The Days of My Life: An Autobiography

“Yes, Alice,” I said, “we cannot remain any longer under the same roof – it would kill us both. He says he is wretched, and that I have deceived him. I did not try to deceive him. I did not wish to make him wretched, Alice!” I cried with a sob which I could not restrain, “but now I must go away.”

“Oh! Miss Hester, see him once more first,” pleaded Alice. I suppose she had been struck with sudden hope from my tone.

“No,” I said, “it is all over. I am very glad it is all over. Put the things together, Alice – they are all in that drawer, and take what I will need – nothing more than what I will need, and what you require yourself, and we will go away together. We have no one now but each other, Alice. You will go with me. You will not desert me. I have not a friend but you.”

“God help us! and clear all this trouble away in His own time!” said Alice solemnly, “but it will be a strange day when I desert you, my darling. Brighter times will come for you, dear – happiness will come yet, Miss Hester: but come joy or sorrow, I will never leave you, till God takes me away.”

She kissed my cheek silently as I stooped to her – and then she began her sorrowful packing. I could see the tears dropping on the things as she put them in; but she did not make a complaint or a remonstrance. She did not even seem startled. I was surprised that she should acquiesce so easily. While I helped her to gather everything together, I said, “Alice, you are not surprised – are you content that this is best?”

“I’m content that nothing can be worse, Miss Hester,” she said sorrowfully. “God will show what’s for the best in his time, but to aggravate and torment each other as you two are doing is not to be called good any way; and maybe if you were far off, your hearts would yearn to one another. I’m waiting for the light out of the darkness, though I see none now.”

And she went on patiently with her work, in a resigned and melancholy fashion, which subdued me strangely. I had put on my own bonnet and cloak, and sat waiting ready to go away. The house was unusually quiet, yet every far-off sound roused me to renewed excitement. Would he do anything to prevent me going? should we have any further personal encounter? I sat shivering, wrapped in the cloak, which at any other moment would have overpowered me with its great warmth, listening eagerly to hear something. At length, my heart leaped when I caught the roll of the carriage wheels coming to the door. Now everything was ready for our going away. Alice had locked the trunk, which carried all our necessary things, and stood before me, dressed for her journey, waiting my pleasure. Now, for the first time, I began to tremble and give way.

“Will you not write a note, Miss Hester – a few words to tell him you are gone? Do not leave him in such dreadful suspense!” said the melancholy voice of Alice.

“Go down and see if he is in the library,” said I under my breath, and trembling painfully. I did not want to speak to him, but my heart yearned to see him, to look at him once again. I sat with quivering lips and a colorless face, waiting till she came back again. I could see myself in the mirror; how I trembled, and what a ghastly look I had. I thought she would never come again, as I sat there waiting for her, hearing nothing but my own quick, short breathing, and the rustle of my dress. At last, Alice returned. He was not in the house. The Rector had called about a quarter of an hour ago, and Mr. Southcote had gone out with him. “That is very well, Alice, very fortunate,” I said, with my blanched dry lips; but it almost was the last stroke – the utmost blow, and I was stunned with the great momentary anguish which it woke in my heart.

Alice drew a table to my side, and put my blotting-book before me. I took my pen in my hand almost unconsciously, and began to write. While I was thus occupied, she had the trunk carried down stairs, thinking I did not perceive her. But even while I tried to write, my eye mechanically followed her movements. What should I say to him? how I was losing time!

At last I completed the note, and carried it in my hand down stairs. This was what I said: —

“I do not ask you to pardon me for going away, because it is all I can do to relieve you now. If I have deceived you, as you have deceived me, then we are equals, and have nothing to say to each other in reproach or indignation. I am content that it should be so – and as we cannot restore the delusion – you to my eyes, or I to yours, it is best that we should part. I will not continue to make you wretched; and the only one thing which is in my power, to relieve us both, I will do. I cannot tell where I am going – to some quiet place where I may find shelter and rest, till I can die. I wish you only good, and no evil; and I wish you this blessing first of all – to be relieved of me.

“H. S.”

