We had a long pleasant walk in the peaceful sweet evening. Flora's

influence over me had always been good; to-night she made me almost as

light of heart as herself, and we parted with a great many hopes on her

part of seeing me again before she left London, and with a good deal of

sadness on mine. When I turned back alone, I found even a tear hanging

upon my eye-lash. Her young, sweet, unshadowed hope was a great contrast

to mine, but that was not what made me sad; I liked Flora, she seemed to

connect me at once with the bright girlhood and young womanhood of

which, in my solitary life, I had known so little, and it grieved me to

think that for a long time, perhaps for ever, I might not see her again.

Natural likings and desires came upon me so strangely in that unnatural

position: I should have liked to go to Flora's marriage, to help her in

her preparations, to do all which young people, friends to each other,

delight to do on such occasions; and the thought that her mother now,

and, most likely, her husband hereafter, would rather discourage Flora's

affection for me, was rather a hard thought. As I turned my face

homeward, the peaceful evening light was falling into shadow over these

quiet houses; from the church there once again came that faint

inarticulate sound of music, solitary chords, struck at intervals,

vibrating through the lonely building, and through the harmonious quiet

of the air, and everything, except the passing ships, was at rest and at

home. I turned my wistful eyes to them, perpetual voyagers! my overladen

heart followed them as they glided out to the sea--distance, space,

blank, and void and far. I thought of the wilds of my own country, and

of the endless, breathless travel, the constant journey on and on to the

very end of the world, which my girlish fancies had thought upon so

often. It seemed for a moment as though that, and that only, could ease

the restless disquiet in my breast.

"Mrs. Southcote, I beg your pardon for interrupting you so abruptly,"

said our village doctor, coming up hastily to me, and perceiving how I

started at the sound of his voice recalling me to myself, "but did you

lose a ring to-day? My wife picked up this on the beach. It is yours, I

think."

I looked at him with blank dismay, though I did not look at the

glittering jewel in his hand; of course I knew at once that it was

mine--that it must be mine--and that malicious fate returned the curse

to me. It was no use trying to deny or disown this fatal gem. Malicious

fate! What words these were! I sickened at the passion and rebellious

force that still was in my heart.

"Yes," I said, almost with resentment; "yes, thank you, it is mine," but

I did not hold out my hand for it. The doctor looked amazed, almost

distrustful of me. I was not comprehensible to him.

"It seems of great value," he said, with a slight, half-indignant

emphasis; "and even in the village, I dare say, it might have fallen

into hands less safe than my wife's. The river would have made small

account of your diamond had the water come an inch or two higher. Ladies

are seldom so careless of their pretty things, Mrs. Southcote."

He was an old man, and had been very kind to me. I did not wish to

offend him now that I recollected myself. "It has very unpleasant

recollections to me, doctor," I said, as I put it on my finger; "I

almost was glad to think I had lost it: but I thank you very much for

taking the trouble, and will you thank Mrs. Lister for me; it was very

kind of her to pick it up."

The old doctor left me, more than ever bewildered as to my true

character and position. I heard afterwards from the rector's wife, who

was not above caricaturing and observing the village oddities, that he

went home to the little house, which had been cast into great excitement

half the day by finding this prize, completely dismayed by my

indifference. "I was almost glad to think I had lost it!" Who could I be

who thought so little of such a valuable ornament? The doctor and his

household could not understand what it meant.

As for me, when I left him, my impulse was to tear it from my finger,

and fling it with all my force into the middle of the river. To what

purpose? it would not be safe, I believed, even there. Wilful losing

would not do, as I had experienced already. With secret passion I

pressed it upon my finger, as if extra precautions to secure it might,

perhaps, answer my purpose. What a fiendish, malignant glare it had to

my excited eyes as I looked at it in the soft twilight: it seemed to

gather the lingering light into itself, and turn upon me with a glow of

defiance. When I reached home, where Alice had already lighted candles

and put our little parlor in order, I held it up to her as I entered. I

believe I was quite pale with fright and passion. "See, it has come back

to me," I said; "it will not be lost."

Alice was not so much dismayed as I was. "I feared it would be found,"

she said; "but patience, dear; there is but one heir to Cottiswoode, and

it's worn on a woman's hand."

I had to content myself, of course; but I scarcely liked to put up my

hand, with that ring upon it, to my neck, where hung my mother's

miniature. Alice's eye followed me, as I did it once, and her face

lighted up. "If the ring is the sign of strife, the picture is peace

itself, Miss Hester," she said with a faltering voice. I almost thought

so myself. How strange it was to wear these two things together!

THE FIFTH DAY.

My baby was very ill. He had been seized a week before, but we had not

apprehended anything. Now we were closely shut up in my bed-room, trying

to shield every breath of air from him; keeping up the fire though it

was only September, while I sat by the fireside holding him on my knee,

watching the changes of his face, his breathing, his movements, with

frightful anxiety, and reproaching myself, oh, so bitterly, for that one

last walk, which had brought this illness upon him. He had taken a

violent cold, and I could not but see, by the anxiety of the doctor, by

the gravity of Alice, and the pitying tender look which she cast upon

me, how they thought it would end. When I awoke from my security to

think of this, I dare not describe the misery that came upon me. Oh, I

had talked of misery and hopelessness before, but what were all the

griefs in the world to this one! To look at him, and think he might be

taken from me--to look upon those sweet features, which might be

by-and-by removed from my eyes for ever; oh, heaven, that agony! that

was the bitterness of death.

He had rallied two or three times and relapsed again, so that we were

even afraid to trust the appearance of recovery when such appeared, but

there was no sign of recovery now. It was just dawn, very early in the

morning, and we had been watching all night. I had made Alice lie down,

and baby was in a disturbed and painful slumber. As I sat watching him,

restraining my very breath lest it should make him uneasy as he lay upon

my lap, my eye wandered to the cold gray sky, over which the morning

light was flushing faintly, and it came to my mind how I had watched the

dawn upon this day twelvemonth, my wedding-day. The sweet serenity of

that morning came back to my recollection, the agitation of my own mind,

which, great as it was, was happy agitation still, and my trust, my hope

unbounded; my perfect confidence in Harry, my fearlessness of any

evil--yet, that was the beginning of sorrows; now the fear in my heart

shook the very foundations of the earth; if such a calamity came, there

was no light, no hope beyond it. I had come to love life for my baby's

sake, and even now I know I made a great painful effort to say I would

be resigned and content with God's will, whatever it--but I felt in my

heart that life would be only a loathing and disgust to me; oh, heaven

have pity upon me! What would I have in all the world if my baby were

taken away!

Every fleeting change that there was--every momentary alteration, I

wanted to have the doctor, or to call Alice, to ask what they thought

now. Then I remembered vaguely the name, the Great Physician--and that

however far others might be, he was near at all times; oh, if I only

could have got to his feet, as they did in Palestine in those blessed

days when He was there, if I could but have thrown myself on the earth

before him, and cried, "my child! my child!" I said, as in my prayer,

from my very despair, I caught boldness. I cried with my heart, till it

was bursting with that agony of asking,--praying for your child's life,

do you know what it is?

There was no difference, no difference! and the pallid light was growing

on the sky, and the first sounds of life began to break upon the

stillness; then I was stayed in my prayers as by an invisible hand. I

cannot tell how or why these words came to my mind, but they came with a

terrible force, making me silent, shutting my mouth in an instant: "If I

regard sin in my heart, the Lord will not hear me." I was appalled by

the sudden sentence; was there no hope, then? No hope? Did I not even

dare to appeal to Him who never before cast any applicant away?

I was struck dumb; I sat still in a breathless, hopeless pause of

dismay, my heart suddenly yielding to this dreary calamity. In a moment

there came upon me a fearful vision of what might be my life bereaved,

my hope lost. Heaven and the ear of God shut upon me; I knew what was

right, and I had not done it. I was self-convicted of wrong, but I did

not change my course. I was crying wildly to God for the blessing which

he alone could grant, but I was still regarding sin in my heart.

At this moment Alice woke and hastily rose; she saw no change in baby,

he was just the same, just the same; oh, these dreadful hopeless words!

But I consented she should take him upon her lap, and myself went

downstairs, though not to rest myself, as she said; I went with a faint

desperate hope that perhaps if I were absent a few minutes I might

perceive a favorable change when I returned. I went into the cold

deserted parlor, which already looked so uninhabited, so miserable, and

where baby's unused cradle stood in the chill morning light, reminding

me, if I had needed to be reminded, of the sweet days that were past,

and of the frightful shadow which was upon us now. I knelt down upon the

floor beside it. I did more than kneel; I bent down my very head upon

the ground. I could not find a position low enough, humble enough. I

tried to persuade myself that He was here indeed, that I was at His

feet, where the woman which was a sinner came; but my cry was balked and

my words stayed by that great unchangeable barrier; ah, the woman which

was a sinner was not then regarding sin in her heart.

I could not bear this intolerable oppression; my prayers and cries must

have outlet one way or another. I raised up my head, almost as if I was

addressing some mortal enemy who had whispered these words into my mind.

"I will go home--I will humble myself to my husband," I cried aloud. "I

do not care for pride--I will humble myself--I will humble myself!"

While I was speaking my tears came in a flood, my troubled brain was

lightened, and when I laid down my head again and covered my face with

my hands, I felt at least that I could pray.

I am not sure that I could have been five minutes absent altogether, but

when I went back I was sick with the eager breathless hope which had

risen in my mind. There was no ground for it; he was no better; but I

took him in my lap again with patience, trying to put the dreadful

shadow off from me. The dawn brightened into the full morning; then came

the dreadful noon with all its brightness; the doctor came and went; the

hours passed on, and the baby lived--that was all.

