The Rector made a bow to me, and withdrew slowly, much agitated, and

very nervous, as I could see. Miss Saville went more reluctantly. "It

was a very strange thing to turn the Rector out of his own study for a

secret conference," she muttered, as she went away. Saville

laughed--"Though it will be worth their hearing, I'll warrant you do not

tell them a word of it," he said, with the same coarse insinuation of

something wrong or untruthful, which I remembered so well on that first

day when he came to Cottiswoode. "They are very curious, the fools!--as

if they had anything to do with it. Now, Mrs. Southcote, of Cottiswoode,

are you ready to hear me?"

I had drawn my chair away to the window, out of reach of his smoky

atmosphere and his immediate presence--an artifice at which he laughed

again. I bowed slightly in assent; and now he rose, and coming towards

me, stood leaning upon the corner of the recess which inclosed the

window, looking down into my face.

"I hear that my friend Edgar and you don't get on together," said the

man, with rude familiarity; "pity when such things arise in

families--and generally very bad policy, too. But, however, that can't

be helped in the present case. He's disposed to be master, I suppose;

and, after all, though you've humbled your pride to marry him, you've

not got Cottiswoode."

"If you wish only to insult me," I said, starting from my chair, "not

even for your good brother and sister's sake can I endure this wretched

impertinence. How do you dare to speak in such a tone to me?"

"I dare worse things than facing a pretty young lady," said Saville,

with his insolent laugh, "but that is not the question, and you shall

have none of my impertinence if you like it so little; but I thought you

were too honest to sham a reason for this marriage of yours: however, as

I have said, that is not the question. As for your family _happiness_,

every clown in the district knows what that is, as, of course, you are

aware. And if I had been you, I'd have stayed away, and not made a fool

of myself by coming back."

I said nothing. I felt my face burn, and there was an impulse of fury in

my heart--fury, blind wild rage, murderous passion. I could have struck

him down when he stood before me, with his odious sneer upon his face,

but I did not move. I compressed my lip and clasped my hands together

till the pressure was painful, but I made no other indication of how I

felt the insult of his words. Yes, this was justice--I acknowledged

it--my fitting punishment.

"Well, things being so," continued Saville, drawing a chair towards him

and sitting down upon it, after he had gazed at me maliciously to see

the effect of his words, and had been disappointed--"I think you are a

very fit client for me: Edgar has done me more than one shabby trick--I

give him up--I do as I am done by--that's my principle--and a very

honest one, I maintain; so if you choose to make it worth my while, I'll

put you in possession of all I know, and give you my zealous assistance

to recover your rights. These fools, here," he said, waving his hand

contemptuously to indicate his brother and his sister, "will tell you,

perhaps, what a dissipated fellow I am, in this wretched hole of a

place--give me excitement, and I don't care a straw how it's come by; I

owe Edgar Southcote a hard hit yet--and hang me, but he shall have it,

one way or another."

This speech awoke me at once out of anger, mortification, every personal

feeling; I no longer feared or hated him--I was roused to a cool and

keen observation, a self-possession and firmness which I did not know I

possessed. I felt the stirring of strength and spirit in me like a new

life. I was on the verge of a dangerous secret--a conspiracy--a plot

against Edgar! the fool! the fool! to betray his evil counsels to

Edgar's wife. My heart beat quicker, my courage rose; I was like one

inspired; a little caution, a little prudence, and I might save my

husband! How warmly the blood came to my heart.

I looked at him eagerly; I did not care to suppress the sparkle of

excitement in my eyes: I knew his evil imagination would interpret it

very differently from the truth; his evil intent and my own conscious

purpose gave me perfect confidence in addressing him, for he had no

perception of truth, or love, or honor, and would not suspect what lay

beneath my eager willingness to hear him now.

"There is some secret, then," said I--"what is it? what are the rights

that you will help me to regain? Such a startling speech makes me

anxious of course--what do you mean?"

"I suppose," said Saville, very slowly to pique my curiosity, "that

before you can be expected to put any dependence on me, I must tell you

my story: first, let me collect my evidences," and he took a pocket-book

from his pocket, and collected several papers out of it with great

care and deliberation, now and then glancing at me under his eye-brows

to see if I was impatient. I was not impatient--I watched him

keenly--coolly--not a movement or a glance escaped my notice; I was

Edgar's advocate, and I was watching his enemy.

"Mr. Brian Southcote," said Saville, going on slowly, and now and then

looking up at me as he sorted his papers, "was an extremely benevolent

person--so much so, that ill-natured people said he had no will of his

own, and that he did not care how wrong or how foolish anything was, so

long as it was generous; perhaps you object to such plain speaking when

your respectable relation is the subject," he said, stopping short with

a low bow.

"Pray, go on, go on," said I impatiently.

I suppose he thought now that he had tantalized and irritated me

sufficiently, for he proceeded at a less deliberate pace.

"It is said that his younger brother, Mr. Howard, had married the lady

to whom they were both attached, and lived in his father's house, in

possession of all the ordinary privileges of an heir, while the elder

brother was self-banished in Jamaica, on pretence of looking after an

estate, which he knew nothing about, and had not activity enough to have

done anything for, even if he had been informed. Now, Mrs. Southcote,

under these circumstances, your uncle being still a young man, of

course, married the first woman who made herself agreeable to him--and

this woman happened to be my cousin, the widow of a young naval officer,

a young penniless widow with one boy."

I started involuntarily--I could see already where the serpent was

winding--was this the secret?

"With one boy," he continued significantly, "called Harry Southern--you

see there is not much difference even in the name; this child, as I will

show you by a paper executed by your uncle some time before his

marriage, he had already chosen for his heir, directing that he should

take his name, and, after his death, be called Harry Southcote. It is

not to be supposed that after Mr. Southcote married Mrs. Southern, his

partiality for the boy should diminish, and this boy I have every reason

to suppose is your husband, whom, by politeness, I will still call Edgar

Southcote of Cottiswoode."

I was stunned for the moment--the story looked reasonable, true--it was

no exaggerated malicious lie coined on the spot. I looked up with dismay

into the hard exultation of this man's face, but when I caught his

cunning, evil eye, my heart revived.

"Had you always reason to suppose this?" I said, keeping my eyes fixed

upon him.

For a moment, only a moment, his confident glance fell. "Of course not,

of course not," he said, with a little bustle and swagger, which I could

see was to conceal some embarrassment. "When _I_ took steps in the

matter, you may be sure I thought I had got hold of the right person; it

is only lately that I have found my error out."

"And how did you find it out?" I asked perseveringly.

"Upon my word, young lady, you try a man's patience," cried my

respectable adviser--"I _did_ find it out--what concern have you with

the how? If you are disposed to take advantage of my information, it is

at your service--but I will not be badgered by the person for whose sole

benefit I have taken so much trouble. Will that convince you, look?"

He almost threw at me one of the papers in his hand--I lifted it up

mechanically--I was so sure what it would say from his description, that

I almost fancied I had read it before. It was a will, bequeathing all

the personal property of the writer to Harry Southern, the son of the

late George Southern, Lieutenant R.N., on condition of his assuming the

name of Southcote; I read it over twice, and it struck me strongly

enough, that after the first words of the bequest there was a

parenthesis, "(if he survives me)," which was repeated every time the

name of Harry Southern occurred. I held it out--holding it fast,

however--to Saville, and asked him what it meant.

"A mere point of law," he answered indifferently, "what could it be

else! Ladies, I know, never understand business; but these trifling

matters have nothing to do with the main question--you see very clearly

who this child was, there can be no mistake about that."

"I see nothing to identify him with Edgar Southcote," I said.

"You are sceptical," said Saville--"let me see if I can convince you

there are some papers which throw light upon the matter."

These papers were letters--three of them bearing dates very near each

other--all referring in terms of tender fondness to some little Harry;

the first was signed "Maria Southern," the other two "Maria Southcote,"

but little Harry had quite as much part in the former as in the latter,

and these documents were evidently true. I was greatly disturbed;--could

it be so? could it be so? Was my husband only the heir, and not the son

of Brian Southcote? The evidence was very startling to my unused and

ignorant eyes. I kept the papers closely in my hand, resolved not to

give them up again. I did not know what arguments to use to myself to

cast off this fear;--at last I cried abruptly--"If this was the case he

could not be like the Southcotes, he would be like your family--but he

is like Edgar the Scholar; I found out the resemblance at once."

"It is easy to find resemblances when your mind is turned to it," said

Saville. "Is he as like now?--and suppose he had been introduced to you

as Harry Southern, would you ever have cared to examine who he was

like?"

Harry Southern! the idea was intolerable. I started from my seat--I

could not bear it any longer. "I will think over this, and let you know

what I will do," I said hurriedly. "It is very startling news--I must

have some time to accustom myself to it, and then I will be able to tell

you what I can do."

"Be so good as to return me my papers then," said Saville; "by all means

think it over--it is no joke--you had best be prudent; but, in the

meantime, let me have my papers--they are my property, not yours."

"I will not give them back--they concern me too nearly," said I.

"Stay--if you try to take them I shall call your brother. I will not

endure your touch, sir;--stand back--these letters are Miss Saville's--I

will undertake that no harm shall happen to them, that you shall come to

no loss--but I will not give them back."

I did not move, but stood within the reach of his arm, fixing my eyes

full upon him as I spoke. He could not bear an honest gaze; he stared at

me with impotent fury, but he dared not resist me. I saw his terror at

the thought of summoning his brother, and how he lowered his voice and

drew back his hand at the very mention of the Rector's name.

