I was very sorry, but I could not help the burning heat which came to my

face; and I could not lift my eyes for the moment to meet his saucy eyes

which seemed to read my thoughts. What had I to do with such thoughts! I

cast them from me with bitter self-indignation, and looked up at him at

last with a face so grave that he smiled on me no more.

"I want to speak to you about papa, Mr. Osborne," I said. "Will _you_

tell me?--you must know. He thinks he is very ill. He thinks--oh! tell

me if you think he is so bad as that."

For an instant his face grew very serious. "I am not qualified to give

an opinion," he said, first; and then, regaining his usual look, with an

effort, he continued, "He is not well, Hester; but quite well and very

ill are a long way from each other. I do not think he is very bad--I do

not, indeed. I see no need for your alarming yourself."

"But he speaks of danger and of sudden--" I could not say the fatal

word. "Has he any foundation for it; do you think he is right, Mr.

Osborne?" I continued with a shudder.

"I do not think he is right, Hester. I think that you ought not to be

frightened with such a ghastly doubt as this," said Mr. Osborne,

seriously, "your father has fancies, as every man in weak health has;

but I know enough of his illness, I think--I am almost sure--to give you

confidence on this point. If anything sudden should occur, it will not

be without long and abundant warning--a sudden or immediate blow is not

to be feared. I assure you I am right, Hester, you may trust to me."

I did trust to him with gratitude, and a feeling of relief. He walked

home with me, moderating my pace, and leading my mind to ordinary

subjects. He was very kind to me. He said nothing to embarrass or

distress; but calmed my excitement, and made me feel a real confidence

in him. When we got home, nothing had happened. The quiet house was as

quiet and undisturbed as ever it had been. Mr. Osborne went to the

library; and I went up-stairs to the window-seat in the drawing-room.

And I do not venture to say that I did not go back to my dreams.

THE EIGHTH DAY.

Alice had sent me out to walk at sunset--she said I was breaking her

heart with my white thin face, and woful looks. I had spent all that

afternoon in the garden watching my father at his window. I could do

little else but watch him, and listen, and wait near the library; the

constant strain of anxiety almost wore me out; yet I had a fond

persuasion at the bottom of my heart, that my fears were groundless, and

I think I almost kept up my anxiety on purpose as a sort of veil for

this hope. Since I had been so much afraid for him, he seemed to have

grown better every day--he had begun to take his walks again, and had

never had another attack since the time Alice warned me how ill he was.

I obeyed her now tacitly and went out; though it was a beautiful night,

few people were walking when I went to walk by the river side, where the

last rays of the sun were shining gloriously through the half

transparent leaves of the lime-trees. The tender slanting golden light

was very sweet to see, as it touched upon the green surface of the lawn

at some single ripple or eddy, and left all beside in the deep shadow of

the coming twilight. In those great trees overhead, the wind was sighing

with a gentle rustle, shaking the leaves against each other, swaying the

sunny branches into the shade, and thrusting now and then a dark parcel

of leaves into the sunshine, when they suddenly became illuminated and

showed you all the life in their delicate veins, quivering against the

light. On the one bank of the river was a trim slope of grass descending

to the water, and on the other, withdrawn over broad lawns of

greensward, with shadows of trees lying on the grass, and the light

falling on it aslant and tardily, stood the stately College buildings,

noble and calm in the sweet leisure of the evening rest. I came here

because I saw it solitary; no one interrupted me as I wandered along the

broad sandy footpath; no one disturbed my thoughts as I pursued my

dream. Sometimes a bird fluttered through the leaves from one branch to

another, going home; and there was a low sweet twittering of welcome

from the tiny household deep in the heart of the green lime, a forest

all bedewed and shining with the last smiles of the sun; but I heard no

other sound except my own footsteps, at which I sometimes could almost

have blushed and stepped aside, afraid of some spectator of my maiden

meditations, or some passer-by who might guess at the secret of my

dream.

When I first saw him coming on the same solitary road, no one here but

he and I, my first impulse was to turn back and escape. I trembled and

blushed, and shrank with conscious conviction, believing he could read

all my thoughts whenever he met my eyes. Then I paused and stumbled, and

felt how ashamed and hesitating my face had become, and wondered what he

would think was the occasion of this nervous foolishness. But I do not

think he took time to observe, for he was hastening towards me, with an

eager haste which only made me shrink the more. I could not turn back, I

could not go steadily onward; I almost thought all nature which had made

this seem so beautiful, and all Cambridge who had left it to us, were in

a conspiracy against me. On came his light active figure, pushing

through the trees, and I with my faltering steps advanced slowly, going

towards him, because I could not help myself. When we met at last, he

turned and went on with me; I was not able to object to this, and even

he did not say anything about it, but merely turned by my side, subdued

his hasty pace to my slow one, and accompanied me as though it had been

quite a matter of course. I do not think we said much to each other. I

do not recollect anything that passed between us--I remember only the

twittering of the birds, the rustle of the leaves, the light stealing

off the dewy greensward and the darkening river, all those soft sweet

distant sounds that belong to a summer's night were ringing with a

subdued and musical echo in the air around us; our own steps upon the

path--the beating of our own hearts--these, and not words from each

other, were what we listened to.

Then he suddenly seemed to rouse himself, and began to speak--suddenly,

in a moment, when I was quite unprepared for it. I cannot tell how I

felt while I listened. We went on mechanically, I am sure, not knowing

or caring whither we went. He was speaking to me, pleading with me,

entreating me; and I listened with a vague, secret delight, half pain,

half pleasure, when his voice stopped at last. I became aware how I was

hanging upon it--what a great shock and disappointment it was that it

should cease. But still, in my trance of embarrassment, in my agitation

and perplexity, it never occurred to me that it was I who must speak

now--that it was I who had to decide and conclude upon this strange

eventful question, and that with still greater excitement than that with

which I had listened to him, he was waiting to hear me.

I did not speak--I went slowly on with the echo of his words ringing

into my heart--then came his voice again, agitated and breathless.

"Hester, have you nothing to say to me?"

I cannot tell why, at this moment, our first conversation together, when

he came to our house with Mr. Osborne, returned to my memory. I did not

turn towards him nor lift my eyes, but I asked in a tone as low and

hurried as his own, "Almost the first time you ever spoke to me, you

were going to call me Hester--why was that?"

He did not answer me immediately. "Because your name became the sweetest

sound in the world to me, the first time I heard it," he said, after a

moment's pause. I believed him--I was not vain of it, it seemed to be a

merit in him to think so of me, but no merit in me.

"Not a word--not a word--must I go away then--will you answer me

nothing?" he said, at last, after another interval, with other wild

words of tenderness, such as had never been said to me before, and such

as no woman can tell again. I was roused by his outcry, I turned for an

instant to look at him, and then I suddenly felt my face burn and my

brow throb, and then--it seemed he was satisfied, and wanted no more

words from me.

And we wandered on together, out from the shadows of the trees, where

the sun came gleaming and glistening upon us like a friend who had found

us out. I think there never was such a night of content, and

satisfaction, and peace; there was the calm of night, and the flush of

hope for another day upon the heavens; and the sweet light blessed the

earth, and the earth lay still under it in a great joy, too deep to be

expressed. I was leaning with my hand upon his arm--I was leaning my

heart upon him, so that I could have wept for the delight of this sweet

ease and rest. Yes! it was the love of the Poets that had overtaken us,

and put our hands together. As he clasped both his hands over one of

mine, he said it was for ever and for ever--for ever and for ever, and

lingered on the words. I said nothing--but the clasp of his hands

holding me, stirred the very depths in my heart. I was alone no longer,

I wanted to tell him everything--my secret thoughts, my fears--all that

had ever happened to me. I could not tell him my fancies about himself,

though I listened so eagerly to all he said of me, but all my life came

brightening up before me, I was eager to show it all to him--I was

jealous of having anything in which he had no share.

We went up and down--up and down--the same bit of enchanted ground, and

it was only when I felt a chill breath of air, and slightly shivered at

it, and when he put up my shawl upon my shoulders, and drew it round me

so anxiously and tenderly, that I glanced up at the sky to escape his

eyes which were gazing full upon me, and saw that it was getting quite

dark, and must be late. "Is it late?" I said, starting suddenly at the

thought of my father; "they will wonder where I am--oh! I must go home."

"Time has not been to-night," he said, with the smile upon his lip

quivering as if the tears were in his eyes as well as in mine. "Once

more, Hester, let me look at this glorious bit of road that has brought

me fortune. Here--it was just here--winter should never come to this

spot; and there is a faint timid footstep in the sand. My sovereign lady

was afraid of me! If you had but known what a poor coward I was, how I

trembled for those words which would not come, and how you held my fate

in your hand, and played with it. Love is quite bad enough--but Love and

Fear! how is a single man to stand against them!"

"I do not think you looked very much afraid," said I.

"You cannot tell--you never vouchsafed me a glance," said Harry, "and

Fear is the very soul of daring; when a man will rather hear the worst

than hear nothing, Hester, his courage is not very cool, I can tell you.

And how unmindful you were!"

"Hush! hush! I am sure it is very late," said I, "I must go home."

"But not without me, Hester," said my companion.

I did not want him to leave me, certainly; but I was a little startled.

My father! what would he say? how would he receive this unexpected

accomplishment of his desires? The idea agitated and excited me. I

suddenly felt as if this meeting of ours had been clandestine and

underhand. I did not know what I could say to my father, and Alice would

be anxious about myself already.

"You would not prolong my suspense, Hester," said Harry, as we slowly

took the way home; "you know I cannot rest till I have spoken to your

father--have I a rival, then--do you see difficulties? or is it that you

would rather tell him with your own sweet lips what you have never yet

told me?"