And now I could not pray any longer; my mind had sunk into a feverish

stupidity; I was alive to nothing but the looks of my child; yes, and to

one thing besides. I had a strange, helpless feeling of clinging to "the

Great Physician;" the name was in my mind, if nothing more; it was not

prayer, it was not faith; I could not say it was anything natural or

spiritual at all; I rather felt as if something held me, as if I were

clinging to a cord or to the skirts of a robe; as if I was only thus

prevented from plunging into some dreadful abyss of despair and ruin,

and my dumb, strange, almost stupid dependence was upon Him solely--only

upon Him.

I was waiting, waiting; I did not dare to say to myself that baby lay

more quietly; I dared not look up at Alice, or ask her what she thought;

but when the doctor came again it was nearly evening, and as I watched

his face my heart grew sick. Oh, yes, it was hope--hope! I scarcely

could bear it; and when the old man said real words--real true words,

not fancies, that he was a great deal better, I think I had very nearly

fainted.

But it was quite true; he improved gradually all that afternoon; he

began to look like himself again; rapidly as he had grown ill, he grew

better; I suppose it always is so with young children; and when I sat by

the fire in the evening with him, he put up his dear little hand again

to catch at my mother's miniature, as he had done before his illness.

"Oh, my darling, give God thanks," said Alice, as she sat on a stool by

me, not able to control her tears. I had, indeed, an unspeakable

thankfulness in my heart, but I could not give expression to it--words

would not come. "Lips say God be pitiful, that ne'er said God be

praised!" Is that true, I wonder; I was very, very grateful, but I could

not find words as I did in the agony of my prayers.

And now I returned to the resolution I had come to when baby fell

asleep. Oh, that sweet, hopeful sleep; it was delight enough to look at

it! I sat over the fire pondering on what I had to do. Then it occurred

to me how unjust I had been. This dear, precious child, without whom my

life would be a blank and hateful; this little creature, who had been to

me a fountain of every sweet and tender influence; who had made my days

joyful, burdened though they were,--was my husband's child, and by as

close and dear a tie as he was mine. I had no right to keep for myself,

and for my own enjoyment, this sweetest gift of Providence, which was

not bestowed on one of us more than another, but which was given to

both. If he had wronged me, he had not wronged his child; and I bowed my

head in shame to think how I had broken even my own rules of

justice--how I could restore my husband to his rights. Without being

conscious that this was still another salve to my own pride, I took up

eagerly this view of the matter. I would humble myself to say that I was

wrong--to return to Cottiswoode--to acknowledge how unjust I had been,

and to share with my husband the care of our child; and then, when my

heart ached with thinking that right and wrong were not the only things

to build household peace upon, imagination came in to charm me with

dreams of what he would do and say. How he would once more seek the

heart which once was given to him so freely; how he would come to my

feet again as he had done a year ago. Ah, this was our very

marriage-day!

I wondered how he was spending it--where--if he was all by himself at

Cottiswoode--perhaps in that library in the chair where I had placed

myself leaning upon the desk, where I leant the day I came away, perhaps

writing to me--surely thinking of me; yes, I did not think he could let

this day pass without wishing for me over again, and I wondered if I

could get home before his appeal should reach me, for already I could

imagine him writing a loving, anxious letter, full of the memories of

to-day.

What a strange difference! a pleasant excitement of plans and hopes was

busy in the mind which only this morning had been lost in such

despairing supplications. I think I had only risen the higher in the

rebound for the depth of suffering to which I fell before. The idea of

the journey, the return, the joyful surprise to my husband, the joy to

myself of perceiving his delight in little Harry, the satisfaction of

Alice, and my own content in being once more at home, and carrying with

me the heir of Cottiswoode, woke pleasure new and unaccustomed in my

heart. I did not question myself about it, I did not pause to think of

any humiliation, I permitted the tide of natural gladness to rise at its

own sweet will; I thought any degree of joy, and every degree, was

possible, when I had thus regained, from the very shadow of death, my

beautiful boy.

"I won't have you sit up to-night, Miss Hester," said Alice, who had

returned to sit beside me, and gaze at him, but who did not disturb my

thoughts; "you must lie down, darling; he'll have a good night, I'm

sure, and I'll sleep in the big chair, it's very comfortable; now, dear,

lie down, you're wearied out."

"No, indeed, I am not even tired," I said; "I want nothing but to sit

and look at him, Alice. Oh, is it not a delight to see him now?"

"Ay, dear," said Alice slowly and sadly; "ay, Miss Hester, especially

for them that have seen the like of him pass to heaven out of their own

arms."

I knew now what the griefs of Alice's life must have been. I, who had

often thought lightly of them in comparison with the griefs which I had

brought upon myself, I knew better now. I took her hand into my own, and

pressed it close, and kissed that dear, kind, careful hand.

"Don't, darling, don't," cried Alice, in a voice choked with tears; "Oh,

Miss Hester, have you given thanks to God?"

"I am very thankful, very thankful, Alice," said I kindly, and there was

another pause. "Alice, when do you think he would be able to travel?" I

asked at last; "perhaps a change might do him good, do you think so? how

soon do you think we could go?"

"Are we to go to another strange place, Miss Hester?" said Alice, with a

little dismay: "Dear, I think you should rather stay here; we're known

here now, and nobody takes particular note of us; but to see a young

lady like you with a baby, and all by yourself, makes people talk, and I

wouldn't go to a strange place, darling; it's very pleasant here."

"I did not think of going to a strange place, Alice," said I.

"Then you thought of Cambridge, Miss Hester," continued Alice, rapidly;

"for my part, I've no heart to go back to Cambridge, I'd rather go

anywhere than there; they'd say it was to vex Mr. Southcote you went;

they say a deal of malicious things, and everybody knows us there, and

it's a dreary house for you to go back to, dear; you'd be sure to feel

it so, even with baby. My darling, don't go there; I've come to like

this little place, we have it all to ourselves, and now it's like home."

"Then do you think there is no other home I have a right to, Alice?" I

asked. I felt very much cast down and humbled because she never seemed

to think of that. Perhaps, indeed, I _had_ no right to go back to the

home I had left.

"If you mean that, if you can think of that, Miss Hester," cried Alice,

in a tremulous voice.

"Should I not think of it? will he not permit me to live there again?"

said I, not without some pride, though with more sadness. "I suppose you

know my husband's purposes better than I do; Alice, it is a sad state of

matters; but I have been very wrong, and even though he should refuse to

admit me, I must go; I have been very unjust to him; my baby belongs as

much to him as to me. I have deprived my husband of his rights, and now

I must restore them to him."

"I do not understand you, Miss Hester," said Alice, looking almost

frightened.

"Baby has a father as well as a mother, Alice," I repeated; "and I am

wronging my husband. I know he has seen little Harry, but he ought to be

able to see him every day as I do. I have no right to keep my darling

all to myself; he belongs to his father as much as to me, so I have made

a vow to go home."

"Only because it is right, Miss Hester?" asked Alice.

"Do you think anything else would conquer me?" I cried, keeping back my

tears with an effort. "I could die by myself without murmuring. I don't

ask to be happy, as people call it; but I will not do him injustice--he

has a right to his child."

After this petulant speech, which, indeed, excited and unsettled as I

was by the sudden idea that my husband might not desire to receive me, I

could not restrain, I settled myself in my chair, and half from pure

wilfulness, half because my mind was so much occupied that I had no

great inclination to rest, I made Alice lie down, and continued in the

chair myself. Hushed and nestling close to my breast, Baby slept so

sweet a sleep that it was a delight to see him; and my thoughts were

free to speculate on my plans. Could it be possible that bringing his

son, his heir, with me--or, indeed, coming myself in any guise--I would

be unwelcome at Cottiswoode? The thought was overwhelming. I was almost

seized again with the same dreadful spasm of heartache and weakness

which had attacked me on the day of Baby's birth. Was it possible--was

it complete alienation, and not mere separation?--had I estranged his

heart entirely from me? More than that, the fiend began to whisper--it

was all deception--it was all a generous impulse; he never did love me

at all--he was only anxious to restore to me my lost inheritance, to

make up to me for all he had deprived me of.

I tried to fly from the evil suggestion; I put up my hand to feel for

my mother's miniature, as if it could help me. This hurried, anxious

motion awoke Baby. Oh, I was well punished. He cried a great deal, and

woke up thoroughly, and his crying brought on a coughing fit. It was

nearly an hour before we had composed and lulled him to sleep, for Alice

had started up instantly on hearing his voice. All my terrors were

roused by this, though it was rather a little infantine temper and

fretfulness than anything else. I fancied I had brought it all upon

myself; I trembled with a superstitious dread before the wise, and kind,

and pitiful Providence which guided me, as if my own constant

transgressions were being followed by a strict eye, and quick

retribution. Oh, pity, pity!--what was justice to such as me? and what

would become of me who dared to judge others, if God dealt with myself

only as I deserved?

Then I made up my mind firmly and steadily once more, however I was

received there, to go to Cottiswoode, and if my husband did not object,

to remain there, that neither of us might lose our child. One wild

impulse of giving up my baby to him, and fleeing myself to the end of

the earth, was too dreadful to be more than momentary. No, I would go to

Cottiswoode; I would tell him that I had wronged him--I would offer him

all the justice it was in my power to give. It was now past midnight,

and baby was once more fast asleep. Alice was sleeping--everything was

perfectly still, except the faint crackling of the fire. Once or twice I

had already dropped asleep myself for a few moments, when there was no

urgent claim upon my attention, carrying my restless thoughts into

dreams as restless. Now I suppose I must have fallen into the deep

slumber of exhaustion, holding my baby fast in my arms, for I remember

no more of that day.

And that was how I spent the first anniversary of my bridal day.

THE SIXTH DAY.

