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Title: The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

Author: Anne Brontë

Author of introduction, etc.: Mrs. Humphry Ward

Release date: July 1, 1997 [eBook #969]
                Most recently updated: April 24, 2021

Language: English

Credits: David Price


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL ***




The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

by Anne Brontë

WITH AN INTRODUCTION
BY MRS HUMPHREY WARD

LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
1920




Contents


This Table of Contents contains the original chapter headings that were present
in the first printed edition of 1848. These headings were removed in later
(one-volume) editions of the text, after Anne Brontë’s death in 1849.

 I. A Discovery
 II. An Interview
 III. A Controversy
 IV. The Party
 V. The Studio
 VI. Progression
 VII. The Excursion
 VIII. The Present
 IX. A Snake in the Grass
 X. A Contract and a Quarrel
 XI. The Vicar Again
 XII. A Tête-à-Tête and a Discovery
 XIII. A Return to Duty
 XIV. An Assault
 XV. An Encounter and its Consequences
 XVI. The Warnings of Experience
 XVII. Further Warnings
 XVIII. The Miniature
 XIX. An Incident
 XX. Persistence
 XXI. Opinions
 XXII. Traits of Friendship
 XXIII. First Weeks of Matrimony
 XXIV. First Quarrel
 XXV. First Absence
 XXVI. The Guests
 XXVII. A Misdemeanour
 XXVIII. Parental Feelings
 XXIX. The Neighbour
 XXX. Domestic Scenes
 XXXI. Social Virtues
 XXXII. Comparisons: Information Rejected
 XXXIII. Two Evenings
 XXXIV. Concealment
 XXXV. Provocations
 XXXVI. Dual Solitude
 XXXVII. The Neighbour Again
 XXXVIII. The Injured Man
 XXXIX. A Scheme of Escape
 XL. A Misadventure
 XLI. “Hope Springs Eternal in the Human Breast”
 XLII. A Reformation
 XLIII. The Boundary Past
 XLIV. The Retreat
 XLV. Reconciliation
 XLVI. Friendly Counsels
 XLVII. Startling Intelligence
 XLVIII. Further Intelligence
 XLIX. 
 L. Doubts and Disappointments
 LI. An Unexpected Occurrence
 LII. Fluctuations
 LIII. Conclusion


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

 Portrait of Anne Brontë
 Moorland Scene, Haworth
 Moorland scene (with water): Haworth
 Moorland scene (with cottage), Haworth
 Blake Hall—The Approach (Grassdale Manor)
 Blake Hall—Front (Grassdale Manor)
 Blake Hall—Side (Grassdale Manor)

[Illustration]




INTRODUCTION


Anne Brontë serves a twofold purpose in the study of what the Brontës
wrote and were. In the first place, her gentle and delicate presence,
her sad, short story, her hard life and early death, enter deeply into
the poetry and tragedy that have always been entwined with the memory
of the Brontës, as women and as writers; in the second, the books and
poems that she wrote serve as matter of comparison by which to test the
greatness of her two sisters. She is the measure of their genius—like
them, yet not with them.

Many years after Anne’s death her brother-in-law protested against a
supposed portrait of her, as giving a totally wrong impression of the
“dear, gentle Anne Brontë.” “Dear” and “gentle” indeed she seems to
have been through life, the youngest and prettiest of the sisters, with
a delicate complexion, a slender neck, and small, pleasant features.
Notwithstanding, she possessed in full the Brontë seriousness, the
Brontë strength of will. When her father asked her at four years old
what a little child like her wanted most, the tiny creature replied—if
it were not a Brontë it would be incredible!—“Age and experience.” When
the three children started their “Island Plays” together in 1827, Anne,
who was then eight, chose Guernsey for her imaginary island, and
peopled it with “Michael Sadler, Lord Bentinck, and Sir Henry Halford.”
She and Emily were constant companions, and there is evidence that they
shared a common world of fancy from very early days to mature
womanhood. “The Gondal Chronicles” seem to have amused them for many
years, and to have branched out into innumerable books, written in the
“tiny writing” of which Mr. Clement Shorter has given us facsimiles. “I
am now engaged in writing the fourth volume of Solala Vernon’s Life,”
says Anne at twenty-one. And four years later Emily says, “The Gondals
still flourish bright as ever. I am at present writing a work on the
First War. Anne has been writing some articles on this and a book by
Henry Sophona. We intend sticking firm by the rascals as long as they
delight us, which I am glad to say they do at present.”

That the author of “Wildfell Hall” should ever have delighted in the
Gondals, should ever have written the story of Solala Vernon or Henry
Sophona, is pleasant to know. Then, for her too, as for her sisters,
there was a moment when the power of “making out” could turn loneliness
and disappointment into riches and content. For a time at least, and
before a hard and degrading experience had broken the spring of her
youth, and replaced the disinterested and spontaneous pleasure that is
to be got from the life and play of imagination, by a sad sense of
duty, and an inexorable consciousness of moral and religious mission,
Anne Brontë wrote stories for her own amusement, and loved the
“rascals” she created.

But already in 1841, when we first hear of the Gondals and Solala
Vernon, the material for quite other books was in poor Anne’s mind. She
was then teaching in the family at Thorpe Green, where Branwell joined
her as tutor in 1843, and where, owing to events that are still a
mystery, she seems to have passed through an ordeal that left her
shattered in health and nerve, with nothing gained but those melancholy
and repulsive memories that she was afterwards to embody in “Wildfell
Hall.” She seems, indeed, to have been partly the victim of Branwell’s
morbid imagination, the imagination of an opium-eater and a drunkard.
That he was neither the conqueror nor the villain that he made his
sisters believe, all the evidence that has been gathered since Mrs.
Gaskell wrote goes to show. But poor Anne believed his account of
himself, and no doubt saw enough evidence of vicious character in
Branwell’s daily life to make the worst enormities credible. She seems
to have passed the last months of her stay at Thorpe Green under a
cloud of dread and miserable suspicion, and was thankful to escape from
her situation in the summer of 1845. At the same moment Branwell was
summarily dismissed from his tutorship, his employer, Mr. Robinson,
writing a stern letter of complaint to Branwell’s father, concerned no
doubt with the young man’s disorderly and intemperate habits. Mrs.
Gaskell says: “The premature deaths of two at least of the sisters—all
the great possibilities of their earthly lives snapped short—may be
dated from Midsummer 1845.” The facts as we now know them hardly bear
out so strong a judgment. There is nothing to show that Branwell’s
conduct was responsible in any way for Emily’s illness and death, and
Anne, in the contemporary fragment recovered by Mr. Shorter, gives a
less tragic account of the matter. “During my stay (at Thorpe Green),”
she writes on July 31, 1845, “I have had some very unpleasant and
undreamt-of experience of human nature. . . . Branwell has . . . been a
tutor at Thorpe Green, and had much tribulation and ill-health. . . .
We hope he will be better and do better in future.” And at the end of
the paper she says, sadly, forecasting the coming years, “I for my part
cannot well be flatter or older in mind than I am now.” This is the
language of disappointment and anxiety; but it hardly fits the tragic
story that Mrs. Gaskell believed.

That story was, no doubt, the elaboration of Branwell’s diseased fancy
during the three years which elapsed between his dismissal from Thorpe
Green and his death. He imagined a guilty romance with himself and his
employer’s wife for characters, and he imposed the horrid story upon
his sisters. Opium and drink are the sufficient explanations; and no
time need now be wasted upon unravelling the sordid mystery. But the
vices of the brother, real or imaginary, have a certain importance in
literature, because of the effect they produced upon his sisters. There
can be no question that Branwell’s opium madness, his bouts of
drunkenness at the Black Bull, his violence at home, his free and
coarse talk, and his perpetual boast of guilty secrets, influenced the
imagination of his wholly pure and inexperienced sisters. Much of
“Wuthering Heights,” and all of “Wildfell Hall,” show Branwell’s mark,
and there are many passages in Charlotte’s books also where those who
know the history of the parsonage can hear the voice of those sharp
moral repulsions, those dismal moral questionings, to which Branwell’s
misconduct and ruin gave rise. Their brother’s fate was an element in
the genius of Emily and Charlotte which they were strong enough to
assimilate, which may have done them some harm, and weakened in them
certain delicate or sane perceptions, but was ultimately, by the
strange alchemy of talent, far more profitable than hurtful, inasmuch
as it troubled the waters of the soul, and brought them near to the
more desperate realities of our “frail, fall’n humankind.”

But Anne was not strong enough, her gift was not vigorous enough, to
enable her thus to transmute experience and grief. The probability is
that when she left Thorpe Green in 1845 she was already suffering from
that religious melancholy of which Charlotte discovered such piteous
evidence among her papers after death. It did not much affect the
writing of “Agnes Grey,” which was completed in 1846, and reflected the
minor pains and discomforts of her teaching experience, but it combined
with the spectacle of Branwell’s increasing moral and physical decay to
produce that bitter mandate of conscience under which she wrote “The
Tenant of Wildfell Hall.”

“Hers was naturally a sensitive, reserved, and dejected nature. She
hated her work, but would pursue it. It was written as a warning,”—so
said Charlotte when, in the pathetic Preface of 1850, she was
endeavouring to explain to the public how a creature so gentle and so
good as Acton Bell should have written such a book as “Wildfell Hall.”
And in the second edition of “Wildfell Hall,” which appeared in 1848,
Anne Brontë herself justified her novel in a Preface which is reprinted
in this volume for the first time. The little Preface is a curious
document. It has the same determined didactic tone which pervades the
book itself, the same narrowness of view, and inflation of expression,
an inflation which is really due not to any personal egotism in the
writer, but rather to that very gentleness and inexperience which must
yet nerve itself under the stimulus of religion to its disagreeable and
repulsive task. “I knew that such characters”—as Huntingdon and his
companions—“do exist, and if I have warned one rash youth from
following in their steps the book has not been written in vain.” If the
story has given more pain than pleasure to “any honest reader,” the
writer “craves his pardon, for such was far from my intention.” But at
the same time she cannot promise to limit her ambition to the giving of
innocent pleasure, or to the production of “a perfect work of art.”
“Time and talent so spent I should consider wasted and misapplied.” God
has given her unpalatable truths to speak, and she must speak them.

The measure of misconstruction and abuse, therefore, which her book
brought upon her she bore, says her sister, “as it was her custom to
bear whatever was unpleasant, with mild, steady patience. She was a
very sincere and practical Christian, but the tinge of religious
melancholy communicated a sad shade to her brief, blameless life.”

In spite of misconstruction and abuse, however, “Wildfell Hall” seems
to have attained more immediate success than anything else written by
the sisters before 1848, except “Jane Eyre.” It went into a second
edition within a very short time of its publication, and Messrs. Newby
informed the American publishers with whom they were negotiating that
it was the work of the same hand which had produced “Jane Eyre,” and
superior to either “Jane Eyre” or “Wuthering Heights”! It was, indeed,
the sharp practice connected with this astonishing judgment which led
to the sisters’ hurried journey to London in 1848—the famous journey
when the two little ladies in black revealed themselves to Mr. Smith,
and proved to him that they were not one Currer Bell, but two Miss
Brontës. It was Anne’s sole journey to London—her only contact with a
world that was not Haworth, except that supplied by her school-life at
Roehead and her two teaching engagements.

And there was and is a considerable narrative ability, a sheer moral
energy in “Wildfell Hall,” which would not be enough, indeed, to keep
it alive if it were not the work of a Brontë, but still betray its
kinship and source. The scenes of Huntingdon’s wickedness are less
interesting but less improbable than the country-house scenes of “Jane
Eyre”; the story of his death has many true and touching passages; the
last love-scene is well, even in parts admirably, written. But the
book’s truth, so far as it is true, is scarcely the truth of
imagination; it is rather the truth of a tract or a report. There can
be little doubt that many of the pages are close transcripts from
Branwell’s conduct and language,—so far as Anne’s slighter personality
enabled her to render her brother’s temperament, which was more akin to
Emily’s than to her own. The same material might have been used by
Emily or Charlotte; Emily, as we know, did make use of it in “Wuthering
Heights”; but only after it had passed through that ineffable
transformation, that mysterious, incommunicable heightening which makes
and gives rank in literature. Some subtle, innate correspondence
between eye and brain, between brain and hand, was present in Emily and
Charlotte, and absent in Anne. There is no other account to be given of
this or any other case of difference between serviceable talent and the
high gifts of “Delos” and Patara’s own “Apollo.”

The same world of difference appears between her poems and those of her
playfellow and comrade, Emily. If ever our descendants should establish
the schools for writers which are even now threatened or attempted,
they will hardly know perhaps any better than we what genius is, nor
how it can be produced. But if they try to teach by example, then Anne
and Emily Brontë are ready to their hand. Take the verses written by
Emily at Roehead which contain the lovely lines which I have already
quoted in an earlier “Introduction.”[1] Just before those lines there
are two or three verses which it is worth while to compare with a poem
of Anne’s called “Home.” Emily was sixteen at the time of writing; Anne
about twenty-one or twenty-two. Both sisters take for their motive the
exile’s longing thought of home. Emily’s lines are full of faults, but
they have the indefinable quality—here, no doubt, only in the bud, only
as a matter of promise—which Anne’s are entirely without. From the
twilight schoolroom at Roehead, Emily turns in thought to the distant
upland of Haworth and the little stone-built house upon its crest:—

There is a spot, ’mid barren hills,
    Where winter howls, and driving rain;
But, if the dreary tempest chills,
    There is a light that warms again.

The house is old, the trees are bare,
    Moonless above bends twilight’s dome,
But what on earth is half so dear—
    So longed for—as the hearth of home?

The mute bird sitting on the stone,
    The dank moss dripping from the wall,
The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o’ergrown,
    I love them—how I love them all!


Anne’s verses, written from one of the houses where she was a
governess, express precisely the same feeling, and movement of mind.
But notice the instinctive rightness and swiftness of Emily’s, the
blurred weakness of Anne’s!—

For yonder garden, fair and wide,
    With groves of evergreen,
Long winding walks, and borders trim,
    And velvet lawns between—

Restore to me that little spot,
    With gray walls compassed round,
Where knotted grass neglected lies,
    And weeds usurp the ground.

Though all around this mansion high
    Invites the foot to roam,
And though its halls are fair within—
    Oh, give me back my Home!


A similar parallel lies between Anne’s lines “Domestic Peace,”—a sad
and true reflection of the terrible times with Branwell in 1846—and
Emily’s “Wanderer from the Fold”; while in Emily’s “Last Lines,” the
daring spirit of the sister to whom the magic gift was granted
separates itself for ever from the gentle and accustomed piety of the
sister to whom it was denied. Yet Anne’s “Last Lines”—“I hoped that
with the brave and strong”—have sweetness and sincerity; they have
gained and kept a place in English religious verse, and they must
always appeal to those who love the Brontës because, in the language of
Christian faith and submission, they record the death of Emily and the
passionate affection which her sisters bore her.

And so we are brought back to the point from which we started. It is
not as the writer of “Wildfell Hall,” but as the sister of Charlotte
and Emily Brontë, that Anne Brontë escapes oblivion—as the frail
“little one,” upon whom the other two lavished a tender and protecting
care, who was a witness of Emily’s death, and herself, within a few
minutes of her own farewell to life, bade Charlotte “take courage.”

“When my thoughts turn to Anne,” said Charlotte many years earlier,
“they always see her as a patient, persecuted stranger,—more lonely,
less gifted with the power of making friends even than I am.” Later on,
however, this power of making friends seems to have belonged to Anne in
greater measure than to the others. Her gentleness conquered; she was
not set apart, as they were, by the lonely and self-sufficing
activities of great powers; her Christianity, though sad and timid, was
of a kind which those around her could understand; she made no grim
fight with suffering and death as did Emily. Emily was “torn” from life
“conscious, panting, reluctant,” to use Charlotte’s own words; Anne’s
“sufferings were mild,” her mind “generally serene,” and at the last
“she thanked God that death was come, and come so gently.” When
Charlotte returned to the desolate house at Haworth, Emily’s large
house-dog and Anne’s little spaniel welcomed her in “a strange,
heart-touching way,” she writes to Mr. Williams. She alone was left,
heir to all the memories and tragedies of the house. She took up again
the task of life and labour. She cared for her father; she returned to
the writing of “Shirley”; and when she herself passed away, four years
later, she had so turned those years to account that not only all she
did but all she loved had passed silently into the keeping of fame.
Mrs. Gaskell’s touching and delightful task was ready for her, and
Anne, no less than Charlotte and Emily, was sure of England’s
remembrance.

MARY A. WARD.




AUTHOR’S PREFACE[2]
TO THE SECOND EDITION


While I acknowledge the success of the present work to have been
greater than I anticipated, and the praises it has elicited from a few
kind critics to have been greater than it deserved, I must also admit
that from some other quarters it has been censured with an asperity
which I was as little prepared to expect, and which my judgment, as
well as my feelings, assures me is more bitter than just. It is
scarcely the province of an author to refute the arguments of his
censors and vindicate his own productions; but I may be allowed to make
here a few observations with which I would have prefaced the first
edition, had I foreseen the necessity of such precautions against the
misapprehensions of those who would read it with a prejudiced mind or
be content to judge it by a hasty glance.

My object in writing the following pages was not simply to amuse the
Reader; neither was it to gratify my own taste, nor yet to ingratiate
myself with the Press and the Public: I wished to tell the truth, for
truth always conveys its own moral to those who are able to receive it.
But as the priceless treasure too frequently hides at the bottom of a
well, it needs some courage to dive for it, especially as he that does
so will be likely to incur more scorn and obloquy for the mud and water
into which he has ventured to plunge, than thanks for the jewel he
procures; as, in like manner, she who undertakes the cleansing of a
careless bachelor’s apartment will be liable to more abuse for the dust
she raises than commendation for the clearance she effects. Let it not
be imagined, however, that I consider myself competent to reform the
errors and abuses of society, but only that I would fain contribute my
humble quota towards so good an aim; and if I can gain the public ear
at all, I would rather whisper a few wholesome truths therein than much
soft nonsense.

As the story of “Agnes Grey” was accused of extravagant over-colouring
in those very parts that were carefully copied from the life, with a
most scrupulous avoidance of all exaggeration, so, in the present work,
I find myself censured for depicting _con amore_, with “a morbid love
of the coarse, if not of the brutal,” those scenes which, I will
venture to say, have not been more painful for the most fastidious of
my critics to read than they were for me to describe. I may have gone
too far; in which case I shall be careful not to trouble myself or my
readers in the same way again; but when we have to do with vice and
vicious characters, I maintain it is better to depict them as they
really are than as they would wish to appear. To represent a bad thing
in its least offensive light is, doubtless, the most agreeable course
for a writer of fiction to pursue; but is it the most honest, or the
safest? Is it better to reveal the snares and pitfalls of life to the
young and thoughtless traveller, or to cover them with branches and
flowers? Oh, reader! if there were less of this delicate concealment of
facts—this whispering, “Peace, peace,” when there is no peace, there
would be less of sin and misery to the young of both sexes who are left
to wring their bitter knowledge from experience.

I would not be understood to suppose that the proceedings of the
unhappy scapegrace, with his few profligate companions I have here
introduced, are a specimen of the common practices of society—the case
is an extreme one, as I trusted none would fail to perceive; but I know
that such characters do exist, and if I have warned one rash youth from
following in their steps, or prevented one thoughtless girl from
falling into the very natural error of my heroine, the book has not
been written in vain. But, at the same time, if any honest reader shall
have derived more pain than pleasure from its perusal, and have closed
the last volume with a disagreeable impression on his mind, I humbly
crave his pardon, for such was far from my intention; and I will
endeavour to do better another time, for I love to give innocent
pleasure. Yet, be it understood, I shall not limit my ambition to
this—or even to producing “a perfect work of art”: time and talents so
spent, I should consider wasted and misapplied. Such humble talents as
God has given me I will endeavour to put to their greatest use; if I am
able to amuse, I will try to benefit too; and when I feel it my duty to
speak an unpalatable truth, with the help of God, I _will_ speak it,
though it be to the prejudice of my name and to the detriment of my
reader’s immediate pleasure as well as my own.

One word more, and I have done. Respecting the author’s identity, I
would have it to be distinctly understood that Acton Bell is neither
Currer nor Ellis Bell, and therefore let not his faults be attributed
to them. As to whether the name be real or fictitious, it cannot
greatly signify to those who know him only by his works. As little, I
should think, can it matter whether the writer so designated is a man,
or a woman, as one or two of my critics profess to have discovered. I
take the imputation in good part, as a compliment to the just
delineation of my female characters; and though I am bound to attribute
much of the severity of my censors to this suspicion, I make no effort
to refute it, because, in my own mind, I am satisfied that if a book is
a good one, it is so whatever the sex of the author may be. All novels
are, or should be, written for both men and women to read, and I am at
a loss to conceive how a man should permit himself to write anything
that would be really disgraceful to a woman, or why a woman should be
censured for writing anything that would be proper and becoming for a
man.

_July_ 22_nd_, 1848.




 CHAPTER I


You must go back with me to the autumn of 1827.

My father, as you know, was a sort of gentleman farmer in ——shire; and
I, by his express desire, succeeded him in the same quiet occupation,
not very willingly, for ambition urged me to higher aims, and
self-conceit assured me that, in disregarding its voice, I was burying
my talent in the earth, and hiding my light under a bushel. My mother
had done her utmost to persuade me that I was capable of great
achievements; but my father, who thought ambition was the surest road
to ruin, and change but another word for destruction, would listen to
no scheme for bettering either my own condition, or that of my fellow
mortals. He assured me it was all rubbish, and exhorted me, with his
dying breath, to continue in the good old way, to follow his steps, and
those of his father before him, and let my highest ambition be to walk
honestly through the world, looking neither to the right hand nor to
the left, and to transmit the paternal acres to my children in, at
least, as flourishing a condition as he left them to me.

“Well!—an honest and industrious farmer is one of the most useful
members of society; and if I devote my talents to the cultivation of my
farm, and the improvement of agriculture in general, I shall thereby
benefit, not only my own immediate connections and dependants, but, in
some degree, mankind at large:—hence I shall not have lived in vain.”

With such reflections as these I was endeavouring to console myself, as
I plodded home from the fields, one cold, damp, cloudy evening towards
the close of October. But the gleam of a bright red fire through the
parlour window had more effect in cheering my spirits, and rebuking my
thankless repinings, than all the sage reflections and good resolutions
I had forced my mind to frame;—for I was young then, remember—only
four-and-twenty—and had not acquired half the rule over my own spirit
that I now possess—trifling as that may be.

However, that haven of bliss must not be entered till I had exchanged
my miry boots for a clean pair of shoes, and my rough surtout for a
respectable coat, and made myself generally presentable before decent
society; for my mother, with all her kindness, was vastly particular on
certain points.

In ascending to my room I was met upon the stairs by a smart, pretty
girl of nineteen, with a tidy, dumpy figure, a round face, bright,
blooming cheeks, glossy, clustering curls, and little merry brown eyes.
I need not tell you this was my sister Rose. She is, I know, a comely
matron still, and, doubtless, no less lovely—in _your_ eyes—than on the
happy day you first beheld her. Nothing told me then that she, a few
years hence, would be the wife of one entirely unknown to me as yet,
but destined hereafter to become a closer friend than even herself,
more intimate than that unmannerly lad of seventeen, by whom I was
collared in the passage, on coming down, and well-nigh jerked off my
equilibrium, and who, in correction for his impudence, received a
resounding whack over the sconce, which, however, sustained no serious
injury from the infliction; as, besides being more than commonly thick,
it was protected by a redundant shock of short, reddish curls, that my
mother called auburn.

On entering the parlour we found that honoured lady seated in her
arm-chair at the fireside, working away at her knitting, according to
her usual custom, when she had nothing else to do. She had swept the
hearth, and made a bright blazing fire for our reception; the servant
had just brought in the tea-tray; and Rose was producing the
sugar-basin and tea-caddy from the cupboard in the black oak
side-board, that shone like polished ebony, in the cheerful parlour
twilight.

“Well! here they both are,” cried my mother, looking round upon us
without retarding the motion of her nimble fingers and glittering
needles. “Now shut the door, and come to the fire, while Rose gets the
tea ready; I’m sure you must be starved;—and tell me what you’ve been
about all day;—I like to know what my children have been about.”

“I’ve been breaking in the grey colt—no easy business that—directing
the ploughing of the last wheat stubble—for the ploughboy has not the
sense to direct himself—and carrying out a plan for the extensive and
efficient draining of the low meadowlands.”

“That’s my brave boy!—and Fergus, what have you been doing?”

“Badger-baiting.”

And here he proceeded to give a particular account of his sport, and
the respective traits of prowess evinced by the badger and the dogs; my
mother pretending to listen with deep attention, and watching his
animated countenance with a degree of maternal admiration I thought
highly disproportioned to its object.

“It’s time you should be doing something else, Fergus,” said I, as soon
as a momentary pause in his narration allowed me to get in a word.

“What _can_ I do?” replied he; “my mother won’t let me go to sea or
enter the army; and I’m determined to do nothing else—except make
myself such a nuisance to you all, that you will be thankful to get rid
of me on any terms.”

Our parent soothingly stroked his stiff, short curls. He growled, and
tried to look sulky, and then we all took our seats at the table, in
obedience to the thrice-repeated summons of Rose.

“Now take your tea,” said she; “and I’ll tell you what _I’ve_ been
doing. I’ve been to call on the Wilsons; and it’s a _thousand_ pities
you didn’t go with me, Gilbert, for Eliza Millward was there!”

“Well! what of her?”

“Oh, nothing!—I’m not going to tell you about her;—only that she’s a
nice, amusing little thing, when she is in a merry humour, and I
shouldn’t mind calling her—”

“Hush, hush, my dear! your brother has no such idea!” whispered my
mother earnestly, holding up her finger.

