In this tumult, my heart awoke. Its dead and sullen inaction gave way to

a vivid feeling of reality--and as if I had known it now for the first

time, there burst upon me the full sense of my father's death. Yes! for

the first time I felt to my heart, how desolate I was, and with a bitter

satisfaction I remembered that I had nothing to wean me from my grief,

nothing to distract the mourning of my orphanhood--no wooing tender

happiness to lead me away from the grave where I would build all my

thoughts. Yet now, also, for the first time I remembered what he had

said upon his death-bed--strange words for him, "one event should not

poison a life." I thought I heard the echoing round me of his failing

voice--the voice I should hear no more; and I threw myself down before

the bed, kneeling and covering my face in passionate and bitter weeping.

My father! my father! where was he? where?

When I rose from my knees, it was quite dark. I do not think any one can

be in great or real grief without trying to pray. I prayed little in the

stupor of my misery, but now broken wandering disconnected petitions

came to my lips among my tears. When I appealed to God, though ever so

feebly, and, alas! so little as I knew of him! it calmed me in some

degree. I rose and bathed my face to put away the tears--I was subdued

and melted--my eyes filled in spite of myself. I did not weep over the

death-bed or the grave. I felt now as if I could weep continuously, and

that it was impossible to stay my tears.

Then I heard a timid step without; I knew it was Alice, and by-and-bye

she came softly knocking at the door--under the door crept in the light

from her candle. I remembered with a bitter pang the last time she came

to me in the darkness--the night of my betrothal. When I thought of

that, I rose firmly and admitted her. How I was changed! Alice came in

with a hesitating step, looking wistfully at me to see how far she might

venture. Alice was greatly shaken with the events of these last few

days. The bright look on her face was overclouded, she was humble and

deprecating and uneasy. I had been her child, loving, confiding, almost

depending upon her--and there was such a dreary difference in everything

now.

She set the light upon the table, and lingered looking at me. I fancy

she saw some encouragement in the glance of my wet eyes and the

softening of my face. She came behind me under the pretence of doing

something, and then she said timidly, "Miss Hester, may I speak?"

I could not say no. I did not answer at all, and she took this for

permission.

"You think every one's deceived you, dear," said Alice humbly, "and in

your great trouble you stand by yourself, and will let nobody help you.

I don't deny, Miss Hester, every one's done wrong; but, darling, it was

all for love of you."

"Do not say so, Alice," I exclaimed, eagerly, "you insult me when you

speak thus."

"Oh! Miss Hester, think upon my meaning," cried Alice. "I thought I knew

his look, his step, his voice, from the first time he came under this

roof. I pondered and pondered in my mind if it could be him; but he

never told me that I should know. You were as like to know as I was,

dear--you had seen him all the same; and it was not my part to speak, or

I thought so, Miss Hester. Then the night he spoke to you first, he

brought the roses here, and said to me, 'Do you think she would like

them, Alice?' and in my heart I knew where they came from; but never a

word was spoken of them by either him or me. On your wedding-day I got

more again, by a servant's hand. I never doubted they came from

Cottiswoode, nor that he sent them: but, dear, he never told me, and I

had no right to know. You were willing to marry him, Miss Hester, you

were bound up in one another; was I to presume that I knew more than

you did, darling! and what was it I knew? nothing at all, dear, but the

thought in my heart--oh! Miss Hester, you're all I have in the

world--don't turn away from Alice--don't think I've deceived you, I'm

desolate without you."

"_I_ am quite desolate, I have no one in the world to trust to," said I.

"Oh! don't say it--don't say it!" cried Alice, "he's been led into a

snare once, Miss Hester, but truth is in his heart!"

"It is I who have been led into a snare," said I, bitterly, "he has

wrecked all my expectations--he has plunged me out of happiness into

misery; but that is not all, he has placed me so that I must either

yield and be satisfied like a weak fool, or if I resist be known as a

passionate ill-tempered woman, who makes him miserable. I see all that

is before me. I am doomed like my father. My own life is robbed of every

comfort, and the blame of making him unhappy will be added to me--oh, I

see it all! I will be called a termagant, a household plague, a scorn to

women. It is not enough that my life is wretched--my good name must go

from me too."

"Oh! Miss Hester, not by his will," cried Alice.

As she spoke, a change came upon me. The pride of a wife came to my

mind. I could blame him myself--but I could hear no one else blame

him--I could not admit a third person to our domestic discord. My

quarrel with Alice was for her own fault, and not for his. My bitterness

against Mr. Osborne was because he had deceived me, and not because

Edgar Southcote had. No one but himself had any right to speak of his

error to me.

"I am not speaking of my husband," I said coldly; "what is between us

can only be settled by ourselves; no one can interfere between him and

me. I speak only of circumstances of my unfortunate and unhappy

position; that is all I refer to."

Alice paused, chilled and overcast once more; it was difficult for her,

a humble, simple woman, who rarely was offended, and who, when she was,

forgave like a Christian, and never suffered the sun to go down upon

her wrath, to understand or to deal with me; she stole round behind my

chair, and bent down on the ground by my feet.

"Miss Hester, will you forgive me? you are used to me--you would not

take to another for a long time, dear. I was your nurse, and I have been

your maid, Miss Hester, all your life--don't cast off Alice. May be, I

don't deserve that you ever should trust me more; but let me be beside

you, darling; let me serve you, and wait on you, and comfort you if I

can. Oh! Miss Hester, my dear sweet young lady trusted in me--and even

your papa trusted in me--don't cast me off, for you are my own child."

I cried long and bitterly. I could not help it. The pleading of Alice

recalled again to me how desolate and solitary I was. I had not a friend

in the world, old or young, to whom I could confide my trouble; not one

whom I could lean upon if I was ill or suffering; alas, not a woman in

existence, except herself, whom I should have wished even to see again!

and disappointed as I was in those hopes of perfect sympathy and union

with my husband, which every one forms at some time or other; my heart

yearned for the natural solace--the comfort of mother or of sister which

providence had denied to me. I let my hand fall upon her shoulder--I

leaned upon her. "Oh, Alice, Alice, why did you deceive me?" I cried

with a great burst of tears.

She did not answer anything, she drew me close to her bosom, and

caressed me, and soothed me. My heart beat calmer. I was subdued--I

scarcely knew how, as I leant upon Alice. I seemed to have found some

rest and comfort for which I had been seeking vainly. When she began to

weep over me, my own tears stayed; my heart was eased because I had

forgiven her, and then I raised myself up, and we sat together speaking

of my father. I had never heard about his last days.

"He never was well after you went away, Miss Hester," said Alice; "all

that day after Mr. Osborne left, he wandered up and down talking to

himself. The most that he said, that I could hear, was, 'she will be

well--she will be well;' for, dear, his heart was wrapped up in you,

though he said little; and then sometimes he would take a turn, as if he

was doubtful, and once I heard him say, like trying to persuade himself,

'She is not like me--she will not resent it as I would have done.' I was

not spying on him to hear this, Miss Hester; but he wandered about so,

wherever I was, or whatever we were doing, and never seemed to notice

us, and Mary, if she had minded, might have heard as well as me. A week

before you came home he took to his bed, and when I was staying in his

room waiting on him, he sometimes spoke to me. God was good to him,

dear, and gave him time to think, and he was not near so high, as he

drew near his latter end; but, Miss Hester, you might not care to hear

what your papa said to me."

"Oh! tell me everything--every word, Alice," I cried.

"Sometimes he would not say a word for hours--and then all at once would

speak as if he thought I had been following all that was in his mind,"

said Alice. "In this way, all at once, he said to me, 'When she comes

home, you will stay by her, Alice--let nothing persuade you to go away

from her--she has no mother, no friend,' and then he did not say another

word that night. Then it was again, 'She may have disappointment in her

life--few are free of it--the simplest comfort is the best. Alice, you

are a simple woman, you live in every day--do you bring fresh heart to

comfort my child.' It looks presuming, Miss Hester, I know it does,

dear. I never could have thought such things of myself; but that was

what he said."

"Go on--go on, Alice," said I, as well as I was able, through my tears.

"Dear, there was not a great deal more; sometimes he said only your

name, and 'My only child, my only child;' and then he would turn and

say, 'Be sure you never leave her, Alice, she will have need of you.' I

cannot think on much more; but when I went and told him you were come

(it was in the night we got the news, and I was sitting up with him), he

said I was to send away that moment to call you to him--and you

came--and oh, darling! what a comfort all your life, that you were in

time to see his latter end!"

I was weeping now without restraint, leaning upon Alice. My solitude was

less desolate, less miserable, when she was beside me; and I who had

always prized so much my father's few tokens of tenderness, it went to

my heart to hear how he had remembered me when I was away. "Do you think

he knew, Alice?" I whispered; it was an unnecessary question, for I was

sure he did.

"He never said a word, dear; but it was not like he would tell me," said

Alice. "Yes, Miss Hester, he had found it out--I knew it by his eye that

very day."

And now, that I had the clue, so did I; but I no longer felt anger

against my father, though all of them had suffered me to sink passively

into this gulf and grave of all my hopes.