It was now late in September, a true autumnal day, just such a day as

one of those which had carried us joyfully over foreign rivers and

highways a year ago, when Alice and I made our final preparations and

set out on our journey home. The owner of the house--the widow lady, had

returned on the previous evening, and she was very well satisfied with

the rent I paid her in place of the "notice" to which she was entitled.

Baby was perfectly well, I think even stronger and more beautiful than

ever; and though I trembled with nervous excitement, anticipating this

new step I was about to take, I was tolerably composed, considering

everything that was involved. It was very early, I think not much after

six o'clock, when we sat down at our homely breakfast-table. I with baby

on my lap, fully equipped and well wrapped up for his journey, and Alice

with an odd variety of little parcels about her, and far too much

agitated to take anything now, though she had carefully provided herself

with a basket of "refreshments" to present me withal upon the way. The

sunshine slanted with its golden gleam upon the river, and the

half-awakened houses on the water's edge. There were no ships, but only

a vacant pleasure-boat, flapping its loose sail idly on the morning

wind, and rocking on the rising water as the morning tide came in upon

the beach. The air was slightly chill and fresh, as it only is at that

hour, and the sun, slanting down upon house after house, shining upon

curtained windows and closed doors, seemed calling almost with a playful

mocking upon the sleepers. Our little bustle and commotion, the

excitement in our pale faces, and the eventful journey before us, though

they were not unsuitable for the opening of a common laborious day,

bore yet a strange contrast to _this_ charmed house, which was almost as

sweet and full of peace as the evening. I stood by the window for a

moment, looked out wistfully on the landscape which had grown so

familiar to my eyes--how sweet it was! how the water rose and glistened,

dilating with the full tide! I suppose we have all picture-galleries of

our own, almost surpassing, with their ideal truth, the accomplished

works of art; and I know that there is no more vivid scene in mine than

that morning landscape on the Thames.

We had but one trunk when we came, but baby's overflowing wardrobe, and

that pretty cradle of his which it had cost us so much trouble to pack,

added considerably to our encumbrances; but I was glad to think Alice

was not quite so helpless now as when I hurried her, stunned and

frightened, away from the peaceful home which she had never left before.

It was so strange to go over these rooms, and think it was for the last

time; these little humble rooms, where so much had happened to us, where

baby had been born!

Stranger still it was to find ourselves travelling, rushing away from

our quiet habitation and our banished life. Then, London--Alice was upon

terms of moderate acquaintanceship with London now, she had been here

all by herself to provide baby's pretty dresses; so that this was now

her third time of visiting it. I was very anxious to lose no time, for

there was a long drive between the railway and Cottiswoode, and I wished

to arrive before night. In spite of myself new and pleasant emotions

fluttered within me, uncertain as I was how my husband would receive me;

painful as it was, on many accounts, to ask him to admit me once more to

my proper place. I still could not help contriving, with a mother's

anxious vanity, and with a deeper feeling than that, that baby should

look well, and not be fretful or tired when his father, for the first

time, saw him in my arms--so we scarcely waited at all in London. My

heart began to beat more wildly when we were once more seated in the

railway carriage, and proceeding on our way to Cambridge; for a little

while I was speechless with the tumult of agitation into which I fell.

Was it real, possible? unasked and uncalled for--was I going home?

We had arranged to stop at a little town where we were quite unknown,

and where we were sure to be able to get a chaise to Cottiswoode; I do

not think half-a-dozen words passed between us while we dashed along

through this peaceful country at express speed; baby slept nearly all

the way, the motion overpowered him, and I was very thankful that he

made so little claim upon my attention; when he did wake up we were

nearly at the station, and Alice took him and held him up at the window.

When he was out of my arms, I bowed down my head into my hands and

cried, and tried to pray; how my heart was beating! I scarcely saw

anything about me, and the din of opening and shutting the carriage

doors, the porter shrieking the name of the station, and the bustle of

alighting, came to me like sounds in a dream. I stirred myself

mechanically and gathered up our parcels, while Alice carefully

descended from the carriage bearing baby in her arms. Alice, with

careful forethought, considered my dignity in this matter, and for

myself I was not displeased at this moment to be relieved from the

charge of my child.

How pretty he looked, holding up his sweet little face, looking round

him with those bright eyes of his!--even in my pre-occupation I heard

passing countrywomen point him out to each other; my heart swelled when

I thought of taking him home, and placing him in his father's arms.

Alas, alas! that father, how would he look at me?

We had come to a very small town, scarcely more than a village, save for

one good inn in it; it had once been on the high-road to London, but the

railway had made sad failure of its pretensions. Here, however, we did

not find it difficult to get a post-chaise, and I made Alice take some

refreshments while we waited for it; I could not take anything myself; I

could not rest nor sit still; I took baby in my arms, and paced about

the long, large, deserted room we were waiting in. Alice did not say

anything to me, and as soon as she could, she got little Harry from me

again; I was very impatient; I could not understand why they took so

long to get ready. It was now nearly two o'clock, but they told me they

could drive in two hours to Cottiswoode.

At last we set off. I gave up baby entirely to Alice; I sat with my hand

upon the open window looking intently out; I do not think I changed my

position once during that entire two hours. My eyes devoured the way as

we drove on; my sole impulse all the time was, to watch how fast we

went, to see how we drew nearer step by step and mile by mile, my own

country! I leant out my head once and drew in a long breath of that

wide, free air, coming full and fresh upon us from the far horizon. It

seemed to be years instead of months since I had last been here.

When we began to draw very near, when once more we passed Cottisbourne

and the Rectory, and made a circuit to reach the entrance of the avenue,

my heart beat so fast that I could scarcely breathe; I held out my arms

silently to Alice, and she placed baby within them; I held him very

close to me for an instant, and bent over him to gain courage; oh! my

beautiful, innocent, fearless baby!--nothing knew he of wrong or

punishment, of a guilty conscience or a doubtful welcome. He lay looking

up in my face smiling, as if to give me courage; but his smile did not

give me courage. I must indeed compose and collect myself; or instead of

telling my husband that I came to do him justice, I would make a mere

appeal to his pity with my weakness and my tears; and that was what,

even now, I could not do.

Down that noble avenue under the elm trees; and now we drew up at the

door of Cottiswoode. I trembled exceedingly as I descended the steps,

though I maintained an outer appearance of firmness. Mr. Southcote was

not at home, the man said, gazing at me in astonishment; I was struck

with utter dismay by this; I had never calculated on such a chance. I

turned round to Alice with stunned and stupid perplexity to ask what we

were to do.

But there was a rush from the hall, and the housekeeper and Amy and

another woman-servant came forward, the younger ones hanging on the

skirts of Mrs. Templeton: "Master will be home immediately, ma'am,"

cried the housekeeper; "it's a new boy, he don't know who he's

a-speaking to. Please to let me take the dear baby; oh, what a darling

it is! and such rejoicings as we had when we heard of its being a son

and heir. Master's but gone to the Rectory. I'll send off the chaise.

Dear heart, Alice, show the way; my lady likes none so well as you."

I went in faintly. I would not give up my boy to any one of them. I had

not a word or a look for the kind, eager women who followed me with

anxious eyes. I would not even go into the drawing-room, but turned

hastily to the library. When I sat down at last in his chair, I felt as

if a few moments would have overpowered me. I was here at home, under

the kindly roof where I had been born, holding the heir of Cottiswoode

in my arms, waiting for my husband; but my heart was dumb and faint with

dismay, and I scarcely knew what I expected as I sat motionless before

his table, looking at the materials and the scene of his daily

occupations. I could not see a thing there which suggested a single

thought of me. No--the desk on which I had laid my note was removed,

modern books and papers lay on the table; I could almost fancy he had

studiously removed everything which could remind him that I once was

here.

My heart sank, my courage gradually ebbed away from me; but baby began

to stir and murmur, he was not content to sit so quietly; and I was

obliged to rise and walk about with him, though my limbs trembled under

me. Then, indeed, could it be in recollection of me? I saw a little

table placed as mine had used to be in the little windowed recess where

I had spent so much of my time when I was a girl, and on it a little

vase with roses, those sweet pale roses from my favorite tree. I

remembered in a moment how this room had looked on the autumn night when

Edgar Southcote first came to Cottiswoode. Could this be in remembrance

of that, and of me?

I cannot tell how long I walked about with baby, acquiring some degree

of composure amid my agitation, as my trial was delayed, though I was

faint, exhausted, and weary in frame more than I could have fancied

possible. I heard the chaise rumble heavily away, and the noise of

carrying our luggage up-stairs. I thought I could detect a whispering

sound in the next room, as if Alice was being questioned; and in the

large lofty house, with its wide staircases and passages, so different

from the little refuge we had been lately accustomed to, the opening and

closing of distant doors, and steps coming and going, echoed upon my

heart. Once Alice entered to beg that she might have baby, while behind

came the housekeeper entreating, with tears in her eyes, that I would

take something. It cost me a great effort to ask them to leave me, for

my lips were parched and dry, and I scarcely could speak; and they had

given me a great shock, little as they intended, for I thought it was my

husband when I heard some one at the door.

So thus I continued walking about the room, doing what I could to amuse

baby. I had neither removed my bonnet nor relieved him of his

out-of-doors dress, but it almost seemed as though my sweet little

darling knew that to cry would aggravate my distress--how good he was!

springing and crowing in my arms, encumbered as he was.

At last I saw a shadow cross the window--my heart fluttered, bounded,

was still, as I thought, for a moment--and then my husband was in the

room.

I could not speak at first, my lips were so dry. I came to a sudden

standstill in the middle of the room, gazing blankly at him, and holding

up the child. I saw nothing but astonishment in his face at my first

glance; he came rapidly towards me, crying, "Hester! Hester!" but that

was all--he never bade me welcome home.

