OCTOBER was over now, and sullen and dark winter weather had oppressed the skies, and settled down upon the country. I was still in Cambridge, living alone in my father’s house. My husband came and went constantly, yet left me unmolested; I almost think he was afraid at once to enter upon the question of my return, and he respected the grief which would not be sympathized with. I believe, indeed, that to have an excuse for delaying any explanation or arrangements between us—to put off fixing that future which we both dreaded, there was a mutual pretence of business which claimed my attention after my father’s death; but there was, indeed, no such thing. He had left one or two legacies, and desired that, except the books he bequeathed to Mr. Osborne, his library should be left intact, and even the house preserved, and a housekeeper placed in it when I returned to my own home—but he had neither debts nor debtors—there were no arrangements to make. I lived a dreary life in the drawing-room, when I was too sick at heart to go near the window, and never left my chair when I could help it. I read earnestly, yet eagerly, whatever books came to my hand—novels when I could get them—I was glad of anything to cheat me from my own brooding unhappy thoughts; yet I never thought of going away. Where could I go to? All the world was alike solitary—alike desolate to me. The heavy listlessness of grief came upon me—I cared for nothing, I scarcely desired anything. I had never had any visitors, and though one or two came to see me now because I was mistress of Cottiswoode, to offer their condolences and sympathy for my loss, I denied them admittance when I could, and when I could not, suffered their coming and their going so indifferently that they seldom came to trouble me again. Mr. Osborne came now and then, but his visits were only of duty, and there was little pleasure in them for either him or me. By degrees I was left entirely alone with Alice, and with my husband, when he came. People had begun already to speak of me with astonishment. I made Alice confess this was the case; and no one knew me or could take my part; but in my heart I was rather glad than otherwise, to have my first condemnation over so soon.
It was now a month since we had returned home, and save on the first evening and morning after our arrival at Cottiswoode, we had spoken to each other only on indifferent subjects. I knew this could not last. I had always in my mind a certain deadened and dull expectation of our next interview. I feared it, and would have put it off from day to day, yet it seemed the one thread of life in my languid existence. My heart beat when I heard his footsteps come along the close—that springy light rapid step; I knew its faintest echo, and equally well I knew it when duller and fainter it went away. The misery of our position was, that we were not, and could not be, indifferent to each other; when he came, this subdued restrained expectation animated me into temporary vigor; when he went away, I was aware of an aching disappointment, which mingled with a sense of relief. Involuntarily I watched and waited for him—if our meetings had all been joy, they scarcely could have been so breathlessly anticipated, for then we should have known each other’s plans, and intentions, and wishes, and now we knew each other in perfect ignorance of what the other meant to do.
I myself was still worse than that—I did not know my own intentions; I had no plan for the future. I knew we must by-and-by decide upon something; but my mind seemed incapable of any action, save brooding over my own thoughts or speculating on his. Alice had brightened, I could not tell why, since our interview. I suspected she nourished vain hopes that I was weak, and would yield to him; none of them understood me, or if any one did, it was he.
Things were in this position to-day, when Alice came and told me that he had arrived, and wanted to see me. I told her to show Mr. Southcote upstairs. I was able to compose myself before he entered the room. I am sure he could see no sign of agitation. It was very different with him; his face had an excited, unsteady look, he was very pale, yet sometimes his cheek flushed with a deep faint color. I could not see that he either had any plan. I read in his whole manner that he had come to try once more what entreaty, and persuasion, and penitence would do. This hardened and strengthened me; I was ready to hear him with coolness and self-possession when I saw that he brought neither to his conference with me.
He sat down near to me, and leaned forward to me across my little table. His voice was dry and hoarse with emotion. “Hester,” he said, “I have waited, and been patient. I have not hastened nor troubled you. Have you no comfort, no hope, no forgiveness for me now!”
“It is I that should have comfort—for it is only I that have been in sorrow,” I said.
“Yes, and you have put me away from you. I have not been permitted to say that I grieved with my wife,” he said, “yet I have grieved with you, Hester—you can shut out the man who has offended you, but you cannot shut out the heart—all these wrong nights and days—all this wretched time, I have been with you, Hester. You cannot exclude my thoughts or my love—you cannot make me forget that you are mine.”