When I went to rest that night, it was Alice's kind hand that smoothed

away my hair, and said good-night at my pillow. I wept myself to sleep,

but my sleep was not haunted by the miserable visions of those nights

which were past.

THE FIFTH DAY.

October was over now, and sullen and dark winter weather had oppressed

the skies, and settled down upon the country. I was still in Cambridge,

living alone in my father's house. My husband came and went constantly,

yet left me unmolested; I almost think he was afraid at once to enter

upon the question of my return, and he respected the grief which would

not be sympathized with. I believe, indeed, that to have an excuse for

delaying any explanation or arrangements between us--to put off fixing

that future which we both dreaded, there was a mutual pretence of

business which claimed my attention after my father's death; but there

was, indeed, no such thing. He had left one or two legacies, and desired

that, except the books he bequeathed to Mr. Osborne, his library should

be left intact, and even the house preserved, and a housekeeper placed

in it when I returned to my own home--but he had neither debts nor

debtors--there were no arrangements to make. I lived a dreary life in

the drawing-room, when I was too sick at heart to go near the window,

and never left my chair when I could help it. I read earnestly, yet

eagerly, whatever books came to my hand--novels when I could get them--I

was glad of anything to cheat me from my own brooding unhappy thoughts;

yet I never thought of going away. Where could I go to? All the world

was alike solitary--alike desolate to me. The heavy listlessness of

grief came upon me--I cared for nothing, I scarcely desired anything. I

had never had any visitors, and though one or two came to see me now

because I was mistress of Cottiswoode, to offer their condolences and

sympathy for my loss, I denied them admittance when I could, and when I

could not, suffered their coming and their going so indifferently that

they seldom came to trouble me again. Mr. Osborne came now and then, but

his visits were only of duty, and there was little pleasure in them for

either him or me. By degrees I was left entirely alone with Alice, and

with my husband, when he came. People had begun already to speak of me

with astonishment. I made Alice confess this was the case; and no one

knew me or could take my part; but in my heart I was rather glad than

otherwise, to have my first condemnation over so soon.

It was now a month since we had returned home, and save on the first

evening and morning after our arrival at Cottiswoode, we had spoken to

each other only on indifferent subjects. I knew this could not last. I

had always in my mind a certain deadened and dull expectation of our

next interview. I feared it, and would have put it off from day to day,

yet it seemed the one thread of life in my languid existence. My heart

beat when I heard his footsteps come along the close--that springy light

rapid step; I knew its faintest echo, and equally well I knew it when

duller and fainter it went away. The misery of our position was, that we

were not, and could not be, indifferent to each other; when he came,

this subdued restrained expectation animated me into temporary vigor;

when he went away, I was aware of an aching disappointment, which

mingled with a sense of relief. Involuntarily I watched and waited for

him--if our meetings had all been joy, they scarcely could have been so

breathlessly anticipated, for then we should have known each other's

plans, and intentions, and wishes, and now we knew each other in perfect

ignorance of what the other meant to do.

I myself was still worse than that--I did not know my own intentions; I

had no plan for the future. I knew we must by-and-by decide upon

something; but my mind seemed incapable of any action, save brooding

over my own thoughts or speculating on his. Alice had brightened, I

could not tell why, since our interview. I suspected she nourished vain

hopes that I was weak, and would yield to him; none of them understood

me, or if any one did, it was he.

Things were in this position to-day, when Alice came and told me that he

had arrived, and wanted to see me. I told her to show Mr. Southcote

upstairs. I was able to compose myself before he entered the room. I am

sure he could see no sign of agitation. It was very different with him;

his face had an excited, unsteady look, he was very pale, yet sometimes

his cheek flushed with a deep faint color. I could not see that he

either had any plan. I read in his whole manner that he had come to try

once more what entreaty, and persuasion, and penitence would do. This

hardened and strengthened me; I was ready to hear him with coolness and

self-possession when I saw that he brought neither to his conference

with me.

He sat down near to me, and leaned forward to me across my little table.

His voice was dry and hoarse with emotion. "Hester," he said, "I have

waited, and been patient. I have not hastened nor troubled you. Have you

no comfort, no hope, no forgiveness for me now!"

"It is I that should have comfort--for it is only I that have been in

sorrow," I said.

"Yes, and you have put me away from you. I have not been permitted to

say that I grieved with my wife," he said, "yet I have grieved with you,

Hester--you can shut out the man who has offended you, but you cannot

shut out the heart--all these wrong nights and days--all this wretched

time, I have been with you, Hester. You cannot exclude my thoughts or my

love--you cannot make me forget that you are mine."

"I cannot make myself forget it," I said. "No, you do well to taunt me.

I know that I belong to you. It has all come true--I feel what is upon

me like a chain of iron. I remember your cruel words, when you said 'for

ever and ever'--I remember what my father told us--you do not need to

repeat my misery to me, I acknowledge it."

I saw him start and draw back when I said "my misery," as if it was a

pang; but he recovered himself. "For ever and for ever," he repeated,

"do you remember that night--Hester, there was no misery in our way that

night, and how is it that we are changed? I have sinned against you, and

you have punished me. For a whole month now, and it is only two months

since our marriage-day, the meanest passenger in the streets has had as

much kindness at your hands as I--is this not enough, Hester? can you

not forget now this dark episode, and return to what we were? Let me

suppose it is again that night--let us return to the time of our

betrothal, and being anew. Will you speak to me, Hester?"

"We cannot return to the time of our betrothal," said I; "then I was

deceived. Now I know, and it is impossible to restore the delusion

again."

"Was there nothing but delusion?" he said hastily, "was it folly to

suppose that you cared for me at all--or is vengeance and not mercy the

companion of love?"

"I cannot tell," said I, "I am no poet; but if you think it is easier to

be wounded to the heart--to be deceived and ruined, and put to shame, by

one who is dear to you than by an enemy, I know you are mistaken. If I

had not cared for you, I should have had only myself to mourn for, and

would have been a light burden."

He sank back in his chair for a moment with a look of blank dismay and

almost horror. "Deceived and ruined and put to shame!" he repeated.

"Hester! what meaning do you put upon these words?"

I felt the blood rush to my face, with indignation and shame and nervous

excitement. "It is quite true," I said, "you have taken the hope and

strength out of my life--is not that ruin? and you have disgraced me in

my own eyes--I did not leave my father's home with _you_--you know I did

not give either heart or hand to you; but I awake and find that I am

your wife--you have disgraced and shamed me to myself. I can only bear

contempt and scorn for the deceived and foolish girl whom you have

shown to me in her true weakness. I can never hold up my head any

more--and by-and-by you will disgrace me to the world."

"How will I do that, Hester?" he asked; his voice rang sharp and harsh;

he felt what I said deeply, and, in addition, I saw that at last I

roused a kindred opposition and anger in his mind.

I found a certain pleasure in it. I was glad to rouse him to be like me,

in bitterness and enmity; though I was much excited, I had command of

myself; I could speak slowly and clearly as I thought. I had never been

given to many words--but I appreciated the possession of them now.

"When your neighbors see the disappointed sullen woman who is called by

your name, they will know what to think of her," I said. "I will be

pointed at as one whose evil temper, whose bitter disposition makes

every one round me miserable. All the hard tales of the old Southcotes

will be revived in me--they will say I am a curse instead of a

blessing--they will make an example of me, and tell how happy I might

be--how miserable I am. No one will know of the secret poison that has

come into my life; but they will know that I am bitter and harsh and

unlovely, and they will judge from what they see; the very servants,

poor Amy who could not leave me till she had told me who she was--they

will think me an evil spirit--they will shrink out of my way, and all

the world will give their sympathy to you."

While I spoke thus, though it moved him much, though he changed color,

and sometimes for a moment his eye flashed upon me with indignation, I

saw at once that I had relieved him in some point. When I thought of it,

I perceived that all this speech of mine pointed to no separation; but

almost told him that I was ready to follow him home. I had not intended

this, indeed I did not know what I had intended--I had formed no plan,

and I only spoke, as I so often acted, on the moment's impulse, without

pausing to think what it might lead to. When I discovered his

satisfaction, it startled me for a moment; but then I was occupied

listening to what he said. He spoke in a softened and hopeful tone.

"This will not last, Hester! your own good heart will interpose for me.

I have deceived you once, it is true; but neither I nor any one else

will do you injustice."

I made no answer. I saw he had something more to say, and I waited

sullenly to know what it was.

"Will you come home?" he asked. "There is nothing here but memories of

sadness. Come, Hester! life and its duties wait upon us while we dally.

If you cannot forgive me, still, come with me, Hester. If we do our

duty, the blessing will come to us. At present we are paralysed, neither

you nor I are good for anything, and our life was not made for our own

caprice--come!"

"And what should I be good for?" I asked with some astonishment, for

hitherto my life had been of the most complete and total uselessness,

and I did not understand what was required from me. When he took this

tone, I always acknowledged his influence--it was only when we came to

personal matters--when I sat triumphant on the eminence of injury, that

I got the better of him.