“Well,” resumed Rose; “I was going to tell you an important piece of
news I heard there—I have been bursting with it ever since. You know it
was reported a month ago, that somebody was going to take Wildfell
Hall—and—what do you think? It has actually been inhabited above a
week!—and we never knew!”

“Impossible!” cried my mother.

“Preposterous!!!” shrieked Fergus.

“It has indeed!—and by a single lady!”

“Good gracious, my dear! The place is in ruins!”

“She has had two or three rooms made habitable; and there she lives,
all alone—except an old woman for a servant!”

“Oh, dear! that spoils it—I’d hoped she was a witch,” observed Fergus,
while carving his inch-thick slice of bread and butter. “Nonsense,
Fergus! But isn’t it strange, mamma?”

“Strange! I can hardly believe it.”

“But you may believe it; for Jane Wilson has seen her. She went with
her mother, who, of course, when she heard of a stranger being in the
neighbourhood, would be on pins and needles till she had seen her and
got all she could out of her. She is called Mrs. Graham, and she is in
mourning—not widow’s weeds, but slightish mourning—and she is quite
young, they say,—not above five or six and twenty,—but _so_ reserved!
They tried all they could to find out who she was and where she came
from, and, all about her, but neither Mrs. Wilson, with her
pertinacious and impertinent home-thrusts, nor Miss Wilson, with her
skilful manœuvring, could manage to elicit a single satisfactory
answer, or even a casual remark, or chance expression calculated to
allay their curiosity, or throw the faintest ray of light upon her
history, circumstances, or connections. Moreover, she was barely civil
to them, and evidently better pleased to say “good-by,” than “how do
you do.” But Eliza Millward says her father intends to call upon her
soon, to offer some pastoral advice, which he fears she needs, as,
though she is known to have entered the neighbourhood early last week,
she did not make her appearance at church on Sunday; and she—Eliza,
that is—will beg to accompany him, and is sure _she_ can succeed in
wheedling something out of her—you know, Gilbert, _she_ can do
anything. And _we_ should call some time, mamma; it’s only proper, you
know.”

“Of course, my dear. Poor thing! How lonely she must feel!”

“And pray, be quick about it; and mind you bring me word how much sugar
she puts in her tea, and what sort of caps and aprons she wears, and
all about it; for I don’t know how I can live till I know,” said
Fergus, very gravely.

But if he intended the speech to be hailed as a master-stroke of wit,
he signally failed, for nobody laughed. However, he was not much
disconcerted at that; for when he had taken a mouthful of bread and
butter and was about to swallow a gulp of tea, the humour of the thing
burst upon him with such irresistible force, that he was obliged to
jump up from the table, and rush snorting and choking from the room;
and a minute after, was heard screaming in fearful agony in the garden.

As for me, I was hungry, and contented myself with silently demolishing
the tea, ham, and toast, while my mother and sister went on talking,
and continued to discuss the apparent or non-apparent circumstances,
and probable or improbable history of the mysterious lady; but I must
confess that, after my brother’s misadventure, I once or twice raised
the cup to my lips, and put it down again without daring to taste the
contents, lest I should injure my dignity by a similar explosion.

The next day my mother and Rose hastened to pay their compliments to
the fair recluse; and came back but little wiser than they went; though
my mother declared she did not regret the journey, for if she had not
gained much good, she flattered herself she had imparted some, and that
was better: she had given some useful advice, which, she hoped, would
not be thrown away; for Mrs. Graham, though she said little to any
purpose, and appeared somewhat self-opinionated, seemed not incapable
of reflection,—though she did not know where she had been all her life,
poor thing, for she betrayed a lamentable ignorance on certain points,
and had not even the sense to be ashamed of it.

“On what points, mother?” asked I.

“On household matters, and all the little niceties of cookery, and such
things, that every lady ought to be familiar with, whether she be
required to make a practical use of her knowledge or not. I gave her
some useful pieces of information, however, and several excellent
receipts, the value of which she evidently could not appreciate, for
she begged I would not trouble myself, as she lived in such a plain,
quiet way, that she was sure she should never make use of them. ‘No
matter, my dear,’ said I; ‘it is what every respectable female ought to
know;—and besides, though you are alone now, you will not be always so;
you _have_ been married, and probably—I might say almost certainly—will
be again.’ ‘You are mistaken there, ma’am,’ said she, almost haughtily;
‘I am certain I never shall.’—But I told her _I_ knew better.”

“Some romantic young widow, I suppose,” said I, “come there to end her
days in solitude, and mourn in secret for the dear departed—but it
won’t last long.”

“No, I think not,” observed Rose; “for she didn’t seem _very_
disconsolate after all; and she’s excessively pretty—handsome
rather—you must see her, Gilbert; you will call her a perfect beauty,
though you could hardly pretend to discover a resemblance between her
and Eliza Millward.”

“Well, I can imagine many faces more beautiful than Eliza’s, though not
more charming. I allow she has small claims to perfection; but then, I
maintain that, if she were more perfect, she would be less
interesting.”

“And so you prefer her faults to other people’s perfections?”

“Just so—saving my mother’s presence.”

“Oh, my dear Gilbert, what nonsense you talk!—I know you don’t mean it;
it’s quite out of the question,” said my mother, getting up, and
bustling out of the room, under pretence of household business, in
order to escape the contradiction that was trembling on my tongue.

After that Rose favoured me with further particulars respecting Mrs.
Graham. Her appearance, manners, and dress, and the very furniture of
the room she inhabited, were all set before me, with rather more
clearness and precision than I cared to see them; but, as I was not a
very attentive listener, I could not repeat the description if I would.

The next day was Saturday; and, on Sunday, everybody wondered whether
or not the fair unknown would profit by the vicar’s remonstrance, and
come to church. I confess I looked with some interest myself towards
the old family pew, appertaining to Wildfell Hall, where the faded
crimson cushions and lining had been unpressed and unrenewed so many
years, and the grim escutcheons, with their lugubrious borders of rusty
black cloth, frowned so sternly from the wall above.

And there I beheld a tall, lady-like figure, clad in black. Her face
was towards me, and there was something in it which, once seen, invited
me to look again. Her hair was raven black, and disposed in long glossy
ringlets, a style of coiffure rather unusual in those days, but always
graceful and becoming; her complexion was clear and pale; her eyes I
could not see, for, being bent upon her prayer-book, they were
concealed by their drooping lids and long black lashes, but the brows
above were expressive and well defined; the forehead was lofty and
intellectual, the nose, a perfect aquiline and the features, in
general, unexceptionable—only there was a slight hollowness about the
cheeks and eyes, and the lips, though finely formed, were a little too
thin, a little too firmly compressed, and had something about them that
betokened, I thought, no very soft or amiable temper; and I said in my
heart—“I would rather admire you from this distance, fair lady, than be
the partner of your home.”

Just then she happened to raise her eyes, and they met mine; I did not
choose to withdraw my gaze, and she turned again to her book, but with
a momentary, indefinable expression of quiet scorn, that was
inexpressibly provoking to me.

“She thinks me an impudent puppy,” thought I. “Humph!—she shall change
her mind before long, if I think it worth while.”

But then it flashed upon me that these were very improper thoughts for
a place of worship, and that my behaviour, on the present occasion, was
anything but what it ought to be. Previous, however, to directing my
mind to the service, I glanced round the church to see if any one had
been observing me;—but no,—all, who were not attending to their
prayer-books, were attending to the strange lady,—my good mother and
sister among the rest, and Mrs. Wilson and her daughter; and even Eliza
Millward was slily glancing from the corners of her eyes towards the
object of general attraction. Then she glanced at me, simpered a
little, and blushed, modestly looked at her prayer-book, and
endeavoured to compose her features.

Here I was transgressing again; and this time I was made sensible of it
by a sudden dig in the ribs, from the elbow of my pert brother. For the
present, I could only resent the insult by pressing my foot upon his
toes, deferring further vengeance till we got out of church.

Now, Halford, before I close this letter, I’ll tell you who Eliza
Millward was: she was the vicar’s younger daughter, and a very engaging
little creature, for whom I felt no small degree of partiality;—and she
knew it, though I had never come to any direct explanation, and had no
definite intention of so doing, for my mother, who maintained there was
no one good enough for me within twenty miles round, could not bear the
thoughts of my marrying that insignificant little thing, who, in
addition to her numerous other disqualifications, had not twenty pounds
to call her own. Eliza’s figure was at once slight and plump, her face
small, and nearly as round as my sister’s,—complexion, something
similar to hers, but more delicate and less decidedly blooming,—nose,
_retroussé_,—features, generally irregular; and, altogether, she was
rather charming than pretty. But her eyes—I must not forget those
remarkable features, for therein her chief attraction lay—in outward
aspect at least;—they were long and narrow in shape, the irids black,
or very dark brown, the expression various, and ever changing, but
always either preternaturally—I had almost said _diabolically_—wicked,
or irresistibly bewitching—often both. Her voice was gentle and
childish, her tread light and soft as that of a cat:—but her manners
more frequently resembled those of a pretty playful kitten, that is now
pert and roguish, now timid and demure, according to its own sweet
will.

Her sister, Mary, was several years older, several inches taller, and
of a larger, coarser build—a plain, quiet, sensible girl, who had
patiently nursed their mother, through her last long, tedious illness,
and been the housekeeper, and family drudge, from thence to the present
time. She was trusted and valued by her father, loved and courted by
all dogs, cats, children, and poor people, and slighted and neglected
by everybody else.

The Reverend Michael Millward himself was a tall, ponderous elderly
gentleman, who placed a shovel hat above his large, square,
massive-featured face, carried a stout walking-stick in his hand, and
incased his still powerful limbs in knee-breeches and gaiters,—or black
silk stockings on state occasions. He was a man of fixed principles,
strong prejudices, and regular habits, intolerant of dissent in any
shape, acting under a firm conviction that _his_ opinions were always
right, and whoever differed from them must be either most deplorably
ignorant, or wilfully blind.

In childhood, I had always been accustomed to regard him with a feeling
of reverential awe—but lately, even now, surmounted, for, though he had
a fatherly kindness for the well-behaved, he was a strict
disciplinarian, and had often sternly reproved our juvenile failings
and peccadilloes; and moreover, in those days, whenever he called upon
our parents, we had to stand up before him, and say our catechism, or
repeat, “How doth the little busy bee,” or some other hymn, or—worse
than all—be questioned about his last text, and the heads of the
discourse, which we never could remember. Sometimes, the worthy
gentleman would reprove my mother for being over-indulgent to her sons,
with a reference to old Eli, or David and Absalom, which was
particularly galling to her feelings; and, very highly as she respected
him, and all his sayings, I once heard her exclaim, “I wish to goodness
he had a son himself! He wouldn’t be so ready with his advice to other
people then;—he’d see what it is to have a couple of boys to keep in
order.”

He had a laudable care for his own bodily health—kept very early hours,
regularly took a walk before breakfast, was vastly particular about
warm and dry clothing, had never been known to preach a sermon without
previously swallowing a raw egg—albeit he was gifted with good lungs
and a powerful voice,—and was, generally, extremely particular about
what he ate and drank, though by no means abstemious, and having a mode
of dietary peculiar to himself,—being a great despiser of tea and such
slops, and a patron of malt liquors, bacon and eggs, ham, hung beef,
and other strong meats, which agreed well enough with his digestive
organs, and therefore were maintained by him to be good and wholesome
for everybody, and confidently recommended to the most delicate
convalescents or dyspeptics, who, if they failed to derive the promised
benefit from his prescriptions, were told it was because they had not
persevered, and if they complained of inconvenient results therefrom,
were assured it was all fancy.

I will just touch upon two other persons whom I have mentioned, and
then bring this long letter to a close. These are Mrs. Wilson and her
daughter. The former was the widow of a substantial farmer, a
narrow-minded, tattling old gossip, whose character is not worth
describing. She had two sons, Robert, a rough countrified farmer, and
Richard, a retiring, studious young man, who was studying the classics
with the vicar’s assistance, preparing for college, with a view to
enter the church.

Their sister Jane was a young lady of some talents, and more ambition.
She had, at her own desire, received a regular boarding-school
education, superior to what any member of the family had obtained
before. She had taken the polish well, acquired considerable elegance
of manners, quite lost her provincial accent, and could boast of more
accomplishments than the vicar’s daughters. She was considered a beauty
besides; but never for a moment could she number me amongst her
admirers. She was about six and twenty, rather tall and very slender,
her hair was neither chestnut nor auburn, but a most decided bright,
light red; her complexion was remarkably fair and brilliant, her head
small, neck long, chin well turned, but very short, lips thin and red,
eyes clear hazel, quick, and penetrating, but entirely destitute of
poetry or feeling. She had, or might have had, many suitors in her own
rank of life, but scornfully repulsed or rejected them all; for none
but a gentleman could please her refined taste, and none but a rich one
could satisfy her soaring ambition. One gentleman there was, from whom
she had lately received some rather pointed attentions, and upon whose
heart, name, and fortune, it was whispered, she had serious designs.
This was Mr. Lawrence, the young squire, whose family had formerly
occupied Wildfell Hall, but had deserted it, some fifteen years ago,
for a more modern and commodious mansion in the neighbouring parish.

Now, Halford, I bid you adieu for the present. This is the first
instalment of my debt. If the coin suits you, tell me so, and I’ll send
you the rest at my leisure: if you would rather remain my creditor than
stuff your purse with such ungainly, heavy pieces,—tell me still, and
I’ll pardon your bad taste, and willingly keep the treasure to myself.

Yours immutably,
GILBERT MARKHAM.




 CHAPTER II


I perceive, with joy, my most valued friend, that the cloud of your
displeasure has passed away; the light of your countenance blesses me
once more, and you desire the continuation of my story: therefore,
without more ado, you shall have it.

I think the day I last mentioned was a certain Sunday, the latest in
the October of 1827. On the following Tuesday I was out with my dog and
gun, in pursuit of such game as I could find within the territory of
Linden-Car; but finding none at all, I turned my arms against the hawks
and carrion crows, whose depredations, as I suspected, had deprived me
of better prey. To this end I left the more frequented regions, the
wooded valleys, the corn-fields, and the meadow-lands, and proceeded to
mount the steep acclivity of Wildfell, the wildest and the loftiest
eminence in our neighbourhood, where, as you ascend, the hedges, as
well as the trees, become scanty and stunted, the former, at length,
giving place to rough stone fences, partly greened over with ivy and
moss, the latter to larches and Scotch fir-trees, or isolated
blackthorns. The fields, being rough and stony, and wholly unfit for
the plough, were mostly devoted to the pasturing of sheep and cattle;
the soil was thin and poor: bits of grey rock here and there peeped out
from the grassy hillocks; bilberry-plants and heather—relics of more
savage wildness—grew under the walls; and in many of the enclosures,
ragweeds and rushes usurped supremacy over the scanty herbage; but
these were not _my_ property.

Near the top of this hill, about two miles from Linden-Car, stood
Wildfell Hall, a superannuated mansion of the Elizabethan era, built of
dark grey stone, venerable and picturesque to look at, but doubtless,
cold and gloomy enough to inhabit, with its thick stone mullions and
little latticed panes, its time-eaten air-holes, and its too lonely,
too unsheltered situation,—only shielded from the war of wind and
weather by a group of Scotch firs, themselves half blighted with
storms, and looking as stern and gloomy as the Hall itself. Behind it
lay a few desolate fields, and then the brown heath-clad summit of the
hill; before it (enclosed by stone walls, and entered by an iron gate,
with large balls of grey granite—similar to those which decorated the
roof and gables—surmounting the gate-posts) was a garden,—once stocked
with such hard plants and flowers as could best brook the soil and
climate, and such trees and shrubs as could best endure the gardener’s
torturing shears, and most readily assume the shapes he chose to give
them,—now, having been left so many years untilled and untrimmed,
abandoned to the weeds and the grass, to the frost and the wind, the
rain and the drought, it presented a very singular appearance indeed.
The close green walls of privet, that had bordered the principal walk,
were two-thirds withered away, and the rest grown beyond all reasonable
bounds; the old boxwood swan, that sat beside the scraper, had lost its
neck and half its body: the castellated towers of laurel in the middle
of the garden, the gigantic warrior that stood on one side of the
gateway, and the lion that guarded the other, were sprouted into such
fantastic shapes as resembled nothing either in heaven or earth, or in
the waters under the earth; but, to my young imagination, they
presented all of them a goblinish appearance, that harmonised well with
the ghostly legions and dark traditions our old nurse had told us
respecting the haunted hall and its departed occupants.

[Illustration]

I had succeeded in killing a hawk and two crows when I came within
sight of the mansion; and then, relinquishing further depredations, I
sauntered on, to have a look at the old place, and see what changes had
been wrought in it by its new inhabitant. I did not like to go quite to
the front and stare in at the gate; but I paused beside the garden
wall, and looked, and saw no change—except in one wing, where the
broken windows and dilapidated roof had evidently been repaired, and
where a thin wreath of smoke was curling up from the stack of chimneys.

While I thus stood, leaning on my gun, and looking up at the dark
gables, sunk in an idle reverie, weaving a tissue of wayward fancies,
in which old associations and the fair young hermit, now within those
walls, bore a nearly equal part, I heard a slight rustling and
scrambling just within the garden; and, glancing in the direction
whence the sound proceeded, I beheld a tiny hand elevated above the
wall: it clung to the topmost stone, and then another little hand was
raised to take a firmer hold, and then appeared a small white forehead,
surmounted with wreaths of light brown hair, with a pair of deep blue
eyes beneath, and the upper portion of a diminutive ivory nose.

The eyes did not notice me, but sparkled with glee on beholding Sancho,
my beautiful black and white setter, that was coursing about the field
with its muzzle to the ground. The little creature raised its face and
called aloud to the dog. The good-natured animal paused, looked up, and
wagged his tail, but made no further advances. The child (a little boy,
apparently about five years old) scrambled up to the top of the wall,
and called again and again; but finding this of no avail, apparently
made up his mind, like Mahomet, to go to the mountain, since the
mountain would not come to him, and attempted to get over; but a
crabbed old cherry-tree, that grew hard by, caught him by the frock in
one of its crooked scraggy arms that stretched over the wall. In
attempting to disengage himself his foot slipped, and down he
tumbled—but not to the earth;—the tree still kept him suspended. There
was a silent struggle, and then a piercing shriek;—but, in an instant,
I had dropped my gun on the grass, and caught the little fellow in my
arms.

I wiped his eyes with his frock, told him he was all right and called
Sancho to pacify him. He was just putting little hand on the dog’s neck
and beginning to smile through his tears, when I heard behind me a
click of the iron gate, and a rustle of female garments, and lo! Mrs.
Graham darted upon me—her neck uncovered, her black locks streaming in
the wind.

“Give me the child!” she said, in a voice scarce louder than a whisper,
but with a tone of startling vehemence, and, seizing the boy, she
snatched him from me, as if some dire contamination were in my touch,
and then stood with one hand firmly clasping his, the other on his
shoulder, fixing upon me her large, luminous dark eyes—pale,
breathless, quivering with agitation.

“I was not harming the child, madam,” said I, scarce knowing whether to
be most astonished or displeased; “he was tumbling off the wall there;
and I was so fortunate as to catch him, while he hung suspended
headlong from that tree, and prevent I know not what catastrophe.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” stammered she;—suddenly calming down,—the
light of reason seeming to break upon her beclouded spirit, and a faint
blush mantling on her cheek—“I did not know you;—and I thought—”

She stooped to kiss the child, and fondly clasped her arm round his
neck.

“You thought I was going to kidnap your son, I suppose?”

She stroked his head with a half-embarrassed laugh, and replied,—“I did
not know he had attempted to climb the wall.—I have the pleasure of
addressing Mr. Markham, I believe?” she added, somewhat abruptly.

I bowed, but ventured to ask how she knew me.

“Your sister called here, a few days ago, with Mrs. Markham.”

“Is the resemblance so strong then?” I asked, in some surprise, and not
so greatly flattered at the idea as I ought to have been.

“There is a likeness about the eyes and complexion I think,” replied
she, somewhat dubiously surveying my face;—“and I think I saw you at
church on Sunday.”

I smiled.—There was something either in that smile or the recollections
it awakened that was particularly displeasing to her, for she suddenly
assumed again that proud, chilly look that had so unspeakably roused my
aversion at church—a look of repellent scorn, so easily assumed, and so
entirely without the least distortion of a single feature, that, while
there, it seemed like the natural expression of the face, and was the
more provoking to me, because I could not think it affected.

“Good-morning, Mr. Markham,” said she; and without another word or
glance, she withdrew, with her child, into the garden; and I returned
home, angry and dissatisfied—I could scarcely tell you why, and
therefore will not attempt it.

I only stayed to put away my gun and powder-horn, and give some
requisite directions to one of the farming-men, and then repaired to
the vicarage, to solace my spirit and soothe my ruffled temper with the
company and conversation of Eliza Millward.

I found her, as usual, busy with some piece of soft embroidery (the
mania for Berlin wools had not yet commenced), while her sister was
seated at the chimney-corner, with the cat on her knee, mending a heap
of stockings.

“Mary—Mary! put them away!” Eliza was hastily saying, just as I entered
the room.

“Not I, indeed!” was the phlegmatic reply; and my appearance prevented
further discussion.

“You’re so unfortunate, Mr. Markham!” observed the younger sister, with
one of her arch, sidelong glances. “Papa’s just gone out into the
parish, and not likely to be back for an hour!”

“Never mind; I can manage to spend a few minutes with his daughters, if
they’ll allow me,” said I, bringing a chair to the fire, and seating
myself therein, without waiting to be asked.

“Well, if you’ll be very good and amusing, we shall not object.”

“Let your permission be unconditional, pray; for I came not to give
pleasure, but to seek it,” I answered.

However, I thought it but reasonable to make some slight exertion to
render my company agreeable; and what little effort I made, was
apparently pretty successful, for Miss Eliza was never in a better
humour. We seemed, indeed, to be mutually pleased with each other, and
managed to maintain between us a cheerful and animated though not very
profound conversation. It was little better than a _tête-à-tête_, for
Miss Millward never opened her lips, except occasionally to correct
some random assertion or exaggerated expression of her sister’s, and
once to ask her to pick up the ball of cotton that had rolled under the
table. I did this myself, however, as in duty bound.

“Thank you, Mr. Markham,” said she, as I presented it to her. “I would
have picked it up myself; only I did not want to disturb the cat.”

“Mary, dear, _that_ won’t excuse you in Mr. Markham’s eyes,” said
Eliza; “he hates cats, I daresay, as cordially as he does old
maids—like all other gentlemen. Don’t you, Mr. Markham?”

“I believe it is natural for our unamiable sex to dislike the
creatures,” replied I; “for you ladies lavish so many caresses upon
them.”

“Bless them—little darlings!” cried she, in a sudden burst of
enthusiasm, turning round and overwhelming her sister’s pet with a
shower of kisses.

“Don’t, Eliza!” said Miss Millward, somewhat gruffly, as she
impatiently pushed her away.

But it was time for me to be going: make what haste I would, I should
still be too late for tea; and my mother was the soul of order and
punctuality.

My fair friend was evidently unwilling to bid me adieu. I tenderly
squeezed her little hand at parting; and she repaid me with one of her
softest smiles and most bewitching glances. I went home very happy,
with a heart brimful of complacency for myself, and overflowing with
love for Eliza.




 CHAPTER III


Two days after, Mrs. Graham called at Linden-Car, contrary to the
expectation of Rose, who entertained an idea that the mysterious
occupant of Wildfell Hall would wholly disregard the common observances
of civilized life,—in which opinion she was supported by the Wilsons,
who testified that neither their call nor the Millwards’ had been
returned as yet. Now, however, the cause of that omission was
explained, though not entirely to the satisfaction of Rose. Mrs. Graham
had brought her child with her, and on my mother’s expressing surprise
that he could walk so far, she replied,—“It is a long walk for him; but
I must have either taken him with me, or relinquished the visit
altogether; for I never leave him alone; and I think, Mrs. Markham, I
must beg you to make my excuses to the Millwards and Mrs. Wilson, when
you see them, as I fear I cannot do myself the pleasure of calling upon
them till my little Arthur is able to accompany me.”

“But you have a servant,” said Rose; “could you not leave him with
her?”

“She has her own occupations to attend to; and besides, she is too old
to run after a child, and he is too mercurial to be tied to an elderly
woman.”

“But you left him to come to church.”

“Yes, once; but I would not have left him for any other purpose; and I
think, in future, I must contrive to bring him with me, or stay at
home.”

“Is he so mischievous?” asked my mother, considerably shocked.

“No,” replied the lady, sadly smiling, as she stroked the wavy locks of
her son, who was seated on a low stool at her feet; “but he is my only
treasure, and I am his only friend: so we don’t like to be separated.”

“But, my dear, I call that doting,” said my plain-spoken parent. “You
should try to suppress such foolish fondness, as well to save your son
from ruin as yourself from ridicule.”

“_Ruin!_ Mrs. Markham!”

“Yes; it is spoiling the child. Even at _his_ age, he ought not to be
always tied to his mother’s apron-string; he should learn to be ashamed
of it.”

“Mrs. Markham, I beg you will not say such things, in _his_ presence,
at least. I trust my son will _never_ be ashamed to love his mother!”
said Mrs. Graham, with a serious energy that startled the company.

My mother attempted to appease her by an explanation; but she seemed to
think enough had been said on the subject, and abruptly turned the
conversation.

“Just as I thought,” said I to myself: “the lady’s temper is none of
the mildest, notwithstanding her sweet, pale face and lofty brow, where
thought and suffering seem equally to have stamped their impress.”

All this time I was seated at a table on the other side of the room,
apparently immersed in the perusal of a volume of the _Farmer’s
Magazine_, which I happened to have been reading at the moment of our
visitor’s arrival; and, not choosing to be over civil, I had merely
bowed as she entered, and continued my occupation as before.

