BOOK III.

THE DAYS OF MY LIFE.

THE FIRST DAY.

It was a peaceful solitary village; a cluster of houses gathered round

one simple church, the tower of which was the central point in the quiet

landscape. Behind it at some distance was a low hill--a very low

hill--not much more than a mound, but with some dark Scotch firs upon

it, which gave solidity to the thick plantation of lighter trees, not

yet fully clothed. Behind the hill ran a railway, upon which a train

appeared, which we watched, flaunting its white plume into the air, as

it shrieked and rushed into the shadow. The village itself was quite

upon the water's edge, standing close by the shore of a blue quiet bay,

looking over to the trees and green fields on the other side of the

broad Thames. The place was a little below Gravesend, quite out of the

fret and bustle of the narrower river, and there was not even a

steamboat pier to disturb the quiet of this cluster of harmless houses,

though they watched upon their beach the passage of great navies down

the greatest thoroughfare of England. It looked so quiet, so primitive,

so retired, with its few boats in its little bay, that you could not

have fancied it so near the Babel of the world. The spring day was

bright and calm; the river was stirred only by the great ripples of its

current; the white sails of passing ships were dazzling in the sunshine,

and you could even catch a glimpse of the dancing motes of foam on the

rougher sea-water, as it widened and widened downward to the ocean.

Though there were few striking features in the landscape, it charmed me

with its new and unaccustomed beauty. It won my thoughts out of myself;

I was pleased to think of living here.

There was scarcely anything to be called an inn in Elith,--but as we had

no other where to go to, we went to the little humble house which bore

the name, and were shown into a faded little parlor, where such visitors

as we were seldom made their appearance, I suppose, and which was

certainly adapted for very different guests. Alice was much more annoyed

and disturbed than I was at coming here; I am afraid she almost thought

her respectability compromised by the glimpse we caught of the

aborigines of the place, smoking long pipes and drinking beer as we came

in, and she was nervous and reluctant to be seen at the window, whither

I had gone immediately, to look out upon this wonderful elysium of water

and sunshine; then occurred to me the strangest silent ecstasy in these

ships, their sails rounded with the slight wind, and shining with such

an intense whiteness in the sunshine against the blue river and the

bluer sky. They seemed to be gliding on in a dream--in a rapture--and my

mind glided on with them, for the moment satisfied and at rest.

But I had now everything to think of--everything to arrange. Alice had

lived at home so long, and had been so undisturbed in her daily duties,

that she was not at all fit for this emergency--she was quite ready to

_do_ everything, but she depended entirely on me to be told what she

should do; so I asked the country girl who attended us, if there were

any houses to be let in the village, and she answered me eagerly and

immediately in a somewhat lengthy speech, intimating that this was

scarce the season yet, but that "a many families" came from town for the

beautiful air here, and that she knew of a widow lady who had a

furnished house to let, and wanted badly to have it off her hands. The

girl was quite anxious to be the negotiator in the possible

bargain--should she run and let the lady know?--would I have her come to

me? or would I please go to the cottage? And we immediately had an

inventory of its furniture and decorations, of which Alice, I could

perceive, was somewhat contemptuous. But I had a fancy, newly acquired,

about our mode of living here; I determined on making no pretence or

attempt to live such a life as I had hitherto done. I had separated

myself from my rank and my home; I still wanted hardships, privations,

toils, if they were possible, and I had made up my mind; so I took

Alice's arm to support me, for I was very much fatigued, and we went out

together, conducted by our zealous attendant, to see the house.

It was a little, square, two-storied house, standing by itself on a

little grassy knoll, at one side of the village; the small inclosure in

front was but two stripes of bare grass, with fantastic flower-beds cut

in the turf, divided by a paved path leading to the door. There were no

flowers, but only a shabby little evergreen in each of the mounds of

soil, and the front of the house was festooned with ragged garlands of

the "traveller's joy," a favorite creeper, as it seemed, in this

neighborhood. The door opened into a little narrow passage, terminating

in a steep flight of stairs, and with a door on either side--the little

parlor and the little kitchen of this "genteel" little house. The "widow

lady" made her appearance somewhat fluttered, for we had disturbed her

at dinner and I do not think she was quite pleased with her zealous

friend, the maid at the inn, for revealing to strangers the table spread

in the kitchen, and the careless morning toilette, which was only

intended for the sanctity of her own retirement. The parlor, into which

she ushered us with pride, was a little stifling apartment, with

Venetian blinds closed over its little window, so as scarcely to leave

one row of panes uncovered; it was very fine with a red and blue carpet,

an elaborate composition of colored paper in the grate, and little

flower vases filled with _immortelles_ and dried grass, reflecting

themselves in the little dark-complexioned mirror. There was a small

cheffonier in one corner, a haircloth sofa, and a round table, with

sundry books displayed upon it, and the "widow lady" exhibited her pride

and crowning glory with evident satisfaction. Alice looked upon all with

a discontented eye--this homely finery made no impression upon her--for

Alice could not be persuaded that I was a voluntary exile and outcast;

she could be reconciled to my leaving home, but she could not reconcile

herself to any descent in rank. I was still Mrs. Southcote of

Cottiswoode, to Alice.

Upstairs there were two bed-rooms, and no more; one very white and in

good order, with dimity hangings, and carefully polished furniture; the

other with no hangings at all, and not much furnishing to boast of; and

these, with the kitchen, made all the house.

Alice looked in my face anxiously. "You never can live in this little

place, dear? What could you do here?" cried Alice. "Miss Hester, you

won't think of it; there's no accommodation for a lady here."

"There is quite enough for us two," I said. "I do not wish to live as we

lived at home; I want to help myself with my own hands; I want to live

as your daughter might live, Alice; I think this is very good--we do not

want any more."

Alice, for the moment, was almost impatient with me. "So you mean to

think you can live and sit all day in this little place," she said,

looking round upon the fine parlor; "it's sinful, Miss Hester, it is.

I'll not give in to it. Do you think upon what's coming, dear?

Well-a-day, that it should be coming now! Do you think you can lie down

upon that hard sofa, and put up with this place, after what you've been

used to?--it goes against my conscience--it's sinful, Miss Hester."

"And why, Alice?" said I.

Alice found it difficult to answer why, but was not less positive on

that account. "I don't like it myself," said Alice; "I've not been used

to it this many a day, but, darling, you!"

"Alice, let us be humble--let us be quiet--let me have something to do,"

I said earnestly. "We will have nobody in the house but you and I. We

will serve each other. We will do everything with our own hands. Do not

try to resist me, Alice. I think I have a great deal to learn yet. I am

not so proud as I was. Let me try what life is among poorer people. Let

me have my will, Alice."

Alice made no further resistance. Her face was not so contracted as

usual--that was all--but now she made me sit down, and went to the

kitchen herself to bargain with the landlady. I heard their voices

immediately in audible parley. The widow was anxious to have her house

taken for some fixed time; while Alice, I could hear, was rather

mysterious and lofty, and did not know how long her lady might be able

to stay. Then there came an inquiry about my name, and something which

sounded like a request for a reference, and Alice came abruptly back to

me. I was sitting where she had left me, listening to their

conversation, and she came close to my side, and stooped to whisper in

my ear, and said, "What name will I say, Miss Hester?"

"What name?" Did Alice mean to insult me? "My own proper name, of

course," I said, with a little anger. "Why do you ask? Do you think I

wish to conceal myself because I have left home? No, no, my own name."

"But the squire will be sure to find you, darling," said Alice, still

whispering; "you don't think he'll be content and never make any search,

and he'll soon find you if you always go by your own name?"

"I will do nothing clandestine," I said, with displeasure; "nothing

shall ever make me deny my name. No, Alice, we are not fugitives--we are

not guilty--I fear no one finding me."

She went away after this without a word, and then the dialogue in the

kitchen was resumed. Her lady was Mrs. Southcote, a lady from

Cambridgeshire, Alice said, and wanted quiet and fresh air for a term,

though she could not tell how long; and then there were many curious

questions about my health, and many inquiring hints as to my motive in

coming here; but to all this Alice turned a deaf ear, and answered

nothing. One thing she insisted upon earnestly, and that was that we

should have immediate possession. The widow demurred, but Alice carried

her point, and came back to me triumphant, to tell me that we were to

remain here, and have the house entirely to ourselves to-morrow. She

commenced operations immediately to improve the appearance of the little

parlor. She drew up the blinds, removed the lower one, opened the

window, for the day was very warm, and began to tug the reluctant sofa

out of its corner, to place it at the window for me. While she was so

occupied, and while this crazy piece of furniture creaked and jolted on

its way to its new position, I caught the anxious eye of the mistress of

the house looking in at the door watching her proceedings. This good

woman did not understand the shifting of her much-beloved and cherished

furniture. The sofa was the true inhabitant of the room, while we were

only strangers and sojourners; she came in with a half courtesy to hint

a remonstrance; she hoped I would not be offended; she had seen better

days, and never thought to be in her present position, and her

furniture, would I please to have it taken care of? and then she went to

offer her services to help Alice to lift the sofa, for it would tear her

good carpet, she was most sure.

