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THE DAYS OF MY LIFE.

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY,

"MARGARET MAITLAND," "LILLIESLEAF,"

&c., &c.

NEW YORK:

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE.

THE DAYS OF MY LIFE.

THE FIRST DAY.

I was going home from the village, and it was an autumn evening, just after sunset, when every crop was cut and housed in our level country, and when the fields of stubble and browned grass had nothing on them, except here and there, a tree. They say our bare flats, in Cambridgeshire, are neither picturesque, nor beautiful. I cannot say for that--but I know no landscape has ever caught my eye like the long line of sunburnt, wiry grass, and the great, wide arch above, with all its shades of beautiful color. There were no hedgerows to skirt the path on which I was, and I saw nothing between me and the sky, save a solitary figure stalking along the highway, and in the other direction the clump of trees which surrounded Cottiswoode; the sky, in the west, was still full of the colors of the sunset, and from the horizon it rose upward in a multitude of tints and shades, the orange and red melting into a rosy flush which contrasted for a while, and then fell into the sweet, calm, peaceful tone of the full blue. In the time of the year, and the look of the night, there was alike that indescribable composure and satisfaction which are in the sunny evenings after harvest; the work was done, the day was fading, everything was going home; the rooks sailed over the sky, and the laborer trudged across the moor. Labor was over, and provision made, and the evening and the night, peace and refreshment, and rest were coming for every man. I do not suppose I noticed this at the time, but I have the strongest impression of it all in my remembrance now.

And I was passing along, as I always did, quickly and, perhaps, with a firmer and a steadier step than was usual to girls of my years, swinging in my hand a bit of briony, which, for the sake of its beautiful berries, I was carrying home, but which stood a good chance of being destroyed before we got there--not taking leisure to look much about me, thinking of nothing particular, with a little air of the superior, the lady of the manor, in my independent carriage--a little pride of proprietorship in my firm footstep.

We gradually approached nearer, for I was walking quickly, though their pace was slow; but before we met my thoughts had wandered off from them, and I was greatly astonished by the sudden address which brought me to an abrupt pause before them. "Young lady," the man said, with an awkward bow, "what is your name?"

"Ah, indeed! it is just as I thought, then," said the stranger, wheeling his young companion round, so as to place him side by side with me. "We are going back to Cottiswoode--we will have the pleasure of your company; I am quite happy we have met."

But my girlish disdain did not annihilate the bold intruder; it only brought a disagreeable smile to his mouth which made him look still more like some dangerous unknown animal to me. I was not very well versed in society, nor much acquainted with the world, but I knew by intuition that this person, though quite as well dressed as any one I had ever seen, was not a gentleman; he was one of those nondescripts whom you could not respect either for wealth or poverty--one of those few people you could be disrespectful to, without blushing for yourself.

"Do you want any thing at Cottiswoode?" I asked accordingly, not at all endeavoring to conceal that I thought my new companion a very unsuitable visitor at my father's house.

"Yes! we want a great deal at Cottiswoode," said the stranger, significantly; and as I raised my head in wonder and indignation, I could not but observe how the boy lagged behind, and how his companion constantly attempted to drag him forward close to me.

With an impatient impulse, I gathered up the folds of my dress in my hand and drew another step apart. I was the only child of a haughty gentleman. I did not know what it was to be addressed in the tone of a superior, and I was fully more annoyed than angry--but with a young girl's grand and innocent assumption, I held my head higher. "You are not aware whom you are speaking to," I said, proudly; but I was very much confused and disconcerted when the stranger answered me by a laugh--and the laugh was still less pleasant than the smile, for there was irritation mingled with its sneer.

"I am perfectly aware whom I am speaking to, Miss," he said, rather more coarsely than he had yet spoken; "better aware than the young lady is who tells me so, or than my lord himself among the trees yonder," and he pointed at Cottiswoode, to which we were drawing near. "But you will find it best to be friends," he continued, after a moment, in a tone intended to be light and easy, "look what I have brought you--here's this pretty young gentleman is your cousin."

"My cousin!" I said, with great astonishment, "I have no cousin."

"Oh, no! I dare say!" said the man, with such a sneer of insinuation, that in my childish passion I could have struck him, almost. "I'd disown him, out and out, if I were you."

"What do you mean, sir?" I said, stopping short and turning round upon him; then my eye caught the face of the boy, which was naturally pale, but now greatly flushed with shame and anger, as I thought; he looked shrinking, and timid, and weak, with his delicate blue-veined temples, his long, fair hair, and refined mild face. I felt myself so strong, so sunburnt, so ruddy, and with such a strength and wealth of life, in presence of this delicate and hesitating boy. "What does he mean," I repeated, addressing him, "does he mean that I say what is not true?"

"I will tell you what I mean, my dear young lady," said the man, suddenly changing his tone, "I mean what I have just been to tell your amiable father; though, of course, both yourself and the good gentleman have your own reasons for doubting me--I mean that this is your cousin, Mr. Edgar Southcote, the son of your father's elder brother, Brian Southcote, who died in India ten years ago--that's what I mean!"

The man had his eyes fixed upon me with a broad full gaze, as if he expected a contradiction; but, of course, after hearing this, I did not care in the least how the man looked, or what he had to do with it--I turned very eagerly to look at the boy.

"Are you really my cousin?" said I, "have you just come from India? why did we never know before? and your name is Edgar?--a great many of the Southcotes have been called Edgar--how old are you?--I never knew I had a cousin, or any near friends, and neither did papa; but I have heard every body talk of uncle Brian. Poor boy! you have no father--you are not so happy as I--"

But to my great amazement, and just at the moment I was holding out my hand to him, and was about to say that my father would love him as he did me--my new cousin, a boy, a man--he ought to have had more spirit!--suddenly burst into a great fit of tears, and in the strangest passionate manner, cried out to the man, "I cannot bear it, Saville--Saville, take me away!"

