse

delight in making myself appear something different to what I was. I

turned half aside to the window, and hemmed as only demure little girls

can hem, when grave talk is going on over their heads. But I saw very

well how uncertainly he was regarding me--how puzzled he was that I

should be left out of the conversation, and how he wanted to be polite

and amiable, and draw me in.

"How is the garden, Hester?" said Mr. Osborne at last, rising and coming

towards me with a subject adapted to the capacity of the little girl,

"what! blossom already on that little apple tree--what a sturdy little

fellow it is! Now, Southcote, be honest--how many colds has Hester taken

this winter in consequence of your trap for wet feet--that grass

crotchet of yours?"

"Hester is a sensible girl in some respects," said my father, "she never

takes cold--and your argument against my grass is antiquated and feeble.

I will not plan my garden by your advice, Osborne."

"My advice is always to be depended on," said Mr. Osborne; "you have

taken it in more important matters, and I think I know some matters in

which it would be very well you took it again."

"That is my affair," said my father coldly. "Advice is a dangerous gift,

Mr. Edgar," he continued, with a somewhat sarcastic smile, "every man

who has the faculty thinks himself infallible--and when you bring

yourself ill fortune by following good advice and friendly counsel, you

are in a dangerous dilemma--to hide your failure or to lose your

friend."

"What do you mean, Southcote?" cried Mr. Osborne with a look of great

surprise and almost anxiety in his face.

"Nothing but my old opinion," said my father, "that every man must stand

on his own ground, consult his own discretion, and build only upon his

own merits. I have no faith in the kindness and compassion of friends; a

_kind_ act, done with the noblest good intentions, may make a man's life

miserable. No, no, justice, justice--what you deserve and no galling

boon of pity--all is dishonest and unsatisfactory but this."

Mr. Edgar and Mr. Osborne exchanged a slight rapid glance, and I saw the

color rise over the young man's broad white brow; but I was too much

concerned and moved by what my father said to observe the others much.

His friend even did not comprehend him, I alone knew what he referred

to. I alone could enter into his feelings, and understand how deep the

iron had gone into his soul.

After that Mr. Edgar was very silent, and listened to what was said,

rather than took part in it--so that when Mr. Osborne spoke of going

away, the young man had subsided into a chair, as humble and

unconsidered as I was. He did not come to talk to me--he sat quite

silent looking on--looking round at the pictures sometimes, with a quiet

sweep of his eyes, often looking at the speakers, and sometimes

examining curiously my work-table. I was sitting close by it, but he

never looked at me nor did I look at him.

When they were going away, my father, to my great surprise, bade him

return. "Come again, I will be glad to see you," said my father. I

looked up almost with consternation, and Mr. Edgar, though he looked

gratified, was surprised too, I could see--however, he answered readily,

and they went away.

My father did not leave me immediately after they were gone; he walked

up and down the room for a while, pausing sometimes to look at the ivy

leaves which waved and rustled as much as the fine tendrils clasping the

wall would let them, in the fresh spring breeze. My father seemed to

have a certain sympathy with these clusters of ivy--he always went to

that window in preference to this one where I was seated, and which

looked into the free and luxuriant garden. After standing there for some

time, he suddenly turned and addressed me.

"Since you went out, Hester," said my father, "I have had another letter

from your persevering cousin. He is at Cottiswoode, and would fain 'be

friends,' as he says; though I will not permit him to be anything warm.

He is of age--he has entered upon his inheritance--though I hear no one

has seen him yet; and he does us the honor to desire to become

acquainted with us, whom he calls his nearest relations. What do you

say?"

"You will not let him come, papa," cried I, "why should he come here?

Why should he trouble us? We do not want him--you surely will tell him

so."

"I am glad you agree with me so thoroughly, Hester," said my father.

"Osborne is a great advocate for this young man. He has been urging me

strongly to receive him--and had you been of his opinion, Hester, I am

not sure that I could have held out."

This was so singular a confession from my father, that I looked up in

alarm and dismay. _My_ opinion! what was that in comparison with his

will?

He caught my look, and came towards me slowly, and with a step less firm

than usual--then he drew a chair near me, and sat down.