Alice did not receive this obliging offer with a very good grace; I for

my part looked on with quiet amusement; I was astonished to find how

much the novelty of all this lightened my mind, and relieved me from

myself. I could not have believed when I left home twenty-four hours ago

that anything would have brought a smile to my lips so soon; yet so it

was; and when the widow went away, I took my place in a corner of the

hard sofa, and looked out upon the river, with a dreamy ease and leisure

at my heart which astonished me still more. Ship after ship, great and

small--I could not tell one from another, nor had the slightest

conception of any distinctions of class or name between them--went

gliding downward, majestic with their full white sails and lofty masts,

upon the current, which was flowing strongly to the sea. Little steamers

fumed and fretted upon the peaceful river, going up and down and

across. Great ones came in, making a solemn rustle in the water with

their unseen footsteps. Little shadowy skiffs shot along like sea-birds

on the top of the stream, and more substantial wherries, laden with

parties of pleasure, now and then went by, keeping cautiously to the

side of the river. The tide had ebbed a little from the stony beach of

our small bay. A boat which had been floating an hour since, was now

stranded on the shore. This was altogether new to me. I knew nothing,

except words, of those mysterious ocean tides, nor of where they

penetrated and where they strayed. I watched the water gleaming further

back at every ripple with a strange delight, watching and wondering how

far back it would go, almost counting the soft peaceful waves. I looked

anxiously out upon the course of the river, where those far away white

specks were dancing on the roughened edge of the sea. I speculated on

the voyages which these stately wayfarers were bound upon. I thought

with a shudder of the storm at sea which I had myself seen, and I was

only roused from my pleasant occupation by the voice of Alice, as she

stood beside me looking out also, but with different thoughts. "I

warrant there's many a pretty boy and many a child's father in such

great ships," said Alice, with a sigh; "they're beautiful to look at,

Miss Hester, but I had a deal rather see them coming home. Many a house

will be dreary to-day for want of them that's sailing there."

I know well she did not mean to grieve me, but even while she spoke my

burden came back upon me; I looked after the ships with a wistful

glance; yes, many a home had given its best blood to these frail gallant

ships, to risk the storms and the sea. Why? for duty and necessity, for

daily bread, for honest labor; but what pretence had I for making _my_

home desolate, or launching my poor boat upon this unknown sea of life?

I had no answer to make; I had no resource but to turn my back upon the

question, and ignore it. I turned from the window suddenly, and laid my

head down upon the hard, prickly, hair-cloth cushion, and said I would

rest a little. I was not quite so miserable even now as I had been

yesterday, but my thoughts had returned to the same channel again.

As I thus reclined, sometimes watching her, sometimes seeing visions of

Cottiswoode, and of all the agitation and tumult which must be there,

Alice came and went between this little room and the kitchen, and began

to spread the table, and to prepare our early, humble dinner. It soothed

me to see her making all those little simple arrangements; everything

was so far removed from the more stately regulations of home, and there

seemed to me such a comfort and privacy in thus being able to do without

the intervention of servants, to do everything "for ourselves," as I

flattered myself. What a rest and deliverance to my constrained mind

would be the constant occupation which I must have had, had I really

been the daughter of Alice! I thought of Amy's cheerful bustle, of our

simple maid Mary, singing at her work in my father's house at

Cambridge,--with tangible and real things in their hands and their

thoughts all day long, what leisure would they have for the broodings of

the mind diseased? What time for unprofitable self-communion? Ah, now I

thought of it, that sickening doubt of myself came over me again; I was

shaken in my false position; and now, when I wanted the fullest

confidence in myself and in my course of action, my perverse heart began

to glance back with dreadful suspicions of every step I had ever taken.

I could no longer rest when this most ingenious process of self-torment

began again. I had to rise and walk about, hurrying, as if to escape

from it; and I was glad and thankful when Alice came in again with our

simple meal.

After we had dined, I went with her, glad to be kept in any way from my

own sole company, to unpack our trunk upstairs. I took out the things I

had been working at, and my materials, and when she was ready to go with

me, I carried them down stairs. I would not go without Alice. I made her

sit by me, and take her own work, and be constantly at my side. By this

time we had drawn a little table to the window for our sewing-things,

and Alice sat opposite to me in a hard mahogany arm-chair, while I, half

reclining on my sofa, went on slowly with my occupation. I was still

busy with those delicate bits of embroidery; and I think almost the only

pleasure I recollect in that dark time of my life, was the progress I

made with these. I was putting some of them together now--"making them

up," as we call it in our woman's language. I had a great pride in my

needlework, and I have always had a singular pleasure in

construction--so I was almost comfortable once more, and sometimes had

such a thrill of strange delight at my heart, that it almost was a pang

mingled of pain and joy, to see the definite shape these fine delicate

bits of cambric took under my fingers. All this while Alice sat by

working at similar work, and telling me tales of young wives like

myself, and of mothers and children, and of all the natural experiences

of womanhood. Like myself! with a shudder I wondered within myself

whether there was one other in the world like me.

After a while, when I wearied of this--as, indeed, in my present mood of

mind and weakness of frame, I soon wearied of anything, I made Alice get

her bonnet and come out with me. It was now getting towards evening, and

the usual hum of play and of rest, which always is about a comfortable

village after the day's work is over, was pleasantly audible here. At

some distance from our house, behind it, some lads were playing cricket

in a field, and women were gossiping at the cottage doors, and men

lounging about, many of them in their blue woollen shirts and glazed

hats--sailors, as we fancied in our ignorance, though they were, in

reality, only watermen, who went a fishing sometimes, after a somewhat

ignoble fashion, to the mouth of the river, and managed these

pleasure-boats when they were at home. We wandered down close to the

river, where the water now came rustling up to our feet, creeping closer

and closer in every wave. "It is the tide," said I, with involuntary

reverence. Alice did not know much about the tide, but her heart, like

every other natural heart, was charmed by that liquid soft-ringing

music, the ripple of the water, as it rose and fell upon the beach, and

Alice was reverential too. I bent down myself like a child, to put my

hand upon the pebbly wet line, and feel the soft water heaving up upon

it higher and higher. Ships were still passing down the beautiful calm

river, gliding away silently into the night and the sea--the soft hum of

the village was behind us, the musical cadence of these gentle waves

filled the quiet air, yet soothed it, and we stood together saying

nothing, strangers and solitary, knowing Nature, only one of us knowing

God, but strangers to all the human people here.

As we went back, many of the cottage doors were closed, and through some

of the half-curtained windows we saw the humble little families gathered

together for the night. From the church, as we passed, there came some

sounds of music; the organist had been practising, I suppose, and the

"linked sweetness long drawn out," the "dying fall," which commands the

imagination more entirely than anything perfect and completed can, was

stealing into the darkening twilight as we passed by the half-open door.

I cannot tell why all those sweet influences make even the happy

pensive; but I know they brought such heaviness to my heart, and such

tears to my eyes, as I would not like to feel again. Alice did not say

anything, perhaps she saw that I was crying; but I was very glad to get

home, and lay myself down upon my bed, and seek the sleep which always

mercifully came to me. How glad I was always to fall asleep; no other

way could I get rid of myself and my troubles; they looked in upon me

with my first waking in the unwelcome light of the morning, but I had

oblivion in my sleep.

THE SECOND DAY.

We were now in complete possession of our little solitary house; our

humble neighbors had become accustomed to us, and no longer clustered

about their doors and talked in whispers when we came out for our daily

walk. I have no doubt that there was still much gossip, and even some

suspicion about Alice and me; but we were inoffensive, and were not

without means, so we were annoyed by no great investigations into our

history.

We had no one in the house with us. Alice did everything; and though I

made a pretence of helping her, I did her little service. Sometimes I

put my own bedchamber in order, with a childish satisfaction, but no

small degree of fatigue; and with so small a house, and so little

trouble necessary, there was not much to do. I could not bear Alice to

be out of my presence; we ate together, sat together, walked together; I

was quite dependent upon her; altogether a great change had come upon

me. I never had been what people call intellectual, but now in the day

of my weakness how I clung to the womanly occupations, the womanly

society, aye, to such a poor thing as gossip, which was only redeemed

from being the very vulgarest of amusements, because it was gossip of

the past. When I sat at my sewing, with Alice talking to me; when I

listened to tales of this one and the other one, whom she had known in

her youth,--everything about them; their dress, their habits, their

marriages, their children, their misfortunes; when I cut, and sewed, and

contrived these pretty things I still was making, sometimes I was almost

happy. Yes, if it was in reality a descent from more elevated and

elevating occupations, I still must confess to it, a woman after all is

but a woman, and there are times when the greatest book, or the

grandest imaginations in the world, have no attractions compared with

those of a piece of muslin, a needle and a thread. I felt it so, at

least. I remember the little parlor gratefully, with its round table and

overflowing work-basket, the beautiful river and the passing boats

without, and Alice recalling the experiences of her youth within.

For all this time my only safeguard lay in trying to forget, or to turn

my back upon the great question of my life. I no longer brooded over the

injury my husband had done me; it seemed to have floated away from my

sight, and become an imagination, a vision, a dream. I could not even

recall our life at Cottiswoode; when I attempted to return to it a veil

fell upon my eyes, and a dull remorse at my heart made the very attempt

at recollection intolerable to me. Instead of that, the bright days

before our marriage, the bright days after it, continually, and even

against my will, came to my mind. I went over and over again the course

of our happy journey; I recalled all our hopes, all our conversations,

all our plans for the future; and this was all over, all gone, vanished

like a tale that is told! It is not wonderful that I should try with all

my might to keep myself from thinking. It was dreadful to fall into such

a reverie as this, and then to awaken from it, and recollect how

everything really was.

I had heard from my agent in Cambridge, and had received money from him.

We were plentifully supplied, yet needed very little. We lived as simply

as any peasant women could have lived; and though we had now a few

flowers in the little fantastic flower-pots before the window, and had

dismissed the shabby evergreens, and pruned the "traveller's joy," we

had made no other alteration in the house. It was now May, nearly the

middle of the month, and perfect summer, for, as I have said, everything

was unusually early this year. No letters except the agent's had come to

me. I thought my husband was content that I should be lost, and have my

own will. When I was quite alone, I sometimes thought that he was eased

and relieved by my absence, and the thought cost me some bitter tears.

I could not bear to be of no importance to him; and then I fretted

myself with vain speculations. Why was he so angry when I spoke of Flora

Ennerdale? If he had but married Flora Ennerdale, how happy she would

have made him; and I--I would have pined and died in secret, and never

done him wrong. So I thought in my fond, wretched, desolate musings.

Fond!--yes, my heart had escaped from me, and flown back to him. I would

not for the world have whispered it to any one--I refused to acknowledge

it to myself, yet it was true.

I was alone in the house, and these thoughts had come strongly upon me.