"You are a bold young lady--but I like your spirit," he said, with a

scowl which belied his words. "Well, I consent that you shall keep the

papers--that is to say, I trust them to your honor;--shall I have your

decision to-morrow?"

"I cannot tell--I must have time," I said, growing nervous at last, and

drawing nearer the door; "have you ever mentioned this?--does Mr.

Southcote know?"

"You will not tell _him?_" cried Saville fiercely, starting and

following me, "you will not be so foolish as to show _him_ your hand

before the play begins? I knew women were fools in business, but I did

not expect this from you--from you, Mrs. Southcote! you do not mean to

pretend you are so loving and true a wife. No, I am not a likely person

to have mentioned it--I know my man too well; small evidence I should

have had, if it had ever come to his knowledge--I will not permit you to

risk my papers in Edgar South--in Harry Southern's hands."

As he advanced upon me, I retreated--as he grew vehement, I threw the

door open and walked hastily away--he followed me with great strides,

yet restrained by a strange cowardice which I knew how to take advantage

of--and when his sister suddenly appeared from the next room, he stopped

short, and threw a look of cowardly threatening, and yet entreaty upon

me. "Do not let him follow me," I whispered to her--but I knew they

would take care of that--and though I managed to leave the house at a

decorous pace, whenever I got into the lane I began to run. I had always

been swift-footed from a child--now I flew along the solitary lane,

scarcely feeling that I touched the ground, holding the papers close

under my mantle. When I came to Cottiswoode, flushed, and eager, and

breathless, I did not pause even to throw back my hood, but hastened to

the library. There was no one there--I hurried out disappointed, and

asked for Mr. Southcote. He had gone out some time ago, I was told, and

had left a message for me with Alice. I ran upstairs--the message was

that he was suddenly called to Cambridge, and could not expect to return

till late at night--and he hoped I would not think of waiting up for

him--it was sure to be very late when he came home.

I cannot tell, indeed, whether I was most relieved or disappointed to

hear this; though I think the latter--yet now, at least, I would have

time to think over this tale, to try if it was a fable, a monstrous

invention, or if it could be true. It was late, and I got little leisure

till baby was asleep, but when he was laid down to his rest, and Alice

left the room, I sat down by her little table and unfolded my papers. My

heart beat loud while I read them over--my fears sickened me. I had no

longer the presence of Saville before me, strengthening me in disbelief

and opposition. Alas, poor perverse fool! this was a fit conclusion to

all the misery I had made; this long year of troubles ever since my

marriage I had been bitterly and cruelly resenting the discovery that my

husband was Edgar Southcote--now how gladly would I have hailed, how

wildly rejoiced in, an assurance that he had indeed a title to that

name. The more I examined, the more I pondered, the more my fears grew

upon me. If Edgar was an unwitting, involuntary impostor--the thought

was terrible--and still more terrible it was to think that Cottiswoode

would then be _mine_. I thought I could have borne to leave a wrongful

inheritance with him, had it been pure loss to both of us; but that _I_

should be "righted" by his downfall--ah, that was a justice I had not

dreamed of! I could not rest--I wanted to do something immediately to

settle this question; but that it was so late, I think I would have

followed him to Cambridge--but that was not to be thought of now; so I

wandered up and down from the library to my own room, always returning

to the letters--and tried to conceal from myself how the hours went on,

and how the household was going to rest. I still hoped that I might have

gone to him at once on his return, and it was only when Alice, with a

sleepy face, came calling me to baby, that I yielded at last, and went

to bed, but not to sleep. Through all the dreary midnight hours after

that I lay still and listened, hearing every sound, and supposing a

hundred times over that I heard him return. Now and then I started up

after a few moments' sleep, and went to the door to look out and

listen--but there was still the dull light burning in the hall, the

silence in the house, the drowsy stir of the man who waited for his

master below--then my restlessness made my baby restless also, and I had

to occupy myself with him, and subdue my anxiety for his sake. It was a

dreary night; but I had nothing for it but to submit--lying still,

sleeping in snatches, dreaming, thinking--thoughts that ran into dreams,

and longing, as only watchers long, for the morning light.

THE NINTH DAY.

I was astir by dawn; but before even Alice came to me I was aware that

my husband had not returned. The sleepy light in the hall still burned

through the early morning darkness, and the watcher still stirred the

fire, which had not gone out all night. When I made sure of this I

hastened down to relieve the man from his uncomfortable vigil, and on my

way met Mrs. Templeton, newly roused, who began immediately to assure me

that "something very particular must have detained master--it was a

thing he had never done before all his life,--but she hoped I would not

be uneasy, for he'd be sure not to stay from home an hour longer than he

could help." I do not know how it was, but this speech of the

housekeeper's roused me into unreasonable anger. I was offended that any

one should suppose my husband's conduct wanted defence to me; or worse

still, that any one should presume to know him better than I did. I

answered briefly, that I was aware Mr. Southcote had business to detain

him, and hastened to my room to complete my dress. Almost unconsciously

to myself, I put on a dark, warm travelling dress; the morning was

brisk, frosty, and cheerful, and for the moment I was roused with the

stimulus of having something to do. Somehow, even his absence and the

long watch of the night did not dismay me--all at once it occurred to

me, not how miserable, but how _foolish_ our discords were; the ordinary

view--the common sense of the matter flashed upon me with a sudden

light. I blushed for myself, yet I was roused; half-a-dozen frank words

on either side, I suddenly thought, would set us right at once. I moved

about my room with a quickened step, a sentiment of freedom; Saville's

papers, my own fears, all the dismay and anxiety of the night, united,

I cannot tell how, to give an impulse of hearty and courageous

resistance to my mind. There was something to do; I forgot my own guilt

in the matter, and all the deeper feelings which were concerned. I

thought of it all with impatience, as I have sometimes thought of the

entanglements of a novel, which a spark of good sense would dispel in a

moment--I forgot--though I was about the last person in the world to

whom such a forgetfulness should have been possible--that good sense

could not restore love, nor heal the bitterness of wounded affection. I

determined for my own part not to lose a moment, not even to think it

over, but to go direct to my husband at once, and say those same

half-dozen sensible, frank, good-humored words which should put an end

to it all; strange enough, my mind never misgave me as to the result.

I breakfasted in tolerably good spirits. I made no account of the

anxious looks of Alice; I was occupied with thinking of everything we

could do, of the world of possibilities which lay before us, if we were

but right with one another; how I could have lulled myself into ease so

long, I cannot tell. I awoke out of it all with a start and cry when I

heard the great clock strike twelve, and looking out--out of my lonely

chamber window, out of my new dreams--saw the broad country lying under

the broad, full, truthful sunshine; the morning mists dispersed and

broken, and the day come to its noon.

Noon! my bright figments perished in a moment: he had not come home, he

had not written nor sent any message; had he forsaken me, as I forsook

him?

I got up from my seat at once, feeling nevertheless as if some one had

stunned me by a sudden blow. Though Alice was in the room, I did not

make her my messenger, as it was my custom to do, but rang the bell

myself, ordered the carriage instantly, and put on my bonnet. Alice came

to help me without saying anything; my fears caught double confirmation

from her silence. Something must have happened! she never asked where I

was going, nor if she should accompany me, yet helped me to get ready as

if I had told her all my thoughts.

"Where did he say he was to go?" I asked under my breath.

She told me; he had gone to a lawyer's in Cambridge, about some justice

business--nothing that could detain him; I said nothing more, except to

bid her be careful of baby, whom I had never before left so long as I

most likely should leave him now. Then I hastened away. The winter noon

was bright, the road crisp and white with frost, the air exhilarating

and joyous. I leaned forward at the carriage window, looking out

eagerly, if perhaps I might meet him returning; but the only person I

saw was Saville, his enemy, pacing up and down the lane between the

rectory and Cottiswoode, waiting, as I supposed, to see me. The sight of

this man brought my emotion to a climax. Any one who knows what anxiety

is, will readily know that I had already leaped the depths of a dozen

calamities--accident, illness, death itself--which might have happened

to my husband--and when it occurred to me now, that I might be going to

his sick-bed or his death-bed, with these papers which pretended to

prove that he was not what he seemed, folded into my hand, I scarcely

could bear the intolerable thought. I could not venture to anticipate

how he would receive me if downfall came to him. I had deprived myself

of all that generous joy of helping and lightening which might have

given a certain pleasure to a good wife even in her husband's

misfortune. I!--I dared not be generous to Edgar--dared not appear to

come closer to him in his humiliation, if humiliation there was. I went

on blindly in a kind of agony, scarcely venturing to think how I should

speak, or what I should do. If anything had happened to Edgar--any of

those physical misfortunes which people speak of, as calling forth the

disinterested and unselfish devotion of women, what could I do, who, all

these weary months, had been resenting so bitterly his disinterested

affection for me? And if Saville was right--if I, and not Edgar, was the

true heir after all, how would it become me to rejoice as any other

wife could have done, in the certainty that all that was mine, was his

as well. In a moment our positions were changed. I thought of my

husband--Edgar--Harry! as a poor man, having no title to anything save

through his wife. I thought of him solitary and in suffering, able to

make no exertion for himself, depending for all care and tenderness upon

me. Heaven help me! this was the recompense I had labored to secure for

myself; our positions were changed; and how could I dare to offer to him

the same love and benefits which I had rejected so bitterly when he

offered them to me?

