Chapter VIII: Book II: The Days of My Life (2)

I could not think of that; my mind went back and back again to what was past. I began to follow out the evidences, the certainties which made it clear to Alice, and to my father, and which ought to have made it clear to me. I had no wish to go back to them. I was indifferent to everything; I only felt that in a moment a bitter antagonism had sprung up between him and me; that, according to our love, would be our enmity and opposition, and that even in our variance and strife, and with this unforgiven wrong between us, we were bound to each other for ever.

All this night, when I thought to have been so happy, I sat alone in that chair. At last, when it grew late, and the fire burned low, and I felt the chill of the night, my fatigue overpowered me, and I fell asleep. My dreams were of vague distress and tribulation, misfortune and misery, which I could not comprehend; but when I awoke, I found myself laid on the bed, carefully wrapped up, though still dressed, and the gray of dawn coming in through the windows. I could not recollect myself for the moment, nor how I had come to be here; but when I lifted my head, I saw him seated where I had seated myself last night, bending over a bright fire, with his arm supporting his head. When he heard me stir, he looked up; he had not been sleeping to-night, although I had, and then I recollected all that had passed, and that it was he who must have lifted me here, and covered me so carefully. His face was pale now, and his eyes dark and heavy; he seemed almost as listless and indifferent as I was--for though he looked up, he made no advance to me.

I sprang from my rest, and threw off from me the shawls I had been wrapped in; then he rose and offered me his chair. I did not take it--we stood looking at each other--then he took my hand and held it, and looked at me wistfully. I said a cold "Good-morning," and turned my head away. When I did that, he dropped my hand, and withdrew me a little--and then he seemed to make an effort to command himself, and spoke to me in a voice which I scarcely recognised--so clear it was, and calm. Ah! he could be something else than an ardent or a penitent lover; the voice of the man was new to me. I looked up at him instantly, with a respect which I could not help; but we had entered upon another day. These days of my life crowded on each other, and to this chill, real dawn, and not to the wild, passionate night which preceded it, belonged what he said.

THE THIRD DAY.

The grey morning looked in chill and damp from the windows, the bough of jessamine fluttered upon the glass, the rain pattered on the leaves. It was the hour of night and day which is coldest, keenest, most ungenial, and we stood together, but apart--as pale, as chill, as heavy as the morning--quieted, yet still trembling with the agitation of the night.

"There is a messenger below from Cambridge. I sent on word of our arrival last night," he said; "your father is not well, and wishes to see you. I have ordered the carriage to be ready, and have been watching here till you awoke. It is very early, but I know you will not care for the discomfort--your father has expressed a strong desire to see you immediately, and he is very weak, they say."

"Do you mean he is dying?" I asked firmly, though I could not raise my voice above a whisper.

"I mean he is very ill. Yes, Hester! it does not become me to deceive you any more."

I turned abruptly from him, and went to put on my bonnet. He lingered, waiting for me--when I was ready, he took some of the wrappers I had worn on the journey over his arm, and went down stairs before me. The servants were astir already, and I saw breakfast prepared in the room which I had been in last night--he held the door open for me, and involuntarily I entered--I did not say anything. Indeed, what with the dreadful bewilderment and uncertainty of my own position, and the pang of foreboding that I was only called there when my father was in extremity, I had little power to say a word--I sat down passively on the chair he set for me by the fire, while he ordered the carriage to come round. I accepted without a word the coffee he brought me, and tried to drink it--I did not feel as if I had any will at all; but did everything mechanically, as though it was imposed upon me by a stronger will, which I could not resist. No longer the agitated youth of yesterday--the self-reproachful and unforgiven lover, whose happiness hung on my breath, and to whom I was ruthless, obdurate, and without pity, he was so different this morning that I could scarcely think him the same person. This was a man who had the sole right to think for me, to guard me, perhaps to control me, whether I would or no--I was not strong enough, at this moment, to resist his tacit and unexpressed authority. I only wondered at it vaguely in the languor and weariness which was upon me--I was worn out by last night's excitement, I had a dull terror of expostulation in my mind; but I had not heart enough to be impatient. My faculties were all benumbed and torpid. At another time, these few moments of waiting would have been agony to me--but they were not so now.

Then I heard the wheels at the door, and rose to go; he followed me closely--assisted me in, wrapped me round with the shawls he carried, and then took his place by my side. I made no remonstrance, I said nothing--I submitted to all he did with a dull acquiescence, and we drove off at a great pace. I think it did strike me for a moment how bitterly everything was changed since I stepped from that carriage on the previous night. Once more I leaned back and did not look at the noble old elms in the avenue; the shadow of their branches over us, made my heart sick, and I closed my eyes till we were once more dashing along the free unshadowed monotonous road. A dreary and sad monotony was on those fresh, broad plains this morning. The sky was nothing but one vast cloud--the fitful, chill breeze, brought dashes of rain against the windows--the country looked like an uninhabited desert. Distance, flight, an endless race, away, away, away, towards the skies; but it was not fleeing from my fate. My fate was here beside me, the companion of my journey--we could not escape from each other. I was his evil fortune, and he was mine.

