The Days of My Life: An Autobiography

What could it be? I looked earnestly at him and he at me. I was no coward; and here, when I had only dislike, and no other feeling which could betray me, I was brave enough after the first moment. I turned to the Rector and Miss Saville, who stood behind, half-frightened, half-displeased, and full of anxious curiosity. “Pray leave us, as he says,” said I. “If it is anything worth your hearing, I will tell you what it is; but in the meantime he will not speak till you are gone.”

The Rector made a bow to me, and withdrew slowly, much agitated, and very nervous, as I could see. Miss Saville went more reluctantly. “It was a very strange thing to turn the Rector out of his own study for a secret conference,” she muttered, as she went away. Saville laughed – “Though it will be worth their hearing, I’ll warrant you do not tell them a word of it,” he said, with the same coarse insinuation of something wrong or untruthful, which I remembered so well on that first day when he came to Cottiswoode. “They are very curious, the fools! – as if they had anything to do with it. Now, Mrs. Southcote, of Cottiswoode, are you ready to hear me?”

I had drawn my chair away to the window, out of reach of his smoky atmosphere and his immediate presence – an artifice at which he laughed again. I bowed slightly in assent; and now he rose, and coming towards me, stood leaning upon the corner of the recess which inclosed the window, looking down into my face.

“I hear that my friend Edgar and you don’t get on together,” said the man, with rude familiarity; “pity when such things arise in families – and generally very bad policy, too. But, however, that can’t be helped in the present case. He’s disposed to be master, I suppose; and, after all, though you’ve humbled your pride to marry him, you’ve not got Cottiswoode.”

“If you wish only to insult me,” I said, starting from my chair, “not even for your good brother and sister’s sake can I endure this wretched impertinence. How do you dare to speak in such a tone to me?”

“I dare worse things than facing a pretty young lady,” said Saville, with his insolent laugh, “but that is not the question, and you shall have none of my impertinence if you like it so little; but I thought you were too honest to sham a reason for this marriage of yours: however, as I have said, that is not the question. As for your family happiness, every clown in the district knows what that is, as, of course, you are aware. And if I had been you, I’d have stayed away, and not made a fool of myself by coming back.”

I said nothing. I felt my face burn, and there was an impulse of fury in my heart – fury, blind wild rage, murderous passion. I could have struck him down when he stood before me, with his odious sneer upon his face, but I did not move. I compressed my lip and clasped my hands together till the pressure was painful, but I made no other indication of how I felt the insult of his words. Yes, this was justice – I acknowledged it – my fitting punishment.

“Well, things being so,” continued Saville, drawing a chair towards him and sitting down upon it, after he had gazed at me maliciously to see the effect of his words, and had been disappointed – “I think you are a very fit client for me: Edgar has done me more than one shabby trick – I give him up – I do as I am done by – that’s my principle – and a very honest one, I maintain; so if you choose to make it worth my while, I’ll put you in possession of all I know, and give you my zealous assistance to recover your rights. These fools, here,” he said, waving his hand contemptuously to indicate his brother and his sister, “will tell you, perhaps, what a dissipated fellow I am, in this wretched hole of a place – give me excitement, and I don’t care a straw how it’s come by; I owe Edgar Southcote a hard hit yet – and hang me, but he shall have it, one way or another.”

This speech awoke me at once out of anger, mortification, every personal feeling; I no longer feared or hated him – I was roused to a cool and keen observation, a self-possession and firmness which I did not know I possessed. I felt the stirring of strength and spirit in me like a new life. I was on the verge of a dangerous secret – a conspiracy – a plot against Edgar! the fool! the fool! to betray his evil counsels to Edgar’s wife. My heart beat quicker, my courage rose; I was like one inspired; a little caution, a little prudence, and I might save my husband! How warmly the blood came to my heart.

I looked at him eagerly; I did not care to suppress the sparkle of excitement in my eyes: I knew his evil imagination would interpret it very differently from the truth; his evil intent and my own conscious purpose gave me perfect confidence in addressing him, for he had no perception of truth, or love, or honor, and would not suspect what lay beneath my eager willingness to hear him now.