"I have been very wrong," I said, at last; "I have done you great

injustice. I have prided myself on doing right, and yet I have been

wrong in everything. I have come back to you to humble myself--he

belongs to you as much as to me--he is your son, and I have been unjust

and cruel in keeping him away from you; will you let me stay here, that

we may both have our boy?"

When I began to speak of wrong and of injustice, he turned away with an

impatient gesture and exclamation, but, by this time, had returned and

was standing by me, listening, with his head bent, his eyes cast down,

and a smile of some bitterness upon his mouth. When I stopped, he looked

up at me--strange!--he looked at me--not at my baby--not at his child!

"You have come to do me justice," he said.

What did he mean? the tone was new to me, I did not comprehend. I said,

"Yes," humbly. I was overpowered with exhaustion, and could scarcely

stand, but I suppose he thought me quite composed.

"This house is yours, Hester," he said, with some emphasis: "it is

unjust, since that is to be the word, to ask me such a question. You

have come to do me justice, to restore to me some of my rights. I thank

you, Hester--though I warned you once that I should not be satisfied,

with justice," he continued hurriedly, once more turning away from me,

and making a few rapid strides through the room.

I should have been so relieved if I durst have cried; I was so worn

out--so much weakened by fatigue and excitement; but I only stood still

in my passive mechanical way, able to do no more than to hold baby fast

lest he should leap out of my arms.

In a minute after he came back again and stood by me, but not looking at

me, leaning his hand on the table, as if he were preparing to say

something; for myself, I was exhausted beyond the power of making

speeches, or reasoning or explaining, or carrying on any sort of

warfare; I was reduced to the barest simplicity; I put out my hand and

touched his arm; "Will you not take him?" I said, holding out baby;

"Edgar, he is your son."

He glanced at me a moment with the strangest mingling of emotions in his

face. After that glance I no longer thought him cold and calm; but then

he suddenly snatched baby from me, and kissed and caressed him till I

feared he would frighten the child; but he was not frightened, though he

was only an infant, my bold, beautiful boy! For myself, I sank into the

nearest chair, and let my tired arms fall by my side. I almost felt as

if I had not strength enough to rise again, and a dull disappointment

was in my heart; was it only to be justice after all? Oh, if he would

but come back to me; if he would but forget his dignity, and my right

and wrong, and make one more appeal to my true self, to my heart, which

yearned for something more than justice! But he did not; oh, and I knew

in my heart he was very right; it was I who ought to be thoroughly

humbled, it was I who ought to appeal to him; but I was different in my

notions now; instinctively I looked for pity, pity, nothing better; and

almost hoped that he would remember I was weak and fatigued, a woman,

and the mother of his child.

By and by he returned, carrying baby fondly in his arms, his face

flushed with undoubted delight and joy. As he drew nearer to me he

became graver, and asked me suddenly, "Why did you call me Edgar,

Hester?"

"Because it is your proper name," I said.

I felt that he looked at me anxiously to discover my meaning, but I had

not energy enough to raise my head to give him a clearer insight into

what I thought. Then I fancied he gradually came to some understanding

of what I meant. I never addressed him by any name since our coming

home. I would not. I could not call him Harry, and I had so little

desire to make peace or to establish any convenient or natural

intercourse, that I never tried to adopt the name by which I had always

designated my cousin. Now, matters were different; I wanted to begin

upon a new foundation; I wanted to put all the past, its dream of

happiness and its nightmare of misery, alike out of my mind,--and this

was why I called him Edgar, not unkindly, rather with a sad effort at

friendship. I think he partly understood me before he spoke again.

"Yes, it is my proper name, but so was the other; and the child? you

have called your boy?"

"Harry," I said, in a faltering tone.

He must have known it, but his eye flashed brightly from baby to me,

once more with a gleam of delight. "Hester," he said, bending over me as

he placed my child in my arms again; "when you call me once more by that

name, I will know that I have regained my bride."

I bowed my head, partly in assent, partly to conceal the tears which

stole out from under my eyelids even when I closed them. I enclosed my

child in my arms, but I sat still. I had scarcely power or heart enough

to raise myself from that chair.

"Are you ill, Hester?" he asked, anxiously.

"No, only very tired," I said faintly. His lip quivered. I did not know

how it was that the simplest common words seemed to move him so. He ran

to the door of the room and called Alice, who was not far distant, to

take baby, and then he offered me his arm very gently and kindly, and

led me upstairs.

Mrs. Templeton, the housekeeper, stood without, waiting. "Mrs. Southcote

has not taken a thing since she came, sir," she said in an aggrieved

tone; "please to tell her, sir, it's very wrong; it's not fit for a

young lady, and nursing the darling baby herself, too."

"Mrs. Southcote is fatigued," said my husband, kindly, sheltering me

from this good woman's importunities. "Will you have something sent

upstairs, or shall you be able to come down to dinner, Hester? Nay, not

for me," he added, lowering his voice, "I will be sufficiently happy to

know you are at home; and you are sadly worn out, I see. Little Harry

has been too much for you, Hester."

"Oh, no, I have him always," I said quickly. Alice was carrying him

upstairs before us, and he laughed and crowed to me from her arms. When

I tried to make some answer to his baby signals, I saw his father look

at me with strange tenderness. His father, yes; and I was leaning as I

had not leant since the first month of our marriage upon my husband's

arm.

Every face I saw was full of suppressed jubilee; they were almost afraid

to show their joy openly, knowing that I--and, indeed, I suspect both of

us--were too proud to accept of public sympathy either in our variance

or our reconciliation, if reconciliation it was. The face of Alice was

the most wondering, and the least joyous of all--she could not quite

understand what this return was, or what it portended; she did not

accept it as her uninstructed neighbors did, merely as a runaway wife

coming home, asking pardon and having forgiveness; and though her eyes

shone with sudden brightness when she saw my husband supporting me, and

some appearance of conversation between us, she was still perplexed and

far from satisfied. My husband left me when we reached my room, and I

gladly loosed off my bonnet and mantle, and laid myself down upon the

sofa. It was evening again, and the sunshine was coming full in at the

west window; the jessamine boughs were hanging half across it with their

white stars, and the rich foliage beyond, just touched with the first

tints of autumn, rose into the beautiful sky above. My own familiar

room, where Alice's pretty muslin draperies had been, and where, a year

ago, my husband had decked a bower for his unthankful bride. I saw all

its graceful appointments now in strange contrast with the small white

dimity bedroom in which I awoke this morning. How pleasant, I thought,

_that_ little house when first we went to it! What an agreeable relief

from the etiquettes and services of this statelier dwelling-place! I had

become accustomed to the ways and manners of our homely life by this

time, and the charm of novelty was gone from them. I found a greater

charm on this particular evening, in looking about, while I lay

overpowered with the languor of weariness on my sofa, upon the costly

and graceful articles round me in "my lady's chamber." The second change

was quite as pleasant as the first.

"So this is Cottiswoode, Alice," I said, in a half reverie, "and we are

at home."

"Oh, never to leave it again, Miss Hester--never to leave it till God

calls," cried Alice, anxiously. "I don't ask for a word, not a word,

more than you're ready to give; but, tell me, you've made up your mind

to that, dear, and I'm content?"

"I will never go away of my own will--no, happy or unhappy, it is right

I should be here," I said. "Does that satisfy you, Alice?"

"Miss Hester, I'd rather hear less of right and more of kindly wish and

will," said Alice, with most unlooked-for petulance. "You oughtn't to be

unhappy--God has never sent it, and it's time enough when He sends to

seek grief."

I looked at her with a little astonishment, but took no notice of her

momentary impatience--I had given her cause enough, one time and

another; and now Amy came in with a tray, and something that Mrs.

Templeton was sure I would like, and another maid came with her to light

a fire for the comfort of Master Harry. When the fire began to blaze,

Alice undressed him, while I partook--and I was almost ashamed to feel,

with some appetite--of the housekeeper's good things. Then I had a low

easy chair drawn to the chimney corner, and a footstool, and had my baby

back again. I think he looked even prettier in his nightgown and close

cap, for his evening refreshment. The dormant ambition to have him

admired, sprung up very strongly within me; and I think but that poor

little Harry was very hungry and sleepy, I would have summoned courage

to send him down stairs, as Alice suggested, to bid his papa good-night.

"What did they all say of him, Alice?" I asked.

"What could they say, dear?" said the impartial and candid Alice,

appealing to my honor; "Mrs. Templeton thought he was the sweetest

little angel that ever was born; and as for the maids!--it's like

bringing light into a house to bring a baby, Miss Hester. Blessings on

his dear, sweet face! and he's the heir of Cottiswoode."

"Did any one say who he was like?" I asked, timidly. This was a question

I had never attempted to settle even in my own mind; though, like every

other mother, I saw mind, and intelligence, and expression in the sweet

little features, I never could make out any resemblance--I could not

persuade myself that he was like his father.

"Well, he's very like the Southcotes, dear," said Alice, pronouncing an

unhesitating yet ambiguous judgment; "there's a deal about his little

mouth and his eyes; and, Miss Hester, dear, what did his papa think of

him?"

"I think he was very glad, Alice," I said, with a sigh. Why were we so

far from what we should be?--why, why could we not discuss the beauty of

our child as other young fathers and mothers did? I only had seen the

joy in Edgar's face--he had not said a word to me on this subject,

though it was the only subject in which there could be no pain.

After baby was laid to sleep in the cradle, I sat still by the fireside,

musing by myself, while Alice went down stairs. I was left alone for a

long time quite without interruption, but I did not make use of the

interval as I might have done, to form my plans for our new life. I

could not project anything; a fit of ease and idleness had come upon

me--wandering, disconnected fancies rather than thoughts, were in my

mind; the exhaustion of the day had worn me out, and I was resting,

reposing almost, more completely than if I had been asleep.

