The Days of My Life: An Autobiography

And I hastened away into the house, up-stairs to my own room. How my heart throbbed! how wearied, and bewildered, and sick at heart I felt! What could he mean? What could it be? Out of the temporary quietude I had fallen into, I was raised again into an eager consuming excitement, and I think for the first time that day, in the preoccupation and strain of my own mind, I wished Flora Ennerdale at home; for her sweet natural life, so great a contrast to mine at all times, was almost unendurable now.

THE TENTH DAY

THOSE lingering, uneventful days, though they looked so long and tedious as they passed, how they seemed to have flown when I look back upon their silent progress – for it was now April, the trees were rich with young spring leaves; the sky and the air were as bright as summer; the flowers were waking everywhere, peeping among the herbage on the road-side, looking out from the tufts of meadow grass, filling the breeze with a whisper of primroses and violets, and all the nameless favorites of spring. But spring had not come to Cottiswoode – we were as we had been since my first coming here; only that the estrangement between us daily became wider, more sullen and hopeless. We were as little as possible together; yet if his thoughts were as full of me as mine were of him, it mattered little that we sat in different rooms, and pursued alone our separate occupations. The consuming and silent excitement of this life of ours, when, though I never addressed him voluntarily, I watched for his coming and going, and anxiously expected, and sought a hidden meaning in every word he said, I cannot describe to any one – it was terrible. I could fancy that a demoniac in the old times must have felt something as I did – I was possessed – I had, in reality, no will of my own, but was overborne by a succession of frantic impulses, which must have looked like a deliberate system to a looker-on. I can neither understand nor explain the rules of my conduct – or rather, it had no rules. The wild suggestion of the moment, and no better principle, was the rule which guided me.

Flora had just left us after a second visit; she had been one day gone, and I felt her absence greatly. Even Alice did not make up to me now for this younger companion; for Alice was dull, and disturbed, and sad. I felt her every look a reproach to me, and I did not seek her to be with me as I had once done. I lay down on my sofa doing nothing; cogitating vain impressions of injury and wrong; going over imaginary conversations with my husband – turning my face away from the sweet daylight, and all the joyous life out of doors. As I rested thus, I heard my husband’s step approaching, and raised myself hurriedly; my heart began to beat, and the color came back to my cheek – why was he coming here now?

He came in – he advanced to my side – he stood before me! I turned over a book nervously – glanced once at him – tried to command my voice to speak, but could not. Then he sat down beside me on my sofa. I drew away from him as far as I could, and waited for what he had to say.

“Hester,” he said, “this has lasted long enough. If we are to preserve our senses – if one of us at least – some period must be put to this torture. Are you satisfied yet with the penance you have exacted? Or how much more do you wish me to suffer? For I declare to you, I have almost passed the bounds of endurance – you will make me mad!”

“I wish you to suffer nothing,” said I. “I will keep my room; I will keep out of your sight, if it makes you mad to see me. I will go away, or else confine myself to my own apartments; I exact nothing; I only desire you to leave me at peace.”

“You will keep out of my sight if I will leave you at peace? That is a sweet compact, is it not?” he said, with vehemence and bitterness, and I could see that, at last, his patience had quite given way. “What do you mean, Hester? Have you any recollection how it is that we are related to each other – do you know what is the bond between us?”

“Yes! we are in slavery,” I said; “we belong to each other – we are united for ever. It is no use deceiving ourselves; we never can be any better – that is all I know.”

“And why can we never be any better?” he said, softening and growing gentle in his tone. “Unhappy and disturbed as I am, my fears do not go the length of that. I will not do you the injustice to suppose, that you will keep this delusion all your life. If you will retain it now, I appeal to your better judgment afterwards. But why should you retain it now, Hester? You are no happier for your revenge – I am no better for my punishment. It is now a long time since the offence was committed; look at it again, and see if it is equal to the penalty. Tell me, Hester, what have I done?”

“You have deceived me,” I said.

“I told you nothing untrue of myself,” he said, quietly. “I did not tell you all the truth. See how you have changed me already – a man cannot be at the bar so long without trying to justify himself. At first I was a penitent offender – but nothing but mercy can make repentance, Hester, and you have shown no mercy to me. What have I done to deserve all that you have inflicted upon me?”

“You have deceived me,” I repeated sullenly.

