The Days of My Life: An Autobiography

I was in the library, looking round, seeing everything, yet only half aware where I was – when I started almost with superstitious terror to hear in the passage behind a well-known alert footstep, and the rustle of Mr. Osborne’s gown. He had seen the carriage at the door as he passed – for he lived so near that he could not go anywhere without passing this way – and came to me in haste when he heard I was here. He came up anxiously, took my hand, and asked me what was the matter? I looked ill, I suppose.

And my heart yearned to have somebody to trust to – the sound of his voice restored me to myself. “I am in great trouble,” I said; “have you seen Edgar, Mr. Osborne? – is he here?”

“Here! it would indeed have been a strange place to find him.”

“I do not mean in this house,” said I, with a little impatience; “is he in Cambridge? have you seen him? – I want to know where he is.”

“It is a strange question, Hester, yet I am glad to hear you ask it,” said Mr. Osborne; “I presume, now, you are both coming to your right mind.”

“No – soon I shall not care for anything, right or wrong,” said I. “Edgar – he is a man – he should have known better – he has gone away.”

Then immediately I contradicted myself in my heart. He could not have gone away! And yet – and yet! – “Where is he?” I cried. “I have to speak to him: I have a great deal to say. Mr. Osborne! – he had better not do what I did; he is not a fool like me; he was not brought up like me, among ghosts in this house: he ought to know better than I!”

Mr. Osborne took my hand again, made me sit down, and tried to soothe me. Then I told him of Edgar’s absence. It was only one night; it was no such great matter; he smiled at my terror. But, at the same time, he bade me wait for him here, and went out to make inquiries. I remained for some time alone in the house – alone, with recollections of my father – of myself – of Harry – of all those young thoughts without wisdom, hopes without fear! I started up with renewed impatience. I could not, would not, suffer this unnatural folly to continue. Ah! it was very well to say that; but what could I do?

When Mr. Osborne came back, he looked a little grave. I penetrated his thoughts in a moment; – he thought some accident had befallen Edgar. He advised me to go home immediately and see if there was any word – if I did not hear before to-morrow he would come out and advise with me, he said. So I went away again, alarmed, unsatisfied – reluctant that Mr. Osborne should come, yet clinging to the idea, and full of the dreariest anxiety to know what news there might be at home. As I drove along in the twilight of the sharp winter night, I tried to settle upon what I should do. Saville! If Edgar had left me, what could I do with this man? for I made up my mind to destroy the papers, and that my husband should never know of the doubt thrown upon him, if he had really gone away.

We were very near Cottisbourne on the Cambridge side, driving rapidly, and it was now quite dark. The first sharp sparkles of light from the village windows were just becoming visible along the dreary length of road, and a few cold stars had come into the sky. My heart was beating fast enough already, quickening with every step we advanced on the road home, when some one shouted to us to stop. We did stop after a moment’s confused parley, in which I could only distinguish that it was the Rector’s name which induced the coachman to draw up. Mr. Saville! It was his office to communicate calamities – to tell widows and orphans when a sudden stroke made them desolate. A sudden horror overpowered me. I leaned out of the window speechless, gazing into the darkness; and when I saw the light of the carriage lamps falling upon the Rector’s troubled face, I waved my hand to him imperiously, almost fierce in my terror. “Tell me!” I cried; “I can bear it. I can bear the very worst. Tell me!” He drew near with a fluttered, agitated air, while I tried to open the carriage door. With a sudden pang of joy and relief I saw that he did not understand me – that he had no worst to tell; but was holding back by the arm the other Saville, the enemy of our house.

“Here! I have something to tell you,” cried this man, struggling forward. “Do you call this keeping your word, young lady? What do you mean by keeping my papers, and then running away?”

“Mr. Saville,” I said, hastily appealing to the Rector, “I have nothing to say to him yet. The papers are not his, but Miss Saville’s. When I have anything to say to him I will come to the Rectory. Just now I am very anxious to get home. Oh, I beg of you, bid them drive home!”

