Chapter XVI: Book III: The Days of My Life (4)

I rose when Alice spoke to me, without once thinking of disobeying her. I was glad to be told to do it, though I scarcely should have moved of my own will. I was still in the very plain dress in which I had travelled, which was, indeed, the only kind of dress which I had worn since leaving Cottiswoode, with my mother's miniature at my neck, and that fatal hereditary ring upon my hand. I paused nervously before the mirror a moment to see if my hair was in order. I looked pale, and somewhat worn-out, I thought, and I wondered what he would think of my wearied, thoughtful face, so unlike what it used to be. Alice would fain have had me change my dress, which, indeed, was not very suitable for Cottiswoode, but I would not do that to-night.

When I went into the drawing-room, he was sitting moodily by himself, bending down with his arms upon the table, and his head resting upon them. He started when he heard me, lifted a thoughtful, clouded face, which made me think he had been fighting some battle with himself, and rose hurriedly to place a chair for me. We sat opposite to each other for a little time in awkward silence; a hundred things rushed to my lips, but I had not courage to say them, and I waited vainly till he should address me. At last I made a faint attempt at conversation; "What did you think of baby?" I asked, scarcely above my breath.

"Think of him, think of him--opinion is out of the question," he cried in great haste and eagerness, as if I had broken a charm of silence, and set him free. "He is your baby and mine, Hester, there is nothing more to be said. Let us understand each other," he continued, hurriedly drawing his chair close to the table with nervous agitation; "are we to endeavor to do our duty by each other--to live under the same roof, to fulfil our relative duties as justice and right demand? Is this the foundation we are to build upon, and is this all? Tell me, Hester, let me know what it is."

"It is so, yes, I suppose so," I answered, faltering with confusion and almost fear; for he was almost more excited now than I had ever seen him. I could not have given any answer but assent. I could not, though my heart had broken for it.

For a long time after that nothing was said between us. I saw that he struggled and struggled vainly to subdue himself, and I, a strange new task to me, tried to do what I could to soothe him. I spoke of baby, told of his illness, of our journey; I seemed to myself another person, and almost felt as if I were playing a part, while I made this desperate attempt to get up a quiet conversation with my husband, while this whole ocean of unsettled principles lay still between us--indifferent conversation! for I tried to direct him to the books upon the table, but I saw very well how little I made by my efforts, and how impossible it was that he could fully control and master himself till I went away.

When I had stayed long enough--it was hard to remain, it was hard to go away, I did not know which to choose--I went forward and held out my hand to him to say good-night. He took it and detained it, and looked up at me with again that doubtful impulse on his face; would he speak? No. He grasped my hand closely again, and let it fall.

"I am poor company to-night, Hester, very poor company," he said, turning hastily away; "but I thank you for your generous efforts, I will be able to respond to them better to-morrow."

And though he rose and opened the door for me, and attended me with the delicate respectfulness of old, that was all the good-night I received from him. It cost me some tears when I reached the shelter of my own room; yet my heart was strangely at ease, and would not be dismayed, and when I took my baby to my breast and went to sleep, I gave God thanks that we had come home.

THE SEVENTH DAY.

It was now October, and the weather was still very bright and pleasant. I had become quite settled and established once more at Cottiswoode; had resumed my former use and wont, and more than that, for though my life was still sadly meagre and deficient in one point, it still _was_ life, and that was something. I might no longer wander everywhere with my baby in my arms, but I had elected the sweet-tempered and kind-hearted Amy to be his maid, and he was growing a great boy now, and soon fatigued me; though in our own rooms I kept possession of him still. But I had begun with better understanding and more discreetness to help the poor people at Cottisbourne. I had ceased to spend my days in a dream. I was active and full of occupation. The nightmare had passed off from me, though some of its influences remained.

For in the most vital point of all we made little progress; my husband and I were no nearer each other, had come to no better understanding. I studied his comfort now with the eagerest attention. I grew punctilious, formal in my excess of care for him. I saw that he was served with devotion and humility as a prince might have been. I could not forgive any piece of neglect or forgetfulness in the household which touched upon his comfort. I almost think he knew how anxious I was, and attributed it--alas, were we never to know each other! to my extreme desire to "do my duty," to do him justice. He was, and yet he was not right in judging me so. I was shut out from all the ordinary modes of showing my regard; we were on ceremonious terms with each other, and I wanted to prove to him that whatever barriers there might be between us, there was always affection. What do I say--I did not want to prove anything--I only did all I could, eagerly, timidly, and with anxious devotion, everything that I could for him. And he received them as my father might have received my mother's regard to his comfort, as kindnesses, things to thank me for, exertions of duty for which he was obliged to me. Oh, how his thanks galled me! It sometimes was very hard ado to keep my composure, to hide how my heart and my feelings were wounded, or to keep the old bitterness from rushing back. In these days I behaved better than he did; we had changed positions; it was he who was restless, thoughtless, and self-reproachful now; it was he who thought of being right, and adhering to his resolution. He had promised not to molest me, to accept what I yielded to him, to leave it all in my own hands--and he was keeping his word.

