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

"Oh, yes! I am done," said I; "only think, Alice, nothing better to do all this morning than dress a doll; and now I have nothing at all to do."

"Dear Miss Hester, you never can want plenty of things to amuse you," said Alice; "don't speak to me so--it's unkind to your papa."

"I don't want things to amuse me," said I, "I want something to do, Alice. What is the use of me--it is very well for you--you are always busy--but I want to know what's the good of me!"

"You must not say that, dear! don't now," said Alice, "you're but a child--you're only coming to your life--"

"I don't think life is much better, Alice," said I. "Mr. Osborne and my father dispute for hours about passages in Greek books; are books life? I don't think there's any satisfaction in them, more than in dressing a doll."

"You did not think so on Tuesday night, my dear," said Alice quietly, "when the light was in your window half through the night, and I know you were sitting up reading one."

"Ah! but that was a novel," I cried, starting up, "that is the very thing! May I send Mary to the library? I will have one to-day."

So I ran up stairs to make a list of certain desirable volumes, and sent off Mary forthwith; then I returned to the table, where Alice made her cakes, and to my wooden chair.

"No, there is no satisfaction in them," said I, "even a novel has an end, Alice; but do you think that reading pages of printed paper is all that people need to care for--do you think that is life?"

"Life is not one thing, but a many things, Miss Hester," said Alice. "Dear, you're a-coming to it now."

"What am I coming to--only to breakfast, and dinner, and supper, over and over again, Alice," said I. "I don't think it was so at Cottiswoode, but it is so here, I know--then you have to work all day to cook for us, and we have to eat what you cook--and that is our life."

"Don't speak so, Miss Hester," entreated Alice once more, "it is not a poor woman like me that can tell you what life is; there were ten years or more in my life that were full of great things happening to me; but little happened to me before or after--you would think it was not worth my while living after these years."

I confessed to my thought. "Yes, Alice! I am afraid I did think so; though I would be a very desolate girl, I am sure, without you."

It seemed to move her a little, this that I said. Her cheeks reddened, and she paused in her work.

"If you were older, you would know better," said Alice. "After the last of them were gone, it was a dreary, dreary time. I rose to do my work, Miss Hester, and laid me down to sleep and forget what a lonesome woman I was. What was it you said this morning about the new day cheering you, and the fresh spirit you had when you woke, howsoever you had been at night? I know what that is--but after my troubles, when I opened my eyes, and saw the daylight, it made me sick--I used to turn my face to the wall, and wish and wish that I might sleep on, and never wake to think about what had befallen me; but still I lived, and still I lived, and the breakfast and the dinner and the common ways were what God had appointed me. If I said life was trouble and sorrow, would you like it better than when its only comfort was quiet, and reading books as it is with you?"

"But it was not all trouble and sorrow, Alice, in these ten years?"

Her face changed again a little. I knew I was urging her to a painful subject, yet I did not pause; and I do not think my questions grieved her, even though they revived her grief.

"When joy turns to sorrow, it's the sorest grief of all, Miss Hester," said Alice; "no, I was happy beyond the common lot of women, but one by one everything I rejoiced in was taken away. Yes, that was _life_--I had babies in my arms, and plans for them in my heart; I was working and contriving for their schooling and their clothing, and laying by for them and considering in my mind how to train them up. We were walking together, striving for them, using all our strength, my husband and me; ay, that was life!"

I was a little awed by the words and said nothing. All this had ceased for Alice--absolutely ceased--yet left a far sorer blank than if it had never been. As I looked at her, going on very hurriedly with her work, something I had been reading came to my mind. I said it aloud, watching her, and wondering if it was true--

"I hold it true whate'er befall,
I feel it when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all."

Alice turned round to me eagerly with a tear shining in her eye.

"Don't you think I'd rather have been without them, Miss Hester; don't you think it now! it's hard to lose, but it's blessed to have; that's true--that's true! I would not have been without one, though they're all gone: I have read in books many a time, good books, books that were written on purpose to comfort the sorrowful," said Alice, sinking to her usual quietness of tone, "that God did but lend our treasures to us, to take them back at His pleasure. No, Miss Hester, no!--as sure as they are His, my darling, His first and His always, so sure do I know that He's keeping them for me."

I was silenced again, and had nothing to say, for the name of God then was nothing but a sound of awe to me. I held it in the deepest reverence, this wonderful great name--but _Him_, the august and gracious Person to whom my poor Alice lived, her bereaved and pious life, was unknown to me.

And Alice, I believe, had reproached herself already, for bringing her real griefs, or the shadow of them, to eclipse my cherished discontent. She returned to me with her face lighting up again in its cheerful kind humility.

"Ay, Miss Hester, that's life to a woman," said Alice, "and, my dear, in a year or two, you will find it waiting for you."

But this did not at all chime in with the current of my thoughts.