In a little while, however, I was sensible that some one was
approaching me, with a light, but slow and hesitating tread. It was
little Arthur, irresistibly attracted by my dog Sancho, that was lying
at my feet. On looking up I beheld him standing about two yards off,
with his clear blue eyes wistfully gazing on the dog, transfixed to the
spot, not by fear of the animal, but by a timid disinclination to
approach its master. A little encouragement, however, induced him to
come forward. The child, though shy, was not sullen. In a minute he was
kneeling on the carpet, with his arms round Sancho’s neck, and, in a
minute or two more, the little fellow was seated on my knee, surveying
with eager interest the various specimens of horses, cattle, pigs, and
model farms portrayed in the volume before me. I glanced at his mother
now and then to see how she relished the new-sprung intimacy; and I
saw, by the unquiet aspect of her eye, that for some reason or other
she was uneasy at the child’s position.

“Arthur,” said she, at length, “come here. You are troublesome to Mr.
Markham: he wishes to read.”

“By no means, Mrs. Graham; pray let him stay. I am as much amused as he
is,” pleaded I. But still, with hand and eye, she silently called him
to her side.

“No, mamma,” said the child; “let me look at these pictures first; and
then I’ll come, and tell you all about them.”

“We are going to have a small party on Monday, the fifth of November,”
said my mother; “and I hope you will not refuse to make one, Mrs.
Graham. You can bring your little boy with you, you know—I daresay we
shall be able to amuse him;—and then you can make your own apologies to
the Millwards and Wilsons—they will all be here, I expect.”

“Thank you, I never go to parties.”

“Oh! but this will be quite a family concern—early hours, and nobody
here but ourselves, and just the Millwards and Wilsons, most of whom
you already know, and Mr. Lawrence, your landlord, with whom you ought
to make acquaintance.”

“I do know something of him—but you must excuse me this time; for the
evenings, now, are dark and damp, and Arthur, I fear, is too delicate
to risk exposure to their influence with impunity. We must defer the
enjoyment of your hospitality till the return of longer days and warmer
nights.”

Rose, now, at a hint from my mother, produced a decanter of wine, with
accompaniments of glasses and cake, from the cupboard and the oak
sideboard, and the refreshment was duly presented to the guests. They
both partook of the cake, but obstinately refused the wine, in spite of
their hostess’s hospitable attempts to force it upon them. Arthur,
especially shrank from the ruby nectar as if in terror and disgust, and
was ready to cry when urged to take it.

“Never mind, Arthur,” said his mamma; “Mrs. Markham thinks it will do
you good, as you were tired with your walk; but she will not oblige you
to take it!—I daresay you will do very well without. He detests the
very sight of wine,” she added, “and the smell of it almost makes him
sick. I have been accustomed to make him swallow a little wine or weak
spirits-and-water, by way of medicine, when he was sick, and, in fact,
I have done what I could to make him hate them.”

Everybody laughed, except the young widow and her son.

“Well, Mrs. Graham,” said my mother, wiping the tears of merriment from
her bright blue eyes—“well, you surprise me! I really gave you credit
for having more sense.—The poor child will be the veriest milksop that
ever was sopped! Only think what a man you will make of him, if you
persist in—”

“I think it a very excellent plan,” interrupted Mrs. Graham, with
imperturbable gravity. “By that means I hope to save him from one
degrading vice at least. I wish I could render the incentives to every
other equally innoxious in his case.”

“But by such means,” said I, “you will never render him virtuous.—What
is it that constitutes virtue, Mrs. Graham? Is it the circumstance of
being able and willing to resist temptation; or that of having no
temptations to resist?—Is he a strong man that overcomes great
obstacles and performs surprising achievements, though by dint of great
muscular exertion, and at the risk of some subsequent fatigue, or he
that sits in his chair all day, with nothing to do more laborious than
stirring the fire, and carrying his food to his mouth? If you would
have your son to walk honourably through the world, you must not
attempt to clear the stones from his path, but teach him to walk firmly
over them—not insist upon leading him by the hand, but let him learn to
go alone.”

“I will lead him by the hand, Mr. Markham, till he has strength to go
alone; and I will clear as many stones from his path as I can, and
teach him to avoid the _rest_—or walk firmly over them, as you say;—for
when I have done my utmost, in the way of clearance, there will still
be plenty left to exercise all the agility, steadiness, and
circumspection he will ever have.—It is all very well to talk about
noble resistance, and trials of virtue; but for fifty—or five hundred
men that have yielded to temptation, show me one that has had virtue to
resist. And why should I take it for granted that my son will be one in
a thousand?—and not rather prepare for the worst, and suppose he will
be like his—like the rest of mankind, unless I take care to prevent
it?”

“You are very complimentary to us all,” I observed.

“I know nothing about _you_—I speak of those I do know—and when I see
the whole race of mankind (with a few rare exceptions) stumbling and
blundering along the path of life, sinking into every pitfall, and
breaking their shins over every impediment that lies in their way,
shall I not use all the means in my power to insure for him a smoother
and a safer passage?”

“Yes, but the surest means will be to endeavour to fortify him
_against_ temptation, not to remove it out of his way.”

“I will do both, Mr. Markham. God knows he will have temptations enough
to assail him, both from within and without, when I have done all I can
to render vice as uninviting to him, as it is abominable in its own
nature—I myself have had, indeed, but few incentives to what the world
calls vice, but yet I have experienced temptations and trials of
another kind, that have required, on many occasions, more watchfulness
and firmness to resist than I have hitherto been able to muster against
them. And this, I believe, is what most others would acknowledge who
are accustomed to reflection, and wishful to strive against their
natural corruptions.”

“Yes,” said my mother, but half apprehending her drift; “but you would
not judge of a boy by yourself—and, my dear Mrs. Graham, let me warn
you in good time against the error—the fatal error, I may call it—of
taking that boy’s education upon yourself. Because you are clever in
some things and well informed, you may fancy yourself equal to the
task; but indeed you are not; and if you persist in the attempt,
believe me you will bitterly repent it when the mischief is done.”

“I am to send him to school, I suppose, to learn to despise his
mother’s authority and affection!” said the lady, with rather a bitter
smile.

“Oh, _no!_—But if you would have a boy to despise his mother, let her
keep him at home, and spend her life in petting him up, and slaving to
indulge his follies and caprices.”

“I perfectly agree with you, Mrs. Markham; but nothing can be further
from my principles and practice than such criminal weakness as that.”

“Well, but you will treat him like a girl—you’ll spoil his spirit, and
make a mere Miss Nancy of him—you will, indeed, Mrs. Graham, whatever
you may think. But I’ll get Mr. Millward to talk to you about
it:—_he’ll_ tell you the consequences;—he’ll set it before you as plain
as the day;—and tell you what you ought to do, and all about it;—and, I
don’t doubt, he’ll be able to convince you in a minute.”

“No occasion to trouble the vicar,” said Mrs. Graham, glancing at me—I
suppose I was smiling at my mother’s unbounded confidence in that
worthy gentleman—“Mr. Markham here thinks his powers of conviction at
least equal to Mr. Millward’s. If I hear not him, neither should I be
convinced though one rose from the dead, he would tell you. Well, Mr.
Markham, you that maintain that a boy should not be shielded from evil,
but sent out to battle against it, alone and unassisted—not taught to
avoid the snares of life, but boldly to rush into them, or over them,
as he may—to seek danger, rather than shun it, and feed his virtue by
temptation,—would you—?”

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Graham—but you get on too fast. I have not yet
said that a boy should be taught to rush into the snares of life,—or
even wilfully to seek temptation for the sake of exercising his virtue
by overcoming it;—I only say that it is better to arm and strengthen
your hero, than to disarm and enfeeble the foe;—and if you were to rear
an oak sapling in a hothouse, tending it carefully night and day, and
shielding it from every breath of wind, you could not expect it to
become a hardy tree, like that which has grown up on the mountain-side,
exposed to all the action of the elements, and not even sheltered from
the shock of the tempest.”

“Granted;—but would you use the same argument with regard to a girl?”

“Certainly not.”

“No; you would have her to be tenderly and delicately nurtured, like a
hot-house plant—taught to cling to others for direction and support,
and guarded, as much as possible, from the very knowledge of evil. But
will you be so good as to inform me why you make this distinction? Is
it that you think she _has_ no virtue?”

“Assuredly not.”

“Well, but you affirm that virtue is only elicited by temptation;—and
you think that a woman cannot be too little exposed to temptation, or
too little acquainted with vice, or anything connected therewith. It
_must_ be either that you think she is essentially so vicious, or so
feeble-minded, that she _cannot_ withstand temptation,—and though she
may be pure and innocent as long as she is kept in ignorance and
restraint, yet, being destitute of _real_ virtue, to teach her how to
sin is at once to make her a sinner, and the greater her knowledge, the
wider her liberty, the deeper will be her depravity,—whereas, in the
nobler sex, there is a natural tendency to goodness, guarded by a
superior fortitude, which, the more it is exercised by trials and
dangers, is only the further developed—”

“Heaven forbid that I should think so!” I interrupted her at last.

“Well, then, it must be that you think they are _both_ weak and prone
to err, and the slightest error, the merest shadow of pollution, will
ruin the one, while the character of the other will be strengthened and
embellished—his education properly finished by a little practical
acquaintance with forbidden things. Such experience, to him (to use a
trite simile), will be like the storm to the oak, which, though it may
scatter the leaves, and snap the smaller branches, serves but to rivet
the roots, and to harden and condense the fibres of the tree. You would
have us encourage our sons to prove all things by their own experience,
while our daughters must not even profit by the experience of others.
Now _I_ would have both so to benefit by the experience of others, and
the precepts of a higher authority, that they should know beforehand to
refuse the evil and choose the good, and require no experimental proofs
to teach them the evil of transgression. I would not send a poor girl
into the world, unarmed against her foes, and ignorant of the snares
that beset her path; nor would I watch and guard her, till, deprived of
self-respect and self-reliance, she lost the power or the will to watch
and guard herself;—and as for my son—if I thought he would grow up to
be what you call a man of the world—one that has ‘_seen life_,’ and
glories in his experience, even though he should so far profit by it as
to sober down, at length, into a useful and respected member of
society—I would rather that he died to-morrow!—rather a thousand
times!” she earnestly repeated, pressing her darling to her side and
kissing his forehead with intense affection. He had already left his
new companion, and been standing for some time beside his mother’s
knee, looking up into her face, and listening in silent wonder to her
incomprehensible discourse.

“Well! you ladies must always have the last word, I suppose,” said I,
observing her rise, and begin to take leave of my mother.

“You may have as many words as you please,—only I can’t stay to hear
them.”

“No; that is the way: you hear just as much of an argument as you
please; and the rest may be spoken to the wind.”

“If you are anxious to say anything more on the subject,” replied she,
as she shook hands with Rose, “you must bring your sister to see me
some fine day, and I’ll listen, as patiently as you could wish, to
whatever you please to say. I would rather be lectured by you than the
vicar, because I should have less remorse in telling you, at the end of
the discourse, that I preserve my own opinion precisely the same as at
the beginning—as would be the case, I am persuaded, with regard to
either logician.”

“Yes, of course,” replied I, determined to be as provoking as herself;
“for when a lady does consent to listen to an argument against her own
opinions, she is always predetermined to withstand it—to listen only
with her bodily ears, keeping the mental organs resolutely closed
against the strongest reasoning.”

“Good-morning, Mr. Markham,” said my fair antagonist, with a pitying
smile; and deigning no further rejoinder, she slightly bowed, and was
about to withdraw; but her son, with childish impertinence, arrested
her by exclaiming,—“Mamma, you have not shaken hands with Mr. Markham!”

She laughingly turned round and held out her hand. I gave it a spiteful
squeeze, for I was annoyed at the continual injustice she had done me
from the very dawn of our acquaintance. Without knowing anything about
my real disposition and principles, she was evidently prejudiced
against me, and seemed bent upon showing me that her opinions
respecting me, on every particular, fell far below those I entertained
of myself. I was naturally touchy, or it would not have vexed me so
much. Perhaps, too, I was a little bit spoiled by my mother and sister,
and some other ladies of my acquaintance;—and yet I was by no means a
fop—of that I am fully convinced, whether _you_ are or not.




 CHAPTER IV


Our party, on the 5th of November, passed off very well, in spite of
Mrs. Graham’s refusal to grace it with her presence. Indeed, it is
probable that, had she been there, there would have been less
cordiality, freedom, and frolic amongst us than there was without her.

My mother, as usual, was cheerful and chatty, full of activity and
good-nature, and only faulty in being too anxious to make her guests
happy, thereby forcing several of them to do what their soul abhorred
in the way of eating or drinking, sitting opposite the blazing fire, or
talking when they would be silent. Nevertheless, they bore it very
well, being all in their holiday humours.

Mr. Millward was mighty in important dogmas and sententious jokes,
pompous anecdotes and oracular discourses, dealt out for the
edification of the whole assembly in general, and of the admiring Mrs.
Markham, the polite Mr. Lawrence, the sedate Mary Millward, the quiet
Richard Wilson, and the matter-of-fact Robert in particular,—as being
the most attentive listeners.

Mrs. Wilson was more brilliant than ever, with her budgets of fresh
news and old scandal, strung together with trivial questions and
remarks, and oft-repeated observations, uttered apparently for the sole
purpose of denying a moment’s rest to her inexhaustible organs of
speech. She had brought her knitting with her, and it seemed as if her
tongue had laid a wager with her fingers, to outdo them in swift and
ceaseless motion.

Her daughter Jane was, of course, as graceful and elegant, as witty and
seductive, as she could possibly manage to be; for here were all the
ladies to outshine, and all the gentlemen to charm,—and Mr. Lawrence,
especially, to capture and subdue. Her little arts to effect his
subjugation were too subtle and impalpable to attract my observation;
but I thought there was a certain _refined_ affectation of superiority,
and an ungenial self-consciousness about her, that negatived all her
advantages; and after she was gone, Rose interpreted to me her various
looks, words, and actions with a mingled acuteness and asperity that
made me wonder, equally, at the lady’s artifice and my sister’s
penetration, and ask myself if she too had an eye to the squire—but
never mind, Halford; she had not.

Richard Wilson, Jane’s younger brother, sat in a corner, apparently
good-tempered, but silent and shy, desirous to escape observation, but
willing enough to listen and observe: and, although somewhat out of his
element, he would have been happy enough in his own quiet way, if my
mother could only have let him alone; but in her mistaken kindness, she
would keep persecuting him with her attentions—pressing upon him all
manner of viands, under the notion that he was too bashful to help
himself, and obliging him to shout across the room his monosyllabic
replies to the numerous questions and observations by which she vainly
attempted to draw him into conversation.

Rose informed me that he never would have favoured us with his company
but for the importunities of his sister Jane, who was most anxious to
show Mr. Lawrence that she had at least one brother more gentlemanly
and refined than Robert. That worthy individual she had been equally
solicitous to keep away; but he affirmed that he saw no reason why he
should not enjoy a crack with Markham and the old lady (my mother was
not old, really), and bonny Miss Rose and the parson, as well as the
best;—and he was in the right of it too. So he talked common-place with
my mother and Rose, and discussed parish affairs with the vicar,
farming matters with me, and politics with us both.

Mary Millward was another mute,—not so much tormented with cruel
kindness as Dick Wilson, because she had a certain short, decided way
of answering and refusing, and was supposed to be rather sullen than
diffident. However that might be, she certainly did not give much
pleasure to the company;—nor did she appear to derive much from it.
Eliza told me she had only come because her father insisted upon it,
having taken it into his head that she devoted herself too exclusively
to her household duties, to the neglect of such relaxations and
innocent enjoyments as were proper to her age and sex. She seemed to me
to be good-humoured enough on the whole. Once or twice she was provoked
to laughter by the wit or the merriment of some favoured individual
amongst us; and then I observed she sought the eye of Richard Wilson,
who sat over against her. As he studied with her father, she had some
acquaintance with him, in spite of the retiring habits of both, and I
suppose there was a kind of fellow-feeling established between them.

My Eliza was charming beyond description, coquettish without
affectation, and evidently more desirous to engage my attention than
that of all the room besides. Her delight in having me near her, seated
or standing by her side, whispering in her ear, or pressing her hand in
the dance, was plainly legible in her glowing face and heaving bosom,
however belied by saucy words and gestures. But I had better hold my
tongue: if I boast of these things now, I shall have to blush
hereafter.

To proceed, then, with the various individuals of our party; Rose was
simple and natural as usual, and full of mirth and vivacity.

Fergus was impertinent and absurd; but his impertinence and folly
served to make others laugh, if they did not raise himself in their
estimation.

And finally (for I omit myself), Mr. Lawrence was gentlemanly and
inoffensive to all, and polite to the vicar and the ladies, especially
his hostess and her daughter, and Miss Wilson—misguided man; he had not
the taste to prefer Eliza Millward. Mr. Lawrence and I were on
tolerably intimate terms. Essentially of reserved habits, and but
seldom quitting the secluded place of his birth, where he had lived in
solitary state since the death of his father, he had neither the
opportunity nor the inclination for forming many acquaintances; and, of
all he had ever known, I (judging by the results) was the companion
most agreeable to his taste. I liked the man well enough, but he was
too cold, and shy, and self-contained, to obtain my cordial sympathies.
A spirit of candour and frankness, when wholly unaccompanied with
coarseness, he admired in others, but he could not acquire it himself.
His excessive reserve upon all his own concerns was, indeed, provoking
and chilly enough; but I forgave it, from a conviction that it
originated less in pride and want of confidence in his friends, than in
a certain morbid feeling of delicacy, and a peculiar diffidence, that
he was sensible of, but wanted energy to overcome. His heart was like a
sensitive plant, that opens for a moment in the sunshine, but curls up
and shrinks into itself at the slightest touch of the finger, or the
lightest breath of wind. And, upon the whole, our intimacy was rather a
mutual predilection than a deep and solid friendship, such as has since
arisen between myself and you, Halford, whom, in spite of your
occasional crustiness, I can liken to nothing so well as an old coat,
unimpeachable in texture, but easy and loose—that has conformed itself
to the shape of the wearer, and which he may use as he pleases, without
being bothered with the fear of spoiling it;—whereas Mr. Lawrence was
like a new garment, all very neat and trim to look at, but so tight in
the elbows, that you would fear to split the seams by the unrestricted
motion of your arms, and so smooth and fine in surface that you scruple
to expose it to a single drop of rain.

Soon after the arrival of the guests, my mother mentioned Mrs. Graham,
regretted she was not there to meet them, and explained to the
Millwards and Wilsons the reasons she had given for neglecting to
return their calls, hoping they would excuse her, as she was sure she
did not mean to be uncivil, and would be glad to see them at any
time.—“But she is a very singular lady, Mr. Lawrence,” added she; “we
don’t know what to make of her—but I daresay you can tell us something
about her, for she is your tenant, you know,—and she said she knew you
a little.”

All eyes were turned to Mr. Lawrence. I thought he looked unnecessarily
confused at being so appealed to.

“I, Mrs. Markham!” said he; “you are mistaken—I don’t—that is—I have
seen her, certainly; but I am the last person you should apply to for
information respecting Mrs. Graham.”

He then immediately turned to Rose, and asked her to favour the company
with a song, or a tune on the piano.

“No,” said she, “you must ask Miss Wilson: she outshines us all in
singing, and music too.”

Miss Wilson demurred.

“_She’ll_ sing readily enough,” said Fergus, “if you’ll undertake to
stand by her, Mr. Lawrence, and turn over the leaves for her.”

“I shall be most happy to do so, Miss Wilson; will you allow me?”

She bridled her long neck and smiled, and suffered him to lead her to
the instrument, where she played and sang, in her very best style, one
piece after another; while he stood patiently by, leaning one hand on
the back of her chair, and turning over the leaves of her book with the
other. Perhaps he was as much charmed with her performance as she was.
It was all very fine in its way; but I cannot say that it moved me very
deeply. There was plenty of skill and execution, but precious little
feeling.

But we had not done with Mrs. Graham yet.

“I don’t take wine, Mrs. Markham,” said Mr. Millward, upon the
introduction of that beverage; “I’ll take a little of your home-brewed
ale. I always prefer your home-brewed to anything else.”

Flattered at this compliment, my mother rang the bell, and a china jug
of our best ale was presently brought and set before the worthy
gentleman who so well knew how to appreciate its excellences.

“Now THIS is the thing!” cried he, pouring out a glass of the same in a
long stream, skilfully directed from the jug to the tumbler, so as to
produce much foam without spilling a drop; and, having surveyed it for
a moment opposite the candle, he took a deep draught, and then smacked
his lips, drew a long breath, and refilled his glass, my mother looking
on with the greatest satisfaction.

“There’s nothing like this, Mrs. Markham!” said he. “I always maintain
that there’s nothing to compare with your home-brewed ale.”

“I’m sure I’m glad you like it, sir. I always look after the brewing
myself, as well as the cheese and the butter—I like to have things well
done, while we’re about it.”

“_Quite right_, Mrs. Markham!”

“But then, Mr. Millward, you don’t think it _wrong_ to take a little
wine now and then—or a little spirits either!” said my mother, as she
handed a smoking tumbler of gin-and-water to Mrs. Wilson, who affirmed
that wine sat heavy on her stomach, and whose son Robert was at that
moment helping himself to a pretty stiff glass of the same.

“By no means!” replied the oracle, with a Jove-like nod; “these things
are all blessings and mercies, if we only knew how to make use of
them.”

“But Mrs. Graham doesn’t think so. You shall just hear now what she
told us the other day—I _told_ her I’d tell you.”

And my mother favoured the company with a particular account of that
lady’s mistaken ideas and conduct regarding the matter in hand,
concluding with, “Now, don’t you think it is wrong?”

“Wrong!” repeated the vicar, with more than common solemnity—“criminal,
I should say—criminal! Not only is it making a fool of the boy, but it
is despising the gifts of Providence, and teaching him to trample them
under his feet.”

He then entered more fully into the question, and explained at large
the folly and impiety of such a proceeding. My mother heard him with
profoundest reverence; and even Mrs. Wilson vouchsafed to rest her
tongue for a moment, and listen in silence, while she complacently
sipped her gin-and-water. Mr. Lawrence sat with his elbow on the table,
carelessly playing with his half-empty wine-glass, and covertly smiling
to himself.

“But don’t you think, Mr. Millward,” suggested he, when at length that
gentleman paused in his discourse, “that when a child may be naturally
prone to intemperance—by the fault of its parents or ancestors, for
instance—some precautions are advisable?” (Now it was generally
believed that Mr. Lawrence’s father had shortened his days by
intemperance.)

“Some precautions, it may be; but temperance, sir, is one thing, and
abstinence another.”

“But I have heard that, with some persons, temperance—that is,
moderation—is almost impossible; and if abstinence be an evil (which
some have doubted), no one will deny that excess is a greater. Some
parents have entirely prohibited their children from tasting
intoxicating liquors; but a parent’s authority cannot last for ever;
children are naturally prone to hanker after forbidden things; and a
child, in such a case, would be likely to have a strong curiosity to
taste, and try the effect of what has been so lauded and enjoyed by
others, so strictly forbidden to himself—which curiosity would
generally be gratified on the first convenient opportunity; and the
restraint once broken, serious consequences might ensue. I don’t
pretend to be a judge of such matters, but it seems to me, that this
plan of Mrs. Graham’s, as you describe it, Mrs. Markham, extraordinary
as it may be, is not without its advantages; for here you see the child
is delivered at once from temptation; he has no secret curiosity, no
hankering desire; he is as well acquainted with the tempting liquors as
he ever wishes to be; and is thoroughly disgusted with them, without
having suffered from their effects.”

“And is that right, sir? Have I not proven to you how wrong it is—how
contrary to Scripture and to reason, to teach a child to look with
contempt and disgust upon the blessings of Providence, instead of to
use them aright?”

“You may consider laudanum a blessing of Providence, sir,” replied Mr.
Lawrence, smiling; “and yet, you will allow that most of us had better
abstain from it, even in moderation; but,” added he, “I would not
desire you to follow out my simile too closely—in witness whereof I
finish my glass.”

“And take another, I hope, Mr. Lawrence,” said my mother, pushing the
bottle towards him.

He politely declined, and pushing his chair a little away from the
table, leant back towards me—I was seated a trifle behind, on the sofa
beside Eliza Millward—and carelessly asked me if I knew Mrs. Graham.

“I have met her once or twice,” I replied.

“What do you think of her?”

“I cannot say that I like her much. She is handsome—or rather I should
say distinguished and interesting—in her appearance, but by no means
amiable—a woman liable to take strong prejudices, I should fancy, and
stick to them through thick and thin, twisting everything into
conformity with her own preconceived opinions—too hard, too sharp, too
bitter for my taste.”

He made no reply, but looked down and bit his lip, and shortly after
rose and sauntered up to Miss Wilson, as much repelled by me, I fancy,
as attracted by her. I scarcely noticed it at the time, but afterwards
I was led to recall this and other trifling facts, of a similar nature,
to my remembrance, when—but I must not anticipate.

We wound up the evening with dancing—our worthy pastor thinking it no
scandal to be present on the occasion, though one of the village
musicians was engaged to direct our evolutions with his violin. But
Mary Millward obstinately refused to join us; and so did Richard
Wilson, though my mother earnestly entreated him to do so, and even
offered to be his partner.

We managed very well without them, however. With a single set of
quadrilles, and several country dances, we carried it on to a pretty
late hour; and at length, having called upon our musician to strike up
a waltz, I was just about to whirl Eliza round in that delightful
dance, accompanied by Lawrence and Jane Wilson, and Fergus and Rose,
when Mr. Millward interposed with:—“No, no; I don’t allow that! Come,
it’s time to be going now.”

“Oh, no, papa!” pleaded Eliza.

“High time, my girl—high time! Moderation in all things, remember!
That’s the plan—‘Let your moderation be known unto all men!’”