"What? anything!" he said. "I know what you are, Hester! you have life

before you as I have; and happy or not happy, we have all its duties to

do--not one thing, but a multitude. Come among your own people, to your

own home--you have authority to exercise, charities and kindness to

spread around you. You are no less yourself, because, if you will, you

are disappointed and deceived in me--I will bear my burden as it is just

I should; but, Hester, it becomes you to be no less brave; you must take

up yours."

I gazed upon him with amazement; involuntarily my heart responded to

this call he made upon me. No one had ever bidden me rise and work

before; but when I heard his voice, I suddenly acknowledged that this

was the want of my life. I was quite in the mood for it; I might have

gone into a nunnery, or joined a sisterhood of mercy, had I been a

Catholic, or in a country where such things were. I immediately leaped

upon a wild imaginative vision of those things which he described so

soberly as the duties of life. I took the heroic view of them at once; I

had no eye for patience and meekness, and such tame virtues. My rapid

glance sought out the great self-sacrifices, the privations of voluntary

humility; I was ready to walk over the burning ploughshares, to be a

martyr at once.

Yes! I began to be ashamed of my expectation that he would plead, and

pray, and humble himself at my feet, and that I, injured and deceived,

would spurn him from me. I was ashamed of resenting so bitterly my own

unhappiness. In a moment I had reached the opposite extreme. What was

happiness? a mere bubble on the surface. Duty and labor were the zest of

life.

With the speed of lightning these thoughts passed through my mind, and

all the time he sat gazing at me across the table. I think he was

scarcely prepared for my answer; for he met the first words with a

startled look of mingled embarrassment and joy.

"When do you wish to go home?" I said. "I am ready now."

"Ready now--to go home?" he exclaimed, with a flush of surprise and

delight, rising to come to me; but he caught my abstracted, pre-occupied

eye, and, with a deeper blush of mortification, sat down again. "You

cannot come too soon, Hester," he continued, in a subdued and

disappointed tone, "for everything is disorganized and out of

order--there is the greatest want of you--though I will not say how I

myself long to see you in your proper place--will you come to-morrow?"

"There are some things to do," I said, vacantly, delaying without any

purpose in the delay. "Will Monday do?"

"Yes, yes!" he said, with eagerness. "I will come for you then; and now,

I go away in hope."

I made no answer--my mind was busied with my own projects--already in my

mind I had begun my life of heroism and martyrdom at Cottiswoode.

Already I washed the feet of the poor, and watched by the bedside of the

plague-stricken. I did not pause to consider possibilities, nor ordinary

rules; but followed up my own wild idea, in my own eager fashion. He

waited for something further from me; but I said nothing to him, and

after a little interval he went away.

It was now Friday, and I had pledged myself to be ready on Monday to go

to Cottiswoode. I went immediately to find Alice; I could perceive that

she had been waiting with great anxiety the issue of our interview,

though, absorbed as I was in my new thought, it did not immediately

occur to me why--and when I went to her, Alice was quite nervous with

expectation.

"Do you think some one could be got quickly to keep the house, Alice?"

said I, "do you think you could find some one to-day or to-morrow?"

Her face lighted up suddenly.

"To be sure I could, Miss Hester," said Alice; "but, dear, why?"

"Because I have arranged to go home on Monday," said I, "to go home,

Alice, to the duties of my life."

"Bless you, darling!" she cried; but her color changed when she saw my

unresponsive face; "it's not against your will, dear," she said timidly,

"you're not forced to go, Miss Hester?"

"_Forced?_ no! unless by my duty, which is there," said I. "I begin to

see what is the use of me, Alice, or what should be, rather; for I have

never been of use to any one. I must go to begin my work, there is the

proper field for me--and now, when I know what it is, unhappiness will

never prevent me from doing my duty."

"Is that all, Miss Hester?" said Alice, with a wistful look--she was

more disappointed than even _he_ had been.

"Yes! that is all," said I, "what more should any one seek for? I wonder

you never told me, Alice, how useless I was."

"Has any one told you now?" said Alice, drawing herself up with a little

flush of simple anger; "or, dear, what has put such a thought in your

mind to-day?"

"Not any one telling me," I answered; "but I see it very well, and

clearly--perhaps, indeed, after all, I could not have done very much

when I was a girl--it is different now; but, Alice, let us see what

preparations we have to make, for there is very little time."

"Yes, Miss Hester, directly," said Alice, taking up her bonnet. "I'll go

and see after the old woman--don't you be waiting about the library,

dear, it's a dreary place for you. Wouldn't you come out now your own

self, Miss Hester, and breathe the air--Cambridge streets are no great

things, I dare say, to them that's been in foreign countries and in

London, but better than always moping in the house--come, darling--come

yourself and see."

I was persuaded, and went with her. The day was not so miserable out of

doors as it looked within, and it was still scarcely past mid-day, and

there were many people abroad. We had not gone far before we met Mr.

Osborne, who had a clergyman with him--a tall, meagre, middle-aged man,

in very precise clerical dress, about whom there was a certain look of

asceticism and extreme devotion, which, as it happened, chimed in with

my mood of the moment. Mr. Osborne and I met very drily after our late

quarrel. I had not softened in my resentment towards him, and he was

impatient and angry with me--so that I thought it was mere aggravation,

and a desire to exasperate me, which tempted him to introduce his

companion to "Mrs. Southcote of Cottiswoode;" it was the first time I

had heard my name stated so, and I could not subdue the start and tremor

with which I heard it--so that I did not at the instant notice the name

of the person introduced to me, and it was only when I heard it

repeated, that it struck upon me with a sound more startling than my

own.

"Mr. Saville is rector of Cottiswoode--the clergyman of your

parish--Hester," said Mr. Osborne--"when do you return home?"

"On Monday," I said; but my whole attention was fixed upon my new

acquaintance--Mr. Saville--I could not think, for the first moment, what

association I had with the name, but it was a painful one, and it had

something to do with Edgar Southcote.

"I am glad to meet my young relative," said the clergyman with a stiff

bow--his young relative! Could he mean _me?_

I gazed at him for a moment, but only with a dull astonishment, for it

was quite beyond my comprehension what he could mean.

"The parish has been much neglected. I hope to bring its necessities

before you soon," said the clergyman, in his measured, chanting tone. "I

do not despair of making the desert rejoice, with your assistance, Mrs.

Southcote; but at present it is in a deplorable condition. No church

sentiments, no feeling for what is seemly and in order--there has been

no resident on the estates for so many years."

"Ah! the young people will rectify that, no doubt," said Mr. Osborne,

carelessly. "I am glad to see you out of doors, Hester, and glad to hear

that you are going home--your own good sense--I always trusted to that."

"I will be glad to do all I can," I said, hurriedly answering the

clergyman, and taking no notice of Mr. Osborne; "you will have to

instruct me at first, for I am quite ignorant of work. Could I take

anything with me that could be of service? pray let me know."

"I will make out a list of useful articles--no trouble, pray do not

speak of it," said the Rev. Mr. Saville, with a wonderful bow.

Mr. Osborne groaned. "I am in some haste," he said sharply. "Good

morning, Hester--I shall see you before you leave Cambridge," and as he

turned away, I heard him mutter--"Poor, foolish child--is she to

comfort herself after this fashion."

I turned away proudly--this worldly man might scorn these self-denying

labors, which were to be all the pleasure of my life--but I only clasped

them closer on that account. I called Alice to me again, and went on in

silence. I persuaded myself how glad I was that I had encountered this

clergyman; but in spite of my devotion to the work about which he seemed

so anxious, I could not keep my mind from straying back to his name, and

what he had said--Saville--Saville--it suddenly burst upon me--that was

the name of the man who came with the boy Edgar to Cottiswoode, before

we left it. I felt my face burn with indignation and displeasure--he

called me his young relative--perhaps he was _that_ man's son, and a

relation of Edgar Southcote. I thought it a new insult, that by any

chance such a person as the first Saville should be related to me. Yet

so strongly was I moved by my new sentiments, that, I think I made the

strongest effort which I ever recollect making to put down this feeling.

Yes, I had become enamored of mortification and self-abasement. I had my

work to begin too, and what did it matter if this clergyman was

Saville's son--what did anything matter to me? Was I not about to court

humiliation and offer sacrifices--to forget my worldly comforts and

delicate breeding--to wash the feet of pilgrims? and I was glad to find

at the very outset a great unexpected mortification in my way. I walked

along very rapidly beside Alice. She was anxious to speak to me--very

anxious about myself--but I did not think of beginning my labors by

doing what I could to lighten the kind heart of Alice.

When we were returning, after visiting a woman whom Alice knew, and whom

she arranged with--for though this might have been a very suitable

beginning of my labors, I did not think of making it so, but was shy and

stood aloof; we began at last to speak. Alice no longer understood or

could deal with me; she hesitated and was timid, and never knew what to

say in our conversations. I do not wonder at it--for when I look upon

those days, I do not always find it easy to comprehend myself.