"What I have to say, I must say in so many words," said my father. "My

health is declining, Hester. I have exhausted my portion of life. I do

not expect to live long."

"Papa!" I exclaimed, starting up in sudden terror--the shock was so

great that I almost expected to see him sink down before me then. "Papa!

shall I send for the doctor? what shall I do? are you ill, father, are

you ill? oh! you do not mean _that_, I know."

"Sit down, my love--I am not ill now--there is nothing to be done," said

my father; "only you must listen calmly, Hester, and understand what I

mean. You will not be destitute when I die, but you will be unprotected.

You will be a very lonely girl, I am afraid. Ignorant of society, and

unaccustomed to it; and I have no friend with whom I could place you.

This was the argument which Mr. Osborne urged upon me, when he advised

me to receive your cousin."

"Mr. Osborne was very cruel," I exclaimed, half blinded by tears, and

struggling with the hysterical sobbing which rose in my throat. "He

knows nothing of me if he thinks--Oh! papa, papa! what would my life be

to me if things were as you say?"

My father smiled upon me strangely. "Hester, you will grieve for me, I

know," he said, in his quiet, unmoved tones; "but I know also the course

of time and nature; and in a little while, my love, your life will be as

much to you, as if I had never been."

I could not utter the passionate contradiction that came to my lips.

This composed and philosophic decision struck me dumb. I would rather he

had thought of his daughter and of her bitter mourning for him, than of

the course of time and nature. But I sat quite silent before him,

trembling a great deal, and trying to suppress my tears. This doctrine,

that grief is not for ever--that the heavy affliction which it is agony

unspeakable to look forward to, will soften and fade, and pass away, is

a great shock to a young heart. I neither could nor would believe it.

What was my after life to me? But for once, I exercised self-denial, and

did not say what I thought.

"Shall I say any more, Hester? Can you hear me? or is this enough for a

first warning?" said my father.

"Oh! say all, papa, say all!" cried I. "I can bear anything

now--anything after this."

"Then I may tell you, Hester, plainly, that it would give me pleasure to

see you 'settled,' as people call it--to see you married and in your own

house, before I am removed from mine. Circumstances," said my father,

slowly, "have made me a harsh judge of those romantic matters that

belong to youth. I am not sure that it would much delight me to suppose

my daughter the heroine of a passionate love-story. Will you consent to

obey me, Hester, in an important matter as readily as in the trifling

ones of your childhood? I have no proposal to make to you. I only desire

your promise to set my mind at ease, and obey me when I have."

My face burned, my head throbbed, my heart leaped to my throat. Shame,

pride, embarrassment, and the deeper, desolate fear of what was to

happen to my father, contended within me. I could not give an assent to

this strange request. I could not say in so many words that I gave up

utterly to him the only veto a woman has upon the fashion of her life.

Yet I could not refuse to do what, under these circumstances, he asked

of me. I made him no answer. I clasped my hands tightly over my brow,

where the veins seemed full to bursting. For an instant I felt, with a

shudder, what a grand future that was, full of all joyous possibilities,

which I was called upon to surrender. I had thought to myself often that

my prospects were neither bright nor encouraging; at this moment I saw,

by a sudden light, what a glorious uncertainty these prospects were, and

how I clung to them. They were nothing, yet the promise of everything

was in them; and my father asked me to give them up--to relinquish all

that might be. It was a great trial; and I could not answer him a word.

"You do not speak, Hester," he said. "Have you no reply, then, to my

question?"

"I want no protector, father," I cried, almost with sullenness. "If I

must be left desolate, let me be desolate. Do not mock me with false

succor. I want no home. Let Alice take care of me. I will not want very

much. Alice is fond of me, though I do not deserve it. Let her take care

of me till I die."

I was quite overcome. I fell into a violent outbreak of tears as I

spoke. I could command myself no longer. I was not made of iron to brave

such a shock as this "with composure," as my father said. He rose and

went away from me towards the other window, where he stood looking out.