"Do you think, Alice, that a woman is fit for nothing but to be married?" I exclaimed, fiercely. Poor Alice was taken by surprise: she had not expected such a flush of sudden displeasure--she paused in her work, and looked at my crimsoned face with a glance of real apprehension. Alice was old-fashioned and held by many primitive notions--she did not understand what I could mean.

"Miss Hester, if it's the nuns you're thinking of, I'll break my heart," said Alice.

"I'm not thinking of the nuns," cried I, indignantly, "why should a lady be married any more than Mr. Osborne? do you mean I could not be as well by myself as he is? I do not think you can have any woman-pride when you speak so, Alice."

Alice smiled with her eyes when I made this speech, but kept her gravity otherwise. "To be like Mr. Osborne is nothing much to wish for, my dear," said Alice, quietly, "but I can tell you, Miss Hester, it is not Mr. Osborne's fault that he is living lone in his rooms, a college gentleman, instead of having his own house, and a happy family round him--if it had pleased God. Ah! if Mr. Osborne had been the man!"

"What do you mean?" said I, quickly; I had an instinctive suspicion as she spoke.

"Long days ago, before ever your papa knew my dear young lady, Mr. Osborne came a-courting to her," said Alice, "and if you'd have told that merry young gentleman what he was to come to, he'd have laughed in your face then; he did not choose for himself in those days to be living all by himself as he does now."

"Mamma again," said I under my breath, with wonder and curiosity, "did she break _his_ heart too?"

"To tell the truth I do not think she did, Miss Hester," said Alice, with a smile, "it's only a heart here and there, my dear, that breaks when it's crossed in love."

"Alice!" cried I, horror-stricken at her want of feeling--for I had a very poor opinion of any heart which would not break instantly for such a weighty reason.

"She did not break his heart, dear; she only disappointed him," said Alice, "and I never heard how it was that he took so much to learning and settled down here; but he never had any grudge at Miss Helen, though I can see he likes you the better for it, that you sometimes have a look like her sweet face."

"She was my mother," said I doubtfully, "but it was cruel of her to marry papa, Alice. Why was it, I wonder, that so many people cared for her?"

"It was because she deserved better love than she ever got in this world," said Alice, with a start; "why was it cruel of her to marry your papa, Miss Hester? It was cruel of him--she never gave him cause to doubt her, she waited on his will as if he had been a king; oh! my dear, your papa was hard upon my young lady, and all for a fancy of his own."

"It has blighted his life, Alice," said I.

"Your papa is my master, Miss Hester," said Alice, with some pride, "and you and I can only speak of him as his servant and his daughter should--but I would have you think upon your mamma sometimes--your dear, sweet, innocent young mother; she never did harm to any living creature; she was always a delight to look upon till--"

"Till what, Alice?"

"My dear, till _her_ heart broke."

Alice moved away without saying another word; this was a perplexing new light upon my meditations, but I was very reluctant to receive it. If it should happen that my mother had been misconceived and misinterpreted--that she, after all, was the wronged person, and that my father was to blame, it might have made a great difference in the influences which just then were moulding my mind and life; but I rejected this unwelcome conclusion--I would not permit myself to be convinced of it. I clung over again to my father, and made my stand by him, and so went on, unconsciously determining and ripening for my fate.

"Don't take it ill of me, Miss Hester," said Alice, coming back, and I thought her voice trembled slightly, "but never distrust one that cares for you, dear--don't do it--you can't tell what ill comes of it in a house; and when any one speaks to you of a blighted life, be you sure it's his own doing more or less, and not another's. Take heed to your way, darling, there's not a speck on your life yet; but the cloud rises like a man's hand, Miss Hester. Pray that it may never come to you."

"Alice, how can it come to me?" cried I, trying to smile at her earnestness, yet I was angry for her implied blame of my father, and at the moment Edgar Southcote's rejected overtures flashed upon my mind. Yes! if by any chance these had been accepted, the curse of my father's life would have come to me. I was silent, oppressed by a vague discomfort; it was foolish, but I could not overcome it, and Alice did not answer my question, but returned to her work once more.

When Mary came back with the novel I wanted, I confess that I ran up stairs with it, and that there ensued an immediate dispersion of my thoughts--nor did I recal them much till the evening when I had galloped through the three volumes, and was left sitting by the fire in the sudden reaction of excitement, to cogitate upon the disagreeable necessity common to stories, of coming to an end. My father, who, from habit and punctilio, never returned to the library in the evening, sat at the table as usual with his book, and after a little pause of impatience at the conclusion of my tale, I resumed the thread of my previous meditations. I had been a little startled and shaken to-day in my thoughts. To say that I was inclined to scoff at the youthful notion of a life determined once and for ever by the misfortune which Alice mentioned as being "crossed in love," would be to say what was not true--for my ideal belief in this extraordinary and all-powerful unknown influence was as devout as that of any girl or boy of my years, and I had an equal admiration for that melancholy constant faithful lover, doomed to be unrequited, and never to overcome his disappointment, of whose existence many a romance had made me aware. But I was misanthropical to-night from the abrupt ending of my novel--and there was still the greater part of the evening left vacant with no new story to begin--so I speculated with a more sceptical mind than usual upon my great problem. Was it my mother, so many years ago--twenty years or more, a fabulous and unappreciable period, before I was born--whose rejection of him had fixed Mr. Osborne in his rooms at Corpus, and made the records of his life little better than a library catalogue? Was it my mother, and his disappointment in her, which had cast my father into his existence of aimless and sombre dignity? Was all this the single work of a young girl who died nearly seventeen years ago, and who was not much more than twenty when she died?