"No--no--I do not want to speak to him first," said I, hurriedly, "but

he is not well--he is not strong--agitation hurts him; yet perhaps this

would not agitate him," I continued with involuntary sadness--"perhaps,

indeed, it is better he should know."

"I think it will not agitate him. I think, perhaps, he will not be much

surprised, except indeed that I should have won what I have long aimed

at," said Harry. "I met his eye the last time I saw him, Hester!"

"And what then?" I asked eagerly.

"Nothing much, except that I think that he knew the sad condition I was

in," said Harry, with a smile, "and remembered somebody who was the

light of his eyes in his own youth--for I think he did not look unkindly

on me."

"But he never could suspect anything," said I.

"Did you never suspect anything, you hard heart?" he said; "you would

not shake hands with me. You would not look at me. You never would come

frankly out into the garden where a poor fellow could see you. Do you

mean to tell me now that you were not afraid of me, and did not feel

that I was your fate?"

"Hush! hush!" I repeated again. "And Mr. Osborne and Alice--you do not

mean that everybody knew?"

"You must not be angry with me, if I confess that Mr. Osborne was in my

confidence," said Harry, looking into my face, with some alarm, as I

thought. "I was shy of whispering my name of names to any other man; but

I betrayed myself once by saying Hester to your old friend.

Hester--Hester! Homer never knew the sweet sounds of these two

syllables, yet they used to glide in upon his page, and no more

intelligence was left in it. Ah! you do not know what you have to answer

for. And Alice!--Alice loves you too well not to suspect anybody who

approaches you, Hester. She has been very curious about me for a long

time. I think she approves of me now at last."

"It is very strange," I said, with a little pique and offended dignity,

"everybody seems to have been aware except--"

I paused, being so sincere that I could not imply what was not true.

Had not I been aware? or what were all my dreams about for many a day?

"Except the person most concerned? I suppose it is always so," said

Harry. "But do not blame me for that. If my queen was not aware of her

devoted servant's homage--it was no fault of mine. Ah! Hester! so many

jealous glances I have given to this closed door."

For we had reached home; and with a beating heart I opened the door and

entered before him. It was so dark here in the close, that I could only

hear, and could not see the ivy rustling on the wall; and the air was

chill, though it was August; and I trembled with a nervous shiver. He

held me back for a moment as I was about to hasten in. "Hester, give me

your hand, give me your promise," he said, in a low, passionate tone.

"Your father may not be content with me; but you--you will not cast me

off? You will give me time to win him to my side? Say something to me,

Hester--say a kind word to me!"

I could see, even in the darkness, how he changed color; and I felt his

hands tremble. I gave him both mine very quietly; and I said: "He will

consent." Then we parted. I hurried in, and called Alice to show Henry

to the drawing-room where my father was; and, without pausing to meet

her surprised and inquiring look, I ran up-stairs, and shut myself into

my own room. I wanted to be alone. It was not real till I could look at

it by myself, and see what it was.

Yes! there was the dim garden underneath, with the trees rising up

solemnly in the pale summer night, and all the color and the light gone

out of this flowery little world. There were the lights in the little

gleaming windows of Corpus like so many old friends smiling at me. I had

come home to my own familiar room; but I was not the same Hester

Southcote, who had lived all her life in this environment. In my heart,

I brought another with me into my girlish bower. The idea of him

possessed all my thoughts--his words came rushing back, I think almost

every one of them, into my ears. I dropped upon my seat with the shawl

he had placed there still upon me, without removing my bonnet or doing

anything. I sat down and began to live it over again, all this magical

night. It stood in my memory like a picture, so strange, so beautiful,

so true! could it be true? Did he think me the first, above all others?

and all these words which sent the blood tingling to the very fingers he

had clasped, had he really spoken them, and I listened? and all this

wonderful time had been since I left the little dark room, where I had

even now again to look at my altered fate. All the years before were

nothing to this single night.

And then I remembered where he was, and how occupied now. He was telling

my father--asking my father to give up his only child.

My father was ill--in danger of his life--and was I willing to leave him

alone? but then the proud thought returned to me--not to leave him

alone--to add to him a better companion than I, a friend, a son, a man

of nature as lofty as himself; but I was not willing to enter into

details, and as I thought upon the interview going on so near me, I grew

nervous once more. Then I heard a step softly approaching my door. Then

a light gleamed through it, and I went to open it with a great tremor.

It was Alice, with a light, and she said my father had sent for me to

come to him now.

Alice did not ask me why I sat in the dark with my bonnet on; instead of

that she helped to take off my walking dress, and kept her eyes from my

face, in her kindness--for she must have seen how the color went and

came, how I trembled, and how much agitated I was. She brushed back my

hair with her own kind hands, and took a rose out of a vase on the

table, and fastened it in my dress.

I had been so full of my own thoughts, that I had not observed these

roses, but I knew at once when she did this. They were from my own tree

at Cottiswoode. I did not ask Alice how she got them, yet I had pleasure

in the flower. It reminded me of my mother--my mother--if I had a mother

now!

"They are waiting for you, Miss Hester," said Alice--_they?_ how strange

the combination was--yet I lingered still. I could not meet them both

together. I could have borne to hear my father discuss it afterwards;

but to look at each of them in the other's presence, was more than I

thought I could endure. I went away slowly, Alice lingering over me,

holding the light to show me the way I knew so well, and following me

with her loving ways. My Alice, who had nobody but me! I turned round to

her suddenly, for a moment, and leaned upon her breast, and sought her

kiss upon my cheek--then I went away comforted. It was all the

mother-comfort I had ever known.

When my hand touched the drawing-room door, it was suddenly thrown open

to me, and there he stood to receive me with such joy and eagerness,

that I shrunk back in terror for my father. My father was not there.

"We are alone," said Henry, "your father would not embarrass you,

Hester, and he gives his consent under the most delightful of all

conditions. Do you think me crazy? indeed, I will not answer for myself,

for you belong to me, Hester, you are lawfully made over--my wife!"

I was almost frightened by his vehemence; and though I had feared it so

much, I was sorry now that my father did not stay. "Did it trouble him?

Was he disturbed? What did he say?" I asked eagerly.

"I am not to tell you what he said--he will tell you himself," said

Henry, "but the condition--have you no curiosity to hear what this

condition is?"

"No," I said, "it seems to please you. I am glad my father cared to make

conditions; and you are sure he was not angry? What did he say?"

"I will tell you what _I_ said," was all the answer I got; "but all the

rest you are to hear from himself. Now, Hester," he continued,

pleadingly, holding my hands and looking into my face, "don't be vexed

at the condition. I don't expect you are to like it as well as I do; but

you will consent, will you not? You can trust yourself to me as well as

if you knew me another year? Hester! don't turn away from me. There is

your father coming; and I promised to leave you when I heard him. It is

very hard leaving you; but I suppose I must not break my word to him. I

am to come to-morrow. You will say good-night to me, surely--good-night

to your poor slave. Princess--good-night!"

My father was just at the door, when at last he left me. There was a

brief leave-taking between them; and then I heard his rapid step

descending the stair, and my father entered the room. I had gone to my

usual seat at the table, and scarcely ventured to look up as he entered.

I thought he hesitated for a moment as he stood at the door looking in

upon me. Perhaps he thought of giving me a kinder greeting; but, if he

did, he conquered the impulse, and came quietly to his chair opposite

me, and, without saying a word, took his place there, and closed the

book which had been lying open upon the table. Then he spoke. My heart

beat so loud and wild that it almost took away my breath. He was my

father--my father! and I wanted to throw myself at his feet, and pour

out all my heart to him. I wanted to say that I never desired to leave

_him_--never! and that I would rather even give up my own happiness than

forsake him now.

He gave me no opportunity; he spoke in his grave, calm tone of

self-possessed and self-commanded quietness, which chilled me to the

heart. "Hester!" he said, "I have been listening to a young man's

love-tale. He is very fervid, and as sincere as most youths are, I have

no doubt. He says he has thought of nothing but how to win you, since we

first admitted him here; and he says that you have promised him your

hand if he can gain my consent. I have no doubt you recollect, Hester,

the last conversation we had on this subject. You have chosen for

yourself, what you would not permit me to choose for you, and I hope

your choice will be a happy one. I have given my consent to it. What he

says of his means seems satisfactory; and I waive the question of

family, in which his pretensions, I presume, are much inferior to your

own. But I earnestly desire that you should have a proper protector,

Hester! and I give my consent to your marriage, on condition--" he

paused, and I glanced up at him, I know not with what dismayed and

apprehensive glance; for his solemn tone struck me with terror: "on

condition," he continued, with a smile. "Do not fear--it is nothing very

terrible--on condition that your marriage takes place within three weeks

from this time."

"Papa!"

I started to my feet, no longer shrinking and embarrassed. Oh! it was

cruel--cruel! To seize the first and swiftest opportunity to thrust me

from him, while he was ill, perhaps dying, and when he knew how great my

anxiety was. I could not speak to him; I burst into a passionate fit of

tears. I was wounded to the heart.

"I suppose it is natural that you should dislike this haste, Hester,"

said my father, in a slightly softened tone; "I can understand that it

is something of a shock to you; but I cannot help it, my love. The

circumstances are hard, and so is the necessity. I yield to you in the

more important particulars; you must yield to me in this."

"Papa! I cannot leave you. Do not bid me," I cried, eagerly, encouraged

by his tone; "to go away now would kill me. Father, father! have you no

pity upon me? you cannot have the heart to send me away!"