I went down stairs with it softly, with a noiseless step, as if I were a thief, and feared detection; and it was only when I saw Amy and another servant lingering with scared faces in the hall, as if they suspected something about to happen, that I recovered myself. They went away when they saw me coming down firmly, in my usual dress, and with, I suppose, something like my usual looks; and when I saw that they were gone, and that Alice waited for me at the door, I went softly into the library for a moment. He was constantly now in the room where my father had spent so many years – but I did not think of my father, when I stole tremulously into it, and placed myself in his seat, and bowed my head upon the desk at which he had been writing. Who was I thinking of? – not of the man who had deceived me, and whom I had deceived – I could not tell. I was conscious of nothing but of the flood of tender affection – of longing – of forlorn and hopeless desolateness which came over me. I cried under my breath, a name which had not passed my lips for months; the name of my bridegroom – my betrothed. I laid my cheek close down upon his desk; I prayed in my heart, “God bless him!” and then I rose, pallid and exhausted, to leave his house for ever. Yes, there was the bright mocking daylight, the walnut rustling at the great window; the horses pawing impatiently at the door. I left my letter where my cheek had rested a moment since, and went steadily away.

Alice helped me, and came beside me; once more I saw the face of Amy at the door, and of the housekeeper at the window above, looking out with wonder and dismay; and then we drove through the grand old avenue of elms, and the tender fresh spring foliage, which, for many a year, had brought to these old hoary giants a renewal of their youth. I now looked back; I threw myself into my corner, and drew my veil over my face. Now, at last, I could surely rest. We had only driven about half a mile past the Rectory and Cottisbourne, when Alice suddenly touched my hand and pointed out. I raised myself to look: he was standing in the road, speaking to a farmer, or rather listening; and I saw his look quicken into sudden wonder and curiosity when we dashed past. He did not see me, for the windows were closed, and my veil down; but I saw him as I had wished; the excitement of the morning partially remained on his face, but he was listening patiently to what the man had to say to him, and did not neglect anything, as I could see, by a strange intuition, because he had been so strongly moved and agitated. It was strange to notice what a difference there was between him and me. These passionate emotions of mine ruled and swayed me. He – did he feel less acutely than I did? I could not persuade myself so; but he did his endeavor, at least, to rule and restrain his own heart.

Yes! I should have been strongest at this moment – I never before had taken so decided a step; I had burst the natural bonds asunder. I had rent the veil of domestic privacy, and told all the world of the skeleton in our house. I ought to have been more resolute now than at any previous time of all my life. But I was not. Instead of reposing on what I was doing, the wildest conflict arose within me. I began to doubt the justice of everything I had ever done. I began to see myself in darker colors than I had ever been represented – a capricious, irritable, revengeful trifler – a fool! – a fool! – I stood aside like a terrified child who has set in motion some frightful machinery. I remembered what Mr. Osborne said – it was easy to make misery; but who should heal it when it was made? and while I bade Alice tell them to drive faster, my heart sank within me with a desperate hopelessness. I was going away – going away – I would never see him again.

It seemed a very short time to me when we arrived at the railway. As it happened, a train was to start immediately, and within a few minutes more we were rushing along this mighty highway, hurrying to the universal centre – going to London. Alice had never travelled in her primitive life. Grieved and full of anxiety as she was for me, Alice was too natural a woman not to show a faint glimmer of expectation when I spoke of London; and while she folded my mantle round me, and wrapped a shawl about my feet, she looked out at the strange road-side stations and unfamiliar country through which we dashed, with an excited yet half dizzy curiosity; for Alice was disposed to think we were rushing upon some catastrophe at this frightful, headlong speed. For me, I doubled my veil over my face, and withdrew into the corner, and was thankful for the kindly shade of night, when it fell at last. I could not bear to recall my last journey hither, if I could in reality recall it – if I could go back and change the past; but, no – I would not have done that even now.

When we arrived, Alice was helpless – the bustle, the speed, the lights and noise of the great terminus we had come to, made her sick and giddy. She could only stand helplessly among the crowd, pushed about by the active people round her, looking to me for directions – which, weak and overcome as I was, I was not only able to give, and scarcely less a novice than she was in the art of taking care of myself; however, we managed to extricate ourselves at last, and drove away, a long fatiguing course, to the hotel where I had been with my husband immediately after our marriage. I remembered its name. It was scarcely less strange to me than to Alice, to pass through those continuous never-ending streets, sparkling with light and full of noise, and what seemed tumult to us. I grasped her hand instinctively, and she clung to me. We were both helpless women alone in the midst of this busy crowd, no one protecting, no – no one knowing where we went, I began to have a glimpse of what was before me now, as well as of what was behind – and self-protection and self-support do not show in their proper heroic colors, when you have to exercise them first upon a journey, and when your frame is weakened and your mind disturbed. I felt to myself something like a suicide. I had succeeded. I had put a barrier between my former and my future life. I had new habits to learn; new faculties to cultivate. I was no longer to be taken care of – everything was new.