Looking after him through my tears, I fancied that already I could see

his step falter, and his head droop with growing weakness. I cried out,

"Oh, my father! my father!" with passionate distress. Perhaps he had

never seen me weeping before since I was a child. Now, at least, he left

me to myself, as I could remember him doing when I was a little girl,

when I used to creep towards him very humbled and penitent after the

_fit_ was over, and sit down at his feet, and hold his hand, and after a

long time get his forgiveness. I could not do that now. I sat still,

recovering myself. I was no longer a child, and I had a stubborn

spirit. It wounded me with a dull pain that he should care so little for

my distress.

He did not return to me. He left the room, only saying as he went away,

"You will tell me your decision, Hester, at another time;" and when the

door closed upon him I gave way to my tears, and let them flow. If he

had only said a word of consolation to me--if he had only said it

grieved him to see my grief! But he treated it all so coldly. "The

course of time and nature!"--they were bitter in their calmness, those

dreadful words.

I wept long; but my tears did not help me. I did not feel it possible to

make this promise. To be given to somebody who would take care of me, as

if I was a favorite spaniel! I could not help the flush of indignation

and discontent which came over me at the thought. And then I began to

think of my father's real state of health in this revulsion of feeling.

He was mistaken--he must be mistaken. When I thought over the subject I

could find no traces of illness, no change upon him. He was just as he

had always been. The longer I considered, the more I convinced myself

that he was wrong; and somewhat relieved by this, I went to my room to

bathe my eyes and arrange my dress for dinner. How I watched my father

while we dined!--how tremulously I noted every motion of his hand, every

change of his position. His appetite was good--rather greater than

usual; and he had more color in his face. I was sure he had been

deceived. He spoke very little during that meal. For the first time a

sort of antagonism had risen between my father and me. I could not

consent to what he asked of me; and, even if I could have consented, I

could not be the first to enter upon the subject again.

And when I crept into my window-seat in the twilight, and watched as I

had watched so often, the lights gleaming in the windows of the College,

I wondered now with a strange sense of neighborhood and friendship,

which of them shone upon the thoughtful face and dark blue eyes of my

new friend. I had made many a story in my own mind about the lights; and

there was one favorite one, which was lighted sooner, and burned longer

than any of the others, which I immediately fixed upon as his. I thought

I could fancy him sitting within its steady glow, reading books which I

knew nothing of, writing to friends unknown to me, thinking thoughts

which I could not penetrate. As I sat still in the darkness, with my

eyes upon that little gleaming window, I found a strange society and

fellowship in looking at it. If I had had a brother now, like this

student, how much happier would I have been. As it was, the idea of him

was a relief to me. I forgot my own perplexity as I wondered and

pondered about him.

My father came into the drawing-room, as I sat thus in the corner of the

window-seat, leaning my cheek upon my hand, and looking out upon the

little shining windows of Corpus--he was displeased that the lamp was

not lighted, and rang the bell hurriedly; and it was only by some sudden

movement I made, that, with a start, he discovered me. "So, Hester, you

are thinking," he said, in a low tone. I started up, emboldened by my

own thoughts.

"Papa--papa! you were mistaken in what you said this morning," I

exclaimed eagerly, "you are not ill--how firm your hand is, and I never

saw your eyes so bright--you are mistaken, I am sure you are."

"Do me justice, Hester," said my father, in a voice which chilled me

back out of all my hopes. "I took care not to speak of this till I was

sure that I could not be mistaken. Trust me, I have a fearful warrant

for what I say."

His voice neither paused nor faltered--it was a stoic speaking of the

mortal pain he despised; but it was hard and bitter, and so cold--oh! so

cold! If he had no pity for himself, he might have had pity for me.

I held his hand, grasped it, and clung to it; but I did not cry again,

for I felt that he would have been displeased, and it was a long time

before his fingers closed upon mine with any return of my eager clasp.

"You have been thinking, Hester, of what I said to you--what have you to

tell me now?"

"I cannot do it, papa," I said, under my breath.

He did not answer anything at first, nor loose my hand, nor put me away

from him. But after a little while he spoke in his measured low

melodious tones. "You think it better to risk your all upon a chance, do

you, Hester? Such a chance--happiness never comes of it. It is always an

unequal barter--but you prefer to risk that rather than to trust to me."