We had just passed a group of young ladies. Three handsome, tall,

well-dressed girls, evidently sisters, and full of talk and eager

interest in something they were discussing. "Dear," said Alice, with a

sigh, "if you had but had a sister, Miss Hester, or some good young lady

to be company for you at Cottiswoode."

"I want no company, Alice," said I.

"You never knew what it was, dear," said Alice; "a friend is a great

blessing and comfort, more than you think for. Couldn't you now, Miss

Hester, darling, think upon some one to keep you company this dull

winter? You'll be lone in the country, and nothing to amuse you--do

think upon it, dear."

"I do not want to be amused. I am going to work like a rational

creature," said I; "do you think I am good for nothing but amusing

myself, Alice? No, I have lived long enough for my own pleasure, and now

that pleasure is out of the question, I want to live for others. I must

have been very selfish all my life. I want to sacrifice myself now, and

live for the good of the poor and the distressed."

"Dear, it's a blessed thing to hear a young lady like you speak such

words," said Alice, with tears in her eyes; "and to serve God and to be

good to his poor, is the way to be happy, darling; but you never need to

live solitary, or give up a good friend for that."

"You do not understand me, Alice. I don't want to be happy," said I,

sternly--"I want to do my duty--happiness is all over in this world for

me. Do not say anything; you will only vex me; and you know I have no

good friend to give up, even if I cared for it."

Alice paused again, disconcerted, eager, ready to say a great deal, but

afraid of offending me, I fancy; at last she thought it best to let me

have my own way.

"And what will you do, Miss Hester?" said Alice.

"I scarcely know," said I, "the clergyman will tell me, and I will

learn, and I am sure _you_ know, Alice, what ladies can do in the

country. I could go to nurse the sick in the village--that is one

thing."

"But, dear Miss Hester," said Alice, "if the Queen had come to nurse

your papa, do you think she could have made up to him, poor gentleman,

for the want of you?"

"No, no, no! why do you say such things?" said I.

"Because poor folks feel just the same," said Alice, with a little

dignity; "a poor man would sooner have his own wife, and a poor woman

her mother, or her child, to nurse her, than the greatest lady in the

land."

I was slightly offended at what Alice said. "I will only go where I am

of use, you may be sure," I said; "I will seek out the poor, and work

for them. I will teach the children. I will take care of the old people.

There is a great deal of misery everywhere--I can understand it now, and

I will find plenty to do."

"Yes, dear, there's plenty of trouble," said Alice, with a heavy sigh:

"plenty of God's own sending, and plenty of our own making, Miss

Hester--and old folks like me, that have seen grief, it goes to our

heart to see the young and the great that have happiness at their feet,

and will not stoop down to lift it--and that's the truth."

"If you speak of me--I do not wish to hear of happiness. I have no

longer anything to do with it," said I, angrily.

How I clung to this! how I closed myself up in a gloomy panoply, and

defied their vain consolations. We went the rest of the way home in

silence. I was displeased with Alice, and she was grieved for me. I do

not know how she comforted herself; but I took refuge in my intended

martyrdom. I did not wish it to be agreeable. I was impatient of being

told that I could do all this, yet not diminish either my comforts or

enjoyments. I was anxious to suffer, to scorn delights, to meet with

trials--not the Lady Bountiful of a village, but the heroine of some

dangerous mission, was it my desire to be. I had the true ascetic mood

upon me. I was not disposed to "endure hardness" for the sake of doing

good; but rather to endure doing good for the sake of the sacrifice and

suffering which I anticipated so eagerly; and this was how I intended to

act upon my husband's sober exhortation to come to my own home and my

own people--to take up my burden and do the duties of my life.

THE SIXTH DAY.

Monday dawned bright and genial; one of those rare November days, when

summer seems to come back again to see how the world looks under the

reign of winter. The air was not cold, but so clear that, on these wide

plains of ours, you could see for miles around you. There was no wind;

white clouds lay entranced upon the deep blue sky, which was mellowed

and warmed with a flood of sunshine, and against it the few trees stood

out with a distinctness which became almost ridiculous where it was a

bristling pollard willow, which outlined all its bare twigs, like the

hair of a frightened rustic standing on end, upon that wonderful

background. The sandy path sparkled with minute crystals; the mosses on

the low stone fences caught the eye like banks of flowers; here and

there a little rivulet of water, bridged with a plank, came sparkling

through a meadow with a line of trees on either side; and under this

full sunshine, an occasional morsel of new-ploughed field gave diversity

to the vast, level, and long lonely roads; while a single horseman or

foot-passenger, coming clear out on the sky, broke through the sunburnt

meadows, hedgeless and naked, raising up, now and then, another leafless

affrighted willow--a far-seeing sentinel--scared by something coming

which it could see, though you could not. The sky itself, falling out of

its glorious full blue, into wonderful grays and olive tints deepening

and deepening, yet everywhere breaking into streaks of light to the very

edge of the horizon, gave a wonderful charm to everything below; and

upon our faces came the fresh air, which was not wind, without violence,

yet full of exhilaration, so fresh, so pure, so limitless--a world of

sweet existence in itself. Though I closed my heart against its

influence, I could not help but note the day--I could not help comparing

it to that bright face of Alice opposite me from which youth had passed,

which had little hope for this world, and on whom sorrow had fallen with

its utmost weight, yet which was happy still. When I looked at my

husband, there was the light and the hope of manhood upon his face, yet

it was clouded; and what was I--a sullen spring-day, ungenial,

ungladdened. So I carried out my involuntary metaphor.

Everything had been suitably arranged in Cambridge--a housekeeper was

established in the house, and Mary remained with her--nothing was

disturbed of all our old household arrangements. My father had left his

income to me, of course; and I was able to maintain this for myself. It

was equally a thing of course that Alice should accompany me--no one

needed to speak on the subject, it was so clearly understood between us,

and my husband, and Alice, and I travelled very silently to Cottiswoode.

I had sent there the previous night, a large box full of things which

Mr. Saville, in a very stiff polite note, had recommended me to bring.

Among its contents were some prayer-books and catechisms, but I am

afraid one of the most bulky items was dark cloth for a sort of uniform

which Mr. Saville recommended to be worn by the lady visitors in his

parish, for he had hopes, he said, of establishing a devout and

energetic sisterhood to assist him in his work. I was much occupied with

my own intentions and purposes in this respect. I saw myself in the

gloomy mantle of the order, going about sternly, sadly, awing other

people only to mortify and humiliate myself. I did not pause to ask

whether, with my clouded face and obdurate, dull, determined breast, I

would be an acceptable visitor anywhere. The poor were merely the

passive objects of my own martyrdom. I never took them into account in

the matter, nor paused to consider whether or not _my_ ministrations

would be a comfort to any one. My whole wild plan sprang entirely from

thoughts of myself.

When we came to the great avenue of elms, I gazed up at it steadily.

They were grand old trees. The free wide air about them had strengthened

the noble life in these stout retainers of our house. They threw abroad

their great branches with a glorious freedom. They had no bias nor stoop

in one direction or another, but stood boldly upright, impartial,

indifferent from what point of the compass the wind might blow; and

behind the forest of boughs and twigs, at every countless crevice and

opening, the sky looked through, marking the intertwining lines, great

and small, like some grand lacework, upon the white rounded clouds

poised upon its surface, and upon its own magnificent full hue. I saw

how excited and nervous Alice became as we neared home--she gazed about

her with eager glances--she folded her hands together, wrung them close,

put them to her eyes. It was hard for her to keep still, harder still to

be silent, as glimpse after glimpse of the familiar road burst upon us.

My husband spoke to me once or twice in sympathy. I said nothing. When

we passed the village, I saw the clergyman standing in the garden at the

Rectory, looking at us as we passed by, and there were many little

groups in the neighborhood of Cottiswoode, and the children set up a

chill hurrah as we drove through the village; but I sat back in my

corner, and cared for nothing. At last we drew up and alighted. This

time I suffered his hand to help me, though the memory of that former

night returned upon me, so that I scarcely could keep my composure. Once

more I looked up at the arms of our house sculptured above the

door--once more I saw the servants ranged within, and then I suffered

him to lead me through them, and bowed, though I could not smile. I saw

they looked at me now with a new and wondering curiosity. I saw that I

was an object of more personal and eager interest than when they

gathered with smiles to greet their master's bride. Yes! my reputation

had come before me--they were prepared to wonder, to comment, to

criticize--but I was not wounded at the thought, I only passed by them

with a little additional haughtiness, and went to the room which was

prepared for me--the same room where I spent that first dreadful night

after our coming home.

When I had arranged my dress, I went down stairs to the room which now

was the drawing-room, but which had been our dining-parlor in past days.

It was a large long room, spacious but not bright, with one great window

opening to the lawn, and a smaller one in the corner of the wall. When I

entered, he was walking about with an expectant look upon his face--he

started and made a step forward as if to advance to me as I came in, but

though I saw him perfectly, I did not look at him, and he stopped and

returned again. I went to the window to look out upon the lawn, and the

great walnut tree, which I could only see imperfectly from this

point--then I took a seat in silence. A painful interval followed. I sat

quite still, vacantly looking out. He paced about the room with unequal

steps--sometimes rapidly and with impatience. We were neither of us

doing anything--we were like two enemies watching each other, ready to

strike. I do not think that till that moment either of us realized what

a frightful thing it was to live together, confined within the same

walls, and with this feud between us.

