Yes—the charm of our rambling was gone, all my desire now was to get home to know what this confession was which Harry had to make to me. It was not the confession I had dreaded—it was not that somebody else had ever been as dear to him as I was now—what could it be? He spoke of it no more, but left it to my imagination without a word. My imagination, puzzled and bewildered, could make nothing of the mystery—could he, in his early youth, have done something very wrong? No, it was impossible, I could not credit that of Harry. I was entirely at fault, and I think before an hour was over I would gladly have undertaken to forgive him beforehand, and chase the nightmare away. But he did not seem able to forget it; it was a bigger nightmare to him than to me. He was very kind, very loving, and tender; but there was a deprecation in his manner which troubled me exceedingly. How I longed now that this Dutch professor had never broken in upon our happy, happy days. How annoyed I was at my own childish perversity, my opposition to Harry because I thought he was not cordial to the stranger. What concern had I with the stranger? and he had repaid me by bringing the first blank into our joyous intercourse—the first secret between our hearts.
Before evening was spent, we were a little better. It made me miserable to see Harry looking unhappy and constrained. We tacitly avoided all reference which could touch upon this mystery, and arranged and re-arranged our journey home, or to “England” as we said. I did not ask where we should go to, nor did he say, and so ended the first tedious evening of our married life.
THE SECOND DAY.
IT was the middle of October, stormy, cloudy, a searching chill disconsolate day. It had been wet in the morning, and the low lands near Calais were flooded with the previous rains. Everything on shore was as gloomy and uncomfortable as could be; and the decks of the little steamer were wet with sea water, as we stepped on board of her in the deceitful harbor of Calais, where the wild sea without was beyond our reach or ken. When we cleared the harbor and made our wild plunge amid the raging lions without, I never will forget what a shock it gave me. Crossing these wild little straits on our way to the Continent had been my first voyage—this was only my second, and I thought these monstrous waves which rolled up to us defiant and boastful like Goliath, were to swallow up in an instant our brave little David, the small stout straining seaboat, which bore our lives and our hopes within a hair’s-breadth of destruction, as I thought. “Take the lady below, sir, she can’t be no worse nor ill there,” said a seaman pithily, as he rolled past us with a mop and bucket, with which they vainly attempted to dry the flooded deck. I was so much worse than ill here, that I was drenched with the dashing of the waves; but the man did not know with what a solemn expectation I waited—looked to be devoured and engulfed every moment by some invading wave.
Yet in spite of all, we reached the opposite shore in safety, and stood once more upon English ground—there we rested for a little and changed our wet dresses, and Harry pressed and entreated me to take refreshments. I made an effort, to please him; but he took nothing himself—he looked very much agitated, though he suppressed his feeling so anxiously. For a few days we had greatly regained our former happy freedom, and forgot that anything had ever come between us. I am sure it was not my fault that the feeling was revived to-day; I had made no allusion to what he was to tell me, I had even avoided speaking of the home to which we were going, lest he might think I was impatient for his secret. My mind was free, and I could forget it; but it lay on Harry’s conscience, and he could not.
I think the storm had pleased him while we were on the water, it wailed and it chimed in with his own excitement; but when we landed, when we had to rest and refresh ourselves, and there was an hour or two to wait for a train, my heart ached for Harry. He looked so restless, so agitated, so unhappy. I kept by him constantly, yet I sometimes feared that I rather aggravated than soothed his emotion by any tenderness I showed him. He looked so grateful for it, that I felt almost injured by his thankfulness. He turned such wistful looks upon me, as if he doubted whether I ever would look upon him or speak to him as I did now after this day. The importance he seemed to attach to it, gave his mystery a new weight in my eyes. I had begun to grow familiar with it—to think it must be nothing and despise it; but it was impossible to do so when I saw this excitement under which Harry was laboring. What could it be? Nay, if it was indeed something very bad he had done in some former time—which was the most probable thing I could think of—that was nothing to me—that could never estrange us from each other. And when we set out again upon our journey, and rushed away with giant strides to London, I pleased myself thinking how I would laugh at his fears when I really heard his story—how I would upbraid him for believing that anything could ever come between us—how I would chase him back into his old self with tenderer words than I had ever spoken yet. We sat opposite each other, yet our eyes very seldom met—he was cogitating in doubt and trouble, I was thinking of him very lovingly—how good he was—how strange that he ever could do wrong—how impossible that either wrong or right should part him and me. My heart swelled when I recollected all his tender care of me—how, though I was his wife, I had never for a moment been divested of that delicate and reverent honor with which he surrounded me in the days of our betrothal. I felt that I could trust to him as a child trusts, and not even care to seek his secret; and I rejoiced in thinking how soon I could dissipate the cloud that was over him when the crisis really came.