“I cannot make myself forget it,” I said. “No, you do well to taunt me. I know that I belong to you. It has all come true—I feel what is upon me like a chain of iron. I remember your cruel words, when you said ‘for ever and ever’—I remember what my father told us—you do not need to repeat my misery to me, I acknowledge it.”
I saw him start and draw back when I said “my misery,” as if it was a pang; but he recovered himself. “For ever and for ever,” he repeated, “do you remember that night—Hester, there was no misery in our way that night, and how is it that we are changed? I have sinned against you, and you have punished me. For a whole month now, and it is only two months since our marriage-day, the meanest passenger in the streets has had as much kindness at your hands as I—is this not enough, Hester? can you not forget now this dark episode, and return to what we were? Let me suppose it is again that night—let us return to the time of our betrothal, and being anew. Will you speak to me, Hester?”
“We cannot return to the time of our betrothal,” said I; “then I was deceived. Now I know, and it is impossible to restore the delusion again.”
“Was there nothing but delusion?” he said hastily, “was it folly to suppose that you cared for me at all—or is vengeance and not mercy the companion of love?”
“I cannot tell,” said I, “I am no poet; but if you think it is easier to be wounded to the heart—to be deceived and ruined, and put to shame, by one who is dear to you than by an enemy, I know you are mistaken. If I had not cared for you, I should have had only myself to mourn for, and would have been a light burden.”
He sank back in his chair for a moment with a look of blank dismay and almost horror. “Deceived and ruined and put to shame!” he repeated. “Hester! what meaning do you put upon these words?”
I felt the blood rush to my face, with indignation and shame and nervous excitement. “It is quite true,” I said, “you have taken the hope and strength out of my life—is not that ruin? and you have disgraced me in my own eyes—I did not leave my father’s home with you—you know I did not give either heart or hand to you; but I awake and find that I am your wife—you have disgraced and shamed me to myself. I can only bear contempt and scorn for the deceived and foolish girl whom you have shown to me in her true weakness. I can never hold up my head any more—and by-and-by you will disgrace me to the world.”
“How will I do that, Hester?” he asked; his voice rang sharp and harsh; he felt what I said deeply, and, in addition, I saw that at last I roused a kindred opposition and anger in his mind.
I found a certain pleasure in it. I was glad to rouse him to be like me, in bitterness and enmity; though I was much excited, I had command of myself; I could speak slowly and clearly as I thought. I had never been given to many words—but I appreciated the possession of them now.
“When your neighbors see the disappointed sullen woman who is called by your name, they will know what to think of her,” I said. “I will be pointed at as one whose evil temper, whose bitter disposition makes every one round me miserable. All the hard tales of the old Southcotes will be revived in me—they will say I am a curse instead of a blessing—they will make an example of me, and tell how happy I might be—how miserable I am. No one will know of the secret poison that has come into my life; but they will know that I am bitter and harsh and unlovely, and they will judge from what they see; the very servants, poor Amy who could not leave me till she had told me who she was—they will think me an evil spirit—they will shrink out of my way, and all the world will give their sympathy to you.”
While I spoke thus, though it moved him much, though he changed color, and sometimes for a moment his eye flashed upon me with indignation, I saw at once that I had relieved him in some point. When I thought of it, I perceived that all this speech of mine pointed to no separation; but almost told him that I was ready to follow him home. I had not intended this, indeed I did not know what I had intended—I had formed no plan, and I only spoke, as I so often acted, on the moment’s impulse, without pausing to think what it might lead to. When I discovered his satisfaction, it startled me for a moment; but then I was occupied listening to what he said. He spoke in a softened and hopeful tone.
“This will not last, Hester! your own good heart will interpose for me. I have deceived you once, it is true; but neither I nor any one else will do you injustice.”
I made no answer. I saw he had something more to say, and I waited sullenly to know what it was.
“Will you come home?” he asked. “There is nothing here but memories of sadness. Come, Hester! life and its duties wait upon us while we dally. If you cannot forgive me, still, come with me, Hester. If we do our duty, the blessing will come to us. At present we are paralysed, neither you nor I are good for anything, and our life was not made for our own caprice—come!”