When we arrived and rested, at last, in a comfortable room of the inn, I did not go to rest as Alice bade me; but sat down to write to my agent in Cambridge, who managed the little property which my father had left me. I paused and hesitated a moment, whether I should not also write to Mr. Osborne, to explain to him what I had done. But I decided upon leaving that to my husband. My other letter was half written, and I had come to an abrupt pause, remembering that I had fixed upon no place to go to, and could not yet tell the agent where he was to send my remittances, when Alice, who had been standing by the window within the curtains, looking with wonder, admiration, and dismay upon the lighted street without, and its many passengers, suddenly turned round to me with the same question.

“Miss Hester, are we to stay here?”

“No, surely not,” I said, “but indeed I do not know where to go to,” and I paused to recollect plans I had read about, for I had seen nothing out of our own country. I thought of the lakes, and the beautiful North country for a moment; but though I had turned my back upon it for ever, I could not bear the idea of going far away from home. The railway guide, the renowned and mysterious Bradshaw, lay on the table near my hand; I took it up and began to look over it. So vacant and destitute were we of attractions and likings, after we left our own lawful dwelling-place, that the only way of selecting a new home which occurred to me, was to look over their bald list of names till some one should strike my wandering fancy – it was a dreary method of choice.

I put aside my letter, half written. I roamed over these dull lists; and both of us, solitary women as we were, shrunk at the sounds of steps and voices in the great passages without, and drew close to each other to preserve some resemblance of security and privacy, in this public place where we almost fancied we might be exposed to intrusion any moment. At last, I found a name which caught my eye, in Essex, not very far from London, in consequence not very far from Cambridgeshire – I decided that we should go there to-morrow, and try to find a house, and so, very dreary, very solitary – startled and frightened by the strange sounds in the great strange house – shutting ourselves into our bed-chamber, feeling ourselves so desolate, so unprotected, among strangers, we went to our rest.

BOOK III.

THE DAYS OF MY LIFE

THE FIRST DAY

IT was a peaceful solitary village; a cluster of houses gathered round one simple church, the tower of which was the central point in the quiet landscape. Behind it at some distance was a low hill – a very low hill – not much more than a mound, but with some dark Scotch firs upon it, which gave solidity to the thick plantation of lighter trees, not yet fully clothed. Behind the hill ran a railway, upon which a train appeared, which we watched, flaunting its white plume into the air, as it shrieked and rushed into the shadow. The village itself was quite upon the water’s edge, standing close by the shore of a blue quiet bay, looking over to the trees and green fields on the other side of the broad Thames. The place was a little below Gravesend, quite out of the fret and bustle of the narrower river, and there was not even a steamboat pier to disturb the quiet of this cluster of harmless houses, though they watched upon their beach the passage of great navies down the greatest thoroughfare of England. It looked so quiet, so primitive, so retired, with its few boats in its little bay, that you could not have fancied it so near the Babel of the world. The spring day was bright and calm; the river was stirred only by the great ripples of its current; the white sails of passing ships were dazzling in the sunshine, and you could even catch a glimpse of the dancing motes of foam on the rougher sea-water, as it widened and widened downward to the ocean. Though there were few striking features in the landscape, it charmed me with its new and unaccustomed beauty. It won my thoughts out of myself; I was pleased to think of living here.

There was scarcely anything to be called an inn in Elith, – but as we had no other where to go to, we went to the little humble house which bore the name, and were shown into a faded little parlor, where such visitors as we were seldom made their appearance, I suppose, and which was certainly adapted for very different guests. Alice was much more annoyed and disturbed than I was at coming here; I am afraid she almost thought her respectability compromised by the glimpse we caught of the aborigines of the place, smoking long pipes and drinking beer as we came in, and she was nervous and reluctant to be seen at the window, whither I had gone immediately, to look out upon this wonderful elysium of water and sunshine; then occurred to me the strangest silent ecstasy in these ships, their sails rounded with the slight wind, and shining with such an intense whiteness in the sunshine against the blue river and the bluer sky. They seemed to be gliding on in a dream – in a rapture – and my mind glided on with them, for the moment satisfied and at rest.