We had another little interval of waiting in London, and then set out again for Cambridge, as I thought. It was now getting late, and the day declined rapidly. Harry did not seem able to speak to me; he sat by my side, so that I could no longer see his face, and we travelled on in silence, rushing through the gathering darkness; every moment Harry’s excitement seemed to grow and increase. He took my hand and held it tight for a moment—then he released it to clasp and strain his own together. Sometimes he turned to me, as if just on the point of making his confession, whatever that confession might be, but immediately repented and turned from me again. I did all I could to soothe him, but vainly as it seemed; and had it not been for my perfect conviction that I had but to hear his story, to convince him that nothing horrible could stand between us, I could scarcely have endured those hours of rapid and silent travelling, full of expectation as they were. At length we stopped at a little unimportant station on the way. “We get out here, Hester,” said Harry, in a stifled breathless voice, as he helped me to alight; his hand was burning as if with fever, and the light of the lamps showed me the white cloud of excitement on his face. Outside the station, a carriage was waiting for us. “You have found a house then, Harry; why did you not tell me?” I said, as he handed me into it. “Did you mean it for a surprise?” “Yes,” he said hoarsely—he was not able to say any more. I saw, I was very sorry for him. I took his hand, which was now cold, and warmed it between my own. I could not help remonstrating with him. I could not bear it any longer.
“Harry,” said I, “why are you so much troubled? have you no confidence at all in me? do you forget what I am—your wife? I cannot think anything would disturb you so much, but something wrong—but is it my place to sit in judgment upon any wrong you may have done? It will be hard for me to believe it. I would believe no one but yourself on such a subject, and whatever it is, it can make no difference with me. Harry! don’t turn away from me—don’t let us be separated; you make me very anxious; yet I would rather not know what it is that troubles you so. I am not going home to be a punishment or a judge upon you—you forget I am your wife, Harry.”
But Harry only groaned; it was remorse, compunction, that was in his heart. He repeated my last words wildly with passionate exaggerated tones of fondness. His angel, he called me; much troubled as I was, I smiled at the name—but I was honest enough to know that there was very little even of the earthly angel about me.
And so we drove on—the gliding silent motion of the carriage seemed very subdued and gentle after the rush of the railway—on through dark silent hedgeless woods, over the wide level country, which stretched around us one vast dull plain under the shadow of the night. It was my own country, I saw; and I put out my hand from the carriage window to feel the fresh wind, which came over miles and miles of these broad flats, unbroken by any obstacle. Not a hedgerow, scarcely a tree, and neither passenger upon the way nor human habitation was to be seen in the darkness—nothing but the dark soil, the wide, wide indescribable distance, the fine breeze and the dim sky. The very road we were on was a level straightforward line, which seemed to have no turnings, but to go blindly forward, uninterrupted, as if it went to the end of the world. All the charm which I used to feel in my native locality returned upon me; space, and breadth, and freedom almost infinite, was in this land which people called monotonous and dreary. My spirit rose, my heart beat high. I felt my breast expand to the fresh wind—but when I turned to Harry—Harry seemed quite unmoved by it; he was still buried in his own dark thoughts.