I had no longer any curiosity or care about the man; but I was very much surprised at this, and could not understand it--and I was a little ashamed and indignant besides to see a boy cry.

"What is the matter?" I asked again, with some of my natural imperiousness, "why do you cry--is anything wrong? Is your name Edgar Southcote, and yet you cry like a child? Do you not know we are called the proudest house in the country; and what is this man doing, or what does he want here? why should he take you away? you ought to be at Cottiswoode if you are Edgar Southcote--what do you mean?"

"Cheer up, Master Edgar--your cousin is quite right, you ought to be at Cottiswoode, and nowhere else, my boy," said the man, giving him such a blow on the shoulders, in encouragement, that the delicate boy trembled under it. "Why, where is your spirit! come, come, since the young lady's owned you, we'll go straight to the old gentleman again; and you'll see what papa will say to you, Miss, when he sees what you bring him home."

I did not answer, but turned away my head from this person, who filled me with disgust and annoyance: then their slow pace roused me to impatience. I was always a few steps before them, for Saville's gliding pace was uniformly slow, and the pale boy, who was called my cousin, lingered still more than his companion. He never answered me--not a word, though I put so many questions to him, and he seemed so downcast and sad, so unlike a boy going home--so very, very unlike me, that I could not understand him. I was so very eager to return to tell my father, and to ask him if this was truly an Edgar Southcote, that our slow progress chafed me the more.

We were now drawing very near to Cottiswoode; every dark leaf of the trees was engraved on the flush of many colors which still showed in the sky the road where the sun had gone down--and among them rose my father's house, the home of our race, with its turrets rising gray upon the sky like an old chateau of France or Scotland, without a hill in sight to harmonize that picturesque architecture: nothing but the elm trees and the olive shade of the great walnut, with the flat moors and sunburnt grass, running away in vast level lines into the sky. Cottiswoode, the house of all our ancestors, where every room was a chapter in the history of our name, and every Southcote of renown still lived upon the ancient walls--I could not fancy one of us approaching, without a flush and tremor, the family dwelling-place. But Edgar Southcote's pale cheek was not warmed by the faintest color--I thought he looked as if he must faint or die--he no longer glanced at me or at his companion; and when I turned to him, I saw only the pale eyelids with their long lashes, the drooping head, and foot that faltered now at every step--a strange boy! could he be of our blood after all?

The front of Cottiswoode was somewhat gloomy, for there was only a carriage-road sweeping through the trees, and a small shrubbery thickly planted with evergreens before the great door. When we were near enough, I saw my father pacing up and down hurriedly through the avenue of elms which reaches up to the shrubbery. When I saw him, I became still more perplexed than before--my father was reserved, and never betrayed himself or his emotions to the common eye; I could not comprehend why he was here, showing an evident agitation, and disturbed entirely out of his usual calm.

And as quickly as I did, the stranger noticed him. This man fixed his eye upon my father with a sneer, which roused once more to the utmost, my girlish passion. I could not tell what it meant, but there was an insinuation in it, which stung me beyond bearing, especially when I saw the trouble on my father's face, which was generally so calm. I hurried forward anxious to be first, yet involuntarily waiting for my strange companions. The man too quickened his pace a little, but the boy lagged behind so drearily, and drooped his head with such a pertinacious sadness--though the very elm trees of Cottiswoode were rustling their leaves above him--that in my heat, and haste, and eagerness, I knew not what to do.

"Papa!" I said anxiously; my father heard me, and turned round with a sudden eager start, as though he was glad of my coming; but whe'ai aper?u votre feu; cette vue m'a donn? un courage extraordinaire comme je n'en avais pas ressenti depuis longtemps.

Cependant Veghte l'observait d'un oeil per?ant qui semblait vouloir le perforer d'outre en outre; il ?piait ses moindres mouvements et cherchait ? y d?couvrir quelque nuance suspecte. Enfin, il laissa ?chapper la question qui ?tait sur ses l?vres depuis le commencement de l'entrevue.

--Vous vous dites ami, mais je n'ai pas entendu votre nom... si vous l'avez dit.

--Je ne l'ai point dit; observa l'autre en croisant n?gligemment ses mains derri?re lui, et tournant le dos au feu.

Cette froide et imperturbable assurance faillit d?concerter Veghte, tout habitu? qu'il f?t aux plus ?tranges rencontres. Il revint cependant ? sa question.

--Eh bien! voyons donc ce nom? car je suppose que vous ne trouvez aucun inconv?nient ? le donner.

--Oh! je n'y rencontre aucun inconv?nient, r?pondit indiff?remment l'?tranger; mais... que signifie un nom, Basil Veghte?

Le forestier fut stup?fait de voir que cet inconnu le connaissait. N?anmoins il reprit d'un ton sec:

--Il ne s'agit pas de ce que peut signifier un nom; je vous donne le choix entre deux choses que je vais vous proposer: dites-moi votre nom ou allez-vous-en camper ailleurs.

L'?tranger le regarda et se mit ? rire.

--Basil, vous rappelez-vous Brock Bradburn?

Veghte l'enveloppa d'un regard rapide:

--Je ne me souviens pas, dit-il, d'avoir entendu ce nom.

--C'est mon opinion ?galement; car je ne vous l'avais point encore dit.

--Voudriez-vous me faire croire que ce n'est pas vous!

--Je serais assez de cet avis.

--Enfin! voulez-vous, oui ou non, me dire qui vous ?tes?

--Et si je ne le voulais pas?

--Eh bien! la question est tranch?e! Laissez-moi tranquille avec mon feu. Vous ?tes venu sans ?tre invit?; retirez-vous de m?me.

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