"How are you pleased, Hester, with the new arrangements--the

furniture--the house?" he said, throwing down a book upon the table,

somewhat noisily, in his extreme agitation.

"I am quite pleased--it is all very well," I answered. I found it

difficult to command my own voice. I suddenly was seized with a wild

wonder, why we were placed here to torture each other. It might preserve

appearances, but we surely would have been better with the whole world

between us, than together as we were.

"When we were boy and girl we had a conversation here," he went on

rapidly, now coming up to me: "do you recollect it, Hester?"

"Yes," I said, "then I believed in you, and pointed to my father the

picture you resembled. My dear father! I thank God he does not see us

to-day."

"What picture did I resemble, Hester?" he asked, with a good deal of

emotion in his voice. I pointed to it with a quick gesture, I could not

trust myself to speak.

"You took my part," he said, "you had compassion for me. You bore me

witness that I was no deceiver; and, Hester, your face, your voice, your

generous, brave, girlish frankness, have made my heart warm since that

day."

I held up my hand in entreaty. I could not bear it.

"No, I will not persecute you," he said; "no, do not fear me. We will

gain nothing by discussions of the old question. I bid you welcome home

to your own house. I will say nothing else. I will now relieve you of my

presence, and I am sure you will thank me for that, at least."

But I did not even thank him for that. What had been wretched, while he

was with me, became intolerable when he was gone. I drew the chairs

aside, and walked up and down the long apartment in restless misery. Day

after day, year after year, were we to live thus?--together, yet with a

world between us--with nothing to say to each other--nothing to do with

each other--a sullen, dreary silence, or half-a-dozen forced words,

making all our domestic intercourse. I had anticipated much vague

misery, but the actual exceeded the ideal; and yet, though it was

miserable to be together, I was impatient and jealous of his absence;

and when I threw myself into a chair by the fire, and began to gaze into

it, and to brood over our new life, my thoughts settled down upon a

nearer object, and I only wondered where he had gone to, when he would

come back again, and if he came again, what he would say.

It was so strange to raise my head, and look round, and see the familiar

faces of those family portraits looking down upon me. Instinctively I

turned to that portrait which I had said he resembled as a boy. I did

not think it was like him now; his face was no longer the face of a

student, with those downcast, thoughtful eyelids, and lines of visionary

pensiveness. My husband was no visionary; he was not a man to be

consumed of over-much thought; he loved the free, open air--he loved

exertion and wholesome labor. With a strange perception I found out that

this was the case. We seemed to have changed characters since the time

of our youth. It was I, now, who lived the unwholesome inner life, who

shut myself up with my thoughts. I, whose nature was not so--whose

spirit was eager, and courageous, and enterprising--who all my life,

till now, had loved adventure and freedom--I was paralysed. I was

contented to sit still, brooding and wretched. I cared no longer for the

healthful functions of life.

But I was glad when Alice came into the room, and interrupted my

thoughts. I had still sufficient discretion to know that, at this moment

at least, it was safer not to indulge them. I made Alice sit down by me,

and talk to me, though she looked wistfully round the room, and into my

face, as if to ask me where he had gone. Alice had learned caution now,

and was silent about him. We began to speak of my father. The harsh

tempest of my unhappiness had swallowed the tears, the tenderness, the

complaints of grief. I had scarcely mourned at all for my father, as

people call mourning. His loss added a perfect desolation to my other

misfortunes, but I did not weep for it as for a great calamity. It shut

up my heart in a closer seclusion--it did not soften and lay me

prostrate. I was under a process of hardening, and not of subduing.

Contact with death did not humble me--it only made me withdraw myself

the more into my own disturbed and darkened world, my own desolated and

solitary heart. But since I had been reconciled to her, I found a little

refuge, a little comfort with Alice. I sat and wept when she spoke of

him. I was glad to hear her do it. I felt myself lightened and eased by

a conversation such as we were having now.

While we talked thus, my eye happened to fall upon my father's ring. I

had to wear it on my forefinger, it was so much larger than the other;

and I did not like to have profane hands touch it, or to give it away

from me, even for an hour, to have it altered. A misfortune! I had no

clue to what my father meant when he called it so.

"Did you ever hear any story of this, Alice?" I said, holding it up to

her; "he said it was a misfortune. I cannot tell what he meant."

"Yes, Miss Hester! I've heard the story," said Alice; "it belongs to the

family, dear. And there's a strange tale to it, and a prophecy, though

whether it's just fancy, or true, or what trust you may put upon it,

it's not for the like of me to tell. But I never believe myself, Miss

Hester, that there's power in a bit of gold and a shining stone, even if

it's as precious as that."

"I have never heard of it. Tell me, Alice," I said.

"It's called the Star of Misfortune, dear," said Alice, lowering her

voice with some awe, though she had professed her scepticism, "and I've

heard say it was a very grand diamond, and could buy up many a poor

man's house; but this I know to be true, Miss Hester, that though it's

been sold, and lost, and given away, the house of Cottiswoode never can

keep it from them--it always comes back again--and it never can be lost

till the time, let them do what they will."

"But I do not understand this. Tell me the story, Alice," said I.

"Well, Miss Hester, it belonged to the second son of Cottiswoode many a

long year ago," said Alice; "it was in a time when there was little

learning--far different from now. But them that were learned had great

arts that are never heard of now-a-days. The story goes that he got it

from a spirit--but you're not to think, dear, that I put faith in

that--he had been a strange gentleman, given up to learning and caring

for nothing else--though good to the poor and kind-hearted, as I have

heard. There was but two sons of them, and the eldest, the Squire that

was, a great gentleman at court, gave Cottiswoode to his brother to live

in; and then he used to live all solitary, reading his books and

studying everything in the earth and the skies, and was counted a great

scholar in his day. And wherever he went and wherever he was seen, he

wore that ring on his left hand."

Involuntarily, without thinking what I did, I removed my ring to my left

hand as Alice spoke. In spite of her professions of unbelief, Alice

spoke very reverentially, and impressed her hearer with a strong

conviction of the truth of what she said.

"Yes, dear, there he is," said Alice, pointing suddenly to one of the

portraits, "if you look close, you'll see the ring on his finger; and I

don't doubt he was a fine young gentleman, and all the look of a scholar

about his brow."

I started with great surprise--the portrait--the one which I thought

like Edgar Southcote when he was a boy--was the very same one at which I

had been looking before she came in. "I have heard of him often," I

said--"but I never heard this story--and, Alice, my father never wore

this diamond while we were in Cottiswoode."

"It was because of the tale, Miss Hester. Hush, dear, and I will tell

you," said Alice. "His name was Mr. Edgar, and he was the Squire's only

brother, as I said--and for long they were loving friends--the one was

great at court and the other a great scholar, and Cottiswoode was a

grander estate, and a grander Hall there than it is now. But Mr. Edgar

chanced to see a young lady nigh and fell in love with her, Miss

Hester--and the Squire came down on a visit, and he fell in love with

her too--and strife came between the brothers, as it comes between many

a generation of the name since--and the lady chose the Squire and cast

off Mr. Edgar, and there was sad work in the house. But the end was that

Mr. Edgar left all his books, and went away to foreign parts--to foreign

parts--to the wars--and though his brother and the lady wanted to make

friends, he would not, but held his left hand to them, and said he would

leave their children an inheritance. Well, as the story goes, Miss

Hester, no one thought more of that, except to be sorry for the poor

gentleman, and the Squire and the lady settled down at Cottiswoode, and

had two beautiful boys, and were as happy as a summer-day; but when ten

years were gone, an old man from over the sea brought a letter to the

Squire--and what was this but Mr. Edgar's ring, and a prophecy about the

house and the name of Southcote--the ring was always to go to the second

son, and it was to be called the Star of Misfortune; and trouble was

never to depart from the race till it was lost."

"But you said it would not be lost," I said, eagerly.

"Neither it can, till its time," said Alice with solemnity; "when there

is no second son born to the house of Cottiswoode, but only an heir,

then the curse was to be over; and when it was worn upon a woman's

finger it was to lose its power; if it had not been for that,

dear--though I put no trust in such things--I could neither have told

you the tale, nor seen that evil thing shining on your innocent finger.

Well, it came to pass, Miss Hester, that when the poor lady at

Cottiswoode read the words Mr. Edgar had written, and saw the diamond,

she screamed out it was shining and looking at her like a living eye,

and fell down in a fit, and was brought to bed of a dead baby, and died

before the week's end, and the Squire's heart broke, and the two boys

grew up with no one minding them. There was strife between them from

that very day, the story goes, and when they came to be men--it was the

time of the civil wars--and one took one side and one the other; and the

youngest boy went off from the house by night with that jewel on his

finger, and nothing else but his sword; and Cottiswoode was taken by the

rebels, and blood shed upon the kindly threshold--brother's blood, Miss

Hester, but neither of them was killed--and when that young man died,

the ring came back to the hall by a strange messenger, though it had

been sold to buy bread. And so it has been ever since. When there was

more than two sons in Cottiswoode, there was less harm--but that has

only been twice in all the history of the house. Brother has warred

against brother, Miss Hester, from Edgar the scholar's time down to Mr.