I almost thought that he would have come upstairs to see me once more

and look at baby's sleep. I thought he ought to have come, for I was a

stranger here. And my heart beat when I heard the step of Alice corning

along the great roomy corridor--but it was only Alice; and when she had

set candles upon the table, she came to me with the look of a

petitioner--"Dear heart, the Squire's all by himself; won't you go down

and sit an hour, Miss Hester?--maybe he thinks he must not come here."

I rose when Alice spoke to me, without once thinking of disobeying her.

I was glad to be told to do it, though I scarcely should have moved of

my own will. I was still in the very plain dress in which I had

travelled, which was, indeed, the only kind of dress which I had worn

since leaving Cottiswoode, with my mother's miniature at my neck, and

that fatal hereditary ring upon my hand. I paused nervously before the

mirror a moment to see if my hair was in order. I looked pale, and

somewhat worn-out, I thought, and I wondered what he would think of my

wearied, thoughtful face, so unlike what it used to be. Alice would fain

have had me change my dress, which, indeed, was not very suitable for

Cottiswoode, but I would not do that to-night.

When I went into the drawing-room, he was sitting moodily by himself,

bending down with his arms upon the table, and his head resting upon

them. He started when he heard me, lifted a thoughtful, clouded face,

which made me think he had been fighting some battle with himself, and

rose hurriedly to place a chair for me. We sat opposite to each other

for a little time in awkward silence; a hundred things rushed to my

lips, but I had not courage to say them, and I waited vainly till he

should address me. At last I made a faint attempt at conversation; "What

did you think of baby?" I asked, scarcely above my breath.

"Think of him, think of him--opinion is out of the question," he cried

in great haste and eagerness, as if I had broken a charm of silence, and

set him free. "He is your baby and mine, Hester, there is nothing more

to be said. Let us understand each other," he continued, hurriedly

drawing his chair close to the table with nervous agitation; "are we to

endeavor to do our duty by each other--to live under the same roof, to

fulfil our relative duties as justice and right demand? Is this the

foundation we are to build upon, and is this all? Tell me, Hester, let

me know what it is."

"It is so, yes, I suppose so," I answered, faltering with confusion and

almost fear; for he was almost more excited now than I had ever seen

him. I could not have given any answer but assent. I could not, though

my heart had broken for it.

For a long time after that nothing was said between us. I saw that he

struggled and struggled vainly to subdue himself, and I, a strange new

task to me, tried to do what I could to soothe him. I spoke of baby,

told of his illness, of our journey; I seemed to myself another person,

and almost felt as if I were playing a part, while I made this desperate

attempt to get up a quiet conversation with my husband, while this whole

ocean of unsettled principles lay still between us--indifferent

conversation! for I tried to direct him to the books upon the table, but

I saw very well how little I made by my efforts, and how impossible it

was that he could fully control and master himself till I went away.

When I had stayed long enough--it was hard to remain, it was hard to go

away, I did not know which to choose--I went forward and held out my

hand to him to say good-night. He took it and detained it, and looked up

at me with again that doubtful impulse on his face; would he speak? No.

He grasped my hand closely again, and let it fall.

"I am poor company to-night, Hester, very poor company," he said,

turning hastily away; "but I thank you for your generous efforts, I will

be able to respond to them better to-morrow."

And though he rose and opened the door for me, and attended me with the

delicate respectfulness of old, that was all the good-night I received

from him. It cost me some tears when I reached the shelter of my own

room; yet my heart was strangely at ease, and would not be dismayed, and

when I took my baby to my breast and went to sleep, I gave God thanks

that we had come home.

THE SEVENTH DAY.

It was now October, and the weather was still very bright and pleasant.

I had become quite settled and established once more at Cottiswoode; had

resumed my former use and wont, and more than that, for though my life

was still sadly meagre and deficient in one point, it still _was_ life,

and that was something. I might no longer wander everywhere with my baby

in my arms, but I had elected the sweet-tempered and kind-hearted Amy to

be his maid, and he was growing a great boy now, and soon fatigued me;

though in our own rooms I kept possession of him still. But I had begun

with better understanding and more discreetness to help the poor people

at Cottisbourne. I had ceased to spend my days in a dream. I was active

and full of occupation. The nightmare had passed off from me, though

some of its influences remained.

For in the most vital point of all we made little progress; my husband

and I were no nearer each other, had come to no better understanding. I

studied his comfort now with the eagerest attention. I grew punctilious,

formal in my excess of care for him. I saw that he was served with

devotion and humility as a prince might have been. I could not forgive

any piece of neglect or forgetfulness in the household which touched

upon his comfort. I almost think he knew how anxious I was, and

attributed it--alas, were we never to know each other! to my extreme

desire to "do my duty," to do him justice. He was, and yet he was not

right in judging me so. I was shut out from all the ordinary modes of

showing my regard; we were on ceremonious terms with each other, and I

wanted to prove to him that whatever barriers there might be between us,

there was always affection. What do I say--I did not want to prove

anything--I only did all I could, eagerly, timidly, and with anxious

devotion, everything that I could for him. And he received them as my

father might have received my mother's regard to his comfort, as

kindnesses, things to thank me for, exertions of duty for which he was

obliged to me. Oh, how his thanks galled me! It sometimes was very hard

ado to keep my composure, to hide how my heart and my feelings were

wounded, or to keep the old bitterness from rushing back. In these days

I behaved better than he did; we had changed positions; it was he who

was restless, thoughtless, and self-reproachful now; it was he who

thought of being right, and adhering to his resolution. He had promised

not to molest me, to accept what I yielded to him, to leave it all in my

own hands--and he was keeping his word.

Immediately after our arrival at Cottiswoode I had written a very brief

note to Flora, telling her I was here, and begging her to come if mamma

would permit. I was almost anxious for the judgment of mamma. I did not

know how I should be received by the country ladies, who, doubtless, had

already sat in judgment on me--whether they had pronounced me without

the pale, or if my return had covered the sin of my flight. It was

nearly a week, and I had received no answer from Flora. I was somewhat

nervous about it. I did not feel that it would be at all agreeable to be

excommunicated by the little society which was the world at Cottiswoode;

and everything made me see more plainly how ill-advised and foolish I

was to go away. Even Miss Saville patronized me grimly with a tacit

disapprobation. It was not so much because I had done wrong, as because

I had exposed my own affairs, and thrown off the privacy which belongs

alike to family feuds and family happiness. I tried to persuade myself

that I never had cared for society,--and that was very true; but

rejecting society is a much easier thing than being rejected by it,--and

I by no means liked the latter alternative.

This morning, I was sitting by myself in the drawing-room. My husband

spent a great deal of time out of doors, and was seldom with me except

at table, and for a short time in the evening. Baby was out with Amy,

his maid. The external circumstances did not differ much from those in

which Flora Ennerdale found me last winter, on her first visit to

Cottiswoode; but there was, in reality, a great change. I no longer sat

in listless indolence, neither doing, nor caring to do anything. I was

working busily at some little frocks for baby. The flowers on my table

were no longer without interest to me. I was not ignorant now of the

management of the Cottiswoode School, and the wants of the old women at

Cottisbourne. I had begun to use all the natural and innocent means of

occupation that lay around me; and if I was not yet quite a Lady

Bountiful, I had already made my peace with the clamorous villagers, who

did not quite smile upon me at my first return.

I was singing softly to myself as I sat at work--not because my heart

was light--but Alice was not near me to talk to, and, truth to tell, I

no longer wished for too much commerce with my own thoughts. The sound

was a great deal more cheerful than the meaning was; but when I was thus

occupied, I heard the sound of some arrival, and immediately, not Flora

only, but Mrs. Ennerdale, were ushered into the room.

I was so much surprised that it made me nervous, especially as I was at

once enfolded in the wide, warm, odorous embrace of Mrs. Ennerdale:

here, at least, there was no lack of cordiality. I breathed more freely

when I emerged from under the shadow of her great shawl and ample

draperies, and Flora was so bright, so happy in what she supposed to be

my happiness, that my heart melted under the sunny gleam of kindred and

kindness. I was grateful to Mrs. Ennerdale for acknowledging my presence

in her own person. I was glad to be relieved thus from one phase of

anxiety; at least, thus far, I was not tutored.

"And how well you are looking!" cried Mrs. Ennerdale; "Flora told me you

were quite pale and thin when she saw you--ah, there's nothing like

native air, my dear--you've got quite a bloom--you look better than

ever I saw you look, though that is quite natural--where is baby?--not

asleep or out of doors, I hope. Do you know you ought not to let me see

him, for I shall begin to envy you immediately--I envy every woman I see

with a baby in her arms. Ah, my dear, it's the very happiest time of

your life."

I could very well understand how it should be so, and though I could not

help sighing, I liked Mrs. Ennerdale the better for what she had said.

"May I run and look for him, cousin Hester?" cried Flora, eagerly. "I

have been telling Mamma what a sweet baby he is, and I do so want to see

him again; oh, I see Alice in the garden; there he is, I will run and

bring him in myself to show Mamma."

"My dear, I wish you would tell Flora that she ought to be a little more

sober now," said Mrs. Ennerdale, appealing to me with motherly

consequence, and a look half of raillery, half of anxiety; "she will

mind you when she will not mind me, and she ought to be sober, and think

of what's before her now; do you not think so, Mrs. Southcote?"

"Oh, Mamma!" cried Flora, springing out from the window; we both looked

after her light, bounding figure as she ran across the lawn towards

Alice. "I know she told you all about it," said the good-humored Mrs.

Ennerdale; "don't you think she is too young to be married? to fancy

that such a child would even think of it! but indeed I've taken great

pains with Flora, and she is the eldest of the family, and knows a great

deal about housekeeping, and I really believe will make a very good

little wife; though marriage is a sad lottery, my dear," said the good

lady sympathetically, shaking her head and looking into my face.