Yet we still went on at full speed to Cambridge. When we came to our

destination I alighted breathlessly, half expecting to encounter him at

once, and without the faintest notion of what I was to say, or how to

account for my errand. But he was not there--he had left this house,

and, indeed, had left the town, early in the previous evening. I turned

away from the door, sick to the heart. I asked no more questions. I

would not betray my ignorance of his movements to strangers. He had left

Cambridge to go home, but he had not come--had he left me?--had

something happened to him?--what could I do?

And there stood Joseph at the carriage door asking where we were to go

next. How could I tell? When I recollected myself, I bade him go to our

old house, my father's house, and to drive slowly. I do not know why I

wished to go slowly--perhaps with some unreasonable idea of meeting

Edgar on the way.

When I reached the house this time, I alighted and went in; for the

first time since my father's death. That strange old, dreary, silent

house where dwelt the past--what had I to do there? I went wandering

about the rooms, up and down, in a kind of stupor, looking at everything

with dull curiosity,--noticing the decay of the furniture, and some

spots of damp on the walls, as if I had nothing more important on my

mind. I cannot account for the strange pause I made in my agony of

anxiety, fear, and bewilderment. I did not know what to do--I could not

even think--there seemed a physical necessity for standing still

somewhere, and recovering the power of myself.

I was in the library, looking round, seeing everything, yet only half

aware where I was--when I started almost with superstitious terror to

hear in the passage behind a well-known alert footstep, and the rustle

of Mr. Osborne's gown. He had seen the carriage at the door as he

passed--for he lived so near that he could not go anywhere without

passing this way--and came to me in haste when he heard I was here. He

came up anxiously, took my hand, and asked me what was the matter? I

looked ill, I suppose.

And my heart yearned to have somebody to trust to--the sound of his

voice restored me to myself. "I am in great trouble," I said; "have you

seen Edgar, Mr. Osborne?--is he here?"

"Here! it would indeed have been a strange place to find him."

"I do not mean in this house," said I, with a little impatience; "is he

in Cambridge? have you seen him?--I want to know where he is."

"It is a strange question, Hester, yet I am glad to hear you ask it,"

said Mr. Osborne; "I presume, now, you are both coming to your right

mind."

"No--soon I shall not care for anything, right or wrong," said I.

"Edgar--he is a man--he should have known better--he has gone away."

Then immediately I contradicted myself in my heart. He could not have

gone away! And yet--and yet!--"Where is he?" I cried. "I have to speak

to him: I have a great deal to say. Mr. Osborne!--he had better not do

what I did; he is not a fool like me; he was not brought up like me,

among ghosts in this house: he ought to know better than I!"

Mr. Osborne took my hand again, made me sit down, and tried to soothe

me. Then I told him of Edgar's absence. It was only one night; it was no

such great matter; he smiled at my terror. But, at the same time, he

bade me wait for him here, and went out to make inquiries. I remained

for some time alone in the house--alone, with recollections of my

father--of myself--of Harry--of all those young thoughts without wisdom,

hopes without fear! I started up with renewed impatience. I could not,

would not, suffer this unnatural folly to continue. Ah! it was very well

to say that; but what could I do?

When Mr. Osborne came back, he looked a little grave. I penetrated his

thoughts in a moment;--he thought some accident had befallen Edgar. He

advised me to go home immediately and see if there was any word--if I

did not hear before to-morrow he would come out and advise with me, he

said. So I went away again, alarmed, unsatisfied--reluctant that Mr.

Osborne should come, yet clinging to the idea, and full of the dreariest

anxiety to know what news there might be at home. As I drove along in

the twilight of the sharp winter night, I tried to settle upon what I

should do. Saville! If Edgar had left me, what could I do with this man?

for I made up my mind to destroy the papers, and that my husband should

never know of the doubt thrown upon him, if he had really gone away.

We were very near Cottisbourne on the Cambridge side, driving rapidly,

and it was now quite dark. The first sharp sparkles of light from the

village windows were just becoming visible along the dreary length of

road, and a few cold stars had come into the sky. My heart was beating

fast enough already, quickening with every step we advanced on the road

home, when some one shouted to us to stop. We did stop after a moment's

confused parley, in which I could only distinguish that it was the

Rector's name which induced the coachman to draw up. Mr. Saville! It was

his office to communicate calamities--to tell widows and orphans when a

sudden stroke made them desolate. A sudden horror overpowered me. I

leaned out of the window speechless, gazing into the darkness; and when

I saw the light of the carriage lamps falling upon the Rector's troubled

face, I waved my hand to him imperiously, almost fierce in my terror.

"Tell me!" I cried; "I can bear it. I can bear the very worst. Tell me!"

He drew near with a fluttered, agitated air, while I tried to open the

carriage door. With a sudden pang of joy and relief I saw that he did

not understand me--that he had no _worst_ to tell; but was holding back

by the arm the other Saville, the enemy of our house.

"Here! _I_ have something to tell you," cried this man, struggling

forward. "Do you call this keeping your word, young lady? What do you

mean by keeping my papers, and then running away?"

"Mr. Saville," I said, hastily appealing to the Rector, "I have nothing

to say to him yet. The papers are not his, but Miss Saville's. When I

have anything to say to him I will come to the Rectory. Just now I am

very anxious to get home. Oh, I beg of you, bid them drive home!"

"Don't do anything of the sort, William," said Saville. "Stop, you

fellow! So your precious husband's run away; I thought as much. Stop, do

you hear! I've something to say to the lady. Why, Mrs. Southcote, have

you forgotten the appointment you made with me to-day?"

"Is he mad?" cried I--for he had jumped upon the step, and stood peering

in at me through the open window. I was not frightened now, but I was

very angry. I shrank back to the other side of the carriage, disgusted

by his near vicinity, and called to Joseph. "No, ma'am, he's not mad,

he's only drunk," said Joseph. While they struggled together, the

coachman drove on again, and Saville was thrown to the ground. The poor

Rector! he stood by, looking on with dismay and fright and

horror--thinking of the disgrace, and of his "position," and of what

people would say; but the only way to save him as well as myself, was to

hasten on.

And there was Cottiswoode at last--the open door, the ruddy light; but

Edgar was not standing by to help me--my husband had not come home! I

had begun to hope that he had--I stepped into the hall with the heaviest

disappointment; I could have thrown myself down on the floor before the

servants in an agony of self-humiliation. It was all my own doing, he

had gone away.

Just then, Mrs. Templeton made her appearance in considerable state,

holding a letter. No doubt she, as well as myself, concluded what it

was--a leave-taking--a final explanation--such a wretched letter as I

had once left for him. "This came immediately you were gone, ma'am,"

said Mrs. Templeton, who looked as if she had been crying. "It ought to

have come last night; but I gave the fellow such a talking to as he

won't forget yet awhile. Please to remember, ma'am, it wasn't master's

fault."

I took no notice of this--my whole mind was on the letter. I hastened in

with it, without a word, and closed upon myself the door of the library.

With trembling hands I tore it open--after that I think I must have

fallen down on my knees in the extreme thankfulness which, finding no

words, tried to say by attitude and outward expression what it could not

say with the lips--for this was all that Edgar said:--

"MY DEAR HESTER,--I have met with an old friend unexpectedly, and

have engaged to go with him to look after some business of

importance. I am grieved to be absent without letting you know, and

I have no time now to explain. I shall endeavor to be home

to-morrow night. Affectionately,

"HARRY E. SOUTHCOTE."

I remained on my knees, holding by a chair, trembling, looking at the

name; did he always sign himself so? I--I knew nothing at all about my

husband;--since he was my husband I had never got a letter from him

before. Harry!--was he Harry and not Edgar to every one but me?

Then I sprang up in the quick revulsion and change of all my thoughts; I

ran out to call for Alice--to call for Mrs. Templeton--to make

preparations for his return, as if he had been years away. They were

all glad, but amazed, and did not understand me. No; I was far too

unreasonable for any one to understand. I was in wild, high spirits

now--singing to myself as I ran up-stairs for baby. I said to

myself--Life was coming--life was beginning--and that our old misery

should not go on longer--not for a day!

And then the evening stole on by gentle touches--growing late before I

knew. I went myself to see everything prepared: I watched the fires,

which would not keep at the climax point of brightness, but constantly

faded and had to be renewed again. I exhausted myself in assiduous

attention to all the lesser comforts which might refresh a traveller on

this wintry night. I went out to the avenue to see what a cheerful glow

the windows of the library threw out into the darkness; and within, it

was pleasant to see how the whole house warmed and brightened under my

unusual energy. The servants contemplated all this with evident surprise

and bewilderment. From Joseph, who came to tell me that he had seen

Saville safely housed in the Rectory, though with great trouble to the

Rector, who scarcely could keep his brother from following me to

Cottiswoode--and Mrs. Templeton, whose manners towards me all the day

had been very stately and disapproving--up to Alice, who never asked a

question, but looked on--a most anxious spectator--only able to veil her

interest by entire silence; every one watched me and wondered. I knew,

as if by intuition, how these lookers-on waited for the crisis of the

story which had progressed before their eyes so long. Yes, my pride had

need to have been humbled--it was I that had made of our household life

a drama of passion and misery for the amusement of this humble

audience--and I had my reward.

The evening grew late, but still no one came--I could not help growing

very anxious once more;--then, stirred into excitement by the sound of

some arrival, I was bitterly disappointed to see only Miss Saville,

coming, as anxious as I, though after a different fashion, to find out

if she could what the subject was, which had been discussed between her

brother and myself. I was grieved for her distress, but I could not

answer her--my own trouble was full occupation for me--and I said only,

"To-morrow, to-morrow!"--that to-morrow which, one way or other, would

be another era--a new time.

