Chapter XVIII: Book III: The Days of My Life (6)

The color rose upon my husband's face, and he raised his head with an involuntary gesture of pride and defiance. It _was_ a Southcote face! I could not be mistaken--all around were the portraits of our race, and I read them with a quick inspection as my anxious eye glanced from him for a moment. He was not like Edgar the Scholar now--my Harry could never have planned a demon's revenge upon unborn children--he was not like any one of them perhaps--but in his face I saw, as in a glass, reflections, momentary glances, of all the pictured faces round us. And when I turned to gaze upon himself again, once more I was overwhelmed with that shadow of my father in his resolute expression. Oh, monstrous invention!--how could any one have found all these shadowy likenesses in the face of a stranger?

"Hester," he said gravely, "when Saville came to me last winter with some vague threats of his power to prove me an impostor, I almost wished at first that I could have yielded to him, and so restored to you the rights you were born to. But a man must be very wretched and debased indeed, when he can make up his mind to deprive himself of his name. Do you remember that you forbade me telling you what he had come to say? I carefully went over then, both by myself and with my lawyer, the proofs which were thought conclusive at a former time. I found no reason to doubt them, Hester--there was neither break nor weakness in the chain. You look at me doubtfully, wistfully--what do you wish me to say?"

"That you are quite sure--quite sure," I said, "I am speaking folly, I know--but that you remember your father--that you are sure you are my uncle Brian's son."

"That is easily done--I am quite sure," he said with perfect calmness; "but now, Hester, let me know what the fiction is. What does the fellow call me? I do not think his imagination is very brilliant--let me see."

He took the papers--smoothed them out, and read them--at first with interest, then, as I thought, with surprise and amazement. "What does it mean?" he exclaimed, at last, turning to me; "I suppose you have the interpretation, Hester. What is all this about my poor little brother?--what does it mean?"

I made no answer, but only looked closely at him. As he caught my eye, the color flushed to his face and he started up. "Do you mean to say that he tries to identify me with my mother's eldest son?" he cried, with considerable excitement; "is this the story?--and her own letters--how are they pressed into the service?--is this what you have heard, Hester? Why do you not speak?--this is what you have heard!"

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

And Harry began to stride about the room, in considerable excitement, muttering words which I am afraid were not very commendatory to Saville. "The rascal!--the villain!--and only to deceive her--only to make my wife a party against me?" he exclaimed, as he paced through the apartment--then gradually subduing himself he came back and resumed his place by my side.

"If it were not that the results of his scheming have blessed me beyond my hopes, I am afraid I should lack power to restrain myself," he said, "and all the more because this invention could only have been to deceive _you_, Hester, for it could not stand a moment's examination. I see what his abominable purpose was--to show to the world husband and wife contending with each other over this disputed inheritance. He must have trusted to your ignorance of the world--to your own truthful and open nature, which was beyond suspicion--and, good Heavens, Hester, think of it! to your hatred of me."

To the very depths of my heart I was humiliated; it was a palpable fraud then, a trick, which could only have been tried upon a credulous fool, a woman, or a child. My last eminence sank beneath my feet; I had no longer even discrimination enough to judge between the false and the true.

"Harry," I said faltering, "it may be only that I cannot bear you to think me so foolish: but I think indeed it might have deceived even a wiser person than I. I was prepared to think it a lie, but it looked very like truth, Harry; indeed it is difficult to consent to it that I have been so very _easily_ deceived."

"Ah, Hester, it all comes of our past circumstances," said my husband, "you were deceived because you did not know my story; shall I tell it to you now?"

I said "yes," eagerly--then my eye caught the forsaken breakfast table, the poor kettle subsided into noiseless quietness, all its cheerful boiling over. "But you have had no breakfast!" I exclaimed. How Harry laughed, how his face shone, and the tears came to his eyes! Strange that it was always some simplest word that moved him most. He threw the papers down, and caught me in his kind arms, and rejoiced over me. These common things put him in mind of what had happened to us, of the life that lay before us now, the union that began to-day.