Immediately after our arrival at Cottiswoode I had written a very brief note to Flora, telling her I was here, and begging her to come if mamma would permit. I was almost anxious for the judgment of mamma. I did not know how I should be received by the country ladies, who, doubtless, had already sat in judgment on me--whether they had pronounced me without the pale, or if my return had covered the sin of my flight. It was nearly a week, and I had received no answer from Flora. I was somewhat nervous about it. I did not feel that it would be at all agreeable to be excommunicated by the little society which was the world at Cottiswoode; and everything made me see more plainly how ill-advised and foolish I was to go away. Even Miss Saville patronized me grimly with a tacit disapprobation. It was not so much because I had done wrong, as because I had exposed my own affairs, and thrown off the privacy which belongs alike to family feuds and family happiness. I tried to persuade myself that I never had cared for society,--and that was very true; but rejecting society is a much easier thing than being rejected by it,--and I by no means liked the latter alternative.

This morning, I was sitting by myself in the drawing-room. My husband spent a great deal of time out of doors, and was seldom with me except at table, and for a short time in the evening. Baby was out with Amy, his maid. The external circumstances did not differ much from those in which Flora Ennerdale found me last winter, on her first visit to Cottiswoode; but there was, in reality, a great change. I no longer sat in listless indolence, neither doing, nor caring to do anything. I was working busily at some little frocks for baby. The flowers on my table were no longer without interest to me. I was not ignorant now of the management of the Cottiswoode School, and the wants of the old women at Cottisbourne. I had begun to use all the natural and innocent means of occupation that lay around me; and if I was not yet quite a Lady Bountiful, I had already made my peace with the clamorous villagers, who did not quite smile upon me at my first return.

I was singing softly to myself as I sat at work--not because my heart was light--but Alice was not near me to talk to, and, truth to tell, I no longer wished for too much commerce with my own thoughts. The sound was a great deal more cheerful than the meaning was; but when I was thus occupied, I heard the sound of some arrival, and immediately, not Flora only, but Mrs. Ennerdale, were ushered into the room.

I was so much surprised that it made me nervous, especially as I was at once enfolded in the wide, warm, odorous embrace of Mrs. Ennerdale: here, at least, there was no lack of cordiality. I breathed more freely when I emerged from under the shadow of her great shawl and ample draperies, and Flora was so bright, so happy in what she supposed to be my happiness, that my heart melted under the sunny gleam of kindred and kindness. I was grateful to Mrs. Ennerdale for acknowledging my presence in her own person. I was glad to be relieved thus from one phase of anxiety; at least, thus far, I was not tutored.

"And how well you are looking!" cried Mrs. Ennerdale; "Flora told me you were quite pale and thin when she saw you--ah, there's nothing like native air, my dear--you've got quite a bloom--you look better than ever I saw you look, though that is quite natural--where is baby?--not asleep or out of doors, I hope. Do you know you ought not to let me see him, for I shall begin to envy you immediately--I envy every woman I see with a baby in her arms. Ah, my dear, it's the very happiest time of your life."

I could very well understand how it should be so, and though I could not help sighing, I liked Mrs. Ennerdale the better for what she had said.

"May I run and look for him, cousin Hester?" cried Flora, eagerly. "I have been telling Mamma what a sweet baby he is, and I do so want to see him again; oh, I see Alice in the garden; there he is, I will run and bring him in myself to show Mamma."

"My dear, I wish you would tell Flora that she ought to be a little more sober now," said Mrs. Ennerdale, appealing to me with motherly consequence, and a look half of raillery, half of anxiety; "she will mind you when she will not mind me, and she ought to be sober, and think of what's before her now; do you not think so, Mrs. Southcote?"

"Oh, Mamma!" cried Flora, springing out from the window; we both looked after her light, bounding figure as she ran across the lawn towards Alice. "I know she told you all about it," said the good-humored Mrs. Ennerdale; "don't you think she is too young to be married? to fancy that such a child would even think of it! but indeed I've taken great pains with Flora, and she is the eldest of the family, and knows a great deal about housekeeping, and I really believe will make a very good little wife; though marriage is a sad lottery, my dear," said the good lady sympathetically, shaking her head and looking into my face.

I turned away my head, and felt my cheeks burn; first I was almost disposed to resent this lottery as an insult, but nothing was further from the thoughts of the speaker than any unkindness to me. It was the first indication I had of what "sympathy" was in such a case as mine, and it stung me bitterly.