“Don’t do anything of the sort, William,” said Saville. “Stop, you fellow! So your precious husband’s run away; I thought as much. Stop, do you hear! I’ve something to say to the lady. Why, Mrs. Southcote, have you forgotten the appointment you made with me to-day?”

“Is he mad?” cried I – for he had jumped upon the step, and stood peering in at me through the open window. I was not frightened now, but I was very angry. I shrank back to the other side of the carriage, disgusted by his near vicinity, and called to Joseph. “No, ma’am, he’s not mad, he’s only drunk,” said Joseph. While they struggled together, the coachman drove on again, and Saville was thrown to the ground. The poor Rector! he stood by, looking on with dismay and fright and horror – thinking of the disgrace, and of his “position,” and of what people would say; but the only way to save him as well as myself, was to hasten on.

And there was Cottiswoode at last – the open door, the ruddy light; but Edgar was not standing by to help me – my husband had not come home! I had begun to hope that he had – I stepped into the hall with the heaviest disappointment; I could have thrown myself down on the floor before the servants in an agony of self-humiliation. It was all my own doing, he had gone away.

Just then, Mrs. Templeton made her appearance in considerable state, holding a letter. No doubt she, as well as myself, concluded what it was – a leave-taking – a final explanation – such a wretched letter as I had once left for him. “This came immediately you were gone, ma’am,” said Mrs. Templeton, who looked as if she had been crying. “It ought to have come last night; but I gave the fellow such a talking to as he won’t forget yet awhile. Please to remember, ma’am, it wasn’t master’s fault.”

I took no notice of this – my whole mind was on the letter. I hastened in with it, without a word, and closed upon myself the door of the library. With trembling hands I tore it open – after that I think I must have fallen down on my knees in the extreme thankfulness which, finding no words, tried to say by attitude and outward expression what it could not say with the lips – for this was all that Edgar said: —

“My Dear Hester, – I have met with an old friend unexpectedly, and have engaged to go with him to look after some business of importance. I am grieved to be absent without letting you know, and I have no time now to explain. I shall endeavor to be home to-morrow night. Affectionately,

“Harry E. Southcote.”

I remained on my knees, holding by a chair, trembling, looking at the name; did he always sign himself so? I – I knew nothing at all about my husband; – since he was my husband I had never got a letter from him before. Harry! – was he Harry and not Edgar to every one but me?

Then I sprang up in the quick revulsion and change of all my thoughts; I ran out to call for Alice – to call for Mrs. Templeton – to make preparations for his return, as if he had been years away. They were all glad, but amazed, and did not understand me. No; I was far too unreasonable for any one to understand. I was in wild, high spirits now – singing to myself as I ran up-stairs for baby. I said to myself – Life was coming – life was beginning – and that our old misery should not go on longer – not for a day!

And then the evening stole on by gentle touches – growing late before I knew. I went myself to see everything prepared: I watched the fires, which would not keep at the climax point of brightness, but constantly faded and had to be renewed again. I exhausted myself in assiduous attention to all the lesser comforts which might refresh a traveller on this wintry night. I went out to the avenue to see what a cheerful glow the windows of the library threw out into the darkness; and within, it was pleasant to see how the whole house warmed and brightened under my unusual energy. The servants contemplated all this with evident surprise and bewilderment. From Joseph, who came to tell me that he had seen Saville safely housed in the Rectory, though with great trouble to the Rector, who scarcely could keep his brother from following me to Cottiswoode – and Mrs. Templeton, whose manners towards me all the day had been very stately and disapproving – up to Alice, who never asked a question, but looked on – a most anxious spectator – only able to veil her interest by entire silence; every one watched me and wondered. I knew, as if by intuition, how these lookers-on waited for the crisis of the story which had progressed before their eyes so long. Yes, my pride had need to have been humbled – it was I that had made of our household life a drama of passion and misery for the amusement of this humble audience – and I had my reward.

The evening grew late, but still no one came – I could not help growing very anxious once more; – then, stirred into excitement by the sound of some arrival, I was bitterly disappointed to see only Miss Saville, coming, as anxious as I, though after a different fashion, to find out if she could what the subject was, which had been discussed between her brother and myself. I was grieved for her distress, but I could not answer her – my own trouble was full occupation for me – and I said only, “To-morrow, to-morrow!” – that to-morrow which, one way or other, would be another era – a new time.