And when I began to arrange the breakfast once more, to put the kettle on the fire, and ring for hot coffee, and arrange his neglected meal for him, he sat looking at me, not caring to do anything else, I thought--and it was strange what a pleasure I found in these housewifely matters. I believe when one comes to the very truth, when youth and its first romances are over, that there is no such pleasure for a woman as in these little domestic services, which are natural to her. How gladly and lightly I went about them! and my heart was full. I could not be content without the third little member of our family; I ran up-stairs and brought down in my arms our beautiful boy. I think we were happy enough at that moment to make up for a whole year's trouble; and when Amy came into the room for baby, some time after, I saw her joyous, astonished glance from one to another, for Harry was dancing his son in his arms, and I was standing close by looking on, talking and clapping my hands to him. Amy did not like to be inquisitive or "unmannerly," but in the simplicity of her heart she gave me such a wistful, questioning, delighted look when I put baby into her arms. Poor Amy! involuntarily I patted her stout shoulder with my hand as she went away, and I knew very well she went immediately to tell her tale of a new era to Alice--I saw it in her face.

And then Harry gathered up these scattered papers and drew my arm within his, and led me to the library. How strangely this room was connected with the principal events in my life! We went to the pretty recessed corner where my hours of girlish study used to be spent, and there my husband told me, for the first time, the story of his young life.

"I remember that I could once recollect my father, Hester," he said; "but I think that is all. My mother I remember well enough; and I have the most perfect recollection of the stone in memory of Brian Southcote, to which she used to lead me; and the little grave close by, where I have seen her prostrate herself in passionate sorrow, and where my little brother, Harry Southern, lay. This little brother fills up a great part of my earliest memory. He was a blight and shadow upon my life, though I was full of vague, childish sympathy and admiration for him. He had died just before my mother's second marriage, and when I was born I was named after him, and my mother's greatest desire seemed to be to make me a sort of shadow of her best-beloved child. I recollect quite well her frequent exclamation: 'Your father calls you Edgar, but you are Harry to me--always Harry to me--not my lost Harry, but, at least, his name--oh! I cannot give up his name.' I suppose I was precocious, as lonely children are so often; and I do not think I was quite satisfied even then to be only the reflection of another. However, that time was followed by a dismal one of friendlessness and solitude. And then a sailor brother of the Savilles came by chance with his ship to Jamaica. My poor mother had been in regular correspondence with her cousin, Miss Saville, and the brother was commissioned to find me out. I came home to England with him. All that my father had left in Jamaica had got into very uncertain hands by that time; and, though the amount sounded well, it was, I am afraid, only a fabulous inheritance; and I was a very poor child, indeed, when our good Rector here, then a poor curate, took me in and gave me shelter. I owed everything to their kindness, Hester. They were humble people, and I had 'no claim upon them,' as people say; but they were angels of charity to me.

"A year or two after I came to England, the attorney brother came down from London to visit them. He was not then what he is now: he was unscrupulous, and not very respectable, perhaps, but he had a good deal of acuteness, and was prudent enough to restrain his evil appetites. In mere idleness, at first, he began investigating who I belonged to, as he called it. There had been a rumor in the family that my poor mother had made a great match; and Saville soon discovered what his simple relatives never could have discovered--who Brian Southcote was, and what his heir was entitled to. My father had been a man of foolish benevolence. He had taken no precautions for me; done nothing that he could help; so that it required no small research, and perseverance, and industry, to get proofs of my identity together. I always disliked the man, but I was indebted to him; and during the whole time of my minority he restricted my means greatly. Then, when I came of age, I pensioned him; but he has not been satisfied with this: he has gradually fallen in character and habits into the miserable reprobate, who is nothing but disgrace to his kind kindred who will not disown him. I have been obliged to resist his exactions again and again; and after he threatened me, of course my honor was concerned, and I could not permit myself to be bullied into further concessions. These letters, you see, are addressed to Miss Saville. Are you able to go to the Rectory with me, Hester, and hear her account of her cousin's children? and we will see this man together. The facts are very simple, plausible as this fiction is; but Harry Southern was five or six years old before my father's marriage: did not that occur to you, my timid wife?"