"My dear," continued Mrs. Ennerdale, drawing close to me, laying her hand upon my shoulder, and lowering her tone; "I am glad that Flora is gone, just that I may say a word to you; I was grieved, of course all your friends must have been, though I don't doubt you thought you had good reason; but, dear, it's far best to make up your mind to everything, and do your duty where Providence has placed you. We are relations, you know, in a way, and you've no mother to advise you; if you ever should have such a plan again, my dear, will you come and speak to me about it? I'm no great wise woman, but I know what life is; will you ask my opinion, dear?"

"But I never can, nor will, have such a plan again," I answered rapidly.

"That's all the better, my love, all the better," said Mrs. Ennerdale, "but if you should, I'll rely upon your coming to me. Hush, here's Flora, and is that baby? Now are you not proud of him? What a great boy! What a true Southcote! I can't tell whether he's like his papa or you? but I can see he's got the family face."

Mrs. Ennerdale bustled out from the window to meet the advancing couple--Flora and little Harry--who, I think, without any vanity, would indeed have made as pretty a picture as could be imagined. I lingered behind a little to get over the pain and irritation of this first probing of my wound. It was kindly done, and I might have looked for it; but no one had ever ventured to speak to me in such a plain and matter-of-fact way before, and I felt both shocked and wounded. My own act it was, too, which had exposed me to this, which had made it possible for any one to speak so to me! Well, well! there was baby and Flora laughing, calling to me, inviting me. I smoothed my disturbed brow as well as I could, and went out to them. I had no reason to be offended with Mrs. Ennerdale, but I certainly was not grateful to her.

But her raptures were so real over my boy, her admiration so sincere and so ample, that I was gradually mollified. She "knew about babies," too; that experience which a young mother prizes so highly; and knowing about them still pronounced my little Harry almost unrivalled--"almost like what Gus was when he was a baby, Flo," said Mrs. Ennerdale, with a sweet sigh, which I knew by instinctive sympathy was to the memory of some one sweeter than all others, who was only a name now, even to the fond remembrance of the mother. After that, I could remember no offence. I began to tell her of little Harry's illness, to all the symptoms of which she listened with profound attention; now and then suggesting something, and wishing, with great fervor, that she had but been near at hand. "And if anything should happen again, my dear," said Mrs. Ennerdale, taking hold of my hand in her earnestness, "be sure you send for me; send for me with as little hesitation as you send for the doctor. I've nursed all my own through all their little troubles--all but one--and I have experience. My dear, whatever hour it is, don't hesitate to send for me!"

I promised most heartily and cordially; I forgot she had ever said a word disagreeable to me; I only thought how kind she was, and how much interested in my boy.

Yes, Mrs. Ennerdale had several motives for coming to see me; a lurking kindness for myself, fond regard for Flora's wishes, a half intent to lecture and warn, and establish herself as my prudent adviser; but, above all, the crowning inducement was, baby; nothing either whole or half grown up had anything like the same charm as a baby had to Mrs. Ennerdale; she might have resisted all the other motives, but baby was irresistible; and so she had fairly won over and vanquished me.

I made them stay till Edgar came in, and they had lunch with us; but my husband, to my surprise, did not relax the state of his manners towards me in their presence. I could see that both mother and daughter were amazed at his elaborate politeness; he thanked me for everything I did for him; he feared he gave me trouble; and Flora and Mrs. Ennerdale glanced at us with troubled looks, as if to ask, "Is there still something wrong; are you at variance still." My own heart sank within me; I had scarcely been prepared for this; I thought, for my honor and for his own, that he would have made an effort to be like himself to-day.

"Flora ought not to be away from home; she ought not, indeed, at such a time as this," said Mrs. Ennerdale, "but she wishes very much to stay till to-morrow. Will you keep her, my dear? not if it is to inconvenience you; but she says you would not let her come again when you were,--ah!--in the country, and that you owe her an invitation now. We have spoiled her. She is quite rude, asking for an invitation; but if you like, my dear, I will leave her with you till to-morrow. She has a great deal to tell you, she says."

"What, a great deal _more_, Flora?" I asked; "I will keep her very gladly, longer than to-morrow, if you will let me, and I should like so much to help if I could. Is there anything you can trust me with, Mrs. Ennerdale?"

"My dear, you have plenty to do with your baby," said Mrs. Ennerdale, conclusively. "What a beautiful present that was you gave her--far too valuable, indeed; but her papa says he has seen your mamma wear it, and she is so proud of being called like your mamma. Is that the miniature you told me of? May I see it? Well, indeed, Flora, though it is a great compliment to you, I do think there is a resemblance--ah, she was a pretty creature; but of course you cannot recollect her, my dear?"