I was much perplexed to answer this question; though it flattered my pride as a woman shortly to enter upon the field myself, and perhaps make decisions of equally momentous result to somebody, it sadly bewildered my perceptions of right and wrong. I felt humbled rather than exalted in my own self-opinion by the idea, that anything _I_ said or did could produce such consequences; and I could not understand about Mr. Osborne. He, with his shrewd merry eyes, his regard for all his own comforts and luxuries, his want of sentiment and melancholy--that _he_ should be the disappointed lover, almost exceeded my powers of belief. I was glad to think that he must have "got over it," but I was greatly puzzled to make the conclusion whether it could be this that decided the manner of his life.

My father was extremely absorbed in _his_ book to-night--more than usually so I thought; and I am afraid that circumstance made me still more disposed to question him, unoccupied and idle as I was. I had disturbed him two or three times already by stirring the fire, and moving my seat, and had perceived his quick upward glance of impatience, but I was not deterred from beginning my investigations.

"Papa, have you known Mr. Osborne a very long time?" said I, looking at his face in the lamplight, and at the ray of reflection which came from the diamond on his finger. He looked up sharply as if not quite comprehending.

"Known Mr. Osborne?--yes, a long time, Hester--since I was a boy."

"And do you know why he lives here--why he is not married, papa?" I continued quietly.

My father looked up with a smile. "He is not married because he did not choose it, I suppose; and because he is a fellow, and has his income on that condition. Osborne is a scholar, and not a family man."

"I wonder now what is the good of being a scholar," said I. "Is Mr. Osborne poor? Does he do it for the sake of his income? Yes! I know all these colleges are for making scholars--but then, what is the good of it, papa?"

"Hester, you speak like a child," said my father with a little anger; "you might say in the same foolish words what is the good of anything--what is the good of life?"

"And so I do," said I with a little terror, and in an undertone.

"So! I have a young misanthrope on my hands--have I?" said my father; "we will not enter on that question, but return to Mr. Osborne, if you please, for I am busy. Are you very sorry for Mr. Osborne, Hester?"

"No, papa," said I.

"I am glad to hear it--there is no such prolific source of evil in the world," said my father gradually becoming vehement, "as false and injudicious pity--take care you never let _that_ fictitious principle sway your conduct, Hester. Justice--let every man have justice--and he who is not content with that deserves no more."

He ceased abruptly, and returned to his book with a stern face. This was enough for me; all my questionings disappeared at once, in the greatness of my sympathy for my father. I thought again upon Edgar Southcote, and upon his "generous impulse." I unconsciously associated myself with my father, and took his place, and tried to fancy the intolerable misery with which I should feel the substitution of pity and generosity in my own case, for that unknown love, that wonderful visionary influence which was in my favorite stories, and in my girlish dreams--and my heart returned to its former confidence in my father, and passionate feeling of his great wrong. His life _had_ been blighted--who could deny it! he who was so well worthy of the loftiest affection, he had found nothing better than pity in its place.

It is not my wish to trace all we did hour by hour in our solitary house, or I might record many a day like this. This was not a day of very vital moment in my life--but it was one which confirmed into singular strength and obstinacy, the influences which have guided and led me through many a more momentous day.

THE FIFTH DAY.

All this day, with a degree of expectation and excitement, of which I felt somewhat ashamed, I had been preparing for a party to which, at the instance of Mr. Osborne, I was to go in the evening. It was a ridiculous thing for a girl of nineteen--that was my age now--to think so much of a party which was by no means a great party, nor had anything remarkable about it; but, though I was so old, I had never been out anywhere before, and much as I denied it to myself, this was really an event for me. Our days were all so like each other, of such a uniform color and complexion, that it was something to be roused even to anxiety for a becoming dress. We were not precisely poor--this old house in which we lived was my father's property, and though I did not know what was the amount of the income which he inherited, along with this house, from his mother, I knew it was enough to maintain us in comfort, and that nothing in the household was ever straitened. But, I had never gone out in the evening before, and I did not very well know what to wear. Alice and I had a great many consultations on the subject. For my own part, I thought white muslin was only suitable for _girls_, and very young people, and at nineteen I no longer thought myself very young; and I had no patience for the pink and blue in which dolls were dressed as well as young ladies--it was very hard to please me--and the question remained still undecided, even to the afternoon of this very day--

When I went up to my room and summoned Alice for our last deliberation. I found a white muslin dress elaborately propped up on a chair, waiting my inspection at one side of my dressing-table; and at the other: yes, I was no stoic, I confess to a throb of pleasure which I can still recollect and feel--at the other, rich full folds of silk, of what I thought, for a moment, the most beautiful color in the world, a soft creamy amber crossed with white, attracted my delighted eye. Alice stood behind me, watching the effect it would have, and Alice, I am sure, had no reason to be disappointed; but when I cried eagerly, "Where did you get it, Alice?" the smile faded from her kind face.