We did not say a word all the time, though we were nearly three hours on the way. Then came the familiar Cambridge streets--then he rose and whispered something to the coachman on the box; we subdued our pace immediately, and quietly drew up at the well-known door. Our younger servant, Mary, was looking from it eagerly--when she saw us, she left it open and ran in--I suppose to say I had come. He helped me to alight, and I went in. I went slowly though I was so near. I wanted to see some one else first--some one else before I saw my father.

At the foot of the stairs, Alice met me; she came up to me, joy struggling with her gravity to kiss and bless me, as she had been used to do. I turned away from her with a harsh and forbidding gesture, and would not let her touch me. Her eyes filled with tears--her cheeks reddened and grew pale again. She muttered something in a confused and troubled undertone, of which I only heard the word "pardon!" and then she said in a voice which a great effort made steady and articulate--"Your father waits you, Miss Hester; will you come?"

I followed her in silence. I did not know what I was to say, or how to behave to my father. My heart swelled as though it would break, when I went along the familiar passages, where I had come and gone so lately in the gladness of my youth. I had a dull, heavy, throbbing pain in my forehead, over my eyes; but I followed her firmly, without a word. My father's bed-chamber looked only upon the ivy-covered wall of the close, and upon some gardens beyond it. The sun never came in there, and it was dim at all times; how much dimmer on this dreary morning, when there was no sunshine even on the open plains. There was a fire in the grate, but it burned dull like everything else. Before I looked at my father, I had taken in all the little accessories around him in one glance. The bottles upon the table, the drinks they were giving him, even the gleam of the wet ivy upon the top of the wall. My father himself lay, supported by pillows, breathing hard and painfully, and was very pale, but with a hectic spot burning on his cheek. He put out his thin white hand to me as I approached him. The diamond, a strange token of his former self, still shone upon his finger; it caught my eye in the strange torpor and dulness of my thoughts--and in this hour of extremity I remember wondering why he still chose to wear this favorite ring.

"You have come home in time, Hester," he said faintly.

I put off my bonnet, and sat down beside him. My face and my heart were still quite dull. I do not think I expressed any emotion. I spoke only to Alice, and to her as coldly as if she had been a perfect stranger. "Will you tell me what he must have--show me the things; and if you please, leave us alone."

Silently, as if she was not able to speak, she pointed out the medicines to me, and then went slowly away. I followed her to the door, for I saw that she beckoned me. How changed I must have been! for Alice seemed almost afraid to speak to me, whom she had been used to call her child.

"Miss Hester!" she whispered, with a faltering eager tone, and under her breath, "do not tell him--for pity's sake do not let him know what you have found out."

I made her no answer, but closed the door and came back to his bedside. There I sat down again in silence. I had nothing to say to him--nothing to say to him! neither of earth nor heaven!

"What have you to tell me, Hester?" said my father, at last. "I am about leaving you--are you aware of it?--do you know that this is the day which I looked forward to, when I asked you to place your fortune in my hands?"

"Yes, father!" I was stupid, sullen, dead. I could show no feeling, for indeed I felt none yet.

"I am glad that you decided as you did, Hester," continued my father; "I have now no weight upon my conscience--no dread that I have compromised your happiness; and you have a protector and a home. You are happy, my love?"

"Did you say happy? oh, yes!" I said with almost a laugh; "happy, very happy, papa."

Strange as it seemed to me, he appeared contented with what I said--he made no more reference to it; he lifted my hand gently up and down in his own.

"And I am going away," he said slowly, "going away, Hester--where?"

Where? the word struck me with a strange superstitious terror. For the first tune I was roused to look eagerly and inquiringly in his face.

"Not to the family grave, Hester!" he said with a smile of awful amusement--yes, amusement, there is no other word, "that is only a stage in the journey--where am I going beyond that? Have you nothing to say?"

"Father--father!" I said wildly, with a breathless horror.

"Ay, but you cannot pilot me!" said my father; "and by-and-bye my ears will be deaf, should all the voices in the world echo my name."

I bent over him, holding him with terror unspeakable. Little training in religion had fallen to my share; but I had the natural sentiment--the natural dread; and I forgot everything else in the deadly fear which made me cling to my father now.

"Why do you not tell me to be resigned?" said my father. "Do you know what I am setting out upon, Hester? Distance, distance, distance--vaster than anything in our moorland--a dark, solitary journey, where no one knows the way. Death! who believes in _that?_ it is but an arbitrary word--one of the names we use for things we cannot comprehend; and no one tells me where is the end."