"I have the heart to do all I think right, Hester!" said my father,

sternly. "I am the last man in the world to speak to of pity. Pity has

ruined me; and I will do what is right, and not a false kindness to my

only child. This lover of yours is your own choice--remember at all

times he is your own choice. I _might_ have made a wiser selection. I

might not have made so good a one. The probability is in your favor;

but, however it happens, recollect it is your own election, and that I

wash my hands of the matter. But I insist on the condition I have told

you of. What we have to do, we must do quickly. There is time enough for

all necessary preparations, Hester."

I had taken my seat again in the dull and mortified sullenness of

rejected affection and unappreciated feelings. Preparations! was it that

I cared for? I had no spirit to speak again. I rather was pleased to

give up with a visible bad grace all choice and wish in the matter.

"You do not answer me," said my father; "is my substantial reason too

little to satisfy your punctilio, Hester? are you afraid of what the

world will say?"

"No! I know no world to be afraid of," said I, almost rudely, but with

bitter tears coming to my eyes; "if you care so little for me, I do not

mind for myself if it was to-morrow."

"I do not choose it to be to-morrow, however," said my father, with only

a smile at my pique, "there are some things necessary beforehand besides

white satin and orange flowers. Alice has arranged your dress before,

you had better consult with her, and to-morrow I will give you a sum

sufficient for your equipment; that is enough, I think, Hester. Neither

of us seems to have any peculiar delight in the subject. I consider the

matter settled so far as personal discussion between us goes--matters of

arrangement we can manage at our leisure."

He drew his book to him, and opened it as he spoke. When he began to

read, he seemed to withdraw from me into his retirement, abstracted and

composed, leaving me in the tumult of my thoughts to subside into

quietness as I best could. I sat still for some time, leaning back in my

chair, gnawing at my heart; but I could not bear it--and then I rose up

to walk up and down from window to window, my father taking no note of

me--what I did. As I wandered about in this restless and wretched way, I

saw the lights in the college windows, shining through the half-closed

curtain. He was there, brave, generous, simple heart! I woke out of my

great mortification and grief, to a delight of rest and relaxation. Yes,

he was there; that was his light shining in his window, and he was

sitting close by it looking out upon this place which enclosed me and

mine. I knew his thoughts now, and what he was doing, and I knew he was

thinking of me.

When my heart began to return to its former gladness, I went away softly

to my own room, thinking that no one would hear me, and that I might

have a little time to myself; but when I had just gone, and was standing

by the window, leaning my head upon it, looking out at his window, and

shedding some quiet tears, Alice once more appeared upon me, with her

candle in her hand. She did not speak at first, but went about the room

on several little pretences, waiting for me to address her; then she

said, "Will I leave the light, Miss Hester?" and stood gazing at me

wistfully from beside the dressing-table. I only said, "Stay, Alice,"

under my breath, but her anxious ear heard it. She put down the light at

once, and went away to a distant corner of the room, where she pretended

to be doing something, for she would not hasten me, though she was very

anxious--it was pure love and nothing else, the love of Alice.

"Alice!"

She came to me in a moment. I had just drawn down the blind, and I crept

close to her, as I used to do when I was a child. "Do you know what has

happened, Alice?" I said.

"Dear, I have had my thoughts," said Alice, "is it so then? and does

your papa give his consent?"

"Oh! papa is very cruel--very cruel!" cried I bitterly, "he does not

care for me, Alice. He cares nothing for me! he says it must be in three

weeks, and speaks to me as if punctilio and preparations were all I

cared for. It is very hard to bear--he will force me to go away and

leave him, when perhaps he is dying. Oh! Alice, it is very hard."

"Yes, my darling--yes, my darling!" said Alice vaguely; "and will I live

to dress another bride? oh! God bless them--God bless them! evil has

been in the house, and distress, and sorrow--oh! that it may be purged

and cleansed for them."

"What do you mean? what house, Alice?" I cried in great astonishment.

Alice drew her hand slowly over her brow and said, "I was dreaming, do

not mind me, Miss Hester. I dressed your mamma, darling, and you'll let

me dress my own dear child."

"No one else shall come near me, Alice; but think of it," cried I in

despair, "in three weeks--and it _must_ be. I think it will kill me. My

father used to care for me, Alice, but now he is only anxious to send me

away."

"Miss Hester, it is your father's way; and he has his reasons," said my

kind comforter; "think of your own lot, how bright it is, and your young

bridegroom that loves you dearly; think of him."

"Yes, Alice," I said very humbly, but I could not help starting at the

name she gave him, it was so very sudden: every time I thought of it, it

brought a pang to my heart.

But then she began to talk of what things we must get immediately--and I

was not very old nor very wise--I was interested about these things very

soon, and regarded this business of preparation with a good deal of

pleasure; the white silk dress, and the veil, and the orange

blossoms--it may be a very poor thing to tell of myself, but I had a

flutter of pleasure thinking of them; and there we sat, full of

business, Alice and I, and Alice went over my wardrobe in her

imagination, and began to number so many things which I would

require--and it was so great a pleasure to her, and I was so much

softened and cheered myself, that when I rose, after she had left me, to

wave my hand in the darkness, at the light in his window, I had almost

returned to the deep satisfaction of my first joy.

But when I returned to the drawing-room--returned out of my own young

blossoming life, with all its tumult of hopes, to my father, sitting

alone at his book, all by himself, abstracted and solitary, like one

whom life had parted from and passed by--I could not resist the sudden

revulsion which threw me down once more. But now I was very quiet. I

bent down my head into my hands where he could not see me weeping. I

forgot he had wounded or injured me--I said, "My father! my dear

father!" softly to myself; and then I began to dream how Harry would

steal into his affections--how we would woo him out of his solitude; how

his forsaken desolate life would grow bright in our young house; and I

began to be very glad in my heart, though I did not dry my tears.

When we were parting for the night, my father came slowly up to me, and

with a gesture of fondness put his hands on my head. "Hester," he said,

in a low steady voice, "you are my only child"--that was all--but the

words implied everything to me. I leaned upon his arm to hide my full

eyes, and he passed his hand softly over my hair--"My only child! my

only child!" he repeated once or twice, and then he kissed my cheek, and

"God bless you, my love!" and sent me away.

I was very sad, yet I was very happy when I lay down to rest. The blind

was drawn up, and I could see the light still shining in Harry's window;

and I was not afraid now to put his name beside my father's when I said

my prayers. It was very little more than saying my prayers with me. I

had known no instruction, and in many things I was still a child. Just

when I was going to sleep, some strong associations brought into my mind

what Alice had told me of my father; how rejoiced he looked on the day

of his betrothal, and how she never saw him look happy again--it was a

painful thought, and it came to me as a ghost might have come at my

bedside; I could not get far from it. I had no fear for myself, yet this

haunted me. Ah, my dear father, how unhappy he had been!

THE NINTH DAY.

It was the first of September, a brilliant sunshiny autumn day. The

light streamed fall into my chamber window, and upon the figure of Alice

standing before it, with her white apron and her white cap, so intensely

white under the sunshine. She was drawing out rolls of white ribbon, and

holding them suspended in the light for me to see them. They were

dazzling in their silken snowy lustre. It was difficult to make a choice

while this bright day glorified them all.

The room was not in disorder, yet it was littered everywhere with

articles of dress. On my dining-table was a little open jewel-case with

the bit of gold chain and the little diamond pendant which I had worn

the first time I saw Harry--and the jewels were sparkling quietly, to

themselves, in the shade. There were other ornaments, presents from him,

lying beside this; and they made a subdued glow in the comparative

dimness of that corner of the room. On my bed, catching a glance of

sunshine, lay my bridal dress, its rich full folds and white brocaded

flowers glistening in the light. On the little couch near the window

were all the pretty things of lace which graced my _trousseau_--the veil

arranged by Alice's own hand over a heap of rich purple silk which lay

there for my approval, and which brought out to perfection the delicate

pattern of the lace. And this was not all, for every chair held

something--boxes of artificial flowers, so beautifully made, that it was

impossible not to like them, exquisite counterfeits of nature--boxes of

gloves, in delicate pale colors, fit for a bride--and last of all, this

box of snowy-white ribbons, from which we found it so difficult to

choose.

People speak of the vanity of all these bridal preparations. I have

heard often how foolish was all this display and bustle about a

marriage. I do not think it. It is the one day in a woman's life when

everything and every one should do her honor. As I stood with Alice in

my bright room, half blinded with the intense light upon the white

ribbons, I was pleased with all the things about me. I had license to

like everything, and to be interested with all the additions to my

wardrobe. Only once in one's life can one be _a bride_. And all these

white, fine, shining dresses--all these flowers and draperies of lace

and pretty ornaments--they are not minutes of vanity always, but

expressions of a natural sentiment--and they were very pleasant to me.

"I'll come out of the light, Miss Hester--here, dear, you can see them

better now: though I like to see them shining in the sunshine. There is

a beauty! will this one do?"

"Do you think that is the best?" said I, "then I will take it, Alice;

and some for your cap now; here is a satin one, and here is gauze, but I

must choose them myself; and you are to have your silk gown made and

wear it--you are not to put it away in your drawer."

Alice looked down at her dark green stuff gown, hanging quite dead and

unbrightened even in that fervid sunshine, and shook her head with a

smile of odd distress. "It is much too fine for me, I was never meant to

be a lady," said Alice, "but I'd wear white like a girl, sooner than

cross you, my darling; and that is for me--bless your dear heart! that

is a ribbon fit for a queen!"

"But the queen is not to be here," said I, "so you must wear it, Alice;

and I do not want you to be without your apron. I like that great white

apron. I wonder if I will like to lay down my head upon it, Alice, when

I am old?"