"Yes--yes," I said eagerly; "a great many things occurred to me. I felt almost sure that the first of these letters referred to an older child than the others; but I had no clue--nothing to guide me; and the thought that it _might_ be true was enough to make me miserable. I am quite able: I promised to let him know what I would do. Come, come; let us go at once, Harry."

He smiled at my eagerness now; but went first to his desk, unlocked it, and a concealed drawer in it, and drew from thence a little bundle of papers. One was a certificate of his parents' marriage, the other of the birth of Harry Edgar Southcote; and the others corroborative documents. I returned them to him hastily. I was almost offended. "Why do you offer me these?" I said, impatiently; "is your word not enough for me?" "You must consider what is enough for law and the world, Hester," said my husband; "enough to secure to our boy an unblemished name--he is the principal person to be considered in this argument; though there is no fear of his inheritance between us, we must take care to establish his perfect right to be called Southcote. My family pride is all of your teaching--but I have caught it fully now. Shall you get ready, then? Ah, Hester, is all this nightmare that is past only a dream?"

"Only a dream, Harry, only a dream!" I cried, as we stood together hand in hand; so much a dream that I scarcely could suppose now how it had been with us yesterday--and when at last I left him to get my bonnet, I ran upstairs almost with a lighter foot than Flora's; the cloud was gone--gone--absolutely gone; and instead of being sceptical of my own happiness, it was the misery now that I was sceptical of--I could scarcely believe it, scarcely understand how I could have defied and rejected all these blessings of Providence so long.

When I went into my room, Alice was there, looking excited, heated, full of anxiety and trouble. How hastily she tied the ribbons of baby's cloak, and sent Amy away with him! How impatient she looked while I bent over him, and kissed the sweet face which brightened every day into more beautiful intelligence! Then she waited to know what I wanted, and when I told her what it was, she came behind me, arranging my cloak upon my shoulders with tremulous hands--and I caught a glimpse of her wistful agitated face looking at me in the glass, trying to read in my eyes what had happened to me. As she did this, I turned round upon her suddenly, and looked full in her face; she faltered, retired a little, and I saw was almost crying with extreme agitation and anxiety. I took both her hands and drew her very close to me.

"Alice, can you believe it?" said I; "God has cured me by great blessings, and not by great calamities, as you once feared He would. It is all over--it is all over, there will never be any more misery in this house. Have you been praying for it, Alice? Is it through you?"

"Oh, my darling, my precious child!" cried Alice, suddenly clasping me in her arms as if I had been a child indeed; "it's through His mercy! I'd be glad to die now!"

"Hush, hush, hush! there would be little joy then," said I, when I was able to draw myself from her arms, "we are all to be very happy now, Alice, like a fairy tale."

"Like them that love God," said Alice solemnly.

I bowed my head; these words overpowered me. Was it He who had guided me through all those dark and wilful ways? He who had filled me with the fruit of my own doings; given me my own will, till I knew what a miserable inheritance that was? He who had saved my baby; at whose feet I had prostrated myself, vowing to sacrifice the sin which I regarded in my heart? I bent my head into my hands and wept. I think every tear was a thanksgiving, for they relieved my heart.

That rectory lane! how dull it used to be--how full of beautiful life it was to-day. We did not look much as if we were going about a serious piece of business--we were so occupied and absorbed with ourselves--and it never once occurred to me what should be said to Saville till we were entering at the rectory gate. On the road my husband told me--a very strange coincidence too--that the stranger who accompanied him last night, and for whom he had left a message, had sought him out about the lost West Indian property, which still might be recovered. When we came at last to the rectory, I asked, "What will you say to Saville, Harry?" But there was no time to answer my question. Miss Saville met us in the hall--she looked disturbed, alarmed, anxious--she knew our visit must have some reference to my yesterday's conference with her brother, and she was very anxious for him. I ran to her eagerly, took her hand, and kissed her. I was very little given to this species of affectionateness, and she was completely taken by surprise. "Mrs. Southcote, my dear, what is it?" she said, sinking down upon one of the stiff hall chairs, and doing what she could to keep herself from crying. "Hester never knew before how much I owed to you," said Harry, coming to my help, for indeed I was nothing loth to cry too! "Come, dear friend, we want your kind assistance. Where is the Rector--and Richard--but, Miss Saville, let us first speak to you."