Alice was very reluctant to leave me alone, and only when she was

compelled by some household necessity went out without me; but she had

wanted something this afternoon before the time of our usual walk, and I

was sitting by myself in the silent little house. Though I avoided

solitude by every means in my power, I yet prized the moment when it

came to me--and I had been indulging myself in dreary longings, in

silent prayers, and weeping, when Alice returned. She came in to me very

hastily, with a good deal of agitation in her face, and when she saw my

eyes, where I suppose there were signs that I had been crying, she

started, and cried, "Have you seen him? have you seen him already?"

"I seen _him_--whom?" I cried with a great shiver of excitement. What a

useless question it was! as well as if I had seen him, I knew _he_ must

be him.

She came and took my hand and bent over me, soothing and caressing.

"Darling, don't be startled," said Alice; "oh, how foolish I am! I

thought you had seen him when I saw the water in your eyes. Dear Miss

Hester, keep a good heart, and don't tremble, there's a dear. I've seen

him indeed--he's here, come to see you, looking wan and worn, and very

anxious, poor young gentleman. Oh, take thought of what you will say to

him, Miss Hester; every minute I expect to hear him at the door."

It was a great shock to me; I felt that there was a deadly pallor on my

face. I felt my heart beat with a stifled rapid pulsation. I could not

think of anything. I could not fancy what I would say. I was about to

see him, to hear his voice again. I felt a wild delight, a wild

reluctance; I could have risen and fled from him--yet it seemed to lift

me into a sudden Elysium, this hope of seeing him again. Strange,

inconsistent, perverse--I could not be sure for a moment what impulse I

would follow. I sat breathless, holding my hand upon my heart, listening

with all my powers. I seemed for the instant to be capable of nothing

but of listening for his footstep; my physical strength and my mental

were alike engrossed. I could neither move nor think.

I do not know how long it was; I know there was a terrible interval

during which Alice talked to me words which I paid no attention to, and

did not know, and then it came--that well-known footstep; I heard the

little gate swing behind him--I heard the gravel crushed beneath his

quick step, and then Alice opened the door, and a sudden lull of intense

emotion came over me. He was before me, standing there, yes, there--but

a dizzy, blinding haze came over my eyes--after the first glimpse I did

not see him, till I had recovered again.

And he was not more composed than I was; not so much so in appearance, I

believe. He came up and held out his hand, and when I did not move, he

took mine and held it tightly--tightly between his own, and gazed full

into my face, with his own all quivering and eloquent with emotion. At

this moment the impulse for which I had been waiting came to me, and

steadied my tremulous expectation once more into resolve--once more the

bitterness which had perished in his absence returned with double

force--his own words began to ring in my ears, and my cheek tingled with

the fiery flush of returning resentment. I had deceived _him_; he had

married a sweet and tender woman, and when his eyes were opened, he had

found by his side only _me_. I thought no longer of my bridegroom, my

yearnings for affection were turned into a passionate desire for

freedom; it was not Harry, but Edgar Southcote on whom I looked with

steady eyes.

He, I am sure, did not and could not notice any change of expression; he

saw my color vary, that was all, but his own feelings were sufficiently

tumultuous to occupy him.

"Hester," he said, "Hester, Hester!" He did not seem able to say any

more, he only stood before me holding my hand very close, looking into

my face with eyes in which everything else was veiled by his joy in

seeing me again. I saw it was so--heaven help me--what a miserable

torturer I was! my heart gave a bound of wild delight to feel my power

over him still.

When I made no response, he forced me at last; already he was chilled,

but he did not change his position--he held out both his hands, his arms

rather, tears came to his eyes, and with a longing, wistful, entreating

gaze he fixed them upon me. "Hester, Hester!" he said, "come, I have the

only right to support you. In absence and solitude we have found out how

it is that we are bound to each other, not by promise and vow alone, but

by heart and soul. In strife or in peace we have but one existence.

Hester, come back to me, come, let us not be sending our hearts over the

world after each other; we cannot be separated, come back to me."

How true it was, how true it was! but the heart that had been yearning

for him, oh, so drearily, oh, so sadly, half an hour ago, was beating

against my bosom now with miserable excitement, resisting him bitterly

and to the death.

"Why should I come back?" I said; "has anything changed? are our

circumstances different from what they were?"

"Yes," he cried eagerly; "we have been apart, we have found out our true

union, we have learned what it is to pine for a look, the very

slightest, of the face most dear in the world to us. We have found how

transitory, how poor all offences and resentments are, and how the

original outlives and outlasts them. Hester, do I not speak the truth?"

I dared not contradict my own heart and say no, I dared not do it,

everything he said was true.

"I do not mean you to suppose that it is self-denial on my part and a

desire to test this, which has made me so slow of following you," he

continued, growing heated and breathless as he found that I did not

answer; "I have but newly found out your retreat, Hester--found it out

after long and diligent searching, which has given me many a sick heart

for a month past. I need not describe the misery into which your flight

plunged me; when you passed me on the road I was struck with a pang of

fear, but I refused to entertain it. Think how I felt when I went home,

and saw the pitying looks of the servants, and found your pitiless note

upon my table. They told me you placed it there yourself Hester; and

when I enter that fatal room, I sit idly thinking of you, trying to

fancy where you stood, wondering, wondering if there was no truth nor

mercy in your heart."

The recollection of that moment rushed back on me as he spoke; he saw

the convulsive trembling which came upon me; he heard the sob which I

could not restrain; thus far I betrayed myself. I could not remember

_that_ unmoved; but when he bent over me with eager anxiety, I drew my

hand away, and said I was quite well, quite well, I needed no support.

"Hester," he said, in a tone of such tenderness that it almost

overpowered me, "I know I am trying your strength severely, I know I am.

I may be inexcusable, I may be hazarding your health with my vehemence;

tell me if it is so, I will not speak another word, I will rather give

up all my own hopes. God forbid that you should suffer for my violence;

speak to me, say a word, Hester, tell me what I am to do."

"I can bear to hear all you have to say to me," I said, with a burning

blush upon my cheek. The exertion I made to maintain my own calmness was

exhausting me dreadfully, but I could bear it better when he spoke, and

when my natural spirit of resistance was roused by his words, than when

he went away or was silent, when I would be left to the consuming

remorseful persecution of my own thoughts.

When I said this he looked at me steadily and sadly;--"Was it hopeless

then? would I receive him in no fashion but this?" I met his gaze with

the blank look of sullen resentment; he turned away from me with a heavy

sigh, and wrung his hands with impatience and suffering; then he came

back, took the chair which Alice had been using, and sat down opposite

to me.

"Then it is to be so," he said with suppressed bitterness; "neither time

nor solitude, neither tenderness nor absence, says a gentle word for me

in your heart; you are resolved that we shall be miserable, Hester; you

will leave me to the pity of the servants, _you_ will show none; you

will condemn me to frightful anxiety, anxiety which I dare not venture

to anticipate; you will shut me out from every right; I must not be

near; I must not try to support you; is this what you quietly doom me

to, Hester?"

"You use strange words; I doom you to nothing," said I; "we were very

wretched when we were together; you told me you were deceived in me, and

I also was deceived in you; all that I have done is to come away, to

free each of us from a galling and perpetual slavery. If I give no pity,

I ask none; let justice be done between us, and it is justice surely to

permit me to take care for myself when I do not encumber you. You have

not more to suffer or to complain of than I have; we are on equal terms,

and so long as we are apart we cannot drive each other mad, as you said

I would do to you; I beseech you to be content, let us remain as we are;

it will be best for us both."

If I was agitated when I began to speak, I had become quite calm before

I ended. He never withdrew his eye from me--he followed my motions,

almost my breath--and when I moved my hands and clasped them together,

as I did to support myself, his gaze turned to them--my hands were thin

and worn, and very white--they looked like an invalid's. Before I was

aware, he bent over and kissed them, saying, "Poor Hester! poor Hester!"

Ah, it was very hard for me to keep up to my resolution, reading his

thoughts as I did with an instinctive certainty. He was not thinking of

my unkind and bitter words--he was thinking only of _me_.

But when he spoke after this pause, I saw clearly enough that my words

had not escaped him; he did not entreat any longer; he saw it was vain;

but the kindness of his tone was undiminished. I fancied I could

perceive the resolution he had taken now; that he had made up his mind

not to strive with me, but to leave me to myself. I would rather he had

persecuted me with the most violent and perpetual persecution; that I

could have met with courage; but I knew what a longing, yearning,

remorseful misery would come upon me when I was left to the sole company

of my own heart.

"I will wait till you come to think of something else than justice," he

said kindly, but sadly. "To have my rights yielded to me only because

they are rights, will never satisfy me, Hester. I warn you of this now;

you are not doing justice. I know that you can have no doubt what are my

feelings to you; you know what my love is, but not how much it can bear,

and you treat me with cruel injustice, Hester. Enough of this. I will

plead my own cause no more. I will leave everything to yourself.

By-and-bye, I do not doubt you will see my _rights_ in a different

aspect; but I will not be content with my rights," he continued, growing

unconsciously vehement; "when you are willing to do me justice, I will

still be dissatisfied. It is not justice I want from you, and the time

of our reunion will never come till you reject justice as I do. I know

that I am right."

"It will never come," said I, under my breath.

"The most wretched criminal has hope, Hester," he said, rising with

impatience which he could not control, and coming to the window, "and I

am not so much wiser than my kind as to be able to live without it. I

have read of humility and patience, I grant you, and these are difficult

qualities; but I will quarrel no more on my own account, and it is hard

to maintain a feud on one side only, Hester? Will you permit me to live

near you, since you insist on leaving me? Will you let me see you now

and then? will you let me be near at hand, if by any chance you should

relent and wish for me? In your present circumstances, this is no great

boon to yield to your husband, Hester?"

"What end would it answer?" I said, though my heart leaped with a

strange mixture of joy and pain at his words; "I am sure we are better

quite apart."