"When you are old, Alice will not be here, Miss Hester," she said, with

a smile; "you are like other young things, you think you will not be a

young lady when you are married; but my darling, married or not

married, the years take their full time to come."

"Ah, I will never be a girl again," said I, sighing with one of the half

mock, half real sentimentalities of youth. "Alice, do you think, after

all, my father is pleased?"

"I think," she began, but she stopped and paused, and evidently took a

second thought; "yes, Miss Hester, I think he is pleased," she said, "he

has every reason--yes, dear, don't fear for your papa; it is all

good--all better than anybody could have planned it--I know it is."

"Do you know that you speak very oddly sometimes, Alice," said I; "you

speak as if you were a prophet, and knew something about us, that we did

not ourselves know."

"Don't you think such things, Miss Hester," said Alice, hurriedly, and

her face reddened, "as I am no gipsy nor fortune-teller either, not a

bit."

"Are you angry?" said I, "angry at me, Alice?" I was a little surprised,

and it was quite true that two or three times I had been at a loss to

know what she meant.

"Angry at _you_--no, darling, nor never was all your life," said Alice,

"for all you have your own proud temper, Miss Hester--for I never was

one to flatter. Will I send the box away? look, dear, if you have got

all."

I had got all that we wanted, and when she went away, I drew my chair to

the window, and began a labor of love. Alice never changed the fashion

of her garments, and while she labored night and day for me, I was

making a cap for her, and braiding a great muslin apron, which she was

to wear on _the day_. I was very busy with the apron, doing it after a

fashion of my own, and in a pattern which Alice would think all the more

of because it was my own design, though I am not very sure that it

gained much in effect by that circumstance. I drew my seat near to the

open window, into the sunshine, and began to work, singing to myself

very quietly but very gladly, as the pattern grew under my fingers. My

heart rejoiced in the beautiful day, and in its own gladness; and I do

not know that this joy was less pleasant for the tremor of expectation,

and the flutter of fear, which my strange new circumstances brought me.

I glanced from the window, hearing a step in the garden, and there was

Harry, wandering about looking up at me.

When he caught my eye, he began to beckon with all his might, and try to

get me to come down to him. I had seen him already this morning, so I

knew it was not because he had anything to say to me, and I shook my

head, and returned to my work. Then he began to telegraph to me his

despair, his impatience, his particular wish to talk to me--and kept me

so occupied smiling at him, and answering his signals, that the apron

did not make much more progress than if I had gone down. At last,

however, Alice came back, and I looked from the window no more, but went

on soberly with my occupation. I had no young friends to come to see my

pretty things, so Alice began to put them away.

A fortnight was gone, since that day when we were engaged, as Alice

called it; and in a week, only a week now, the other day was to come.

"You have never told me yet, Miss Hester," said Alice, as she passed

behind me, "where you are going, after--"

I interrupted her hurriedly. I was frightened for a mention of this

dreadful ceremony, in so many words; and the idea of going away was

enough to overset my composure at any time--I who had never left home

before, and such a going away as this!

"We are to go abroad," I answered hurriedly; "but only for a few weeks,

and then to have a house in Cambridgeshire, if we can find one very near

at hand, Alice."

"Yes," answered Alice.

There was so much implied in this "yes," it seemed so full of

information and consciousness, as if she could tell me more than I told

her, that I was annoyed and almost irritated. In the displeasure of the

moment I could not continue the conversation; it was very strange what

Alice could mean by these inferences, and then to look so much offended

when I spoke to her about them. I saw that Harry was still in the

garden, looking up, and beckoning to me again, when he saw me look

out--so I put away my work, and went down to hear what he had to say.

He had not anything very particular to say; but it was not disagreeable,

though there was little originality in it, and I had heard most of it

before; and he helped me with some flowers in the green-house which had

been sadly neglected, and we cut some of the finest of them in the

garden, for the vase upon my little table upstairs; and he told me I

ought to wear flowers in my hair, and he said he would bring me a wreath

of briony. "I should like to bind the beautiful clustered berries over

those brown locks of yours, Hester," he said. "I will tell you some day

how I came to know the briony first, and fell in love with it--it was

one of the first incidents in my life."

"Tell me now then," said I.

But he shook his head and smiled. "Not now--wait till I can get a wreath

of it fresh from a Cambridgeshire hedgerow, and then I will tell you my

tale."

"I shall think it is a tale about a lady, if you speak of it so

mysteriously," said I, and when I turned to him I saw he blushed. "It

was so then," I said, with the slightest pique possible. I was not quite

pleased.

"There never was but one in the world to me, Hester," he said, and I

very soon cast down my eyes, "so it could not be about a lady, unless it

happened in a dream, and the lady was you."

I looked at him with a strange perplexity, he was almost as hard to

understand as Alice was--but he suddenly changed the conversation, and

made me quite helpless for any further controversy by talking about what

we were to do next week, after--I was always silenced in a moment by a

reference to that.

Then my father looked out from the library window and called to us. My

father had been a good deal occupied with Harry, and I pleased myself

with thinking that he began to like him already. They seemed very good

friends, and Harry showed him so much deference and was so anxious to

follow his wishes in everything, that I was very grateful to him; and

all the more because I thought it was from his own natural goodness he

did this, fully more than from a wish to please me.

We went in together to the library. My father was reading papers, some

of those long straggling papers tied together at the top, which always

look so ominous, and are so long-winded. His book was put away, and

instead he had pen and ink and his great blotting-book before him. My

father had been writing much and reading little, during these two weeks;

the occupation of his life was rudely broken in upon by these

arrangements, and though I could not understand how it was that he had

so much business thrown upon him, the fact seemed to be certain. There

was more life even in the room, it was less orderly, and there was a

litter of papers upon the table. My father looked well, pale, and

self-possessed, but not so deadly calm, and he called Harry to him with

a kind and familiar gesture. I had not yet overcome the embarrassment

which I always felt when I was with them both; and when I saw that my

father was pointing out sundry things in the papers to Harry, that they

were consulting about them, and that I was not a necessary spectator, I

turned over some books for a few minutes, and then I turned to go away.

When he saw me moving towards the door, my father looked up. "Wait a

little, Hester, I may want you by and by," he said. I was obedient and

came back, but I did not like being here with Harry. I did not feel that

our young life and our bright prospects were fit to intrude into this

hermit's room, and I wondered if it would look drearier or more

solitary--if my father would feel any want of me in my familiar place,

when I went away.

But I had very little reason to flatter myself that he would miss me. He

conducted all these matters with a certain satisfaction, I thought. He

was glad to have me "settled;" and though I think he had been kinder

than usual ever since that night, he had never said that it would grieve

him to part with me, or that the house would be sad when I was gone.

There was a pause in their consultation. I heard, for I did not see,

because I had turned to the window, and they were behind me, and then my

father said--"Come here, Hester, we have now talked together of these

arrangements--sit down by me, here, and see if it will not distress you

too much to hear the programme of the drama in which you are to be a

principal actor--here is a chair, sit down."

I turned, and went slowly to the seat he pointed out to me. I was very

reluctant, but I could not disobey him, not even though I saw Harry's

face bending forward eagerly to know if this was disagreeable to me.

"In the first place," said my father with a smile, "it is perhaps well

that Hester is no heiress, as she once was supposed to be. Had my

daughter inherited the family estate, her husband must have taken her

name, and that is a harder condition than the one I stipulated for."

As there was no answer for a moment, I glanced shyly under the hand

which supported my head at Harry. To my great surprise, he seemed

strangely and painfully agitated. There was a deep color on his face. He

did not lift his eyes, but shifted uneasily, and almost with an air of

guilt, upon his chair; and he began to speak abruptly with an emotion

which the subject surely did not deserve.

"Hester is worth a greater sacrifice than that of a name like mine," he

said; "it would give me pleasure to show my sense of the honor you do me

by admitting me into your family. I have no connexions whom I can gain

by abandoning my own name, and I have no love for it, even though Hester

has made it pleasanter to my ear. Let me be called Southcote. I would

have proposed it myself had I thought it would be agreeable to you. You

have no son. When you give Hester to me, make me altogether your

representative. I will feel you do me a favor. Pray let us settle it

so."

My father looked at him with more scrutinizing eyes--"When I was your

age, young man, not for all the bounties of life, would I have

relinquished my name."

Once more Harry blushed painfully. I too, for the moment, would rather

that he had not made this proposal, yet how very kind it was of him! and

I could not but appreciate the sacrifice which he made for me.

"Your name was the name of a venerable family, distinguished and dear to

you," he said, after a little pause. "I am an orphan, with no

recollections that endear it to me. Nay, Mr. Southcote, do not fear, I

have no antecedents which make me ashamed of it; but for Hester's sake

and yours, I will gladly relinquish this name of mine. If you do not

wish it, that is another question."

There was a suppressed eagerness in his tone which impressed me very

strangely. I could understand how, in an impulse of generosity, he could

make the proposal; but I could not tell why he should be so anxious

about it. It was very strange.

"I have not sufficient self-denial to say that," said my father. "I do

wish it. It will gratify me more than anything else can, and I do not

see indeed why, being satisfied on every other point, I should quarrel

with you for proposing to do what I most desire; but regard for his own

name is so universal in every man, I confess in other circumstances I

should have been disposed to despise the man who accepted my heiress and

her name with her. You, of course, are in an entirely different

position. I can only accept your offer with gratitude. It is true, as

you say, I have no son--you shall be my representative--yes, and I will

be glad to think," said my father, with a momentary softening, and in a

slow and lingering tone, "that she is Hester Southcote still."