I said, "No," briefly, and there was a momentary pause, which, however, Mrs. Ennerdale soon interrupted; she was very full of kind counsels to me concerning my baby, and of motherly importance in her own person, full of care and bustle as she was on the eve of the "first marriage in the family." After luncheon, Mrs. Ennerdale went away, leaving strict injunctions with Flora to be ready to return on the next day; my husband returned to his own constant occupations, and I was left alone with my sweet young cousin.

Flora made no investigations, asked no questions, yet even she looked up wistfully into my eyes as she exclaimed, "How glad I am you are at home--oh! are you not pleased, cousin Hester, to have baby at home?"

"Yes, Flora, very glad," I said, though I could not help sighing. She, sweet simple heart, knew nothing of my troubles; she never could know how far astray I had gone, nor what very poor compromise, in real truth, was my position now.

"And you will come," Flora said, blushing all over her pretty face. "It is to be in a month. You will be sure to come, cousin Hester? though I am afraid you will think it noisy and a great bustle, for there are to be a great many--six bridesmaids. Do you think it is wrong to be gay at such a time?--but indeed I could not help it, cousin Hester?"

"And, indeed, I do not think it wrong, cousin Flora," said I, smiling at her seriousness; "and I only wish I could do something to show how very right I think it to do honor to a bride. Is there nothing you would like yourself that Mamma is indifferent about? Not anything at all that I could do for you, Flora?"

By dint of close questioning, it turned out that there were two or three things which Flora had set her heart upon, and which Mamma was not remarkably favorable to; and the result of our conference was, that I was seized with a strong desire to drive to Cambridge immediately with my young guest, and make some certain purchases. There was time enough yet to do it, and Flora was in great delight at the proposal, which gave me also no small degree of pleasure. After the usual fears that it was troubling me, Flora ran up stairs very willingly to get ready, and I, with a little tremor, knocked softly at the door of the library. My husband was seated as usual at his table--busy, or seeming so. When I entered he looked up, as he always did now when I went to him, with a startled look of expectation. I told him we were going to Cambridge, but hoped to be back in time for dinner. It always confused and disturbed me, this look of his.

"And am I to go with you, Hester?" he said, rising with some alacrity.

"Oh, no!" I said, confused and hesitating, "I did not mean to trouble you. I--of course, if you pleased, we would be very glad; but I only wanted to tell you--I did not think----"

"Very well," he said, sitting down, and interrupting my tremulous explanation. "I thank you for letting me know. Perhaps Mrs. Templeton had better delay dinner to give you full time. I hope you will have a pleasant drive. Ah, there is the carriage--you should lose no time, Hester."

Thus dismissed, I hastened away--always, alas!--always bringing with me when I left him a sore heart. Would he have been pleased to go?--should I have asked him? How I tormented myself with these questions. If we had been living in full mutual love and confidence, I would have said to him, gaily--"We do not want you; this is quite a confidential woman's expedition--a thing with which you have nothing to do;" but now I went away pondering whether I should not spoil our little piece of impromptu business, and making the drive and the afternoon alike miserable by returning once more, and entreating him to go.

When we came to the hall door--Flora so bright and smiling, I so careworn and disturbed--he was waiting to put us in the carriage; and my heart rose again when he held my hand a moment, and asked if I was sufficiently wrapped up. It was impossible to resist the influence of the rapid motion, and of Flora's pleasant company. I recovered my spirits in spite of myself. We had a very quick drive to Cambridge; a round of calls at the principal shops, to the great satisfaction and delight of Flora; and then it suddenly occurred to me that I would like to see, if only for a moment, our old house.

But when we came to the door my heart failed me. I had never been there since I left it after my father's death, and one glance at the familiar place was enough to fill my eyes with tears, and to bring back the pang of parting to my mind. It was now about a year since my father died. I had not mourned for him with the heavy, lasting, languid sorrow that wears out a mind at peace. I had mourned him with pangs of bitter grief, with brief agonies, more severe but less permanent, and looking again at this retired and quiet dwelling-place as associated with him, and from which it was so impossible to believe him departed. I felt as if I had been stricken down at the threshold and could not enter. It looked something mysterious, awful, withdrawing thus in its perfect stillness--the past was dwelling in that deserted place.

While I sat hesitating, gazing at the closed door, I saw Mr. Osborne's familiar cap and gown approaching. I saw it was Mr. Osborne at the first glance, and, yearning for the sight of a familiar face, I looked out from the window, and almost beckoned to him. He came forward with a ceremonious bow, and greeted me very statelily. But my heart was touched, and in spite of this I began to tell him that I had intended to alight but dared not. He saw the tears in my eyes, and his manner, too, was softened. "No," he said, "you are quite right, you could not bear it. I, myself, find it hard enough, passing by this familiar door."