“And what should I be good for?” I asked with some astonishment, for hitherto my life had been of the most complete and total uselessness, and I did not understand what was required from me. When he took this tone, I always acknowledged his influence—it was only when we came to personal matters—when I sat triumphant on the eminence of injury, that I got the better of him.
“What? anything!” he said. “I know what you are, Hester! you have life before you as I have; and happy or not happy, we have all its duties to do—not one thing, but a multitude. Come among your own people, to your own home—you have authority to exercise, charities and kindness to spread around you. You are no less yourself, because, if you will, you are disappointed and deceived in me—I will bear my burden as it is just I should; but, Hester, it becomes you to be no less brave; you must take up yours.”
I gazed upon him with amazement; involuntarily my heart responded to this call he made upon me. No one had ever bidden me rise and work before; but when I heard his voice, I suddenly acknowledged that this was the want of my life. I was quite in the mood for it; I might have gone into a nunnery, or joined a sisterhood of mercy, had I been a Catholic, or in a country where such things were. I immediately leaped upon a wild imaginative vision of those things which he described so soberly as the duties of life. I took the heroic view of them at once; I had no eye for patience and meekness, and such tame virtues. My rapid glance sought out the great self-sacrifices, the privations of voluntary humility; I was ready to walk over the burning ploughshares, to be a martyr at once.
Yes! I began to be ashamed of my expectation that he would plead, and pray, and humble himself at my feet, and that I, injured and deceived, would spurn him from me. I was ashamed of resenting so bitterly my own unhappiness. In a moment I had reached the opposite extreme. What was happiness? a mere bubble on the surface. Duty and labor were the zest of life.
With the speed of lightning these thoughts passed through my mind, and all the time he sat gazing at me across the table. I think he was scarcely prepared for my answer; for he met the first words with a startled look of mingled embarrassment and joy.
“When do you wish to go home?” I said. “I am ready now.”
“Ready now—to go home?” he exclaimed, with a flush of surprise and delight, rising to come to me; but he caught my abstracted, pre-occupied eye, and, with a deeper blush of mortification, sat down again. “You cannot come too soon, Hester,” he continued, in a subdued and disappointed tone, “for everything is disorganized and out of order—there is the greatest want of you—though I will not say how I myself long to see you in your proper place—will you come to-morrow?”
“There are some things to do,” I said, vacantly, delaying without any purpose in the delay. “Will Monday do?”
“Yes, yes!” he said, with eagerness. “I will come for you then; and now, I go away in hope.”
I made no answer—my mind was busied with my own projects—already in my mind I had begun my life of heroism and martyrdom at Cottiswoode. Already I washed the feet of the poor, and watched by the bedside of the plague-stricken. I did not pause to consider possibilities, nor ordinary rules; but followed up my own wild idea, in my own eager fashion. He waited for something further from me; but I said nothing to him, and after a little interval he went away.
It was now Friday, and I had pledged myself to be ready on Monday to go to Cottiswoode. I went immediately to find Alice; I could perceive that she had been waiting with great anxiety the issue of our interview, though, absorbed as I was in my new thought, it did not immediately occur to me why—and when I went to her, Alice was quite nervous with expectation.
“Do you think some one could be got quickly to keep the house, Alice?” said I, “do you think you could find some one to-day or to-morrow?”
Her face lighted up suddenly.
“To be sure I could, Miss Hester,” said Alice; “but, dear, why?”
“Because I have arranged to go home on Monday,” said I, “to go home, Alice, to the duties of my life.”
“Bless you, darling!” she cried; but her color changed when she saw my unresponsive face; “it’s not against your will, dear,” she said timidly, “you’re not forced to go, Miss Hester?”
“Forced? no! unless by my duty, which is there,” said I. “I begin to see what is the use of me, Alice, or what should be, rather; for I have never been of use to any one. I must go to begin my work, there is the proper field for me—and now, when I know what it is, unhappiness will never prevent me from doing my duty.”
“Is that all, Miss Hester?” said Alice, with a wistful look—she was more disappointed than even he had been.
“Yes! that is all,” said I, “what more should any one seek for? I wonder you never told me, Alice, how useless I was.”
“Has any one told you now?” said Alice, drawing herself up with a little flush of simple anger; “or, dear, what has put such a thought in your mind to-day?”