All this day I had avoided even looking at the papers which were

Saville's evidence against Edgar. I kept them safe as I might have kept

a loaded pistol, afraid of meddling with them. But after Miss Saville

left me, I did what I could to compose myself, and endeavored to examine

them again. When I read them I grew faint with the terror of ignorance.

I knew nothing about laws of evidence; and worse than that, I knew

nothing of my husband's early history, and could not tell whether there

might not be some other explanation of these letters. One thing in them

struck me with a gleam of hope; there was a strange scarcely explainable

shade of difference between the first letter and the other two. I could

not define it; but the impression left on my mind was, that the little

Harry of the former paper was a child a few years old, while the

expressions in the other letters were such as I myself used when

speaking of _my_ little Harry, and seemed to point so clearly to a baby

that I was quite puzzled and disconcerted. It was a woman's discovery--I

do not suppose any man would have observed it; but I did not at all know

what to do with it, after I had found it out.

I put them away again--I waited, waited, far into the night; I would not

be persuaded that it was near midnight, nor even permit the servants to

go to rest. I kept the whole household up, the whole house alight and

glowing. If he had been years instead of hours away, I could not have

made a greater preparation for him. At length, very late, or rather very

early, in the deep, cold gloom of the winter morning, about two o'clock,

I heard horses' hoofs ringing down the avenue. I heard the sound before

any one else did. I was at the door waiting when they came up--_they!_

for I saw with a momentary impulse of passionate anger and resentment

that my husband was not alone.

The person with him was a grave, plain, middle-aged man, whom I had

never seen before. Edgar sprang from his horse and came to me

quickly--came with an exclamation of surprise, a look half of pain, half

of pleasure; but began immediately to apologize and to thank me for

waiting till he came--thanks! I hastened in, I almost ran from him to

restrain myself; it seemed an insult, after all I had been thinking, all

I had been suffering, to meet my new-born humbleness with those thanks,

which always wounded me to the heart.

And then he brought in his companion to the bright room where I had been

trimming the fire, and spreading the table for _him_, meaning to open

all my mind and thoughts, to confess my sins against him, to make of

this once cold abiding-place a genial household hearth--he brought in

here the stranger whom I had never seen before. The new comer took the

very chair I had placed for Edgar, and spread out his hands over the

cheerful fire. I am afraid to say how I felt towards him, and how his

evident comfort and commonplace satisfaction excited me. They sat down

together to the table--they began to talk of their business, which I

knew nothing of. _I_ was rather an unexpected embarrassment to my

husband--he had no need then of _me_.

So I withdrew to my room, sick at heart--mortified, disappointed,

wounded--feeling all my efforts thrown away. I could have borne it

better, I think, but for the comfortable aspect of that stranger seated

in my husband's chair. I think I could have done him an injury with

satisfaction and pleasure. I felt a ludicrous grudge against him mingle

with my serious trouble. And this was how this strange day of trial,

hope, and resolution came to an end.

THE TENTH DAY.

I had been asleep--this was a privilege which seemed to belong to my

perfect health and vigor of frame--for even in the midst of my troubles

I could sleep. I woke up suddenly in the grey and feeble daylight of the

winter morning to remember, in a moment, everything that had occurred

last night. My own great vexation and disappointment were far enough off

now to bear a calmer contemplation, and I started up suddenly inspired

with the growing purpose in my heart. I could not see how it was to be

done, nor what my first step should be, but I felt, as if by an

inspiration, that somehow, however hard it was, the wall of division

between us must be broken down to-day.

I hastened my simple morning toilette, and went immediately down stairs.

Breakfast was on the table--breakfast! how strange, in the midst of

agitation and excitement like mine, seemed these common necessities of

life. And there was the same chair standing in the same position as I

had placed it for Edgar last night. Patience! but the recollection of

the stranger in the house came over me like a cold shadow--what if he

should come to interrupt us again?

I had Saville's papers in my hand, and was putting them away in a drawer

of the old carved cabinet which I had brought back to Cottiswoode from

Cambridge, when I heard the door open and some one come in. Some one! I

began to tremble so much that I scarcely could turn my head--but I knew

it was my husband--that he was alone--and that the crisis had come. He

came up to me at once, but with no apparent agitation to counterbalance

mine. Scarcely knowing what I did, I took the letters again from the

drawer, and stood waiting for him. Yes, he was a little excited--with

curiosity at least, if nothing more--he looked keenly at me and at the

papers which trembled in my hand--and I waited helplessly, unable to say

a word, my heart fluttering to my lips. He could not help but see the

extreme agitation which overpowered me.

"Hester," he said slowly, his own voice faltering a little, "I heard you

were seeking me yesterday in Cambridge."

"Yes"--

"Yes?--had you anything to say?--I heard you were disturbed and

anxious--I see you are troubled now--can I help you, Hester? It

distressed me greatly to leave home-without letting you know--but when

you hear the circumstances, I am sure you will pardon"--

"Edgar! never mind," I cried, unable to bear his explanation, "don't

speak of that--don't--oh, pray, don't speak to me like this to-day!"

I put up my hand--I almost grasped his arm--but he--he only went to

bring me a chair--to draw another for himself near me, and to take his

place there with what seemed a painful but serious preparation for some

renewal of our past contests. It was a significant action--we were to

treat--to discuss--even to advise with each other, after a solemn and

separate fashion; nothing violent or passionate was to come between us.

But I, who had neither calmness nor moderation to bring to this

interview, what was _I_ to do? So many words came rushing to my lips

that I could not find one reasonable enough and calm enough to say.

And glad to divert me from the personal subject, he took the initiative

again. He looked at the papers in my hand--"Is it some business matter

that troubles you, Hester--are these the cause of your distress?--will

you show them to me?"

"By and bye," I said, "after--afterwards--first I have something else to

say. Edgar! I want to tell you that I have been wrong all this time

since ever we were married. I want you to know that I feel I have been

wrong--very, very, miserably wrong. I want you to know; I cannot tell

how you feel now, nor what is to happen to us--but I have been wrong--I

want you to know."

A violent color came to his face, rising high to his very hair. He rose

up from his seat and went away from me the whole length of the room,

with hasty and agitated steps. As for me I rose also, and stood

trembling and breathless, looking after him. I could say nothing

more--my future was in his hands.

Then he came back trying to be calm and self-possessed. "Hester," he

said, "you told me the same when you came home, but I do not see any

difference it has made. We are no better than we were."

I was growing sick, sick to the very heart--but it was not in my nature

to throw myself at his feet. "Yes," I exclaimed, "but it is not my fault

now--it is not _my_ fault! Why do you leave everything to me?"

Once more he started, and made a desperate effort to be calm. He saw the

crisis had come as well as I did, and like me had no moderation, no

composure, to bring to it. He tried hard again to return to an

indifferent subject, to put the passion and the earnestness away. "I

will leave nothing to you, Hester, in which I can help you," he said,

with a voice which faltered in spite of himself; "Why do you agitate

yourself and me with these vain discussions? you know very well that I

shall thank you heartily for asking my assistance."

"Yes," I cried, "you thank me a great many times--you thank me

always--you make everything bitter to me by your gratitude. Thanks,

thanks! you should keep them for strangers. Why do you thank _me?_"

I had meant to humble myself--to the very dust if that was needful--and

now in bitterness, feeling my repentance rejected, I was only falling

into an angry despair instead,--but the two things were not so different

after all. He was roused at least,--at last--out of all further

possibility of self-control. He paced about the room, keeping himself

down, keeping back the words from his lips. Then he paused for an

instant before me. "I thank you because you are kind," he said abruptly;

"because--do you think I am so blind that I cannot see all the pains you

take for me? I know very well the efforts you make--am I wrong to thank

you for that?"

"Kind!" what a word! I echoed it sharply, with a positive cry of pain

and injury. I was _kind_ to him! It was come to that.

He turned upon me sharply, too; he also exclaimed with impatience. "What

can I say?--what would you have me to say? Other standing-ground seems

lost between us--how am I to speak to you? What do you want?"

I felt the air darkening round me as if I was about to faint; but, with

a great effort, recovered myself. "I want to speak to you," I said low

and quick, with a feeling that it was not I that spoke, but only my

voice. "I have not rested since you left home. I have been waiting for

you, longing for you, ever since you went away. I have something to say

to you, Edgar! No--Oh, Harry, Harry, Harry!" I cried, carried on far

before my thoughts by a passion not to be repressed, "it is not a

stranger I have come to. I want to consult my husband. I want _you_,

Harry,--you whom I have lost so long!"

I know he did not come to me at once, for the darkness gathered close,

and I threw out my arms to support myself in that terrible, blind,

falling faintness. I do not know what he did, nor what he said, nor how

long a time it was before I came to myself. When I came to myself I was

seated in his chair, trembling and shaken as if by some great

convulsion, with Harry at my side, chafing my hands and kneeling down to

look into my face. Was it all a dream? had we never been married? never

been parted? I could not tell. There was a ringing in my ears, and my

eyes were dim--I saw nothing but him, close by me, and not even him

distinctly, and what this new thing was, which had happened to us, I

could not tell.

At this time I do not think I even knew that his heart was melted as

well as mine; and whether our terrible life of separation was to end or

to continue, I did not ask and could not tell. For myself, I sat quite

still, trembling, exhausted, yet at ease, like one who has just passed

the crisis of a fever; and even when he spoke, I scarcely knew what

words he said.