Ah, those lingering touches of tenderness, how they overpowered me! I

did not wish to let my father see me cry, like a weak girl; but I put

my hands on my eyes to conceal my tears. He did care for me, though he

expressed it so little; and when he said that, I was glad too, that I

was still to bear my father's name--glad of this one proof of Harry's

regard, and proud of the self-relinquishment--the devotion he showed to

me.

There was a considerable pause after that--we did not seem at our ease,

any one of us, and when I glanced up again, Harry, though he looked

relieved, was still heated and embarrassed, and watched my father

eagerly. He cleared his voice a great many times, as if to

speak--changed his position, glanced at me; but did not seem able to say

anything after all. My father had a faint smile upon his face--though it

was a smile, I did not think it a pleasant one--and I was quite silent,

with a vague fear of what was to follow.

But nothing followed to confirm my alarm. When my father spoke again it

was quite in his usual tone.

"Then, with this one change--which, by the bye, requires our instant

attention as to the papers and everything necessary--our arrangements

stand as before; and you leave Cambridge on Tuesday, and return in a

month, either here or to some house which Mr. Osborne may find for you.

Osborne is your agent, I understand? You leave these matters in his

hands? Now, I must know the hour you will leave me--how you are to

travel, and where you will go first; and if I may depend certainly on

the time of your return?"

"We will fix it for any time you choose," said Harry, quickly and with

an air of relief. "I will be only too proud to bring Hester home, and to

see her in her own settled house; but you must give us our moon; we have

a right to that--_I_ have a right to that. You will not grudge us our

charmed holiday. I shall be content to have no other all my life."

My father looked at him with a smile, almost of scorn, but it soon

settled into a fixed and stern gravity. "I will not grudge your

pleasure--no," he said, in the tone of a monitor who means to imply "it

is all vanity," "but I wish to have your assurance that I may trust your

word. And you, Hester, are you nearly ready to go away from me?"

"Oh! papa, papa!" I cried wildly. Was he disposed to regret me at last?

"Nay, nay, child, we must have no lamentations," said my father, "no

weeping for the house you leave behind. On the verge of your life be

sparing of your tears, Hester--if you have not occasion for them all one

day or another you will be strangely favored. Are you ready? tell me? I

have been hard upon you sometimes; I am not a man of genial temper, and

what kindness was in me was soured. There--I apologize to you, Hester,

for wounding your sensibilities--they distress me; and now answer my

question."

"I will be ready," I said. This dreadful coldness of his always drove me

into a sullen gloom.

"Very well, you have chosen each other," said my father gravely; "and

now you are about to begin your life. I am no dealer in good advice or

moral maxims. I only bid you remember that it is of your own free will

you bind yourselves in this eternal contract. This union, on which you

are entering, has a beginning, but no end. Its effects are everlasting;

you can never deliver yourself from its influences, its results. On the

very heart and soul of each of you will be the bonds of your marriage;

and neither separation, nor change, nor death, can obliterate the mark

they will make. I do not speak to discourage you. I only bid you think

of the life before you, and remember that you pursue it together of your

own free choice."

"We do not need that you should use such solemn words; they are not for

us, father," said Harry, advancing to my side, and drawing my hand

within his arm. He was afraid that I could not bear this, when he saw me

drooping and leaning on the chair from which I had just risen. He did

not know what a spirit of defiance these words roused in me. "Hester

trusts me and does not fear that I will make her life wretched; and, as

for me, my happiness is secure when I claim the right thus to stand by

her, and call her mine. There are no dark prognostics in our lot--think

not so. We will fear God and love each other; and I desire to feel the

bonds of my marriage in my very soul and heart. I do not care to have a

thought that is not hers--not a wish that my wife will not share with

me. Say gentler words to us, father! Bless us as you bless her in your

heart. She is a young, tender, delicate woman. She trembles already; but

you will not speak only those words which make her tremble more?"

My father stood by himself, stooping slightly, leaning his hands upon

the table before him, and looking at us. Harry's firm voice shook a

little as he ended; his eyes were glistening, and there was a noble

tender humility about his whole look and attitude, which was a very

great and strange contrast to the cold, self-possessed man before him. I

saw that my father was struck by it. I saw that the absence of any

thought for himself--that his care and regard for me moved with a

strange wonder my father's unaccustomed heart. The young man's generous

life and love, the very strength of all the youthful modest power of

which he would make no boast--his entire absence of offence, yet firm

and quiet assertion of what was due to our young expectations and hopes,

and perhaps the way in which we stood together, my arm in his, leaning

upon him, impressed my father. He looked at us long, with a steady, full

look; and then he spoke.

"You are right--it does not become me to bode evil to my own child, nor

to her bridegroom. God bless you! I say the words heartily; and now

leave me, I am weary, and will call you if I need you, Hester! I am not

ill, do not fear for me."

He took our hands, Harry's and mine, and held them tightly within his

own; then he said again, "Children, God bless you!" and sent us away.

We went up to the drawing-room together; Harry had spent almost all of

the day with us for at least a week past, and even now he did not seem

disposed to go away. When I told him that I had something to do, he bade

me bring it and work beside him--he would like to see me working, so I

did what he said--and while I was busy with Alice's apron, he talked to

me, for I did not speak a great deal myself. My mind was somewhat

troubled by what my father had said. I had an uneasy sense of something

doubtful and uncertain in our circumstances, of some event or mystery,

though I could not tell what it was. I do not think I was pleased that

Harry should be so willing to resign his name. It was one of those

concessions that a woman does not like to have made to her. A true woman

is far happier to receive rank than to confer it. When she is placed in

these latter circumstances, she is thrown upon the false expedient of

undervaluing herself, and what she has to bestow. I would much rather

have felt that Harry was quite superior to me in the external

matters--then we could have stood on our natural ground to each other,

and I should have been proud of his name; but it was not a pleasant

thought to me that he himself thought it unworthy, and that he was to

adopt mine.

"You are very grave, Hester; are you thinking of what your father said?"

he asked me at last.

"I do not quite know what I am thinking of," I said, with a faint sigh.

"No, it is a summer cloud," said Harry, "something floating over this

beautiful sky of our happiness; but it will not last, Hester. I know you

may trust yourself; your sweet young life and all its hopes. I think you

need not fear to trust them with me."

"I have no fear--it is not that," said I; "do not heed me. I cannot tell

what it is that troubles me."

He bent down upon his knee to see my face, which was stooping over

Alice's apron, and he put his hand upon mine, and arrested my fingers,

which were playing nervously with the braid. "Do you remember the

compact you made with me, Hester? 'Cannot tell' is for other people;

but what troubles you should trouble me also."

"Nay, I would not have that," said I, hurriedly, "that would be selfish,

but indeed I don't know what it is--I rather feel as if there was

something which I did not know--as if there was a secret somewhere which

somebody ought to tell me; I cannot guess what or where it is, but I

think there is surely something. Do you know of anything, Harry?"

He continued to kneel at my knee, holding my hand, and looking up in my

face, and I gazed at him wistfully, wondering to see the color rise to

his very hair. He did not remove his eyes from me, but what could it be

that brought that burning crimson to his face?

But I did not wait for his answer. In my womanish foolishness, afraid

that I was grieving him, I took away the opportunity, that

opportunity--what misery it might have saved me: and spoke myself,

wearing the time away till he had quite recovered himself. "I do not

think you would hide anything from me, Harry, which I ought to know; my

father scarcely knows that I am a woman now; it is hard for him to get

over the habit of thinking me a child, but you are no older than I am;

we are equal then--and you would not use me as if I was unfit to know

all that concerns us both."

"We are equal then," he said, repeating my words hurriedly, but without

any answer to the meaning of them; "but I do not think we are nearly

equals in anything else, Hester. Your sincere heart--oh, if I begin to

speak of that, I will soon make myself out a poor fellow, and I would

rather you did not think me so just yet; equal! why I am justly entitled

to call myself your superior in that particular at least, for do you

know I am two or three years older than you are?"

"I was not speaking of that," said I gravely.

"I know you were not speaking of that," said Harry, "you were speaking

of the summer cloud. See, Hester, there is another on the sky; look how

it floats away with the sunshine and the wind. There shall be neither

secret nor mystery between us, trust me. I want your help and sympathy

too much for that."

"There shall be!" I said to myself in an under tone. I was quite

satisfied; this promise was fortunate, and Henry did not say: "there is

not."

But at this moment we heard the door open below, and Mr. Osborne's voice

asking for my father.

I rose in great haste and ran up stairs. I forgot everything of more

importance, and only remembered how embarrassed and uncomfortable I

should be, if Mr. Osborne came in and found us together. I went back

again to my room with my heart beating quick. The vague and uncertain

doubtfulness which had taken possession of me did not prompt any

distrust of Harry. It was not that I found that he was deceiving me, or

that I dreamed of such a possibility. The utmost length to which my

suspicions went, was to a little jealousy of something which I did not

know, and was not told of, and when I reflected over it in my own room,

I found no particular foundation for these doubts of mine; but still I

should have much preferred that Harry had not offered to take our name.

It was generous like himself. I was no heiress that he should have done

it for the land, or for the rank I brought him. Instead of that, he did

it for pure love; but I was perverse still, and I was not pleased.

When I went down stairs, I found that Mr. Osborne was to dine with us,

and that Harry had not gone away; and after a little time, I found that

I was very glad of Mr. Osborne's presence at table. My father spoke very

little, and seemed more abstracted than usual. Harry was almost

talkative, on the contrary, but he was less easy than I had seen him;

and as for me, I said nothing, but watched them with a strange

fascination, as if I was the spectator of some drama of which I must

find out the secret. It was a relief to see Mr. Osborne's uninterrupted

spirits, his usual manner and bearing. I wonder if they are happier than

other people, those men who have nobody to disturb their equanimity, no

one to put them out of temper, or break their hearts--but at any rate,

it was a comfort to look at Mr. Osborne, and to see, whatever change

might be in us, that there was none in him.