"I want to risk nothing--I need nothing!" cried I, "while I have my

father, I want no other, and do not bid me think of such misery--do not,

papa! You will live longer than I shall--oh! I hope, I pray you will.

Papa, do not urge me, I cannot anticipate such a calamity!"

"This is merely weakness; is it compassion for my feelings?" said my

father. "I tell you this calamity, if it is a calamity, is coming

rapidly, and you cannot stay it. What will you do then?"

"I do not care what I do then," I said, scarcely knowing what my words

were, "but I would rather you left me desolate than gave me to somebody

to protect me. Oh! father, I cannot do it--I cannot consent."

He said nothing more, but turned away from me, and went to his usual

seat at the table, and to his book. I sat still in my corner, once more

venturing to weep, and struck with a hundred compunctions; but I

steadily resisted the strong impulse which came upon me to go to his

feet and promise anything he wished--I could not do this--it would kill

the very heart in me, and surely I was right.

THE SEVENTH DAY.

It was now nearly Midsummer, the crown of the year. I was sitting in my

own room by the window, idly musing, when Alice came in with some of my

light muslin dresses to put them away. I had neither book nor work to

veil my true occupation. I was leaning my head upon both my hands,

sometimes vacantly looking out at the windows, sometimes closing my

fingers over my eyes. I had both scenery and circumstances in my

dream--I wanted nothing external to help me in the meditations with

which my mind had grown familiar now.

I was not unaware of the entrance of Alice, but I only changed my

position a little, and did not speak, hoping to be undisturbed. I saw,

with a little impatience, how careful she was about the dresses--how she

smoothed down their folds, and arranged them elaborately, that they

might not be crushed in the drawer; but she certainly took more time

than was necessary for this simple operation, and though Alice had no

clue to my thoughts, I scarcely liked, I cannot tell why, to continue

them in her presence. But when the drawers were closed at last, Alice

still did not go away--she came to the dressing-table, and began to

arrange and disarrange the pretty toilette boxes which she kept in such

good order, and to loop up and pull down the muslin draperies of the

table and the mirror; at last she gathered courage and came close to me.

"May I speak to you, Miss Hester?" said Alice, but it was in a disturbed

and nervous tone.

Now I was annoyed to have my own thoughts, which had a great charm for

me at that time, interrupted and broken. I looked up with a little

petulance--"What is it, Alice?"

She came still closer to where I was sitting, and her bright good face

was troubled. "Miss Hester, my darling, I want to consult you," said

Alice, and I thought I saw a tear trembling in her eye. "I am afraid

your papa is ill. I am afraid he is very bad. The doctor comes and goes,

and he never lets you know; and I have said to myself this three months

back: 'it's cruel to keep it from her--the longer she is of knowing the

worse it will be.' And now, dear, I've taken heart and come myself to

tell you. He's very bad, Miss Hester, he has a deal of trouble; and

it'll come hard--hard upon you."

I felt that my face was quite blanched and white. What a contrast was

this to the terror of my own thoughts! I shrank within myself with a

guilty consciousness, that while I had been running in these charmed

ways, my father had suffered in secret, making no sign. I cannot say I

was startled--Alice's words fell upon me with a dull heavy pang--I felt

as if a blow which had long been hanging over me had fallen at last.

"But Alice, Alice, I see no change in him," cried I, for a moment

struggling against the truth.

"If you went to him as I sometimes go, you would see a change, Miss

Hester," said Alice; "it is not your fault, dear. Well I know that--but

the light in his eye and the color in his cheek--hush--that's the

hectic, darling, you've heard of that," and Alice turned to me a glance

of fright, and sunk her voice to a whisper, as if this was some deadly

enemy lurking close at hand.

And fever and faintness came upon me as she spoke. I rose and threw up

the window for a moment's breath, and then I turned to Alice, and cried

upon her shoulder and asked her what I was to do--what I was to do?

With her kind hand upon my head, and her kind voice blessing her "dear

child," Alice soothed and calmed me--and the tears gave me some relief,

and I gradually composed myself. "Do you think he will let me nurse

him, Alice? He told me he was ill long ago, but I persuaded myself he

was mistaken; and you think he is very bad--in great pain? oh! do you

think he will let me nurse him, Alice?"