Brian and your papa; but one way or another, dear, the ring has come

back to the house, and never gone to any but the second son of

Cottiswoode till now. When your papa was master here, he put it away,

and maybe he thought the curse was past; but them that knew the tale,

knew well that the curse would not be past till there was a born heir,

and only one son in the house. And when the present young squire came,

your papa put on the ring again--it goes to my heart to see you wear it,

Miss Hester. It never was but a token of evil. I think it put thoughts

of strife into the mind of every one that ever wore it; thoughts and

examples of ill, darling, and we're all too ready to follow iniquity,

God help and preserve us! and that is the story of the ring."

"And, Alice, tell me again how it is to be lost?" I asked anxiously.

"When there is but one heir, and no second son; and when love and peace

is in the house of Cottiswoode, and when those that are nearest in blood

are dearest in heart; then the ring that never could be lost before,

will fall from the hand of a born Southcote, and never be seen

again--that is the prophecy, Miss Hester," said Alice, "and if I saw it

come to pass, I would give thanks to God!"

I was much excited by this story--it threw a strange weird ghostly

romance about us and our race. I fitted the ring closer upon the

fore-finger of my left hand, and held it up sparkling with its living

quivering radiance, in the firelight. For myself, I felt no desire to

lose it--it had gained a superstitious importance in my eyes: I resolved

to keep it sacred, and preserve for ever, as my father had bidden me,

this strange inheritance. I was not pleased with my exemption, as a

woman, from its magic power--women, as I had cause to know, were quite

as accessible to passions of resentment, and even to the desire for

revenge, as men were, and I should have been better satisfied had there

been some place for me in this grand system of family vengeance. With a

different, yet a stronger interest, I looked up at the picture of Edgar

the scholar, with its contemplative student face and pensive eyes. How

strange that this man should be the origin of such bitter

retribution--for it was very bitter, pitiless, almost fiend-like, an

inheritance of animosity to be borne by brother against brother. I

wondered as I looked up at the regular calm features, the undisturbed

refined face, I could see no cruelty in it, as it looked down upon me

thoughtfully from the familiar wall.

"It should be called the star of strife, and not of misfortune, Alice,"

I said.

"It has been of misfortune, too," she answered; "never one has thriven

with that ring upon his finger; there never is strife in a house, dear,

but trouble comes. They say the lands are not half so great as when that

diamond came to Cottiswoode, and though it is a precious stone itself,

Miss Hester, it's never been reckoned in the wealth of this house.

There's violent death, there's great grief and sin, there's losses and

misfortunes among the Southcotes ever since it came; and the second son

of Cottiswoode has never had children to leave it to. I never heard of

one that gave it to his own child, but your papa."

Once more we relapsed into silence. I had a new subject for my thoughts

in Alice's tale; and, perhaps, it may be thought strange that I should

receive it with such entire faith. Family superstitions have always a

great hold upon the imagination. It is hard to disbelieve stories that

come to us on the voucher of our own ancestors, and which are part of

the family creed, and concern the whole race; but even without these

claims upon my attention, I should have at once believed and received

this story. I was quite in the mood for it, and though I did not fear

"ghosts," nor show any of the popular signs, I had a natural tinge of

superstition in my mind.

But Alice warned me how late it was, and I had to go upstairs with her

and dress. I cared nothing about my dress. I suffered her to adorn me as

she would. But I would wear no ornaments--not _that_ bracelet, nothing

but the storied and fatal ring. Like a real star it glittered on my

finger--catching the ruddy gleam of the firelight, and shining in the

darkened air of the winter twilight. He could not know this story, and I

could not tell him of it--it was very strange to be so near, yet so far

apart.

When I went down to dinner, Mr. Saville was there. It was a relief, yet

it piqued me that he should ask any one to come on the first day, though

how we could have met alone at table in our sullen estrangement I cannot

tell. The Rector was in a very precise clerical dress, his manners were

a great deal too fine and careful for a man of breeding, and he seemed

to be so much alive to his "position," and so careful to keep it up,

that I perceived at once that he must have been raised to this, and that

he was not a gentleman either by birth or early training. By some

strange logic, I thought of this as an additional offence to me. I did

not care to inquire what my husband's motives had been in giving the

living to this person. I did not take time to think that probably he had

been appointed before Edgar Southcote had conceived his plan for my

deception. I thought he had meant to insult me by surrounding me thus

with his mean relatives, and depriving me even of the comfort of a

suitable neighbor; but I resolved to show him that I was above this

mortification, and all the more freely, because I said nothing to him,

did I converse with the Rector. He told me of the church which wanted

repairs--he said restoration, but I was not acquainted with the

ecclesiastical science so fashionable at the time; he told me that his

sister had begun to embroider a cloth for the altar--that the very

vestments, the sacred vessels for the altar--everything was falling into

decay--that the last rector, "a worthy man, he believed, but lamentably

lax in his church principles," had whitewashed the interior of the

unfortunate church--had barbarously removed the remnants of an ancient

screen of carved stonework--had taken up a mutilated brass in the

chancel, and laid down a plain flag-stone in its stead; which things,

Mr. Saville said pathetically, had so much disgusted the people, that

there really had arisen a dissenting place of worship in this formerly

orthodox village, and his people were led astray from the true path

under his very eyes. Had Mr. Saville told me of an epidemic raging in

Cottisbourne, of some deadly disease abroad, and no one bold enough to

nurse the patients, I should have been more satisfied--but such things

would arise, no doubt; and in the mean time, I should have been glad to

have worked with my own hands at the restorations, if these were

necessary, though, alas! I was disappointed, and could not feel that

there was any martyrdom in making an altar-cloth.

All the conversation during dinner was carried on between the Rector and

myself. My husband scarcely spoke; he looked at us eagerly, keenly, as

if he would have read my thoughts. I could perceive what was passing in

his mind; he had given up the Hester of his imagination, as I had given

up the Harry of mine; and he was trying to make himself acquainted with

what I was now.

When I returned alone to the drawing-room, and once more sat down by the

fire, a pang of pain and self-reproach came over me for a moment, as I

thought what a great change had indeed passed upon me; and how unlike I

was my former self. But then I asked who caused this, and once more

established myself on my old ground. When the gentlemen joined me again,

I resumed my conversation with the Rector, and now at last he propounded

something which suited my views.

"There were a number of old people in the village," he said, "some

bed-ridden, some palsied, a burden upon their children, and imperfectly

attended to in the midst of more clamorous claims. My sister, too, long

had the idea of placing herself at the head of a sort of almshouse,

where these poor creatures could be nursed and taken care of. My sister

is an energetic person, Mrs. Southcote, and though, of course, like

other ladies, accustomed to very different pursuits, has a natural love

for work, and great tenderness to her fellow-creatures. She thinks, with

the assistance of a few kind-hearted ladies, hired help might also be

dispensed with--an apostolic work, Mrs. Southcote, washing the feet of

the poor."

"Ah, yes! that is what I wanted to hear of," I said; "who is your

sister, Mr. Saville--is she here?"

"I am surprised that Mr. Southcote has not informed you, Madam," said

the clergyman, with momentary acrimony; "my sister, Miss Saville,

resides with me, and as a near neighbor, naturally looked for an

introduction to you--a relation too, I may say, by marriage," he

concluded, with a ceremonious bow.

I felt my cheeks burn--but I subdued my pride of blood. "I will call on

her to-morrow," I said.

"Nay, permit me," said Mr. Saville, with another bow. "Miss Saville is

the oldest resident in the parish; she will have pleasure in calling on

you."

Again my natural hauteur almost got the better of me. So! I was to be on

ceremonious stately terms with Miss Saville, as though we were

potentates of equal rank and importance--and _relatives_, too!

"She will have the greatest satisfaction in communicating all her plans

to you," continued the clergyman. "Mr. Southcote would have had her come

to-night; but my sister was too well aware how indecorous such an

intrusion on your privacy would be. Ladies understand the regulations of

society much better than we do."

In pure mockery, I bowed to Mr. Saville as ceremoniously as he bowed to

me; but there was a great deal of bitterness in my satirical courtesy,

which he, good man, took in perfect sincerity. My husband had been

standing by a little table, where was a vase of beautiful hot-house

flowers, which it must have been some trouble to get for me, and was

pulling the costly blossoms to pieces, as if he did not know what he was

about. When he saw the curl of my lip, as I bowed to his _relation_, he

came forward hastily and began to converse with him.

How much indebted I was to Mr. Southcote! how much disappointed that

Miss Saville had not come!

THE SEVENTH DAY.