"My dear, it was given to your mamma just before you were born," said Alice, "and she would not permit it to be made, for I don't doubt, Miss Hester, she had a thought how it was to happen with her--and from that day to this, I have kept it safe, and nobody has ever known of it but me; and I thought I would take upon me to have it made, Miss Hester. Dear! you have very few things that were your mamma's."

I expressed no more delight after that. I almost think she thought me angry, her explanation silenced me so suddenly; but she said no more, and neither did I. There were other little things arranged for me on my table which I turned to with measured satisfaction. I think poor Alice was disappointed now, for I saw her cast furtive glances at me as she smoothed down the silk with a tender hand, trying as I thought to draw my attention to it; and I would gladly have spoken, if I could, to please her; but I was strangely moved by this occurrence, and could not speak.

And when I came up again to dress, and Alice began to brush out my hair, I saw her face in the glass, and that it was troubled and tears were in her eyes. She did not think I saw her, while she stood behind me busy with my hair, and when she looked up and saw that my eyes were fixed upon her in the glass, she started and reddened, and was painfully confused for a moment. I knew what she was thinking--she was pained in her good heart for what she thought the hardness of mine.

When I was dressed and looked in the mirror again, I scarcely knew myself in my unusual splendor. Yet I was not very splendid--I had not a single ornament, not so much as a ring or bracelet--and I am not sure the color of my dress was the best in the world for my brown hair; but, I had a very fair complexion, Alice said, and some color in my cheeks, though I was not ruddy; and my uncovered arms, with their very short sleeves and rich frill of lace, and the unusual elaboration of my hair, and the beautiful material of my dress, made me look a very different person from the plain everyday girl who had entered the room an hour before.

"There is one thing I would like to have," said I, as I contemplated my own appearance, and saw with how much proud, yet tremulous satisfaction, Alice stood behind, arranging the folds of my dress, and regulating, with anxious touches, the beautiful trimmings of lace, and the braids of my hair.

"What is that, dear?" cried Alice eagerly.

"One of the roses that you brought from Cottiswoode--one from _that_ tree--to put here at my breast," said I. "Alice, I will think all to-night, that this dress is from mamma."

Alice kissed me suddenly before I had finished speaking.

"Lord bless my darling!" she said in a low voice, turning her face away from me; I knew she did so that I might not see how very near crying she was.

When I went to show myself to my father--he was not going--but a lady, a friend of Mr. Osborne's, was to come for me--he looked at me with some surprise.

"What fairy princess gave you your gown, Hester?" he said, with a smile. I could not help hesitating and looking embarrassed, when I answered almost under my breath,

"Alice had it, papa."

He became grave immediately, and the color flushed to his cheek. Then he opened a cabinet which always stood in his library, both here and at Cottiswoode, and took out a box.

"These are yours, Hester--it is time they were given to you," he said, almost with coldness; "you will use your own discretion in wearing them, only I beg you will not show them to me to-night. Good-night, my love, take what pleasure you can, and be ready when your friend calls for you--good-night."

I carried the box away mechanically, and returned to the drawing-room to wait for Mrs. Boulder. I was surprised, but still sufficiently curious to open the box at once. It contained a number of smaller morocco jewel cases, which I examined eagerly; I was as ignorant as my father of the ancient fashion of these ornaments, but I think an uncultivated and savage taste such as mine was, is generally disappointed with the appearance of precious stones. I was extremely interested, but I did not admire them, and that I should wear them did not occur to me at the first moment. But there was one little spot of quivering living light which changed my opinion; it was a small diamond pendant attached to a very little chain, which puzzled me into a deliberation whether it was intended for the neck or the arm. I tried it on, however, and settled the question in the most satisfactory manner possible; and then there was a bracelet of pearls, and then--but Mrs. Boulder's carriage came up to the door with a great rush and din, and I hurried away my store of treasures, and suffered myself to be wrapped up, and went away to make my first entrance into the world.

The world! had I been a boy I would have been an adventurer, and sought my fortunes in toils, and fights, and travel: but it was strange to look round upon this Cambridge drawing-room, and think of it and of its well-dressed, commonplace company as representing the great stormy universe, of which I had my grand thoughts, like every other inexperienced spirit. There was a large company, I thought, being unused to evening parties. Mr. Osborne and a few more of his rank and standing, scholars who looked shorn and diminished for want of their habitual cap and gown, some young undergraduates, and a background of county people made up the number--and a stray lion from London, who had been caught in the neighborhood, was reported to be somewhere in the room. My chaperone, Mrs. Boulder, was a professor's wife, and herself a scientific person, who seldom condescended to talk of anything but literature, geology, and the gossip of the colleges; she was very much interested about this unknown author. From the sofa where she had established herself, and where her professional black satin swept its ample folds over my pretty dress, she was constantly thrusting her head into the groups of people who gathered before her, searching with her spectacles for somebody who might be the distinguished visitor.