I came to understand them at last--he was praising me in the quick

revulsion of his generous heart--he had been hard to win, hard to

move--he had shut himself up as obstinately as I did at first--and now

that it was all over, he was giving me the praise.

The praise! but I was humbled to the depths of my heart--I did not even

feel it a mockery--I went back to my old, natural humbleness, and gave

him all the merit for seeing any good in me. I bent my head before him

like a forgiven child. "Harry," I said, "Harry! is it all over?" When he

caught my look, wistful and beseeching as I know it was, Harry's

composure failed him as mine had done. He was as weak as I! as glad as

I! as little able to receive it quietly--for it was all over!--all over!

vanished like a dream.

"But you are right, Hester--I should not have left it to you--you have

punished me nobly!" cried Harry, "had I done what you have done now, it

might have been all over when you came home."

"This is best," I said, under my breath. I knew myself better than he

did--I was glad of it all now--glad of everything--glad that I had been

driven desperate, and compelled to put myself right at last. I kissed my

husband's hand humbly and thanked God. I had been very wrong--I had

nearly cast away my own life--nearly ruined his--nearly thrown aside the

best and holiest influences from my boy; but God had saved me again and

again on the very edge of the stream, and now I was delivered for ever.

Yes, I might fall into other follies, other sins; but at once and for

ever I was delivered from the power of this.

But as I withdrew my hand from Harry's I remembered Saville's papers

which were crushed together in my grasp; I started with an exclamation

of pain when I saw them. Personal misfortune falling on her lover may

do very well to awake into action the shy affections of a girl--but I

could not bear to be supposed generous to my husband--I trembled lest he

should think so; a violent heat and color came to my face--I shut my

hand again with an instinct of concealment. Another time! another time

would surely do--I dared not disturb our new-found happiness so soon.

But Harry saw my sudden confusion, pain, and embarrassment. He took my

hand again half anxiously, half playfully. "What are these?--what were

you going to consult me about--must I not be your adviser now, Hester?"

he said with a smile. I put them away out of my hand upon the table with

momentary terror. "Not now," I said eagerly, "not now; I got them from

your enemy, Saville, _that_ man--do not look at them now."

His face darkened, his brow knit--once more, once more! it was such a

look as women love to see upon the faces of their husbands, but it made

him for the moment like my father as I had once fancied him before.

"So!" he said, "he has fulfilled his threat--the miserable rascal! he

thought to involve my wife in it. Hester, is it because of these papers

that you have come to me to-day?"

"Oh, no, no--do not think it!" I cried, anxiously. "I am not escaped

long enough from my own delusions to have no fear of them; do not fancy

it was any secondary motive--do not, Harry! I could not bear the life we

were living; and whenever I really had to speak to you, all that was

lying in my heart burst forth. It was so, indeed;--do not take up my sin

where I leave it, Harry; do not suspect me--oh, we have had enough of

that!"

The tears were shining in his kind eyes I could see--he looked as he

used to look in the brief charmed days before our marriage;--no, better

than that--for through sorrow, and bitterness, and estrangement--strange

lessons!--I knew him now, as then I had no chance to know him. "Do not

fear, Hester," he said; "I am not afraid of your generosity. I told you

long ago I could bear to be pitied--the only thing I could not bear was

_justice_;--and so long as what you give me is not barely my 'rights,' I

will permit you to be as generous as even _your_ nature can be. Now,

Hester, at last may I speak of that long ago--that day when I came to

Cottiswoode? and of the brave girl who brought me here, and her bit of

briony? Not yet?--do you say not yet?"

"Harry, there are graver matters first," I said; "there is a plot

against you--they want to say--_he_ wants to say--that--that--you are

only Brian Southcote's _heir_--you are not his son. I suppose he thought

it would give me pleasure;--he told me--it is horrible! that Cottiswoode

would be _mine_. Harry! think, if this should be true, what a frightful

punishment to me! I should never have believed it for a moment, had it

not looked so just a penalty for all my sins against you. Tell me,

Harry--say it is impossible that such a fatal mistake should be."

The color rose upon my husband's face, and he raised his head with an

involuntary gesture of pride and defiance. It _was_ a Southcote face! I

could not be mistaken--all around were the portraits of our race, and I

read them with a quick inspection as my anxious eye glanced from him for

a moment. He was not like Edgar the Scholar now--my Harry could never

have planned a demon's revenge upon unborn children--he was not like any

one of them perhaps--but in his face I saw, as in a glass, reflections,

momentary glances, of all the pictured faces round us. And when I turned

to gaze upon himself again, once more I was overwhelmed with that shadow

of my father in his resolute expression. Oh, monstrous invention!--how

could any one have found all these shadowy likenesses in the face of a

stranger?

"Hester," he said gravely, "when Saville came to me last winter with

some vague threats of his power to prove me an impostor, I almost wished

at first that I could have yielded to him, and so restored to you the

rights you were born to. But a man must be very wretched and debased

indeed, when he can make up his mind to deprive himself of his name. Do

you remember that you forbade me telling you what he had come to say? I

carefully went over then, both by myself and with my lawyer, the proofs

which were thought conclusive at a former time. I found no reason to

doubt them, Hester--there was neither break nor weakness in the chain.

You look at me doubtfully, wistfully--what do you wish me to say?"

"That you are quite sure--quite sure," I said, "I am speaking folly, I

know--but that you remember your father--that you are sure you are my

uncle Brian's son."

"That is easily done--I am quite sure," he said with perfect calmness;

"but now, Hester, let me know what the fiction is. What does the fellow

call me? I do not think his imagination is very brilliant--let me see."

He took the papers--smoothed them out, and read them--at first with

interest, then, as I thought, with surprise and amazement. "What does it

mean?" he exclaimed, at last, turning to me; "I suppose you have the

interpretation, Hester. What is all this about my poor little

brother?--what does it mean?"

I made no answer, but only looked closely at him. As he caught my eye,

the color flushed to his face and he started up. "Do you mean to say

that he tries to identify me with my mother's eldest son?" he cried,

with considerable excitement; "is this the story?--and her own

letters--how are they pressed into the service?--is this what you have

heard, Hester? Why do you not speak?--this is what you have heard!"

"Yes," I said, under my breath, feeling something like a culprit under

his eye.

And Harry began to stride about the room, in considerable excitement,

muttering words which I am afraid were not very commendatory to Saville.

"The rascal!--the villain!--and only to deceive her--only to make my

wife a party against me?" he exclaimed, as he paced through the

apartment--then gradually subduing himself he came back and resumed his

place by my side.

"If it were not that the results of his scheming have blessed me beyond

my hopes, I am afraid I should lack power to restrain myself," he said,

"and all the more because this invention could only have been to deceive

_you_, Hester, for it could not stand a moment's examination. I see what

his abominable purpose was--to show to the world husband and wife

contending with each other over this disputed inheritance. He must have

trusted to your ignorance of the world--to your own truthful and open

nature, which was beyond suspicion--and, good Heavens, Hester, think of

it! to your hatred of me."

To the very depths of my heart I was humiliated; it was a palpable fraud

then, a trick, which could only have been tried upon a credulous fool, a

woman, or a child. My last eminence sank beneath my feet; I had no

longer even discrimination enough to judge between the false and the

true.

"Harry," I said faltering, "it may be only that I cannot bear you to

think me so foolish: but I think indeed it might have deceived even a

wiser person than I. I was prepared to think it a lie, but it looked

very like truth, Harry; indeed it is difficult to consent to it that I

have been so very _easily_ deceived."

"Ah, Hester, it all comes of our past circumstances," said my husband,

"you were deceived because you did not know my story; shall I tell it to

you now?"

I said "yes," eagerly--then my eye caught the forsaken breakfast table,

the poor kettle subsided into noiseless quietness, all its cheerful

boiling over. "But you have had no breakfast!" I exclaimed. How Harry

laughed, how his face shone, and the tears came to his eyes! Strange

that it was always some simplest word that moved him most. He threw the

papers down, and caught me in his kind arms, and rejoiced over me. These

common things put him in mind of what had happened to us, of the life

that lay before us now, the union that began to-day.

And when I began to arrange the breakfast once more, to put the kettle

on the fire, and ring for hot coffee, and arrange his neglected meal for

him, he sat looking at me, not caring to do anything else, I

thought--and it was strange what a pleasure I found in these housewifely

matters. I believe when one comes to the very truth, when youth and its

first romances are over, that there is no such pleasure for a woman as

in these little domestic services, which are natural to her. How gladly

and lightly I went about them! and my heart was full. I could not be

content without the third little member of our family; I ran up-stairs

and brought down in my arms our beautiful boy. I think we were happy

enough at that moment to make up for a whole year's trouble; and when

Amy came into the room for baby, some time after, I saw her joyous,

astonished glance from one to another, for Harry was dancing his son in

his arms, and I was standing close by looking on, talking and clapping

my hands to him. Amy did not like to be inquisitive or "unmannerly," but

in the simplicity of her heart she gave me such a wistful, questioning,

delighted look when I put baby into her arms. Poor Amy! involuntarily I

patted her stout shoulder with my hand as she went away, and I knew very

well she went immediately to tell her tale of a new era to Alice--I saw

it in her face.

And then Harry gathered up these scattered papers and drew my arm within

his, and led me to the library. How strangely this room was connected

with the principal events in my life! We went to the pretty recessed

corner where my hours of girlish study used to be spent, and there my

husband told me, for the first time, the story of his young life.