She led the way into a little housekeeping parlor, which was her own special sanctuary, and there sat down trembling to hear what we had to say. Then Harry told her the entire story; she was grievously distressed. She could not bear to blame her brother, yet the way in which he had taken advantage of her, wounded her to the heart. "_My_ letters!" she said faintly. "Dear boy, dear Harry, you don't think I ever meant to do harm to you? He made me give him poor Maria's letters to amuse him, he said--he's got them all--can they do you any harm? can they? Tell me!--for he's got them all."

"They can do me no harm--they have done me the greatest good," said Harry, "they have restored to me my wife; but I must see him in your presence, and have this matter set at rest. He must be mad to think of injuring me by such an expedient as this."

"Hush! I sometimes think," said Miss Saville, under her breath, "that it is telling on his mind--I do, indeed. He raves of nights; and whatever William and I can say, he won't give up that dreadful drinking; he'll kill himself, Harry dear--that's what he'll do--and such a man as he was once--oh! such a man as he might have been!"

And tears of love and anguish--love, most undeserved, most long-suffering--fell slowly and bitterly from this good woman's eyes. I had scorned her once, but I felt very poor and mean beside her now.

When she had sufficiently composed herself, she took us into another room, and left us to bring her brothers. The Rector came immediately, the other refused. Miss Saville returned in great distress to say, that he would not come--that he refused to see us--that I had broken faith with him.

"We must go to him, then," said my husband, steadily; "the Rector will give you his arm, Hester. Do not be nervous, Miss Saville--this must be settled--but he shall be spared, be sure. Come, lean upon me--my kind, old friend, can you not trust me?"

"Oh, yes, yes!" she said, but her distress was so great and evident, that I scarcely could bear it. We went in this solemn order--the Rector, in great perturbation, giving me his arm, but looking afraid of me, to the study. Saville was sitting smoking by the fire; he started up, and dashed his cigar to the ground as we entered: he turned fiercely round upon us like a wild beast at bay, and asked, with an oath, what was the meaning of this?--was he never to be left alone?

"Yes, in half-an-hour," said my husband; "but first I must speak to you. Saville, you have been a very good friend to me--I acknowledge it; you know I have always been glad to say as much. What motive could you have to tell this false story--this story you know so well to be false--to my wife?"

"Motive?--I had motive enough, you may be sure," answered Saville, shortly--"that is my concern--it is yours to prove the story false, as you call it--false! What do you know about it?--there's not a man qualified to speak on the subject but me."

"Oh! Richard! Richard!" cried Miss Saville; "poor Maria's letters--was that the use you wanted to make of them? But you know very well it is not true. William and I know it is not true; and, to tell it to his wife!--oh, for shame, for shame!"

"Give me back the papers," said the man, hoarsely, holding out his hand to me.

I was surprised to see Harry take them out at once and hand them to him. _I_ would have kept possession of them, for they were still important and dangerous to me.

He held them in his hands a moment as if undecided, and then tossed them on the table, where they fluttered about like scraps of useless paper, as they were. "I thought you had a serpent in your house," he said, looking at Harry--"I owed her a grudge as well as you; but if you are in league, I had as well give up the contest. I'll tell you what--give me cash enough to take me somewhere--America--Australia--I don't care where it is. I don't want to see one of you again, and you'll be rid of me."

Miss Saville started as if about to speak, but restrained herself--glanced at her better brother, and closed her eyes, growing very pale; bad as he was, she could not bear the thought of an everlasting parting--he was her brother still.

"I will do this," said Harry, quietly, "but it must not be done so that your perverse ingenuity can make it look like a bribe. Will you come to Cottiswoode to-morrow? the Rector will come with you--come as a man should come who dares look other men in the face--on my part, I will have a friend fit to cope with you, and settle this business once and for ever;--do you consent?"

He did not speak for a moment--he was hemmed in and saw no way of escape; he searched about with his cunning eyes in the vacant air, but saw no expedient. "I consent!" he said, sullenly, "anything for peace. Leave me alone, for heaven's sake--there, there, Martha, take your remonstrances away!"