But in revenge I followed Eliza into the dimly-lighted passage, where,
under pretence of helping her on with her shawl, I fear I must plead
guilty to snatching a kiss behind her father’s back, while he was
enveloping his throat and chin in the folds of a mighty comforter. But
alas! in turning round, there was my mother close beside me. The
consequence was, that no sooner were the guests departed, than I was
doomed to a very serious remonstrance, which unpleasantly checked the
galloping course of my spirits, and made a disagreeable close to the
evening.

“My dear Gilbert,” said she, “I wish you wouldn’t do so! You know how
deeply I have your advantage at heart, how I love you and prize you
above everything else in the world, and how much I long to see you well
settled in life—and how bitterly it would grieve me to see you married
to that girl—or any other in the neighbourhood. What you _see_ in her I
don’t know. It isn’t only the want of money that I think about—nothing
of the kind—but there’s neither beauty, nor cleverness, nor goodness,
nor anything else that’s desirable. If you knew your own value, as I
do, you wouldn’t dream of it. Do wait awhile and see! If you bind
yourself to her, you’ll repent it all your lifetime when you look round
and see how many better there are. Take my word for it, you will.”

“Well, mother, do be quiet!—I hate to be lectured!—I’m not going to
marry yet, I tell you; but—dear me! mayn’t I enjoy myself at _all?_”

“Yes, my dear boy, but not in that way. Indeed, you shouldn’t do such
things. You would be wronging the girl, if she were what she ought to
be; but I assure you she is as artful a little hussy as anybody need
wish to see; and you’ll get entangled in her snares before you know
where you are. And if you _do_ marry her, Gilbert, you’ll break my
heart—so there’s an end of it.”

“Well, don’t cry about it, mother,” said I, for the tears were gushing
from her eyes; “there, let that kiss efface the one I gave Eliza; don’t
abuse her any more, and set your mind at rest; for I’ll promise
never—that is, I’ll promise to think twice before I take any important
step you seriously disapprove of.”

So saying, I lighted my candle, and went to bed, considerably quenched
in spirit.




 CHAPTER V


It was about the close of the month, that, yielding at length to the
urgent importunities of Rose, I accompanied her in a visit to Wildfell
Hall. To our surprise, we were ushered into a room where the first
object that met the eye was a painter’s easel, with a table beside it
covered with rolls of canvas, bottles of oil and varnish, palette,
brushes, paints, &c. Leaning against the wall were several sketches in
various stages of progression, and a few finished paintings—mostly of
landscapes and figures.

“I must make you welcome to my studio,” said Mrs. Graham; “there is no
fire in the sitting-room to-day, and it is rather too cold to show you
into a place with an empty grate.”

And disengaging a couple of chairs from the artistical lumber that
usurped them, she bid us be seated, and resumed her place beside the
easel—not facing it exactly, but now and then glancing at the picture
upon it while she conversed, and giving it an occasional touch with her
brush, as if she found it impossible to wean her attention entirely
from her occupation to fix it upon her guests. It was a view of
Wildfell Hall, as seen at early morning from the field below, rising in
dark relief against a sky of clear silvery blue, with a few red streaks
on the horizon, faithfully drawn and coloured, and very elegantly and
artistically handled.

“I see your heart is in your work, Mrs. Graham,” observed I: “I must
beg you to go on with it; for if you suffer our presence to interrupt
you, we shall be constrained to regard ourselves as unwelcome
intruders.”

“Oh, no!” replied she, throwing her brush on to the table, as if
startled into politeness. “I am not so beset with visitors but that I
can readily spare a few minutes to the few that do favour me with their
company.”

“You have almost completed your painting,” said I, approaching to
observe it more closely, and surveying it with a greater degree of
admiration and delight than I cared to express. “A few more touches in
the foreground will finish it, I should think. But why have you called
it Fernley Manor, Cumberland, instead of Wildfell Hall, ——shire?” I
asked, alluding to the name she had traced in small characters at the
bottom of the canvas.

But immediately I was sensible of having committed an act of
impertinence in so doing; for she coloured and hesitated; but after a
moment’s pause, with a kind of desperate frankness, she replied:—

“Because I have friends—acquaintances at least—in the world, from whom
I desire my present abode to be concealed; and as they might see the
picture, and might possibly recognise the style in spite of the false
initials I have put in the corner, I take the precaution to give a
false name to the place also, in order to put them on a wrong scent, if
they should attempt to trace me out by it.”

“Then you don’t intend to keep the picture?” said I, anxious to say
anything to change the subject.

“No; I cannot afford to paint for my own amusement.”

“Mamma sends all her pictures to London,” said Arthur; “and somebody
sells them for her there, and sends us the money.”

In looking round upon the other pieces, I remarked a pretty sketch of
Lindenhope from the top of the hill; another view of the old hall
basking in the sunny haze of a quiet summer afternoon; and a simple but
striking little picture of a child brooding, with looks of silent but
deep and sorrowful regret, over a handful of withered flowers, with
glimpses of dark low hills and autumnal fields behind it, and a dull
beclouded sky above.

“You see there is a sad dearth of subjects,” observed the fair artist.
“I took the old hall once on a moonlight night, and I suppose I must
take it again on a snowy winter’s day, and then again on a dark cloudy
evening; for I really have nothing else to paint. I have been told that
you have a fine view of the sea somewhere in the neighbourhood. Is it
true?—and is it within walking distance?”

“Yes, if you don’t object to walking four miles—or nearly so—little
short of eight miles, there and back—and over a somewhat rough,
fatiguing road.”

“In what direction does it lie?”

I described the situation as well as I could, and was entering upon an
explanation of the various roads, lanes, and fields to be traversed in
order to reach it, the goings straight on, and turnings to the right
and the left, when she checked me with,—

“Oh, stop! don’t tell me now: I shall forget every word of your
directions before I require them. I shall not think about going till
next spring; and then, perhaps, I may trouble you. At present we have
the winter before us, and—”

She suddenly paused, with a suppressed exclamation, started up from her
seat, and saying, “Excuse me one moment,” hurried from the room, and
shut the door behind her.

Curious to see what had startled her so, I looked towards the
window—for her eyes had been carelessly fixed upon it the moment
before—and just beheld the skirts of a man’s coat vanishing behind a
large holly-bush that stood between the window and the porch.

“It’s mamma’s friend,” said Arthur.

Rose and I looked at each other.

“I don’t know what to make of her at all,” whispered Rose.

The child looked at her in grave surprise. She straightway began to
talk to him on indifferent matters, while I amused myself with looking
at the pictures. There was one in an obscure corner that I had not
before observed. It was a little child, seated on the grass with its
lap full of flowers. The tiny features and large blue eyes, smiling
through a shock of light brown curls, shaken over the forehead as it
bent above its treasure, bore sufficient resemblance to those of the
young gentleman before me to proclaim it a portrait of Arthur Graham in
his early infancy.

In taking this up to bring it to the light, I discovered another behind
it, with its face to the wall. I ventured to take that up too. It was
the portrait of a gentleman in the full prime of youthful
manhood—handsome enough, and not badly executed; but if done by the
same hand as the others, it was evidently some years before; for there
was far more careful minuteness of detail, and less of that freshness
of colouring and freedom of handling that delighted and surprised me in
them. Nevertheless, I surveyed it with considerable interest. There was
a certain individuality in the features and expression that stamped it,
at once, a successful likeness. The bright blue eyes regarded the
spectator with a kind of lurking drollery—you almost expected to see
them wink; the lips—a little too voluptuously full—seemed ready to
break into a smile; the warmly-tinted cheeks were embellished with a
luxuriant growth of reddish whiskers; while the bright chestnut hair,
clustering in abundant, wavy curls, trespassed too much upon the
forehead, and seemed to intimate that the owner thereof was prouder of
his beauty than his intellect—as, perhaps, he had reason to be; and yet
he looked no fool.

I had not had the portrait in my hands two minutes before the fair
artist returned.

“Only some one come about the pictures,” said she, in apology for her
abrupt departure: “I told him to wait.”

“I fear it will be considered an act of impertinence,” I said “to
presume to look at a picture that the artist has turned to the wall;
but may I ask—”

“It _is_ an act of very great impertinence, sir; and therefore I beg
you will ask nothing about it, for your curiosity will not be
gratified,” replied she, attempting to cover the tartness of her rebuke
with a smile; but I could see, by her flushed cheek and kindling eye,
that she was seriously annoyed.

“I was only going to ask if you had painted it yourself,” said I,
sulkily resigning the picture into her hands; for without a grain of
ceremony she took it from me; and quickly restoring it to the dark
corner, with its face to the wall, placed the other against it as
before, and then turned to me and laughed.

But I was in no humour for jesting. I carelessly turned to the window,
and stood looking out upon the desolate garden, leaving her to talk to
Rose for a minute or two; and then, telling my sister it was time to
go, shook hands with the little gentleman, coolly bowed to the lady,
and moved towards the door. But, having bid adieu to Rose, Mrs. Graham
presented her hand to me, saying, with a soft voice, and by no means a
disagreeable smile,—“Let not the sun go down upon your wrath, Mr.
Markham. I’m sorry I offended you by my abruptness.”

When a lady condescends to apologise, there is no keeping one’s anger,
of course; so we parted good friends for once; and _this_ time I
squeezed her hand with a cordial, not a spiteful pressure.




 CHAPTER VI


During the next four months I did not enter Mrs. Graham’s house, nor
she mine; but still the ladies continued to talk about her, and still
our acquaintance continued, though slowly, to advance. As for their
talk, I paid but little attention to that (when it related to the fair
hermit, I mean), and the only information I derived from it was, that
one fine frosty day she had ventured to take her little boy as far as
the vicarage, and that, unfortunately, nobody was at home but Miss
Millward; nevertheless, she had sat a long time, and, by all accounts,
they had found a good deal to say to each other, and parted with a
mutual desire to meet again. But Mary liked children, and fond mammas
like those who can duly appreciate their treasures.

But sometimes I saw her myself, not only when she came to church, but
when she was out on the hills with her son, whether taking a long,
purpose-like walk, or—on special fine days—leisurely rambling over the
moor or the bleak pasture-lands, surrounding the old hall, herself with
a book in her hand, her son gambolling about her; and, on any of these
occasions, when I caught sight of her in my solitary walks or rides, or
while following my agricultural pursuits, I generally contrived to meet
or overtake her, for I rather liked to see Mrs. Graham, and to talk to
her, and I decidedly liked to talk to her little companion, whom, when
once the ice of his shyness was fairly broken, I found to be a very
amiable, intelligent, and entertaining little fellow; and we soon
became excellent friends—how much to the gratification of his mamma I
cannot undertake to say. I suspected at first that she was desirous of
throwing cold water on this growing intimacy—to quench, as it were, the
kindling flame of our friendship—but discovering, at length, in spite
of her prejudice against me, that I was perfectly harmless, and even
well-intentioned, and that, between myself and my dog, her son derived
a great deal of pleasure from the acquaintance that he would not
otherwise have known, she ceased to object, and even welcomed my coming
with a smile.

As for Arthur, he would shout his welcome from afar, and run to meet me
fifty yards from his mother’s side. If I happened to be on horseback he
was sure to get a canter or a gallop; or, if there was one of the
draught horses within an available distance, he was treated to a steady
ride upon that, which served his turn almost as well; but his mother
would always follow and trudge beside him—not so much, I believe, to
ensure his safe conduct, as to see that I instilled no objectionable
notions into his infant mind, for she was ever on the watch, and never
would allow him to be taken out of her sight. What pleased her best of
all was to see him romping and racing with Sancho, while I walked by
her side—not, I fear, for love of my company (though I sometimes
deluded myself with that idea), so much as for the delight she took in
seeing her son thus happily engaged in the enjoyment of those active
sports so invigorating to his tender frame, yet so seldom exercised for
want of playmates suited to his years: and, perhaps, her pleasure was
sweetened not a little by the fact of my being with _her_ instead of
with _him_, and therefore incapable of doing him any injury directly or
indirectly, designedly or otherwise, small thanks to her for that same.

But sometimes, I believe, she really had some little gratification in
conversing with me; and one bright February morning, during twenty
minutes’ stroll along the moor, she laid aside her usual asperity and
reserve, and fairly entered into conversation with me, discoursing with
so much eloquence and depth of thought and feeling on a subject happily
coinciding with my own ideas, and looking so beautiful withal, that I
went home enchanted; and on the way (morally) started to find myself
thinking that, after all, it would, perhaps, be better to spend one’s
days with such a woman than with Eliza Millward; and then I
(figuratively) blushed for my inconstancy.

On entering the parlour I found Eliza there with Rose, and no one else.
The surprise was not altogether so agreeable as it ought to have been.
We chatted together a long time, but I found her rather frivolous, and
even a little insipid, compared with the more mature and earnest Mrs.
Graham. Alas, for human constancy!

“However,” thought I, “I ought not to marry Eliza, since my mother so
strongly objects to it, and I ought not to delude the girl with the
idea that I intended to do so. Now, if this mood continue, I shall have
less difficulty in emancipating my affections from her soft yet
unrelenting sway; and, though Mrs. Graham might be equally
objectionable, I may be permitted, like the doctors, to cure a greater
evil by a less, for I shall not fall seriously in love with the young
widow, I think, nor she with me—that’s certain—but if I find a little
pleasure in her society I may surely be allowed to seek it; and if the
star of her divinity be bright enough to dim the lustre of Eliza’s, so
much the better, but I scarcely can think it.”

And thereafter I seldom suffered a fine day to pass without paying a
visit to Wildfell about the time my new acquaintance usually left her
hermitage; but so frequently was I baulked in my expectations of
another interview, so changeable was she in her times of coming forth
and in her places of resort, so transient were the occasional glimpses
I was able to obtain, that I felt half inclined to think she took as
much pains to avoid my company as I to seek hers; but this was too
disagreeable a supposition to be entertained a moment after it could
conveniently be dismissed.

One calm, clear afternoon, however, in March, as I was superintending
the rolling of the meadow-land, and the repairing of a hedge in the
valley, I saw Mrs. Graham down by the brook, with a sketch-book in her
hand, absorbed in the exercise of her favourite art, while Arthur was
putting on the time with constructing dams and breakwaters in the
shallow, stony stream. I was rather in want of amusement, and so rare
an opportunity was not to be neglected; so, leaving both meadow and
hedge, I quickly repaired to the spot, but not before Sancho, who,
immediately upon perceiving his young friend, scoured at full gallop
the intervening space, and pounced upon him with an impetuous mirth
that precipitated the child almost into the middle of the beck; but,
happily, the stones preserved him from any serious wetting, while their
smoothness prevented his being too much hurt to laugh at the untoward
event.

Mrs. Graham was studying the distinctive characters of the different
varieties of trees in their winter nakedness, and copying, with a
spirited, though delicate touch, their various ramifications. She did
not talk much, but I stood and watched the progress of her pencil: it
was a pleasure to behold it so dexterously guided by those fair and
graceful fingers. But ere long their dexterity became impaired, they
began to hesitate, to tremble slightly, and make false strokes, and
then suddenly came to a pause, while their owner laughingly raised her
face to mine, and told me that her sketch did not profit by my
superintendence.

“Then,” said I, “I’ll talk to Arthur till you’ve done.”

“I should like to have a ride, Mr. Markham, if mamma will let me,” said
the child.

“What on, my boy?”

“I think there’s a horse in that field,” replied he, pointing to where
the strong black mare was pulling the roller.

“No, no, Arthur; it’s too far,” objected his mother.

But I promised to bring him safe back after a turn or two up and down
the meadow; and when she looked at his eager face she smiled and let
him go. It was the first time she had even allowed me to take him so
much as half a field’s length from her side.

[Illustration]

Enthroned upon his monstrous steed, and solemnly proceeding up and down
the wide, steep field, he looked the very incarnation of quiet, gleeful
satisfaction and delight. The rolling, however, was soon completed; but
when I dismounted the gallant horseman, and restored him to his mother,
she seemed rather displeased at my keeping him so long. She had shut up
her sketch-book, and been, probably, for some minutes impatiently
waiting his return.

It was now high time to go home, she said, and would have bid me
good-evening, but I was not going to leave her yet: I accompanied her
half-way up the hill. She became more sociable, and I was beginning to
be very happy; but, on coming within sight of the grim old hall, she
stood still, and turned towards me while she spoke, as if expecting I
should go no further, that the conversation would end here, and I
should now take leave and depart—as, indeed, it was time to do, for
“the clear, cold eve” was fast “declining,” the sun had set, and the
gibbous moon was visibly brightening in the pale grey sky; but a
feeling almost of compassion riveted me to the spot. It seemed hard to
leave her to such a lonely, comfortless home. I looked up at it. Silent
and grim it frowned before us. A faint, red light was gleaming from the
lower windows of one wing, but all the other windows were in darkness,
and many exhibited their black, cavernous gulfs, entirely destitute of
glazing or framework.

“Do you not find it a desolate place to live in?” said I, after a
moment of silent contemplation.

“I do, sometimes,” replied she. “On winter evenings, when Arthur is in
bed, and I am sitting there alone, hearing the bleak wind moaning round
me and howling through the ruinous old chambers, no books or
occupations can repress the dismal thoughts and apprehensions that come
crowding in—but it is folly to give way to such weakness, I know. If
Rachel is satisfied with such a life, why should not I?—Indeed, I
cannot be too thankful for such an asylum, while it is left me.”

The closing sentence was uttered in an under-tone, as if spoken rather
to herself than to me. She then bid me good-evening and withdrew.

I had not proceeded many steps on my way homewards when I perceived Mr.
Lawrence, on his pretty grey pony, coming up the rugged lane that
crossed over the hill-top. I went a little out of my way to speak to
him; for we had not met for some time.

“Was that Mrs. Graham you were speaking to just now?” said he, after
the first few words of greeting had passed between us.

“Yes.”

“Humph! I thought so.” He looked contemplatively at his horse’s mane,
as if he had some serious cause of dissatisfaction with it, or
something else.

“Well! what then?”

“Oh, nothing!” replied he. “Only I thought you disliked her,” he
quietly added, curling his classic lip with a slightly sarcastic smile.

“Suppose I did; mayn’t a man change his mind on further acquaintance?”

“Yes, of course,” returned he, nicely reducing an entanglement in the
pony’s redundant hoary mane. Then suddenly turning to me, and fixing
his shy, hazel eyes upon me with a steady penetrating gaze, he added,
“Then you _have_ changed your mind?”

“I can’t say that I have exactly. No; I think I hold the same opinion
respecting her as before—but slightly ameliorated.”

“Oh!” He looked round for something else to talk about; and glancing up
at the moon, made some remark upon the beauty of the evening, which I
did not answer, as being irrelevant to the subject.

“Lawrence,” said I, calmly looking him in the face, “are you in love
with Mrs. Graham?”

Instead of his being deeply offended at this, as I more than half
expected he would, the first start of surprise, at the audacious
question, was followed by a tittering laugh, as if he was highly amused
at the idea.

“_I_ in love with her!” repeated he. “What makes you dream of such a
thing?”

“From the interest you take in the progress of my acquaintance with the
lady, and the changes of my opinion concerning her, I thought you might
be jealous.”

He laughed again. “Jealous! no. But I thought you were going to marry
Eliza Millward.”

“You thought wrong, then; I am not going to marry either one or the
other—that I know of—”

“Then I think you’d better let them alone.”

“Are you going to marry Jane Wilson?”

He coloured, and played with the mane again, but answered—“No, I think
not.”

“Then you had better let her alone.”

“She won’t let me alone,” he might have said; but he only looked silly
and said nothing for the space of half a minute, and then made another
attempt to turn the conversation; and this time I let it pass; for he
had borne enough: another word on the subject would have been like the
last atom that breaks the camel’s back.

I was too late for tea; but my mother had kindly kept the teapot and
muffin warm upon the hobs, and, though she scolded me a little, readily
admitted my excuses; and when I complained of the flavour of the
overdrawn tea, she poured the remainder into the slop-basin, and bade
Rose put some fresh into the pot, and reboil the kettle, which offices
were performed with great commotion, and certain remarkable comments.

“Well!—if it had been me now, I should have had no tea at all—if it had
been Fergus, even, he would have to put up with such as there was, and
been told to be thankful, for it was far too good for him; but _you_—we
can’t do too much for you. It’s always so—if there’s anything
particularly nice at table, mamma winks and nods at me to abstain from
it, and if I don’t attend to that, she whispers, ‘Don’t eat so much of
that, Rose; Gilbert will like it for his supper.’—_I’m_ nothing at all.
In the parlour, it’s ‘Come, Rose, put away your things, and let’s have
the room nice and tidy against they come in; and keep up a good fire;
Gilbert likes a cheerful fire.’ In the kitchen—‘Make that pie a large
one, Rose; I daresay the boys’ll be hungry; and don’t put so much
pepper in, they’ll not like it, I’m sure’—or, ‘Rose, don’t put so many
spices in the pudding, Gilbert likes it plain,’—or, ‘Mind you put
plenty of currants in the cake, Fergus liked plenty.’ If I say, ‘Well,
Mamma, _I_ don’t,’ I’m told I ought not to think of myself. ‘You know,
Rose, in all household matters, we have only two things to consider,
first, what’s proper to be done; and, secondly, what’s most agreeable
to the gentlemen of the house—anything will do for the ladies.’”

“And very good doctrine too,” said my mother. “Gilbert thinks so, I’m
sure.”

“Very convenient doctrine, for us, at all events,” said I; “but if you
would really study my pleasure, mother, you must consider your own
comfort and convenience a little more than you do—as for Rose, I have
no doubt she’ll take care of herself; and whenever she does make a
sacrifice or perform a remarkable act of devotedness, she’ll take good
care to let me know the extent of it. But for _you_, I might sink into
the grossest condition of self-indulgence and carelessness about the
wants of others, from the mere habit of being constantly cared for
myself, and having all my wants anticipated or immediately supplied,
while left in total ignorance of what is done for me,—if Rose did not
enlighten me now and then; and I should receive all your kindness as a
matter of course, and never know how much I owe you.”

“Ah! and you never _will_ know, Gilbert, till you’re married. Then,
when you’ve got some trifling, self-conceited girl like Eliza Millward,
careless of everything but her own immediate pleasure and advantage, or
some misguided, obstinate woman, like Mrs. Graham, ignorant of her
principal duties, and clever only in what concerns her least to
know—then you’ll find the difference.”

“It will do me good, mother; I was not sent into the world merely to
exercise the good capacities and good feelings of others—was I?—but to
exert my own towards them; and when I marry, I shall expect to find
more pleasure in making my wife happy and comfortable, than in being
made so by her: I would rather give than receive.”

“Oh! that’s all nonsense, my dear. It’s mere boy’s talk that! You’ll
soon tire of petting and humouring your wife, be she ever so charming,
and _then_ comes the trial.”

“Well, then, we must bear one another’s burdens.”

“Then you must fall each into your proper place. You’ll do your
business, and she, if she’s worthy of you, will do hers; but it’s your
business to please yourself, and hers to please you. I’m sure your
poor, dear father was as good a husband as ever lived, and after the
first six months or so were over, I should as soon have expected him to
fly, as to put himself out of his way to pleasure me. He always said I
was a good wife, and did my duty; and he always did his—bless him!—he
was steady and punctual, seldom found fault without a reason, always
did justice to my good dinners, and hardly ever spoiled my cookery by
delay—and that’s as much as any woman can expect of any man.”

Is it so, Halford? Is that the extent of _your_ domestic virtues; and
does your happy wife exact no more?




 CHAPTER VII


Not many days after this, on a mild sunny morning—rather soft under
foot; for the last fall of snow was only just wasted away, leaving yet
a thin ridge, here and there, lingering on the fresh green grass
beneath the hedges; but beside them already, the young primroses were
peeping from among their moist, dark foliage, and the lark above was
singing of summer, and hope, and love, and every heavenly thing—I was
out on the hill-side, enjoying these delights, and looking after the
well-being of my young lambs and their mothers, when, on glancing round
me, I beheld three persons ascending from the vale below. They were
Eliza Millward, Fergus, and Rose; so I crossed the field to meet them;
and, being told they were going to Wildfell Hall, I declared myself
willing to go with them, and offering my arm to Eliza, who readily
accepted it in lieu of my brother’s, told the latter he might go back,
for I would accompany the ladies.

“I beg _your_ pardon!” exclaimed he. “It’s the ladies that are
accompanying me, not I them. You had all had a peep at this wonderful
stranger but me, and I could endure my wretched ignorance no
longer—come what would, I must be satisfied; so I begged Rose to go
with me to the Hall, and introduce me to her at once. She swore she
would not, unless Miss Eliza would go too; so I ran to the vicarage and
fetched her; and we’ve come hooked all the way, as fond as a pair of
lovers—and now you’ve taken her from me; and you want to deprive me of
my walk and my visit besides. Go back to your fields and your cattle,
you lubberly fellow; you’re not fit to associate with ladies and
gentlemen like us, that have nothing to do but to run snooking about to
our neighbours’ houses, peeping into their private corners, and
scenting out their secrets, and picking holes in their coats, when we
don’t find them ready made to our hands—you don’t understand such
refined sources of enjoyment.”

“Can’t you both go?” suggested Eliza, disregarding the latter half of
the speech.

“Yes, both, to be sure!” cried Rose; “the more the merrier—and I’m sure
we shall want all the cheerfulness we can carry with us to that great,
dark, gloomy room, with its narrow latticed windows, and its dismal old
furniture—unless she shows us into her studio again.”

So we went all in a body; and the meagre old maid-servant, that opened
the door, ushered us into an apartment such as Rose had described to me
as the scene of her first introduction to Mrs. Graham, a tolerably
spacious and lofty room, but obscurely lighted by the old-fashioned
windows, the ceiling, panels, and chimney-piece of grim black oak—the
latter elaborately but not very tastefully carved,—with tables and
chairs to match, an old bookcase on one side of the fire-place, stocked
with a motley assemblage of books, and an elderly cabinet piano on the
other.