"I remember that I could once recollect my father, Hester," he said;

"but I think that is all. My mother I remember well enough; and I have

the most perfect recollection of the stone in memory of Brian Southcote,

to which she used to lead me; and the little grave close by, where I

have seen her prostrate herself in passionate sorrow, and where my

little brother, Harry Southern, lay. This little brother fills up a

great part of my earliest memory. He was a blight and shadow upon my

life, though I was full of vague, childish sympathy and admiration for

him. He had died just before my mother's second marriage, and when I was

born I was named after him, and my mother's greatest desire seemed to be

to make me a sort of shadow of her best-beloved child. I recollect quite

well her frequent exclamation: 'Your father calls you Edgar, but you are

Harry to me--always Harry to me--not my lost Harry, but, at least, his

name--oh! I cannot give up his name.' I suppose I was precocious, as

lonely children are so often; and I do not think I was quite satisfied

even then to be only the reflection of another. However, that time was

followed by a dismal one of friendlessness and solitude. And then a

sailor brother of the Savilles came by chance with his ship to Jamaica.

My poor mother had been in regular correspondence with her cousin, Miss

Saville, and the brother was commissioned to find me out. I came home to

England with him. All that my father had left in Jamaica had got into

very uncertain hands by that time; and, though the amount sounded well,

it was, I am afraid, only a fabulous inheritance; and I was a very poor

child, indeed, when our good Rector here, then a poor curate, took me in

and gave me shelter. I owed everything to their kindness, Hester. They

were humble people, and I had 'no claim upon them,' as people say; but

they were angels of charity to me.

"A year or two after I came to England, the attorney brother came down

from London to visit them. He was not then what he is now: he was

unscrupulous, and not very respectable, perhaps, but he had a good deal

of acuteness, and was prudent enough to restrain his evil appetites. In

mere idleness, at first, he began investigating who I belonged to, as he

called it. There had been a rumor in the family that my poor mother had

made a great match; and Saville soon discovered what his simple

relatives never could have discovered--who Brian Southcote was, and what

his heir was entitled to. My father had been a man of foolish

benevolence. He had taken no precautions for me; done nothing that he

could help; so that it required no small research, and perseverance, and

industry, to get proofs of my identity together. I always disliked the

man, but I was indebted to him; and during the whole time of my minority

he restricted my means greatly. Then, when I came of age, I pensioned

him; but he has not been satisfied with this: he has gradually fallen in

character and habits into the miserable reprobate, who is nothing but

disgrace to his kind kindred who will not disown him. I have been

obliged to resist his exactions again and again; and after he threatened

me, of course my honor was concerned, and I could not permit myself to

be bullied into further concessions. These letters, you see, are

addressed to Miss Saville. Are you able to go to the Rectory with me,

Hester, and hear her account of her cousin's children? and we will see

this man together. The facts are very simple, plausible as this fiction

is; but Harry Southern was five or six years old before my father's

marriage: did not that occur to you, my timid wife?"

"Yes--yes," I said eagerly; "a great many things occurred to me. I felt

almost sure that the first of these letters referred to an older child

than the others; but I had no clue--nothing to guide me; and the thought

that it _might_ be true was enough to make me miserable. I am quite

able: I promised to let him know what I would do. Come, come; let us go

at once, Harry."

He smiled at my eagerness now; but went first to his desk, unlocked it,

and a concealed drawer in it, and drew from thence a little bundle of

papers. One was a certificate of his parents' marriage, the other of the

birth of Harry Edgar Southcote; and the others corroborative documents.

I returned them to him hastily. I was almost offended. "Why do you offer

me these?" I said, impatiently; "is your word not enough for me?" "You

must consider what is enough for law and the world, Hester," said my

husband; "enough to secure to our boy an unblemished name--he is the

principal person to be considered in this argument; though there is no

fear of his inheritance between us, we must take care to establish his

perfect right to be called Southcote. My family pride is all of your

teaching--but I have caught it fully now. Shall you get ready, then? Ah,

Hester, is all this nightmare that is past only a dream?"

"Only a dream, Harry, only a dream!" I cried, as we stood together hand

in hand; so much a dream that I scarcely could suppose now how it had

been with us yesterday--and when at last I left him to get my bonnet, I

ran upstairs almost with a lighter foot than Flora's; the cloud was

gone--gone--absolutely gone; and instead of being sceptical of my own

happiness, it was the misery now that I was sceptical of--I could

scarcely believe it, scarcely understand how I could have defied and

rejected all these blessings of Providence so long.

When I went into my room, Alice was there, looking excited, heated, full

of anxiety and trouble. How hastily she tied the ribbons of baby's

cloak, and sent Amy away with him! How impatient she looked while I bent

over him, and kissed the sweet face which brightened every day into more

beautiful intelligence! Then she waited to know what I wanted, and when

I told her what it was, she came behind me, arranging my cloak upon my

shoulders with tremulous hands--and I caught a glimpse of her wistful

agitated face looking at me in the glass, trying to read in my eyes what

had happened to me. As she did this, I turned round upon her suddenly,

and looked full in her face; she faltered, retired a little, and I saw

was almost crying with extreme agitation and anxiety. I took both her

hands and drew her very close to me.

"Alice, can you believe it?" said I; "God has cured me by great

blessings, and not by great calamities, as you once feared He would. It

is all over--it is all over, there will never be any more misery in this

house. Have you been praying for it, Alice? Is it through you?"

"Oh, my darling, my precious child!" cried Alice, suddenly clasping me

in her arms as if I had been a child indeed; "it's through His mercy!

I'd be glad to die now!"

"Hush, hush, hush! there would be little joy then," said I, when I was

able to draw myself from her arms, "we are all to be very happy now,

Alice, like a fairy tale."

"Like them that love God," said Alice solemnly.

I bowed my head; these words overpowered me. Was it He who had guided me

through all those dark and wilful ways? He who had filled me with the

fruit of my own doings; given me my own will, till I knew what a

miserable inheritance that was? He who had saved my baby; at whose feet

I had prostrated myself, vowing to sacrifice the sin which I regarded in

my heart? I bent my head into my hands and wept. I think every tear was

a thanksgiving, for they relieved my heart.

That rectory lane! how dull it used to be--how full of beautiful life it

was to-day. We did not look much as if we were going about a serious

piece of business--we were so occupied and absorbed with ourselves--and

it never once occurred to me what should be said to Saville till we were

entering at the rectory gate. On the road my husband told me--a very

strange coincidence too--that the stranger who accompanied him last

night, and for whom he had left a message, had sought him out about the

lost West Indian property, which still might be recovered. When we came

at last to the rectory, I asked, "What will you say to Saville, Harry?"

But there was no time to answer my question. Miss Saville met us in the

hall--she looked disturbed, alarmed, anxious--she knew our visit must

have some reference to my yesterday's conference with her brother, and

she was very anxious for him. I ran to her eagerly, took her hand, and

kissed her. I was very little given to this species of affectionateness,

and she was completely taken by surprise. "Mrs. Southcote, my dear, what

is it?" she said, sinking down upon one of the stiff hall chairs, and

doing what she could to keep herself from crying. "Hester never knew

before how much I owed to you," said Harry, coming to my help, for

indeed I was nothing loth to cry too! "Come, dear friend, we want your

kind assistance. Where is the Rector--and Richard--but, Miss Saville,

let us first speak to you."

She led the way into a little housekeeping parlor, which was her own

special sanctuary, and there sat down trembling to hear what we had to

say. Then Harry told her the entire story; she was grievously

distressed. She could not bear to blame her brother, yet the way in

which he had taken advantage of her, wounded her to the heart. "_My_

letters!" she said faintly. "Dear boy, dear Harry, you don't think I

ever meant to do harm to you? He made me give him poor Maria's letters

to amuse him, he said--he's got them all--can they do you any harm? can

they? Tell me!--for he's got them all."

"They can do me no harm--they have done me the greatest good," said

Harry, "they have restored to me my wife; but I must see him in your

presence, and have this matter set at rest. He must be mad to think of

injuring me by such an expedient as this."

"Hush! I sometimes think," said Miss Saville, under her breath, "that it

is telling on his mind--I do, indeed. He raves of nights; and whatever

William and I can say, he won't give up that dreadful drinking; he'll

kill himself, Harry dear--that's what he'll do--and such a man as he was

once--oh! such a man as he might have been!"

And tears of love and anguish--love, most undeserved, most

long-suffering--fell slowly and bitterly from this good woman's eyes. I

had scorned her once, but I felt very poor and mean beside her now.

When she had sufficiently composed herself, she took us into another

room, and left us to bring her brothers. The Rector came immediately,

the other refused. Miss Saville returned in great distress to say, that

he would not come--that he refused to see us--that I had broken faith

with him.

"We must go to him, then," said my husband, steadily; "the Rector will

give you his arm, Hester. Do not be nervous, Miss Saville--this must be

settled--but he shall be spared, be sure. Come, lean upon me--my kind,

old friend, can you not trust me?"

"Oh, yes, yes!" she said, but her distress was so great and evident,

that I scarcely could bear it. We went in this solemn order--the Rector,

in great perturbation, giving me his arm, but looking afraid of me, to

the study. Saville was sitting smoking by the fire; he started up, and

dashed his cigar to the ground as we entered: he turned fiercely round

upon us like a wild beast at bay, and asked, with an oath, what was the

meaning of this?--was he never to be left alone?

"Yes, in half-an-hour," said my husband; "but first I must speak to you.

