The Days of My Life: An Autobiography

Just then I heard my father and Mr. Osborne ascending the stairs. I was half sorry, and yet altogether glad that they were coming; and I was a little curious how my father would receive my new acquaintance. My father received him with stately politeness, distant but not ungracious, and as Mr. Osborne and he took their usual places, they began their ordinary conversation. When Mr. Edgar joined in it, I discovered from what they said that he was a student of Corpus, a close neighbor, and it amused me a little to watch the three gentlemen as they talked; of course, my father and Mr. Osborne were in the daily habit of talking, without any greater reference to me than if I had been a very little girl with a doll and a pinafore. I was not intellectual. I did not care for their discussions about books – and I expected no share in their conversation, nor wished it. I was quite pleased to sit by, with the ring of their voices in my ear, doing my needlework. I always worked at something, during these times; and thinking my own thoughts. But Mr. Edgar, who was unused to this, and perhaps did not think me quite so little a girl as my father and his friend did, was puzzled and disconcerted, as I saw, by my exclusion from the stream of talk. I had a certain pleasure in showing him how much a matter of course this was. I had never known a young man of rank and age before, but I had a perverse delight in making myself appear something different to what I was. I turned half aside to the window, and hemmed as only demure little girls can hem, when grave talk is going on over their heads. But I saw very well how uncertainly he was regarding me – how puzzled he was that I should be left out of the conversation, and how he wanted to be polite and amiable, and draw me in.

“How is the garden, Hester?” said Mr. Osborne at last, rising and coming towards me with a subject adapted to the capacity of the little girl, “what! blossom already on that little apple tree – what a sturdy little fellow it is! Now, Southcote, be honest – how many colds has Hester taken this winter in consequence of your trap for wet feet – that grass crotchet of yours?”

“Hester is a sensible girl in some respects,” said my father, “she never takes cold – and your argument against my grass is antiquated and feeble. I will not plan my garden by your advice, Osborne.”

“My advice is always to be depended on,” said Mr. Osborne; “you have taken it in more important matters, and I think I know some matters in which it would be very well you took it again.”

“That is my affair,” said my father coldly. “Advice is a dangerous gift, Mr. Edgar,” he continued, with a somewhat sarcastic smile, “every man who has the faculty thinks himself infallible – and when you bring yourself ill fortune by following good advice and friendly counsel, you are in a dangerous dilemma – to hide your failure or to lose your friend.”

“What do you mean, Southcote?” cried Mr. Osborne with a look of great surprise and almost anxiety in his face.

“Nothing but my old opinion,” said my father, “that every man must stand on his own ground, consult his own discretion, and build only upon his own merits. I have no faith in the kindness and compassion of friends; a kind act, done with the noblest good intentions, may make a man’s life miserable. No, no, justice, justice – what you deserve and no galling boon of pity – all is dishonest and unsatisfactory but this.”

Mr. Edgar and Mr. Osborne exchanged a slight rapid glance, and I saw the color rise over the young man’s broad white brow; but I was too much concerned and moved by what my father said to observe the others much. His friend even did not comprehend him, I alone knew what he referred to. I alone could enter into his feelings, and understand how deep the iron had gone into his soul.

After that Mr. Edgar was very silent, and listened to what was said, rather than took part in it – so that when Mr. Osborne spoke of going away, the young man had subsided into a chair, as humble and unconsidered as I was. He did not come to talk to me – he sat quite silent looking on – looking round at the pictures sometimes, with a quiet sweep of his eyes, often looking at the speakers, and sometimes examining curiously my work-table. I was sitting close by it, but he never looked at me nor did I look at him.

When they were going away, my father, to my great surprise, bade him return. “Come again, I will be glad to see you,” said my father. I looked up almost with consternation, and Mr. Edgar, though he looked gratified, was surprised too, I could see – however, he answered readily, and they went away.

My father did not leave me immediately after they were gone; he walked up and down the room for a while, pausing sometimes to look at the ivy leaves which waved and rustled as much as the fine tendrils clasping the wall would let them, in the fresh spring breeze. My father seemed to have a certain sympathy with these clusters of ivy – he always went to that window in preference to this one where I was seated, and which looked into the free and luxuriant garden. After standing there for some time, he suddenly turned and addressed me.

“Since you went out, Hester,” said my father, “I have had another letter from your persevering cousin. He is at Cottiswoode, and would fain ‘be friends,’ as he says; though I will not permit him to be anything warm. He is of age – he has entered upon his inheritance – though I hear no one has seen him yet; and he does us the honor to desire to become acquainted with us, whom he calls his nearest relations. What do you say?”

“You will not let him come, papa,” cried I, “why should he come here? Why should he trouble us? We do not want him – you surely will tell him so.”