But I had now everything to think of – everything to arrange. Alice had lived at home so long, and had been so undisturbed in her daily duties, that she was not at all fit for this emergency – she was quite ready to do everything, but she depended entirely on me to be told what she should do; so I asked the country girl who attended us, if there were any houses to be let in the village, and she answered me eagerly and immediately in a somewhat lengthy speech, intimating that this was scarce the season yet, but that “a many families” came from town for the beautiful air here, and that she knew of a widow lady who had a furnished house to let, and wanted badly to have it off her hands. The girl was quite anxious to be the negotiator in the possible bargain – should she run and let the lady know? – would I have her come to me? or would I please go to the cottage? And we immediately had an inventory of its furniture and decorations, of which Alice, I could perceive, was somewhat contemptuous. But I had a fancy, newly acquired, about our mode of living here; I determined on making no pretence or attempt to live such a life as I had hitherto done. I had separated myself from my rank and my home; I still wanted hardships, privations, toils, if they were possible, and I had made up my mind; so I took Alice’s arm to support me, for I was very much fatigued, and we went out together, conducted by our zealous attendant, to see the house.

It was a little, square, two-storied house, standing by itself on a little grassy knoll, at one side of the village; the small inclosure in front was but two stripes of bare grass, with fantastic flower-beds cut in the turf, divided by a paved path leading to the door. There were no flowers, but only a shabby little evergreen in each of the mounds of soil, and the front of the house was festooned with ragged garlands of the “traveller’s joy,” a favorite creeper, as it seemed, in this neighborhood. The door opened into a little narrow passage, terminating in a steep flight of stairs, and with a door on either side – the little parlor and the little kitchen of this “genteel” little house. The “widow lady” made her appearance somewhat fluttered, for we had disturbed her at dinner and I do not think she was quite pleased with her zealous friend, the maid at the inn, for revealing to strangers the table spread in the kitchen, and the careless morning toilette, which was only intended for the sanctity of her own retirement. The parlor, into which she ushered us with pride, was a little stifling apartment, with Venetian blinds closed over its little window, so as scarcely to leave one row of panes uncovered; it was very fine with a red and blue carpet, an elaborate composition of colored paper in the grate, and little flower vases filled with immortelles and dried grass, reflecting themselves in the little dark-complexioned mirror. There was a small cheffonier in one corner, a haircloth sofa, and a round table, with sundry books displayed upon it, and the “widow lady” exhibited her pride and crowning glory with evident satisfaction. Alice looked upon all with a discontented eye – this homely finery made no impression upon her – for Alice could not be persuaded that I was a voluntary exile and outcast; she could be reconciled to my leaving home, but she could not reconcile herself to any descent in rank. I was still Mrs. Southcote of Cottiswoode, to Alice.

Upstairs there were two bed-rooms, and no more; one very white and in good order, with dimity hangings, and carefully polished furniture; the other with no hangings at all, and not much furnishing to boast of; and these, with the kitchen, made all the house.

Alice looked in my face anxiously. “You never can live in this little place, dear? What could you do here?” cried Alice. “Miss Hester, you won’t think of it; there’s no accommodation for a lady here.”

“There is quite enough for us two,” I said. “I do not wish to live as we lived at home; I want to help myself with my own hands; I want to live as your daughter might live, Alice; I think this is very good – we do not want any more.”

Alice, for the moment, was almost impatient with me. “So you mean to think you can live and sit all day in this little place,” she said, looking round upon the fine parlor; “it’s sinful, Miss Hester, it is. I’ll not give in to it. Do you think upon what’s coming, dear? Well-a-day, that it should be coming now! Do you think you can lie down upon that hard sofa, and put up with this place, after what you’ve been used to? – it goes against my conscience – it’s sinful, Miss Hester.”

“And why, Alice?” said I.

Alice found it difficult to answer why, but was not less positive on that account. “I don’t like it myself,” said Alice; “I’ve not been used to it this many a day, but, darling, you!”

“Alice, let us be humble – let us be quiet – let me have something to do,” I said earnestly. “We will have nobody in the house but you and I. We will serve each other. We will do everything with our own hands. Do not try to resist me, Alice. I think I have a great deal to learn yet. I am not so proud as I was. Let me try what life is among poorer people. Let me have my will, Alice.”