All this day I had avoided even looking at the papers which were Saville’s evidence against Edgar. I kept them safe as I might have kept a loaded pistol, afraid of meddling with them. But after Miss Saville left me, I did what I could to compose myself, and endeavored to examine them again. When I read them I grew faint with the terror of ignorance. I knew nothing about laws of evidence; and worse than that, I knew nothing of my husband’s early history, and could not tell whether there might not be some other explanation of these letters. One thing in them struck me with a gleam of hope; there was a strange scarcely explainable shade of difference between the first letter and the other two. I could not define it; but the impression left on my mind was, that the little Harry of the former paper was a child a few years old, while the expressions in the other letters were such as I myself used when speaking of my little Harry, and seemed to point so clearly to a baby that I was quite puzzled and disconcerted. It was a woman’s discovery – I do not suppose any man would have observed it; but I did not at all know what to do with it, after I had found it out.

I put them away again – I waited, waited, far into the night; I would not be persuaded that it was near midnight, nor even permit the servants to go to rest. I kept the whole household up, the whole house alight and glowing. If he had been years instead of hours away, I could not have made a greater preparation for him. At length, very late, or rather very early, in the deep, cold gloom of the winter morning, about two o’clock, I heard horses’ hoofs ringing down the avenue. I heard the sound before any one else did. I was at the door waiting when they came up —they! for I saw with a momentary impulse of passionate anger and resentment that my husband was not alone.

The person with him was a grave, plain, middle-aged man, whom I had never seen before. Edgar sprang from his horse and came to me quickly – came with an exclamation of surprise, a look half of pain, half of pleasure; but began immediately to apologize and to thank me for waiting till he came – thanks! I hastened in, I almost ran from him to restrain myself; it seemed an insult, after all I had been thinking, all I had been suffering, to meet my new-born humbleness with those thanks, which always wounded me to the heart.

And then he brought in his companion to the bright room where I had been trimming the fire, and spreading the table for him, meaning to open all my mind and thoughts, to confess my sins against him, to make of this once cold abiding-place a genial household hearth – he brought in here the stranger whom I had never seen before. The new comer took the very chair I had placed for Edgar, and spread out his hands over the cheerful fire. I am afraid to say how I felt towards him, and how his evident comfort and commonplace satisfaction excited me. They sat down together to the table – they began to talk of their business, which I knew nothing of. I was rather an unexpected embarrassment to my husband – he had no need then of me.

So I withdrew to my room, sick at heart – mortified, disappointed, wounded – feeling all my efforts thrown away. I could have borne it better, I think, but for the comfortable aspect of that stranger seated in my husband’s chair. I think I could have done him an injury with satisfaction and pleasure. I felt a ludicrous grudge against him mingle with my serious trouble. And this was how this strange day of trial, hope, and resolution came to an end.

THE TENTH DAY

I HAD been asleep – this was a privilege which seemed to belong to my perfect health and vigor of frame – for even in the midst of my troubles I could sleep. I woke up suddenly in the grey and feeble daylight of the winter morning to remember, in a moment, everything that had occurred last night. My own great vexation and disappointment were far enough off now to bear a calmer contemplation, and I started up suddenly inspired with the growing purpose in my heart. I could not see how it was to be done, nor what my first step should be, but I felt, as if by an inspiration, that somehow, however hard it was, the wall of division between us must be broken down to-day.

I hastened my simple morning toilette, and went immediately down stairs. Breakfast was on the table – breakfast! how strange, in the midst of agitation and excitement like mine, seemed these common necessities of life. And there was the same chair standing in the same position as I had placed it for Edgar last night. Patience! but the recollection of the stranger in the house came over me like a cold shadow – what if he should come to interrupt us again?

