Chapter XV: Book III: The Days of My Life (3)

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."