The lady was seated in a stiff, high-backed arm-chair, with a small
round table, containing a desk and a work-basket on one side of her,
and her little boy on the other, who stood leaning his elbow on her
knee, and reading to her, with wonderful fluency, from a small volume
that lay in her lap; while she rested her hand on his shoulder, and
abstractedly played with the long, wavy curls that fell on his ivory
neck. They struck me as forming a pleasing contrast to all the
surrounding objects; but of course their position was immediately
changed on our entrance. I could only observe the picture during the
few brief seconds that Rachel held the door for our admittance.

I do not think Mrs. Graham was particularly delighted to see us: there
was something indescribably chilly in her quiet, calm civility; but I
did not talk much to her. Seating myself near the window, a little back
from the circle, I called Arthur to me, and he and I and Sancho amused
ourselves very pleasantly together, while the two young ladies baited
his mother with small talk, and Fergus sat opposite with his legs
crossed and his hands in his breeches-pockets, leaning back in his
chair, and staring now up at the ceiling, now straight forward at his
hostess (in a manner that made me strongly inclined to kick him out of
the room), now whistling sotto voce to himself a snatch of a favourite
air, now interrupting the conversation, or filling up a pause (as the
case might be) with some most impertinent question or remark. At one
time it was,—“It, amazes me, Mrs. Graham, how you could choose such a
dilapidated, rickety old place as this to live in. If you couldn’t
afford to occupy the whole house, and have it mended up, why couldn’t
you take a neat little cottage?”

“Perhaps I was too proud, Mr. Fergus,” replied she, smiling; “perhaps I
took a particular fancy for this romantic, old-fashioned place—but,
indeed, it has many advantages over a cottage—in the first place, you
see, the rooms are larger and more airy; in the second place, the
unoccupied apartments, which I don’t pay for, may serve as
lumber-rooms, if I have anything to put in them; and they are very
useful for my little boy to run about in on rainy days when he can’t go
out; and then there is the garden for him to play in, and for me to
work in. You see I have effected some little improvement already,”
continued she, turning to the window. “There is a bed of young
vegetables in that corner, and here are some snowdrops and primroses
already in bloom—and there, too, is a yellow crocus just opening in the
sunshine.”

“But then how can you bear such a situation—your nearest neighbours two
miles distant, and nobody looking in or passing by? Rose would go stark
mad in such a place. She can’t put on life unless she sees half a dozen
fresh gowns and bonnets a day—not to speak of the faces within; but you
might sit watching at these windows all day long, and never see so much
as an old woman carrying her eggs to market.”

“I am not sure the loneliness of the place was not one of its chief
recommendations. I take no pleasure in watching people pass the
windows; and I like to be quiet.”

“Oh! as good as to say you wish we would all of us mind our own
business, and let you alone.”

“No, I dislike an extensive acquaintance; but if I have a few friends,
of course I am glad to see them occasionally. No one can be happy in
eternal solitude. Therefore, Mr. Fergus, if you choose to enter my
house as a friend, I will make you welcome; if not, I must confess, I
would rather you kept away.” She then turned and addressed some
observation to Rose or Eliza.

“And, Mrs. Graham,” said he again, five minutes after, “we were
disputing, as we came along, a question that you can readily decide for
us, as it mainly regarded yourself—and, indeed, we often hold
discussions about you; for some of us have nothing better to do than to
talk about our neighbours’ concerns, and we, the indigenous plants of
the soil, have known each other so long, and talked each other over so
often, that we are quite sick of that game; so that a stranger coming
amongst us makes an invaluable addition to our exhausted sources of
amusement. Well, the question, or questions, you are requested to
solve—”

“Hold your tongue, Fergus!” cried Rose, in a fever of apprehension and
wrath.

“I won’t, I tell you. The questions you are requested to solve are
these:—First, concerning your birth, extraction, and previous
residence. Some will have it that you are a foreigner, and some an
Englishwoman; some a native of the north country, and some of the
south; some say—”

“Well, Mr. Fergus, I’ll tell you. I’m an Englishwoman—and I don’t see
why any one should doubt it—and I was born in the country, neither in
the extreme north nor south of our happy isle; and in the country I
have chiefly passed my life, and now I hope you are satisfied; for I am
not disposed to answer any more questions at present.”

“Except this—”

“No, not one more!” laughed she, and, instantly quitting her seat, she
sought refuge at the window by which I was seated, and, in very
desperation, to escape my brother’s persecutions, endeavoured to draw
me into conversation.

“Mr. Markham,” said she, her rapid utterance and heightened colour too
plainly evincing her disquietude, “have you forgotten the fine sea-view
we were speaking of some time ago? I think I must trouble you, now, to
tell me the nearest way to it; for if this beautiful weather continue,
I shall, perhaps, be able to walk there, and take my sketch; I have
exhausted every other subject for painting; and I long to see it.”

I was about to comply with her request, but Rose would not suffer me to
proceed.

“Oh, don’t tell her, Gilbert!” cried she; “she shall go with us. It’s
—— Bay you are thinking about, I suppose, Mrs. Graham? It is a very
long walk, too far for you, and out of the question for Arthur. But we
were thinking about making a picnic to see it some fine day; and, if
you will wait till the settled fine weather comes, I’m sure we shall
all be delighted to have you amongst us.”

Poor Mrs. Graham looked dismayed, and attempted to make excuses, but
Rose, either compassionating her lonely life, or anxious to cultivate
her acquaintance, was determined to have her; and every objection was
overruled. She was told it would only be a small party, and all
friends, and that the best view of all was from —— Cliffs, full five
miles distant.

“Just a nice walk for the gentlemen,” continued Rose; “but the ladies
will drive and walk by turns; for we shall have our pony-carriage,
which will be plenty large enough to contain little Arthur and three
ladies, together with your sketching apparatus, and our provisions.”

So the proposal was finally acceded to; and, after some further
discussion respecting the time and manner of the projected excursion,
we rose, and took our leave.

But this was only March: a cold, wet April, and two weeks of May passed
over before we could venture forth on our expedition with the
reasonable hope of obtaining that pleasure we sought in pleasant
prospects, cheerful society, fresh air, good cheer and exercise,
without the alloy of bad roads, cold winds, or threatening clouds.
Then, on a glorious morning, we gathered our forces and set forth. The
company consisted of Mrs. and Master Graham, Mary and Eliza Millward,
Jane and Richard Wilson, and Rose, Fergus, and Gilbert Markham.

Mr. Lawrence had been invited to join us, but, for some reason best
known to himself, had refused to give us his company. I had solicited
the favour myself. When I did so, he hesitated, and asked who were
going. Upon my naming Miss Wilson among the rest, he seemed half
inclined to go, but when I mentioned Mrs. Graham, thinking it might be
a further inducement, it appeared to have a contrary effect, and he
declined it altogether, and, to confess the truth, the decision was not
displeasing to me, though I could scarcely tell you why.

It was about midday when we reached the place of our destination. Mrs.
Graham walked all the way to the cliffs; and little Arthur walked the
greater part of it too; for he was now much more hardy and active than
when he first entered the neighbourhood, and he did not like being in
the carriage with strangers, while all his four friends, mamma, and
Sancho, and Mr. Markham, and Miss Millward, were on foot, journeying
far behind, or passing through distant fields and lanes.

I have a very pleasant recollection of that walk, along the hard,
white, sunny road, shaded here and there with bright green trees, and
adorned with flowery banks and blossoming hedges of delicious
fragrance; or through pleasant fields and lanes, all glorious in the
sweet flowers and brilliant verdure of delightful May. It was true,
Eliza was not beside me; but she was with her friends in the
pony-carriage, as happy, I trusted, as I was; and even when we
pedestrians, having forsaken the highway for a short cut across the
fields, beheld the little carriage far away, disappearing amid the
green, embowering trees, I did not hate those trees for snatching the
dear little bonnet and shawl from my sight, nor did I feel that all
those intervening objects lay between my happiness and me; for, to
confess the truth, I was too happy in the company of Mrs. Graham to
regret the absence of Eliza Millward.

The former, it is true, was most provokingly unsociable at
first—seemingly bent upon talking to no one but Mary Millward and
Arthur. She and Mary journeyed along together, generally with the child
between them;—but where the road permitted, I always walked on the
other side of her, Richard Wilson taking the other side of Miss
Millward, and Fergus roving here and there according to his fancy; and,
after a while, she became more friendly, and at length I succeeded in
securing her attention almost entirely to myself—and then I was happy
indeed; for whenever she did condescend to converse, I liked to listen.
Where her opinions and sentiments tallied with mine, it was her extreme
good sense, her exquisite taste and feeling, that delighted me; where
they differed, it was still her uncompromising boldness in the avowal
or defence of that difference, her earnestness and keenness, that
piqued my fancy: and even when she angered me by her unkind words or
looks, and her uncharitable conclusions respecting me, it only made me
the more dissatisfied with myself for having so unfavourably impressed
her, and the more desirous to vindicate my character and disposition in
her eyes, and, if possible, to win her esteem.

At length our walk was ended. The increasing height and boldness of the
hills had for some time intercepted the prospect; but, on gaining the
summit of a steep acclivity, and looking downward, an opening lay
before us—and the blue sea burst upon our sight!—deep violet blue—not
deadly calm, but covered with glinting breakers—diminutive white specks
twinkling on its bosom, and scarcely to be distinguished, by the
keenest vision, from the little seamews that sported above, their white
wings glittering in the sunshine: only one or two vessels were visible,
and those were far away.

I looked at my companion to see what she thought of this glorious
scene. She said nothing: but she stood still, and fixed her eyes upon
it with a gaze that assured me she was not disappointed. She had very
fine eyes, by-the-by—I don’t know whether I have told you before, but
they were full of soul, large, clear, and nearly black—not brown, but
very dark grey. A cool, reviving breeze blew from the sea—soft, pure,
salubrious: it waved her drooping ringlets, and imparted a livelier
colour to her usually too pallid lip and cheek. She felt its
exhilarating influence, and so did I—I felt it tingling through my
frame, but dared not give way to it while she remained so quiet. There
was an aspect of subdued exhilaration in her face, that kindled into
almost a smile of exalted, glad intelligence as her eye met mine. Never
had she looked so lovely: never had my heart so warmly cleaved to her
as now. Had we been left two minutes longer standing there alone, I
cannot answer for the consequences. Happily for my discretion, perhaps
for my enjoyment during the remainder of the day, we were speedily
summoned to the repast—a very respectable collation, which Rose,
assisted by Miss Wilson and Eliza, who, having shared her seat in the
carriage, had arrived with her a little before the rest, had set out
upon an elevated platform overlooking the sea, and sheltered from the
hot sun by a shelving rock and overhanging trees.

Mrs. Graham seated herself at a distance from me. Eliza was my nearest
neighbour. She exerted herself to be agreeable, in her gentle,
unobtrusive way, and was, no doubt, as fascinating and charming as
ever, if I could only have felt it. But soon my heart began to warm
towards her once again; and we were all very merry and happy
together—as far as I could see—throughout the protracted social meal.

When that was over, Rose summoned Fergus to help her to gather up the
fragments, and the knives, dishes, &c., and restore them to the
baskets; and Mrs. Graham took her camp-stool and drawing materials; and
having begged Miss Millward to take charge of her precious son, and
strictly enjoined him not to wander from his new guardian’s side, she
left us and proceeded along the steep, stony hill, to a loftier, more
precipitous eminence at some distance, whence a still finer prospect
was to be had, where she preferred taking her sketch, though some of
the ladies told her it was a frightful place, and advised her not to
attempt it.

When she was gone, I felt as if there was to be no more fun—though it
is difficult to say what she had contributed to the hilarity of the
party. No jests, and little laughter, had escaped her lips; but her
smile had animated my mirth; a keen observation or a cheerful word from
her had insensibly sharpened my wits, and thrown an interest over all
that was done and said by the rest. Even my conversation with Eliza had
been enlivened by her presence, though I knew it not; and now that she
was gone, Eliza’s playful nonsense ceased to amuse me—nay, grew
wearisome to my soul, and I grew weary of amusing her: I felt myself
drawn by an irresistible attraction to that distant point where the
fair artist sat and plied her solitary task—and not long did I attempt
to resist it: while my little neighbour was exchanging a few words with
Miss Wilson, I rose and cannily slipped away. A few rapid strides, and
a little active clambering, soon brought me to the place where she was
seated—a narrow ledge of rock at the very verge of the cliff, which
descended with a steep, precipitous slant, quite down to the rocky
shore.

She did not hear me coming: the falling of my shadow across her paper
gave her an electric start; and she looked hastily round—any other lady
of my acquaintance would have screamed under such a sudden alarm.

“Oh! I didn’t know it was you.—Why did you startle me so?” said she,
somewhat testily. “I hate anybody to come upon me so unexpectedly.”

“Why, what did you take me for?” said I: “if I had known you were so
nervous, I would have been more cautious; but—”

“Well, never mind. What did you come for? are they all coming?”

“No; this little ledge could scarcely contain them all.”

“I’m glad, for I’m tired of talking.”

“Well, then, I won’t talk. I’ll only sit and watch your drawing.”

“Oh, but you know I don’t like that.”

“Then I’ll content myself with admiring this magnificent prospect.”

She made no objection to this; and, for some time, sketched away in
silence. But I could not help stealing a glance, now and then, from the
splendid view at our feet to the elegant white hand that held the
pencil, and the graceful neck and glossy raven curls that drooped over
the paper.

“Now,” thought I, “if I had but a pencil and a morsel of paper, I could
make a lovelier sketch than hers, admitting I had the power to
delineate faithfully what is before me.”

But, though this satisfaction was denied me, I was very well content to
sit beside her there, and say nothing.

“Are you there still, Mr. Markham?” said she at length, looking round
upon me—for I was seated a little behind on a mossy projection of the
cliff.—“Why don’t you go and amuse yourself with your friends?”

“Because I am tired of them, like you; and I shall have enough of them
to-morrow—or at any time hence; but you I may not have the pleasure of
seeing again for I know not how long.”

“What was Arthur doing when you came away?”

“He was with Miss Millward, where you left him—all right, but hoping
mamma would not be long away. You didn’t intrust him to me, by-the-by,”
I grumbled, “though I had the honour of a much longer acquaintance; but
Miss Millward has the art of conciliating and amusing children,” I
carelessly added, “if she is good for nothing else.”

“Miss Millward has many estimable qualities, which such as you cannot
be expected to perceive or appreciate. Will you tell Arthur that I
shall come in a few minutes?”

“If that be the case, I will wait, with your permission, till those few
minutes are past; and then I can assist you to descend this difficult
path.”

“Thank you—I always manage best, on such occasions, without
assistance.”

“But, at least, I can carry your stool and sketch-book.”

She did not deny me this favour; but I was rather offended at her
evident desire to be rid of me, and was beginning to repent of my
pertinacity, when she somewhat appeased me by consulting my taste and
judgment about some doubtful matter in her drawing. My opinion,
happily, met her approbation, and the improvement I suggested was
adopted without hesitation.

“I have often wished in vain,” said she, “for another’s judgment to
appeal to when I could scarcely trust the direction of my own eye and
head, they having been so long occupied with the contemplation of a
single object as to become almost incapable of forming a proper idea
respecting it.”

“That,” replied I, “is only one of many evils to which a solitary life
exposes us.”

“True,” said she; and again we relapsed into silence.

About two minutes after, however, she declared her sketch completed,
and closed the book.

On returning to the scene of our repast we found all the company had
deserted it, with the exception of three—Mary Millward, Richard Wilson,
and Arthur Graham. The younger gentleman lay fast asleep with his head
pillowed on the lady’s lap; the other was seated beside her with a
pocket edition of some classic author in his hand. He never went
anywhere without such a companion wherewith to improve his leisure
moments: all time seemed lost that was not devoted to study, or
exacted, by his physical nature, for the bare support of life. Even now
he could not abandon himself to the enjoyment of that pure air and
balmy sunshine—that splendid prospect, and those soothing sounds, the
music of the waves and of the soft wind in the sheltering trees above
him—not even with a lady by his side (though not a very charming one, I
will allow)—he must pull out his book, and make the most of his time
while digesting his temperate meal, and reposing his weary limbs,
unused to so much exercise.

Perhaps, however, he spared a moment to exchange a word or a glance
with his companion now and then—at any rate, she did not appear at all
resentful of his conduct; for her homely features wore an expression of
unusual cheerfulness and serenity, and she was studying his pale,
thoughtful face with great complacency when we arrived.

The journey homeward was by no means so agreeable to me as the former
part of the day: for now Mrs. Graham was in the carriage, and Eliza
Millward was the companion of my walk. She had observed my preference
for the young widow, and evidently felt herself neglected. She did not
manifest her chagrin by keen reproaches, bitter sarcasms, or pouting
sullen silence—any or all of these I could easily have endured, or
lightly laughed away; but she showed it by a kind of gentle melancholy,
a mild, reproachful sadness that cut me to the heart. I tried to cheer
her up, and apparently succeeded in some degree, before the walk was
over; but in the very act my conscience reproved me, knowing, as I did,
that, sooner or later, the tie must be broken, and this was only
nourishing false hopes and putting off the evil day.

When the pony-carriage had approached as near Wildfell Hall as the road
would permit—unless, indeed, it proceeded up the long rough lane, which
Mrs. Graham would not allow—the young widow and her son alighted,
relinquishing the driver’s seat to Rose; and I persuaded Eliza to take
the latter’s place. Having put her comfortably in, bid her take care of
the evening air, and wished her a kind good-night, I felt considerably
relieved, and hastened to offer my services to Mrs. Graham to carry her
apparatus up the fields, but she had already hung her camp-stool on her
arm and taken her sketch-book in her hand, and insisted upon bidding me
adieu then and there, with the rest of the company. But this time she
declined my proffered aid in so kind and friendly a manner that I
almost forgave her.




 CHAPTER VIII


Six weeks had passed away. It was a splendid morning about the close of
June. Most of the hay was cut, but the last week had been very
unfavourable; and now that fine weather was come at last, being
determined to make the most of it, I had gathered all hands together
into the hay-field, and was working away myself, in the midst of them,
in my shirt-sleeves, with a light, shady straw hat on my head, catching
up armfuls of moist, reeking grass, and shaking it out to the four
winds of heaven, at the head of a goodly file of servants and
hirelings—intending so to labour, from morning till night, with as much
zeal and assiduity as I could look for from any of them, as well to
prosper the work by my own exertion as to animate the workers by my
example—when lo! my resolutions were overthrown in a moment, by the
simple fact of my brother’s running up to me and putting into my hand a
small parcel, just arrived from London, which I had been for some time
expecting. I tore off the cover, and disclosed an elegant and portable
edition of “Marmion.”

“I guess I know who that’s for,” said Fergus, who stood looking on
while I complacently examined the volume. “That’s for Miss Eliza, now.”

He pronounced this with a tone and look so prodigiously knowing, that I
was glad to contradict him.

“You’re wrong, my lad,” said I; and, taking up my coat, I deposited the
book in one of its pockets, and then put it on (_i.e._ the coat). “Now
come here, you idle dog, and make yourself useful for once,” I
continued. “Pull off your coat, and take my place in the field till I
come back.”

“Till you come back?—and where are you going, pray?”

“No matter—_where_—the _when_ is all that concerns you;—and I shall be
back by dinner, at least.”

“Oh—oh! and I’m to labour away till then, am I?—and to keep all these
fellows hard at it besides? Well, well! I’ll submit—for once in a
way.—Come, my lads, you must look sharp: _I_’m come to help you
now:—and woe be to that man, or woman either, that pauses for a moment
amongst you—whether to stare about him, to scratch his head, or blow
his nose—no pretext will serve—nothing but work, work, work in the
sweat of your face,” &c., &c.

Leaving him thus haranguing the people, more to their amusement than
edification, I returned to the house, and, having made some alteration
in my toilet, hastened away to Wildfell Hall, with the book in my
pocket; for it was destined for the shelves of Mrs. Graham.

“What! then had she and you got on so well together as to come to the
giving and receiving of presents?”—Not precisely, old buck; this was my
first experiment in that line; and I was very anxious to see the result
of it.

We had met several times since the —— Bay excursion, and I had found
she was not averse to my company, provided I confined my conversation
to the discussion of abstract matters, or topics of common
interest;—the moment I touched upon the sentimental or the
complimentary, or made the slightest approach to tenderness in word or
look, I was not only punished by an immediate change in her manner at
the time, but doomed to find her more cold and distant, if not entirely
inaccessible, when next I sought her company. This circumstance did not
greatly disconcert me, however, because I attributed it, not so much to
any dislike of my person, as to some absolute resolution against a
second marriage formed prior to the time of our acquaintance, whether
from excess of affection for her late husband, or because she had had
enough of him and the matrimonial state together. At first, indeed, she
had seemed to take a pleasure in mortifying my vanity and crushing my
presumption—relentlessly nipping off bud by bud as they ventured to
appear; and then, I confess, I was deeply wounded, though, at the same
time, stimulated to seek revenge;—but latterly finding, beyond a doubt,
that I was not that empty-headed coxcomb she had first supposed me, she
had repulsed my modest advances in quite a different spirit. It was a
kind of serious, almost sorrowful displeasure, which I soon learnt
carefully to avoid awakening.

“Let me first establish my position as a friend,” thought I—“the patron
and playfellow of her son, the sober, solid, plain-dealing friend of
herself, and then, when I have made myself fairly necessary to her
comfort and enjoyment in life (as I believe I can), we’ll see what next
may be effected.”

So we talked about painting, poetry, and music, theology, geology, and
philosophy: once or twice I lent her a book, and once she lent me one
in return: I met her in her walks as often as I could; I came to her
house as often as I dared. My first pretext for invading the sanctum
was to bring Arthur a little waddling puppy of which Sancho was the
father, and which delighted the child beyond expression, and,
consequently, could not fail to please his mamma. My second was to
bring him a book, which, knowing his mother’s particularity, I had
carefully selected, and which I submitted for her approbation before
presenting it to him. Then, I brought her some plants for her garden,
in my sister’s name—having previously persuaded Rose to send them. Each
of these times I inquired after the picture she was painting from the
sketch taken on the cliff, and was admitted into the studio, and asked
my opinion or advice respecting its progress.

My last visit had been to return the book she had lent me; and then it
was that, in casually discussing the poetry of Sir Walter Scott, she
had expressed a wish to see “Marmion,” and I had conceived the
presumptuous idea of making her a present of it, and, on my return
home, instantly sent for the smart little volume I had this morning
received. But an apology for invading the hermitage was still
necessary; so I had furnished myself with a blue morocco collar for
Arthur’s little dog; and that being given and received, with much more
joy and gratitude, on the part of the receiver, than the worth of the
gift or the selfish motive of the giver deserved, I ventured to ask
Mrs. Graham for one more look at the picture, if it was still there.

“Oh, yes! come in,” said she (for I had met them in the garden). “It is
finished and framed, all ready for sending away; but give me your last
opinion, and if you can suggest any further improvement, it shall
be—duly considered, at least.”

The picture was strikingly beautiful; it was the very scene itself,
transferred as if by magic to the canvas; but I expressed my
approbation in guarded terms, and few words, for fear of displeasing
her. She, however, attentively watched my looks, and her artist’s pride
was gratified, no doubt, to read my heartfelt admiration in my eyes.
But, while I gazed, I thought upon the book, and wondered how it was to
be presented. My heart failed me; but I determined not to be such a
fool as to come away without having made the attempt. It was useless
waiting for an opportunity, and useless trying to concoct a speech for
the occasion. The more plainly and naturally the thing was done, the
better, I thought; so I just looked out of the window to screw up my
courage, and then pulled out the book, turned round, and put it into
her hand, with this short explanation:

“You were wishing to see “Marmion,” Mrs. Graham; and here it is, if you
will be so kind as to take it.”

A momentary blush suffused her face—perhaps, a blush of sympathetic
shame for such an awkward style of presentation: she gravely examined
the volume on both sides; then silently turned over the leaves,
knitting her brows the while, in serious cogitation; then closed the
book, and turning from it to me, quietly asked the price of it—I felt
the hot blood rush to my face.

“I’m sorry to offend you, Mr. Markham,” said she, “but unless I pay for
the book, I cannot take it.” And she laid it on the table.

“Why cannot you?”

“Because,”—she paused, and looked at the carpet.

“Why cannot you?” I repeated, with a degree of irascibility that roused
her to lift her eyes and look me steadily in the face.

“Because I don’t like to put myself under obligations that I can never
repay—I _am_ obliged to you already for your kindness to my son; but
his grateful affection and your own good feelings must reward you for
that.”

“Nonsense!” ejaculated I.

She turned her eyes on me again, with a look of quiet, grave surprise,
that had the effect of a rebuke, whether intended for such or not.

“Then you won’t take the book?” I asked, more mildly than I had yet
spoken.

“I will gladly take it, if you will let me pay for it.” I told her the
exact price, and the cost of the carriage besides, in as calm a tone as
I could command—for, in fact, I was ready to weep with disappointment
and vexation.

She produced her purse, and coolly counted out the money, but hesitated
to put it into my hand. Attentively regarding me, in a tone of soothing
softness, she observed,—“You think yourself insulted, Mr Markham—I wish
I could make you understand that—that I—”

“I do understand you, perfectly,” I said. “You think that if you were
to accept that trifle from me now, I should presume upon it hereafter;
but you are mistaken:—if you will only oblige me by taking it, believe
me, I shall build no hopes upon it, and consider this no precedent for
future favours:—and it is nonsense to talk about putting yourself under
obligations to me when you must know that in such a case the obligation
is entirely on my side,—the favour on yours.”