I turned away my head, and felt my cheeks burn; first I was almost

disposed to resent this lottery as an insult, but nothing was further

from the thoughts of the speaker than any unkindness to me. It was the

first indication I had of what "sympathy" was in such a case as mine,

and it stung me bitterly.

"My dear," continued Mrs. Ennerdale, drawing close to me, laying her

hand upon my shoulder, and lowering her tone; "I am glad that Flora is

gone, just that I may say a word to you; I was grieved, of course all

your friends must have been, though I don't doubt you thought you had

good reason; but, dear, it's far best to make up your mind to

everything, and do your duty where Providence has placed you. We are

relations, you know, in a way, and you've no mother to advise you; if

you ever should have such a plan again, my dear, will you come and speak

to me about it? I'm no great wise woman, but I know what life is; will

you ask my opinion, dear?"

"But I never can, nor will, have such a plan again," I answered rapidly.

"That's all the better, my love, all the better," said Mrs. Ennerdale,

"but if you should, I'll rely upon your coming to me. Hush, here's

Flora, and is that baby? Now are you not proud of him? What a great boy!

What a true Southcote! I can't tell whether he's like his papa or you?

but I can see he's got the family face."

Mrs. Ennerdale bustled out from the window to meet the advancing

couple--Flora and little Harry--who, I think, without any vanity, would

indeed have made as pretty a picture as could be imagined. I lingered

behind a little to get over the pain and irritation of this first

probing of my wound. It was kindly done, and I might have looked for it;

but no one had ever ventured to speak to me in such a plain and

matter-of-fact way before, and I felt both shocked and wounded. My own

act it was, too, which had exposed me to this, which had made it

possible for any one to speak so to me! Well, well! there was baby and

Flora laughing, calling to me, inviting me. I smoothed my disturbed brow

as well as I could, and went out to them. I had no reason to be offended

with Mrs. Ennerdale, but I certainly was not grateful to her.

But her raptures were so real over my boy, her admiration so sincere and

so ample, that I was gradually mollified. She "knew about babies," too;

that experience which a young mother prizes so highly; and knowing about

them still pronounced my little Harry almost unrivalled--"almost like

what Gus was when he was a baby, Flo," said Mrs. Ennerdale, with a sweet

sigh, which I knew by instinctive sympathy was to the memory of some one

sweeter than all others, who was only a name now, even to the fond

remembrance of the mother. After that, I could remember no offence. I

began to tell her of little Harry's illness, to all the symptoms of

which she listened with profound attention; now and then suggesting

something, and wishing, with great fervor, that she had but been near at

hand. "And if anything should happen again, my dear," said Mrs.

Ennerdale, taking hold of my hand in her earnestness, "be sure you send

for me; send for me with as little hesitation as you send for the

doctor. I've nursed all my own through all their little troubles--all

but one--and I have experience. My dear, whatever hour it is, don't

hesitate to send for me!"

I promised most heartily and cordially; I forgot she had ever said a

word disagreeable to me; I only thought how kind she was, and how much

interested in my boy.

Yes, Mrs. Ennerdale had several motives for coming to see me; a lurking

kindness for myself, fond regard for Flora's wishes, a half intent to

lecture and warn, and establish herself as my prudent adviser; but,

above all, the crowning inducement was, baby; nothing either whole or

half grown up had anything like the same charm as a baby had to Mrs.

Ennerdale; she might have resisted all the other motives, but baby was

irresistible; and so she had fairly won over and vanquished me.

I made them stay till Edgar came in, and they had lunch with us; but my

husband, to my surprise, did not relax the state of his manners towards

me in their presence. I could see that both mother and daughter were

amazed at his elaborate politeness; he thanked me for everything I did

for him; he feared he gave me trouble; and Flora and Mrs. Ennerdale

glanced at us with troubled looks, as if to ask, "Is there still

something wrong; are you at variance still." My own heart sank within

me; I had scarcely been prepared for this; I thought, for my honor and

for his own, that he would have made an effort to be like himself

to-day.

"Flora ought not to be away from home; she ought not, indeed, at such a

time as this," said Mrs. Ennerdale, "but she wishes very much to stay

till to-morrow. Will you keep her, my dear? not if it is to

inconvenience you; but she says you would not let her come again when

you were,--ah!--in the country, and that you owe her an invitation now.

We have spoiled her. She is quite rude, asking for an invitation; but if

you like, my dear, I will leave her with you till to-morrow. She has a

great deal to tell you, she says."

"What, a great deal _more_, Flora?" I asked; "I will keep her very

gladly, longer than to-morrow, if you will let me, and I should like so

much to help if I could. Is there anything you can trust me with, Mrs.

Ennerdale?"

"My dear, you have plenty to do with your baby," said Mrs. Ennerdale,

conclusively. "What a beautiful present that was you gave her--far too

valuable, indeed; but her papa says he has seen your mamma wear it, and

she is so proud of being called like your mamma. Is that the miniature

you told me of? May I see it? Well, indeed, Flora, though it is a great

compliment to you, I do think there is a resemblance--ah, she was a

pretty creature; but of course you cannot recollect her, my dear?"

I said, "No," briefly, and there was a momentary pause, which, however,

Mrs. Ennerdale soon interrupted; she was very full of kind counsels to

me concerning my baby, and of motherly importance in her own person,

full of care and bustle as she was on the eve of the "first marriage in

the family." After luncheon, Mrs. Ennerdale went away, leaving strict

injunctions with Flora to be ready to return on the next day; my husband

returned to his own constant occupations, and I was left alone with my

sweet young cousin.

Flora made no investigations, asked no questions, yet even she looked

up wistfully into my eyes as she exclaimed, "How glad I am you are at

home--oh! are you not pleased, cousin Hester, to have baby at home?"

"Yes, Flora, very glad," I said, though I could not help sighing. She,

sweet simple heart, knew nothing of my troubles; she never could know

how far astray I had gone, nor what very poor compromise, in real truth,

was my position now.

"And you will come," Flora said, blushing all over her pretty face. "It

is to be in a month. You will be sure to come, cousin Hester? though I

am afraid you will think it noisy and a great bustle, for there are to

be a great many--six bridesmaids. Do you think it is wrong to be gay at

such a time?--but indeed I could not help it, cousin Hester?"

"And, indeed, I do not think it wrong, cousin Flora," said I, smiling at

her seriousness; "and I only wish I could do something to show how very

right I think it to do honor to a bride. Is there nothing you would like

yourself that Mamma is indifferent about? Not anything at all that I

could do for you, Flora?"

By dint of close questioning, it turned out that there were two or three

things which Flora had set her heart upon, and which Mamma was not

remarkably favorable to; and the result of our conference was, that I

was seized with a strong desire to drive to Cambridge immediately with

my young guest, and make some certain purchases. There was time enough

yet to do it, and Flora was in great delight at the proposal, which gave

me also no small degree of pleasure. After the usual fears that it was

troubling me, Flora ran up stairs very willingly to get ready, and I,

with a little tremor, knocked softly at the door of the library. My

husband was seated as usual at his table--busy, or seeming so. When I

entered he looked up, as he always did now when I went to him, with a

startled look of expectation. I told him we were going to Cambridge, but

hoped to be back in time for dinner. It always confused and disturbed

me, this look of his.

"And am I to go with you, Hester?" he said, rising with some alacrity.

"Oh, no!" I said, confused and hesitating, "I did not mean to trouble

you. I--of course, if you pleased, we would be very glad; but I only

wanted to tell you--I did not think----"

"Very well," he said, sitting down, and interrupting my tremulous

explanation. "I thank you for letting me know. Perhaps Mrs. Templeton

had better delay dinner to give you full time. I hope you will have a

pleasant drive. Ah, there is the carriage--you should lose no time,

Hester."

Thus dismissed, I hastened away--always, alas!--always bringing with me

when I left him a sore heart. Would he have been pleased to go?--should

I have asked him? How I tormented myself with these questions. If we had

been living in full mutual love and confidence, I would have said to

him, gaily--"We do not want you; this is quite a confidential woman's

expedition--a thing with which you have nothing to do;" but now I went

away pondering whether I should not spoil our little piece of impromptu

business, and making the drive and the afternoon alike miserable by

returning once more, and entreating him to go.

When we came to the hall door--Flora so bright and smiling, I so

careworn and disturbed--he was waiting to put us in the carriage; and my

heart rose again when he held my hand a moment, and asked if I was

sufficiently wrapped up. It was impossible to resist the influence of

the rapid motion, and of Flora's pleasant company. I recovered my

spirits in spite of myself. We had a very quick drive to Cambridge; a

round of calls at the principal shops, to the great satisfaction and

delight of Flora; and then it suddenly occurred to me that I would like

to see, if only for a moment, our old house.

But when we came to the door my heart failed me. I had never been there

since I left it after my father's death, and one glance at the familiar

place was enough to fill my eyes with tears, and to bring back the pang

of parting to my mind. It was now about a year since my father died. I

had not mourned for him with the heavy, lasting, languid sorrow that

wears out a mind at peace. I had mourned him with pangs of bitter grief,

with brief agonies, more severe but less permanent, and looking again at

this retired and quiet dwelling-place as associated with him, and from

which it was so impossible to believe him departed. I felt as if I had

been stricken down at the threshold and could not enter. It looked

something mysterious, awful, withdrawing thus in its perfect

stillness--the past was dwelling in that deserted place.

While I sat hesitating, gazing at the closed door, I saw Mr. Osborne's

familiar cap and gown approaching. I saw it was Mr. Osborne at the first

glance, and, yearning for the sight of a familiar face, I looked out

from the window, and almost beckoned to him. He came forward with a

ceremonious bow, and greeted me very statelily. But my heart was

touched, and in spite of this I began to tell him that I had intended to

alight but dared not. He saw the tears in my eyes, and his manner, too,

was softened. "No," he said, "you are quite right, you could not bear

it. I, myself, find it hard enough, passing by this familiar door."