He paused a moment, looked at me keenly and then said, "Will you take me with you, Hester?--are you in haste?--I have an old engagement with Harry--where are you going?--ah, then I will join you in half an hour, and in the meantime don't stay here. There now, close the window. I will tell them to drive on, and join you in half an hour."

When I found Mr. Osborne sitting opposite to me as we set out again homeward, I cannot tell how strangely I felt. My cheeks were tingling still with the name he had used--Harry--and I was overpowered with all the recollections which his presence brought to me. The last time we had been together in the same carriage was at my father's funeral, and all the recollections of that most eventful time--my betrothal, my marriage, my father's illness and death--came rushing back upon me in the sound of his voice. I had hard ado to preserve my composure outwardly. I was scarcely able to do more than introduce him to Flora, to whom he began to talk with pleasure and surprise, as I thought, pleased with her for her name's sake, though, in the twilight, he could scarcely see her sweet face, and then I sank back into my corner, and gave all my strength to subdue the tumult of memories and emotions which rose in my mind. That I should be taking him home to Cottiswoode--that he should still speak of my husband as Harry--that he should come to see my defeat and anxious struggle to do my duty--how strange it was!

I remember that night as people remember a dream--our rapid progress through the dark--the gleam of the carriage lamps--the sound of the horses' feet--the conversation going on between Mr. Osborne and Flora, and the long sigh of the wind over the bare expanse of country. We went at a great rate, and reached home sooner than I expected. It looked so home-like; so bright; so full of welcome; the hall-door wide open; the warm light streaming out; and my husband standing on the threshold waiting for us. Oh, if these were but real tokens, and not false presentiments! It was bitter to see all this aspect of happiness, and to know how little happiness there was.

My husband greeted Mr. Osborne with surprise and pleasure. Flora ran up-stairs, and I went into the drawing-room with our new guest, though, in my heart, I longed to be with baby, from whom I never had been so long absent before. My husband came with us, though he and I scarcely said anything to each other. I could see how Mr. Osborne's acute eye watched what terms we were on. Then Edgar left us to make some arrangements for our visitor's comfort, and my old friend turned his full attention upon me.

I had taken off my mantle, and he saw the miniature at my neck. In a kindly, fatherly fashion he caught the little chain with his finger, and drew me nearer to him, and looked into my face. I could not meet his eye. I drooped my head under his gaze, and, in spite of myself, the tears came.

"Well, Hester," he said gently, and in his old kind, half-sarcastic tone, "now that you have experience of it, what do you think of life?"

"It is very hard," said I, under my breath.

"Ay, that is the first lesson we all learn," he said; "have you not got beyond this alphabet--is it only hard, and nothing more?"

I heard baby's voice outside. Alice was looking for me. I ran from him, opened the door, took my beautiful boy out of the arms of Alice and brought him in, and held him out to Mr. Osborne--his face brightened into the pleasantest smiles I had ever seen upon it.

"Ah, this is your bitter lesson, is it, young mother?" he said, laying his hand caressingly on my head, while he bent to look at my boy; "this life is something more than hard which yields such blossoms, Hester--is that what this famous argument of yours would say? and this irresistible piece of logic is a boy, is he? God bless you, little man, and make you the happiest of your race."

"I must go away, Mr. Osborne, baby wants me," said I.

"Yes, go away; I am quite contented, Hester," said Mr. Osborne, once more patting my head; "go away, my dear child--you are going to cheat me once more into entire approval, I can see."

I was pleased; yet I went away with a heavy heart, under my first flush of gratification. I could not help remembering again and again what he had said--it was easy to make misery, but who should mend it when it was made!

Oh, my boy, my baby! what a disturbed and troubled heart you laid your little head upon! but its wild and painful beating never woke or startled you.

After dinner, when Flora and I were by ourselves in the drawing-room, we had our parcels in and examined them once more--such quantities of bright ribbons and pretty cotton frocks! Flora, though much delighted, was not quite confident that she had been right--she was afraid mamma would think it was a great shame to let cousin Hester put herself to all this trouble, "and expense too," said Flora, looking doubtfully up at me, "and all for my school-children at Ennerdale. I am so much afraid I was very wrong to tell you of it, and what will mamma say?"

"Who can we get to make them, Flora?" said I.

"That is just what I was thinking of," said Flora, immediately diverted from her self-reproaches; "Mamma's maid is a famous dressmaker, and I can cut out things very well myself, and they might have a holiday and meet in the schoolroom, and all of us work at them together; there is Mary and Janna and Lettie from the hall, and our own Annie and Edie, and myself; and oh, cousin Hester, would you come?"

"I should like to come," said I, "but what shall I do with baby? and I am too old, Flora, for you and your bridesmaidens; I am more fit to stay beside mamma."