“There is some secret, then,” said I – “what is it? what are the rights that you will help me to regain? Such a startling speech makes me anxious of course – what do you mean?”

“I suppose,” said Saville, very slowly to pique my curiosity, “that before you can be expected to put any dependence on me, I must tell you my story: first, let me collect my evidences,” and he took a pocket-book from his pocket, and collected several papers out of it with great care and deliberation, now and then glancing at me under his eye-brows to see if I was impatient. I was not impatient – I watched him keenly – coolly – not a movement or a glance escaped my notice; I was Edgar’s advocate, and I was watching his enemy.

“Mr. Brian Southcote,” said Saville, going on slowly, and now and then looking up at me as he sorted his papers, “was an extremely benevolent person – so much so, that ill-natured people said he had no will of his own, and that he did not care how wrong or how foolish anything was, so long as it was generous; perhaps you object to such plain speaking when your respectable relation is the subject,” he said, stopping short with a low bow.

“Pray, go on, go on,” said I impatiently.

I suppose he thought now that he had tantalized and irritated me sufficiently, for he proceeded at a less deliberate pace.

“It is said that his younger brother, Mr. Howard, had married the lady to whom they were both attached, and lived in his father’s house, in possession of all the ordinary privileges of an heir, while the elder brother was self-banished in Jamaica, on pretence of looking after an estate, which he knew nothing about, and had not activity enough to have done anything for, even if he had been informed. Now, Mrs. Southcote, under these circumstances, your uncle being still a young man, of course, married the first woman who made herself agreeable to him – and this woman happened to be my cousin, the widow of a young naval officer, a young penniless widow with one boy.”

I started involuntarily – I could see already where the serpent was winding – was this the secret?

“With one boy,” he continued significantly, “called Harry Southern – you see there is not much difference even in the name; this child, as I will show you by a paper executed by your uncle some time before his marriage, he had already chosen for his heir, directing that he should take his name, and, after his death, be called Harry Southcote. It is not to be supposed that after Mr. Southcote married Mrs. Southern, his partiality for the boy should diminish, and this boy I have every reason to suppose is your husband, whom, by politeness, I will still call Edgar Southcote of Cottiswoode.”

I was stunned for the moment – the story looked reasonable, true – it was no exaggerated malicious lie coined on the spot. I looked up with dismay into the hard exultation of this man’s face, but when I caught his cunning, evil eye, my heart revived.

“Had you always reason to suppose this?” I said, keeping my eyes fixed upon him.

For a moment, only a moment, his confident glance fell. “Of course not, of course not,” he said, with a little bustle and swagger, which I could see was to conceal some embarrassment. “When I took steps in the matter, you may be sure I thought I had got hold of the right person; it is only lately that I have found my error out.”

“And how did you find it out?” I asked perseveringly.

“Upon my word, young lady, you try a man’s patience,” cried my respectable adviser – “I did find it out – what concern have you with the how? If you are disposed to take advantage of my information, it is at your service – but I will not be badgered by the person for whose sole benefit I have taken so much trouble. Will that convince you, look?”

He almost threw at me one of the papers in his hand – I lifted it up mechanically – I was so sure what it would say from his description, that I almost fancied I had read it before. It was a will, bequeathing all the personal property of the writer to Harry Southern, the son of the late George Southern, Lieutenant R.N., on condition of his assuming the name of Southcote; I read it over twice, and it struck me strongly enough, that after the first words of the bequest there was a parenthesis, “(if he survives me),” which was repeated every time the name of Harry Southern occurred. I held it out – holding it fast, however – to Saville, and asked him what it meant.

“A mere point of law,” he answered indifferently, “what could it be else! Ladies, I know, never understand business; but these trifling matters have nothing to do with the main question – you see very clearly who this child was, there can be no mistake about that.”

“I see nothing to identify him with Edgar Southcote,” I said.

“You are sceptical,” said Saville – “let me see if I can convince you there are some papers which throw light upon the matter.”