Saville, you have been a very good friend to me--I acknowledge it; you

know I have always been glad to say as much. What motive could you have

to tell this false story--this story you know so well to be false--to my

wife?"

"Motive?--I had motive enough, you may be sure," answered Saville,

shortly--"that is my concern--it is yours to prove the story false, as

you call it--false! What do you know about it?--there's not a man

qualified to speak on the subject but me."

"Oh! Richard! Richard!" cried Miss Saville; "poor Maria's letters--was

that the use you wanted to make of them? But you know very well it is

not true. William and I know it is not true; and, to tell it to his

wife!--oh, for shame, for shame!"

"Give me back the papers," said the man, hoarsely, holding out his hand

to me.

I was surprised to see Harry take them out at once and hand them to him.

_I_ would have kept possession of them, for they were still important

and dangerous to me.

He held them in his hands a moment as if undecided, and then tossed them

on the table, where they fluttered about like scraps of useless paper,

as they were. "I thought you had a serpent in your house," he said,

looking at Harry--"I owed her a grudge as well as you; but if you are in

league, I had as well give up the contest. I'll tell you what--give me

cash enough to take me somewhere--America--Australia--I don't care where

it is. I don't want to see one of you again, and you'll be rid of me."

Miss Saville started as if about to speak, but restrained

herself--glanced at her better brother, and closed her eyes, growing

very pale; bad as he was, she could not bear the thought of an

everlasting parting--he was her brother still.

"I will do this," said Harry, quietly, "but it must not be done so that

your perverse ingenuity can make it look like a bribe. Will you come to

Cottiswoode to-morrow? the Rector will come with you--come as a man

should come who dares look other men in the face--on my part, I will

have a friend fit to cope with you, and settle this business once and

for ever;--do you consent?"

He did not speak for a moment--he was hemmed in and saw no way of

escape; he searched about with his cunning eyes in the vacant air, but

saw no expedient. "I consent!" he said, sullenly, "anything for peace.

Leave me alone, for heaven's sake--there, there, Martha, take your

remonstrances away!"

We left him so--and Harry did not even take the trouble of gathering up

these pieces of paper. "They are quite harmless, Hester," he said to me

with a smile when I spoke of them, and I was obliged to be satisfied

with that.

Then we went into Miss Saville's little parlor again--the Rector and she

were consulting anxiously together. The Rector was sadly clouded and

cast down--he was a good man, but he was weaker than his sister.

"Yes, it is much better I should go," she said; "I will go with Richard.

Mr. Southcote--Harry!--if you are to have a stranger present let _me_

come instead of the Rector--it might be awkward for William--he might

meet the gentleman again; and consider he is a clergyman, and must not

do anything unbecoming his station. I will come with poor Richard--it

will do as well, will it not?"

"Quite as well," said my husband; "better indeed, except that it will

grieve you."

"It will not grieve me so much as it would grieve William," she said

quickly; and that point was settled.

"Dear Miss Saville, it is through me this distress has come upon you,"

I said, as she went out with us to the door. I looked up to her

anxiously, now that I had come to esteem her so much. I was afraid she

must think very little of me.

"My dear, it will be all settled through you," said Miss Saville, "and

that will be a blessing--I am glad it has come to this--very glad in my

spirit, though it's hard to the flesh. William will have peace at last!"

She went in abruptly as we left the door; she could not keep her

composure any longer. With a woman's sympathetic instinct, I knew she

was gone away with her burden, to try if she could lighten it by tears.

"Harry," I said gravely, when we went away, "she is not young nor

pretty, nor clever, nor interesting--people don't love her even when

they only see her as I used to do. What has such a woman to reward her

for the neglects and slights that are her portion now?"

"Patience and hope here, nothing more, Hester," said Harry, "not even

William loves her as she loves him--nothing but hope and patience--poor

Martha!--and in the world to come, life everlasting. That is enough for

her."

Enough for any one, surely, surely! but God had made a difference

between her life and ours.

ANOTHER DAY.

It was little Harry's birth-day.

He was standing before me in the little fanciful dress of blue velvet

which Alice and Amy, no less than myself, thought so particularly

becoming to his beautiful complexion, and in which he had already made a

grand appearance, and stood at full length in a wonderful gilt frame,

upon the wall of the dining-room down-stairs, for the admiration of all

the visitors at Cottiswoode, and the instruction of future ages. I was

seated in the nursery proper, a large room, which communicated with my

dressing-room, with "something else" upon my knee--something which was a

maze of fine muslin, of lace, and embroidery, almost richer, if that

were possible, than Harry's baby robes had been--and of which the only

legible token of humanity was a pair of blue eyes shining through the

maze of the pretty veil; blue eyes, the "sweetest eyes that e'er were

seen" to my husband and to me.

I had been so very anxious about this little one--so overwhelmed with

superstitious awe and terror lest this should be the fated second boy,

the inheritor of that weird and ghostly jewel; but I was suffering Harry

now to turn round and round upon my finger the hereditary diamond. Thus

far, at least, the spell was broken. The blue eyes belonged to a little

girl--a little Helen Ennerdale, a sweet representative of her whose

sweet and peaceful face was always with me. I feared my ring no longer.

I had even placed it sportively on baby's little finger, and promised

Alice in the lightness of my heart that this was the woman, the

Southcote born, from whose finger this pledge of family misfortune was

to fall.

For I was now a happy young matron--a thrice happy mother; yes, Mr.

Osborne was right--I was a girl at heart--I grew younger every day.

Since my little girl was born, Alice herself, who would not have thought

the crown jewels too fine for me, had looked on with amazement at the

additions which I made to my wardrobe. The love of all these pretty

things--the feminine pleasure in them, for their own sake--had grown and

blossomed in me ever since I became a happy wife. Do you say that was no

very great result to have arrived at? No, neither it was, if it had been

a result, but it was only an indication. I was no longer indifferent to

any thing--I had a liking, a choice, an opinion, in every daily matter

of my life. I lived these bright days heartily, caring for everything,

doing everything with a will--my heart was no longer dwelling abstracted

in some course of private thoughts, of recollections or broodings. My

heart was in my work and in my pleasure, and had to do with all I was

engaged in. All those blessings that came fresh to me from God's

hands--should I have taken them grudgingly? No, I received them with all

my heart.

It was Harry's birthday--he was three years old; and we were just about

setting out with his little sister to the church, to add her to the

number of those on whom the name of the Lord is named. Alice, in the

silk gown she had worn at my marriage, was standing by me, ready to

carry the little neophyte down-stairs, while Amy waited behind with her

bright good-humored face and holiday dress, to follow in our train. It

was a beautiful day of June, warm and sunny; the windows were open; the

sweet air, rich with the breath of flowers, blew from window to window,

stirring the veil about this sweet new face. There were flowers every

where, sweet bouquets of roses--it was a double holiday, a day of family

joy. I could not have the house sufficiently bright nor sufficiently

adorned.

And there was Harry--the elder Harry--looking in at the door, making a

pretence of chiding us for delay, but, in reality, looking at the group

which belonged to him, with joy which was too great for words. And then

we set out in our joyful solemn procession, Alice going first that we

might not lose sight of the young newcomer. My pretty Flora, now quite

an experienced young wife, was standing beside Miss Saville, waiting for

us downstairs--these were to be my little Helen's god-mothers; the one a

beautiful, happy young woman, rich in all the gifts of this world; the

other, drawing near the frost of age--homely, stiff, ceremonious, noways

beautiful. What a strange contrast they were! but I would rather have

been without Flora than without my husband's kindest friend.

Mr. Osborne, who was also with us, gave his arm to Flora--like other

people, he preferred the youthful beauty to the elderly goodness--Miss

Saville came with Harry and me. As we went down the lane she talked to

us of our duties; how we should educate our children; and of the system

of religious instruction she should think it her duty to adopt with baby

when she was old enough; while little Harry looked up with amazement

from my side, and privately whispered to me to ask if Miss Saville was

scolding papa or mamma. Harry did not comprehend how the infallible

authorities of his little world should be lectured by anybody, and

varied between amazement and indignation. We, for our own parts, took it

with great good humor and respect, though, perhaps, it did not do us

much good--for Miss Saville belonged to a bygone age, and to a class

which greatly abounds in system--though I by no means despised her

counsels and wisdom in training the little heir of Cottiswoode, who long

ago had shown unmistakeable signs of possessing "a will of his own."

How beautiful the day was!--those glorious measureless depths of blue,

yon floating snow-white islands--were they clouds or sunshine?--that

curdled broken line, in its long oblique streaks, a vague beatitude of

light and vapor, a real milky way. Then the green borders of the lane,

with its tiny eyes of flowers looking through the matted herbage; the

clear little rivulet of water singing through the meadow; the willows

rustling their long branches as though vainly longing for the water,

which these bristling boughs will never reach--I had the spring of

returning strength, of added blessings--everything to be thankful for. I

felt as if every step I took was somehow an expression of thankfulness.

I was in no mood to listen to any discourse--my thoughts were all abroad

upon the fresh air and sunshine, my heart was singing its own quiet song

of jubilee and gratitude--I am afraid all the lectures in the world

would have been lost on me.