We left him so--and Harry did not even take the trouble of gathering up these pieces of paper. "They are quite harmless, Hester," he said to me with a smile when I spoke of them, and I was obliged to be satisfied with that.

Then we went into Miss Saville's little parlor again--the Rector and she were consulting anxiously together. The Rector was sadly clouded and cast down--he was a good man, but he was weaker than his sister.

"Yes, it is much better I should go," she said; "I will go with Richard. Mr. Southcote--Harry!--if you are to have a stranger present let _me_ come instead of the Rector--it might be awkward for William--he might meet the gentleman again; and consider he is a clergyman, and must not do anything unbecoming his station. I will come with poor Richard--it will do as well, will it not?"

"Quite as well," said my husband; "better indeed, except that it will grieve you."

"It will not grieve me so much as it would grieve William," she said quickly; and that point was settled.

"Dear Miss Saville, it is through me this distress has come upon you," I said, as she went out with us to the door. I looked up to her anxiously, now that I had come to esteem her so much. I was afraid she must think very little of me.

"My dear, it will be all settled through you," said Miss Saville, "and that will be a blessing--I am glad it has come to this--very glad in my spirit, though it's hard to the flesh. William will have peace at last!"

She went in abruptly as we left the door; she could not keep her composure any longer. With a woman's sympathetic instinct, I knew she was gone away with her burden, to try if she could lighten it by tears.

"Harry," I said gravely, when we went away, "she is not young nor pretty, nor clever, nor interesting--people don't love her even when they only see her as I used to do. What has such a woman to reward her for the neglects and slights that are her portion now?"

"Patience and hope here, nothing more, Hester," said Harry, "not even William loves her as she loves him--nothing but hope and patience--poor Martha!--and in the world to come, life everlasting. That is enough for her."

Enough for any one, surely, surely! but God had made a difference between her life and ours.

ANOTHER DAY.

It was little Harry's birth-day.

He was standing before me in the little fanciful dress of blue velvet which Alice and Amy, no less than myself, thought so particularly becoming to his beautiful complexion, and in which he had already made a grand appearance, and stood at full length in a wonderful gilt frame, upon the wall of the dining-room down-stairs, for the admiration of all the visitors at Cottiswoode, and the instruction of future ages. I was seated in the nursery proper, a large room, which communicated with my dressing-room, with "something else" upon my knee--something which was a maze of fine muslin, of lace, and embroidery, almost richer, if that were possible, than Harry's baby robes had been--and of which the only legible token of humanity was a pair of blue eyes shining through the maze of the pretty veil; blue eyes, the "sweetest eyes that e'er were seen" to my husband and to me.

I had been so very anxious about this little one--so overwhelmed with superstitious awe and terror lest this should be the fated second boy, the inheritor of that weird and ghostly jewel; but I was suffering Harry now to turn round and round upon my finger the hereditary diamond. Thus far, at least, the spell was broken. The blue eyes belonged to a little girl--a little Helen Ennerdale, a sweet representative of her whose sweet and peaceful face was always with me. I feared my ring no longer. I had even placed it sportively on baby's little finger, and promised Alice in the lightness of my heart that this was the woman, the Southcote born, from whose finger this pledge of family misfortune was to fall.

For I was now a happy young matron--a thrice happy mother; yes, Mr. Osborne was right--I was a girl at heart--I grew younger every day. Since my little girl was born, Alice herself, who would not have thought the crown jewels too fine for me, had looked on with amazement at the additions which I made to my wardrobe. The love of all these pretty things--the feminine pleasure in them, for their own sake--had grown and blossomed in me ever since I became a happy wife. Do you say that was no very great result to have arrived at? No, neither it was, if it had been a result, but it was only an indication. I was no longer indifferent to any thing--I had a liking, a choice, an opinion, in every daily matter of my life. I lived these bright days heartily, caring for everything, doing everything with a will--my heart was no longer dwelling abstracted in some course of private thoughts, of recollections or broodings. My heart was in my work and in my pleasure, and had to do with all I was engaged in. All those blessings that came fresh to me from God's hands--should I have taken them grudgingly? No, I received them with all my heart.