"I cannot tell. Miss Hester," said Alice, "but, dear, you must try--did

he tell you he was ill?--and I was doing him wrong, thinking he was too

proud to let his own child see him in weakness: oh, we're hard judges,

every one of us. When was it, dear?"

"In spring, a long time ago; and we were not quite friends then," said

I. "I thought he was cruel; he spoke to me about--about--I mean he told

me that I must soon be left alone, and that he wanted to find some one

to take care of me. I cannot tell you about it, Alice; and I refused--I

said no to my father; and we have never been very good friends since

then."

"Do you mean that your papa wanted you to marry, Miss Hester?" asked

Alice.

"I suppose so--yes!" I said, turning away my head--she was looking full

at me, and looking very anxiously--she had always been greatly

privileged. I feared I might have been questioned, had she caught the

expression of my eye.

"And did he say who? Was it M----? Was it your cousin?" said Alice.

"No, it was not my cousin; but why do you speak of that? Alice, let me

go to my father," said I.

"He does not want you now, darling," said Alice, detaining me. "Dear

Miss Hester, don't you think it wrong of me--you're my own child. I took

you out of your mother's arms. Speak to me just one word. Is there any

one, darling, any one?--Miss Hester, you'll not be angry with me?"

"Then do not ask me such questions, Alice," I said, in great shame and

confusion, with a burning flush upon my cheek, "does it become us to

speak of things like this, when my father so ill--why do you say he does

not want me now! he may want me this very moment, let me go."

"Dear, he's sleeping," said Alice, "he has been very ill, and now he's

at rest and easy, and lying down to refresh himself--you can't go now,

Miss Hester, for it would only disturb him--poor gentleman--won't you

stay, dear, and say a word to me?"

"I have nothing to say to you, Alice," said I, half crying with vexation

and shame and embarrassment, "why do you question me so? I have done

nothing wrong--you ought rather to tell me how my father is, if you will

not let me go to see."

"The pain is here," said Alice, putting her hand to her side, "here at

his heart. I know what trouble at the heart is, Miss Hester, and your

papa has known it many a day, but it isn't grief or sorrow now, but

sickness, and if the one has brought the other, I cannot tell. It comes

on in fits and spasms, and is very bad for a time, and then it goes off

again, and he is as well to look at as ever he was. But every time it

comes he's weaker, and it's wearing out his strength day by day. Yes,

dear, it's cruel to say it, but it's true."

"And are you with him when he is ill, Alice?" said I anxiously.

"He rings his bell when he feels it coming," said Alice, "though I know

he has many a hard hour all by himself; and anxiety on his mind is very

bad for him, dear," she continued, looking at me wistfully, "and he is

troubled in his spirit about leaving you. If you _can_ give in to him,

Miss Hester, dear, if it's not against your heart--if you're fancy-free,

and think no more of one than of another--oh! darling, yield to him

anything you can. He's a suffering man, and is your father, and pride is

the sin of the house; every one has it, less or more; and there are only

two of you in the world, and you are his only child!"

Alice ran breathlessly through this string of arguments, while I

listened with a disturbed and a rebellious heart. No, if this was

true,--if my father was slowly dying--if he would soon be beyond the

reach of all obedience and duty, I would not deny him anything--not even

this. It was hard, unspeakably hard, to think of it. I could not see

why he should ask such a bitter sacrifice from me. I knew of no

self-sacrifice in his history--why should he think it was easy in mine?