"Oh, father, father, it is in the Bible!" cried I.

"Yes, it is in the Bible. Are you afraid I do not believe it, child? I believe it--but I see no clearer for my faith," said my father. "I believe it as I believe that Columbus discovered a new world. But what is Columbus and his new world to me?"

"But, papa, the Saviour--" I said, timidly, and in an agony of terror.

"Ay, the Saviour--I believe in him, Hester, but I do not know Him!" said my father, in a hard and painful voice. "Yes--He has gone this road, they say. _He_ might take one by the hand in this mysterious journey--but I know him not."

"Let me send for some one, father," I cried; "there are, surely, some who know. Let me send for a clergyman--papa, do not refuse me. He could tell us, and he could pray."

"Telling would do me little service, Hester," said my father, faintly, with again that strange, awful smile upon his mouth; "it is not information I want. It is--ah! breath--breath!"

A sudden spasm had seized him; he had been speaking too much, and he was worn out. I raised him up in my arms when I understood his gestures, that he might have air. How his breast heaved and panted with those terrible struggles! I supported him, but with nervous trembling arms. I feared the sight of this mortal suffering--it was dreadful to me--for I had never seen the anguish of the bodily frame before.

When he was eased, and the spasm wore off, I laid him down exhausted. He was no longer able to speak; but as I watched him, I saw his eyes, in which shone all his mind, as clear and full as ever, untouched and independent of his malady, passing with a considerate and steady gaze from one part of the room to another. I could not comprehend this mood. Not with disquietude, nor with anxiety, did he ask, "Where?" He was neither disturbed nor unhappy; he seemed to have no fear. That smile had returned to his face; he still could be amused; and no human emotions seemed to break up his deep, deep calm.

But I had no pleasure in seeing his composure. Horror, grief, distress, overpowered me as I sat watching him. Oh, that smile, that smile! Was this journey the only one in the world which a man should take composedly, without knowing where he was bound? I had the common youthful ideas about age, and deathbeds, and death. I gave the natural awe, the natural solemnity, to the wonderful termination, transition, change--the end of our life here--the beginning of the other world. It shocked and struck me with terror, to see him lie there upon the brink of it, asking "Where?" with a smile. I remembered all the common sayings about the death of good men. I remembered Addison's call to some one to come and see how a Christian could die. I wondered if there was ostentation in this, to set against the speculative amusement with which my father had spoken. Everything else was swept from my mind by this. I forgot the hard pressure of my own unhappiness, and it was only recalled to me for a moment when I thought of appealing to Harry, and with a shock and bitter pang recollected that I had no Harry now, but that only Edgar Southcote waited below--waited for the issue of this tragedy to take me home.

For an hour or two after my father lay dozing, taking no notice of me save when I gave him his medicine. He seemed, indeed, to sleep very often for a few minutes at a time; but if I chanced to look away, when my glance returned to him, I invariably saw those open, living eyes, full of strength and understanding, noting all they saw with a perfect intelligence which struck me strangely. His mind was not dying. I had never seen anything that gave me such a wonderful idea of life and vigor as those glances from my father's deathbed. He looked what was approaching in the face, and quailed not at it. Change was before him, not conclusion. With his living soul he looked into a vague, vast future, and knew not what it was; but Death, as he said, was but an arbitrary term--it meant nothing to that inquiring, speculative, active soul.

After a long interval he seemed to revive and strengthen, and turned his eyes upon me again.

"And you are happy, Hester--are you happy?" he said, looking closely in my face.

I turned my eyes away--I think it was the first lie I had ever told--and I said only, "Yes!"

But he was wandering once more among his own thoughts, and heeded not my looks, nor what they meant.

"Life is a strange problem," he said, with the sombre shadow which it used to wear, returning upon his face. "I am about to find the solution of it, Hester--all my existence centres in one event. I have suffered one act to overshadow my best years--that was my great error--what a fool I was! because I failed in one thing, I threw everything away."

"Because the failure in that one thing poisoned all your life!" I exclaimed, "oh! do not blame yourself, father! the blame did not lie with you."

"What was that to me if the penalty did?" said my father, in his old reasoning tone--a tone which contrasted so strangely with the feeble voice, and the great weakness in which he spoke. "One act should not poison life, Hester! not even for a woman, how much less for a man! There are greater things in this world than marrying, or giving in marriage."

He spoke with an emphasis of scorn, which made me tremble more and more. Alas! I saw that still in his very heart rankled this poisoned sorrow; and I shuddered to think that the same doom was mine. That I would carry to my death this same bitterness--that my life was already overshadowed as his had been, and that I was ready, like him, to throw everything away.