Flora threw her arms round me caressingly, and a voice behind me said, "Does Hester say she is old? Do not believe her, Miss Ennerdale, she is a true girl at heart and nothing better--growing younger every day--though you never were very mature nor experienced, Hester, I must say that for you," and Mr. Osborne came forward very affectionately and stood by my side.

My husband entered the room after him; had they been talking, I wonder--talking of me? I could not tell, but I was learned now in all the changes of his face, and I saw that something had excited him. All this evening Mr. Osborne continued to speak of me so, in a tone of fatherly affectionateness, praise, and blame, of which it was impossible to say that one was kinder than the other. He told little simple stories of my girlish days--things that I had forgotten long ago--which made Flora laugh and clap her hands, but which embarrassed me dreadfully, and brought tears of real distress to my eyes. What was my husband thinking?--how did he receive all this? I scarcely dared lift my eyes to him, and then Mr. Osborne touched upon the time of our wooing, and of our marriage. What could he mean?--this could not be mere inadvertence. I sat trembling, bending down my head over the work in my hand, my eyes full of tears, afraid to move lest I should betray myself, and even Flora grew grave and smiled no longer, while Mr. Osborne went on unmoved. Oh, my husband, what was _he_ thinking? I was glad to say faintly that I heard baby crying, and to escape from the room--it was more than I could bear.

Baby was not crying, but sleeping sweetly in his pretty cradle. I bent over him to get calmness and courage from his sleeping face. Alice was sitting by the fire, covering a soft ball with scraps of bright-colored cloth; just one of those occupations which give the last touch of permanence and security to the appearance of home. It was for baby, of course--he had already one or two toys of the simplest baby kind, and we had been delighted to perceive the other day how he observed something thrown up into the air like a ball. Alice looked up when I came to her, and saw at once my disturbed face--she guessed what it was, though only imperfectly--and she drew my chair into the corner, and made me sit down and rest--"I thought it would be too much for you, Miss Hester," said Alice, tenderly, "it brings back everything--I know it does--but it's only the first, dear."

I was content to wait beside her, and recover myself; though all the time my thoughts were busy downstairs, wondering what he might be saying now; and I am not sure that I was not more eager to return than I had been to make my escape. When I went back, I entered the room very quietly, for I was considerably excited; and in my anxiety to appear calm, overdid my part. My husband was seated nearer Mr. Osborne than he had been, and was bending down with his arms resting upon his knees, supporting his head in his hands, and gazing into the fire--while Mr. Osborne talked after his lively fashion to Flora as if he was not aware of having any other auditor--he was speaking when I came in.

"I flatter myself, I am Hester's oldest friend," he said, "and we have quarrelled in our day. She had many disadvantages in her childhood. She wanted a mother's hand; but I always did justice to her noble qualities. Hester is--well, she is more my own child than any one else ever can be. I feel as if I had found her again--and she is--"

"I am here, Mr. Osborne," cried I--"oh, don't, don't; you only humiliate me when you praise me!"

For there was he sitting silent while I was commended, hearing about my youth, and perhaps smiling at it bitterly in his heart. It struck me down to the very dust to be commended before him; I would rather have been blamed, for then the unconscious comparison which I always supposed him making between what he knew and what he heard would have been less to my disadvantage. Mr. Osborne did not know how his kind word and the affectionate tone which even now touched my heart, and would have made me very grateful under any other circumstances, wounded and abased me now.

When I spoke, my husband raised his head, and threw a furtive glance at me--what could he be thinking? I shrank before his eye, as if I had been practising some guilty act, as if I had conspired with Mr. Osborne to insinuate to him that he had not sufficient regard for me.

"_I_ praise you, Hester! did you ever hear me?" said Mr. Osborne, smiling; "I was but telling Miss Ennerdale how you exhibited your baby to-day; and your young cousin, Hester, is not to be moved out of the opinion that your boy is the _beau-ideal_ of boys--my dear child," he said, suddenly lowering his voice, and coming to take a seat beside me, "she is very like your mother."

"Will you sing to Mr. Osborne, Flora?" said I. "I think she is very like my mother, indeed, and she is very happy, and will be very happy; there is no cloud coming to her."

He shook his head, but was silent, as Flora began to sing. My husband took a book, but I know he did not read a word of it. He sat listening as I did to some of those velvety drawing-room love-songs, which Flora had purely because they were "the fashion," and some others of a better kind, which the girl's own better taste had chosen. Mr. Osborne did not admire them as I did. He shook his head again slightly, and said, "A very good girl--a very good girl," as Flora's sweet young voice ran over verse after verse to please him. "That is not like your mother, Hester," he said; but it was Mr. Osborne that was changed, it was not the music. He had been no connoisseur in the old days.