Alice left me like a skilful general, when she had made this urgent

appeal, and went away down stairs, saying she would call me when my

father awoke. I remained at my window, where I had been dreaming before,

but what a harsh interruption had come to my dreams--the sunshine

without streamed down as full and bright as ever over the trees and

flowers, and fresh enclosing greensward of our pretty garden; half an

hour of time had come and gone, but it might have been half a year for

the change it made in me. Alice had come to my Bower of Bliss, like Sir

Guyon, and driven me forth from among the flowers and odors of the

enchanted land. My heart became very heavy, I could not tell why. I

resolved upon making my submission to my father, if I had an

opportunity, and telling him to do what he would with me. This was not a

willing or tender submission, but a forced and reluctant one; and I did

not try to conceal from myself that I felt it very hard, though when I

thought again of his recent suffering, and of the fantastic paradise of

dreams in which I was wandering, while he wrestled with his mortal

enemy, I felt suddenly humiliated and subdued. My father! my father! I

had belonged to him all my life, I had no right to any love but his; I

had lived at ease in his care, and trusted to him with the perfect

confidence of a child. But now, when it was at last of importance that I

should trust him, was this the time to follow my own fancies and leave

him to suffer alone?

At that moment Alice called me, and I immediately went down stairs. I

went with a tremulous and uncertain step, and an oppressed heart--to

make any sacrifice he wished or asked--to do anything he desired of me.

When I entered the library, my father looked up from his book with a

momentary glance of surprise and inquiry; and with a heart beating so

loud and so uneasily as mine it was hard to look unembarrassed and

natural. I said breathlessly: "May I sit beside you, papa? I want to

read a little," but I did not dare to look at him as I spoke--the calm

everyday tone of his voice struck very strangely upon my excited ear as

he answered me: "Surely, Hester," he said, with a slight quiet

astonishment at the unnecessary question. He was perfectly unexcited--I

could see neither care, nor anxiety, nor suffering in his calm and

equable looks; and he did not perceive nor suspect the tumult and fever

in my mind. Prepared as I was to yield to him with reluctance, and a

feeling of hardship, I felt a shock of almost disappointment when I

found that nothing was to be asked of me--I sank into the nearest chair

and took up the first book I could find to cover my trembling and

confusion. The stillness of the room overpowered me--I could hear my

heart beating in the silence, and as my eye wandered over all these

orderly and ordinary arrangements, and to the calm bright sunshine out

of doors, and the shadow of the trees softly waving across the window, I

was calmed into quieter expectancy and clearer vision. My father sat in

his usual place at his usual studies, with the summer daylight full upon

his face, and everything about him arranged with scrupulous propriety

and care; if any of his habitual accessories had been disturbed--if he

had occupied another seat, or sat in a different attitude, or if I could

have detected the slightest sign of faltering or weakness in his manner,

I would not have felt so strongly my sudden descent from the heights of

terror, anxiety, and expectation, to the everyday level of repose and

comfort; but there was no change in his stately person or dress, no

perceptible difference in his appearance. He was not old--at this

present moment he looked like a man in his prime, handsome, haughty,

reserved, and fastidious. As I observed him under the shadow of my book,

I felt like a spy watching to detect incipient weakness--was I

disappointed that he did not look ill? Was this the man who half an hour

ago was sleeping the sleep of exhaustion after a deadly struggle with

his malady? I could not believe myself, or Alice--she was mistaken--for

it was impossible to reconcile what she told me with what I saw.

But the stillness of the room and his steady occupation influenced me

like a spell--I did not go away--and when a slight movement he made

startled me into a momentary fear that he might perceive I was watching

him, I began to read in earnest the book which, all this time, I had

been holding in my hands. It had been lying on the top of a pile of

others, and was quite a new book, not entirely cut up, a very unusual

thing here. My eye had already travelled vacantly two or three times to

the end of the page without knowing a syllable of the lines which I went

over mechanically--but now I caught the name of the book, and it

strangely awed and startled me. I could almost have cast it from me like

a horrible suggestion when I saw that title. It was a medical treatise,

and its subject was "Sudden Death"--the words were like a revelation to

me--this was why he sat so composed and stately, ready to meet the last

enemy like a brave man; this was why he suffered no trace of agitation

or of languor to come into this solemn room which at any moment, as my

excited fancy whispered, might become the chamber of death. I could

almost fancy I saw the shadowy sword suspended over my father's head,

and in another instant it might fall.