"If it should be that I am to find out the wherefore of these dark mysteries; if that is the congenial occupation in the place whither I go;" he paused suddenly when he had said so much--though I watched him eagerly, and listened, he did not continue. He fell into immediate silence, and again he began to sleep.

The confidence with which he spoke to me was strange. I scarcely could understand--perhaps his weakness had some share in it, perhaps my absence, and it was the first time I ever had been absent from home--had inclined his heart towards his only child, and perhaps he could not help those audible wanderings of his thoughts, as strength and life failed him, and he gathered all his powers to his heart to keep his identity--to be himself. When he was awake I saw his eyes, I scarcely could believe in what was coming; but when he slept, I thought I could see moment by moment how the current ebbed and ebbed away.

During one of these intervals of sleep, the doctor came in, and with him Mr. Osborne. With that practised scientific eye, which it is so dreadful to mark for our dearest ones, the doctor looked at him, and shook his head. He was lying so solemnly with his closed eyes, and not a movement in his frame, so pale now, so feeble, so perfectly at rest, that a pang of momentary terror struck to my heart; but he was not gone. He did not wake till the doctor had gone away, and Mr. Osborne was left standing beside me. I never raised my head, nor greeted him. I did not answer his whisper of satisfaction at finding me here--even by my father's bedside. I would not meet as a friend a man who had wilfully snared and betrayed me.

When my father opened his eyes, he saw his friend by his bedside; but his eyes were not so full nor so clear, nor so bright with life and intelligence as they had been--there was a change--he stirred nervously.

"Ha! Osborne, my good fellow!" he said, "I am just setting out--any messages, eh? any word to--to--Helen."

After he had said the name, a momentary color came to his cheek, he lifted his hand heavily, and drew it over his brow.

"What did I say? am I raving? no, no, I know you all! stay here, Helen," the diamond on his finger had caught his eye--it was I whom he was calling by that name, and already his faculties failed to distinguish it from mine, "here," he repeated, trying to draw off the ring, "here--take it from me--wear it--wear it--'tis a misfortune--keep it till you die."

I took it from him, and he seemed to sink into a stupor. I never withdrew my eyes from him. The day had come and gone while I had been watching, and now it was night. Lights were brought into the room. I felt some one come behind me, and stand there at my chair; but I did not look who it was. Oh! that silent dim death-room, with no sound in it but his breath! Mr. Osborne leaned, hiding his face upon the pillow of the bed. I heard one suppressed sob behind me, and knew it was Alice; and I knew, too, instinctively that though I did not see him, there was another in the room. But I never moved nor turned my head; not a tear came to my dry eye, my lips were parched and hot; but neither sobbing nor weeping were possible to me. I sat still by that bedside, in full possession of my mind and faculties. I never observed more keenly, more closely, more minutely in all my life--I felt no grief, I knew no emotion, I only watched and watched with intense attention and consciousness to see my father pass away.

And there lay he--his speech was gone from him--his voice was no more to be heard in mortal ears--his soul was within those dark closing eternal gates--he was almost away. Suddenly he opened his dim eyes, and looked about him wildly, and said, "Helen!" Mr. Osborne turned to me with a rapid gesture to seek the miniature on my neck. "Let him see her--let him see her, why have you left it behind?" he said, in a whisper, which had all the effort of a loud cry. How vain it would have been! my father's eyes closed once more in a moment--opened again to look round upon us with a scared bewildered glance--then were shut closely. I thought he had fallen asleep, but there was suddenly a movement and rustle among them all, a faint stir--I could not describe it, as if something had been accomplished. I understood what it meant, it went to my heart like a knife. Yes! it was so--it was so--I was standing among those who had wronged me, and he was gone.

I did not move, though they did. Mr. Osborne came and put his hand upon my head, and bade God bless me! and said, "All is well with him--all is well with him, dear child! go with Alice, this is no place for you;" and Alice stole to my side and put her arm round me, and entreated, "Miss Hester, darling, my own child, come and rest!"

I shook them both away--they were weeping, both of them--but not a tear came to me. I was the only one quite self-possessed. I did not say a word to either; I kept my seat, and shook them from me when they attempted to remonstrate. No! I could not yield to their false kindness, I would rather be alone--alone, as I was indeed alone in the world.

Then he came to me--when I saw him approaching, I rose. "Do not say anything," I said; "if I must leave my dear father, I will go to my own room; let no one come to me, I will not be interrupted to-night."

He followed me as I went to the door--he followed me along the passage, perhaps he thought I needed his support, but I was firmer in my step than he was. I knew that his heart was yearning over me in my new grief--I knew it better than if he had told me--but my heart was not softened to him. I turned when I reached my door. "Why do you follow me?" said I, "is it not enough that I have lost everything?--leave me in peace to-night."