“Well, then, I’ll take you at your word,” she answered, with a most
angelic smile, returning the odious money to her purse—“but
_remember!_”

“I will remember—what I have said;—but do not you punish my presumption
by withdrawing your friendship entirely from me,—or expect me to atone
for it by being _more_ distant than before,” said I, extending my hand
to take leave, for I was too much excited to remain.

“Well, then! let us be as we were,” replied she, frankly placing her
hand in mine; and while I held it there, I had much difficulty to
refrain from pressing it to my lips;—but that would be suicidal
madness: I had been bold enough already, and this premature offering
had well-nigh given the death-blow to my hopes.

It was with an agitated, burning heart and brain that I hurried
homewards, regardless of that scorching noonday sun—forgetful of
everything but her I had just left—regretting nothing but her
impenetrability, and my own precipitancy and want of tact—fearing
nothing but her hateful resolution, and my inability to overcome
it—hoping nothing—but halt,—I will not bore you with my conflicting
hopes and fears—my serious cogitations and resolves.




 CHAPTER IX


Though my affections might now be said to be fairly weaned from Eliza
Millward, I did not yet entirely relinquish my visits to the vicarage,
because I wanted, as it were, to let her down easy; without raising
much sorrow, or incurring much resentment,—or making myself the talk of
the parish; and besides, if I had wholly kept away, the vicar, who
looked upon my visits as paid chiefly, if not entirely, to himself,
would have felt himself decidedly affronted by the neglect. But when I
called there the day after my interview with Mrs. Graham, he happened
to be from home—a circumstance by no means so agreeable to me now as it
had been on former occasions. Miss Millward was there, it is true, but
she, of course, would be little better than a nonentity. However, I
resolved to make my visit a short one, and to talk to Eliza in a
brotherly, friendly sort of way, such as our long acquaintance might
warrant me in assuming, and which, I thought, could neither give
offence nor serve to encourage false hopes.

It was never my custom to talk about Mrs. Graham either to her or any
one else; but I had not been seated three minutes before she brought
that lady on to the carpet herself in a rather remarkable manner.

“Oh, Mr. Markham!” said she, with a shocked expression and voice
subdued almost to a whisper, “what do you think of these shocking
reports about Mrs. Graham?—can you encourage us to disbelieve them?”

“What reports?”

“Ah, now! _you_ know!” she slily smiled and shook her head.

“I know nothing about them. What in the world do you mean, Eliza?”

“Oh, don’t ask _me!—I_ can’t explain it.” She took up the cambric
handkerchief which she had been beautifying with a deep lace border,
and began to be very busy.

“What is it, Miss Millward? what does she mean?” said I, appealing to
her sister, who seemed to be absorbed in the hemming of a large, coarse
sheet.

“I don’t know,” replied she. “Some idle slander somebody has been
inventing, I suppose. I never heard it till Eliza told me the other
day,—but if all the parish dinned it in my ears, I shouldn’t believe a
word of it—I know Mrs. Graham too well!”

“Quite right, Miss Millward!—and so do I—whatever it may be.”

“Well,” observed Eliza, with a gentle sigh, “it’s well to have such a
comfortable assurance regarding the worth of those we love. I only wish
you may not find your confidence misplaced.”

And she raised her face, and gave me such a look of sorrowful
tenderness as might have melted my heart, but within those eyes there
lurked a something that I did not like; and I wondered how I ever could
have admired them—her sister’s honest face and small grey optics
appeared far more agreeable. But I was out of temper with Eliza at that
moment for her insinuations against Mrs. Graham, which were false, I
was certain, whether she knew it or not.

I said nothing more on the subject, however, at the time, and but
little on any other; for, finding I could not well recover my
equanimity, I presently rose and took leave, excusing myself under the
plea of business at the farm; and to the farm I went, not troubling my
mind one whit about the possible truth of these mysterious reports, but
only wondering what they were, by whom originated, and on what
foundations raised, and how they could the most effectually be silenced
or disproved.

A few days after this we had another of our quiet little parties, to
which the usual company of friends and neighbours had been invited, and
Mrs. Graham among the number. She could not now absent herself under
the plea of dark evenings or inclement weather, and, greatly to my
relief, she came. Without her I should have found the whole affair an
intolerable bore; but the moment of her arrival brought new life to the
house, and though I might not neglect the other guests for her, or
expect to engross much of her attention and conversation to myself
alone, I anticipated an evening of no common enjoyment.

Mr. Lawrence came too. He did not arrive till some time after the rest
were assembled. I was curious to see how he would comport himself to
Mrs. Graham. A slight bow was all that passed between them on his
entrance; and having politely greeted the other members of the company,
he seated himself quite aloof from the young widow, between my mother
and Rose.

“Did you ever see such art?” whispered Eliza, who was my nearest
neighbour. “Would you not say they were perfect strangers?”

“Almost; but what then?”

“What then; why, you can’t pretend to be ignorant?”

“Ignorant of _what?_” demanded I, so sharply that she started and
replied,—

“Oh, hush! don’t speak so loud.”

“Well, tell me then,” I answered in a lower tone, “what is it you mean?
I hate enigmas.”

“Well, you know, I don’t vouch for the truth of it—indeed, far from
it—but haven’t you heard—?”

“I’ve heard _nothing_, except from you.”

“You must be wilfully deaf then, for anyone will tell you that; but I
shall only anger you by repeating it, I see, so I had better hold my
tongue.”

She closed her lips and folded her hands before her, with an air of
injured meekness.

“If you had wished not to anger me, you should have held your tongue
from the beginning, or else spoken out plainly and honestly all you had
to say.”

She turned aside her face, pulled out her handkerchief, rose, and went
to the window, where she stood for some time, evidently dissolved in
tears. I was astounded, provoked, ashamed—not so much of my harshness
as for her childish weakness. However, no one seemed to notice her, and
shortly after we were summoned to the tea-table: in those parts it was
customary to sit to the table at tea-time on all occasions, and make a
meal of it, for we dined early. On taking my seat, I had Rose on one
side of me and an empty chair on the other.

“May I sit by you?” said a soft voice at my elbow.

“If you like,” was the reply; and Eliza slipped into the vacant chair;
then, looking up in my face with a half-sad, half-playful smile, she
whispered,—“You’re so stern, Gilbert.”

I handed down her tea with a slightly contemptuous smile, and said
nothing, for I had nothing to say.

“What have I done to offend you?” said she, more plaintively. “I wish I
knew.”

“Come, take your tea, Eliza, and don’t be foolish,” responded I,
handing her the sugar and cream.

Just then there arose a slight commotion on the other side of me,
occasioned by Miss Wilson’s coming to negotiate an exchange of seats
with Rose.

“Will you be so good as to exchange places with me, Miss Markham?” said
she; “for I don’t like to sit by Mrs. Graham. If your mamma thinks
proper to invite such persons to her house, she cannot object to her
daughter’s keeping company with them.”

This latter clause was added in a sort of soliloquy when Rose was gone;
but I was not polite enough to let it pass.

“Will you be so good as to tell me what you mean, Miss Wilson?” said I.

The question startled her a little, but not much.

“Why, Mr. Markham,” replied she, coolly, having quickly recovered her
self-possession, “it surprises me rather that Mrs. Markham should
invite such a person as Mrs. Graham to her house; but, perhaps, she is
not aware that the lady’s character is considered scarcely
respectable.”

“She is not, nor am I; and therefore you would oblige me by explaining
your meaning a little further.”

“This is scarcely the time or the place for such explanations; but I
think you can hardly be so ignorant as you pretend—you must know her as
well as I do.”

“I think I do, perhaps a little better; and therefore, if you will
inform me what you have heard or imagined against her, I shall,
perhaps, be able to set you right.”

“Can you tell me, then, who was her husband, or if she ever had any?”

Indignation kept me silent. At such a time and place I could not trust
myself to answer.

“Have you never observed,” said Eliza, “what a striking likeness there
is between that child of hers and—”

“And whom?” demanded Miss Wilson, with an air of cold, but keen
severity.

Eliza was startled; the timidly spoken suggestion had been intended for
my ear alone.

“Oh, I beg your pardon!” pleaded she; “I may be mistaken—perhaps I
_was_ mistaken.” But she accompanied the words with a sly glance of
derision directed to me from the corner of her disingenuous eye.

“There’s no need to ask _my_ pardon,” replied her friend, “but I see no
one here that at all resembles that child, except his mother, and when
you hear ill-natured reports, Miss Eliza, I will thank you, that is, I
think you will do well, to refrain from repeating them. I presume the
person you allude to is Mr. Lawrence; but I think I can assure you that
your suspicions, in that respect, are utterly misplaced; and if he has
any particular connection with the lady at all (which no one has a
right to assert), at least he has (what cannot be said of some others)
sufficient sense of propriety to withhold him from acknowledging
anything more than a bowing acquaintance in the presence of respectable
persons; he was evidently both surprised and annoyed to find her here.”

“Go it!” cried Fergus, who sat on the other side of Eliza, and was the
only individual who shared that side of the table with us. “Go it like
bricks! mind you don’t leave her one stone upon another.”

Miss Wilson drew herself up with a look of freezing scorn, but said
nothing. Eliza would have replied, but I interrupted her by saying as
calmly as I could, though in a tone which betrayed, no doubt, some
little of what I felt within,—“We have had enough of this subject; if
we can only speak to slander our betters, let us hold our tongues.”

“I think you’d better,” observed Fergus, “and so does our good parson;
he has been addressing the company in his richest vein all the while,
and eyeing you, from time to time, with looks of stern distaste, while
you sat there, irreverently whispering and muttering together; and once
he paused in the middle of a story or a sermon, I don’t know which, and
fixed his eyes upon you, Gilbert, as much as to say, ‘When Mr. Markham
has done flirting with those two ladies I will proceed.’”

What more was said at the tea-table I cannot tell, nor how I found
patience to sit till the meal was over. I remember, however, that I
swallowed with difficulty the remainder of the tea that was in my cup,
and ate nothing; and that the first thing I did was to stare at Arthur
Graham, who sat beside his mother on the opposite side of the table,
and the second to stare at Mr. Lawrence, who sat below; and, first, it
struck me that there _was_ a likeness; but, on further contemplation, I
concluded it was only in imagination.

Both, it is true, had more delicate features and smaller bones than
commonly fall to the lot of individuals of the rougher sex, and
Lawrence’s complexion was pale and clear, and Arthur’s delicately fair;
but Arthur’s tiny, somewhat snubby nose could never become so long and
straight as Mr. Lawrence’s; and the outline of his face, though not
full enough to be round, and too finely converging to the small,
dimpled chin to be square, could never be drawn out to the long oval of
the other’s, while the child’s hair was evidently of a lighter, warmer
tint than the elder gentleman’s had ever been, and his large, clear
blue eyes, though prematurely serious at times, were utterly dissimilar
to the shy hazel eyes of Mr. Lawrence, whence the sensitive soul looked
so distrustfully forth, as ever ready to retire within, from the
offences of a too rude, too uncongenial world. Wretch that I was to
harbour that detestable idea for a moment! Did I not know Mrs. Graham?
Had I not seen her, conversed with her time after time? Was I not
certain that she, in intellect, in purity and elevation of soul, was
immeasurably superior to any of her detractors; that she was, in fact,
the noblest, the most adorable, of her sex I had ever beheld, or even
imagined to exist? Yes, and I would say with Mary Millward (sensible
girl as she was), that if all the parish, ay, or all the world, should
din these horrible lies in my ears, I would not believe them, for I
knew her better than they.

Meantime, my brain was on fire with indignation, and my heart seemed
ready to burst from its prison with conflicting passions. I regarded my
two fair neighbours with a feeling of abhorrence and loathing I
scarcely endeavoured to conceal. I was rallied from several quarters
for my abstraction and ungallant neglect of the ladies; but I cared
little for that: all I cared about, besides that one grand subject of
my thoughts, was to see the cups travel up to the tea-tray, and not
come down again. I thought Mr. Millward never _would_ cease telling us
that he was no tea-drinker, and that it was highly injurious to keep
loading the stomach with slops to the exclusion of more wholesome
sustenance, and so give himself time to finish his fourth cup.

At length it was over; and I rose and left the table and the guests
without a word of apology—I could endure their company no longer. I
rushed out to cool my brain in the balmy evening air, and to compose my
mind or indulge my passionate thoughts in the solitude of the garden.

To avoid being seen from the windows I went down a quiet little avenue
that skirted one side of the inclosure, at the bottom of which was a
seat embowered in roses and honeysuckles. Here I sat down to think over
the virtues and wrongs of the lady of Wildfell Hall; but I had not been
so occupied two minutes, before voices and laughter, and glimpses of
moving objects through the trees, informed me that the whole company
had turned out to take an airing in the garden too. However, I nestled
up in a corner of the bower, and hoped to retain possession of it,
secure alike from observation and intrusion. But no—confound it—there
was some one coming down the avenue! Why couldn’t they enjoy the
flowers and sunshine of the open garden, and leave that sunless nook to
me, and the gnats and midges?

But, peeping through my fragrant screen of the interwoven branches to
discover who the intruders were (for a murmur of voices told me it was
more than one), my vexation instantly subsided, and far other feelings
agitated my still unquiet soul; for there was Mrs. Graham, slowly
moving down the walk with Arthur by her side, and no one else. Why were
they alone? Had the poison of detracting tongues already spread through
all; and had they all turned their backs upon her? I now recollected
having seen Mrs. Wilson, in the early part of the evening, edging her
chair close up to my mother, and bending forward, evidently in the
delivery of some important confidential intelligence; and from the
incessant wagging of her head, the frequent distortions of her wrinkled
physiognomy, and the winking and malicious twinkle of her little ugly
eyes, I judged it was some spicy piece of scandal that engaged her
powers; and from the cautious privacy of the communication I supposed
some person then present was the luckless object of her calumnies: and
from all these tokens, together with my mother’s looks and gestures of
mingled horror and incredulity, I now concluded that object to have
been Mrs. Graham. I did not emerge from my place of concealment till
she had nearly reached the bottom of the walk, lest my appearance
should drive her away; and when I did step forward she stood still and
seemed inclined to turn back as it was.

“Oh, don’t let us disturb you, Mr. Markham!” said she. “We came here to
seek retirement ourselves, not to intrude on your seclusion.”

“I am no hermit, Mrs. Graham—though I own it looks rather like it to
absent myself in this uncourteous fashion from my guests.”

“I feared you were unwell,” said she, with a look of real concern.

“I was rather, but it’s over now. Do sit here a little and rest, and
tell me how you like this arbour,” said I, and, lifting Arthur by the
shoulders, I planted him in the middle of the seat by way of securing
his mamma, who, acknowledging it to be a tempting place of refuge,
threw herself back in one corner, while I took possession of the other.

But that word refuge disturbed me. Had their unkindness then really
driven her to seek for peace in solitude?

“Why have they left you alone?” I asked.

“It is I who have left them,” was the smiling rejoinder. “I was wearied
to death with small talk—nothing wears me out like that. I cannot
imagine how they _can_ go on as they do.”

I could not help smiling at the serious depth of her wonderment.

“Is it that they think it a _duty_ to be continually talking,” pursued
she: “and so never pause to think, but fill up with aimless trifles and
vain repetitions when subjects of real interest fail to present
themselves, or do they really take a pleasure in such discourse?”

“Very likely they do,” said I; “their shallow minds can hold no great
ideas, and their light heads are carried away by trivialities that
would not move a better-furnished skull; and their only alternative to
such discourse is to plunge over head and ears into the slough of
scandal—which is their chief delight.”

“Not all of them, surely?” cried the lady, astonished at the bitterness
of my remark.

“No, certainly; I exonerate my sister from such degraded tastes, and my
mother too, if you included _her_ in your animadversions.”

“I meant no animadversions against any one, and certainly intended no
disrespectful allusions to your mother. I have known some sensible
persons great adepts in that style of conversation when circumstances
impelled them to it; but it is a gift I cannot boast the possession of.
I kept up my attention on this occasion as long as I could, but when my
powers were exhausted I stole away to seek a few minutes’ repose in
this quiet walk. I hate talking where there is no exchange of ideas or
sentiments, and no good given or received.”

“Well,” said I, “if ever I trouble you with my loquacity, tell me so at
once, and I promise not to be offended; for I possess the faculty of
enjoying the company of those I—of my friends as well in silence as in
conversation.”

“I don’t quite believe you; but if it were so you would exactly suit me
for a companion.”

“I am all you wish, then, in other respects?”

“No, I don’t mean that. How beautiful those little clusters of foliage
look, where the sun comes through behind them!” said she, on purpose to
change the subject.

And they did look beautiful, where at intervals the level rays of the
sun penetrating the thickness of trees and shrubs on the opposite side
of the path before us, relieved their dusky verdure by displaying
patches of semi-transparent leaves of resplendent golden green.

“I almost wish I were not a painter,” observed my companion.

“Why so? one would think at such a time you would most exult in your
privilege of being able to imitate the various brilliant and delightful
touches of nature.”

“No; for instead of delivering myself up to the full enjoyment of them
as others do, I am always troubling my head about how I could produce
the same effect upon canvas; and as that can never be done, it is mere
vanity and vexation of spirit.”

“Perhaps you cannot do it to satisfy yourself, but you may and do
succeed in delighting others with the result of your endeavours.”

“Well, after all, I should not complain: perhaps few people gain their
livelihood with so much pleasure in their toil as I do. Here is some
one coming.”

She seemed vexed at the interruption.

“It is only Mr. Lawrence and Miss Wilson,” said I, “coming to enjoy a
quiet stroll. They will not disturb us.”

I could not quite decipher the expression of her face; but I was
satisfied there was no jealousy therein. What business had I to look
for it?

“What sort of a person is Miss Wilson?” she asked.

“She is elegant and accomplished above the generality of her birth and
station; and some say she is ladylike and agreeable.”

“I thought her somewhat frigid and rather supercilious in her manner
to-day.”

“Very likely she might be so to you. She has possibly taken a prejudice
against you, for I think she regards you in the light of a rival.”

“Me! Impossible, Mr. Markham!” said she, evidently astonished and
annoyed.

“Well, I know nothing about it,” returned I, rather doggedly; for I
thought her annoyance was chiefly against myself.

The pair had now approached within a few paces of us. Our arbour was
set snugly back in a corner, before which the avenue at its termination
turned off into the more airy walk along the bottom of the garden. As
they approached this, I saw, by the aspect of Jane Wilson, that she was
directing her companion’s attention to us; and, as well by her cold,
sarcastic smile as by the few isolated words of her discourse that
reached me, I knew full well that she was impressing him with the idea,
that we were strongly attached to each other. I noticed that he
coloured up to the temples, gave us one furtive glance in passing, and
walked on, looking grave, but seemingly offering no reply to her
remarks.

It was true, then, that he _had_ some designs upon Mrs. Graham; and,
were they honourable, he would not be so anxious to conceal them. _She_
was blameless, of course, but he was detestable beyond all count.

While these thoughts flashed through my mind, my companion abruptly
rose, and calling her son, said they would now go in quest of the
company, and departed up the avenue. Doubtless she had heard or guessed
something of Miss Wilson’s remarks, and therefore it was natural enough
she should choose to continue the _tête-à-tête_ no longer, especially
as at that moment my cheeks were burning with indignation against my
former friend, the token of which she might mistake for a blush of
stupid embarrassment. For this I owed Miss Wilson yet another grudge;
and still the more I thought upon her conduct the more I hated her.

It was late in the evening before I joined the company. I found Mrs.
Graham already equipped for departure, and taking leave of the rest,
who were now returned to the house. I offered, nay, begged to accompany
her home. Mr. Lawrence was standing by at the time conversing with some
one else. He did not look at us, but, on hearing my earnest request, he
paused in the middle of a sentence to listen for her reply, and went
on, with a look of quiet satisfaction, the moment he found it was to be
a denial.

A denial it was, decided, though not unkind. She could not be persuaded
to think there was danger for herself or her child in traversing those
lonely lanes and fields without attendance. It was daylight still, and
she should meet no one; or if she did, the people were quiet and
harmless she was well assured. In fact, she would not hear of any one’s
putting himself out of the way to accompany her, though Fergus
vouchsafed to offer his services in case they should be more acceptable
than mine, and my mother begged she might send one of the farming-men
to escort her.

When she was gone the rest was all a blank or worse. Lawrence attempted
to draw me into conversation, but I snubbed him and went to another
part of the room. Shortly after the party broke up and he himself took
leave. When he came to me I was blind to his extended hand, and deaf to
his good-night till he repeated it a second time; and then, to get rid
of him, I muttered an inarticulate reply, accompanied by a sulky nod.

“What is the matter, Markham?” whispered he.

I replied by a wrathful and contemptuous stare.

“Are you angry because Mrs. Graham would not let you go home with her?”
he asked, with a faint smile that nearly exasperated me beyond control.

But, swallowing down all fiercer answers, I merely demanded,—“What
business is it of yours?”

“Why, none,” replied he with provoking quietness; “only,”—and he raised
his eyes to my face, and spoke with unusual solemnity,—“only let me
tell you, Markham, that if you have any designs in that quarter, they
will certainly fail; and it grieves me to see you cherishing false
hopes, and wasting your strength in useless efforts, for—”

“Hypocrite!” I exclaimed; and he held his breath, and looked very
blank, turned white about the gills, and went away without another
word.

I had wounded him to the quick; and I was glad of it.




 CHAPTER X


When all were gone, I learnt that the vile slander had indeed been
circulated throughout the company, in the very presence of the victim.
Rose, however, vowed she did not and would not believe it, and my
mother made the same declaration, though not, I fear, with the same
amount of real, unwavering incredulity. It seemed to dwell continually
on her mind, and she kept irritating me from time to time by such
expressions as—“Dear, dear, who would have thought it!—Well! I always
thought there was something odd about her.—You see what it is for women
to affect to be different to other people.” And once it was,—

“I misdoubted that appearance of mystery from the very first—I
_thought_ there would no good come of it; but this is a sad, sad
business, to be sure!”

“Why, mother, you said you didn’t believe these tales,” said Fergus.

“No more I do, my dear; but then, you know, there must be some
foundation.”

“The foundation is in the wickedness and falsehood of the world,” said
I, “and in the fact that Mr. Lawrence has been seen to go that way once
or twice of an evening—and the village gossips say he goes to pay his
addresses to the strange lady, and the scandal-mongers have greedily
seized the rumour, to make it the basis of their own infernal
structure.”

“Well, but, Gilbert, there must be something in her _manner_ to
countenance such reports.”

“Did _you_ see anything in her manner?”

“No, certainly; but then, you know, I always said there was something
strange about her.”

I believe it was on that very evening that I ventured on another
invasion of Wildfell Hall. From the time of our party, which was
upwards of a week ago, I had been making daily efforts to meet its
mistress in her walks; and always disappointed (she must have managed
it so on purpose), had nightly kept revolving in my mind some pretext
for another call. At length I concluded that the separation could be
endured no longer (by this time, you will see, I was pretty far gone);
and, taking from the book-case an old volume that I thought she might
be interested in, though, from its unsightly and somewhat dilapidated
condition, I had not yet ventured to offer it for perusal, I hastened
away,—but not without sundry misgivings as to how she would receive me,
or how I could summon courage to present myself with so slight an
excuse. But, perhaps, I might see her in the field or the garden, and
then there would be no great difficulty: it was the formal knocking at
the door, with the prospect of being gravely ushered in by Rachel, to
the presence of a surprised, uncordial mistress, that so greatly
disturbed me.

My wish, however, was not gratified. Mrs. Graham herself was not to be
seen; but there was Arthur playing with his frolicsome little dog in
the garden. I looked over the gate and called him to me. He wanted me
to come in; but I told him I could not without his mother’s leave.

“I’ll go and ask her,” said the child.

“No, no, Arthur, you mustn’t do that; but if she’s not engaged, just
ask her to come here a minute. Tell her I want to speak to her.”

He ran to perform my bidding, and quickly returned with his mother. How
lovely she looked with her dark ringlets streaming in the light summer
breeze, her fair cheek slightly flushed, and her countenance radiant
with smiles. Dear Arthur! what did I not owe to you for this and every
other happy meeting? Through him I was at once delivered from all
formality, and terror, and constraint. In love affairs, there is no
mediator like a merry, simple-hearted child—ever ready to cement
divided hearts, to span the unfriendly gulf of custom, to melt the ice
of cold reserve, and overthrow the separating walls of dread formality
and pride.

“Well, Mr. Markham, what is it?” said the young mother, accosting me
with a pleasant smile.

“I want you to look at this book, and, if you please, to take it, and
peruse it at your leisure. I make no apology for calling you out on
such a lovely evening, though it _be_ for a matter of no greater
importance.”

“Tell him to come in, mamma,” said Arthur.

“Would you like to come in?” asked the lady.

“Yes; I should like to see your improvements in the garden.”

“And how your sister’s roots have prospered in my charge,” added she,
as she opened the gate.

And we sauntered through the garden, and talked of the flowers, the
trees, and the book, and then of other things. The evening was kind and
genial, and so was my companion. By degrees I waxed more warm and
tender than, perhaps, I had ever been before; but still I said nothing
tangible, and she attempted no repulse, until, in passing a moss
rose-tree that I had brought her some weeks since, in my sister’s name,
she plucked a beautiful half-open bud and bade me give it to Rose.

“May I not keep it myself?” I asked.

“No; but here is another for you.”

Instead of taking it quietly, I likewise took the hand that offered it,
and looked into her face. She let me hold it for a moment, and I saw a
flash of ecstatic brilliance in her eye, a glow of glad excitement on
her face—I thought my hour of victory was come—but instantly a painful
recollection seemed to flash upon her; a cloud of anguish darkened her
brow, a marble paleness blanched her cheek and lip; there seemed a
moment of inward conflict, and, with a sudden effort, she withdrew her
hand, and retreated a step or two back.