"Be it so," he said, and then he came forward to me very gravely; "I

wait your time, Hester," he said, taking my hand once more, with a face

of serious and compassionate kindness, "we have, both of us, much grief

to go through yet, but I will wait and be patient; I consent to what you

say; I will not intrude into your presence again till you bid me

come--you smile--you will never bid me come? that is in God's hands,

Hester, and so are you, my bride, my solitary suffering wife. I leave

you to Him who will support you better than I could. Farewell. It is a

bitter word to say, but I obey you. Hester--Hester--not a word for me!

farewell."

He stooped over me, kissed my forehead, wrung my hand, and then he was

gone.

He was gone;--I gazed with aching eyes into the place where he had been;

here this moment; gone perhaps for ever; I cried aloud in wild anguish;

I thought my heart would burst; it required no long process, no time nor

thought to change my mad rebellious heart again; I could struggle with

him, resist him, use him cruelly while he was here before me; but when

he was gone; oh, when he was gone!

When Alice came in I was sobbing aloud and convulsively; I had no power

of self-restraint; all my pride and strength were broken down. "He is

gone," I repeated to myself; "he is gone!" I could think of nothing

else. Alice spoke to me, but I did not hear; she tried to lift me from

the sofa, where I lay burying my face in my hands, but I would not let

her touch me; no one had ever seen such violence and such a wild

outbreak of passion and misery in me before.

It was all my own doing, there was the sting of it. I could ask sympathy

from no one, confess my distress to no one. My own heart stung me,

upbraided me, made malicious thrusts and wounds at my weakness. I had

done it all myself--what did I think of my miserable handiwork? I had

made my own life, and this was the result of it. I had cast him

away--cast him away! I could not tell why, I could remember nothing

cruel that _he_ had ever done to me, and he would come back no more.

"Miss Hester, you will kill yourself," cried Alice indignantly. I heard

these words as if they were the first she had said, and with an

immediate and powerful effort I controlled myself. No, I would not

endanger the future, I would not lose everything. I raised myself up and

returned to my work; I tried to forget what had happened,--that he had

actually stood there before me, that this little room had held him, that

his voice was still ringing in the dim subdued atmosphere. Every time I

thought of it I trembled with agitation. The day was the same, yet it

was different; the hours went on as usual, yet how totally changed they

were. It was over,--the event I had been unconsciously, involuntarily,

looking forward to. This dimmed, dulled life was to go on now with no

new expectation in it, it was all over; he had promised to let me alone.

And there was Alice, looking at me with eager, solicitous, inquiring

eyes, anxious to know what had been said, what had happened, wondering

at my strange mood, trying to find out, with her own thoughts and looks,

how I felt. Alice could not comprehend me. When her first belief, that I

did not care for him, was shaken, she could find no reason for my

conduct, no cause for all I had done; she did not understand my

perversity; in the motives of her own simple Christian heart she found

no clue to the problem of mine. She put no questions to me, but sat,

where _he_ had been sitting, sad, disapproving, full of wonder; her hope

disappointed and her love grieved, aware I was wrong, yet so reluctant

to think so. Poor Alice! I was a great charge to her, and a perplexing

one; she did not know how to deal with me.

When I was able to command my voice, I spoke to her. "Alice, Mr.

Southcote has been here," I said; "but he has promised not to come back

again. He will never intrude into my presence again, he says, till I

call him, and I am not likely to do that. When anything happens,

Alice--I intended to have said so before--you will write to him without

delay; remember, I told you so; he has a right to that."

The words struck me strangely as I repeated them. Had I already begun,

according to his own proposing, to calculate what his _rights_ were? but

he had warned me that he would find no satisfaction in that.

"And is this all, Miss Hester?" said Alice, looking at me wistfully;

"oh, darling, well you know I've never said a word. I've never dared to

take part with him that never should have needed help from a poor woman

like me, but I can't keep silent--Miss Hester--I can't now; what's in my

heart I must say, for you're my own dear child. Miss Hester, dear, I

can't help if you're angry. But what do you think a true friend can pray

for you? one that loves you dear above all the world; what do you think

she would be obliged to pray, the first thing of all that was in her

heart?"

I was much startled by the question, for it was at once perfectly

unexpected, and very solemnly and seriously put. I did not answer, but

looked at her with earnestness as great as her own.

"First of all, before even the safety, and the blessing, and the joy,

oh, Miss Hester," cried Alice, with strange emotion, "that you may be

made to see which is good and which is evil, and to choose the right

way. I dare not ask the blessing first, darling, I dare not! I'd lay

down my life for an hour's comfort to you, Miss Hester; you know it's

not boasting, you know it's true; but you're following a wrong way, and

sorrow is the right thing to come to that rather than joy. I cannot help

it--I cannot help it--you may put me away from you, as you've put a

better love than mine, but I must say what is in my heart."

I could not be angry, I could not be indignant; I could not meet Alice's

unexpected severity as she thought I would. I was no heroine, I was only

a woman, a poor, young, foolish, solitary woman. I cried: it was all I

could do. I was almost glad she reproved me--glad that she thought God

must punish and forsake me for my sin. I could not excuse or justify

myself. I had no heart to say anything; all my powers were exhausted. I

could only lie upon my sofa, silent, not venturing to look at Alice, and

doing what I could to restrain my tears. But they would not be

restrained; gentler and gentler, yet more abundant they fell from under

the cover of my clasped hands, and, little as I intended it, this was

indeed the only way in which I could have vanquished Alice. She kept her

own place for a few moments, trembling and irresolute, and then she came

humbly towards me and drew my head to her bosom. "Oh, darling, forgive

me, forgive me," cried Alice, and her tears fell as fast as mine.

When I found that I could not put an end to my own weeping-fit, Alice

grew very much alarmed. She brought an armful of pillows, and arranged

them on the sofa, and made me lie down to sleep. I obeyed her like a

child. I took some wine when she gave it me, and closed my eyes at her

bidding. She sat by my side watching me, and when my eyelids unclosed a

little, I saw her soft white apron close by my cheek, and almost thought

I was sleeping with my head on her knee as I used to do when I was a

little girl. At last I did fall asleep, but I never was conscious that I

had done so. I did not change the scene in my dreams. I was still here,

still in this room, and he was beside me again, but we did not speak of

parting now, all that was over; _that_ was the dream, and it was past. I

do not recollect that there were any words to make our reunion sure, but

there did not need any, for I was completely persuaded of it in that

strange real dream. When I woke, Alice was still sitting by me, and

there was the strangest ease and satisfaction in my heart. I looked

past her eagerly, and round the room, and asked, "Where is he? where is

he?" she did not speak, and then I knew it was all a dream.

But I would not break down again. I sat erect and took up my work, and

told her I was quite well now, but my head was aching violently, and my

heart sank with such a dreary heaviness. A cup of tea would do me good,

Alice said, and she left me to prepare it. When I was alone I went to

the window and opened it to let in the fresh sweet air upon my hot brow.

Yes, it was the happiness and the reconciliation that were a dream; the

wretched solitude, the remorse, the hopelessness were real things; and

what was the future? I could not help a shudder of expectation and

terror. My truest, dearest, most indulgent friend Alice herself was

almost afraid to ask a blessing for me. Hitherto I had always asked it

myself, but her words arrested me; I only wondered what kind of judgment

God would send to mark my sin--would it be only death? and once more a

few tears fell from my eyes; I began to think of the letter I would

write to my husband to be given him when I was gone away for ever; of

perhaps the precious legacy I would leave him; the gift that would pay

him tenfold for all his grief and trouble with me. These thoughts

soothed me. When Alice returned, I withdrew from the window, and came to

the table and took the tea she poured out for me. I was subdued and

exhausted. I was not now so miserable as I had been. I pleased myself

with the idea of making this last atonement, of putting an end to the

misery of our wedded life, and to the problem which I did not know how

to solve otherwise, by the early death which every one would shed a

natural tear for. Once more I wiped a few tears from my own cheek, and

then I went up-stairs very quietly in my exhaustion to prepare for our

walk.

When we went out, I was less composed. I remembered then that he had

trod this same path only a few hours ago; that, perhaps, he still was

here. I hurried Alice on, I looked back and around with a stealthy

eagerness, my heart began to beat and my breath to fail as this occurred

to me. He might be here, he might even see me now with my lingering

feeble footsteps, and read in my face traces of the wild and strong

emotion which had visited me since he came. I drew my veil over my face,

I hastened to the very margin of the water where no one could see me

closely. Wherever I turned I was possessed with the idea that from some

eminence--some visionary height--he was watching me, and interpreting my

very movements. I did not desire to escape. I hurried about restlessly,

but I did not wish to go in again; and it was only when the darkness

fell that Alice persuaded me to go home. Alice did not know what was

passing in my vexed and troubled mind. I think now my physical weakness

must have had a great deal to do with it--what a dreadful chaos it was!

THE THIRD DAY.

A little low cry--what was it?--I never heard it before, yet it went to

my heart almost with a pang of delight. Alice, bring it--bring it. I

cannot wait for all those snowy robes, and all the joyful, tearful

importance of my dear, dear, kind nurse, my almost mother. Here in its

little flannel wrapper--a little moving bundle, thrusting about its

little limbs, turning round its little downy head with the first

instincts of life to that kind bosom, crying its little wailing cry--oh,

kindest heaven!--oh, God most wonderful!--it is mine, mine, my own

child!

I felt neither pain nor weakness. I consented to lie still, because they

said I must, and because I was happy beyond expression, and neither

rebellion nor disobedience was in me. I lay quite still, pulling back

the curtains to look at Alice as she put on those dainty little

garments, one by one--to look at the moving thing upon her knee, the

little hand thrust up into the air, the vigorous kicks and thrusts with

which it struggled. _It!_ a spark of sudden anger woke in me when some

one said _it_--that was correct enough half an hour ago--but this was

he, an individual being, my baby, my own, mine! I cannot tell to any one

the rapture in which I lay watching Alice as she put upon him his first

little robes. I was in a woman's paradise--a moment which can come but

once in a lifetime. What mother does not remember, after all her dread,

her awe, her suffering, the heavenly rest in which she lay looking at

her firstborn? I think there is no such ecstasy either before or

after--it is all over--all over--the ordeal which frame and spirit have

been trembling at, is past like a dream, and who remembers it?--and in

that strange delicious luxury of ease and weakness, there seems no

longer anything to desire. I do not know,--perhaps it is not an elevated

idea at all,--but my best realization of unspeakable happiness was in

that hour after my little boy was born.