He held out his hands to me, he caught mine. "Oh! Hester, Hester, weep, and weep with me," he cried, "do not condemn me to this outer darkness--let me be with you in your grief."

I drew myself away from him. "No one can be with me in my grief, I am desolate," I said, but I waited for no answer. I closed my door, and he went away from the threshold--this threshold to which he had come for me when I was a bride.

I went in and shut to my door. I shut the door of my heart, and closed myself up alone in this dreary, solitary place. I was not without a consciousness even now that I had left them all longing, anxious, miserable about me; but I felt as though they were all enemies--all enemies, as if I had not a friend in this wretched, forsaken world. I did not think what this real blow was which had struck upon me. I only felt my dreary, hopeless solitude, and the desire I had to be left here unmolested. I thought it would please me to see no more a human face again. I was in a wilderness more desolate than any Eastern waste--there were no hearers above me, and no human fellowship around. God and the Lord were words to me. I believed, but I did not know them--I could not seek refuge there, and here there was not one--not one of those I had loved so well, but had betrayed me.

My little room, my bower, my girlish sanctuary which I had left in my bride's dress, I had returned to now, worse than a widow. Quietly and mechanically I began to take off my dress--it was not grief but misery which filled my heart, and there is a great difference between them. My wretchedness stupified me, and when I laid down my head upon my pillow, I fell at once into a heavy, deep sleep.

THE FOURTH DAY.

It was a clear, cold, sunshiny autumn morning, the atmosphere was full of sunshine, yet there was little warmth in the air, and there were thin misty clouds upon the sky, which looked like vapors which the earth had thrown off from her own still bosom, and the wind carried up unchanged. Yet out of doors it was a beautiful fresh day, and the sun beat in through our darkened windows with a full bright flash in mockery of our sombre shade. A dreary dull excitement was in the house--it was the funeral day.

I had been living a strange, miserable, solitary life. Every day Alice brought me some food, and I took it mechanically. Every day I went down stairs, and heard them speaking together. I listened when they addressed me, and answered them with perfect composure. I knew all the arrangements--by no pretext that I was not able, did I permit anything to be hid from me. I was quite able--my frame was strong--my heart was stunned--I could endure anything--there need have been no fears for me.

But my intercourse with them went no further. I heard what they had to say, and answered, but I suffered no approach towards friendship. Alice waited upon me with assiduous tenderness, but I never spoke to her. Mr. Osborne appealed to our long acquaintance--to my father's old, old friendship for him--to his love for mine and me. My heart was steeled. I made no response. I went and came among them alone--alone--as I was to be alone all my life.

And he--he was always there--always ready to interpose for me if I expressed a wish, or opposed any intention of Mr. Osborne, who managed everything. If I was likely to be annoyed by any importunity, I knew that he interposed and freed me from it. I seemed to see everything he did, present or absent, by some strange magic. He did not persecute me with vain endeavors after a reconciliation--he left me to myself--we scarcely spoke to each other; yet when he was away I chafed and fretted at his absence, and when he returned I knew how he looked--what he did--as well as if I had flown to meet him, or hung upon him with a young wife's foolish fondness. We were evermore parted, yet evermore united--this feud and antagonism between us was as strong a bond as love.

My father was to be laid in the family grave--this was at a little solitary church half way between Cambridge and Cottiswoode. Some haughty Southcote in the old time had desired to be laid at the boundary and extreme line of his own lands, and hence had arisen a little desolate church and graveyard, and the mausoleum of the race. They had arranged that Edgar Southcote was to be the chief mourner at this lonely funeral--_that_ I could not bear--I could not see my father carried to his grave with only them two--Mr. Osborne and _him_, following up the last journey. I said nothing, but I prepared myself--I wrapped a great black cloak about me, over my mourning dress--black, black, black--it was very neat. I veiled my head and my face, and went out from these doors like something that belonged to the midnight, and not to the day. Alice stood and gazed at me aghast while I robed myself; and when I turned to go out, she fell down at my feet, and clasped her arms round me, and cried and pleaded: "Do not go--it will kill you," she cried. I drew my dress out of her hands and bade her rise. "It will not kill me," I said bitterly, "yet if it did, it would be well."

As I went down stairs I met Mr. Osborne. He stood before me in amazement. "Hester, Hester, you will not think of this!"

"Let me pass!" I said, "let some one who loved him go with him--let me pass--no one shall prevent me--he has none in the world of his own blood but me."

"My child, my child, you cannot bear it--all shall be done as you shall approve," he said anxiously. I did not answer, but passed him with an impatient gesture. In the close, I found yet another interruption--but _he_ did not try to prevent me--he followed me into the carriage--he knew me better than they did.