“Now, Mr. Markham,” said she, with a kind of desperate calmness, “I
must tell you plainly that I cannot do with this. I like your company,
because I am alone here, and your conversation pleases me more than
that of any other person; but if you cannot be content to regard me as
a friend—a plain, cold, motherly, or sisterly friend—I must beg you to
leave me now, and let me alone hereafter: in fact, we must be strangers
for the future.”

“I will, then—be your friend, or brother, or anything you wish, if you
will only let me continue to see you; but tell me why I cannot be
anything more?”

There was a perplexed and thoughtful pause.

“Is it in consequence of some rash vow?”

“It is something of the kind,” she answered. “Some day I may tell you,
but at present you had better leave me; and never, Gilbert, put me to
the painful necessity of repeating what I have just now said to you,”
she earnestly added, giving me her hand in serious kindness. How sweet,
how musical my own name sounded in her mouth!

“I will not,” I replied. “But you pardon _this_ offence?”

“On condition that you never repeat it.”

“And may I come to see you now and then?”

“Perhaps—occasionally; provided you never abuse the privilege.”

“I make no empty promises, but you shall see.”

“The moment you do our intimacy is at an end, that’s all.”

“And will you always call me Gilbert? It sounds more sisterly, and it
will serve to remind me of our contract.”

She smiled, and once more bid me go; and at length I judged it prudent
to obey, and she re-entered the house and I went down the hill. But as
I went the tramp of horses’ hoofs fell on my ear, and broke the
stillness of the dewy evening; and, looking towards the lane, I saw a
solitary equestrian coming up. Inclining to dusk as it was, I knew him
at a glance: it was Mr. Lawrence on his grey pony. I flew across the
field, leaped the stone fence, and then walked down the lane to meet
him. On seeing me, he suddenly drew in his little steed, and seemed
inclined to turn back, but on second thought apparently judged it
better to continue his course as before. He accosted me with a slight
bow, and, edging close to the wall, endeavoured to pass on; but I was
not so minded. Seizing his horse by the bridle, I exclaimed,—“Now,
Lawrence, I will have this mystery explained! Tell me where you are
going, and what you mean to do—at once, and distinctly!”

“Will you take your hand off the bridle?” said he, quietly—“you’re
hurting my pony’s mouth.”

“You and your pony be—”

“What makes you so coarse and brutal, Markham? I’m quite ashamed of
you.”

“You answer my questions—before you leave this spot! I _will_ know what
you mean by this perfidious duplicity!”

“I shall answer no questions till you let go the bridle,—if you stand
till morning.”

“Now then,” said I, unclosing my hand, but still standing before him.

“Ask me some other time, when you can speak like a gentleman,” returned
he, and he made an effort to pass me again; but I quickly re-captured
the pony, scarce less astonished than its master at such uncivil usage.

“Really, Mr. Markham, this is _too_ much!” said the latter. “Can I not
go to see my tenant on matters of business, without being assaulted in
this manner by—?”

“This is no time for business, sir!—I’ll tell you, now, what I think of
your conduct.”

“You’d better defer your opinion to a more convenient season,”
interrupted he in a low tone—“here’s the vicar.” And, in truth, the
vicar was just behind me, plodding homeward from some remote corner of
his parish. I immediately released the squire; and he went on his way,
saluting Mr. Millward as he passed.

“What! quarrelling, Markham?” cried the latter, addressing himself to
me,—“and about that young widow, I doubt?” he added, reproachfully
shaking his head. “But let me tell you, young man” (here he put his
face into mine with an important, confidential air), “she’s not worth
it!” and he confirmed the assertion by a solemn nod.

“MR. MILLWARD,” I exclaimed, in a tone of wrathful menace that made the
reverend gentleman look round—aghast—astounded at such unwonted
insolence, and stare me in the face, with a look that plainly said,
“What, this to me!” But I was too indignant to apologise, or to speak
another word to him: I turned away, and hastened homewards, descending
with rapid strides the steep, rough lane, and leaving him to follow as
he pleased.




 CHAPTER XI


You must suppose about three weeks passed over. Mrs. Graham and I were
now established friends—or brother and sister, as we rather chose to
consider ourselves. She called me Gilbert, by my express desire, and I
called her Helen, for I had seen that name written in her books. I
seldom attempted to see her above twice a week; and still I made our
meetings appear the result of accident as often as I could—for I found
it necessary to be extremely careful—and, altogether, I behaved with
such exceeding propriety that she never had occasion to reprove me
once. Yet I could not but perceive that she was at times unhappy and
dissatisfied with herself or her position, and truly I myself was not
quite contented with the latter: this assumption of brotherly
nonchalance was very hard to sustain, and I often felt myself a most
confounded hypocrite with it all; I saw too, or rather I felt, that, in
spite of herself, “I was not indifferent to her,” as the novel heroes
modestly express it, and while I thankfully enjoyed my present good
fortune, I could not fail to wish and hope for something better in
future; but, of course, I kept such dreams entirely to myself.

“Where are you going, Gilbert?” said Rose, one evening, shortly after
tea, when I had been busy with the farm all day.

“To take a walk,” was the reply.

“Do you always brush your hat so carefully, and do your hair so nicely,
and put on such smart new gloves when you take a walk?”

“Not always.”

“You’re going to Wildfell Hall, aren’t you?”

“What makes you think so?”

“Because you look as if you were—but I wish you wouldn’t go so often.”

“Nonsense, child! I don’t go once in six weeks—what do you mean?”

“Well, but if I were you, I wouldn’t have so much to do with Mrs.
Graham.”

“Why, Rose, are you, too, giving in to the prevailing opinion?”

“No,” returned she, hesitatingly—“but I’ve heard so much about her
lately, both at the Wilsons’ and the vicarage;—and besides, mamma says,
if she were a proper person she would not be living there by
herself—and don’t you remember last winter, Gilbert, all that about the
false name to the picture; and how she explained it—saying she had
friends or acquaintances from whom she wished her present residence to
be concealed, and that she was afraid of their tracing her out;—and
then, how suddenly she started up and left the room when that person
came—whom she took good care not to let us catch a glimpse of, and who
Arthur, with such an air of mystery, told us was his mamma’s friend?”

“Yes, Rose, I remember it all; and I can forgive your uncharitable
conclusions; for, perhaps, if I did not know her myself, I should put
all these things together, and believe the same as you do; but thank
God, I do know her; and I should be unworthy the name of a man, if I
could believe anything that was said against her, unless I heard it
from her own lips.—I should as soon believe such things of you, Rose.”

“Oh, Gilbert!”

“Well, do you think I _could_ believe anything of the kind,—whatever
the Wilsons and Millwards dared to whisper?”

“I should hope _not_ indeed!”

“And why not?—Because I know you—Well, and I know her just as well.”

“Oh, no! you know nothing of her former life; and last year, at this
time, you did not know that such a person existed.”

“No matter. There is such a thing as looking through a person’s eyes
into the heart, and learning more of the height, and breadth, and depth
of another’s soul in one hour than it might take you a lifetime to
discover, if he or she were not disposed to reveal it, or if you had
not the sense to understand it.”

“Then you _are_ going to see her this evening?”

“To be sure I am!”

“But what would mamma say, Gilbert!”

“Mamma needn’t know.”

“But she must know some time, if you go on.”

“Go on!—there’s no going on in the matter. Mrs. Graham and I are two
friends—and will be; and no man breathing shall hinder it,—or has a
right to interfere between us.”

“But if you knew how they talk you would be more careful, for her sake
as well as for your own. Jane Wilson thinks your visits to the old hall
but another proof of her depravity—”

“Confound Jane Wilson!”

“And Eliza Millward is quite grieved about you.”

“I hope she is.”

“But I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

“Wouldn’t what?—How do they know that I go there?”

“There’s nothing hid from them: they spy out everything.”

“Oh, I never thought of this!—And so they dare to turn my friendship
into food for further scandal against her!—That proves the falsehood of
their other lies, at all events, if any proof were wanting.—Mind you
contradict them, Rose, whenever you can.”

“But they don’t speak openly to me about such things: it is only by
hints and innuendoes, and by what I hear others say, that I knew what
they think.”

“Well, then, I won’t go to-day, as it’s getting latish. But oh, deuce
take their cursed, envenomed tongues!” I muttered, in the bitterness of
my soul.

And just at that moment the vicar entered the room: we had been too
much absorbed in our conversation to observe his knock. After his
customary cheerful and fatherly greeting of Rose, who was rather a
favourite with the old gentleman, he turned somewhat sternly to me:—

“Well, sir!” said he, “you’re quite a stranger. It is—let—me—see,” he
continued, slowly, as he deposited his ponderous bulk in the arm-chair
that Rose officiously brought towards him; “it is just—six-weeks—by my
reckoning, since you darkened—my—door!” He spoke it with emphasis, and
struck his stick on the floor.

“Is it, sir?” said I.

“Ay! It is so!” He added an affirmatory nod, and continued to gaze upon
me with a kind of irate solemnity, holding his substantial stick
between his knees, with his hands clasped upon its head.

“I have been busy,” I said, for an apology was evidently demanded.

“Busy!” repeated he, derisively.

“Yes, you know I’ve been getting in my hay; and now the harvest is
beginning.”

“Humph!”

Just then my mother came in, and created a diversion in my favour by
her loquacious and animated welcome of the reverend guest. She
regretted deeply that he had not come a little earlier, in time for
tea, but offered to have some immediately prepared, if he would do her
the favour to partake of it.

“Not any for me, I thank you,” replied he; “I shall be at home in a few
minutes.”

“Oh, but do stay and take a little! it will be ready in five minutes.”

But he rejected the offer with a majestic wave of the hand.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll take, Mrs. Markham,” said he: “I’ll take a
glass of your excellent ale.”

“With pleasure!” cried my mother, proceeding with alacrity to pull the
bell and order the favoured beverage.

“I thought,” continued he, “I’d just look in upon you as I passed, and
taste your home-brewed ale. I’ve been to call on Mrs. Graham.”

“Have you, indeed?”

He nodded gravely, and added with awful emphasis—“I thought it
incumbent upon me to do so.”

“Really!” ejaculated my mother.

“Why so, Mr. Millward?” asked I.

He looked at me with some severity, and turning again to my mother,
repeated,—“I thought it incumbent upon me!” and struck his stick on the
floor again. My mother sat opposite, an awe-struck but admiring
auditor.

“‘Mrs. Graham,’ said I,” he continued, shaking his head as he spoke,
“‘these are terrible reports!’ ‘What, sir?’ says she, affecting to be
ignorant of my meaning. ‘It is my—duty—as—your pastor,’ said I, ‘to
tell you both everything that I myself see reprehensible in your
conduct, and all I have reason to suspect, and what others tell me
concerning you.’—So I told her!”

“You did, sir?” cried I, starting from my seat and striking my fist on
the table. He merely glanced towards me, and continued—addressing his
hostess:—

“It was a painful duty, Mrs. Markham—but I told her!”

“And how did she take it?” asked my mother.

“Hardened, I fear—hardened!” he replied, with a despondent shake of the
head; “and, at the same time, there was a strong display of
unchastened, misdirected passions. She turned white in the face, and
drew her breath through her teeth in a savage sort of way;—but she
offered no extenuation or defence; and with a kind of shameless
calmness—shocking indeed to witness in one so young—as good as told me
that my remonstrance was unavailing, and my pastoral advice quite
thrown away upon her—nay, that my very _presence was_ displeasing while
I spoke such things. And I withdrew at length, too plainly seeing that
nothing could be done—and sadly grieved to find her case so hopeless.
But I am fully determined, Mrs. Markham, that _my_
daughters—shall—not—consort with her. Do you adopt the same resolution
with regard to yours!—As for your sons—as for _you_, young man,” he
continued, sternly turning to me—

“As for ME, sir,” I began, but checked by some impediment in my
utterance, and finding that my whole frame trembled with fury, I said
no more, but took the wiser part of snatching up my hat and bolting
from the room, slamming the door behind me, with a bang that shook the
house to its foundations, and made my mother scream, and gave a
momentary relief to my excited feelings.

The next minute saw me hurrying with rapid strides in the direction of
Wildfell Hall—to what intent or purpose I could scarcely tell, but I
must be moving somewhere, and no other goal would do—I must see her
too, and speak to her—that was certain; but what to say, or how to act,
I had no definite idea. Such stormy thoughts—so many different
resolutions crowded in upon me, that my mind was little better than a
chaos of conflicting passions.




 CHAPTER XII


In little more than twenty minutes the journey was accomplished. I
paused at the gate to wipe my streaming forehead, and recover my breath
and some degree of composure. Already the rapid walking had somewhat
mitigated my excitement; and with a firm and steady tread I paced the
garden-walk. In passing the inhabited wing of the building, I caught a
sight of Mrs. Graham, through the open window, slowly pacing up and
down her lonely room.

She seemed agitated and even dismayed at my arrival, as if she thought
I too was coming to accuse her. I had entered her presence intending to
condole with her upon the wickedness of the world, and help her to
abuse the vicar and his vile informants, but now I felt positively
ashamed to mention the subject, and determined not to refer to it,
unless she led the way.

“I am come at an unseasonable hour,” said I, assuming a cheerfulness I
did not feel, in order to reassure her; “but I won’t stay many
minutes.”

She smiled upon me, faintly it is true, but most kindly—I had almost
said thankfully, as her apprehensions were removed.

“How dismal you are, Helen! Why have you no fire?” I said, looking
round on the gloomy apartment.

“It is summer yet,” she replied.

“But _we always_ have a fire in the evenings, if we can bear it; and
you especially require one in this cold house and dreary room.”

“You should have come a little sooner, and I would have had one lighted
for you: but it is not worth while now—you won’t stay many minutes, you
say, and Arthur is gone to bed.”

“But I have a fancy for a fire, nevertheless. Will you order one, if I
ring?”

“Why, Gilbert, you don’t _look_ cold!” said she, smilingly regarding my
face, which no doubt seemed warm enough.

“No,” replied I, “but I want to see you comfortable before I go.”

“Me comfortable!” repeated she, with a bitter laugh, as if there were
something amusingly absurd in the idea. “It suits me better as it is,”
she added, in a tone of mournful resignation.

But determined to have my own way, I pulled the bell.

“There now, Helen!” I said, as the approaching steps of Rachel were
heard in answer to the summons. There was nothing for it but to turn
round and desire the maid to light the fire.

I owe Rachel a grudge to this day for the look she cast upon me ere she
departed on her mission, the sour, suspicious, inquisitorial look that
plainly demanded, “What are _you_ here for, I wonder?” Her mistress did
not fail to notice it, and a shade of uneasiness darkened her brow.

“You must not stay long, Gilbert,” said she, when the door was closed
upon us.

“I’m not going to,” said I, somewhat testily, though without a grain of
anger in my heart against any one but the meddling old woman. “But,
Helen, I’ve something to say to you before I go.”

“What is it?”

“No, not now—I don’t know yet precisely what it is, or how to say it,”
replied I, with more truth than wisdom; and then, fearing lest she
should turn me out of the house, I began talking about indifferent
matters in order to gain time. Meanwhile Rachel came in to kindle the
fire, which was soon effected by thrusting a red-hot poker between the
bars of the grate, where the fuel was already disposed for ignition.
She honoured me with another of her hard, inhospitable looks in
departing, but, little moved thereby, I went on talking; and setting a
chair for Mrs. Graham on one side of the hearth, and one for myself on
the other, I ventured to sit down, though half suspecting she would
rather see me go.

In a little while we both relapsed into silence, and continued for
several minutes gazing abstractedly into the fire—she intent upon her
own sad thoughts, and I reflecting how delightful it would be to be
seated thus beside her with no other presence to restrain our
intercourse—not even that of Arthur, our mutual friend, without whom we
had never met before—if only I could venture to speak my mind, and
disburden my full heart of the feelings that had so long oppressed it,
and which it now struggled to retain, with an effort that it seemed
impossible to continue much longer,—and revolving the pros and cons for
opening my heart to her there and then, and imploring a return of
affection, the permission to regard her thenceforth as my own, and the
right and the power to defend her from the calumnies of malicious
tongues. On the one hand, I felt a new-born confidence in my powers of
persuasion—a strong conviction that my own fervour of spirit would
grant me eloquence—that my very determination—the absolute necessity
for succeeding, that I felt must win me what I sought; while, on the
other, I feared to lose the ground I had already gained with so much
toil and skill, and destroy all future hope by one rash effort, when
time and patience might have won success. It was like setting my life
upon the cast of a die; and yet I was ready to resolve upon the
attempt. At any rate, I would entreat the explanation she had half
promised to give me before; I would demand the reason of this hateful
barrier, this mysterious impediment to my happiness, and, as I trusted,
to her own.

But while I considered in what manner I could best frame my request, my
companion, wakened from her reverie with a scarcely audible sigh, and
looking towards the window, where the blood-red harvest moon, just
rising over one of the grim, fantastic evergreens, was shining in upon
us, said,—“Gilbert, it is getting late.”

“I see,” said I. “You want me to go, I suppose?”

“I think you ought. If my kind neighbours get to know of this visit—as
no doubt they will—they will not turn it much to my advantage.” It was
with what the vicar would doubtless have called a savage sort of smile
that she said this.

“Let them turn it as they will,” said I. “What are their thoughts to
you or me, so long as we are satisfied with ourselves—and each other.
Let them go to the deuce with their vile constructions and their lying
inventions!”

This outburst brought a flush of colour to her face.

“You have heard, then, what they say of me?”

“I heard some detestable falsehoods; but none but fools would credit
them for a moment, Helen, so don’t let them trouble you.”

“I did not think Mr. Millward a fool, and he believes it all; but
however little you may value the opinions of those about you—however
little you may esteem them as individuals, it is not pleasant to be
looked upon as a liar and a hypocrite, to be thought to practise what
you abhor, and to encourage the vices you would discountenance, to find
your good intentions frustrated, and your hands crippled by your
supposed unworthiness, and to bring disgrace on the principles you
profess.”

“True; and if I, by my thoughtlessness and selfish disregard to
appearances, have at all assisted to expose you to these evils, let me
entreat you not only to pardon me, but to enable me to make reparation;
authorise me to clear your name from every imputation: give me the
right to identify your honour with my own, and to defend your
reputation as more precious than my life!”

“Are you hero enough to unite yourself to one whom you know to be
suspected and despised by all around you, and identify your interests
and your honour with hers? Think! it is a serious thing.”

“I should be proud to do it, Helen!—most happy—delighted beyond
expression!—and if that be all the obstacle to our union, it is
demolished, and you must—you shall be mine!”

And starting from my seat in a frenzy of ardour, I seized her hand and
would have pressed it to my lips, but she as suddenly caught it away,
exclaiming in the bitterness of intense affliction,—“No, no, it is not
all!”

“What is it, then? You promised I should know some time, and—”

“You shall know some time—but not now—my head aches terribly,” she
said, pressing her hand to her forehead, “and I must have some
repose—and surely I have had misery enough to-day!” she added, almost
wildly.

“But it could not harm you to tell it,” I persisted: “it would ease
your mind; and I should then know how to comfort you.”

She shook her head despondingly. “If you knew all, you, too, would
blame me—perhaps even more than I deserve—though I have cruelly wronged
you,” she added in a low murmur, as if she mused aloud.

“_You_, Helen? Impossible?”

“Yes, not willingly; for I did not know the strength and depth of your
attachment. I thought—at least I endeavoured to think your regard for
me was as cold and fraternal as you professed it to be.”

“Or as yours?”

“Or as mine—ought to have been—of such a light and selfish, superficial
nature, that—”

“_There_, indeed, you wronged me.”

[Illustration]

“I know I did; and, sometimes, I suspected it then; but I thought, upon
the whole, there could be no great harm in leaving your fancies and
your hopes to dream themselves to nothing—or flutter away to some more
fitting object, while your friendly sympathies remained with me; but if
I had known the depth of your regard, the generous, disinterested
affection you seem to feel—”

“_Seem_, Helen?”

“That you _do_ feel, then, I would have acted differently.”

“How? You _could_ not have given me less encouragement, or treated me
with greater severity than you did! And if you think you have wronged
me by giving me your friendship, and occasionally admitting me to the
enjoyment of your company and conversation, when all hopes of closer
intimacy were vain—as indeed you always gave me to understand—if you
think you have wronged me by this, you are mistaken; for such favours,
in themselves alone, are not only delightful to my heart, but
purifying, exalting, ennobling to my soul; and I would rather have your
friendship than the love of any other woman in the world!”

Little comforted by this, she clasped her hands upon her knee, and
glancing upward, seemed, in silent anguish, to implore divine
assistance; then, turning to me, she calmly said,—“To-morrow, if you
meet me on the moor about mid-day, I will tell you all you seek to
know; and perhaps you will then see the necessity of discontinuing our
intimacy—if, indeed, you do not willingly resign me as one no longer
worthy of regard.”

“I can safely answer no to that: you cannot have such grave confessions
to make—you must be trying my faith, Helen.”

“No, no, no,” she earnestly repeated—“I wish it were so! Thank heaven!”
she added, “I have no great crime to confess; but I have more than you
will like to hear, or, perhaps, can readily excuse,—and more than I can
tell you now; so let me entreat you to leave me!”

“I will; but answer me this one question first;—do you love me?”

“I will not answer it!”

“Then I will conclude you do; and so good-night.”

She turned from me to hide the emotion she could not quite control; but
I took her hand and fervently kissed it.

“Gilbert, _do_ leave me!” she cried, in a tone of such thrilling
anguish that I felt it would be cruel to disobey.

But I gave one look back before I closed the door, and saw her leaning
forward on the table, with her hands pressed against her eyes, sobbing
convulsively; yet I withdrew in silence. I felt that to obtrude my
consolations on her then would only serve to aggravate her sufferings.

To tell you all the questionings and conjectures—the fears, and hopes,
and wild emotions that jostled and chased each other through my mind as
I descended the hill, would almost fill a volume in itself. But before
I was half-way down, a sentiment of strong sympathy for her I had left
behind me had displaced all other feelings, and seemed imperatively to
draw me back: I began to think, “Why am I hurrying so fast in this
direction? Can I find comfort or consolation—peace, certainty,
contentment, all—or anything that I want at home? and can I leave all
perturbation, sorrow, and anxiety behind me there?”

And I turned round to look at the old Hall. There was little besides
the chimneys visible above my contracted horizon. I walked back to get
a better view of it. When it rose in sight, I stood still a moment to
look, and then continued moving towards the gloomy object of
attraction. Something called me nearer—nearer still—and why not, pray?
Might I not find more benefit in the contemplation of that venerable
pile with the full moon in the cloudless heaven shining so calmly above
it—with that warm yellow lustre peculiar to an August night—and the
mistress of my soul within, than in returning to my home, where all
comparatively was light, and life, and cheerfulness, and therefore
inimical to me in my present frame of mind,—and the more so that its
inmates all were more or less imbued with that detestable belief, the
very _thought_ of which made my blood boil in my veins—and how could I
endure to hear it openly declared, or cautiously insinuated—which was
worse?—I had had trouble enough already, with some babbling fiend that
would keep whispering in my ear, “It may be true,” till I had shouted
aloud, “It is false! I defy you to make me suppose it!”

I could see the red firelight dimly gleaming from her parlour window. I
went up to the garden wall, and stood leaning over it, with my eyes
fixed upon the lattice, wondering what she was doing, thinking, or
suffering now, and wishing I could speak to her but one word, or even
catch one glimpse of her, before I went.

I had not thus looked, and wished, and wondered long, before I vaulted
over the barrier, unable to resist the temptation of taking one glance
through the window, just to see if she were more composed than when we
parted;—and if I found her still in deep distress, perhaps I might
venture attempt a word of comfort—to utter one of the many things I
should have said before, instead of aggravating her sufferings by my
stupid impetuosity. I looked. Her chair was vacant: so was the room.
But at that moment some one opened the outer door, and a voice—_her_
voice—said,—“Come out—I want to see the moon, and breathe the evening
air: they will do me good—if anything will.”

Here, then, were she and Rachel coming to take a walk in the garden. I
wished myself safe back over the wall. I stood, however, in the shadow
of the tall holly-bush, which, standing between the window and the
porch, at present screened me from observation, but did not prevent me
from seeing two figures come forth into the moonlight: Mrs. Graham
followed by another—_not_ Rachel, but a young man, slender and rather
tall. O heavens, how my temples throbbed! Intense anxiety darkened my
sight; but I thought—yes, and the voice confirmed it—it was Mr.
Lawrence!

“You should not let it worry you so much, Helen,” said he; “I will be
more cautious in future; and in time—”

I did not hear the rest of the sentence; for he walked close beside her
and spoke so gently that I could not catch the words. My heart was
splitting with hatred; but I listened intently for her reply. I heard
it plainly enough.

“But I must leave this place, Frederick,” she said—“I never can be
happy here,—nor anywhere else, indeed,” she added, with a mirthless
laugh,—“but I cannot rest here.”

“But where could you find a better place?” replied he, “so secluded—so
near me, if you think anything of that.”

“Yes,” interrupted she, “it is all I could wish, if they could only
have left me alone.”

“But wherever you go, Helen, there will be the same sources of
annoyance. I cannot consent to lose you: I must go with you, or come to
you; and there are meddling fools elsewhere, as well as here.”

While thus conversing they had sauntered slowly past me, down the walk,
and I heard no more of their discourse; but I saw him put his arm round
her waist, while she lovingly rested her hand on his shoulder;—and
then, a tremulous darkness obscured my sight, my heart sickened and my
head burned like fire: I half rushed, half staggered from the spot,
where horror had kept me rooted, and leaped or tumbled over the wall—I
hardly know which—but I know that, afterwards, like a passionate child,
I dashed myself on the ground and lay there in a paroxysm of anger and
despair—how long, I cannot undertake to say; but it must have been a
considerable time; for when, having partially relieved myself by a
torment of tears, and looked up at the moon, shining so calmly and
carelessly on, as little influenced by my misery as I was by its
peaceful radiance, and earnestly prayed for death or forgetfulness, I
had risen and journeyed homewards—little regarding the way, but carried
instinctively by my feet to the door, I found it bolted against me, and
every one in bed except my mother, who hastened to answer my impatient
knocking, and received me with a shower of questions and rebukes.