After dinner, Harry left us, though only for a time, and when I had been

by myself in the drawing-room for nearly an hour, Mr. Osborne came in,

and approached me with something in his hand. When he opened it, it

turned out to be another little gold chain with something hanging from

it, very much like my little diamond ornament; but this was a very small

miniature of a very young sweet face, so smiling, and loving, and

gentle, that it was pleasant to look at it. "I think this is the fittest

present I can make you," said Mr. Osborne. "You know who it is, Hester?"

"No," I said; though from the look he gave me, I guessed at once.

"It is very like her," he said in a low voice; "like what she was when I

had a young man's fancy for that pretty sweet young face. No, Hester,

you need not glance at me so wistfully, she did not break my heart; but

I love you the better, my child, that she was your mother."

"And this is my mother!" I said. It was younger than me, this innocent

simple girlish face--my heart was touched by its gentleness, its

happiness, the love and kindness in its sweet eyes--my tears began to

fall fast upon the jewelled rim--this was my mother! and it was not a

face to make any one unhappy. I did not think of thanking Mr. Osborne, I

only thought of her.

"She must have been very happy," I said, softly; we sank our voices

speaking of her.

"She was very happy then," said Mr. Osborne; "the sunshine was her very

life, Hester; and when it faded away from her, she died."

These words recalled me to myself. I could not permit him to go on,

perhaps to blame my father--so I interrupted him to thank him very

gratefully for his present.

"She used to wear an ornament like this; and the miniature is from a

sketch I myself made of her in her first youth," said Mr. Osborne. "I

know your father has no portrait, but there is one in the possession of

her friends."

"Her friends! has she friends living?" I asked eagerly; "I do not know

what it is to have relations. I wonder if they know anything of us."

"You have one relation at least, Hester," said Mr. Osborne; "is it

possible, after all his attempts to become acquainted with you, that you

have never given a kind thought to your cousin?"

"I do not know my cousin, sir," I answered rather haughtily, "I do not

wish to know him; we have nothing in common with each other, he and I."

"How do you know that?" said my companion. "Hester, when you do know

him, do him justice. I have seen Edgar Southcote; I know few like him,

and he ill deserves unkindness, or distrust, or resentment at your

hands. Now hear me, Hester. I have given you this portrait of your

mother, because I loved her in my youth; and because you are as dear to

me as if you were my own child; but I give it you also as a charm

against the cruel injustice, the suspicion, and the pride of your race.

A false conception of her motives, obstinately held and dwelt upon,

killed your poor mother. Yes! I do not want to mince words. It made her

wretched first, and then it killed her. Hester, beware! your husband's

happiness depends as much on you as yours does on him. He is himself a

noble young man, worthy the regard of any woman; and I have had a higher

opinion of yourself ever since I saw that you valued him. When you leave

your father's house, take this sweet counsellor with you. Remember the

cause that broke her young heart, and left you without a mother in the

world. Let the glance of the sweet frank eyes teach you a woman's

wisdom, my dear child. Forgive what is wrong--foster what is right.

Hester! I am making a long speech to you. It is the first and last

preachment you will hear from an old friend."

I had risen while he was speaking, and stood before him a little proud,

a little indignant, waiting till he should come to an end. Then I said:

"Mr. Osborne, I cannot hear you blame my father."

"I am not blaming your father, Hester. I am warning you," he answered;

"and I do it because you are as a child to me."

I thanked him again, kissed the little miniature, and put it round my

neck. But Mr. Osborne would not suffer this. "Time enough," he said,

"when you go away. Do not awake too strongly your father's

recollections. He is not in a fit state for that."

"He is not worse!" I exclaimed eagerly.

"No, Hester, he is not worse--but he is not strong, you know. Now go and

put this away, and remember my words like a good child."

When I took it upstairs Alice was in the room; and when she saw it,

Alice wept on it, and exclaimed how like it was. Then she clasped it on

my neck, and kissed me, and cried, and said how glad she was that I

should have such a token of my mother; and then Alice, too, began to

admonish me. "Oh! think of her sometimes, Miss Hester! Think how her

young life and all her hopes were lost. It was no blame of her's, my

sweet young lady! Oh! think of your mother, dear child." I was strangely

shaken by all these admonitions. I did not know whether to reject this

indignantly, or to sit down on the floor, and cry with mortification and

annoyance. What occasion had they all to be afraid of my spirit or

temper? I put away this beautiful little portrait, at last, with a vexed

and sullen pain. Why did everybody preach to me on this text? I had

never harmed my mother, and how could my circumstances possibly resemble

those she was placed in? If this sweet, gentle smile of hers was to be a

perpetual reproach to me, how could I have any pleasure in it? I was

annoyed and vexed with everybody, and though in the rebound my heart

clung to my father, I could not go to him to seek for sympathy. I

wandered out into the garden, into the twilight, thinking with a deeper

pity of his disappointed heart. I forgave him all his hard words and

coldness, thinking mysteriously of the darkness which had fallen over

all his life; and I could not be patient with my advisers who had been

warning me by his example. How could they tell what he had suffered?

What was it to them that he had looked for love, and had not found it?

In imagination, I stood by my father's side, vindicating and defending,

and said to myself with indignant earnestness: "Nobody shall blame him

to me."

I was not even satisfied with Harry. He had not answered me plainly, and

he had gone away. I paced up and down the springy, fragrant grass with

short, impatient steps. I forgot that the night-wind was chill, and that

I had nothing to protect me from it. I was not at all in a sweet or

satisfactory mood of mind; and when I thought of the continual happy

smile of the miniature, it rather chafed and annoyed than calmed me.

While I was thus unhappily wandering in the garden, at issue with myself

and every one around, I suddenly heard a step behind, and as suddenly

felt a great, soft shawl thrown over me. I resisted my first impatient

impulse to throw it off, and submitted to have myself wrapped in it, and

a fold of it thrown over my head like a hood--the warmth and shelter it

seemed to give, had something strangely pleasant in them. I was soothed

against my will--and Harry drew my arm through his, and we continued our

walk in silence. It was pleasant to be taken possession of so

quietly--it was pleasant to feel that some one had a right to take care

of me, whether I would or no.

And then Harry had all the talk to himself for a long time, though it

was not the less agreeable on that account; and then my troubled mood

went away, and I told him of Mr. Osborne's present, and how they had

been cautioning me on his behalf--and, indeed, with a confession of the

temper I was in when he came to me--things were very different now. I

perceived it was a beautiful dewy Autumn night, with a young moon in the

sky, and pale silvery stars half lost in the mist of the Milky Way, and

there was a breath of faint fragrance in the air, and one by one the

lights were beginning to shine in the college windows--these friendly

lights which I had watched so long--then my father's lamp was lighted in

the library. In the stillness and darkness we wandered through the

garden, speaking little, finding no great necessity to speak. Out of all

the agitation of the day, it happened to me now to become very quiet,

and very happy; my heart beat quick, yet softly; I no longer felt the

chill evening breath, or chafed at what had been said to me--what

mattered all that had been said to me? When Harry and I were together, I

knew nothing could ever step in between us. Nobody else understood me as

he did. Nobody else, like me, trusted in him.

THE TENTH DAY.

It was my marriage day.

I awoke when the morning was breaking with its chill harmony of tints in

the east. I went to my window, to watch the song-thrushes rising upon

the grey of the dawn; to look upon those long wide lines of clouds which

seemed to stretch out their vain ineffectual barriers to keep down the

rising day. I lingered till the early sunshine came down aslant upon the

top-most boughs, and woke the birds to twitter their good-morrow--till

the darkness in the garden paths underneath yielded and fled before this

sweet invasion, and took a momentary refuge in the depths of dreary

shadow, under the three elm trees at the boundary wall. No one was astir

but I--there was not a sound but the chirp of little housewives in their

leafy nests, up betimes to seek the day's provisions. I saw nothing but

the sky, the clouds, the early light, the dew glistening on the trees,

and the sunshine touching the little deep-set windows of Corpus, and the

morning mist just clearing from the brown outline of its wall.

It was my wedding-day--the first grand crisis of my life--and I had no

lack of material for my thoughts; but I was not thinking as I knelt by

the window in my white dressing-gown, vacantly looking out upon the

rising day. My mind was full of a vague tumult of imagination. I myself

was passive and made no exertion, but looked at the floating pictures

before me, as I might have looked in a dream. My fancy was like the

enchanted mirror in the story; out of the mist, scenes and figures

developed themselves for a moment, and faded into vapor once more. The

scenes were those of my girlish life; so many recollections of it came

back upon me; so many glimpses I had of that careless sunshine, those

unencumbered days! when I was a child at Cottiswoode, where I was the

young lady of the Manor, and knew all these lands over which I looked in

my frank girlish pride to be our own. Then the time when the new heir

came--and then all those years and days which had gone over me here. I

saw myself in the garden on which I was looking now with dreamy eyes--I

saw myself in the corner of the window-seat looking out upon the

twinkling lights of Corpus, and thinking to myself in my silence and

solitude of the owners of these lights; and then Harry glided in upon my

dreams, and I woke with a startling flush of consciousness to remember

what day this was, and to know that I myself was a bride!