And so we set out upon our dreary journey--once more I looked from the carriage windows, and wondered if this day was but a common day to the common people round. Once we met a marriage party--a gayer party than ours had been, five weeks ago, with young bright faces, and smiles and jests, and all the natural tokens of a time of joy. I looked at them with the strangest interest. I wondered which was the bride and what was appointed to come to her. Should she be so miserable as I, or was mine a solitary instance? You would fancy a mourner had little room for such thoughts--but I had room for every kind of thought--no wild fancy or speculation in that slow dreadful journey came amiss to me.

Everything looked different from what it had been when I came by this same road to my father's death-bed; now the people were at work in the fields; there were cries in the air--passengers on the road, everywhere, life and motion, sunshine and hope. I saw the rustic people pause at their labors to look at our solemn procession; I could fancy how they asked each other who it was that came this way to his last rest. My thoughts went back to that night seven years ago, when my father and I drove this way together, leaving our ancestral home. We had never been on the road again, so far as I knew, never till now, and now we were taking him to a home of which no man should ever dispossess him, to rest with his forefathers for ever.

A very low rude wall, one of those fences of the country, was round the church-yard, the church itself was small and poor--a humble little chapel, where only a few scattered worshippers ever came. I do not know why it had been permitted to fall so much into neglect, for the family tomb was in a little chapel closely adjoining and opening from it. This little shelter of our race was paved with old tombstones, every one bearing the name of a Southcote, and the walls were covered with tablets to the memory of the dead of our house. There were two raised tombs besides, with recumbent figures, memorials of some more distinguished or more ostentatious than the rest; and this house of the dead was lighted by a small Gothic window, filled with scraps of ancient glass; here, under the shelter of this groined roof, within these inscribed and monumental walls, and not where the free air of heaven should visit his grave, we were to lay my father. It was well--better for him than the green grass, the flowers, the sunshine, and the outer human world, was the little family chapel where, withdrawn from the common dust, his race and kindred waited till the end.

In silence and solitude I stood at the head while it was being laid in its place. I did not weep, nor cry, nor faint. I never faltered for an instant from my firmness. In my cold, cold composure I stood and looked on. The words of the service never woke me, yet I heard every one of them. I noticed the very tone of the clergyman's voice, and the habitual cadence of the words. I knew it was because he said them so often that they rang to that measure. I observed everything; not the smallest incident escaped my eye. By and bye all was silent again--it was over, and we had to go away.

Only then did I linger for a moment--I looked round upon this well frequented place, where so many had been brought and had been left before. I glanced over all the names, how full it was. This place was home. The house we were all born to inhabit--the permanent, lasting dwelling-place. The new comer was not alone here; he was gathered to his fathers; he was entered upon his last and sweet inheritance. I came away with a steady step--I think almost with a smile upon my face. My father had many friends around and beside him--only I was alone.

And then we set out to return to our life, and left the dead behind. Oh! life inexorable--cruel! how it sweeps upon the traces of the last slow journey, and beats out the mourner's footprints with its race and tumult! It was not hard to leave him, for he was well; but it was hard to note our quickened pace, to know that we were going back to every-day. No one spoke--I was thankful for that--even Mr. Osborne did not break upon the silence. Once more the people in the fields looked up to see us going back again, and the light came from the west, and the labors were almost over, and we had left our new inhabitant in the grave; that was all the world knew of us as we went home.

When we entered, I saw the table was spread, and it occurred to me, that at my father's table we ought to be represented, not by Edgar Southcote, nor by Mr. Osborne; and when I had taken off my mantle, I returned and took my place. I saw Mr. Osborne look at me with extreme and uncomprehending wonder. He could not understand my motive, nor what he called the rule of my conduct. He did everything very properly himself, and conformed to all the usual decorums, and he did not know how to judge me. I was aware of his wondering, and almost disapproving glance. I was aware that I ought not to have been able, on this day, to take my place here as I did; but I was not moved by knowing it; I only felt an indignant determination that neither of them two should rule at my father's board--this was his house still, and I was his heir.

When the meal was over, I returned to my room; but I could no longer rest there--there was a visible void in the house--a dull ache and vacancy in my heart. I wandered about from room to room, to his bed-chamber where he died, and where he had been lying like a king in state and rest; from thence I went to the library where his chair stood by the table, where his desk and his books seemed almost to have been used to-day.

There I sat down in my dull, vacant misery; the door was closed, the house was still--save for the branches waving in the evening wind across the window, there was neither sound nor motion near. I was quite alone. I sat looking at the diamond ring upon my finger, his last gift. I wondered what he meant by saying it was a misfortune. A misfortune--I had no need, yet no fear of such in my withered life. One great calamity, as I thought, had put me beyond the reach of fate. "No, no!" I repeated to myself unconsciously aloud, "fate has done its worst--I can suffer no more. I can lose no more--there is no misfortune left possible to me."