It was Harry's birthday--he was three years old; and we were just about setting out with his little sister to the church, to add her to the number of those on whom the name of the Lord is named. Alice, in the silk gown she had worn at my marriage, was standing by me, ready to carry the little neophyte down-stairs, while Amy waited behind with her bright good-humored face and holiday dress, to follow in our train. It was a beautiful day of June, warm and sunny; the windows were open; the sweet air, rich with the breath of flowers, blew from window to window, stirring the veil about this sweet new face. There were flowers every where, sweet bouquets of roses--it was a double holiday, a day of family joy. I could not have the house sufficiently bright nor sufficiently adorned.

And there was Harry--the elder Harry--looking in at the door, making a pretence of chiding us for delay, but, in reality, looking at the group which belonged to him, with joy which was too great for words. And then we set out in our joyful solemn procession, Alice going first that we might not lose sight of the young newcomer. My pretty Flora, now quite an experienced young wife, was standing beside Miss Saville, waiting for us downstairs--these were to be my little Helen's god-mothers; the one a beautiful, happy young woman, rich in all the gifts of this world; the other, drawing near the frost of age--homely, stiff, ceremonious, noways beautiful. What a strange contrast they were! but I would rather have been without Flora than without my husband's kindest friend.

Mr. Osborne, who was also with us, gave his arm to Flora--like other people, he preferred the youthful beauty to the elderly goodness--Miss Saville came with Harry and me. As we went down the lane she talked to us of our duties; how we should educate our children; and of the system of religious instruction she should think it her duty to adopt with baby when she was old enough; while little Harry looked up with amazement from my side, and privately whispered to me to ask if Miss Saville was scolding papa or mamma. Harry did not comprehend how the infallible authorities of his little world should be lectured by anybody, and varied between amazement and indignation. We, for our own parts, took it with great good humor and respect, though, perhaps, it did not do us much good--for Miss Saville belonged to a bygone age, and to a class which greatly abounds in system--though I by no means despised her counsels and wisdom in training the little heir of Cottiswoode, who long ago had shown unmistakeable signs of possessing "a will of his own."

How beautiful the day was!--those glorious measureless depths of blue, yon floating snow-white islands--were they clouds or sunshine?--that curdled broken line, in its long oblique streaks, a vague beatitude of light and vapor, a real milky way. Then the green borders of the lane, with its tiny eyes of flowers looking through the matted herbage; the clear little rivulet of water singing through the meadow; the willows rustling their long branches as though vainly longing for the water, which these bristling boughs will never reach--I had the spring of returning strength, of added blessings--everything to be thankful for. I felt as if every step I took was somehow an expression of thankfulness. I was in no mood to listen to any discourse--my thoughts were all abroad upon the fresh air and sunshine, my heart was singing its own quiet song of jubilee and gratitude--I am afraid all the lectures in the world would have been lost on me.

And then we clustered round the humble font, in the homely little country church, many a kindly looker-on from the village following us softly, on tiptoe, to see the ceremony--that ordinance of all others most touching, most solemn, most simple, most like the first instinctive wish of nature. To claim by name and sign the protection of God for this little child, to lay down her helplessness, visibly in the sight of men, at the feet of the only strength that is Omnipotent, the only love that is Almighty; to say aloud before our neighbors, "She belongs to us only because she belongs to Thee--she shall be ours for ever, living or dying, because she and we are Thine." I leaned heavily upon my husband's arm, and looked up into his face. Harry's eyes were wet and glistening as mine were--we had not been together when our eldest born was dedicated thus, and it had been a hard, sad day to me--but the joy of this was almost more than I could bear.

When we left the church, it was not in the nature of mortal woman to help lingering to hear the plaudits which the admiring mothers of Cottisbourne bestowed upon my little Helen; some of them remembered my mother, and prophesied that this was to be "her very image;" others, loyal to the reigning monarchs, were divided as to whether she should be like her father or her mother; but there was no doubt about the principal fact, that such a beautiful baby never was seen. Little Harry by this time had deserted me for Amy, and the rest of the party had gone on before, so that I had only the Rector for my companion--the Rector, who, good man, had lingered with his natural ceremonious politeness, waiting for me. Mr. Saville was not great at conversation; and after we had exchanged a few remarks about the village and the parish, and the work which he was doing in both, I was much surprised when he, of his own accord, began another subject.