We had just set out together to begin our work. It was a raw winter day,

damp and foggy, and the heavy haze fell white and stifling over our flat

fields, but was not dense enough to hide the dreary line of road, nor

the dull depths of distance round us. We were dressed in great cloaks

and hoods of dark grey cloth, with small black bonnets under our hoods;

and each of us carried a basket--while Miss Saville had a little

leathern case, containing medicines, hanging from the girdle round her

waist. She was a tall, stiff woman, with a frosty face, and angular,

thin frame. I cannot tell how she looked in summer--very much out of

place, I should think, for this dull, foggy, cold day seemed too gentle

for her, and you could fancy a keen frosty wind constantly blowing in

her face. Her manners were like her brother's, very fine and elaborate

at first; but by-and-by she forgot, as he never did, that she was

talking to Mrs. Southcote of Cottiswoode, and began to tell me of her

plans, as she might have told any ignorant girl, and showed no special

respect for me. When she came to her natural tone, I could not help

being better pleased with her. She was much more in my way than the

Reverend Mr. Saville was. She did not say a word about charity or

benevolence; but she told me how she intended to manage the old people,

and how, with one servant and a lady coming to help her every day, she

could keep a home for them all together, and keep them comfortable, if

the means were provided for her.

"Extremely disagreeable work, I don't doubt, for you dainty young

folks," said Miss Saville, who no longer thought it necessary to pick

her language; "but I had my own old father to mind for long enough, and

it's nothing to me."

"Disagreeable!" said I, "what does it matter? I wonder what right we

have to agreeable things!"

"Well--I am glad you think so!" said Miss Saville, with a grim smile.

"You will be the more thankful for what has fallen to your share; for

very few people, I can tell you, have to provide disagreeables for

themselves, as you have. They are almost all ready-made, and not very

well liked when they come."

I had nothing to say to this. Nor could I have expected that she would

understand _me_. We were walking quickly, for it required no small

exertion to keep up with Miss Saville, who strode along in her thick

boots with a manly disregard of every obstacle--along the lane which led

to the village. Just before we reached Cottisbourne, we passed the

Rectory. Miss Saville looked up at it as she passed, and so did I. I was

startled to see a face looking out from the window, which I recognised,

or fancied I recognised. It was a weather-beaten face, unshaven and

slovenly, and stooped forward with an inquisitive, sidelong glance. I

tried to recollect where I had seen it. Could this be Saville--_the_

Saville--the man who brought Edgar Southcote to Cottiswoode? I was

disposed to think so. My companion gazed at him a moment, and then waved

her hand impatiently, as if to bid the man go from the window. Yet I had

been now three weeks at Cottiswoode, had frequently seen the clergyman

and his sister, but had never heard of another. I wondered why they

concealed him--I wondered if it _was_ he; but Miss Saville never spoke.

We were close upon the village now. The first group of two or three

houses stood by themselves upon the brown grass of the meadow-land

around. They seemed to have no gardens, no trees, nothing to protect or

shelter them; but stood apart among the grass, which pressed round their

very walls and doorsteps, as if it grudged the little bit of ground they

occupied. There were some plants in the window of almost every house,

poor, shabby plants, crushed against the green gauze curtain suspended

across the three lower panes, darkening the light; but doing little

else by way of compensation. The want of gardens seemed to disconnect

them strangely from the soil on which they stood. There was no beauty or

sentiment about them; but only very poor, meagre, hungry poverty. Beyond

them, a very small stream, which made no sound in the heavy, deadened

atmosphere, wound through a field, with some low willows standing by,

like a class of unkempt boys at school. A little further on, withdrawn

into a grassy mass, was the village well, with its bucket and windlass;

and then came Cottisbourne proper, a cluster of houses oddly placed,

with strange little narrow lanes winding among them, as intricate as a

child's puzzle: some brown and dingy, with the thatched roof clinging

upon them like a growth of nature--some brilliantly whitewashed, with

great patches of damp, from the rain, upon their walls. One or two carts

tilted up, stood in a corner of the bit of common which belonged to the

village. About them, and in them, were a number of children, whose

voices scarcely woke the sullen air to cheerfulness. The houses stood

about in genuine independence, every one faring as it pleased him, and

the wealthy cottager's pig sniffed the same air as his master, and

placidly meditated upon the doings of his master's next neighbor, whose

open cottage door was opposite the piggery. There surely was no want of

work to do, for any one who cared to take in hand the reformation of the

little commonwealth of Cottisbourne.

Miss Saville proceeded to business, while I looked on. She went forward

to the children in the cart, and lugged down the reckless urchins who

came clambering into it, just in time to prevent an accident, as the

heavy body of the cart, high in the air, where they had been climbing,

was suddenly thrown off its balance, and came down heavily, doing no

harm, thanks to her exertion. "You little foolish things," said the

excited lady, "how often have I told you, you were not to go near these

shocking things? you might all have been killed. I can't be always

looking after you, and if Jemmie Mutton had been killed when that cart

fell, what do you think you would have done then?"

Not one of the little culprits was able to reply to this solemn

question, and the lady continued, as they gaped at her, clustering

together, stealing their hands underneath their pinafores, or putting

finger in mouth, with awe and astonishment: "Depend upon it I shall make

examples," said Miss Saville, with solemnity. "Christmas is not so far

off that I should forget what you are about now; and if I should hear of

such a thing again, beware!"

Saying this in the tone of a Lord Chief-Justice, with an awful vagueness

of expression, and penalties implied which only the threatened offenders

knew the weight and import of, Miss Saville turned to enter a cottage.

"I am obliged to keep them in awe of me, my dear," she said, turning to

me with complacent satisfaction, "and even to threaten them about their

Christmas things. Some of them get quite an outfit of things when they

attend school well, and say their catechisms; but children are a deal of

trouble--the little good-for-nothings, they're at it again!"

I was amused at Miss Saville's contest with the children, yet somewhat

disgusted withal. Like other visionaries, I was horrified when I

descended to practise, or to see practised, what I had been dreaming.

Your sweet docile children would have been out of my way, and unwelcome

substitutes for the harder labors on which I had set my heart. But

stupid children--children who gaped and curtsied--who folded their hands

under their pinafores, and played in carts, and were held in terror of

losing their annual dole at Christmas! this was quite a different

martyrdom from what I had dreamed of. I had no vocation at all for this.

However, we had now entered the cottage. It was very poor, and had a

sort of sofa or settle near the fire, on which was laid an old paralytic

woman, whose shaking head and hand proclaimed at once how she was

afflicted. A stout tall woman, the mistress of the cottage, went and

came about the poor room, preparing the dinner, I suppose, but taking no

notice of the invalid, that I could see, though her feeble

half-articulate voice seemed to run on nevertheless in an unfailing

stream, and there was an eagerness in her gray bleared eye, which

testified that this old woman, at least, though she had lost everything

else, had not lost her interest in the world. She assailed us with a

flood of imperfect words, which I could scarcely make out, but which

seemed easy to Miss Saville, and a craving for news, and restless

curiosity, which seemed very dreadful to me in this old, old woman. "So,

she's com'd home!" she said, and I knew she referred to me, "does she

know her own mind by this time? Ah, ah, ah! it do make poor folks laugh

to see the ways of the quality, that never know when they're well."

"Hold your peace, Sally," said Miss Saville, imperatively, "the lady

herself has taken the trouble to come from Cottiswoode to see you, you

ungrateful old woman; and to see what she can do for you to make you

comfortable; do you hear? You ought to thank her and show some feeling;

but I am sure you poor folks in Cambridgeshire are the most ungrateful

in the world."

"The old folks you mean, Miss," said the younger woman.

"You will call her Miss, ye unmannerly wench," said the mother-in-law,

chuckling; "Madam Saville, I know you--I know naught of the young one.

Make me comfortable! I'm an old poor crittur, past my work, and I've had

a stroke; and I want rest to my old bones. But these young uns, that's

able to stir about and help themselves, they think aught's good eno' for

me."

She began to whimper as she spoke. Alas--alas! the heroism of my

vocation had deserted me. I felt nothing but disgust for the miserable

old woman. I could not endure to go near her or touch her--it sickened

me to think of the proposed asylum, and of doing menial services with my

own hands to such a creature as this.

But Miss Saville was unmoved. I suppose she had no elevated ideas of

self-martyrdom.

"Well then, Sally, that is just what I came to speak about," she said;

"you're in the way in your son's house; and you feel you're in the way."

"Who said it? was't Tilda there?" cried the old woman, firmly. "I'll

make him wallop her--that I will, when the lad comes home. Where is an

old woman to be welcome but with her children? Oh! you sarpent! it's all

along o' you."

"Matilda never said a word about it," said the peremptory Miss Saville;

"she has a great deal of patience with you, poor thing; for you're an

ill-tempered old woman! Be quiet, Sally, and listen to me. How would you

like to be taken to a new house, and have all your little comforts

attended to, and a room to yourself, and ladies to take care of you, eh?

I would have charge of you, you understand, and this good young lady

from the Hall, and others like her, would come every day to help me.

What would you say to that, Sally?"