He started up and made a few rapid strides through the room as if going away – but then he returned again. His temper, his self-command, his patience, could not bear any more – I saw that I had fairly roused him to strive with me.

“Is this all you have to say, Hester?” he asked almost sternly. “Am I to hear this and only this rung in my ears continually – have you nothing but my first offence to urge against me – is this all?”

“Yes,” I said, “it is all, and I have nothing more to say.”

He could not trust himself to speak, but went away from me again, and rapidly returned once more. “Grant it so,” he said, with a quick and breathless voice, “if I have deceived you, I have been myself deceived – we are on equal terms.”

I could not understand what he meant – when it dawned upon me, I rose slowly, and we stood, confronting each other, looking into each other’s eyes. “Have I deceived you?” I asked – it cost me an effort to preserve my calmness, but I did it.

“Yes,” he said vehemently, “you were a sweet and tender woman when you left your father’s house. I thought you one of those whose very presence makes a home – your high spirit, your rapid mind, only gave a noble charm to your generous loving heart – I thought so, Hester – I delighted in believing it. I thought the key of my joy in this world was given to me when they put your hand in mine. Look at me now – I am bankrupt, shipwrecked – from the first hour I brought you home, happiness was ended for me. This house is wretched – the very sunshine and daylight that God has made are no longer blessings to me. My life is a burden. My duties are intolerable. My hopes have departed one by one. I tell you that more bitterly, more grievously than you have been deceived, have you deceived me.”

I was stung and wounded to the heart. A dreadful passion took possession of me. I could have killed myself as I stood, that he might have seen me do it, and repented when it was too late. Even then, when these bitter words were said, I believe he repented.

“Why did you seek me then?” I cried passionately. “Why did you come out of your way to make us both so wretched? I am not a sweet or a tender woman. I never was so. I never pretended to be. Why did you not seek Flora Ennerdale? She was fit for you. She might have made you happy. Why did you not leave me in my solitude? I never came to seek you.”

“You insult me,” he said, turning away with renewed anger. I think he said something else. I did not hear it. I made no answer. I sat down to wait till he was gone. I cannot even tell how long it was till he went away, but when he did, I rose, and, guiding myself by my hands, went slowly up-stairs. I know my step was quite firm, but I held by the banisters and took pains to guide myself, for there was a darkness over my eyes, and I could not see plainly where I went. It seemed a long time before I could reach my own room, and when I entered it, Alice started, and came towards me with an exclamation of fright. This restored me a little to myself. I said I was faint – told her to bring me some wine, and lay down upon the couch till she returned. “Are you ill, my darling?” said Alice, bending over me with a pale face, as she gave me the wine. “No, no!” I said, “only faint – I must not be ill, for we have a good deal to do. I should like to take a drive – will you order the carriage to be ready in an hour, and then, Alice, come back to me.”

I lay quite still, recovering myself till she returned. I felt that to command and compose myself sufficiently to be able for all I wanted to do, required all my powers. Exerting all the resolution I had, I lay upon the couch, refusing to think, resting with a determined purpose and resolution to rest, such as seemed very strange when I thought of it afterwards – but I thought to do it then – slowly my eyes cleared, the beating of my heart subsided. I cannot tell what crisis I might have come to, had I given way to the dreadful agitation which had possession of me for a time; but as I lay here, silently looking round upon the familiar room, I felt both mind and body obeying me, and rejoiced to find that I was mistress of myself, as I had not been for many a day.

When Alice returned, I rose. I foresaw Alice’s remonstrances, her tears and entreaties, and I had intentionally left very little room for them by ordering the carriage so soon. When she came in, I sat up, refreshed and strong. I could not try to “prepare” her for it, I said abruptly, “Alice, I am going away.”

“Where, Miss Hester?” said Alice.

“I cannot tell where,” I said; “all that I know is, that I must go away from Cottiswoode. Alice, come near me – I will not constrain you. I will not be offended if you stay; but you must tell me at once what you will do, for I have very little time.”

Alice looked with great and pathetic earnestness in my face, but she did not cry or entreat me against it, as I feared she would do.

“Has it come to this? – are you sure it has come to this?” she asked, anxiously clasping her hands and gazing at me. “Oh! Miss Hester, consider what it is – consider how you are – and tell me solemnly has it come to this?”

“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.