"We have heard from my brother in Australia to-day, Mrs. Southcote," he said; "Miss Saville is somewhat agitated--did you not observe it?"

"No, indeed," I said. "Is it painful news? oh, I hope not! or we only have been troubling her to-day."

"The trouble is an honor, madam," said my reverend companion, with one of his elaborate bows; "and the news is--not painful, certainly. My brother Richard, though unfortunate, was a man of mind--always a man of mind, Mrs. Southcote--and has, I am glad to say, recovered himself in his new sphere, as we are led to hope--he has, indeed," and here the Rector sighed a small sigh--"married since he went abroad--and with Mr. Southcote's liberal allowance I have no doubt he will do well."

And again the excellent Rector sighed. Why did the good man sigh? "You do not disapprove of his marriage, Mr. Saville?" said I, in my ignorance.

"Disapprove! no--far be it from me to disapprove of an honorable estate," said the Rector, looking wistfully up at the windows of the Rectory as we passed. "I have no doubt if Richard is mercifully supported in his changed ways he will be a happy man; but there are many men who never have it in their power to consult their own inclinations, Mrs. Southcote," he continued, with a sentimental air, shaking his head slightly, and looking after his sister, who was walking before us. I could not help blushing, though I was very much inclined to laugh, and I hurried on immediately to rejoin my husband, for I was afraid that the Rector was about to make a confidante of me.

The good man looked disappointed, but succumbed into his usual grim politeness, as I hastened on and took Harry's arm. My heart smote me when I saw his blank look, but I could not bear, knowing what a good man he was, to see him look ridiculous; and I am very much afraid that the Rector's love sorrows would have been little else to me.

Harry was in great glee and most exuberant spirits. "What do you think, Hester?" he cried, in a half whisper, when we were sufficiently far apart from our companions--"the Rector's going to be married--there's news for you--what do you think of it?"

"I am sure there is nothing at all laughable in it, Harry," said I, taking the opportunity, gladly, to resent my own strong inclination to laughter upon him.

Harry did not cease for my reproof, but his laugh was inward and subterraneous. "We must have the thing done in grand style," he said, "and astonish the bashful bridegroom by the reception we give him. Did they tell you the Ethiopian had changed his skin, Hester?--that Richard had 'settled?' I suppose I ought to be glad to believe it--but I have no faith in that fellow. And now what can we do for Martha,--my kindest friend?--not that I don't thank you, with all my heart, Hester, for what you have done already--she will never forget the honor you have given her to-day."

"I know exactly what we must do for her, Harry," said I.

"Do you?" he said, looking down upon me affectionately; "since when have you turned a good fairy, my rebellious wife?"

"Hush, Harry!" I said. "If I had not been your rebellious wife and very miserable once, I don't think I ever should have been good for anything; but I know quite well what we must do for Miss Saville to make her quite happy; you must see about building her a pretty, large, roomy cottage near Cottisbourne immediately, Harry."

"Must I?" said my obedient husband, "and pray, Mrs. Hester, if one might ask a reason--why?"

"Because it was her own project, her own desire--and it was in my black time," I said sadly. "I will tell you all about it after--but that is what you must do."

"When was your black time, Hester?" said Harry. "Was it when you and all the world were in mourning--when you found out that you had been deceived?"

"Don't, don't! I can't bear you to speak so," I cried. "It never was your fault,--never, Harry!--Why must I not speak?--what, _you_ will not hear me? you are a tyrant, sir!"

"Very well," said Harry, laughing, "so be it--we will not quarrel over whose fault it was; but we know by whose blessing it is a white time now," he added more gravely, "and your orders shall be obeyed, though I will not call you a tyrant. I shall be glad to have Martha Saville still near us, and I think now it would be rather a heartbreak for her to part from these children and you."

He was quite right, though I wondered at it--Miss Saville had indeed grown fond of me. That she should love little Harry was nothing wonderful, but I was both proud and amazed at her affection for me.