“I am glad you agree with me so thoroughly, Hester,” said my father. “Osborne is a great advocate for this young man. He has been urging me strongly to receive him – and had you been of his opinion, Hester, I am not sure that I could have held out.”

This was so singular a confession from my father, that I looked up in alarm and dismay. My opinion! what was that in comparison with his will?

He caught my look, and came towards me slowly, and with a step less firm than usual – then he drew a chair near me, and sat down.

“What I have to say, I must say in so many words,” said my father. “My health is declining, Hester. I have exhausted my portion of life. I do not expect to live long.”

“Papa!” I exclaimed, starting up in sudden terror – the shock was so great that I almost expected to see him sink down before me then. “Papa! shall I send for the doctor? what shall I do? are you ill, father, are you ill? oh! you do not mean that, I know.”

“Sit down, my love – I am not ill now – there is nothing to be done,” said my father; “only you must listen calmly, Hester, and understand what I mean. You will not be destitute when I die, but you will be unprotected. You will be a very lonely girl, I am afraid. Ignorant of society, and unaccustomed to it; and I have no friend with whom I could place you. This was the argument which Mr. Osborne urged upon me, when he advised me to receive your cousin.”

“Mr. Osborne was very cruel,” I exclaimed, half blinded by tears, and struggling with the hysterical sobbing which rose in my throat. “He knows nothing of me if he thinks – Oh! papa, papa! what would my life be to me if things were as you say?”

My father smiled upon me strangely. “Hester, you will grieve for me, I know,” he said, in his quiet, unmoved tones; “but I know also the course of time and nature; and in a little while, my love, your life will be as much to you, as if I had never been.”

I could not utter the passionate contradiction that came to my lips. This composed and philosophic decision struck me dumb. I would rather he had thought of his daughter and of her bitter mourning for him, than of the course of time and nature. But I sat quite silent before him, trembling a great deal, and trying to suppress my tears. This doctrine, that grief is not for ever – that the heavy affliction which it is agony unspeakable to look forward to, will soften and fade, and pass away, is a great shock to a young heart. I neither could nor would believe it. What was my after life to me? But for once, I exercised self-denial, and did not say what I thought.

“Shall I say any more, Hester? Can you hear me? or is this enough for a first warning?” said my father.

“Oh! say all, papa, say all!” cried I. “I can bear anything now – anything after this.”

“Then I may tell you, Hester, plainly, that it would give me pleasure to see you ‘settled,’ as people call it – to see you married and in your own house, before I am removed from mine. Circumstances,” said my father, slowly, “have made me a harsh judge of those romantic matters that belong to youth. I am not sure that it would much delight me to suppose my daughter the heroine of a passionate love-story. Will you consent to obey me, Hester, in an important matter as readily as in the trifling ones of your childhood? I have no proposal to make to you. I only desire your promise to set my mind at ease, and obey me when I have.”

My face burned, my head throbbed, my heart leaped to my throat. Shame, pride, embarrassment, and the deeper, desolate fear of what was to happen to my father, contended within me. I could not give an assent to this strange request. I could not say in so many words that I gave up utterly to him the only veto a woman has upon the fashion of her life. Yet I could not refuse to do what, under these circumstances, he asked of me. I made him no answer. I clasped my hands tightly over my brow, where the veins seemed full to bursting. For an instant I felt, with a shudder, what a grand future that was, full of all joyous possibilities, which I was called upon to surrender. I had thought to myself often that my prospects were neither bright nor encouraging; at this moment I saw, by a sudden light, what a glorious uncertainty these prospects were, and how I clung to them. They were nothing, yet the promise of everything was in them; and my father asked me to give them up – to relinquish all that might be. It was a great trial; and I could not answer him a word.

“You do not speak, Hester,” he said. “Have you no reply, then, to my question?”

“I want no protector, father,” I cried, almost with sullenness. “If I must be left desolate, let me be desolate. Do not mock me with false succor. I want no home. Let Alice take care of me. I will not want very much. Alice is fond of me, though I do not deserve it. Let her take care of me till I die.”

I was quite overcome. I fell into a violent outbreak of tears as I spoke. I could command myself no longer. I was not made of iron to brave such a shock as this “with composure,” as my father said. He rose and went away from me towards the other window, where he stood looking out. Looking after him through my tears, I fancied that already I could see his step falter, and his head droop with growing weakness. I cried out, “Oh, my father! my father!” with passionate distress. Perhaps he had never seen me weeping before since I was a child. Now, at least, he left me to myself, as I could remember him doing when I was a little girl, when I used to creep towards him very humbled and penitent after the fit was over, and sit down at his feet, and hold his hand, and after a long time get his forgiveness. I could not do that now. I sat still, recovering myself. I was no longer a child, and I had a stubborn spirit. It wounded me with a dull pain that he should care so little for my distress.

