The Days of My Life: An Autobiography. Oliphant Margaret
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.
THE SEVENTH DAY
IT was now nearly Midsummer, the crown of the year. I was sitting in my own room by the window, idly musing, when Alice came in with some of my light muslin dresses to put them away. I had neither book nor work to veil my true occupation. I was leaning my head upon both my hands, sometimes vacantly looking out at the windows, sometimes closing my fingers over my eyes. I had both scenery and circumstances in my dream – I wanted nothing external to help me in the meditations with which my mind had grown familiar now.
I was not unaware of the entrance of Alice, but I only changed my position a little, and did not speak, hoping to be undisturbed. I saw, with a little impatience, how careful she was about the dresses – how she smoothed down their folds, and arranged them elaborately, that they might not be crushed in the drawer; but she certainly took more time than was necessary for this simple operation, and though Alice had no clue to my thoughts, I scarcely liked, I cannot tell why, to continue them in her presence. But when the drawers were closed at last, Alice still did not go away – she came to the dressing-table, and began to arrange and disarrange the pretty toilette boxes which she kept in such good order, and to loop up and pull down the muslin draperies of the table and the mirror; at last she gathered courage and came close to me.
“May I speak to you, Miss Hester?” said Alice, but it was in a disturbed and nervous tone.
Now I was annoyed to have my own thoughts, which had a great charm for me at that time, interrupted and broken. I looked up with a little petulance – “What is it, Alice?”
She came still closer to where I was sitting, and her bright good face was troubled. “Miss Hester, my darling, I want to consult you,” said Alice, and I thought I saw a tear trembling in her eye. “I am afraid your papa is ill. I am afraid he is very bad. The doctor comes and goes, and he never lets you know; and I have said to myself this three months back: ‘it’s cruel to keep it from her – the longer she is of knowing the worse it will be.’ And now, dear, I’ve taken heart and come myself to tell you. He’s very bad, Miss Hester, he has a deal of trouble; and it’ll come hard – hard upon you.”
I felt that my face was quite blanched and white. What a contrast was this to the terror of my own thoughts! I shrank within myself with a guilty consciousness, that while I had been running in these charmed ways, my father had suffered in secret, making no sign. I cannot say I was startled – Alice’s words fell upon me with a dull heavy pang – I felt as if a blow which had long been hanging