We were to have a good many people with us that evening, and when Harry went up to the nursery with me to see the children, and how baby looked after her churchgoing, I started so much that I almost let my little Helen fall from my arms, when I drew off my glove--"My ring--my ring! what has become of it? I am sure I had it on my finger when I went out," I cried. "Alice, did you see it? I must have drawn it off with my glove."

Amy, Alice, the two Harries, great and little, were immediately searching for it in every corner; it was not to be found. "It is your father's ring, is it not, Hester?" said my husband; "you have dropped it in the church most likely. I shall walk down immediately, and see; don't be uneasy--it cannot be lost--any one who found it would know it for yours."

"Oh, Harry, stop! I am not uneasy," I cried eagerly; "wait a little, there is no hurry--pray don't go at all, then--I do not care--I shall be very glad if it is lost."

"What do you mean, Hester!" he cried in amazement.

I took him aside and whispered all the story into his ear; but Harry was sceptical, and laughed at my superstition. "Why, then, the ring is not yours, Hester," he said, laughing, "but your second son's--and you have no right to lose other people's property so coolly. Never fear, we will exorcise the demon--and, even on your own showing, it is better to look after it, that the mysterious powers who have it in charge may know you were unwilling to lose it. Now, let me go."

I was obliged to let him go, though very reluctantly--and, when he went away, Flora came running up stairs to condole with me. "Oh, Hester, have you lost your beautiful ring?" cried Flora; "and do you know Mr. Southcote is laughing about it, and says you do not want to find it again; tell me the story--do tell me the story, Hester! Mr. Osborne has gone with him, and the Rector and Miss Saville are in very earnest conversation, and I want my little goddaughter--oh, Hester, I do so wish you would give her to me!"

Yes, Flora was very envious; so we permitted her to hold the young lady in her arms, while Alice told her the story of Edgar the Scholar, and his revenge. Flora was very much awed by it, and full of eager interest now for the return of Harry: "She hoped--she did so hope, that he would never find that dreadful ring!--she should be quite frightened to look at it again!"

For my part, I was also a little anxious about it; but Harry's good example, and my own light heart, brought me out of the power of the supernatural. I knew already that love and peace reigned at Cottiswoode--that my own sins, my mother's wrongs, the lifelong sin and punishment of my father, had found a merciful conclusion in the happy family life which once more consecrated with daily thanksgiving the ancient family home. The constant feuds between the elder and the younger, had merged in the perfect union of the two branches of our house. God and Providence were with us, and we could afford to smile at Mystery and Fate.

But the ring was not to be found; though it was sought for in every direction, rewards offered, and every means tried--for Harry was obstinate in his endeavors to recover it--the ring of Edgar the Scholar never returned to Cottiswoode. I do not mean to confess that I am still superstitious about it--for, of course, such a jewel as that was no small prize, and some stranger might have picked it up upon the road, and I have no doubt, did--yet it was very strange, it must be admitted, that it should disappear so. We have not only a second son now, but a third, and a fourth! and Cottiswoode is almost overflowing, and our patrimonial acres will have enough to do to provide for all the children with whom God has blessed us. Sorrow has been in our house--sickness--once death,--but strife has never entered at the peaceful doors of Cottiswoode; and I should smile now, with the smile of perfect confidence and security, did any one whisper to me that discord could come between Harry and his brave brother Brian, our little knight-errant--our St. George--our eager champion of the distressed. The children are God's children--I do not tremble for them; and life comes to have a very different aspect, with all its unknown haps and chances, when one can say Providence, heartily, instead of Fate.

THE END.

* * * * *

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

compaitson with other people's flower-beds=> comparison with other people's flower-beds {pg 38}

skake myself free=> shake myself free {pg 143}

this grained roof=> this groined roof {pg 192}

and neversuffered suffered=> and never suffered {pg 198}

I nor any once else=> I nor any one else {pg 207}

Hiss Hester=> Miss Hester {pg 222}

do you recollect me.=> do you recollect me? {pg 238}

Do you spent much time there=> Do you spend much time there {pg 255}

bnt come joy=> but come joy {pg 278}

should never nave perceived the want of it before=> should never have perceived the want of it before {pg 315}

ceased to spent my days=> ceased to spend my days {pg 361}