Yes, a bride! to go away from my father's house in a few hours, never to

come back to it again as to my home. To take farewell of all my girlish

loneliness, and retirements, and wild fancies--to give up all the

involuntary romancings and possibilities, the uncommunicated and

self-contained life of my youth. I almost fancied, with a sudden

shrinking and tremor, that this was the last hour of all my life in

which I should be alone. I buried my face in my hands at the thought,

though there was no one there to see me; I felt my face burn with a hot

heavy glow. I had in me a restless sense of excitement, a reluctant

heart, and yet a passive consciousness of certainty, of necessity, of

something fixed and absolute, from which there was neither way nor means

to recede. A thing which _must_ be, always roused a little defiance, a

little resistance; and the morning of a bridal is seldom a time of

perfect happiness to anybody concerned. I lay with my head upon the

cushion of my chair, kneeling before it. I tried to say my prayers, but

my thoughts wandered off from the familiar words. My thoughts seemed

wandering everywhere, and would not be composed into steady attention

for a moment; and after I had said the words, I knew with a certain

shock and distress that I had meant nothing by them, and that those

childish sentences that claimed sincerity more than the most elaborate

compositions could have done, were only a cover for a tumult of

agitating thoughts. After this, in real distress at my involuntary

mocking of prayer, I spoke aloud, and trembling, with my face still

hidden, what plain words I could think of, asking for a blessing. "Oh,

Lord, bless us, bless us." I almost think that was all that I could keep

my mind to; and after I had made this child's outcry, I lay still,

kneeling, hiding my face, in this little pause of vacant time, on the

threshold of my fate.

When I heard some one stirring below, and after an interval, when

Alice's step approached my door, I rose up hurriedly, that she might not

see me thus. Alice could not tell whether to smile or to cry as she came

towards me. It was a true April face, beaming and showery, that stooped

towards me as she kissed my cheek. "Bless you, my darling!" said Alice,

and with the words the tears fell, but she recovered immediately and set

me down in the old-fashioned easy chair, and drew a little table before

me, and brought me some tea; and henceforward I delivered myself up into

the hands of Alice, and was served and waited upon as if I had been a

child.

It was still only seven o'clock, and there was no haste, yet we began my

solemn toilet immediately. I became quite calm under the sway of Alice.

When she brushed my hair over my shoulders, I shook it round me like a

veil, and defied her to reduce it into order. I was relieved and eased

by her company. I had no longer the opportunity of bewildering myself

with my own thoughts, and as Alice brushed and braided, she told me

stories, as she had been used to do, of many another bride.

"For nobody makes much account of the bridegroom, Miss Hester," said

Alice; "though the wedding wouldn't be much of a wedding without him,

and though a handsome young gentleman like our Mr. Harry is a pleasure

to see in the day of his joy; but even if it's a poor country maid,

instead of a young lady, every one wants a look at the bride. The

married folks think of their young days, and the young folks of what's

to come; and I think there's never a mortal, unless he's quite given

over to the evil one, but has a kind thought for a bride."

To this I answered nothing, but only played with a superb bracelet Harry

had given me, sliding it on and off my arm, and watching the glitter of

the light in the precious stones.

"But, my darling, you hav'n't half the company you should have had,"

continued Alice, smoothing my hair with her large kind hand, in a

caressing motion. "Half-a-dozen pretty young bridesmaids at the least,

ought to have gone with you--all in their pretty gowns and their white

ribbons; and now there's only Mr. Osborne's niece, just for the name of

the thing, and not another woman but me."

"That is because I know no one, Alice," said I.

"But you should have known some one, dear," said Alice. "It's not in

nature for a young thing to be so lonesome; but that's all to be mended

now. You'll not make light of the country people, Miss Hester, as your

papa did? Promise me now, my dear young lady, that you'll think well of

them, for his sake, when you get home."

"What country people, Alice? I don't suppose we will be rich enough to

keep company with great people," said I, "but you always speak as if you

knew quite well where I was to live, when the truth is, that nobody

knows, and that Mr. Osborne is to find a house for us, if he can."

Alice made no immediate reply. I liked her pleasant talk and

recollections, and I did not like to bring them to an end, so I resumed

the conversation by a question. "I never asked you, Alice, how you got

those roses from Cottiswoode, that night, you remember, three weeks

ago?"

"I have some more to-day, Miss Hester," said Alice.

"Have you? how did you get them? I hope the master of the house does not

think that his flowers are stolen for us," said I, with a little

indignation. "You ought to take care, Alice, that you do not compromise

my father and me."

"There is no fear, Miss Hester," said Alice, almost with a little

bitterness. "The young Squire, your cousin, would never believe your

papa nor you to stoop out of your pride for a fancy like that. No, a

friend brought me the flowers for my own pleasure, and if you'd rather

not have them, I'll take them back to my own room."

"Why, Alice, how foolish you are," said I, turning back in surprise to

look at her. "I wonder now why _you_ should care for my cousin. I don't

see how he can be anything to you."

"Kindness is a deal to me, dear; I never like to see a kind meaning

despised," said Alice.

"You flatter me, Alice," said I, with some pique; "you think it was a

kind meaning that my cousin should propose to share his new inheritance

with me; perhaps you think it is a kind meaning which moves Harry too?"

"Oh, Miss Hester!" cried Alice, with a subdued groan, "don't talk in

that way, it's just as your papa did. You'll break my heart."

"Alice, you don't know--no one knows, what papa has had to suffer," said

I. "He gave her all his heart, and she took it, because she was sorry

for him! Never say that to me again; I would rather die--I would rather

die, than be so bitterly deceived!"

Again I heard the groaning sigh with which Alice had answered me, but

this time she did not say anything. I was somewhat excited. I did not

now attempt to resume our talk again. I was annoyed and distracted to

hear my cousin's "generous" proposal brought before me this morning. I

felt myself humiliated by it. I felt as if it were a scoff at Harry to

say that any one had entertained compassion for his bride--and it

occurred to me, that I would like to meet Edgar Southcote, perhaps in a

year or two, and show him how far I was from being such a one as he

would pity. This idea possessed me immediately, and I said in the

impulse of the moment--"By and bye, Alice, I will have no objection to

see my cousin."

Why or for what reason I could not fancy, but I felt the hand of Alice

tremble as she arranged the last braids of my hair; and she answered me

in the strangest, subdued, troubled voice, "And when you know him, Miss

Hester--when you know him--oh! be kind to the poor young gentleman--if

it were only for your mother's sake."

"For my mother's sake! are you crazy, Alice?" I said, turning round upon

her with utter amazement, "how is it possible that you can connect my

mother with him?"

Alice seemed greatly disconcerted at my sudden question. She retreated a

step or two, as if I had made a real attack upon her, and said in a

faltering apologetic voice, "I'll maybe never have to wait upon you, and

talk to you another morning, Miss Hester--you oughtn't to be hard on

poor old Alice to-day."

"Why should you never wait upon me, and talk to me again?" I said. "You

are full of whims this morning, Alice! Shall I not find you here when we

come back again? You do not mean that you will not come to me?"

"I never will leave your papa while he has need of me, dear," said

Alice, humbly.

"Ah, he will permit you to stay with him--he will not permit me," said

I, "but papa will get strong, and then you will come. I wish you would

not be mysterious, Alice. I wish you would not give me these prophetic

warnings. Do you really think I have such a dreadful temper that I will

make everybody unhappy, or what do you mean?"

"It's not that, Miss Hester," said Alice hurriedly, retreating once more

before me, and taking out of its folds the dress which I was about to

put on.

"Because if you think so," I said, recovering from my momentary anger,

"you should not speak to me about it, you ought to warn the person most

concerned."

I smiled at the thought--to warn Harry of my hereditary pride and my

faulty character--to caution him how to deal with me--with a proud

assurance which warmed my very heart, I smiled at the thought. Yes, I

was secure and blessed in my firm persuasion of what I was to Harry. I

was his lady of romance--his perfect ideal woman--his first love--and I

rejoiced in him because he thought so. It did not make me vain, but it

made him the ideal lover, the true knight.

There came a message to the door that my father was in the dining-room

and wished to see me. I was fully dressed. Can a bride forget her

ornaments? I thought they were very dazzling as I saw them in my mirror.

I could not help pausing to look at myself, at the lustre of my dress,

and the glow of Harry's bracelet on my arm; and I was about to go away

so, to see my father--but Alice stopped me to wrap a large light shawl

over my splendor--"Dear, he'll feel it," said Alice. I was struck with

the delicacy which both Alice and Mr. Osborne, though they condemned

him, showed to my father and his feelings. I wrapped the shawl closer

over my arms, and with a subdued step left my own room. I wondered what

he was thinking of. I wondered if this day recalled to him the freshness

of those hopes which had been dead and withered for many a year, and

when I went in at last, I went very softly and humbly, like a timid

child.

He was pale and his eyes were hollow--he looked rather worse than usual

to-day--and before I reached the door of the room, I had heard his slow

measured footsteps pacing from window to window. He very seldom did

this, and I knew it was a sign of some excitement and agitation in his

mind. I was pleased it should be so. I was pleased that he did not send

me away with his perfect cold self-possession, as if I had been a book

or a picture. He turned towards me when I went in, but did not look at

me for a moment! and when I met his eye, I saw by his momentary glance

of relief, that he was glad not to see me in my full bridal dress. But

this was only for a moment; he came towards me steadily, and with his

own hands removed the shawl. I hung my head under his full serious gaze.

I felt the color burning on my cheek and the tears coming to my eyes. A

few hours and I would be away from him. A few hours, and it might be, I

would never see him again.

But my tears were checked by the touch of his cold firm hand upon my

head. "God bless you, Hester!" he said, slowly. "My own life has been

unfortunate and aimless. I think all my better ambition died on my

wedding-day. I gave myself over to the bitterest feeling in the world, a

sense of wrong and injury, while I was still young, and reckoned happy.