Alice made no further resistance. Her face was not so contracted as usual – that was all – but now she made me sit down, and went to the kitchen herself to bargain with the landlady. I heard their voices immediately in audible parley. The widow was anxious to have her house taken for some fixed time; while Alice, I could hear, was rather mysterious and lofty, and did not know how long her lady might be able to stay. Then there came an inquiry about my name, and something which sounded like a request for a reference, and Alice came abruptly back to me. I was sitting where she had left me, listening to their conversation, and she came close to my side, and stooped to whisper in my ear, and said, “What name will I say, Miss Hester?”

“What name?” Did Alice mean to insult me? “My own proper name, of course,” I said, with a little anger. “Why do you ask? Do you think I wish to conceal myself because I have left home? No, no, my own name.”

“But the squire will be sure to find you, darling,” said Alice, still whispering; “you don’t think he’ll be content and never make any search, and he’ll soon find you if you always go by your own name?”

“I will do nothing clandestine,” I said, with displeasure; “nothing shall ever make me deny my name. No, Alice, we are not fugitives – we are not guilty – I fear no one finding me.”

She went away after this without a word, and then the dialogue in the kitchen was resumed. Her lady was Mrs. Southcote, a lady from Cambridgeshire, Alice said, and wanted quiet and fresh air for a term, though she could not tell how long; and then there were many curious questions about my health, and many inquiring hints as to my motive in coming here; but to all this Alice turned a deaf ear, and answered nothing. One thing she insisted upon earnestly, and that was that we should have immediate possession. The widow demurred, but Alice carried her point, and came back to me triumphant, to tell me that we were to remain here, and have the house entirely to ourselves to-morrow. She commenced operations immediately to improve the appearance of the little parlor. She drew up the blinds, removed the lower one, opened the window, for the day was very warm, and began to tug the reluctant sofa out of its corner, to place it at the window for me. While she was so occupied, and while this crazy piece of furniture creaked and jolted on its way to its new position, I caught the anxious eye of the mistress of the house looking in at the door watching her proceedings. This good woman did not understand the shifting of her much-beloved and cherished furniture. The sofa was the true inhabitant of the room, while we were only strangers and sojourners; she came in with a half courtesy to hint a remonstrance; she hoped I would not be offended; she had seen better days, and never thought to be in her present position, and her furniture, would I please to have it taken care of? and then she went to offer her services to help Alice to lift the sofa, for it would tear her good carpet, she was most sure.

Alice did not receive this obliging offer with a very good grace; I for my part looked on with quiet amusement; I was astonished to find how much the novelty of all this lightened my mind, and relieved me from myself. I could not have believed when I left home twenty-four hours ago that anything would have brought a smile to my lips so soon; yet so it was; and when the widow went away, I took my place in a corner of the hard sofa, and looked out upon the river, with a dreamy ease and leisure at my heart which astonished me still more. Ship after ship, great and small – I could not tell one from another, nor had the slightest conception of any distinctions of class or name between them – went gliding downward, majestic with their full white sails and lofty masts, upon the current, which was flowing strongly to the sea. Little steamers fumed and fretted upon the peaceful river, going up and down and across. Great ones came in, making a solemn rustle in the water with their unseen footsteps. Little shadowy skiffs shot along like sea-birds on the top of the stream, and more substantial wherries, laden with parties of pleasure, now and then went by, keeping cautiously to the side of the river. The tide had ebbed a little from the stony beach of our small bay. A boat which had been floating an hour since, was now stranded on the shore. This was altogether new to me. I knew nothing, except words, of those mysterious ocean tides, nor of where they penetrated and where they strayed. I watched the water gleaming further back at every ripple with a strange delight, watching and wondering how far back it would go, almost counting the soft peaceful waves. I looked anxiously out upon the course of the river, where those far away white specks were dancing on the roughened edge of the sea. I speculated on the voyages which these stately wayfarers were bound upon. I thought with a shudder of the storm at sea which I had myself seen, and I was only roused from my pleasant occupation by the voice of Alice, as she stood beside me looking out also, but with different thoughts. “I warrant there’s many a pretty boy and many a child’s father in such great ships,” said Alice, with a sigh; “they’re beautiful to look at, Miss Hester, but I had a deal rather see them coming home. Many a house will be dreary to-day for want of them that’s sailing there.”