The younger woman, with unequivocal tokens of interest, had drawn nearer

to listen; and was standing leaning upon the table, with her face turned

towards us. Sally did not answer at first, and I watched the eager gleam

of her old bleared eyes, and the nodding of her palsied head in silence.

"I don't knaew," said the old woman, "she'd be glad, I dare say; but am

I agwoin to be put out of my way, to please Tilda? I'll not have no

prison as long as my Jim has a roof over his head. I'm not agwoin to

die. I wants to hear the news and the talk, as well as another. I wants

none o' your fine rooms to lie all by myself, and never see nought but

ladies--ladies! You're grand, and you think poor folks worship you; but

I'd rather see old Betty Higgins to come and tell me the news."

"If that is all you have to say, Sally, we had better leave you," said

Miss Saville. "You shocking old woman, do you think you will live for

ever? You'll soon get news from a worse place than this world, if you

don't mind."

"I'll send for the parson when I've made up my mind to it, that I'm

agwoin to die," said Sally; "but here, give it to me, lady; don't give

it to Tilda--she'll spend it on her own, and never think on the old

woman. Well, you've a soft hand: where's your white bonnet and your

white veil, and all your grandeur? What's the good of coming to poor

folks all muffled up like madam there? You're no show, you're not--you

should have come like a picture. Now, Tilda, get me some brandy and a

drop o' tea, and tell Betty Higgins to come and sit by me while you're

gone."

I retreated with a shudder when she dropped my hand. Her cold touch

sickened me, and I could not bear the sharp twinkling of those

half-closed eyes, and the palsied motion of her head, as she looked into

my face, and spoke to me. I was very glad to escape from the cottage

when poor 'Tilda, a subdued, broken-hearted woman, not very tasty, went

away to execute her commission. I was very much shocked on the borders

of my new enterprise, very much disgusted, and almost staggered in my

purpose. Yes! I had thought of nursing the sick and taking care of the

aged; but I did not think of such sordid, selfish, wretched old age as

this.

And yet, these were my own people--old retainers and dependants of the

house. I had not been without acquaintances among the cottagers, when I

was a girl at Cottiswoode; yet I recognised few of the blank faces which

stared at me now. As we threaded the strange, narrow turnings, from

cottage to cottage, I had to make no small effort to remind myself that

it was clearly my business. Unpleasant! how I scorned the word and

myself, for thinking of it--what was pleasant to me?

Miss Saville had not been silent all this time, though I paid no great

attention to her. She was not disgusted; she had been accustomed to such

scenes, and took them with perfect coolness; and I was astonished to

find that she was not even displeased, nor inclined to shut out this

wretched old Sally from the benefits of her asylum.

"You must not mind what that thankless old creature says," said Miss

Saville. "I know how to deal with them; and poor Matilda would be a

happy woman if that old tyrant was away. You may trust to me to manage

her. I promise you, she'll not struggle long with me."

I only shuddered with disgust. I could not anticipate very heroically my

own promised assistance to wait upon this old Sally.

We were now at another cottage, where the door was closed, and we had to

knock for admittance. It was opened by an elderly woman,

fresh-complexioned, yet careworn, with scissors and pincushion hanging

by her side, and some work in her hand. The furniture of the little room

was very scanty, and not very orderly, but clean enough; and from the

cuttings and thread upon the floor, the litter on the little deal table,

and the work in the woman's hand, I saw that she must be the village

dressmaker. The lower part of the window, as usual, was screened by a

coarse curtain of green gauze, and three flower-pots with dingy

geraniums stood on the window-sill, with a prayer-book and a work-box,

and a range of reels of cotton standing between. Here, as in the

previous cottage, an old woman occupied the corner by the fire; but this

one was placed in a large wooden elbow chair, gay with a cover of cotton

print, which had been a gown before it came to its present preferment,

and was tidily dressed, and had some knitting in her hands. A girl of

twelve sat by the table helping her mother--a younger one was washing

potatoes in a corner, while a little girl of three or four, sitting on

the corner of the fender close to the fire, seemed to be exerting her

powers for the general entertainment of the industrious family. When we

entered, the mistress of the house, after her first greeting to Miss

Saville, stepped aside to let us enter, and looked earnestly at me. The

signs of her occupation helped me to a remembrance of her. I looked at

her with a puzzled curiosity, trying to recall the changed face in its

widow's cap.

"Miss Hester," she cried. "I humbly beg your pardon, ma'am, but I made

sure it was you."

She curtsied again and again, and seemed so unaffectedly glad, that my

heart warmed in spite of myself. Miss Saville was quite thrown into the

shade. The children made their little curtsies, the old woman endeavored

to rise, a chair was carefully wiped by poor Mary's apron, and placed

between the window and the fire for me; and Granny made a moving

explanation of "her rheumatiz, that made her unmannerly." I was restored

to satisfaction. I do not think I had been so much pleased since I came

to Cottiswoode. Yes! these were my own people.

"We've had a deal of trouble, Miss--ma'am--a deal of trouble," said

Mary, putting the corner of her apron to her eyes. "There was first poor

Tom fell ill and died, and all the little uns had the fever, and Granny

took the rheumatiz so bad, that she never can move out of her chair.

It's been hard to get the bit and the sup for them all, lady. But now

Alice gets a big wench; and little Jane goes of errands, and Farmer

Giles gives 'em a day's work now and again, weeding and gathering

stones; and I'm a bit easier in my mind--but, oh! it's been hard days in

Cottiswoode since you and the good old Squire went away."

I knew no reason Mary had to call my father the good old Squire: yet I

was pleased with the appellation. "Come to the Hall, Mary, and Alice

will see if there is anything for you," I said; "and you must tell me

what poor old Granny wants, and what I can do for her. Granny, do you

recollect me?"

"I rechlet your grandmama, Miss," said the old woman, "better than

you--that was the lady, she stood for my Susan, next to Mary, that I

buried fifty years come Whitsuntide. I kneawn all the family, I do. I

rechlet the young gentlemen, and Mr. Brian, that never had his rights.

This Squire is his son, they tell me. Well, you've com'd and married

him, Miss, and I bless the day; everything's agwoin on right now. The

Southcote blood's been kind to me and mine, and I wish well of it,

wishing ye joy, Miss, and a welcome home."

I bowed my head in silent bitterness. Wishing me joy! what a satire it

seemed.

"Are you very busy, Mary?" said Miss Saville. "Now do you think, if

Alice had not come to school, and been taught her duty, she would have

sat there so quietly helping her mother. I don't believe anything of the

kind."

"Thank you all the same, Ma'am, it done her a deal of good gwoing to

school," said Mary, with a submissive, yet resolute courtesy, "but she

always was a good child."

"I don't say she's a good child now--she's doing no more than her duty,"

said Miss Saville, with a peremptory little nod; "there's nothing worse

for children than to praise them to their faces. There's that boy of

yours, not half an hour ago, if I had not been at hand, he might have

broken his neck, clambering into the cart on the edge of the common. I

am sure, how these children escape with their lives, with nobody to look

after them, is a constant wonder to me."

"Providence is always a-minding after them," said Mary, "poor folks'

children is not like rich folks; and my boy can take a knock as well as

another--I'm not afraid."

"Well, now I have something to tell you of," said Miss Saville.

"Since Mrs. Southcote has come home, she wishes to do good to you all

like a Christian lady; and I'm going to take a house, or have one built

here at Cottisbourne, and live in it myself, and take care of the old

people who are helpless, and a burden on their families. Mrs. Southcote,

and other good ladies, will come to help me, and the old folks shall be

well taken care of, and have comfortable rooms and beds, and be a burden

to nobody. What do you say to that, Granny? Mary has plenty to do with

her own family, and I dare say doesn't always get much time to mind you,

and you'd be off her hands, and make her easier in her mind, for I'm

sure you know very well how much she's got to do."

A shrill hoohoo of feeble, yet vehement sobbing interrupted this speech.

"I'm a poor old soul," said the hysterical voice of Granny; "but I

toiled for her and her children, when I had some strength left, and I do

what I can in my old days--God help me! My poor bit o' bread and my

tater--a baby 'ud eat as much as me. Lord help us! you don't go for to

say my own child would grudge me that?"

"Folks had best not meddle with other folks' business," said Mary, with

an angry glance towards Miss Saville. "You mind your knitting, mother,

and don't mind what strangers say. You ladies is hard-hearted, that's

the truth--though you mean kind--begging your pardon, Ma'am," she said,

with a curtsey to me; "but I work cheerful for my mother--I kneaw I do.

I no more grudge her nor I grudge little Polly, by the fire. She's been

a good mother to me, and never spared her trouble; and ne'er a one of

the childer but would want their supper sooner than miss Granny from the

corner. And for all so feeble as she is, there's a deal of life in her,"

said Mary, once more putting up to her eyes the corner of her apron.

"She'll tell the little uns' doins, it's wonderful to hear--and talks

out o' the Bible of Sundays, that the parson himself might be the

better--and knits at her stocking all the week through. They kneaws

little that says my mother's a burden. Alice 'ud break her heart if she

hadn't Granny to do for, every day."