"That must be he, talking to the Master," she exclaimed, "no, there is another stranger, I declare, a very remarkable looking personage, beside Mr. Selwyn. I wonder why nobody brings him to me. Mr. Osborne--Mr. Osborne! Professor! I cannot make any of them hear me; my love, would you mind stepping to Mr. Osborne? There he is talking to that very old Fellow. Call him to me."

I rose with considerable trepidation to obey--an old Fellow, it must be understood, is by no means a contemptuous expression in a University town; and this was a very old white-haired man with whom Mr. Osborne was engaged. He held out his hand when I came up to him, and looked at me with a glance of pleased satisfaction, almost as if he were proud of me, which warmed my heart in spite of myself. I told my message, but he made no haste to obey it. He only nodded his head, with a smile, in answer to Mrs. Boulder's urgent beckoning.

"Should _you_ like to see him, Hester?" said Mr. Osborne, "there he is, that young dandy there, among all the young ladies--he prefers worshippers to critics, like a sensible man. Should you like to hear the great lion roar, Hester?"

"I am very glad to have seen him," said I, "but he has enough of worshippers. No, thank you: but Mrs. Boulder wants to see him, Mr. Osborne."

"Presently," he said, once more nodding at that tantalized and impatient lady, "presently--and how do you like the party, Hester?"

"I like very well to look at it," said I, glancing round the handsome, well-proportioned, well-lighted room, "it is a picture, but I do not know any one here."

"We will remedy that, by and by," said Mr. Osborne, "see there is something to look at in the meantime; and I will bring Mrs. Boulder to you here."

As he spoke, he wheeled in a chair for me, close to a table, covered with plates and drawings. I could not help being pleased at the kindness of his manner and tone, and at the pride he seemed to have in me, as if he wished other people to see that I belonged to him. A young man was standing at the table, minutely examining some of the prints--at least, I supposed so, they occupied him so long; and the old gentleman who had been speaking to Mr. Osborne, remained by me when he went to Mrs. Boulder, and said a word now and then, to encourage me, and set me at my ease I thought--for I was shy and embarrassed, and not very comfortable at being left alone. The young man on the other side of the table--how very long he held that print! it made me impatient to watch his examination of it, and ashamed of myself for finding so little in the others to detain me. When he laid it down at last--it was one of those street landscapes of the old quaint Flemish towns--the old gentleman made some remark upon it, and the young one replied. They had both been there. I have no doubt that was the reason why he looked at it so long.

"These Low Countries--you have not seen them, Miss Southcote?" said Mr. Osborne's friend, "they are about as dull and unimpressive as our own Cambridgeshire." I had a great deal of local pride and was piqued at this--it restored me to my self-possession better than his kindness had done. "Do you think Cambridgeshire is unimpressive?" I asked quickly, looking up at him.

"Why, yes, I confess I think so," said the old Fellow. "I have forgotten my native fells a little, after living here nearly fifty years; but I have never learned yet to find any beauty in the country here. Pray what are its impressive features, Miss Southcote?"

I paused a moment that I might not be angry. "There is the sky," said I.

The youth, on the other side of the table, bent towards me to listen; the old gentleman laughed a polite little critical laugh. "The sky is scarcely a part of the Cambridgeshire scenery, I am afraid," he said.

As I paused, not quite knowing what to answer, the young man came to my aid. "I am not sure of that, sir," he said, with a look of eagerness, which struck me with some wonder. "The sky is as much a portion of the Cambridgeshire scenery as Michael Angelo's roof is a part of the Sistine chapel. Where else have you such an extent of cloud and firmament? You must yield us the sky."

"The sky belongs equally to every county in England, and to every country in the world," said our white-haired critic. "I will yield you no such thing--there is but one Sistine chapel in the world, and one roof belonging to it. You must find a better argument."

"You can see so far--you are bounded by nothing but heaven," said I.

"Yes," said my new supporter, "there is the true sense of infinitude in that wonderful vast blank of horizon; you never find the same thing in a hilly country, and it is perfect of its kind."

"My young assailants," said the old gentleman, smiling, "if you mean to maintain that your county has no features at all, I have no controversy with you; that is exactly my own opinion."

It happened that as we both glanced up indignantly, and both paused, hesitating what next to say to such an obdurate infidel, our eyes met. He looked at me earnestly, almost sadly, and with a rising color--I felt my cheeks burn, yet could not help returning his gaze for an instant. It was a contemplative face, with fine and regular features, and large dark blue eyes; the oval outline of the cheeks was quite smooth, and the complexion dusky and almost colorless; but I was surprised to find myself wondering over this stranger's features, as if they were familiar to me. Where was it possible I could have seen them before? but, indeed, if he was a Cambridgeshire man, as his words implied, it was easy to account for having seen him.