I would fain hope your life is to be happier than mine has been; but in

any case, do not follow my example. I care not who blames or justifies

me, but I have not made so much by my experiment that I should recommend

it to my child--forgive when you are wronged--endure when you are

misunderstood--if you can, at all times be content. I believe a woman

finds it easier to attain these passive heroisms, and heaven knows I

have profited little by my resistance to the mild fictions of ordinary

life. Remember, Hester, what I say; take whose example you will to form

your life by, only do not take mine."

I cannot tell how this strange repetition of the advice which I had

already heard so often, overpowered me. Where was the opportunity for my

following my father's example? I saw no circumstances at all like his in

the promise of my life. I could not suspect any compassion in Harry's

regard for me. It was pure, manly affection, and no feigning. I felt as

if all this was a conspiracy to drive me into the very suspiciousness

from which they sought to guard me. What temper must I be of when

everybody thought these cautions necessary; I felt humiliated and

degraded by the constant counsel. The tears gathered in my eyes--large

tears of mortification and bitterness--but my pride was roused at the

same time, and they did not fall.

All this while, when I was swallowing down as I best could the sob in my

throat, my father looked at me steadily, then he suddenly threw the

shawl over me again. "I did not think, Hester, that you had been like

your mother," he said, in a tone so cold and rigid that I saw at once it

was the extreme control he exercised over some violent and passionate

emotion which alone could express itself in these tones, and then he

stooped, kissed my forehead gently, and began once more with hasty and

irregular steps to pace the room from end to end. I stood where he had

left me for a moment, and then I left the room and retired to my own.

The sun was rising higher--the world was all astir--it was very near the

time. I went back and sat down at my chamber window to wait for the

hour. Alice would not leave me; she remained in the room wandering about

in a restless state of excitement, dressed and ready, but she did not

speak, nor disturb my thoughts; and Harry had now arrived and was with

my father, she told me--but that made no impression on my abstracted

mood. I sat as in a dream, looking out upon all these familiar objects;

there seemed to me a languid pause of expectation upon everything. I

myself, as still as if I had been in a trance, watched at the window;

but my senses were nervously quick and vivid. I thought I heard every

step and movement below--and long before anybody else heard them, I felt

that this was Mr. Osborne and the young lady, who was to be my

bridesmaid, who alighted at the outer door, and came gaily talking

through the close--then I knew that the time of my reverie was over.

When Alice left me to bring Miss Osborne upstairs, I tried to shake

myself free from my lethargy--it required an effort. I felt like the

enchanted lady in the tale, as if I had been fixed in that magic chair,

and could have slept there for a hundred years.

I was abruptly disturbed by the entrance of Miss Osborne--she was older

than I, and used to such things--she did not understand the intense

secret excitement which I had reached to by this time. She came up to me

in a flutter of silk, and lace, and ribbons; she laid cordial hands upon

me and kissed me. Having neither mother, sisters, nor female friends, I

was very shy of the salutations which are current among young ladies. I

felt myself shrink a little from the kiss, and my color rose in spite of

myself. Miss Osborne laughed, and was astonished, and tried to encourage

me. "Don't give way, there's a dear; poor little thing, how nervous you

look, come lean on me, love, and get ready; where's some gloves? and her

handkerchiefs? she must keep up her heart now, must she not?"

This was addressed in a half-satirical tone to Alice, and Alice as well

as myself was considerably discomposed by the cool activity and gaiety

of our visitor. "Dear, there is the carriage waiting for you at the

door," whispered Alice in my ear. "Don't tremble, darling--don't now,

it'll be all over before you know."

And when I went down stairs, I did not see either Harry or Mr. Osborne,

though I suppose they were both there; I saw only my father's white thin

hand take mine and lead me away--and then we drove from the door. I

recollect quite well seeing the people in the streets as we drove along,

and being struck with a vague wonder whether this day was really the

same as any other day to all those strangers. Then came the church, a

confused and tremulous picture--and then a voice addressed us, and I had

to say something and so had Harry, and the scene suddenly cleared up,

and became distinct for an instant before me, when with a shock and

start I found my hand put into his hand; and by and bye all was over,

and we came away.

And now we were again at home--at home--no longer home to me. And Alice

with her silk gown and her great white muslin apron which I had braided

for her, with the cap of lace and white ribbons which I had made, and

her little white shawl fastened with a brooch which Harry had given her,

and which contained some of my hair. Alice stood by my chair, sometimes

forgetting that she had to attend to the party at table, and only

remembering that she had to cry over, and comfort, and encourage me.

Harry was in wild spirits, too joyous, almost flighty--like a man who

has just achieved some wonderful triumph; but is scarcely quite aware of

it yet. His name was Southcote now, and my name was unchanged. My father

sat at the head of the table, beside us--he was grave, but much calmer

than he had been in the morning, and I thought he watched Harry, and

Harry avoided his eye in a manner which was strange to me. Mr. Osborne

and his niece were a great relief to us--this event, which was so

momentous to us, was nothing to them but a little occasion of festivity

to which they had to contribute a reasonable portion of gaiety. They

came to rejoice with those who did rejoice, and they were certainly the

most successful in the company. The table was gay with flowers, and

there were the sweet pale Cottiswoode roses, like friends from home,

with dew upon their leaves, and the faint fragrance stealing through the

room. I wondered once more where Alice had got them--for my own part I

was not now excited; I had fallen into a lull of composure, and was

watching everybody. I remember the little speech Mr. Osborne made--full

of real kindness; but with a little mock formality in it, as if a large

party had been present, when he drank our healths; and I remember the

glow upon Harry's face, and the gleam in his eyes, when he without any

mockery stretched out his hand to him, and thanked him. Miss Osborne sat

by me in her rustle and flutter of finery, whispering jokes and kind

words into my ear; telling me not to look so pale--not to blush so

much--to compose myself and a great many other young lady-like sayings,

and I began to think that though it was not very comfortable, it might

be very good to be "supported" by Miss Osborne, since I carefully strove

to banish all trace of feeling from my face, that I might be saved from

her criticisms. We sat at table an unmercifully long time; but though I

could see Harry was as impatient as I was, and though he was constantly

looking at his watch, and whispering that it would soon be time to go

away, no one else seemed disposed to release us. At length my father

rose, and we all went into the drawing-room, where the table was covered

with cards and envelopes. My father lifted one of the little packets and

took a note from it to show to me. It was addressed to my cousin, and

very formally and politely informed him of what had taken place to-day.

"I thought it right to let him know; what do you think, Harry?" said my

father, turning round to him somewhat sharply. Harry came up to see what

it was. "It is to Hester's cousin, once a pretender for her hand. I

ought to let him know it is disposed of, ought I not?" said my father,

and he lifted the cover, which was addressed to "Edgar Southcote, Esq.,

Cottiswoode." My father was looking full at him, and I saw once more

that burning flush rise to Harry's hair, and cover his whole face. Their

eyes met; I do not know, and have never known what was in the glance;

but Harry never spoke, he turned to me immediately, and took my hand,

and said hoarsely with an extraordinary suppressed emotion, "Hester--my

wife! Hester--it is time to go away." I thought he rather wished to draw

me from my father's side, to keep me from much conversation with him;

but he looked up again at me with recovered composure, and turned again

boldly to my father. "All this only agitates and distresses me," he

said, holding out his hand; "let me take her away, it is our time."

My father slowly extended his hand to him. "Take her away!" he said,

"she is yours, and I do not dispute with you the triumph you have

gained. Hester, my love, go and get ready. I will detain you no longer;

Osborne, take leave of her, she is going away."

Then Mr. Osborne came forward and took both my hands and looked into my

face. I was surprised to see that a tear twinkled in his sunny bright

gray eye. "So you are going away," he said; "well, it is the course of

nature; but Cambridge will be all the duller, Hester, when you are not

to be met with in the streets. Good-bye! my dear child, I wished for

this, but it costs me a pang notwithstanding. Good-bye, Hester! and

don't let anything persuade you to be offended with your old friend."

With an old-fashioned graceful courtesy, he kissed my hand. I think I

never felt so strong a momentary impulse to cling to any one, as at that

time I did cling to him. _He_ said it grieved him that I should go away;

but, alas! there was no tear for me in my father's thoughtful eye. I

had to restrain whatever I felt; my eyes were blinded with tears; but

Miss Osborne was rustling forward to support me and give me her arm

upstairs, and I would not call forth her common-place coldness, should I

not even have ten minutes with Alice, all by ourselves.

But Alice contrived this, and, as I changed my dress, Alice wept over

me. "The house will be desolate--desolate, darling," said Alice, "but I

see nothing but happiness for you. It makes my heart light to think on

what's before you. He's a noble young gentleman, Miss Hester; I never

saw one was equal to him. Now, darling, you're ready, and here's the

picture, my sweet young lady's sweet face to be your counsellor, my own

child, and blessing and prosperity and joy be with you. Farewell,

farewell;--I'll not cry now. I'll not shed tears on the threshold the

bride steps over, and there's himself waiting for you."

Yes! there he was, without the door, standing waiting for my coming

forth. I came out of my pretty room, the bower of my youth, and gave my

husband my hand. Still my eyes were blind with tears, but I did not shed

them, and in the close was my father, walking quickly up and down

waiting to take leave of me. He took me in his arms for a moment, kissed

my forehead again--said once more, "God bless you, my love, God bless my

dear child!" and then put my hand again in Harry's. I was lifted into

the carriage; I caught a last glimpse of the face of Alice, struggling

with tears, and smiling; and then I fell into a great fit of weeping, I

could control myself no longer. Harry did not blame me, he said I had

been a hero, and soothed and calmed, and comforted me, with some bright

moisture in his own eyes, and I awoke to remember him, and think of

myself no longer; and this was how I left my home.

END OF BOOK 1.