As I spoke I heard some motion in the room, and starting saw Mr. Osborne rise from behind the curtain where he had been reading. In proportion to my former confidence in him, was my resentment against him now, and I became very angry when I perceived he had been watching me.

"Then you have made up your mind to be miserable," he said, somewhat sharply, as he came up to me. "This is very foolish, Hester! it is worse than foolish--it is criminal, and it is weak--you forget your natural grief to nurse your wrath, and confirm yourself in a sense of injury. Where is your poor mother's miniature which I gave you for a charm to keep those evil thoughts away? It might have soothed your father's last hour, if you had not thus embittered your heart. Child! child! it is easier to make misery than to heal it--do not throw your life away."

"I have no life to throw away," said I, sullenly, "it has been taken from me and all its hopes. I do not care if I should die to-morrow."

"Do you think that those who make such speeches are in the best mind for dying?" said Mr. Osborne. "Dying is a solemn matter, Hester! and can only be done once. But at present, living is more in your way. Do you know that this revengeful passion of yours will estrange all sympathy from you? Men and women who have lived long in the world have generally known some _real_ calamities, Hester! it is only boys and girls who can afford to indulge in despair, and say fate has done its worst. You do not know what you say--instead of fate and its curse, Providence has blessed you more greatly than you are able to perceive."

"Not Providence--Providence never works by falsehood," cried I.

Mr. Osborne's face flushed with displeasure. "You are very bitter, Hester, very harsh in your judgment," he said, "and I could not bear with this passion of yours so long if you had not been a dear child to me for many a year--for your father's and your mother's sake I overlook your resentment against myself, though I have not deserved it; but, Hester, beware--it is all very well now to be heroically miserable; but you are young--you have a long life before you; and, however long you may dwell upon your injury, some time or other you will begin to want and long for the happiness which now you despise. Hester! come, I will confess you have had a hard initiation into the cares of life; be a woman and a brave one, let us see no more of the girl's whims and humors. I can promise you all tenderness for your honest sorrow, Hester, but not for your wilful wretchedness."

"I ask no tenderness, no sympathy. I will not accept it," I cried, starting from my seat. "You know I have not a true friend in the world--who should sympathize with me? every one of you has deceived me!"

"If that is your conclusion, so be it," said Mr. Osborne, walking to his seat. "I can only hope that your true friends will not be lost, even before you have real need for them, and that when you come back to look for it, Hester, and find your right senses, your happiness will not be entirely out of your reach."

I did not wait to hear any more, but left the room, unable to speak with anger and indignation--the stupor of my misery was broken, I was roused almost to madness. It was not yet a week since I had fallen from my happy confidence into this dark abyss of falsehood and betrayal, and already they blamed _me_--already they called me resentful, revengeful, obdurate. I, the victim of their successful plots, I who stood alone and no one with me! I saw at once how I would be judged on all sides, how every one would condemn me--how light _his_ offence would be in the eyes of the world--how unpardonable mine! If I had been like to yield before, I could not have yielded after that. I set myself fairly to meet it all. He should have justice! justice! and neither deceit nor pity from me.

In this tumult, my heart awoke. Its dead and sullen inaction gave way to a vivid feeling of reality--and as if I had known it now for the first time, there burst upon me the full sense of my father's death. Yes! for the first time I felt to my heart, how desolate I was, and with a bitter satisfaction I remembered that I had nothing to wean me from my grief, nothing to distract the mourning of my orphanhood--no wooing tender happiness to lead me away from the grave where I would build all my thoughts. Yet now, also, for the first time I remembered what he had said upon his death-bed--strange words for him, "one event should not poison a life." I thought I heard the echoing round me of his failing voice--the voice I should hear no more; and I threw myself down before the bed, kneeling and covering my face in passionate and bitter weeping. My father! my father! where was he? where?

When I rose from my knees, it was quite dark. I do not think any one can be in great or real grief without trying to pray. I prayed little in the stupor of my misery, but now broken wandering disconnected petitions came to my lips among my tears. When I appealed to God, though ever so feebly, and, alas! so little as I knew of him! it calmed me in some degree. I rose and bathed my face to put away the tears--I was subdued and melted--my eyes filled in spite of myself. I did not weep over the death-bed or the grave. I felt now as if I could weep continuously, and that it was impossible to stay my tears.

Then I heard a timid step without; I knew it was Alice, and by-and-bye she came softly knocking at the door--under the door crept in the light from her candle. I remembered with a bitter pang the last time she came to me in the darkness--the night of my betrothal. When I thought of that, I rose firmly and admitted her. How I was changed! Alice came in with a hesitating step, looking wistfully at me to see how far she might venture. Alice was greatly shaken with the events of these last few days. The bright look on her face was overclouded, she was humble and deprecating and uneasy. I had been her child, loving, confiding, almost depending upon her--and there was such a dreary difference in everything now.