I had Saville’s papers in my hand, and was putting them away in a drawer of the old carved cabinet which I had brought back to Cottiswoode from Cambridge, when I heard the door open and some one come in. Some one! I began to tremble so much that I scarcely could turn my head – but I knew it was my husband – that he was alone – and that the crisis had come. He came up to me at once, but with no apparent agitation to counterbalance mine. Scarcely knowing what I did, I took the letters again from the drawer, and stood waiting for him. Yes, he was a little excited – with curiosity at least, if nothing more – he looked keenly at me and at the papers which trembled in my hand – and I waited helplessly, unable to say a word, my heart fluttering to my lips. He could not help but see the extreme agitation which overpowered me.

“Hester,” he said slowly, his own voice faltering a little, “I heard you were seeking me yesterday in Cambridge.”

“Yes” —

“Yes? – had you anything to say? – I heard you were disturbed and anxious – I see you are troubled now – can I help you, Hester? It distressed me greatly to leave home-without letting you know – but when you hear the circumstances, I am sure you will pardon” —

“Edgar! never mind,” I cried, unable to bear his explanation, “don’t speak of that – don’t – oh, pray, don’t speak to me like this to-day!”

I put up my hand – I almost grasped his arm – but he – he only went to bring me a chair – to draw another for himself near me, and to take his place there with what seemed a painful but serious preparation for some renewal of our past contests. It was a significant action – we were to treat – to discuss – even to advise with each other, after a solemn and separate fashion; nothing violent or passionate was to come between us. But I, who had neither calmness nor moderation to bring to this interview, what was I to do? So many words came rushing to my lips that I could not find one reasonable enough and calm enough to say.

And glad to divert me from the personal subject, he took the initiative again. He looked at the papers in my hand – “Is it some business matter that troubles you, Hester – are these the cause of your distress? – will you show them to me?”

“By and bye,” I said, “after – afterwards – first I have something else to say. Edgar! I want to tell you that I have been wrong all this time since ever we were married. I want you to know that I feel I have been wrong – very, very, miserably wrong. I want you to know; I cannot tell how you feel now, nor what is to happen to us – but I have been wrong – I want you to know.”

A violent color came to his face, rising high to his very hair. He rose up from his seat and went away from me the whole length of the room, with hasty and agitated steps. As for me I rose also, and stood trembling and breathless, looking after him. I could say nothing more – my future was in his hands.

Then he came back trying to be calm and self-possessed. “Hester,” he said, “you told me the same when you came home, but I do not see any difference it has made. We are no better than we were.”

I was growing sick, sick to the very heart – but it was not in my nature to throw myself at his feet. “Yes,” I exclaimed, “but it is not my fault now – it is not my fault! Why do you leave everything to me?”

Once more he started, and made a desperate effort to be calm. He saw the crisis had come as well as I did, and like me had no moderation, no composure, to bring to it. He tried hard again to return to an indifferent subject, to put the passion and the earnestness away. “I will leave nothing to you, Hester, in which I can help you,” he said, with a voice which faltered in spite of himself; “Why do you agitate yourself and me with these vain discussions? you know very well that I shall thank you heartily for asking my assistance.”

“Yes,” I cried, “you thank me a great many times – you thank me always – you make everything bitter to me by your gratitude. Thanks, thanks! you should keep them for strangers. Why do you thank me?”

I had meant to humble myself – to the very dust if that was needful – and now in bitterness, feeling my repentance rejected, I was only falling into an angry despair instead, – but the two things were not so different after all. He was roused at least, – at last – out of all further possibility of self-control. He paced about the room, keeping himself down, keeping back the words from his lips. Then he paused for an instant before me. “I thank you because you are kind,” he said abruptly; “because – do you think I am so blind that I cannot see all the pains you take for me? I know very well the efforts you make – am I wrong to thank you for that?”

“Kind!” what a word! I echoed it sharply, with a positive cry of pain and injury. I was kind to him! It was come to that.

He turned upon me sharply, too; he also exclaimed with impatience. “What can I say? – what would you have me to say? Other standing-ground seems lost between us – how am I to speak to you? What do you want?”