My terror now, for himself and for him only, was as insane and wild as

it seemed visionary and baseless; for I had seen nothing as yet to point

to him as one of the probable victims of this sudden conclusion. But the

very manner of the book convinced me of what he thought himself. I went

on reading it, scarcely sensible now how my hands trembled, nor how

easily he would find me out, if he happened to glance at me. Yes! here

was abundant confirmation of my fears. I read with a breathless and

overwhelming interest cases and symptoms--to my alarmed fancy, every one

seemed to bear some likeness to what I knew of his; I never read a

drama or a tale with such profound excitement as I read this scientific

treatise--there seemed to be life and death in its pages--the

authoritative mandate which should forbid hope, or silence fear.

"Hester!" said my father. I started violently and looked up at him, I

felt the heat and flush of my intense occupation upon my cheek, and I

almost expected to see him faint or fall as I sprang towards him. He

held up his hand half impatient, half alarmed, at my vehemence. "What

are you reading? what has excited you, Hester?" he said.

I retired very rapidly and quietly to my chair, and put my book away

with nervous haste. "Nothing, papa," I said, bending my head to escape

his eye.

"Nothing! that is a child's answer," said my father, and I felt that he

smiled; "I have been watching you these five minutes, Hester, and I know

that 'nothing' could not make you so earnest. What is it you have been

reading--tell me."

"It is only a book--a new book," I said slowly.

"I thought so--almost the only new book in my library, is it not?" said

my father, in a singular tone, "what do you think of it, Hester?"

I lifted my hands in entreaty--I could not bear to hear him speaking

thus.

"It is true," he said quietly, "and you perceive it does not disturb

me--this is what you must make up your mind to, Hester. It will be a

trial for you--but not a long and tedious one--and you must hold

yourself prepared for it as I do."

"But father--father! you are not ill. You are not so ill--I cannot

believe it," I cried, scarcely knowing what I said.

"It will prove itself by and by," he answered calmly, and returned to

his book as if we had been speaking of some indifferent matter. I could

not think of it so coolly--I cried: "Papa, listen to me, I will do

anything, everything you want--do you hear me, papa?"

He looked up at me for a moment--was it suspicion? he certainly seemed

to have forgotten that he had ever asked anything of me which I had

refused.

"I require nothing, Hester," he said, "nothing, my love, and I perfectly

believe in your willingness to serve me. Lay down the book, it is not

for you, and go out and refresh yourself. I am pleased that you know

what may come, but I shall not be pleased if you brood upon it. Now

leave me, Hester, but come again when you will, and I will never exclude

you. Pshaw, child! it is the common lot. What do you tremble for? what

is it you want to do?"

"Is there nothing you wish, papa--nothing I could do to please you?" I

said, under my breath. I could not allude more plainly to the former

question between us.

"It is time enough to ask such questions," he said, with a momentary

jealousy of my intention, "I am not dying yet."

He did not understand me--he had forgotten! I hurried out grieved,

overwhelmed, yet in spite of myself relieved on this one point. I

thought myself the meanest wretch in the world, to be able to derive

satisfaction from it at such a moment. Yet I was so! I felt a thrill of

delight that I was free, in the midst of my terrors and dismay at the

doom which hung over our house. I tried to conceal it from myself, but I

could not. I was free to mourn for my dear father for ever, and admit no

human consolation. I was not bound under a promise to commit myself to

somebody's hands to be taken care of. I was afflicted, but at liberty.

Alice waited eagerly to speak to me when I came from the library, but I

only could speak two or three words to her, and then hastened out, to

relieve the oppression on my spirit if I could. It was a dreadful

thought to carry with me and ponder upon, and when I was walking fast

along a lonely wood, half a mile out of Cambridge, it suddenly occurred

to me what danger there was in leaving home, even for an hour. Before I

returned, the blow might fall--it might be falling even now. I turned at

once and went hastily homewards, my heart sick with anxiety and terror.

When I nearly reached the house, I met Mr. Osborne; though I knew he

would detain me, I was yet very anxious to speak to him, for perhaps he

would give me some hope. He was speaking to some one, but he saw that I

waited for him, and immediately left his former companion and came to

me. "No other young lady in the world would do me so much honor," said

Mr. Osborne, in the gay good-humored tone which was usual to him, but

which jarred so much upon my feelings. "Oh! Hester, what's this? why do

you look so much excited? Have you something important to tell me? I

have almost expected it, do you know."