When that most important toilet was finished, Alice brought him to me in

the long white robe, rich with my own needlework, and the pretty close

cap covering his little downy head. She laid him down on my arm, and

drew a step apart, and looked at us both, crying for joy. "Bless you, my

darling!" cried Alice, and then she fairly ran away with her bright

glistening face, and I knew very well it was to relieve her full heart,

and spend her tears.

And I lay here with my baby on my arm alone. He did not mind who watched

him, as he knitted his baby brows, and twisted his baby mouth, and

clenched his harmless fists, till I laughed and cried together in

indescribable delight. Then a change came over me. I wanted some one to

share my happiness--to show my treasure to. Some one--oh, what cold

words these were! I wanted one--only one--to make my joy perfect. My

heart expanded over my baby, with such a sense of want, of

incompleteness. I cried aloud, "Oh, Harry, Harry, Harry!" Where was the

father to see and bless this child? This blessing which every other

mother had, I had cast away from me.

I could not put his infant into his arms--I could not watch the joy on

his face to brighten the light upon my own. I wept now after another

fashion. I turned my head aside that my tears might not fall upon my

baby. "Oh, Harry, Harry!" I was content you should be away from me in

the evil time, but it broke my heart to be alone in my deep great joy.

Alice could not see how I had been moved when she returned. I took care

to conceal my tearful eyes from her, and indeed it was not hard to

return to gladness, looking upon the face of my child. She brought me a

cup of tea, and pretended she had only gone away to fetch it. "I did,

indeed, Miss Hester," she said, with a tearful smile that belied her;

"though, to tell the truth, I _had_ a good cry when I got down-stairs.

Dear, do but look at him, with his sweet little fist doubled. Will you

beat your mamma already, baby boy, and a son too? Darling, I'm sure you

don't know what to say for joy."

"Oh, Alice, it is all beyond saying," said I; "I don't know why this

should have come to me, when even you yourself--you who are always

kindest, did not dare to ask a blessing for me; and after you said that,

Alice, I never dared to ask one for myself."

"I never meant that, Miss Hester," said Alice, humbly; "I _did_ crave

for the blessing night and day, and here it is, bless his dear little

heart; the sight of him brings back my pleasant days to me, dear. A

woman never has such a joy as a baby. Do you shake your head at that,

Miss Hester? My darling, you'll come to know."

"I do know, Alice," I said under my breath; "I never was so happy

before, nor so thankful, nor--so sad. If I do not die he will have

nobody but me, and what can I do for him? Alice, did you think of what I

told you to do? Do you remember, you were to write when all was over? I

thought then I was sure to die."

"Every one does, dear," said Alice, cheerfully; "but there's nothing

about dying now, darling. We can't have that, and, Miss Hester, have you

ever thought what was to be the baby's name?" Once more I was taken by

surprise. Once more I turned my face away from him, that his sweet cheek

might not be fretted by tears. I could say only one word--"Harry"--but

that was enough for Alice. Her face brightened again, and she stooped

over baby to give me time to recover myself. Alice was a wise nurse, and

would not even notice my agitation; so I made an effort to subdue it,

and was calm once more.

"Alice, you will be sure to write," I whispered; "and--well, _you_ have

seen other babies--do you really think he is very pretty, or is it only

because he is our own?"

Alice satisfied me by a great many assurances. "Babies are not always

pretty, darling," said the impartial Alice; "I have seen the oddest

little things, though their mothers were always pleased; but Master

Harry is a noble boy! Look how big he is; why he's quite a weight to

lift already, and such a head of hair," she continued, gently pushing

back his cap to show the silky down beneath; "and look here, Miss

Hester, what arms, he might be a month old, bless him, instead of half a

day. Do I really think it? My darling, I never, all my days, was called

a flatterer before."

Nor had I the least inclination to call Alice a flatterer now, for,

without any partiality, he really was a very beautiful boy, though he

lay there winking, frowning, and making such pugilistic use of his

little hands. I thought they were miracles, these little hands, when it

pleased him to unfold them; such beautiful little miniatures, with their

delicious soft touch, and tapered tender little fingers. I bent down my

cheek to put it into the way of those natural weapons of his as he

fenced about with them. I could have cried again with delight at those

small blows. Then Alice pretended he was too much for me, and that she

could not permit me to get excited; but I knew very well this was only

an excuse to get him into her own arms; but I was as glad of Alice's joy

as of my own. I had given her much to grieve her kind faithful heart, it

was time I gave her something to make her glad; and what could do that

so well as my baby boy? I watched her walking softly up and down the

room, holding him so daintily, so prettily upon both her hands, and then

she removed him to one arm, and made a reclining couch of it, when he

seemed to lie so easy, so securely with his head upon her bosom. I

looked, and wondered, and envied. Only study and experience could give

that facility, and I had a strong impression that I would be afraid to

handle that little precious frame as Alice did. Somehow or other it

seemed to complete Alice, and make her a perfect picture. The baby, with

its long streaming white robes, nestled so sweetly into her breast,

looked a necessary adjunct to her now. I wondered how I should never

have perceived the want of it before. I called her to me, and told her

what I thought. Alice smiled with real gratification. "I was thinking so

myself, dear," she said; "I am ten years younger since this morning. But

it goes to my heart, Miss Hester, for it reminds me of old times."

She put up her hand to her eyes softly, though she still smiled; but

those sweet tears of Alice's would never have chafed a baby's cheek.

Sweet resignation, pure love, the breath of a subdued and chastened

heart was in them. She was thinking of those whom God had taken away,

whom God would one day restore her to--they were different tears from

mine.

When he fell asleep Alice brought him back to me, and laid him down upon

my arm once more. I watched for a while his sweet breath, his closed

eyes, his baby face in its first repose, and then a drowsiness crept

over me, and I, too, fell asleep--it was such a sleep as I had slept

once before, the day when my husband came. I knew I was lying here with

my baby in my arms. I realized all the joy that was in my heart, but I

dreamed that I was presenting his child to Harry, that I was telling him

how I had named the baby already, that I was pouring out all my thoughts

and all my desires into the only ear in the world that could hear

everything that was in my heart, and there was not a care or a cloud

upon me. Again they seemed only dreams. And this happiness was the

truth.

When I awoke it was with a slight start, and I was strangely bewildered

to see that Alice had lifted baby from my arms, had wrapped him in a

great shawl, and was carrying him away. "Where, where are you going,

Alice?" I cried in alarm. She was confused when she saw me awake, and

hesitated for a moment. "My darling, I am only going to let little

Master see the house he has come home to," she said, with an attempt to

be playful, which only called my attention to the tremble in her voice;

"we'll come back again this moment, dear," and she carried him away down

stairs. A suspicion of what it was came to me, and I listened eagerly. I

heard her slow careful step descending; then I heard a suppressed

exclamation. Neither my prudence nor my regard for my own health could

restrain me; I was not able to subdue the wild beating of my heart, my

breathless agitation. Did they think they could deceive me?--did they

think his voice or his step could be in the house and I not know it? I

raised myself up a little, and listened with my whole heart and might.

Yes, he had come to see his child, and it was Alice who showed my

beautiful boy to him--it was not _I_. I could hear his whisper; I

thought myself that I could have heard and known it at any distance. I

could imagine the scene; I could imagine his silent delight, his

thanksgiving, his words of joy. I could almost fancy myself a

clandestine spectator, a stealthy looker-on, beholding from behind a

curtain the joy in which I had no share. Oh, it was bitter!

dreadful!--he rejoicing over our baby below--I lying alone in my misery

and weakness here. I did not think of him watching without the door,

shut out from the house, while _I_ was tasting first this exquisite and

sacred joy. I thought but of myself, deserted, desolate, no one

approving of me, no one commending me, my own very heart rising up in

judgment, my every thought an accuser, alone and solitary, my husband

only caring to know that I was safe, and desiring nothing more. I think

I had such anguish in that moment as only comes to many, diluted through

a whole life. How breathlessly I watched and listened--how conscious I

seemed to be of every movement and every word; how I started at the

faint sound of Baby's voice, and had almost sprung from my bed to snatch

him at least to my arms. I who was the only one who could still him, his

mother, his nurse, the being upon whom his little life depended by

nature. Why, even for a moment, did they take him away from me?

When Alice returned I did not say a word of my suspicions or

discoveries. My heart sank when I heard the door close upon my husband,

when I heard the step whose faintest echo I knew so well passing through

the gravel path of our little garden. Till then I still retained an

involuntary hope that at least he would request to see me. But he did

not; he was gone, and his steps rang upon my heart with a dull echo as

he passed out of hearing. I felt like one suddenly struck dumb--I could

not speak, I could not shake off the weight and oppression upon my

brain, and the bitter pang in my spirit. Already I felt a fever growing

on me, but I did not complain of it. My lips were sealed; I could not

say I was ill--I could not speak a word. The little one was laid in my

bosom once more, and I held him with passionate tenderness; but even

while I did so, I felt the sickness at my heart, and the cold dew on my

forehead, and the fainting, failing sensation over all my frame. I did

not speak; I seemed to be bound up within myself with a strange,

terrible wakefulness and consciousness, like one in a nightmare. I felt

as one might feel who saw a murderer slowly advancing towards him when

there was help at hand, yet who was paralysed, and could neither move

nor cry for deliverance. I held my baby close, till he cried and

struggled, then I suffered Alice to take him away. I heard her

questioning and calling me; she came and wiped my forehead, and stooped

down to me, and begged me to speak to her. "Are you ill, darling? are

you ill?" cried Alice. At last I said faintly, "I suppose so;" and she

rang the bell in great haste to summon a woman who waited below, and

send her for the doctor. I was growing almost unconscious; the only

clear thing I recollect in the chaos of indefinite pain and trouble

which overwhelmed me, was Baby's little plaintive cry, and my anxiety to

get him back into my arms. Faintly and dimly I could perceive Alice

feeding him; and I did not feel quite sure whether my husband was or was

not in the room in my strange, half-delirious state. I was not sure of

anything; I heard strange noises in my ears--sometimes I thought I was

lying in some danger, and something from which I could not escape was

hurrying upon me to crush me to atoms; and then again I was at

Cottiswoode--yet always here, always conscious of Baby and of Alice.