He paused a moment, looked at me keenly and then said, "Will you take me

with you, Hester?--are you in haste?--I have an old engagement with

Harry--where are you going?--ah, then I will join you in half an hour,

and in the meantime don't stay here. There now, close the window. I will

tell them to drive on, and join you in half an hour."

When I found Mr. Osborne sitting opposite to me as we set out again

homeward, I cannot tell how strangely I felt. My cheeks were tingling

still with the name he had used--Harry--and I was overpowered with all

the recollections which his presence brought to me. The last time we had

been together in the same carriage was at my father's funeral, and all

the recollections of that most eventful time--my betrothal, my marriage,

my father's illness and death--came rushing back upon me in the sound

of his voice. I had hard ado to preserve my composure outwardly. I was

scarcely able to do more than introduce him to Flora, to whom he began

to talk with pleasure and surprise, as I thought, pleased with her for

her name's sake, though, in the twilight, he could scarcely see her

sweet face, and then I sank back into my corner, and gave all my

strength to subdue the tumult of memories and emotions which rose in my

mind. That I should be taking him home to Cottiswoode--that he should

still speak of my husband as Harry--that he should come to see my defeat

and anxious struggle to do my duty--how strange it was!

I remember that night as people remember a dream--our rapid progress

through the dark--the gleam of the carriage lamps--the sound of the

horses' feet--the conversation going on between Mr. Osborne and Flora,

and the long sigh of the wind over the bare expanse of country. We went

at a great rate, and reached home sooner than I expected. It looked so

home-like; so bright; so full of welcome; the hall-door wide open; the

warm light streaming out; and my husband standing on the threshold

waiting for us. Oh, if these were but real tokens, and not false

presentiments! It was bitter to see all this aspect of happiness, and to

know how little happiness there was.

My husband greeted Mr. Osborne with surprise and pleasure. Flora ran

up-stairs, and I went into the drawing-room with our new guest, though,

in my heart, I longed to be with baby, from whom I never had been so

long absent before. My husband came with us, though he and I scarcely

said anything to each other. I could see how Mr. Osborne's acute eye

watched what terms we were on. Then Edgar left us to make some

arrangements for our visitor's comfort, and my old friend turned his

full attention upon me.

I had taken off my mantle, and he saw the miniature at my neck. In a

kindly, fatherly fashion he caught the little chain with his finger, and

drew me nearer to him, and looked into my face. I could not meet his

eye. I drooped my head under his gaze, and, in spite of myself, the

tears came.

"Well, Hester," he said gently, and in his old kind, half-sarcastic

tone, "now that you have experience of it, what do you think of life?"

"It is very hard," said I, under my breath.

"Ay, that is the first lesson we all learn," he said; "have you not got

beyond this alphabet--is it only hard, and nothing more?"

I heard baby's voice outside. Alice was looking for me. I ran from him,

opened the door, took my beautiful boy out of the arms of Alice and

brought him in, and held him out to Mr. Osborne--his face brightened

into the pleasantest smiles I had ever seen upon it.

"Ah, this is your bitter lesson, is it, young mother?" he said, laying

his hand caressingly on my head, while he bent to look at my boy; "this

life is something more than hard which yields such blossoms, Hester--is

that what this famous argument of yours would say? and this irresistible

piece of logic is a boy, is he? God bless you, little man, and make you

the happiest of your race."

"I must go away, Mr. Osborne, baby wants me," said I.

"Yes, go away; I am quite contented, Hester," said Mr. Osborne, once

more patting my head; "go away, my dear child--you are going to cheat me

once more into entire approval, I can see."

I was pleased; yet I went away with a heavy heart, under my first flush

of gratification. I could not help remembering again and again what he

had said--it was easy to make misery, but who should mend it when it was

made!

Oh, my boy, my baby! what a disturbed and troubled heart you laid your

little head upon! but its wild and painful beating never woke or

startled you.

After dinner, when Flora and I were by ourselves in the drawing-room, we

had our parcels in and examined them once more--such quantities of

bright ribbons and pretty cotton frocks! Flora, though much delighted,

was not quite confident that she had been right--she was afraid mamma

would think it was a great shame to let cousin Hester put herself to all

this trouble, "and expense too," said Flora, looking doubtfully up at

me, "and all for my school-children at Ennerdale. I am so much afraid I

was very wrong to tell you of it, and what will mamma say?"

"Who can we get to make them, Flora?" said I.

"That is just what I was thinking of," said Flora, immediately diverted

from her self-reproaches; "Mamma's maid is a famous dressmaker, and I

can cut out things very well myself, and they might have a holiday and

meet in the schoolroom, and all of us work at them together; there is

Mary and Janna and Lettie from the hall, and our own Annie and Edie, and

myself; and oh, cousin Hester, would you come?"

"I should like to come," said I, "but what shall I do with baby? and I

am too old, Flora, for you and your bridesmaidens; I am more fit to stay

beside mamma."

Flora threw her arms round me caressingly, and a voice behind me said,

"Does Hester say she is old? Do not believe her, Miss Ennerdale, she is

a true girl at heart and nothing better--growing younger every

day--though you never were very mature nor experienced, Hester, I must

say that for you," and Mr. Osborne came forward very affectionately and

stood by my side.

My husband entered the room after him; had they been talking, I

wonder--talking of me? I could not tell, but I was learned now in all

the changes of his face, and I saw that something had excited him. All

this evening Mr. Osborne continued to speak of me so, in a tone of

fatherly affectionateness, praise, and blame, of which it was impossible

to say that one was kinder than the other. He told little simple stories

of my girlish days--things that I had forgotten long ago--which made

Flora laugh and clap her hands, but which embarrassed me dreadfully,

and brought tears of real distress to my eyes. What was my husband

thinking?--how did he receive all this? I scarcely dared lift my eyes to

him, and then Mr. Osborne touched upon the time of our wooing, and of

our marriage. What could he mean?--this could not be mere inadvertence.

I sat trembling, bending down my head over the work in my hand, my eyes

full of tears, afraid to move lest I should betray myself, and even

Flora grew grave and smiled no longer, while Mr. Osborne went on

unmoved. Oh, my husband, what was _he_ thinking? I was glad to say

faintly that I heard baby crying, and to escape from the room--it was

more than I could bear.

Baby was not crying, but sleeping sweetly in his pretty cradle. I bent

over him to get calmness and courage from his sleeping face. Alice was

sitting by the fire, covering a soft ball with scraps of bright-colored

cloth; just one of those occupations which give the last touch of

permanence and security to the appearance of home. It was for baby, of

course--he had already one or two toys of the simplest baby kind, and we

had been delighted to perceive the other day how he observed something

thrown up into the air like a ball. Alice looked up when I came to her,

and saw at once my disturbed face--she guessed what it was, though only

imperfectly--and she drew my chair into the corner, and made me sit down

and rest--"I thought it would be too much for you, Miss Hester," said

Alice, tenderly, "it brings back everything--I know it does--but it's

only the first, dear."

I was content to wait beside her, and recover myself; though all the

time my thoughts were busy downstairs, wondering what he might be saying

now; and I am not sure that I was not more eager to return than I had

been to make my escape. When I went back, I entered the room very

quietly, for I was considerably excited; and in my anxiety to appear

calm, overdid my part. My husband was seated nearer Mr. Osborne than he

had been, and was bending down with his arms resting upon his knees,

supporting his head in his hands, and gazing into the fire--while Mr.

Osborne talked after his lively fashion to Flora as if he was not aware

of having any other auditor--he was speaking when I came in.

"I flatter myself, I am Hester's oldest friend," he said, "and we have

quarrelled in our day. She had many disadvantages in her childhood. She

wanted a mother's hand; but I always did justice to her noble qualities.

Hester is--well, she is more my own child than any one else ever can be.

I feel as if I had found her again--and she is--"

"I am here, Mr. Osborne," cried I--"oh, don't, don't; you only humiliate

me when you praise me!"

For there was he sitting silent while I was commended, hearing about my

youth, and perhaps smiling at it bitterly in his heart. It struck me

down to the very dust to be commended before him; I would rather have

been blamed, for then the unconscious comparison which I always supposed

him making between what he knew and what he heard would have been less

to my disadvantage. Mr. Osborne did not know how his kind word and the

affectionate tone which even now touched my heart, and would have made

me very grateful under any other circumstances, wounded and abased me

now.

When I spoke, my husband raised his head, and threw a furtive glance at

me--what could he be thinking? I shrank before his eye, as if I had been

practising some guilty act, as if I had conspired with Mr. Osborne to

insinuate to him that he had not sufficient regard for me.

"_I_ praise you, Hester! did you ever hear me?" said Mr. Osborne,

smiling; "I was but telling Miss Ennerdale how you exhibited your baby

to-day; and your young cousin, Hester, is not to be moved out of the

opinion that your boy is the _beau-ideal_ of boys--my dear child," he

said, suddenly lowering his voice, and coming to take a seat beside me,

"she is very like your mother."

"Will you sing to Mr. Osborne, Flora?" said I. "I think she is very

like my mother, indeed, and she is very happy, and will be very happy;

there is no cloud coming to her."

He shook his head, but was silent, as Flora began to sing. My husband

took a book, but I know he did not read a word of it. He sat listening

as I did to some of those velvety drawing-room love-songs, which Flora

had purely because they were "the fashion," and some others of a better

kind, which the girl's own better taste had chosen. Mr. Osborne did not

admire them as I did. He shook his head again slightly, and said, "A

very good girl--a very good girl," as Flora's sweet young voice ran over

verse after verse to please him. "That is not like your mother, Hester,"

he said; but it was Mr. Osborne that was changed, it was not the music.

