The Days of My Life: An Autobiography

by Mrs. Oliphant

After he had said the name, a momentary color came to his cheek, he lifted his hand heavily, and drew it over his brow.

“What did I say? am I raving? no, no, I know you all! stay here, Helen,” the diamond on his finger had caught his eye—it was I whom he was calling by that name, and already his faculties failed to distinguish it from mine, “here,” he repeated, trying to draw off the ring, “here—take it from me—wear it—wear it—’tis a misfortune—keep it till you die.”

I took it from him, and he seemed to sink into a stupor. I never withdrew my eyes from him. The day had come and gone while I had been watching, and now it was night. Lights were brought into the room. I felt some one come behind me, and stand there at my chair; but I did not look who it was. Oh! that silent dim death-room, with no sound in it but his breath! Mr. Osborne leaned, hiding his face upon the pillow of the bed. I heard one suppressed sob behind me, and knew it was Alice; and I knew, too, instinctively that though I did not see him, there was another in the room. But I never moved nor turned my head; not a tear came to my dry eye, my lips were parched and hot; but neither sobbing nor weeping were possible to me. I sat still by that bedside, in full possession of my mind and faculties. I never observed more keenly, more closely, more minutely in all my life—I felt no grief, I knew no emotion, I only watched and watched with intense attention and consciousness to see my father pass away.

And there lay he—his speech was gone from him—his voice was no more to be heard in mortal ears—his soul was within those dark closing eternal gates—he was almost away. Suddenly he opened his dim eyes, and looked about him wildly, and said, “Helen!” Mr. Osborne turned to me with a rapid gesture to seek the miniature on my neck. “Let him see her—let him see her, why have you left it behind?” he said, in a whisper, which had all the effort of a loud cry. How vain it would have been! my father’s eyes closed once more in a moment—opened again to look round upon us with a scared bewildered glance—then were shut closely. I thought he had fallen asleep, but there was suddenly a movement and rustle among them all, a faint stir—I could not describe it, as if something had been accomplished. I understood what it meant, it went to my heart like a knife. Yes! it was so—it was so—I was standing among those who had wronged me, and he was gone.

I did not move, though they did. Mr. Osborne came and put his hand upon my head, and bade God bless me! and said, “All is well with him—all is well with him, dear child! go with Alice, this is no place for you;” and Alice stole to my side and put her arm round me, and entreated, “Miss Hester, darling, my own child, come and rest!”

I shook them both away—they were weeping, both of them—but not a tear came to me. I was the only one quite self-possessed. I did not say a word to either; I kept my seat, and shook them from me when they attempted to remonstrate. No! I could not yield to their false kindness, I would rather be alone—alone, as I was indeed alone in the world.

Then he came to me—when I saw him approaching, I rose. “Do not say anything,” I said; “if I must leave my dear father, I will go to my own room; let no one come to me, I will not be interrupted to-night.”

He followed me as I went to the door—he followed me along the passage, perhaps he thought I needed his support, but I was firmer in my step than he was. I knew that his heart was yearning over me in my new grief—I knew it better than if he had told me—but my heart was not softened to him. I turned when I reached my door. “Why do you follow me?” said I, “is it not enough that I have lost everything?—leave me in peace to-night.”

He held out his hands to me, he caught mine. “Oh! Hester, Hester, weep, and weep with me,” he cried, “do not condemn me to this outer darkness—let me be with you in your grief.”

I drew myself away from him. “No one can be with me in my grief, I am desolate,” I said, but I waited for no answer. I closed my door, and he went away from the threshold—this threshold to which he had come for me when I was a bride.