Hitherto the many and great agitations to which I had been subject, or

which I had brought upon myself, had done me no harm. As safely as

though I had been living the most placid life had this great trial been

surmounted; but it was different now. The cause was different; always

before my husband had been but too anxious to change my mind towards him

himself. It was a new and dreadful experience, this leaving me alone;

and I was exhausted and weak, though I had not expected it; the long

arrears of past suffering came back upon me now.

I suppose I must have been very ill for a few hours. I cannot tell; I

remember only a vague and feverish wretchedness, an aching, longing

desire to complain to some one, and a burning consciousness that I had

no one on earth to complain to; I saw visions, too, in my illness;

unhappy momentary dreams; glimpses of my husband rejoicing with

strangers; placing my baby in the arms of another; always deserting and

forsaking me. My heart was shocked and wounded; it was not an ordinary

stroke, but a blow unexpected, which struck beyond all my poor defences,

and laid me prostrate. Yet I could not have been long thus, for when I

came to myself it was still the twilight of the same day. The room was

darkened, and the candle burned faintly on the table at the extreme end

of the little apartment, and there was a faint perfume in the room of

some essence they had been using for me. It was June, a soft mild summer

night, yet a little fire was burning in the grate, for baby's sake, and

by it sat the woman who had come to assist Alice, holding my child in

her lap. The first sign I perceived in myself of recovery was the

indignant start with which I observed that this woman, I suppose

overcome by the heat and doing nothing, was nodding and dozing at her

post. I was not aware at the moment of having had anything the matter

with me. I looked up with a startled, indignant glance at Alice, who was

bending over me anxiously. "Bring him to me, Alice," I cried eagerly;

"or, if I must not have my baby, do you keep him at least. She is a

stranger; she does not care for him. Look, look, she has fallen asleep!"

I saw the woman start and open her eyes with a guilty look as I spoke,

and Alice said, "Yes, darling, yes," as she bent over me and continued

bathing my forehead. I put away her hand impatiently. "Take him

yourself, Alice, or bring him to me," I cried again. I had a shuddering

which I could not restrain at my seeing him in the stranger's arms.

"Do what she tells you," said the doctor, who was standing by the side

of Alice, in a low tone of authority; "she is better, bring the child to

her, she will be well now, if she can sleep."

Then Alice brought my baby and laid him in my arms; my dear, sweet,

innocent, sleeping child! what horrible desert had I been wandering in

since he was taken from my arms? He was sleeping so quietly, so softly,

nothing knew he of the subdued, yet still existing pain, in the bosom

his little head was pillowed on. "Sleeping like a child!" I knew now

what the common saying meant. My cap and nightdress were wet with the

perfumed cool waters Alice had been bathing my brow with, and I had a

confused pain and ringing in my head, and the most complete exhaustion

over me; but I was better, and felt almost easy in my weakness in mind

as well as in body. When the doctor had given me a draught, I suppose to

make me sleep, he went away, and I was so much disturbed by the stranger

in the room, that Alice sent her downstairs, and herself began to

prepare for the night. I remember now, like a picture, the aspect of

that little dim room; the single candle burning faintly far away from

me; the summer night, scarcely dark; the pale, blue sky, looking in at

the edge of the narrow blind; the bright sparkle of the little fire

midway in the room, burning with a subdued, quiet glee, as if in triumph

over the summer warmth which needed this auxiliary. Beside me was a

large, old-fashioned elbow-chair, in which Alice was to watch, or sleep,

as she said, and a round table with some eau-de-cologne and phials of

medicine, a small flower vase containing some roses, and a book. It was

deep twilight here in this corner, but my eyes were accustomed to it,

and I could see everything; most clearly of all, I could see my baby's

sweet, slumbering face, and feel his breath like balm, rising and

falling upon my cheek.

And then my eye, I cannot tell how, was caught by the book upon the

table; when Alice came to her chair beside me, I told her to read me

something. Alice was very tremulous and afraid, and feared I could not

bear it, but I knew better; as she brought the candle nearer and began

to read some chapters from the Gospel of John, I cannot tell how it was

that after that terrible fit of illness and anguish I should, have felt

my mind so clear and so much at leisure, it was like the fresh dewy

interval after a thunderstorm when the air is lightened and the earth

refreshed. As Alice read, I lay perfectly calm, holding my child in my

arms, grave, composed, thoughtful, as if I had reached a new stage in my

life. There seemed a certain novelty and freshness in these divine

words; I was not listening to them mechanically, my imagination went

back to the speaker, and realized what individual voice this was,

addressing me as it addressed all the world. What wonderful words these

were, what strange meanings: Justice, justice, God's meaning of the

word, not man's; that He should bear it Himself,--the grand original,

universal penalty. He, the offended one; no, not a weak, poor,

benevolent forgiveness, not that, but justice, justice; divinest word!

Justice, which blinds the very eyes of this poor humanity with that

glorious interpretation which only the Lord could give, that he should

bear the punishment, and not the criminal. Strange, strange, most

strange! the word read differently when men translated it, but this was

how God declared the unchangeable might and power it had, to a wavering,

disquieted human heart, straggling with its poor wrongs and injuries,

rejecting pity, demanding justice; how wonderful was all this! Alice

stopped in her reading after a while, but my thoughts did not pause. I

lay quite still, quite still, looking with my open eyes into the dim

atmosphere with its faint rays of light, and fainter perfume. How my

coward fancies slunk and stole away out of sight, out of hearing, of Him

who spoke. My justice and His justice, how different they are; did the

same name belong to them? I was not excited, I was not afraid; I thought

of it all with a strange composure, an extraordinary calm conviction. I

had no desire to sleep, yet I was quite at rest, I did not even feel

guilty, only dolefully mistaken, wrong, as unlike Him as anything could

be, and only able to wonder at His sublime and wonderful justice, and at

the arrogant, presumptuous offence, which had taken the place of justice

with me.

And then at last, I fancy I must have fallen asleep, for I had strange

sights of bars and judgment-seats, of criminals receiving sentence, and

a terrible impression on my mind that I was the next who should be

condemned, but that always a bright figure stepped in before me, and the

Judge perceived me not. When I woke again it was deep in the

night,--Alice was lulling baby, the moon was shining into the room, and

I was lying as quiet and as easy as if no such thing as pain had been in

the world.

"You are better, dear?" said Alice in a whisper of hesitating joy, as

she came to me with some cool pleasant drink she had made. My heart was

light; I was almost playful. "I think I am quite well," I said. "I ought

to get up, and let you lie down, Alice; have you had a great deal of

trouble with me to-day?"

"Hush, darling, no trouble," said Alice, hurriedly, "but you've had a

bad turn; go to sleep, dear, go to sleep."

I said "Yes, Alice," as a child might have said it, and I clasped my

hands and said the same prayers I had said on the morning of my wedding

day. I fell asleep in the middle of them, and ended this day in the

deepest peacefulness,--I knew not why.

THE FOURTH DAY.

I was now quite well, and it was July, the very flush and prime of

summer. After that first day I had progressed steadily and was well,

before I had any right to be well, according to the established order of

things--for though I was not robust, my health was of the strongest, and

I had a vigorous elastic frame, which never long succumbed. I would not

listen to Alice's proposal to have a nurse for baby. As soon as I was

able I took entire possession of him myself, and did everything for my

boy. I had no other cares or occupations; he was my sole business, and

he filled all my time with his requirements. What a happiness it was! If

I had been at Cottiswoode, and had a proper, well-appointed nursery, how

much of the purest delight, how many of the sweetest influences I must

have lost! He was very rarely out of my arms, except when he slept

through the day, in the luxurious, beautiful cradle--an odd contrast to

the other equipments of the house--which we had got for him. I often

smile at my own wilful, voluntary poverty now. We had by no means

changed the simplicity of our living, and I was my baby's sole

attendant, and was perfectly contented with this little, mean, limited

house; but I sent Alice to London with the widest license to buy the

prettiest baby's cloak, the richest robes, the most delicate equipments

for little Harry; and Alice, nothing loath, came back again with a

wardrobe fit for a young prince. Sitting by the morsel of fire in the

small bed-room up-stairs, with its white dimity hangings, and its clean

scanty furniture, I dressed my baby in embroidered robes more costly

than a month's housekeeping, and wrapping his rich cloak about him, and

tying on, over his rich laced cap, the soft luxurious hat of quilted

white satin which Alice had chosen to declare to every chance spectator

the proud pre-eminence of his sex--a boy! I put on my own simple straw

bonnet and went out with him, straying along the quiet roads, up and

down the bank of the river, perfectly indifferent of what all the world

might think, and smiling when I passed some genteel young mother of the

village, with her little maid trudging behind, carrying her baby. I

trust my precious Harry in indifferent hands!--No--I only laughed at

Alice's oratory as to what became my station. I had no station here, and

wanted none. The curate's wife might lose caste if she wandered about, a

volunteer nursemaid, with her child--but I was entirely free to follow

my own will, and follow it I did, as, alas! I had always done all my

days.