For the moment, looking at each other, we forgot the cause we were defending, and our antagonist stood contemplating us with a pleasant smile; he did not say anything, but when I looked up and caught his eye, I withdrew my own in confusion. I did not know why, and there was, indeed, no cause, but though I could not explain, I felt a strange embarrassment, and hastened to speak to shake it off.

"I know what I mean, though I may not be able to say it," said I; "I think in our country you are never master of the landscape--you can never see it all, as you could if it was shut in with hills; it is always greater than you--and it is because our eyes are not able, and not because there is any obstacle in nature, that we cannot see twice as far--to the end of the world."

"It is quite true," said the young man hurriedly, "these flat fields are boundless like the sky--or like a man's desires which are limited by nothing but heaven."

"My dear boy, a man's desires are limited by very trifles, sometimes," said our old friend; "happy are they whose wishes reach like your Cambridge fields as far as the horizon. If you come to that," he continued, going on with a smile, "and give a figurative significance to those dreary levels, I will not quarrel with you. In my north country, which, by the way, I have quite lost acquaintance with--the extent of our ambition is, to have our hills recognised as mountains, and get to the top of them; but your land, I confess, Miss Southcote, gets to the sky as soon as we do; there is no dispute about that."

I was obliged to be content with this, satirical as it was, and began to occupy myself immediately with the prints on the table. The old gentleman fell back a step, and began conversing with some one else. The youth still stood opposite, holding an engraving in his hands and going over it minutely. It was very strange--I cannot tell how it came about--but in this crowded room, and among all these echoes of conversation, I felt myself in some extraordinary way alone with this young stranger. I never lifted my eyes from the picture before me, yet I was aware of every motion he made--and though he did not once look up, I felt his eye upon me. We did not exchange a single word, but we remained opposite each other perfectly still, watching each other with a sort of fascination. I do not know how the time went for those few moments--I know it looked like an hour to me before Mrs. Boulder came back; yet when she did come back, she exclaimed at having lost sight of me for full ten minutes, and began to overpower me with an account of the unknown lion, and the clever things he said--and to pull about and turn over the prints which had been passing so slowly and so unwittingly through my hands.

Mrs. Boulder had not been seated by our table for five minutes when she had a ring of potent people round her, whom she had called out of the crowd. I sat by her timidly on a stool, which some one brought me when I gave up my easy chair to the great lady--and bent my head, half with awkwardness and half to find breathing room, oppressed as I was by the bulky figure of the Professor leaning over me in earnest discussion with another pillar of learning. Mr. Osborne was not far off; but though this might be pleasant enough for Mrs. Boulder, who was the centre of the group, it was very much the reverse for me, stifled and overwhelmed by half-a-dozen people pressing over me to pay their court to the eminent woman, who had taken charge of a bewildered and shy girl to her own inconvenience, and who, if she ever thought of me at all, thought no doubt that I was only too greatly privileged, had I been entirely, instead of only half, stifled with the pressure of this learned crowd. But the young stranger whom I followed, not with my eyes, but with my attention, remained still very near us, and still I felt strongly that though our eyes had only met once, we had been observing each other all the time.

I saw Mr. Osborne speak to him, as to a familiar acquaintance--I saw him honored with a nod from Mrs. Boulder--and I wondered greatly who he was. He was certainly not older than myself, and of a slight youthful figure, which made him look even younger, I thought--was he a Cambridge man? a traveller, though so young, and a scholar too, of course, or he would not be here. I was very curious about this young man; would he speak to me again? what could we have to do with each other which could account for this strange mutual attraction? for I felt sure that he was wondering and inquiring in his own mind about me, as I was about him.

After a little while, he drew nearer to us, and joined our little circle, and turning round to answer some question for Mr. Osborne, I was surprised to find him still by my side. Then, still under cover of the prints, he spoke to me. I would have gladly spoken to any one else, but I was uncomfortably embarrassed, I could not tell why, in speaking to him. He began to tell me of those Dutch towns, and then we returned to talk of our own country, and insensibly grew into a kind of acquaintance. Then when the greater people dispersed, Mrs. Boulder perceived him, and entered into a condescending conversation with him, touching, in a professional tone, on the progress of his studies, and putting hard questions to him, which puzzled and somewhat irritated me. He answered them quietly and with a smile, and was evidently in great favor with her; and still I sat by watching him, and still he stood at my side observing me.

"How well he gets on!" said Mrs. Boulder, in a loud whisper to Mr. Osborne, behind her chair. Mrs. Boulder did not think it necessary to conceal her favorable judgment from the happy object of it.

"Who? oh! Harry Edgar," said Mr. Osborne, glancing at him; "that will be a distinguished man!"