When Flora closed the piano it was nearly time to go to rest--and I was very glad to find it so. My husband and I were left last in the room when our visitors had retired--and when I went to bid him good night, he took my hand in both of his and put it to his forehead and his lips. I was very much agitated--I faltered out, "Have you anything to say to me?" I could find no other words, and he said, "No--no, nothing but good night."

THE EIGHTH DAY.

Mr. Osborne was gone--Flora was gone--and we had relapsed into our former quietness. The neighboring ladies called upon me, and I called upon them in return; but I had no heart either to give or to accept invitations, for our personal relations to each other were unchanged; and though there was peace, entire dead peace, never broken by an impatient word or a hasty exclamation, there was no comfort in this gloomy house of ours. We were so courteous to each other, so afraid to give trouble, so full of thanks for any little piece of service! To my vehement temper strife itself was even better than this, and many times I almost fled out of the house, hurried, at least as much as I could _decorously_, to refresh my fevered mind in the fresh air, and ponder over our position again and again.

Why did he not make an end of this?--but then the question would come, why did not I make an end of it? I had come home to do him justice, but he had warned me long beforehand that justice would not satisfy him, and had promised solemnly to leave it all in my hands. Had I all the responsibility?--what could I say?--what could I do?--and it was not always easy to keep down a spark of the former bitterness, a momentary resentment against him who would not step in to assist me, but who left all the guilt and all the burden of this unnatural state upon me. For my own part, I persuaded myself that I had done everything I could do--I had made my submission--I had brought him justice;--what more could be done by me?

Every time he made his thanks to me, I was on the point of breaking forth in a passionate protest against being so addressed, but I know not what failing of the heart prevented me. I never did it; I learned to thank him myself after the same fashion, to try if that would sting him into giving up this obnoxious practice. I could see it _did_ sting him, but not so far as this; and we were still polite--oh, so dreadfully courteous, grateful, indebted to each other!

Upon this day I had burst out after my usual fashion, in desperation, able to bear no more. Had Mrs. Ennerdale or any other prudent adviser been able to see into my heart, and to take me to task for it, I could have given no proper reason for my perturbation. My husband had not been unkind, but perfectly the reverse--he was considerate, careful, attentive in the highest degree; I had no _reasonable_ cause to find fault with him--but--I could not be patient to-day. I had suffered a great deal, and permitted no sign of it to appear in my behavior. I had tried to learn the true secret of wifely forbearance, mildness, gentleness; but I was of an impetuous character by nature, and had never been taught to rule or restrain myself. My endurance was worn out--it was in my mind to make an appeal to him, to tell him he was unjust--unjust!--here was I using the term again, when I had wished so often that there was not such a word in the world.

I had my mantle on, and the hood drawn over my head. It was not unusual for me to wander along this quiet country lane in such a simple dress, for there were no passengers here, except the rectory people or villagers from Cottisbourne, and I was close by home. It was late in the afternoon the first day of November, and the weather was dark and cloudy. My husband was in the library, where he always sat; baby was in his cosy nursery up-stairs, in the careful hands of Alice. He, dear little fellow, always wanted me, and I was never unhappy while with him--but darkness and discontent had settled on me now. I realized to myself vividly that gloomy picture of a household--two dull large rooms closely adjoining each other, the young husband shut up in one, the wife in another. Why was it?--he was the first to blame;--why did he fail to yield me now what was due to a woman? Would it not have been generous to take the explanation on himself, and disperse this dreadful stifling mist which every day grew closer around us;--to say--"we have been wrong; let us forget it all, and begin our life again." He ought to say it--it was my part to wait for him, not he for me; he owed me this, as the last and only reparation he could make for the first deceit which I had forgiven. So I reasoned to myself as I wandered along this solitary road; there was more resentment, more displeasure in my mind than there had been for many a day. It was unnatural, it was shocking, the state of things which now existed. I began to grow indignant at him for not doing what it so clearly seemed his part to do. At this moment I saw Miss Saville advancing very slowly and dully along the road. She was so active and brisk a person at all times, that I was surprised to see the heaviness of her look and face to-day. She came forward reluctantly, as if every step she took added to her burden. Her mind was evidently oppressed and ill at ease, for she looked round her on every side, and started at trivial sounds as if in fear. When she saw me she suddenly stopped, and a red color came to her face. She was not young, and had never been at all pretty. I cannot call this a flush, but only a painful burning red which came to her cheeks--shame, and distress, and fear. I did not want to embarrass and distress her--I knew how much good lay under her formality and her pretensions now.

"Do not let me disturb you," I said eagerly; "do not mind me at all, pray, Miss Saville; I see you are engaged."