I felt the air darkening round me as if I was about to faint; but, with a great effort, recovered myself. “I want to speak to you,” I said low and quick, with a feeling that it was not I that spoke, but only my voice. “I have not rested since you left home. I have been waiting for you, longing for you, ever since you went away. I have something to say to you, Edgar! No – Oh, Harry, Harry, Harry!” I cried, carried on far before my thoughts by a passion not to be repressed, “it is not a stranger I have come to. I want to consult my husband. I want you, Harry, – you whom I have lost so long!”

I know he did not come to me at once, for the darkness gathered close, and I threw out my arms to support myself in that terrible, blind, falling faintness. I do not know what he did, nor what he said, nor how long a time it was before I came to myself. When I came to myself I was seated in his chair, trembling and shaken as if by some great convulsion, with Harry at my side, chafing my hands and kneeling down to look into my face. Was it all a dream? had we never been married? never been parted? I could not tell. There was a ringing in my ears, and my eyes were dim – I saw nothing but him, close by me, and not even him distinctly, and what this new thing was, which had happened to us, I could not tell.

At this time I do not think I even knew that his heart was melted as well as mine; and whether our terrible life of separation was to end or to continue, I did not ask and could not tell. For myself, I sat quite still, trembling, exhausted, yet at ease, like one who has just passed the crisis of a fever; and even when he spoke, I scarcely knew what words he said.

I came to understand them at last – he was praising me in the quick revulsion of his generous heart – he had been hard to win, hard to move – he had shut himself up as obstinately as I did at first – and now that it was all over, he was giving me the praise.

The praise! but I was humbled to the depths of my heart – I did not even feel it a mockery – I went back to my old, natural humbleness, and gave him all the merit for seeing any good in me. I bent my head before him like a forgiven child. “Harry,” I said, “Harry! is it all over?” When he caught my look, wistful and beseeching as I know it was, Harry’s composure failed him as mine had done. He was as weak as I! as glad as I! as little able to receive it quietly – for it was all over! – all over! vanished like a dream.

“But you are right, Hester – I should not have left it to you – you have punished me nobly!” cried Harry, “had I done what you have done now, it might have been all over when you came home.”

“This is best,” I said, under my breath. I knew myself better than he did – I was glad of it all now – glad of everything – glad that I had been driven desperate, and compelled to put myself right at last. I kissed my husband’s hand humbly and thanked God. I had been very wrong – I had nearly cast away my own life – nearly ruined his – nearly thrown aside the best and holiest influences from my boy; but God had saved me again and again on the very edge of the stream, and now I was delivered for ever. Yes, I might fall into other follies, other sins; but at once and for ever I was delivered from the power of this.

But as I withdrew my hand from Harry’s I remembered Saville’s papers which were crushed together in my grasp; I started with an exclamation of pain when I saw them. Personal misfortune falling on her lover may do very well to awake into action the shy affections of a girl – but I could not bear to be supposed generous to my husband – I trembled lest he should think so; a violent heat and color came to my face – I shut my hand again with an instinct of concealment. Another time! another time would surely do – I dared not disturb our new-found happiness so soon.

But Harry saw my sudden confusion, pain, and embarrassment. He took my hand again half anxiously, half playfully. “What are these? – what were you going to consult me about – must I not be your adviser now, Hester?” he said with a smile. I put them away out of my hand upon the table with momentary terror. “Not now,” I said eagerly, “not now; I got them from your enemy, Saville, that man – do not look at them now.”

His face darkened, his brow knit – once more, once more! it was such a look as women love to see upon the faces of their husbands, but it made him for the moment like my father as I had once fancied him before. “So!” he said, “he has fulfilled his threat – the miserable rascal! he thought to involve my wife in it. Hester, is it because of these papers that you have come to me to-day?”

“Oh, no, no – do not think it!” I cried, anxiously. “I am not escaped long enough from my own delusions to have no fear of them; do not fancy it was any secondary motive – do not, Harry! I could not bear the life we were living; and whenever I really had to speak to you, all that was lying in my heart burst forth. It was so, indeed; – do not take up my sin where I leave it, Harry; do not suspect me – oh, we have had enough of that!”