I looked at him with blank dismay, though I did not look at the glittering jewel in his hand; of course I knew at once that it was mine—that it must be mine—and that malicious fate returned the curse to me. It was no use trying to deny or disown this fatal gem. Malicious fate! What words these were! I sickened at the passion and rebellious force that still was in my heart.
“Yes,” I said, almost with resentment; “yes, thank you, it is mine,” but I did not hold out my hand for it. The doctor looked amazed, almost distrustful of me. I was not comprehensible to him.
“It seems of great value,” he said, with a slight, half-indignant emphasis; “and even in the village, I dare say, it might have fallen into hands less safe than my wife’s. The river would have made small account of your diamond had the water come an inch or two higher. Ladies are seldom so careless of their pretty things, Mrs. Southcote.”
He was an old man, and had been very kind to me. I did not wish to offend him now that I recollected myself. “It has very unpleasant recollections to me, doctor,” I said, as I put it on my finger; “I almost was glad to think I had lost it: but I thank you very much for taking the trouble, and will you thank Mrs. Lister for me; it was very kind of her to pick it up.”
The old doctor left me, more than ever bewildered as to my true character and position. I heard afterwards from the rector’s wife, who was not above caricaturing and observing the village oddities, that he went home to the little house, which had been cast into great excitement half the day by finding this prize, completely dismayed by my indifference. “I was almost glad to think I had lost it!” Who could I be who thought so little of such a valuable ornament? The doctor and his household could not understand what it meant.
As for me, when I left him, my impulse was to tear it from my finger, and fling it with all my force into the middle of the river. To what purpose? it would not be safe, I believed, even there. Wilful losing would not do, as I had experienced already. With secret passion I pressed it upon my finger, as if extra precautions to secure it might, perhaps, answer my purpose. What a fiendish, malignant glare it had to my excited eyes as I looked at it in the soft twilight: it seemed to gather the lingering light into itself, and turn upon me with a glow of defiance. When I reached home, where Alice had already lighted candles and put our little parlor in order, I held it up to her as I entered. I believe I was quite pale with fright and passion. “See, it has come back to me,” I said; “it will not be lost.”
Alice was not so much dismayed as I was. “I feared it would be found,” she said; “but patience, dear; there is but one heir to Cottiswoode, and it’s worn on a woman’s hand.”
I had to content myself, of course; but I scarcely liked to put up my hand, with that ring upon it, to my neck, where hung my mother’s miniature. Alice’s eye followed me, as I did it once, and her face lighted up. “If the ring is the sign of strife, the picture is peace itself, Miss Hester,” she said with a faltering voice. I almost thought so myself. How strange it was to wear these two things together!
THE FIFTH DAY.
MY baby was very ill. He had been seized a week before, but we had not apprehended anything. Now we were closely shut up in my bed-room, trying to shield every breath of air from him; keeping up the fire though it was only September, while I sat by the fireside holding him on my knee, watching the changes of his face, his breathing, his movements, with frightful anxiety, and reproaching myself, oh, so bitterly, for that one last walk, which had brought this illness upon him. He had taken a violent cold, and I could not but see, by the anxiety of the doctor, by the gravity of Alice, and the pitying tender look which she cast upon me, how they thought it would end. When I awoke from my security to think of this, I dare not describe the misery that came upon me. Oh, I had talked of misery and hopelessness before, but what were all the griefs in the world to this one! To look at him, and think he might be taken from me—to look upon those sweet features, which might be by-and-by removed from my eyes for ever; oh, heaven, that agony! that was the bitterness of death.