“Not any one telling me,” I answered; “but I see it very well, and clearly—perhaps, indeed, after all, I could not have done very much when I was a girl—it is different now; but, Alice, let us see what preparations we have to make, for there is very little time.”
“Yes, Miss Hester, directly,” said Alice, taking up her bonnet. “I’ll go and see after the old woman—don’t you be waiting about the library, dear, it’s a dreary place for you. Wouldn’t you come out now your own self, Miss Hester, and breathe the air—Cambridge streets are no great things, I dare say, to them that’s been in foreign countries and in London, but better than always moping in the house—come, darling—come yourself and see.”
I was persuaded, and went with her. The day was not so miserable out of doors as it looked within, and it was still scarcely past mid-day, and there were many people abroad. We had not gone far before we met Mr. Osborne, who had a clergyman with him—a tall, meagre, middle-aged man, in very precise clerical dress, about whom there was a certain look of asceticism and extreme devotion, which, as it happened, chimed in with my mood of the moment. Mr. Osborne and I met very drily after our late quarrel. I had not softened in my resentment towards him, and he was impatient and angry with me—so that I thought it was mere aggravation, and a desire to exasperate me, which tempted him to introduce his companion to “Mrs. Southcote of Cottiswoode;” it was the first time I had heard my name stated so, and I could not subdue the start and tremor with which I heard it—so that I did not at the instant notice the name of the person introduced to me, and it was only when I heard it repeated, that it struck upon me with a sound more startling than my own. “Mr. Saville is rector of Cottiswoode—the clergyman of your parish—Hester,” said Mr. Osborne—“when do you return home?”
“On Monday,” I said; but my whole attention was fixed upon my new acquaintance—Mr. Saville—I could not think, for the first moment, what association I had with the name, but it was a painful one, and it had something to do with Edgar Southcote.
“I am glad to meet my young relative,” said the clergyman with a stiff bow—his young relative! Could he mean me?
I gazed at him for a moment, but only with a dull astonishment, for it was quite beyond my comprehension what he could mean.
“The parish has been much neglected. I hope to bring its necessities before you soon,” said the clergyman, in his measured, chanting tone. “I do not despair of making the desert rejoice, with your assistance, Mrs. Southcote; but at present it is in a deplorable condition. No church sentiments, no feeling for what is seemly and in order—there has been no resident on the estates for so many years.”
“Ah! the young people will rectify that, no doubt,” said Mr. Osborne, carelessly. “I am glad to see you out of doors, Hester, and glad to hear that you are going home—your own good sense—I always trusted to that.”
“I will be glad to do all I can,” I said, hurriedly answering the clergyman, and taking no notice of Mr. Osborne; “you will have to instruct me at first, for I am quite ignorant of work. Could I take anything with me that could be of service? pray let me know.”
“I will make out a list of useful articles—no trouble, pray do not speak of it,” said the Rev. Mr. Saville, with a wonderful bow.
Mr. Osborne groaned. “I am in some haste,” he said sharply. “Good morning, Hester—I shall see you before you leave Cambridge,” and as he turned away, I heard him mutter—“Poor, foolish child—is she to comfort herself after this fashion.”
I turned away proudly—this worldly man might scorn these self-denying labors, which were to be all the pleasure of my life—but I only clasped them closer on that account. I called Alice to me again, and went on in silence. I persuaded myself how glad I was that I had encountered this clergyman; but in spite of my devotion to the work about which he seemed so anxious, I could not keep my mind from straying back to his name, and what he had said—Saville—Saville—it suddenly burst upon me—that was the name of the man who came with the boy Edgar to Cottiswoode, before we left it. I felt my face burn with indignation and displeasure—he called me his young relative—perhaps he was that man’s son, and a relation of Edgar Southcote. I thought it a new insult, that by any chance such a person as the first Saville should be related to me. Yet so strongly was I moved by my new sentiments, that, I think I made the strongest effort which I ever recollect making to put down this feeling. Yes, I had become enamored of mortification and self-abasement. I had my work to begin too, and what did it matter if this clergyman was Saville’s son—what did anything matter to me? Was I not about to court humiliation and offer sacrifices—to forget my worldly comforts and delicate breeding—to wash the feet of pilgrims? and I was glad to find at the very outset a great unexpected mortification in my way. I walked along very rapidly beside Alice. She was anxious to speak to me—very anxious about myself—but I did not think of beginning my labors by doing what I could to lighten the kind heart of Alice.