I had nothing to do with it, yet it pleased me, and set me on a new train of questions--how would he distinguish himself? Not after the fashion of my heroes--not like Columbus or Buonaparte--in books then, I supposed. Now I had few literary tastes, though I read novels with devotion; yet I paused to marvel what kind of books they could be, which should distinguish this youth; but without finding any answer to my secret question. More than ever now was I anxious about him. I wondered what he was thinking now--what he would think to-morrow. I felt a great desire to see into the mind of my new acquaintance, not by any means to see how he thought, or if he thought at all, of me; it was simply himself whom I wanted to understand. Harry Edgar--I did not think it was a Cambridgeshire name--it sounded hard to me, like a north country one; but it did not throw the least light upon who he was.

When Mr. Osborne put me into Mrs. Boulder's carriage at the door, I saw Mr. Edgar's face again turned towards us for a moment. He, too, was going away--and when Mr. Osborne asked me how I liked the party, it was with difficulty I restrained the words on my lips: "I wonder who he is!" I had no doubt he was thinking the same of me; yet I am sure we were not attracted by each other, as people might suppose, who heard what I say. For my part, it was a species of fascination. I did not either like or dislike this stranger; but somehow I wanted to penetrate his thoughts, and to know what manner of man he was.

Alice, of course, was waiting for me, and a fire was burning in my room, to make it more cheerful. When Alice loosed off the great shawl I was wrapped in, I could not comprehend, for a moment, what caused her sudden exclamation of pleasure, and the heavy sigh with which it was followed. It was the little diamond ornament which I wore round my neck. I had forgotten it. Yes, this had been my mother's too; but I was tired and sleepy, and not communicative. Had I liked the party? Yes, I thought I had--pretty well--quite as much as I expected; sometimes it was very pretty, that was taking it in the picture point of view--for I did not think it necessary to tell Alice how I had been interested by the stranger. What a pity, I thought, that he was a _young_ man! for people would laugh at me, if I expressed any interest in him.

So I lay down to rest in the firelight, to watch the ruddy shadows dancing on the walls, and wakefully and long to consider this evening and all its novelties. It was all novel to me. My dress and my jewels were enough to have woke me for a little out of the usual torpor of my life; but this party which I had been rather ashamed of desiring to go to, I felt I should never forget it now. Why? I could not tell why--but I went to sleep wondering which was Harry Edgar's college, and what he might be thinking of. I even looked into the future with a little eagerness, marvelling what sort of career his was to be, and if I should ever know more of him. It was very strange--for certainly his thoughts, and the subjects they might be occupied with, were nothing to me.

THE SIXTH DAY.

I was out upon a household errand to order something for Alice. My father and Alice conspired to keep me still as free of cares and almost of duties, as a child. Alice attended to everything; she was a good careful housekeeper, long accustomed to our house and ways, and needed no help in the administration of our domestic economy; though, perhaps, it would have been better for me, if I had been led to these homely occupations, and found something tangible to employ my mind and thoughts. It was Spring, one of those fresh, sunny, showery, boisterous days, which are so pleasant to youth. I liked my quiet walk along the narrow, old-fashioned streets--I liked the wind which blew my hair loose from my bonnet, and swept the clouds along the blue, blue sky, rushing past the turrets and pinnacles of the collegiate buildings. I was young, and my heart rose with the vague and causeless exhilaration of youth. I scarcely cared to think, but went on with a pure delight in the motion and life which I had within me. I was pleased to feel the shawl escaping from my hand, and my hair curling upon the breeze; and if my step was not quite so bold as its girlish freedom permitted five years ago, it was as firm a tread as it had been among our own fields, or in the lanes that led to Cottiswoode.

I had done my errand and was going home; but I was scarcely contented to return so soon, and would have walked a mile or two with pleasure. When I came to the paved alley, by St. Benet's, which was the nearest way to our house, I paused a moment in uncertainty, thinking where I should go--but just as I was about to return in the opposite direction, I started to hear Mr. Osborne's voice behind me. "Running away, Hester?--nay, I want you at home to-day; come back and tell me how your father is."

I turned round--Mr. Osborne was not alone--standing a little apart from him, out of regard to his meeting with me, was the young man who had so strangely interested me at the party. I glanced at him involuntarily, and so did he at me; but we had no warrant for knowing each other, and I drew apart as he did, as if by instinct. Mr. Osborne was not paying the least attention to his companion, and seemed quite careless of him, whether he stayed or went away, and the wind at that moment was playing very strange pranks with the elder gentleman's gown, so that, what with keeping it in order, and addressing me, Mr. Osborne had quite enough to do.

"My father is very well," I said. "He is at home, of course; are you going to see him?"

"I am going to tell him how his daughter behaved on her entrance into the world," said Mr. Osborne with much importance. "Were you very much impressed by your first experiences, Hester? There now, that is a little better. We are, at least, out of the road of that vagabond breeze."

We had turned into the alley, and I had been waiting for Mr. Osborne's young acquaintance to leave us; but he walked on steadily at the other side, and showed no disposition to go away. I did not quite like answering Mr. Osborne's questions before this stranger; he made me feel so strangely conscious of all my own words and movements. I no longer did anything easily, but became aware of every step I made.