He had been no connoisseur in the old days.

When Flora closed the piano it was nearly time to go to rest--and I was

very glad to find it so. My husband and I were left last in the room

when our visitors had retired--and when I went to bid him good night, he

took my hand in both of his and put it to his forehead and his lips. I

was very much agitated--I faltered out, "Have you anything to say to

me?" I could find no other words, and he said, "No--no, nothing but good

night."

THE EIGHTH DAY.

Mr. Osborne was gone--Flora was gone--and we had relapsed into our

former quietness. The neighboring ladies called upon me, and I called

upon them in return; but I had no heart either to give or to accept

invitations, for our personal relations to each other were unchanged;

and though there was peace, entire dead peace, never broken by an

impatient word or a hasty exclamation, there was no comfort in this

gloomy house of ours. We were so courteous to each other, so afraid to

give trouble, so full of thanks for any little piece of service! To my

vehement temper strife itself was even better than this, and many times

I almost fled out of the house, hurried, at least as much as I could

_decorously_, to refresh my fevered mind in the fresh air, and ponder

over our position again and again.

Why did he not make an end of this?--but then the question would come,

why did not I make an end of it? I had come home to do him justice, but

he had warned me long beforehand that justice would not satisfy him, and

had promised solemnly to leave it all in my hands. Had I all the

responsibility?--what could I say?--what could I do?--and it was not

always easy to keep down a spark of the former bitterness, a momentary

resentment against him who would not step in to assist me, but who left

all the guilt and all the burden of this unnatural state upon me. For my

own part, I persuaded myself that I had done everything I could do--I

had made my submission--I had brought him justice;--what more could be

done by me?

Every time he made his thanks to me, I was on the point of breaking

forth in a passionate protest against being so addressed, but I know not

what failing of the heart prevented me. I never did it; I learned to

thank him myself after the same fashion, to try if that would sting him

into giving up this obnoxious practice. I could see it _did_ sting him,

but not so far as this; and we were still polite--oh, so dreadfully

courteous, grateful, indebted to each other!

Upon this day I had burst out after my usual fashion, in desperation,

able to bear no more. Had Mrs. Ennerdale or any other prudent adviser

been able to see into my heart, and to take me to task for it, I could

have given no proper reason for my perturbation. My husband had not been

unkind, but perfectly the reverse--he was considerate, careful,

attentive in the highest degree; I had no _reasonable_ cause to find

fault with him--but--I could not be patient to-day. I had suffered a

great deal, and permitted no sign of it to appear in my behavior. I had

tried to learn the true secret of wifely forbearance, mildness,

gentleness; but I was of an impetuous character by nature, and had never

been taught to rule or restrain myself. My endurance was worn out--it

was in my mind to make an appeal to him, to tell him he was

unjust--unjust!--here was I using the term again, when I had wished so

often that there was not such a word in the world.

I had my mantle on, and the hood drawn over my head. It was not unusual

for me to wander along this quiet country lane in such a simple dress,

for there were no passengers here, except the rectory people or

villagers from Cottisbourne, and I was close by home. It was late in the

afternoon the first day of November, and the weather was dark and

cloudy. My husband was in the library, where he always sat; baby was in

his cosy nursery up-stairs, in the careful hands of Alice. He, dear

little fellow, always wanted me, and I was never unhappy while with

him--but darkness and discontent had settled on me now. I realized to

myself vividly that gloomy picture of a household--two dull large rooms

closely adjoining each other, the young husband shut up in one, the wife

in another. Why was it?--he was the first to blame;--why did he fail to

yield me now what was due to a woman? Would it not have been generous

to take the explanation on himself, and disperse this dreadful stifling

mist which every day grew closer around us;--to say--"we have been

wrong; let us forget it all, and begin our life again." He ought to say

it--it was my part to wait for him, not he for me; he owed me this, as

the last and only reparation he could make for the first deceit which I

had forgiven. So I reasoned to myself as I wandered along this solitary

road; there was more resentment, more displeasure in my mind than there

had been for many a day. It was unnatural, it was shocking, the state of

things which now existed. I began to grow indignant at him for not doing

what it so clearly seemed his part to do. At this moment I saw Miss

Saville advancing very slowly and dully along the road. She was so

active and brisk a person at all times, that I was surprised to see the

heaviness of her look and face to-day. She came forward reluctantly, as

if every step she took added to her burden. Her mind was evidently

oppressed and ill at ease, for she looked round her on every side, and

started at trivial sounds as if in fear. When she saw me she suddenly

stopped, and a red color came to her face. She was not young, and had

never been at all pretty. I cannot call this a flush, but only a painful

burning red which came to her cheeks--shame, and distress, and fear. I

did not want to embarrass and distress her--I knew how much good lay

under her formality and her pretensions now.

"Do not let me disturb you," I said eagerly; "do not mind me at all,

pray, Miss Saville; I see you are engaged."

She waited till I came up to her, looking at me all the time. "I was

coming to seek you," she said; "where were you going, Mrs. Southcote?

are you at leisure? I have something to say to you."

"I was going nowhere," I said. "I am quite at your service--what is it?"

She looked at me again for a moment; "I can't tell you what it is--I

don't know--I want you to come with me to the rectory; but, my dear,"

she continued, her "sense of propriety" coming to her aid, even in the

midst of her agitation, "had you not better go back and get your bonnet?

it is not becoming to walk so far in such a dress."

"No one will see me," I said briefly; "but what am I to do at the

rectory--can you not tell me here?"

"It is not I, Mrs. Southcote," said Miss Saville, with suppressed

agitation; "I told you once before that we had trouble in our family,

and that there was one among us who gave great sorrow to William and me;

but you did not mind my story, for you were like other young people, and

thought no trouble so bad as your own. But my poor brother Richard is

back again here, and he has not improved his ways, and he is always

raving about you. He says he wants to see you. We won't let him go up to

Cottiswoode, for when he sees Mr. Southcote I know he constantly seeks

money from him, and we cannot bear that; so to pacify him, I promised to

come out to-day, and try to persuade you to come to the rectory with me.

Now, my dear, will you do it! You would not speak to him before, and I

could not blame you; but he speaks as if something lay upon his

conscience--oh, Mrs. Southcote, will you see him and hear what it is?"

"If you wish it, I will go," said I; "I do not want to hear anything he

has got to say myself; but if it will please you, Miss Saville--I know

you must have thought me very heartless once--if it pleases you, I will

go."

She said, "thank you, my dear," breathlessly, and hurried me on--though,

even now, not without a lament for my bonnet. As we came near, I saw

once more the face of the Rector peering out from the corner window.

Miss Saville saw it too, and burst into a hurried involuntary recital of

their troubles. "William is miserable!" she cried with excitement, "you

don't know what William is, all you people who look at the appearance,

and not at the heart--he is the best brother--the kindest friend!--and

now, when he had come to the station he was entitled to, and was in the

way of doing his duty and being respected as he deserves, here comes

Richard to wring our hearts and expose us to disgrace!--If we had money

to give him he would not stay long with us, but William would rather

sacrifice everything in the world than refuse a kind home to his

brother--and then he is taking care of him--and the rector's study

smelling of brandy and water, and bits of cigars upon his mantel-shelf

and his writing-table--and he as patient as an angel--oh, Mrs.

Southcote, it's very hard!"

As we entered at the trim gate, and went up through the orderly, neat

garden, where not a weed was to be seen, I could understand this small

aspect of Miss Saville's affliction, the ends of cigars, and the smell

of brandy and water, as well as her greater and sorer sorrow over the

fallen brother, who still was dear to her--but the idea of an interview

with him was not more agreeable on this account--I waited while she

hurriedly dried her eyes, and went in with her very reluctantly. What

could this man want with me! and all my old abhorrence of him returned

upon me as I prepared for this unpleasant meeting. He was the first

messenger of misfortune to us, and I had never tried to surmount my

first disgust and aversion to him.

The Rev. Mr. Saville's trim, snug study, was indeed sadly desecrated. He

himself, the good Rector, was coughing in the atmosphere of smoke which

hovered round the fire where Saville sat, with his legs upon a chair, in

insolent ease and luxury. There was no brandy and water visible, but the

heated look in the man's face, and the close, disagreeable air of the

room, was quite enough to justify what his sister said. I suppose it was

in the haste of her agitation that she ushered me immediately into the

room, where we did not seem to be expected, and where I scarcely could

breathe.

"You should not have brought Mrs. Southcote here, Martha," said the

Rector, who was no less stiff and formal than of old, though a painful

embarrassment mingled with elaborate courtesies; "this is not a fit

place for a lady; we will join you in the drawing-room, Martha."

"Any place will do to tell good news in," said Saville, withdrawing his

feet from the chair, and sitting erect. "Give the lady a seat, Martha,

and leave us. Glad to see you, Mrs. Southcote; glad to have an

opportunity of making my statement to you; had you heard it sooner it

might have saved you trouble. Now, good people, why are you waiting?

This piece of news does not concern you. William, take Martha away."

"Oh, don't leave me, Miss Saville," I said, retreating a little, and

grasping her hand.

"What, afraid!" said the man with a sneer; "you had more spirit when I

saw you first, young lady; but as this that I have to say to you," he

continued, gravely, "is of the greatest importance to your family, I

leave it with yourself to judge whether it would not be best to keep it

for your ears alone."

What could it be? I looked earnestly at him and he at me. I was no

coward; and here, when I had only dislike, and no other feeling which

could betray me, I was brave enough after the first moment. I turned to

the Rector and Miss Saville, who stood behind, half-frightened,

half-displeased, and full of anxious curiosity. "Pray leave us, as he

says," said I. "If it is anything worth your hearing, I will tell you

what it is; but in the meantime he will not speak till you are gone."