When we were returning, after visiting a woman whom Alice knew, and whom she arranged with—for though this might have been a very suitable beginning of my labors, I did not think of making it so, but was shy and stood aloof; we began at last to speak. Alice no longer understood or could deal with me; she hesitated and was timid, and never knew what to say in our conversations. I do not wonder at it—for when I look upon those days, I do not always find it easy to comprehend myself.
We had just passed a group of young ladies. Three handsome, tall, well-dressed girls, evidently sisters, and full of talk and eager interest in something they were discussing. “Dear,” said Alice, with a sigh, “if you had but had a sister, Miss Hester, or some good young lady to be company for you at Cottiswoode.”
“I want no company, Alice,” said I.
“You never knew what it was, dear,” said Alice; “a friend is a great blessing and comfort, more than you think for. Couldn’t you now, Miss Hester, darling, think upon some one to keep you company this dull winter? You’ll be lone in the country, and nothing to amuse you—do think upon it, dear.”
“I do not want to be amused. I am going to work like a rational creature,” said I; “do you think I am good for nothing but amusing myself, Alice? No, I have lived long enough for my own pleasure, and now that pleasure is out of the question, I want to live for others. I must have been very selfish all my life. I want to sacrifice myself now, and live for the good of the poor and the distressed.”
“Dear, it’s a blessed thing to hear a young lady like you speak such words,” said Alice, with tears in her eyes; “and to serve God and to be good to his poor, is the way to be happy, darling; but you never need to live solitary, or give up a good friend for that.”
“You do not understand me, Alice. I don’t want to be happy,” said I, sternly—“I want to do my duty—happiness is all over in this world for me. Do not say anything; you will only vex me; and you know I have no good friend to give up, even if I cared for it.”
Alice paused again, disconcerted, eager, ready to say a great deal, but afraid of offending me, I fancy; at last she thought it best to let me have my own way.
“And what will you do, Miss Hester?” said Alice.
“I scarcely know,” said I, “the clergyman will tell me, and I will learn, and I am sure you know, Alice, what ladies can do in the country. I could go to nurse the sick in the village—that is one thing.”
“But, dear Miss Hester,” said Alice, “if the Queen had come to nurse your papa, do you think she could have made up to him, poor gentleman, for the want of you?”
“No, no, no! why do you say such things?” said I.
“Because poor folks feel just the same,” said Alice, with a little dignity; “a poor man would sooner have his own wife, and a poor woman her mother, or her child, to nurse her, than the greatest lady in the land.”
I was slightly offended at what Alice said. “I will only go where I am of use, you may be sure,” I said; “I will seek out the poor, and work for them. I will teach the children. I will take care of the old people. There is a great deal of misery everywhere—I can understand it now, and I will find plenty to do.”
“Yes, dear, there’s plenty of trouble,” said Alice, with a heavy sigh: “plenty of God’s own sending, and plenty of our own making, Miss Hester—and old folks like me, that have seen grief, it goes to our heart to see the young and the great that have happiness at their feet, and will not stoop down to lift it—and that’s the truth.”
“If you speak of me—I do not wish to hear of happiness. I have no longer anything to do with it,” said I, angrily.
How I clung to this! how I closed myself up in a gloomy panoply, and defied their vain consolations. We went the rest of the way home in silence. I was displeased with Alice, and she was grieved for me. I do not know how she comforted herself; but I took refuge in my intended martyrdom. I did not wish it to be agreeable. I was impatient of being told that I could do all this, yet not diminish either my comforts or enjoyments. I was anxious to suffer, to scorn delights, to meet with trials—not the Lady Bountiful of a village, but the heroine of some dangerous mission, was it my desire to be. I had the true ascetic mood upon me. I was not disposed to “endure hardness” for the sake of doing good; but rather to endure doing good for the sake of the sacrifice and suffering which I anticipated so eagerly; and this was how I intended to act upon my husband’s sober exhortation to come to my own home and my own people—to take up my burden and do the duties of my life.