I do not wonder that the people were bewildered what to think of me, and

that gossip almost came to an end out of sheer amazement. I was always

dressed with the most extreme simplicity and plainness, but I always

wore upon my finger that splendid hereditary diamond which was the curse

of our house. It was to be supposed that I could not afford a nurse, yet

there never had been seen such a magnificent baby wardrobe--very

strange, nobody could make it out; and even the rector's wife, who paid

me the extraordinary honor of a visit, after baby's baptism--though why

she came I could not conceive, for she was a great lady, and chary of

her patronage--looked round with an odd, amused, bewildered smile at the

luxurious cradle, standing beside the hard hair-cloth sofa, and seemed

slightly disposed to speak to me as she might have spoken to a

capricious child; but I was wonderfully little moved by anything said to

me, or of me; I went upon my own way undisturbed. All those bright

summer forenoons I walked about with my baby watching my sweet flowers

grow and flourish in the sunshine, myself enjoying the glory and the

beauty of those summer days, as I never had enjoyed them before;

sometimes I sat down upon a sunny bank near the river, when little Harry

was asleep, and watched the ecstasy and rapture of the ships, as they

flowed down entranced towards the struggles and tempests of the sea. I

never wearied of my sweet burden, though I was so proud to say he grew

heavier every day, and made boastful complaints of his weight, as

mothers use. Often my thoughts were grave enough; sometimes I wept over

my beautiful boy, but I could not resist the influences round me, the

supreme delight of looking at his slumbering face--the sweet air that

refreshed my own--the beautiful scene that still had power to charm me

out of my heavy thoughts. Many doubts and many questions had agitated my

mind since the day of my baby's birth, that day so full of joy, yet of

humiliation and anguish. I had never recovered entirely from the

depression which my husband's stolen visit to see his child had

occasioned me. At the very time my heart was softening to former

yearning for him, at that very time it seemed his heart was closed

against me. I had never since mentioned him to Alice. I did not pretend

to ask her if she had written, nor to take any notice of his visit; and

amid all the happiness I had with my child in my own heart, there was

the most dreary doubtfulness as to what I should do. My heart was not

sufficiently humbled to forget entirely its former mood. I could not

subdue myself to call him back, even if I had not had so clear in my

remembrance that last visit of his, which was not to me. It seemed a

strange dreary retribution for all my offences against him, that now he

himself was content to let me alone--that he had granted at last, when I

no longer desired it, my often-repeated request, and left me unmolested;

was it at peace? Alas, at peace was a very different matter! sometimes

the words, "'Tis better in pure hate to let her have her will," came

over me with almost a ludicrous sense of my downfall and humiliation,

but the smile was very bitter and tremulous with which I acknowledged

the caricature and satire on myself.

So here I was content to stay, unsettled, doubtful, knowing nothing of

what my life, or more than my life, my boy's, was to be, waiting if

perhaps he would come or send, or make some appeal to me. Perhaps, I

cannot tell--perhaps if he had, my old perversity might have still

returned, and I rejected it; but he did not try me, and I could form

neither plan nor purpose for the vague, dim future. I persuaded myself

that I left it in God's hands, but I was searching its dull horizon with

my wistful eyes, day by day.

And then another thing, a fanciful yet not light dread, weighed upon me.

When I sat in the sunshine on the bank of the river adjusting my baby's

veil, laying it back from his sweet face, as he lay sleeping on my knee,

with my ungloved hand, I shuddered at the sinister gleam of the diamond

upon his innocent brow. My imagination was excited and restless; it did

seem a sinister gleam as it flashed upon the innocent sleeper, and all

the curse of the story returned to my mind, no more as a mere visionary

legend, or a tale half believed, half smiled at, but as a real

hereditary curse. Suppose I should die, and my husband marry some sweet

loving wife, who would make up to him for all he had suffered with

me--once I used to persuade myself that I would be glad of that--and my

boy should have another brother, who was not his mother's son? When I

took this possibility into my mind and pondered it, I almost thought,

like the unhappy lady to whom it came first, that this fatal jewel

blazed at me with malignant splendor like the eye of an evil spirit. No

reasonings of mine could shake my terror of it. I was not wise enough,

nor sufficiently courageous to banish this fanciful apprehension from my

mind, and I trembled, and a cold dew of pain came upon my face as I

thought of the lifelong enmity and strife which might be perpetuated in

this child, doubly a Southcote as he was, and born in an atmosphere

disturbed and clouded by the ceaseless discord of this race.

This day I was seated at my usual post on a grassy bank near the river.

Baby lay in my lap asleep, his rich veil laid back round the edge of his

hat, showing his sweet innocent face in a nest of lace and ribbons, warm

with the subdued sunshine which fell intensely on his white cloak and

robes and upon me, but which I carefully held a little parasol to shield

from his head. There was a slight fantastic breeze about, crisping the

water, and blowing in small warm capricious gusts, now from one quarter,

now from another. As usual, the river was bright with many passengers,

and some pleasure-boats were setting out from our little bay, for there

were now some London people in the village, which was a tiny

watering-place in its quiet way. I had newly taken my seat, after a

considerable walk, and was just drawing my glove from my hand to put

back a stray morsel of the down which we called hair from baby's

forehead. My hands were still thin, and my ring had always been loose on

my finger; this time, as it happened, it came off with the glove, and a

little gust of wind coming at the moment, my glove blew away from me as

I pulled it off, and the ring fell and rolled glistening down over the

knoll to the edge of the beach, where it lay among the pebbles, gleaming

and sparkling like a living thing.

I never paused to lift my glove. I snatched up my baby hurriedly and

almost ran away. I would not look back, lest I should see some one find

it, and be obliged to acknowledge it as mine. I hastened along as if I

had been stealing instead of only losing this precious ornament. I am

sure I felt as guilty, for this was not an innocent and _bonâ-fide_

loss, and I trembled between hope and terror. I had been out for some

time, and, truth to speak, Master Harry had momentarily fatigued the

arms of his mamma. Then the capricious wind chose this time of all

others to loose my hair from under my bonnet, and catch a wild

half-curled lock to sport with, and I had no glove upon my right hand;

the only one which baby's ample vestments permitted to be visible. In

this case I hurried on, meeting a London nursemaid with some wild pretty

children, who drew herself up in conscious superiority; meeting the

Rector's pony carriage, with Mrs. Rector in it, who nodded to me with

her usual amused disapproving look, and, I was very certain, laughed

when I was past. Somehow or other, I almost enjoyed these interruptions,

and hastened homeward with my gloveless hand and my face flushed with

haste and exercise. I certainly could not have looked much like a

miserable forsaken wife, or a self-consuming passionate misanthrope,

when I reached our cottage door.

The brightest face in the world was looking out for me at the

window--Flora! Flora Ennerdale! what could bring her here? But I had

scarcely time to ask the question when she ran out to meet me, as eager

and joyful as her sweet, affectionate nature could be. Flora seized upon

my ungloved hand, and stood looking at me in her pretty shy way to see

if I would kiss her. I did, this time, with real love and pleasure; and

Baby!--she took him, though I only half consented, out of my arms, with

a natural instinct for it, yet not with the perfect skill which I

flattered myself I had attained to, and insisted upon carrying him in,

very proud and delighted, to the little parlor, where she had already

made herself quite at home, but where her mother's elderly maid, who had

come with her, sat very dainty and frigid, much more disgusted with our

penurious appointments than Flora was. For the first moment I was

conscious of nothing but pleasure in seeing her, but now I began to

inquire within myself and to wonder--who had told her? who had sent her?

was she the investigating dove, the messenger to tell if the floods had

abated?--a momentary pang of pique and jealous pride made me look

gravely at Flora; but it was impossible to look at her sweet, innocent

face, and think of any hidden design. No, she would tell me honestly why

she came--I was sure of that.

When Alice came in, Flora's respectable attendant condescended to

withdraw with her, and we were left alone. Flora had thrown down her

bonnet and shawl upon the haircloth sofa, where she now hastily placed

mine, after disrobing me with her own hands. I took my low

nursing-chair, for I had now regained Baby, but Flora was standing

before the window in her wide floating, pretty muslin gown, so

summerlike and girl-like; she was not disposed even to stand still, much

less to sit down for a reasonable conference, and all this while was

running on with her pleasant voice and happy words, as light of heart as

ever.

"Oh, cousin Hester, how beautiful it is," she cried; "how did you find

out such a lovely quiet place? and such ships? I have heard the boys

speak of ships, but I thought there was always something nasty and noisy

about where they are. I could look at these all day--how they float!

what beautiful round sails--is that the wind in them that fills them out

so?--and how they seem to enjoy it, cousin Hester!"

"How did you find me out, Flora?" I asked.

Flora hesitated for a moment, and then suddenly came and knelt down

beside me. "Dear cousin Hester, Mr. Southcote came and told Mamma all

about it. You will not be angry, cousin? Mamma thought it was not right

of you, and Mr. Southcote came and explained it to her, and said it was

he that had been wrong, and that you had a right to be angry with him.

Then he let us know when Baby was born--oh, what a sweet rogue he is,

cousin Hester!--do you think there ever was such a pretty baby? and then

we had to come to London--about--about--some business, and I teased

Mamma till she let me come to see you. I did so want to see you, and I

had something to tell you too."

"What had you to tell me, Flora?" I asked, stiffening into pride again.

This of course was some message from my husband, and I could not explain

why I felt aggrieved that he should choose her for his messenger.

Flora looked up wistfully into my face--"Have I said anything wrong--are

you angry, cousin?"

"No, no; why should I be angry?" I answered, almost with impatience.

"Tell me what message you have."

"Message! It is no message," said Flora, her whole pretty face waking

into blushes and dimples; "it was all about myself, cousin Hester--I am

so selfish; it was something that happened to me."

I saw how it was at once, and was relieved. "Well, tell me what has

happened, Flora," I said.

But Flora buried her pretty face and her fair curls in Baby's long

robes, and laughed a little tremulous laugh, and made me no answer.

"Must I guess?" I asked, smiling at the girlish, sweet confusion. "I

suppose, as people say, somebody has fallen in love with you: is that

what has happened?"