She waited till I came up to her, looking at me all the time. "I was coming to seek you," she said; "where were you going, Mrs. Southcote? are you at leisure? I have something to say to you."

"I was going nowhere," I said. "I am quite at your service--what is it?"

She looked at me again for a moment; "I can't tell you what it is--I don't know--I want you to come with me to the rectory; but, my dear," she continued, her "sense of propriety" coming to her aid, even in the midst of her agitation, "had you not better go back and get your bonnet? it is not becoming to walk so far in such a dress."

"No one will see me," I said briefly; "but what am I to do at the rectory--can you not tell me here?"

"It is not I, Mrs. Southcote," said Miss Saville, with suppressed agitation; "I told you once before that we had trouble in our family, and that there was one among us who gave great sorrow to William and me; but you did not mind my story, for you were like other young people, and thought no trouble so bad as your own. But my poor brother Richard is back again here, and he has not improved his ways, and he is always raving about you. He says he wants to see you. We won't let him go up to Cottiswoode, for when he sees Mr. Southcote I know he constantly seeks money from him, and we cannot bear that; so to pacify him, I promised to come out to-day, and try to persuade you to come to the rectory with me. Now, my dear, will you do it! You would not speak to him before, and I could not blame you; but he speaks as if something lay upon his conscience--oh, Mrs. Southcote, will you see him and hear what it is?"

"If you wish it, I will go," said I; "I do not want to hear anything he has got to say myself; but if it will please you, Miss Saville--I know you must have thought me very heartless once--if it pleases you, I will go."

She said, "thank you, my dear," breathlessly, and hurried me on--though, even now, not without a lament for my bonnet. As we came near, I saw once more the face of the Rector peering out from the corner window. Miss Saville saw it too, and burst into a hurried involuntary recital of their troubles. "William is miserable!" she cried with excitement, "you don't know what William is, all you people who look at the appearance, and not at the heart--he is the best brother--the kindest friend!--and now, when he had come to the station he was entitled to, and was in the way of doing his duty and being respected as he deserves, here comes Richard to wring our hearts and expose us to disgrace!--If we had money to give him he would not stay long with us, but William would rather sacrifice everything in the world than refuse a kind home to his brother--and then he is taking care of him--and the rector's study smelling of brandy and water, and bits of cigars upon his mantel-shelf and his writing-table--and he as patient as an angel--oh, Mrs. Southcote, it's very hard!"

As we entered at the trim gate, and went up through the orderly, neat garden, where not a weed was to be seen, I could understand this small aspect of Miss Saville's affliction, the ends of cigars, and the smell of brandy and water, as well as her greater and sorer sorrow over the fallen brother, who still was dear to her--but the idea of an interview with him was not more agreeable on this account--I waited while she hurriedly dried her eyes, and went in with her very reluctantly. What could this man want with me! and all my old abhorrence of him returned upon me as I prepared for this unpleasant meeting. He was the first messenger of misfortune to us, and I had never tried to surmount my first disgust and aversion to him.

The Rev. Mr. Saville's trim, snug study, was indeed sadly desecrated. He himself, the good Rector, was coughing in the atmosphere of smoke which hovered round the fire where Saville sat, with his legs upon a chair, in insolent ease and luxury. There was no brandy and water visible, but the heated look in the man's face, and the close, disagreeable air of the room, was quite enough to justify what his sister said. I suppose it was in the haste of her agitation that she ushered me immediately into the room, where we did not seem to be expected, and where I scarcely could breathe.

"You should not have brought Mrs. Southcote here, Martha," said the Rector, who was no less stiff and formal than of old, though a painful embarrassment mingled with elaborate courtesies; "this is not a fit place for a lady; we will join you in the drawing-room, Martha."

"Any place will do to tell good news in," said Saville, withdrawing his feet from the chair, and sitting erect. "Give the lady a seat, Martha, and leave us. Glad to see you, Mrs. Southcote; glad to have an opportunity of making my statement to you; had you heard it sooner it might have saved you trouble. Now, good people, why are you waiting? This piece of news does not concern you. William, take Martha away."

"Oh, don't leave me, Miss Saville," I said, retreating a little, and grasping her hand.

"What, afraid!" said the man with a sneer; "you had more spirit when I saw you first, young lady; but as this that I have to say to you," he continued, gravely, "is of the greatest importance to your family, I leave it with yourself to judge whether it would not be best to keep it for your ears alone."

What could it be? I looked earnestly at him and he at me. I was no coward; and here, when I had only dislike, and no other feeling which could betray me, I was brave enough after the first moment. I turned to the Rector and Miss Saville, who stood behind, half-frightened, half-displeased, and full of anxious curiosity. "Pray leave us, as he says," said I. "If it is anything worth your hearing, I will tell you what it is; but in the meantime he will not speak till you are gone."

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."