"Have you not seen him since _that_ night?" said I, "it is quite a long time ago."

"_That_ night--so it did make some impression on my young _debutante_," said Mr. Osborne, with a smile. "Do you know I have been out of Cambridge for nearly three weeks, you forgetful young lady? Well, Hester, what of _that_ night?"

"What of it, Mr. Osborne?" said I, with some little indignation. "I suppose there was nothing very extraordinary about it."

Mr. Osborne laughed, and I was provoked. "There only was a crowd of people--there is nothing remarkable in a crowd," said I, impetuously. "Why should _I_ think about it--you do not suppose that I take a party like that for the world?"

"What do you call the world then, Hester?" said Mr. Osborne.

"I do not know," said I, hesitating a little. "I cannot tell," I repeated, after another pause, "but I suppose there is as much of it here as there was _yonder_. I think so, at least."

"So that is the verdict of youth, is it?" said Mr. Osborne. "Henry, my boy, what say you?"

I could not help turning my head quickly towards him, but I did not raise my eyes; how I wondered what he would say.

"The party has sometimes more influence on a life than the street can have," said the young man, with hesitation, "otherwise, I have no doubt, a thronged and busy street in London would look more like the world than a Cambridge drawing-room--but sometimes the drawing-room makes a greater mark in a life."

"My good youth, you are less intelligible than Hester," said Mr. Osborne, "but the young lady has no metaphysical bias that I know of, so we will not discuss the question. So we were very prosy, were we, the other night? and you were nearly smothered under the Professor's shadow, and had nothing but pictures to look at, poor child! The next one will be better, Hester, do not be dismayed."

I made no answer. I was piqued at Mr. Osborne's mockery; but I wondered over what the other had said--what did he mean by the drawing-room making a mark in his life. Had it made any mark in mine? why should it? and why was he walking along so quietly by Mr. Osborne's side, without the least intention of going away? I saw that he kept his eyes away from me, as carefully as I kept mine from him; but how I observed him for all that. His walk was rather slow and steady--he was not quick and impetuous as I was--I wanted to hasten on, for I was embarrassed a little, not knowing anything about "society," and being quite at a loss to know whether I was acquainted with this stranger or not; but, of course, Mr. Osborne continued _his_ leisurely pace, and so did his young companion. They made me impatient and almost irritated me; they went on so quietly.

When we came to the door, I opened it hastily, for it was an old-fashioned, unsuspicious door, and opened from the outside. Then in my awkwardness I went down the two steps which led from it, and stood below in the door, waiting for Mr. Osborne. I was in a little tremor of expectation--what was he going to do?

"I think I may presume on your father and yourself, Hester, so far as to ask my young friend to come in with me," said Mr. Osborne, "for we have some business together. This is Mr. Harry Edgar, Miss Southcote--will you admit him within your precincts."

Of course I had to make a little awkward bow to him, and I do not think his was much more graceful; and then I hurriedly led the way into the house. Mr. Osborne went directly to the library, and I called Alice to show Mr. Edgar up-stairs, then I ran to my own room to take off my bonnet. Must I go to the drawing-room where he was sitting alone--I thought it was very unpleasant--I felt extremely confused and awkward, yet I smoothed my hair, and prepared to go.

When I went into the room, he was looking at the pictures--those dark, hard panel portraits on the wall, and with some interest as I thought--though when I came, he, too, grew a little embarrassed like me. I went to my work-table immediately to look out some work, for I could not sit idle and talk to him. There were countless little bits of work lying half completed on my work-table, I had no difficulty in finding occupation, and when I had selected one, I sat down by the window and wished for Mr. Osborne. He ought to know better, than to leave me alone here.

There was nothing at all to keep us from the necessity of talking to each other, for he immediately gave up looking at the portraits, and the room was in fatal good order, and all the books put away. After the first awkward pause, he said something about the pictures: "they were family portraits, no doubt."

"No," said I, "that is, they are not Southcotes; they are portraits of grandmamma's family, I suppose; but we always count our family on the other side."

Then we came to another dead pause, and Mr. Edgar advanced to the window where I sat.

"How fresh and green your garden looks," he said, after the fashion of people who must say something, "what a good effect the grass has--are there really blossoms on the trees? how early everything is this year!"

"We are well sheltered," said I, in the same tone. "Our trees are always in blossom before our neighbors'."

"And that is old Corpus," he said, glancing out at the little gleaming windows of the College, "all this youth and life out of doors, contrasts strangely enough, I am sure, with the musty existence within."

"The books may be musty, but I don't think the existence is," said I, rashly; "everybody ought to be happy that has something to do."

"Yes. I always envy a hard student who has an object," said Mr. Edgar, rather eagerly seizing upon this possibility of conversation--"he is a happy fellow who has a profession to study for, otherwise it is vanity and vexation of spirit."