Every face I saw was full of suppressed jubilee; they were almost afraid to show their joy openly, knowing that I—and, indeed, I suspect both of us—were too proud to accept of public sympathy either in our variance or our reconciliation, if reconciliation it was. The face of Alice was the most wondering, and the least joyous of all—she could not quite understand what this return was, or what it portended; she did not accept it as her uninstructed neighbors did, merely as a runaway wife coming home, asking pardon and having forgiveness; and though her eyes shone with sudden brightness when she saw my husband supporting me, and some appearance of conversation between us, she was still perplexed and far from satisfied. My husband left me when we reached my room, and I gladly loosed off my bonnet and mantle, and laid myself down upon the sofa. It was evening again, and the sunshine was coming full in at the west window; the jessamine boughs were hanging half across it with their white stars, and the rich foliage beyond, just touched with the first tints of autumn, rose into the beautiful sky above. My own familiar room, where Alice’s pretty muslin draperies had been, and where, a year ago, my husband had decked a bower for his unthankful bride. I saw all its graceful appointments now in strange contrast with the small white dimity bedroom in which I awoke this morning. How pleasant, I thought, that little house when first we went to it! What an agreeable relief from the etiquettes and services of this statelier dwelling-place! I had become accustomed to the ways and manners of our homely life by this time, and the charm of novelty was gone from them. I found a greater charm on this particular evening, in looking about, while I lay overpowered with the languor of weariness on my sofa, upon the costly and graceful articles round me in “my lady’s chamber.” The second change was quite as pleasant as the first.
“So this is Cottiswoode, Alice,” I said, in a half reverie, “and we are at home.”
“Oh, never to leave it again, Miss Hester—never to leave it till God calls,” cried Alice, anxiously. “I don’t ask for a word, not a word, more than you’re ready to give; but, tell me, you’ve made up your mind to that, dear, and I’m content?”
“I will never go away of my own will—no, happy or unhappy, it is right I should be here,” I said. “Does that satisfy you, Alice?”
“Miss Hester, I’d rather hear less of right and more of kindly wish and will,” said Alice, with most unlooked-for petulance. “You oughtn’t to be unhappy—God has never sent it, and it’s time enough when He sends to seek grief.”
I looked at her with a little astonishment, but took no notice of her momentary impatience—I had given her cause enough, one time and another; and now Amy came in with a tray, and something that Mrs. Templeton was sure I would like, and another maid came with her to light a fire for the comfort of Master Harry. When the fire began to blaze, Alice undressed him, while I partook—and I was almost ashamed to feel, with some appetite—of the housekeeper’s good things. Then I had a low easy chair drawn to the chimney corner, and a footstool, and had my baby back again. I think he looked even prettier in his nightgown and close cap, for his evening refreshment. The dormant ambition to have him admired, sprung up very strongly within me; and I think but that poor little Harry was very hungry and sleepy, I would have summoned courage to send him down stairs, as Alice suggested, to bid his papa good-night.
“What did they all say of him, Alice?” I asked.
“What could they say, dear?” said the impartial and candid Alice, appealing to my honor; “Mrs. Templeton thought he was the sweetest little angel that ever was born; and as for the maids!—it’s like bringing light into a house to bring a baby, Miss Hester. Blessings on his dear, sweet face! and he’s the heir of Cottiswoode.”
“Did any one say who he was like?” I asked, timidly. This was a question I had never attempted to settle even in my own mind; though, like every other mother, I saw mind, and intelligence, and expression in the sweet little features, I never could make out any resemblance—I could not persuade myself that he was like his father.
“Well, he’s very like the Southcotes, dear,” said Alice, pronouncing an unhesitating yet ambiguous judgment; “there’s a deal about his little mouth and his eyes; and, Miss Hester, dear, what did his papa think of him?”