She looked up for a moment with a glance of delighted astonishment--"How

could you find it out, cousin Hester?" said Flora; "it looks very vain

even to believe it; but, indeed--indeed, he says so, and I think it is

the strangest thing in the world."

Her innocent surprise and joy brought tears to my eyes. I remembered

myself the humility of a young heart wondering, wondering if this

strange gift of gifts, the love of romance and poetry, could really have

fallen to its own share; yet Flora was so unlike me--and my eyes, worn

with tears and watching, were they disenchanted now?

I stooped to kiss her sweet blushing cheek. "I must hear who he is now,

and all that you have to tell me," said I. "Are they pleased at home,

and is he a hero and a paladin? It was very good of you to come and tell

me, Flora."

"No, he is not a hero," said Flora, and then she paused and looked up in

my face, and made a breathless appeal to me, clasping baby's little soft

hand within both her own; "Oh, cousin Hester, will you come home? it

must be so dreadful to be parted; I can understand it now," said Flora,

with her sweet blush. "Please, cousin Hester, dear cousin, what matter

is it if Mr. Southcote was wrong, he is so fond of you, he thinks there

is no one like you; oh, will you come home?"

I was taken by surprise. I could not help crying as the eager young face

looked up in mine. I was not in the least angry; but alas! she did not

know,--how could she know?

"Hush, Flora, hush," I said, when I could speak; "hush, hush;" I could

not find another word to say.

"You would be a great deal happier, cousin Hester," said Flora, kissing

my hand, and clasping it with baby's between her own.

I only repeated that one word "Hush." If my child himself had appealed

to me, I do not think I could have been more strangely moved.

She said no more, but sighed as she gave up her guileless endeavor; and

now again the smiles and blushes came beaming back, and she told me of

her own happiness. _He_ was a young landed gentleman in their immediate

neighborhood, only five miles from Ennerdale, and if neither a hero nor

a paladin, had managed to make Flora very well contented with him, that

was certain. And everything was so suitable, she said, and mamma and

papa were so much pleased, and the boys were wild about it, and they had

come up to London to supply the bride's wardrobe, and it was from this

delightful occupation that Flora had spared a day to visit me.

"And he has three sisters, cousin Hester," said Flora, "such pretty,

good, nice girls, and they all live at the hall; and we have always been

_such_ friends, especially Mary and I, and they will be such pleasant

company. Oh! if you were only at Cottiswoode, I think I should have

nothing more to wish for; I can see mamma almost every day, and Annie is

almost old enough to take my place, and when Gus and the rest of the

boys come home for the holidays, of course they will be as much at the

hall as they are at Ennerdale, and _he_ is as fond of them all as I am,

and if you were at home, cousin Hester, I think I should be almost too

happy."

The only thing I could do was to draw my hand caressingly over this

happy, pretty head before me. Flora could go on in her pleasant talk

without any help from me.

"So that will be one thing to hope for," said Flora; "you might come and

see _me_, cousin Hester. Mamma is so busy getting everything, that she

could not come down with me to-day; such quantities of things, I cannot

think what I shall do with them, and you know I never had a great many

dresses before; just look what a child I am," cried Flora, springing up

with a burst of laughter at herself and opening a dainty little basket

on the table, to bring out sundry bits of bright rich glistening silk.

"I brought them to show them to you, cousin; I know you don't care for

such things, but--but--you were always so kind to me."

I was not so philosophical as Flora supposed. I think myself that

however universal the feminine love of dress may be, it is never so

perfectly developed as in a happy young wife who has her babies to adorn

and decorate as well as herself. Though I was far from happy, I felt the

germ of this within me, and was not at all indifferent to Flora's pretty

specimens. We were soon deep in a discussion of laces and satins, and

modes, matters in which Flora was so delighted to have my advice, and I

so willing to give it; the forenoon went on very pleasantly while we

were thus occupied. I was pleased and drawn out of myself, and I had

always been very fond of Flora; the sight of her happiness was quite a

delight to me.

When baby had taken _his_ refreshment and been laid to sleep in his

cradle--he was not much more than a month old, and slept a great deal,

as I suppose healthy, vigorous children generally do--Flora went up to

my room with me, for I wanted to give her some little present, such as I

had; Flora was somewhat amused at the bare little room, the scanty white

dimity hangings, and clean poverty of everything, and at baby's little

bath, and the pretty basket which at present held his night things only.

"Do you do everything for him yourself?" she asked, wonderingly. "Do you

know, cousin Hester, I should think that was so very pleasant, and to

carry him about out of doors, as you were doing; oh, I should so like to

be your nursemaid, cousin!"

"Well, Flora?" I said, inquiringly, for she had stopped with hesitation,

as if she wanted to ask something of me.

"Perhaps you would not like it, dear," said Flora, in her caressing way;

"but I should not be at all hurt if you said so. Oh, I should like so

much to come here for a few days. Cousin Hester, I could sleep on the

sofa, I could help Alice, I always was handy, and I know you would let

me carry baby sometimes when you went out. Will you write to mamma now,

and ask her to let me come? Oh, cousin Hester, do!"

"But, Flora, your mamma does not approve of me," said I, with an

involuntary blush.

Her countenance fell a little. "Indeed I did not say so, cousin Hester,"

she explained, though with an embarrassment which made it very evident

to me that I was right. "She thought it wrong of you to go away, but it

was different after Mr. Southcote told her, and she is so very sorry for

you, dear cousin, and says she is sure you are not happy. Oh, indeed it

was not at all hard to persuade her to let me come to-day. I am very

bold to beg so for an invitation, but I do so wish to come, cousin; you

will write?"

"It would do me good to have you with me, Flora," I said, sadly; "but I

think I have grown very foolish and nervous. I am almost afraid to write

to your mamma. I fancy _she_ cannot see anything to excuse me. Happy

people are sometimes not the best judges, Flora, and she has never been

very wretched, I am sure. And then, what would _he_ say? Nobody can

think well of me in Cambridgeshire; and _he_ would not like to have his

young bride staying with me. I am sure he would not, Flora."

"Say you would rather I did not come, cousin Hester," said Flora, who

was nearly crying; "don't say such cruel things as _that_."

"Yet they are true," I said; "I know what I have lost, and that few

people can think well of me. It will be better not, dear Flora, though

it would be a great happiness to me. Now, come here. This was my

mother's, and I have sometimes worn it myself. You like to be called

like her, Flora. Will you wear it for her sake?"

As I spoke I clasped upon her pretty neck the little gold chain, with

its diamond pendant, which I had been so proud to wear on that first

fated night when I met Harry. She had not yet dried her few bright tears

of disappointment and sympathy, and one fell upon the gems, making them

all the brighter. She still cried a little as she thanked me. I knew it

was a gift to please her greatly, for pretty as it was itself, and

valuable, it had an additional charm to her affectionate heart.

"And for your sake, cousin--am I not to like it for your sake?" cried

Flora; "I love to hear of her--but I love you, your very own self--may I

wear it for your sake?"

I answered her gratefully, as I felt; but as I opened the case which

held my mother's jewels, the same case which my father had given me in

Cambridge, and which I had always carried about with me since my eye

fell upon Mr. Osborne's present, the little chain with my mother's

miniature, my heart was softened; I was a mother myself, and knew now

the love above all loves which a mother bears to her child, and I was

terribly shaken on my own original standing-ground, and at the bottom of

my heart knew myself bitterly, cruelly wrong. My father, it was possible

to fancy, might have been even more wrong than I was; and Flora's sweet

face, like hers, yet wanting something of the perfect repose and

sweetness which this little picture showed, was the last touch that

softened me. When I put my mother's diamond ornament on Flora's neck, I

clasped the miniature on my own. With my plain dress and total want of

ornament--for I had not even a ring except my wedding-ring--the simple

little chain and the circle of pearls round the miniature, made a great

show. Flora came eagerly to look at it, I had never shown it to her

before; she thought it so beautiful--so sweet--she never could be so

vain as to let any one say she was like my mother after seeing that.

And then we returned downstairs to the early homely dinner which Alice

had been at considerable trouble with. Alice was much disturbed and

humbled by the invasion of these visitors; she did not like the idea of

any one finding us in our new circumstances, and Flora's maid was a

great affliction to Alice. "She could have borne the young lady," she

said, "but all the servants at Ennerdale and all the servants at

Cottiswoode, everybody would know that Mrs. Southcote kept no nurse for

her baby, and lived in a house of four apartments, and waited on

herself." It was very galling to Alice, but she forgot it in the secret

glow of delight with which she observed the miniature I wore.

Flora did not leave me till it was quite evening, and even then not

without another petition that I would "ask Mamma" to let her come for a

longer visit. It was a great piece of self-denial, but I steadily

resisted her entreaties. I knew Mrs. Ennerdale--a placid, unawakened

woman, who knew nothing of me nor of my struggles--could have no

sympathy for me, and I rather would want the solace of Flora's company

than expose her to her mother's disapprobation. I had voluntarily left

my husband and my own house, perhaps with no sufficient cause, and I

sternly doomed myself to a recluse's life, and determined to involve no

one in any blame that belonged to me.

In the early evening, when the sun had just set--baby, by this time,

having had his full share of attendance, and Flora herself, by especial

favor, having been permitted to place him in his cradle--I set out with

her to the railway, which was at a considerable distance from the

village. But when we were ready to go, I suddenly remembered I had but

one glove, and Alice as suddenly perceived the want upon my finger. "Do

you not wear your ring to-day, dear?" whispered Alice, looking at me

anxiously as she put my shawl round me. In the same whispering tone, but

with guilt at heart, I answered, "I lost it by the waterside this

morning," and Alice uttered a subdued cry of joy. I had happily

forgotten it all this day, but when it occurred to me I felt

considerably disturbed and timid. I could not persuade myself I had lost

it honestly. I fancied I could still see it gleaming among the pebbles

at the water's edge when I could so easily have picked it up, and if it

did come back to me after this, I fancied I would, more than ever, think

it a fate.