These papers were letters – three of them bearing dates very near each other – all referring in terms of tender fondness to some little Harry; the first was signed “Maria Southern,” the other two “Maria Southcote,” but little Harry had quite as much part in the former as in the latter, and these documents were evidently true. I was greatly disturbed; – could it be so? could it be so? Was my husband only the heir, and not the son of Brian Southcote? The evidence was very startling to my unused and ignorant eyes. I kept the papers closely in my hand, resolved not to give them up again. I did not know what arguments to use to myself to cast off this fear; – at last I cried abruptly – “If this was the case he could not be like the Southcotes, he would be like your family – but he is like Edgar the Scholar; I found out the resemblance at once.”

“It is easy to find resemblances when your mind is turned to it,” said Saville. “Is he as like now? – and suppose he had been introduced to you as Harry Southern, would you ever have cared to examine who he was like?”

Harry Southern! the idea was intolerable. I started from my seat – I could not bear it any longer. “I will think over this, and let you know what I will do,” I said hurriedly. “It is very startling news – I must have some time to accustom myself to it, and then I will be able to tell you what I can do.”

“Be so good as to return me my papers then,” said Saville; “by all means think it over – it is no joke – you had best be prudent; but, in the meantime, let me have my papers – they are my property, not yours.”

“I will not give them back – they concern me too nearly,” said I. “Stay – if you try to take them I shall call your brother. I will not endure your touch, sir; – stand back – these letters are Miss Saville’s – I will undertake that no harm shall happen to them, that you shall come to no loss – but I will not give them back.”

I did not move, but stood within the reach of his arm, fixing my eyes full upon him as I spoke. He could not bear an honest gaze; he stared at me with impotent fury, but he dared not resist me. I saw his terror at the thought of summoning his brother, and how he lowered his voice and drew back his hand at the very mention of the Rector’s name.

“You are a bold young lady – but I like your spirit,” he said, with a scowl which belied his words. “Well, I consent that you shall keep the papers – that is to say, I trust them to your honor; – shall I have your decision to-morrow?”

“I cannot tell – I must have time,” I said, growing nervous at last, and drawing nearer the door; “have you ever mentioned this? – does Mr. Southcote know?”

“You will not tell him?” cried Saville fiercely, starting and following me, “you will not be so foolish as to show him your hand before the play begins? I knew women were fools in business, but I did not expect this from you – from you, Mrs. Southcote! you do not mean to pretend you are so loving and true a wife. No, I am not a likely person to have mentioned it – I know my man too well; small evidence I should have had, if it had ever come to his knowledge – I will not permit you to risk my papers in Edgar South – in Harry Southern’s hands.”

As he advanced upon me, I retreated – as he grew vehement, I threw the door open and walked hastily away – he followed me with great strides, yet restrained by a strange cowardice which I knew how to take advantage of – and when his sister suddenly appeared from the next room, he stopped short, and threw a look of cowardly threatening, and yet entreaty upon me. “Do not let him follow me,” I whispered to her – but I knew they would take care of that – and though I managed to leave the house at a decorous pace, whenever I got into the lane I began to run. I had always been swift-footed from a child – now I flew along the solitary lane, scarcely feeling that I touched the ground, holding the papers close under my mantle. When I came to Cottiswoode, flushed, and eager, and breathless, I did not pause even to throw back my hood, but hastened to the library. There was no one there – I hurried out disappointed, and asked for Mr. Southcote. He had gone out some time ago, I was told, and had left a message for me with Alice. I ran upstairs – the message was that he was suddenly called to Cambridge, and could not expect to return till late at night – and he hoped I would not think of waiting up for him – it was sure to be very late when he came home.