He did not return to me. He left the room, only saying as he went away, “You will tell me your decision, Hester, at another time;” and when the door closed upon him I gave way to my tears, and let them flow. If he had only said a word of consolation to me – if he had only said it grieved him to see my grief! But he treated it all so coldly. “The course of time and nature!” – they were bitter in their calmness, those dreadful words.

I wept long; but my tears did not help me. I did not feel it possible to make this promise. To be given to somebody who would take care of me, as if I was a favorite spaniel! I could not help the flush of indignation and discontent which came over me at the thought. And then I began to think of my father’s real state of health in this revulsion of feeling. He was mistaken – he must be mistaken. When I thought over the subject I could find no traces of illness, no change upon him. He was just as he had always been. The longer I considered, the more I convinced myself that he was wrong; and somewhat relieved by this, I went to my room to bathe my eyes and arrange my dress for dinner. How I watched my father while we dined! – how tremulously I noted every motion of his hand, every change of his position. His appetite was good – rather greater than usual; and he had more color in his face. I was sure he had been deceived. He spoke very little during that meal. For the first time a sort of antagonism had risen between my father and me. I could not consent to what he asked of me; and, even if I could have consented, I could not be the first to enter upon the subject again.

And when I crept into my window-seat in the twilight, and watched as I had watched so often, the lights gleaming in the windows of the College, I wondered now with a strange sense of neighborhood and friendship, which of them shone upon the thoughtful face and dark blue eyes of my new friend. I had made many a story in my own mind about the lights; and there was one favorite one, which was lighted sooner, and burned longer than any of the others, which I immediately fixed upon as his. I thought I could fancy him sitting within its steady glow, reading books which I knew nothing of, writing to friends unknown to me, thinking thoughts which I could not penetrate. As I sat still in the darkness, with my eyes upon that little gleaming window, I found a strange society and fellowship in looking at it. If I had had a brother now, like this student, how much happier would I have been. As it was, the idea of him was a relief to me. I forgot my own perplexity as I wondered and pondered about him.

My father came into the drawing-room, as I sat thus in the corner of the window-seat, leaning my cheek upon my hand, and looking out upon the little shining windows of Corpus – he was displeased that the lamp was not lighted, and rang the bell hurriedly; and it was only by some sudden movement I made, that, with a start, he discovered me. “So, Hester, you are thinking,” he said, in a low tone. I started up, emboldened by my own thoughts.

“Papa – papa! you were mistaken in what you said this morning,” I exclaimed eagerly, “you are not ill – how firm your hand is, and I never saw your eyes so bright – you are mistaken, I am sure you are.”

“Do me justice, Hester,” said my father, in a voice which chilled me back out of all my hopes. “I took care not to speak of this till I was sure that I could not be mistaken. Trust me, I have a fearful warrant for what I say.”

His voice neither paused nor faltered – it was a stoic speaking of the mortal pain he despised; but it was hard and bitter, and so cold – oh! so cold! If he had no pity for himself, he might have had pity for me.

I held his hand, grasped it, and clung to it; but I did not cry again, for I felt that he would have been displeased, and it was a long time before his fingers closed upon mine with any return of my eager clasp. “You have been thinking, Hester, of what I said to you – what have you to tell me now?”

“I cannot do it, papa,” I said, under my breath.

He did not answer anything at first, nor loose my hand, nor put me away from him. But after a little while he spoke in his measured low melodious tones. “You think it better to risk your all upon a chance, do you, Hester? Such a chance – happiness never comes of it. It is always an unequal barter – but you prefer to risk that rather than to trust to me.”

“I want to risk nothing – I need nothing!” cried I, “while I have my father, I want no other, and do not bid me think of such misery – do not, papa! You will live longer than I shall – oh! I hope, I pray you will. Papa, do not urge me, I cannot anticipate such a calamity!”

“This is merely weakness; is it compassion for my feelings?” said my father. “I tell you this calamity, if it is a calamity, is coming rapidly, and you cannot stay it. What will you do then?”

“I do not care what I do then,” I said, scarcely knowing what my words were, “but I would rather you left me desolate than gave me to somebody to protect me. Oh! father, I cannot do it – I cannot consent.”

He said nothing more, but turned away from me, and went to his usual seat at the table, and to his book. I sat still in my corner, once more venturing to weep, and struck with a hundred compunctions; but I steadily resisted the strong impulse which came upon me to go to his feet and promise anything he wished – I could not do this – it would kill the very heart in me, and surely I was right.