She set the light upon the table, and lingered looking at me. I fancy she saw some encouragement in the glance of my wet eyes and the softening of my face. She came behind me under the pretence of doing something, and then she said timidly, "Miss Hester, may I speak?"

I could not say no. I did not answer at all, and she took this for permission.

"You think every one's deceived you, dear," said Alice humbly, "and in your great trouble you stand by yourself, and will let nobody help you. I don't deny, Miss Hester, every one's done wrong; but, darling, it was all for love of you."

"Do not say so, Alice," I exclaimed, eagerly, "you insult me when you speak thus."

"Oh! Miss Hester, think upon my meaning," cried Alice. "I thought I knew his look, his step, his voice, from the first time he came under this roof. I pondered and pondered in my mind if it could be him; but he never told me that I should know. You were as like to know as I was, dear--you had seen him all the same; and it was not my part to speak, or I thought so, Miss Hester. Then the night he spoke to you first, he brought the roses here, and said to me, 'Do you think she would like them, Alice?' and in my heart I knew where they came from; but never a word was spoken of them by either him or me. On your wedding-day I got more again, by a servant's hand. I never doubted they came from Cottiswoode, nor that he sent them: but, dear, he never told me, and I had no right to know. You were willing to marry him, Miss Hester, you were bound up in one another; was I to presume that I knew more than you did, darling! and what was it I knew? nothing at all, dear, but the thought in my heart--oh! Miss Hester, you're all I have in the world--don't turn away from Alice--don't think I've deceived you, I'm desolate without you."

"_I_ am quite desolate, I have no one in the world to trust to," said I.

"Oh! don't say it--don't say it!" cried Alice, "he's been led into a snare once, Miss Hester, but truth is in his heart!"

"It is I who have been led into a snare," said I, bitterly, "he has wrecked all my expectations--he has plunged me out of happiness into misery; but that is not all, he has placed me so that I must either yield and be satisfied like a weak fool, or if I resist be known as a passionate ill-tempered woman, who makes him miserable. I see all that is before me. I am doomed like my father. My own life is robbed of every comfort, and the blame of making him unhappy will be added to me--oh, I see it all! I will be called a termagant, a household plague, a scorn to women. It is not enough that my life is wretched--my good name must go from me too."

"Oh! Miss Hester, not by his will," cried Alice.

As she spoke, a change came upon me. The pride of a wife came to my mind. I could blame him myself--but I could hear no one else blame him--I could not admit a third person to our domestic discord. My quarrel with Alice was for her own fault, and not for his. My bitterness against Mr. Osborne was because he had deceived me, and not because Edgar Southcote had. No one but himself had any right to speak of his error to me.

"I am not speaking of my husband," I said coldly; "what is between us can only be settled by ourselves; no one can interfere between him and me. I speak only of circumstances of my unfortunate and unhappy position; that is all I refer to."

Alice paused, chilled and overcast once more; it was difficult for her, a humble, simple woman, who rarely was offended, and who, when she was, forgave like a Christian, and never suffered the sun to go down upon her wrath, to understand or to deal with me; she stole round behind my chair, and bent down on the ground by my feet.

"Miss Hester, will you forgive me? you are used to me--you would not take to another for a long time, dear. I was your nurse, and I have been your maid, Miss Hester, all your life--don't cast off Alice. May be, I don't deserve that you ever should trust me more; but let me be beside you, darling; let me serve you, and wait on you, and comfort you if I can. Oh! Miss Hester, my dear sweet young lady trusted in me--and even your papa trusted in me--don't cast me off, for you are my own child."

I cried long and bitterly. I could not help it. The pleading of Alice recalled again to me how desolate and solitary I was. I had not a friend in the world, old or young, to whom I could confide my trouble; not one whom I could lean upon if I was ill or suffering; alas, not a woman in existence, except herself, whom I should have wished even to see again! and disappointed as I was in those hopes of perfect sympathy and union with my husband, which every one forms at some time or other; my heart yearned for the natural solace--the comfort of mother or of sister which providence had denied to me. I let my hand fall upon her shoulder--I leaned upon her. "Oh, Alice, Alice, why did you deceive me?" I cried with a great burst of tears.

She did not answer anything, she drew me close to her bosom, and caressed me, and soothed me. My heart beat calmer. I was subdued--I scarcely knew how, as I leant upon Alice. I seemed to have found some rest and comfort for which I had been seeking vainly. When she began to weep over me, my own tears stayed; my heart was eased because I had forgiven her, and then I raised myself up, and we sat together speaking of my father. I had never heard about his last days.