I cannot tell, indeed, whether I was most relieved or disappointed to hear this; though I think the latter – yet now, at least, I would have time to think over this tale, to try if it was a fable, a monstrous invention, or if it could be true. It was late, and I got little leisure till baby was asleep, but when he was laid down to his rest, and Alice left the room, I sat down by her little table and unfolded my papers. My heart beat loud while I read them over – my fears sickened me. I had no longer the presence of Saville before me, strengthening me in disbelief and opposition. Alas, poor perverse fool! this was a fit conclusion to all the misery I had made; this long year of troubles ever since my marriage I had been bitterly and cruelly resenting the discovery that my husband was Edgar Southcote – now how gladly would I have hailed, how wildly rejoiced in, an assurance that he had indeed a title to that name. The more I examined, the more I pondered, the more my fears grew upon me. If Edgar was an unwitting, involuntary impostor – the thought was terrible – and still more terrible it was to think that Cottiswoode would then be mine. I thought I could have borne to leave a wrongful inheritance with him, had it been pure loss to both of us; but that I should be “righted” by his downfall – ah, that was a justice I had not dreamed of! I could not rest – I wanted to do something immediately to settle this question; but that it was so late, I think I would have followed him to Cambridge – but that was not to be thought of now; so I wandered up and down from the library to my own room, always returning to the letters – and tried to conceal from myself how the hours went on, and how the household was going to rest. I still hoped that I might have gone to him at once on his return, and it was only when Alice, with a sleepy face, came calling me to baby, that I yielded at last, and went to bed, but not to sleep. Through all the dreary midnight hours after that I lay still and listened, hearing every sound, and supposing a hundred times over that I heard him return. Now and then I started up after a few moments’ sleep, and went to the door to look out and listen – but there was still the dull light burning in the hall, the silence in the house, the drowsy stir of the man who waited for his master below – then my restlessness made my baby restless also, and I had to occupy myself with him, and subdue my anxiety for his sake. It was a dreary night; but I had nothing for it but to submit – lying still, sleeping in snatches, dreaming, thinking – thoughts that ran into dreams, and longing, as only watchers long, for the morning light.

THE NINTH DAY

I WAS astir by dawn; but before even Alice came to me I was aware that my husband had not returned. The sleepy light in the hall still burned through the early morning darkness, and the watcher still stirred the fire, which had not gone out all night. When I made sure of this I hastened down to relieve the man from his uncomfortable vigil, and on my way met Mrs. Templeton, newly roused, who began immediately to assure me that “something very particular must have detained master – it was a thing he had never done before all his life, – but she hoped I would not be uneasy, for he’d be sure not to stay from home an hour longer than he could help.” I do not know how it was, but this speech of the housekeeper’s roused me into unreasonable anger. I was offended that any one should suppose my husband’s conduct wanted defence to me; or worse still, that any one should presume to know him better than I did. I answered briefly, that I was aware Mr. Southcote had business to detain him, and hastened to my room to complete my dress. Almost unconsciously to myself, I put on a dark, warm travelling dress; the morning was brisk, frosty, and cheerful, and for the moment I was roused with the stimulus of having something to do. Somehow, even his absence and the long watch of the night did not dismay me – all at once it occurred to me, not how miserable, but how foolish our discords were; the ordinary view – the common sense of the matter flashed upon me with a sudden light. I blushed for myself, yet I was roused; half-a-dozen frank words on either side, I suddenly thought, would set us right at once. I moved about my room with a quickened step, a sentiment of freedom; Saville’s papers, my own fears, all the dismay and anxiety of the night, united, I cannot tell how, to give an impulse of hearty and courageous resistance to my mind. There was something to do; I forgot my own guilt in the matter, and all the deeper feelings which were concerned. I thought of it all with impatience, as I have sometimes thought of the entanglements of a novel, which a spark of good sense would dispel in a moment – I forgot – though I was about the last person in the world to whom such a forgetfulness should have been possible – that good sense could not restore love, nor heal the bitterness of wounded affection. I determined for my own part not to lose a moment, not even to think it over, but to go direct to my husband at once, and say those same half-dozen sensible, frank, good-humored words which should put an end to it all; strange enough, my mind never misgave me as to the result.

I breakfasted in tolerably good spirits. I made no account of the anxious looks of Alice; I was occupied with thinking of everything we could do, of the world of possibilities which lay before us, if we were but right with one another; how I could have lulled myself into ease so long, I cannot tell. I awoke out of it all with a start and cry when I heard the great clock strike twelve, and looking out – out of my lonely chamber window, out of my new dreams – saw the broad country lying under the broad, full, truthful sunshine; the morning mists dispersed and broken, and the day come to its noon.