And then we clustered round the humble font, in the homely little

country church, many a kindly looker-on from the village following us

softly, on tiptoe, to see the ceremony--that ordinance of all others

most touching, most solemn, most simple, most like the first instinctive

wish of nature. To claim by name and sign the protection of God for this

little child, to lay down her helplessness, visibly in the sight of men,

at the feet of the only strength that is Omnipotent, the only love that

is Almighty; to say aloud before our neighbors, "She belongs to us only

because she belongs to Thee--she shall be ours for ever, living or

dying, because she and we are Thine." I leaned heavily upon my husband's

arm, and looked up into his face. Harry's eyes were wet and glistening

as mine were--we had not been together when our eldest born was

dedicated thus, and it had been a hard, sad day to me--but the joy of

this was almost more than I could bear.

When we left the church, it was not in the nature of mortal woman to

help lingering to hear the plaudits which the admiring mothers of

Cottisbourne bestowed upon my little Helen; some of them remembered my

mother, and prophesied that this was to be "her very image;" others,

loyal to the reigning monarchs, were divided as to whether she should be

like her father or her mother; but there was no doubt about the

principal fact, that such a beautiful baby never was seen. Little Harry

by this time had deserted me for Amy, and the rest of the party had gone

on before, so that I had only the Rector for my companion--the Rector,

who, good man, had lingered with his natural ceremonious politeness,

waiting for me. Mr. Saville was not great at conversation; and after we

had exchanged a few remarks about the village and the parish, and the

work which he was doing in both, I was much surprised when he, of his

own accord, began another subject.

"We have heard from my brother in Australia to-day, Mrs. Southcote," he

said; "Miss Saville is somewhat agitated--did you not observe it?"

"No, indeed," I said. "Is it painful news? oh, I hope not! or we only

have been troubling her to-day."

"The trouble is an honor, madam," said my reverend companion, with one

of his elaborate bows; "and the news is--not painful, certainly. My

brother Richard, though unfortunate, was a man of mind--always a man of

mind, Mrs. Southcote--and has, I am glad to say, recovered himself in

his new sphere, as we are led to hope--he has, indeed," and here the

Rector sighed a small sigh--"married since he went abroad--and with Mr.

Southcote's liberal allowance I have no doubt he will do well."

And again the excellent Rector sighed. Why did the good man sigh? "You

do not disapprove of his marriage, Mr. Saville?" said I, in my

ignorance.

"Disapprove! no--far be it from me to disapprove of an honorable

estate," said the Rector, looking wistfully up at the windows of the

Rectory as we passed. "I have no doubt if Richard is mercifully

supported in his changed ways he will be a happy man; but there are many

men who never have it in their power to consult their own inclinations,

Mrs. Southcote," he continued, with a sentimental air, shaking his head

slightly, and looking after his sister, who was walking before us. I

could not help blushing, though I was very much inclined to laugh, and I

hurried on immediately to rejoin my husband, for I was afraid that the

Rector was about to make a confidante of me.

The good man looked disappointed, but succumbed into his usual grim

politeness, as I hastened on and took Harry's arm. My heart smote me

when I saw his blank look, but I could not bear, knowing what a good man

he was, to see him look ridiculous; and I am very much afraid that the

Rector's love sorrows would have been little else to me.

Harry was in great glee and most exuberant spirits. "What do you think,

Hester?" he cried, in a half whisper, when we were sufficiently far

apart from our companions--"the Rector's going to be married--there's

news for you--what do you think of it?"

"I am sure there is nothing at all laughable in it, Harry," said I,

taking the opportunity, gladly, to resent my own strong inclination to

laughter upon him.

Harry did not cease for my reproof, but his laugh was inward and

subterraneous. "We must have the thing done in grand style," he said,

"and astonish the bashful bridegroom by the reception we give him. Did

they tell you the Ethiopian had changed his skin, Hester?--that Richard

had 'settled?' I suppose I ought to be glad to believe it--but I have no

faith in that fellow. And now what can we do for Martha,--my kindest

friend?--not that I don't thank you, with all my heart, Hester, for what

you have done already--she will never forget the honor you have given

her to-day."

"I know exactly what we must do for her, Harry," said I.

"Do you?" he said, looking down upon me affectionately; "since when have

you turned a good fairy, my rebellious wife?"

"Hush, Harry!" I said. "If I had not been your rebellious wife and very

miserable once, I don't think I ever should have been good for anything;

but I know quite well what we must do for Miss Saville to make her quite

happy; you must see about building her a pretty, large, roomy cottage

near Cottisbourne immediately, Harry."

"Must I?" said my obedient husband, "and pray, Mrs. Hester, if one might

ask a reason--why?"

"Because it was her own project, her own desire--and it was in my black

time," I said sadly. "I will tell you all about it after--but that is

what you must do."

"When was your black time, Hester?" said Harry. "Was it when you and all

the world were in mourning--when you found out that you had been

deceived?"

"Don't, don't! I can't bear you to speak so," I cried. "It never was

your fault,--never, Harry!--Why must I not speak?--what, _you_ will not

hear me? you are a tyrant, sir!"

"Very well," said Harry, laughing, "so be it--we will not quarrel over

whose fault it was; but we know by whose blessing it is a white time

now," he added more gravely, "and your orders shall be obeyed, though I

will not call you a tyrant. I shall be glad to have Martha Saville still

near us, and I think now it would be rather a heartbreak for her to part

from these children and you."

He was quite right, though I wondered at it--Miss Saville had indeed

grown fond of me. That she should love little Harry was nothing

wonderful, but I was both proud and amazed at her affection for me.

We were to have a good many people with us that evening, and when Harry

went up to the nursery with me to see the children, and how baby looked

after her churchgoing, I started so much that I almost let my little

Helen fall from my arms, when I drew off my glove--"My ring--my ring!

what has become of it? I am sure I had it on my finger when I went out,"

I cried. "Alice, did you see it? I must have drawn it off with my

glove."

Amy, Alice, the two Harries, great and little, were immediately

searching for it in every corner; it was not to be found. "It is your

father's ring, is it not, Hester?" said my husband; "you have dropped it

in the church most likely. I shall walk down immediately, and see; don't

be uneasy--it cannot be lost--any one who found it would know it for

yours."

"Oh, Harry, stop! I am not uneasy," I cried eagerly; "wait a little,

there is no hurry--pray don't go at all, then--I do not care--I shall be

very glad if it is lost."

"What do you mean, Hester!" he cried in amazement.

I took him aside and whispered all the story into his ear; but Harry was

sceptical, and laughed at my superstition. "Why, then, the ring is not

yours, Hester," he said, laughing, "but your second son's--and you have

no right to lose other people's property so coolly. Never fear, we will

exorcise the demon--and, even on your own showing, it is better to look

after it, that the mysterious powers who have it in charge may know you

were unwilling to lose it. Now, let me go."

I was obliged to let him go, though very reluctantly--and, when he went

away, Flora came running up stairs to condole with me. "Oh, Hester, have

you lost your beautiful ring?" cried Flora; "and do you know Mr.

Southcote is laughing about it, and says you do not want to find it

again; tell me the story--do tell me the story, Hester! Mr. Osborne has

gone with him, and the Rector and Miss Saville are in very earnest

conversation, and I want my little goddaughter--oh, Hester, I do so wish

you would give her to me!"

Yes, Flora was very envious; so we permitted her to hold the young lady

in her arms, while Alice told her the story of Edgar the Scholar, and

his revenge. Flora was very much awed by it, and full of eager interest

now for the return of Harry: "She hoped--she did so hope, that he would

never find that dreadful ring!--she should be quite frightened to look

at it again!"

For my part, I was also a little anxious about it; but Harry's good

example, and my own light heart, brought me out of the power of the

supernatural. I knew already that love and peace reigned at

Cottiswoode--that my own sins, my mother's wrongs, the lifelong sin and

punishment of my father, had found a merciful conclusion in the happy

family life which once more consecrated with daily thanksgiving the

ancient family home. The constant feuds between the elder and the

younger, had merged in the perfect union of the two branches of our

house. God and Providence were with us, and we could afford to smile at

Mystery and Fate.

But the ring was not to be found; though it was sought for in every

direction, rewards offered, and every means tried--for Harry was

obstinate in his endeavors to recover it--the ring of Edgar the Scholar

never returned to Cottiswoode. I do not mean to confess that I am still

superstitious about it--for, of course, such a jewel as that was no

small prize, and some stranger might have picked it up upon the road,

and I have no doubt, did--yet it was very strange, it must be admitted,

that it should disappear so. We have not only a second son now, but a

third, and a fourth! and Cottiswoode is almost overflowing, and

our patrimonial acres will have enough to do to provide for all the

children with whom God has blessed us. Sorrow has been in our

house--sickness--once death,--but strife has never entered at the

peaceful doors of Cottiswoode; and I should smile now, with the smile of

perfect confidence and security, did any one whisper to me that discord

could come between Harry and his brave brother Brian, our little

knight-errant--our St. George--our eager champion of the distressed. The

children are God's children--I do not tremble for them; and life comes

to have a very different aspect, with all its unknown haps and chances,

when one can say Providence, heartily, instead of Fate.

THE END.

* * * * *

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

compaitson with other people's flower-beds=> comparison with other

people's flower-beds {pg 38}

skake myself free=> shake myself free {pg 143}

this grained roof=> this groined roof {pg 192}

and neversuffered suffered=> and never suffered {pg 198}

I nor any once else=> I nor any one else {pg 207}

Hiss Hester=> Miss Hester {pg 222}

do you recollect me.=> do you recollect me? {pg 238}

Do you spent much time there=> Do you spend much time there {pg 255}

bnt come joy=> but come joy {pg 278}

should never nave perceived the want of it before=> should never have

perceived the want of it before {pg 315}

ceased to spent my days=> ceased to spend my days {pg 361}