Noon! my bright figments perished in a moment: he had not come home, he had not written nor sent any message; had he forsaken me, as I forsook him?

I got up from my seat at once, feeling nevertheless as if some one had stunned me by a sudden blow. Though Alice was in the room, I did not make her my messenger, as it was my custom to do, but rang the bell myself, ordered the carriage instantly, and put on my bonnet. Alice came to help me without saying anything; my fears caught double confirmation from her silence. Something must have happened! she never asked where I was going, nor if she should accompany me, yet helped me to get ready as if I had told her all my thoughts.

“Where did he say he was to go?” I asked under my breath.

She told me; he had gone to a lawyer’s in Cambridge, about some justice business – nothing that could detain him; I said nothing more, except to bid her be careful of baby, whom I had never before left so long as I most likely should leave him now. Then I hastened away. The winter noon was bright, the road crisp and white with frost, the air exhilarating and joyous. I leaned forward at the carriage window, looking out eagerly, if perhaps I might meet him returning; but the only person I saw was Saville, his enemy, pacing up and down the lane between the rectory and Cottiswoode, waiting, as I supposed, to see me. The sight of this man brought my emotion to a climax. Any one who knows what anxiety is, will readily know that I had already leaped the depths of a dozen calamities – accident, illness, death itself – which might have happened to my husband – and when it occurred to me now, that I might be going to his sick-bed or his death-bed, with these papers which pretended to prove that he was not what he seemed, folded into my hand, I scarcely could bear the intolerable thought. I could not venture to anticipate how he would receive me if downfall came to him. I had deprived myself of all that generous joy of helping and lightening which might have given a certain pleasure to a good wife even in her husband’s misfortune. I! – I dared not be generous to Edgar – dared not appear to come closer to him in his humiliation, if humiliation there was. I went on blindly in a kind of agony, scarcely venturing to think how I should speak, or what I should do. If anything had happened to Edgar – any of those physical misfortunes which people speak of, as calling forth the disinterested and unselfish devotion of women, what could I do, who, all these weary months, had been resenting so bitterly his disinterested affection for me? And if Saville was right – if I, and not Edgar, was the true heir after all, how would it become me to rejoice as any other wife could have done, in the certainty that all that was mine, was his as well. In a moment our positions were changed. I thought of my husband – Edgar – Harry! as a poor man, having no title to anything save through his wife. I thought of him solitary and in suffering, able to make no exertion for himself, depending for all care and tenderness upon me. Heaven help me! this was the recompense I had labored to secure for myself; our positions were changed; and how could I dare to offer to him the same love and benefits which I had rejected so bitterly when he offered them to me?

Yet we still went on at full speed to Cambridge. When we came to our destination I alighted breathlessly, half expecting to encounter him at once, and without the faintest notion of what I was to say, or how to account for my errand. But he was not there – he had left this house, and, indeed, had left the town, early in the previous evening. I turned away from the door, sick to the heart. I asked no more questions. I would not betray my ignorance of his movements to strangers. He had left Cambridge to go home, but he had not come – had he left me? – had something happened to him? – what could I do?

And there stood Joseph at the carriage door asking where we were to go next. How could I tell? When I recollected myself, I bade him go to our old house, my father’s house, and to drive slowly. I do not know why I wished to go slowly – perhaps with some unreasonable idea of meeting Edgar on the way.

When I reached the house this time, I alighted and went in; for the first time since my father’s death. That strange old, dreary, silent house where dwelt the past – what had I to do there? I went wandering about the rooms, up and down, in a kind of stupor, looking at everything with dull curiosity, – noticing the decay of the furniture, and some spots of damp on the walls, as if I had nothing more important on my mind. I cannot account for the strange pause I made in my agony of anxiety, fear, and bewilderment. I did not know what to do – I could not even think – there seemed a physical necessity for standing still somewhere, and recovering the power of myself.