“Oh, Gilbert! how _could_ you do so? Where _have_ you been? Do come in
and take your supper. I’ve got it all ready, though you don’t deserve
it, for keeping me in such a fright, after the strange manner you left
the house this evening. Mr. Millward was quite—Bless the boy! how ill
he looks. Oh, gracious! what is the matter?”

“Nothing, nothing—give me a candle.”

“But won’t you take some supper?”

“No; I want to go to bed,” said I, taking a candle and lighting it at
the one she held in her hand.

“Oh, Gilbert, how you tremble!” exclaimed my anxious parent. “How white
you look! Do tell me what it is? Has anything happened?”

“It’s nothing,” cried I, ready to stamp with vexation because the
candle would not light. Then, suppressing my irritation, I added, “I’ve
been walking too fast, that’s all. Good-night,” and marched off to bed,
regardless of the “Walking too fast! where have you been?” that was
called after me from below.

My mother followed me to the very door of my room with her questionings
and advice concerning my health and my conduct; but I implored her to
let me alone till morning; and she withdrew, and at length I had the
satisfaction to hear her close her own door. There was no sleep for me,
however, that night as I thought; and instead of attempting to solicit
it, I employed myself in rapidly pacing the chamber, having first
removed my boots, lest my mother should hear me. But the boards
creaked, and she was watchful. I had not walked above a quarter of an
hour before she was at the door again.

“Gilbert, why are you not in bed—you said you wanted to go?”

“Confound it! I’m going,” said I.

“But why are you so long about it? You must have something on your
mind—”

“For heaven’s sake, let me alone, and get to bed yourself.”

“Can it be that Mrs. Graham that distresses you so?”

“No, no, I tell you—it’s nothing.”

“I wish to goodness it mayn’t,” murmured she, with a sigh, as she
returned to her own apartment, while I threw myself on the bed, feeling
most undutifully disaffected towards her for having deprived me of what
seemed the only shadow of a consolation that remained, and chained me
to that wretched couch of thorns.

Never did I endure so long, so miserable a night as that. And yet it
was not wholly sleepless. Towards morning my distracting thoughts began
to lose all pretensions to coherency, and shape themselves into
confused and feverish dreams, and, at length, there followed an
interval of unconscious slumber. But then the dawn of bitter
recollection that succeeded—the waking to find life a blank, and worse
than a blank, teeming with torment and misery—not a mere barren
wilderness, but full of thorns and briers—to find myself deceived,
duped, hopeless, my affections trampled upon, my angel not an angel,
and my friend a fiend incarnate—it was worse than if I had not slept at
all.

It was a dull, gloomy morning; the weather had changed like my
prospects, and the rain was pattering against the window. I rose,
nevertheless, and went out; not to look after the farm, though that
would serve as my excuse, but to cool my brain, and regain, if
possible, a sufficient degree of composure to meet the family at the
morning meal without exciting inconvenient remarks. If I got a wetting,
that, in conjunction with a pretended over-exertion before breakfast,
might excuse my sudden loss of appetite; and if a cold ensued, the
severer the better—it would help to account for the sullen moods and
moping melancholy likely to cloud my brow for long enough.




 CHAPTER XIII


“My dear Gilbert, I wish you _would_ try to be a little more amiable,”
said my mother one morning after some display of unjustifiable
ill-humour on my part. “You say there is nothing the matter with you,
and nothing has happened to grieve you, and yet I never _saw_ anyone so
altered as you within these last few days. You haven’t a good word for
anybody—friends and strangers, equals and inferiors—it’s all the same.
I do wish you’d try to check it.”

“Check what?”

“Why, your strange temper. You don’t know _how_ it spoils you. I’m sure
a finer disposition than yours by nature could not be, if you’d let it
have fair play: so you’ve no excuse _that_ way.”

While she thus remonstrated, I took up a book, and laying it open on
the table before me, pretended to be deeply absorbed in its perusal,
for I was equally unable to justify myself and unwilling to acknowledge
my errors; and I wished to have nothing to say on the matter. But my
excellent parent went on lecturing, and then came to coaxing, and began
to stroke my hair; and I was getting to feel quite a good boy, but my
mischievous brother, who was idling about the room, revived my
corruption by suddenly calling out,—

“Don’t touch him, mother! he’ll bite! He’s a very tiger in human form.
_I’ve_ given him up for my part—fairly disowned him—cast him off, root
and branch. It’s as much as my life is worth to come within six yards
of him. The other day he nearly fractured my skull for singing a
pretty, inoffensive love-song, on purpose to amuse him.”

“Oh, Gilbert! how could you?” exclaimed my mother.

“I told you to hold your noise first, you know, Fergus,” said I.

“Yes, but when I assured you it was no trouble and went on with the
next verse, thinking you might like it better, you clutched me by the
shoulder and dashed me away, right against the wall there, with such
force that I thought I had bitten my tongue in two, and expected to see
the place plastered with my brains; and when I put my hand to my head,
and found my skull not broken, I thought it was a miracle, and no
mistake. But, poor fellow!” added he, with a sentimental sigh—“his
heart’s broken—that’s the truth of it—and his head’s—”

“Will you be silent NOW?” cried I, starting up, and eyeing the fellow
so fiercely that my mother, thinking I meant to inflict some grievous
bodily injury, laid her hand on my arm, and besought me to let him
alone, and he walked leisurely out, with his hands in his pockets,
singing provokingly—“Shall I, because a woman’s fair,” &c.

“I’m not going to defile my fingers with him,” said I, in answer to the
maternal intercession. “I wouldn’t touch him with the tongs.”

I now recollected that I had business with Robert Wilson, concerning
the purchase of a certain field adjoining my farm—a business I had been
putting off from day to day; for I had no interest in anything now; and
besides, I was misanthropically inclined, and, moreover, had a
particular objection to meeting Jane Wilson or her mother; for though I
had too good reason, now, to credit their reports concerning Mrs.
Graham, I did not _like_ them a bit the better for it—or Eliza Millward
either—and the thought of meeting them was the more repugnant to me
that I could not, now, defy their seeming calumnies and triumph in my
own convictions as before. But to-day I determined to make an effort to
return to my duty. Though I found no pleasure in it, it would be less
irksome than idleness—at all events it would be more profitable. If
life promised no enjoyment within my vocation, at least it offered no
allurements out of it; and henceforth I would put my shoulder to the
wheel and toil away, like any poor drudge of a cart-horse that was
fairly broken in to its labour, and plod through life, not wholly
useless if not agreeable, and uncomplaining if not contented with my
lot.

Thus resolving, with a kind of sullen resignation, if such a term may
be allowed, I wended my way to Ryecote Farm, scarcely expecting to find
its owner within at this time of day, but hoping to learn in what part
of the premises he was most likely to be found.

Absent he was, but expected home in a few minutes; and I was desired to
step into the parlour and wait. Mrs. Wilson was busy in the kitchen,
but the room was not empty; and I scarcely checked an involuntary
recoil as I entered it; for there sat Miss Wilson chattering with Eliza
Millward. However, I determined to be cool and civil. Eliza seemed to
have made the same resolution on her part. We had not met since the
evening of the tea-party; but there was no visible emotion either of
pleasure or pain, no attempt at pathos, no display of injured pride:
she was cool in temper, civil in demeanour. There was even an ease and
cheerfulness about her air and manner that I made no pretension to; but
there was a depth of malice in her too expressive eye that plainly told
me I was not forgiven; for, though she no longer hoped to win me to
herself, she still hated her rival, and evidently delighted to wreak
her spite on me. On the other hand, Miss Wilson was as affable and
courteous as heart could wish, and though I was in no very conversable
humour myself, the two ladies between them managed to keep up a pretty
continuous fire of small talk. But Eliza took advantage of the first
convenient pause to ask if I had lately seen Mrs. Graham, in a tone of
merely casual inquiry, but with a sidelong glance—intended to be
playfully mischievous—really, brimful and running over with malice.

“Not lately,” I replied, in a careless tone, but sternly repelling her
odious glances with my eyes; for I was vexed to feel the colour
mounting to my forehead, despite my strenuous efforts to appear
unmoved.

“What! are you beginning to tire already? I thought so noble a creature
would have power to attach you for a year at least!”

“I would rather not speak of her now.”

“Ah! then you are convinced, at last, of your mistake—you have at
length discovered that your divinity is not quite the immaculate—”

“I desired you not to speak of her, Miss Eliza.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon! I perceive Cupid’s arrows have been too sharp
for you: the wounds, being more than skin-deep, are not yet healed, and
bleed afresh at every mention of the loved one’s name.”

“Say, rather,” interposed Miss Wilson, “that Mr. Markham feels that
name is unworthy to be mentioned in the presence of right-minded
females. I wonder, Eliza, you should think of referring to that
unfortunate person—you might know the mention of her would be anything
but agreeable to any one here present.”

How could this be borne? I rose and was about to clap my hat upon my
head and burst away, in wrathful indignation from the house; but
recollecting—just in time to save my dignity—the folly of such a
proceeding, and how it would only give my fair tormentors a merry laugh
at my expense, for the sake of one I acknowledged in my own heart to be
unworthy of the slightest sacrifice—though the ghost of my former
reverence and love so hung about me still, that I could not bear to
hear her name aspersed by others—I merely walked to the window, and
having spent a few seconds in vengibly biting my lips and sternly
repressing the passionate heavings of my chest, I observed to Miss
Wilson, that I could see nothing of her brother, and added that, as my
time was precious, it would perhaps be better to call again to-morrow,
at some time when I should be sure to find him at home.

“Oh, no!” said she; “if you wait a minute, he will be sure to come; for
he has business at L——” (that was our market-town), “and will require a
little refreshment before he goes.”

I submitted accordingly, with the best grace I could; and, happily, I
had not long to wait. Mr. Wilson soon arrived, and, indisposed for
business as I was at that moment, and little as I cared for the field
or its owner, I forced my attention to the matter in hand, with very
creditable determination, and quickly concluded the bargain—perhaps
more to the thrifty farmer’s satisfaction than he cared to acknowledge.
Then, leaving him to the discussion of his substantial “refreshment,” I
gladly quitted the house, and went to look after my reapers.

Leaving them busy at work on the side of the valley, I ascended the
hill, intending to visit a corn-field in the more elevated regions, and
see when it would be ripe for the sickle. But I did _not_ visit it that
day; for, as I approached, I beheld, at no great distance, Mrs. Graham
and her son coming down in the opposite direction. They saw me; and
Arthur already was running to meet me; but I immediately turned back
and walked steadily homeward; for I had fully determined never to
encounter his mother again; and regardless of the shrill voice in my
ear, calling upon me to “wait a moment,” I pursued the even tenor of my
way; and he soon relinquished the pursuit as hopeless, or was called
away by his mother. At all events, when I looked back, five minutes
after, not a trace of either was to be seen.

This incident agitated and disturbed me most unaccountably—unless you
would account for it by saying that Cupid’s arrows not only had been
too sharp for me, but they were barbed and deeply rooted, and I had not
yet been able to wrench them from my heart. However that be, I was
rendered doubly miserable for the remainder of the day.




 CHAPTER XIV


Next morning, I bethought me, I, too, had business at L——; so I mounted
my horse, and set forth on the expedition soon after breakfast. It was
a dull, drizzly day; but that was no matter: it was all the more
suitable to my frame of mind. It was likely to be a lonely journey; for
it was no market-day, and the road I traversed was little frequented at
any other time; but that suited me all the better too.

As I trotted along, however, chewing the cud of—_bitter_ fancies, I
heard another horse at no great distance behind me; but I never
conjectured who the rider might be, or troubled my head about him,
till, on slackening my pace to ascend a gentle acclivity, or rather,
suffering my horse to slacken his pace into a lazy walk—for, rapt in my
own reflections, I was letting it jog on as leisurely as it thought
proper—I lost ground, and my fellow-traveller overtook me. He accosted
me by name, for it was no stranger—it was Mr. Lawrence! Instinctively
the fingers of my whip-hand tingled, and grasped their charge with
convulsive energy; but I restrained the impulse, and answering his
salutation with a nod, attempted to push on; but he pushed on beside
me, and began to talk about the weather and the crops. I gave the
briefest possible answers to his queries and observations, and fell
back. He fell back too, and asked if my horse was lame. I replied with
a _look_, at which he placidly smiled.

I was as much astonished as exasperated at this singular pertinacity
and imperturbable assurance on his part. I had thought the
circumstances of our last meeting would have left such an impression on
his mind as to render him cold and distant ever after: instead of that,
he appeared not only to have forgotten all former offences, but to be
impenetrable to all present incivilities. Formerly, the slightest hint,
or mere fancied coldness in tone or glance, had sufficed to repulse
him: now, positive rudeness could not drive him away. Had he heard of
my disappointment; and was he come to witness the result, and triumph
in my despair? I grasped my whip with more determined energy than
before—but still forbore to raise it, and rode on in silence, waiting
for some more tangible cause of offence, before I opened the floodgates
of my soul and poured out the dammed-up fury that was foaming and
swelling within.

“Markham,” said he, in his usual quiet tone, “why do you quarrel with
your friends, because you have been disappointed in one quarter? You
have found your hopes defeated; but how am _I_ to blame for it? I
warned you beforehand, you know, but you would not—”

He said no more; for, impelled by some fiend at my elbow, I had seized
my whip by the small end, and—swift and sudden as a flash of
lightning—brought the other down upon his head. It was not without a
feeling of savage satisfaction that I beheld the instant, deadly pallor
that overspread his face, and the few red drops that trickled down his
forehead, while he reeled a moment in his saddle, and then fell
backward to the ground. The pony, surprised to be so strangely relieved
of its burden, started and capered, and kicked a little, and then made
use of its freedom to go and crop the grass of the hedge-bank: while
its master lay as still and silent as a corpse. Had I killed him?—an
icy hand seemed to grasp my heart and check its pulsation, as I bent
over him, gazing with breathless intensity upon the ghastly, upturned
face. But no; he moved his eyelids and uttered a slight groan. I
breathed again—he was only stunned by the fall. It served him right—it
would teach him better manners in future. Should I help him to his
horse? No. For any other combination of offences I would; but his were
too unpardonable. He might mount it himself, if he liked—in a while:
already he was beginning to stir and look about him—and there it was
for him, quietly browsing on the road-side.

So with a muttered execration I left the fellow to his fate, and
clapping spurs to my own horse, galloped away, excited by a combination
of feelings it would not be easy to analyse; and perhaps, if I did so,
the result would not be very creditable to my disposition; for I am not
sure that a species of exultation in what I had done was not one
principal concomitant.

Shortly, however, the effervescence began to abate, and not many
minutes elapsed before I had turned and gone back to look after the
fate of my victim. It was no generous impulse—no kind relentings that
led me to this—nor even the fear of what might be the consequences to
myself, if I finished my assault upon the squire by leaving him thus
neglected, and exposed to further injury; it was, simply, the voice of
conscience; and I took great credit to myself for attending so promptly
to its dictates—and judging the merit of the deed by the sacrifice it
cost, I was not far wrong.

Mr. Lawrence and his pony had both altered their positions in some
degree. The pony had wandered eight or ten yards further away; and he
had managed, somehow, to remove himself from the middle of the road: I
found him seated in a recumbent position on the bank,—looking very
white and sickly still, and holding his cambric handkerchief (now more
red than white) to his head. It must have been a powerful blow; but
half the credit—or the blame of it (which you please) must be
attributed to the whip, which was garnished with a massive horse’s head
of plated metal. The grass, being sodden with rain, afforded the young
gentleman a rather inhospitable couch; his clothes were considerably
bemired; and his hat was rolling in the mud on the other side of the
road. But his thoughts seemed chiefly bent upon his pony, on which he
was wistfully gazing—half in helpless anxiety, and half in hopeless
abandonment to his fate.

I dismounted, however, and having fastened my own animal to the nearest
tree, first picked up his hat, intending to clap it on his head; but
either he considered his head unfit for a hat, or the hat, in its
present condition, unfit for his head; for shrinking away the one, he
took the other from my hand, and scornfully cast it aside.

“It’s good enough for _you_,” I muttered.

My next good office was to catch his pony and bring it to him, which
was soon accomplished; for the beast was quiet enough in the main, and
only winced and flirted a trifle till I got hold of the bridle—but
then, I must see him in the saddle.

“Here, you fellow—scoundrel—dog—give me your hand, and I’ll help you to
mount.”

No; he turned from me in disgust. I attempted to take him by the arm.
He shrank away as if there had been contamination in my touch.

“What, you won’t! Well! you may sit there till doomsday, for what I
care. But I suppose you don’t want to lose all the blood in your
body—I’ll just condescend to bind that up for you.”

“Let me alone, if you please.”

“Humph; with all my heart. You may go to the d—l, if you choose—and say
I sent you.”

But before I abandoned him to his fate I flung his pony’s bridle over a
stake in the hedge, and threw him my handkerchief, as his own was now
saturated with blood. He took it and cast it back to me in abhorrence
and contempt, with all the strength he could muster. It wanted but this
to fill the measure of his offences. With execrations not loud but deep
I left him to live or die as he could, well satisfied that I had done
_my_ duty in attempting to save him—but forgetting how I had erred in
bringing him into such a condition, and how insultingly my
after-services had been offered—and sullenly prepared to meet the
consequences if he should choose to say I had attempted to murder
him—which I thought not unlikely, as it seemed probable he was actuated
by such spiteful motives in so perseveringly refusing my assistance.

Having remounted my horse, I just looked back to see how he was getting
on, before I rode away. He had risen from the ground, and grasping his
pony’s mane, was attempting to resume his seat in the saddle; but
scarcely had he put his foot in the stirrup, when a sickness or
dizziness seemed to overpower him: he leant forward a moment, with his
head drooped on the animal’s back, and then made one more effort, which
proving ineffectual, he sank back on the bank, where I left him,
reposing his head on the oozy turf, and to all appearance, as calmly
reclining as if he had been taking his rest on his sofa at home.

I ought to have helped him in spite of himself—to have bound up the
wound he was unable to staunch, and insisted upon getting him on his
horse and seeing him safe home; but, besides my bitter indignation
against himself, there was the question what to say to his servants—and
what to my own family. Either I should have to acknowledge the deed,
which would set me down as a madman, unless I acknowledged the motive
too—and that seemed impossible—or I must get up a lie, which seemed
equally out of the question—especially as Mr. Lawrence would probably
reveal the whole truth, and thereby bring me to tenfold disgrace—unless
I were villain enough, presuming on the absence of witnesses, to
persist in my own version of the case, and make him out a still greater
scoundrel than he was. No; he had only received a cut above the temple,
and perhaps a few bruises from the fall, or the hoofs of his own pony:
that could not kill him if he lay there half the day; and, if he could
not help himself, surely some one would be coming by: it would be
impossible that a whole day should pass and no one traverse the road
but ourselves. As for what he might choose to say hereafter, I would
take my chance about it: if he told lies, I would contradict him; if he
told the truth, I would bear it as best I could. I was not _obliged_ to
enter into explanations further than I thought proper. Perhaps he might
choose to be silent on the subject, for fear of raising inquiries as to
the cause of the quarrel, and drawing the public attention to his
connection with Mrs. Graham, which, whether for her sake or his own, he
seemed so very desirous to conceal.

Thus reasoning, I trotted away to the town, where I duly transacted my
business, and performed various little commissions for my mother and
Rose, with very laudable exactitude, considering the different
circumstances of the case. In returning home, I was troubled with
sundry misgivings about the unfortunate Lawrence. The question, What if
I should find him lying still on the damp earth, fairly dying of cold
and exhaustion—or already stark and chill? thrust itself most
unpleasantly upon my mind, and the appalling possibility pictured
itself with painful vividness to my imagination as I approached the
spot where I had left him. But no, thank heaven, both man and horse
were gone, and nothing was left to witness against me but two
objects—unpleasant enough in themselves to be sure, and presenting a
very ugly, not to say murderous appearance—in one place, the hat
saturated with rain and coated with mud, indented and broken above the
brim by that villainous whip-handle; in another, the crimson
handkerchief, soaking in a deeply tinctured pool of water—for much rain
had fallen in the interim.

Bad news flies fast: it was hardly four o’clock when I got home, but my
mother gravely accosted me with—“Oh, Gilbert!—_Such_ an accident! Rose
has been shopping in the village, and she’s heard that Mr. Lawrence has
been thrown from his horse and brought home dying!”

This shocked me a trifle, as you may suppose; but I was comforted to
hear that he had frightfully fractured his skull and broken a leg; for,
assured of the falsehood of this, I trusted the rest of the story was
equally exaggerated; and when I heard my mother and sister so feelingly
deploring his condition, I had considerable difficulty in preventing
myself from telling them the real extent of the injuries, as far as I
knew them.

“You must go and see him to-morrow,” said my mother.

“Or to-day,” suggested Rose: “there’s plenty of time; and you can have
the pony, as your horse is tired. Won’t you, Gilbert—as soon as you’ve
had something to eat?”

“No, no—how can we tell that it isn’t all a false report? It’s highly
im-”

“Oh, I’m sure it isn’t; for the village is all alive about it; and I
saw two people that had seen others that had seen the man that found
him. That sounds far-fetched; but it isn’t so when you think of it.”

“Well, but Lawrence is a good rider; it is not likely he would fall
from his horse at all; and if he did, it is highly improbable he would
break his bones in that way. It must be a gross exaggeration at least.”

“No; but the horse kicked him—or something.”

“What, his quiet little pony?”

“How do you know it was that?”

“He seldom rides any other.”

“At any rate,” said my mother, “you will call to-morrow. Whether it be
true or false, exaggerated or otherwise, we shall like to know how he
is.”

“Fergus may go.”

“Why not you?”

“He has more time. I am busy just now.”

“Oh! but, Gilbert, how can you be so composed about it? You won’t mind
business for an hour or two in a case of this sort, when your friend is
at the point of death.”

“He is _not_, I tell you.”

“For anything you know, he _may_ be: you can’t tell till you have seen
him. At all events, he must have met with some terrible accident, and
you ought to see him: he’ll take it very unkind if you don’t.”

“Confound it! I can’t. He and I have not been on good terms of late.”

“Oh, my _dear_ boy! Surely, surely you are not so unforgiving as to
carry your little differences to such a length as—”

“Little differences, indeed!” I muttered.

“Well, but only remember the occasion. Think how—”

“Well, well, don’t bother me now—I’ll see about it,” I replied.

And my seeing about it was to send Fergus next morning, with my
mother’s compliments, to make the requisite inquiries; for, of course,
my going was out of the question—or sending a message either. He
brought back intelligence that the young squire was laid up with the
complicated evils of a broken head and certain contusions (occasioned
by a fall—of which he did not trouble himself to relate the
particulars—and the subsequent misconduct of his horse), and a severe
cold, the consequence of lying on the wet ground in the rain; but there
were no broken bones, and no immediate prospects of dissolution.

It was evident, then, that for Mrs. Graham’s sake it was not his
intention to criminate me.




 CHAPTER XV


That day was rainy like its predecessor; but towards evening it began
to clear up a little, and the next morning was fair and promising. I
was out on the hill with the reapers. A light wind swept over the corn,
and all nature laughed in the sunshine. The lark was rejoicing among
the silvery floating clouds. The late rain had so sweetly freshened and
cleared the air, and washed the sky, and left such glittering gems on
branch and blade, that not even the farmers could have the heart to
blame it. But no ray of sunshine could reach my heart, no breeze could
freshen it; nothing could fill the void my faith, and hope, and joy in
Helen Graham had left, or drive away the keen regrets and bitter dregs
of lingering love that still oppressed it.

While I stood with folded arms abstractedly gazing on the undulating
swell of the corn, not yet disturbed by the reapers, something gently
pulled my skirts, and a small voice, no longer welcome to my ears,
aroused me with the startling words,—“Mr. Markham, mamma wants you.”

“Wants _me_, Arthur?”

“Yes. Why do you look so queer?” said he, half laughing, half
frightened at the unexpected aspect of my face in suddenly turning
towards him,—“and why have you kept so long away? Come! Won’t you
come?”

“I’m busy just now,” I replied, scarce knowing what to answer.

He looked up in childish bewilderment; but before I could speak again
the lady herself was at my side.

“Gilbert, I _must_ speak with you!” said she, in a tone of suppressed
vehemence.

I looked at her pale cheek and glittering eye, but answered nothing.

“Only for a moment,” pleaded she. “Just step aside into this other
field.” She glanced at the reapers, some of whom were directing looks
of impertinent curiosity towards her. “I won’t keep you a minute.”

I accompanied her through the gap.

“Arthur, darling, run and gather those bluebells,” said she, pointing
to some that were gleaming at some distance under the hedge along which
we walked. The child hesitated, as if unwilling to quit my side. “Go,
love!” repeated she more urgently, and in a tone which, though not
unkind, demanded prompt obedience, and obtained it.

“Well, Mrs. Graham?” said I, calmly and coldly; for, though I saw she
was miserable, and pitied her, I felt glad to have it in my power to
torment her.

She fixed her eyes upon me with a look that pierced me to the heart;
and yet it made me smile.

“I don’t ask the reason of this change, Gilbert,” said she, with bitter
calmness: “I know it too well; but though I could see myself suspected
and condemned by every one else, and bear it with calmness, I cannot
endure it from you.—Why did you not come to hear my explanation on the
day I appointed to give it?”

“Because I happened, in the interim, to learn all you would have told
me—and a trifle more, I imagine.”

“Impossible, for I would have told you all!” cried she,
passionately—“but I won’t now, for I see you are not worthy of it!”

And her pale lips quivered with agitation.

“Why not, may I ask?”

She repelled my mocking smile with a glance of scornful indignation.

“Because you never understood me, or you would not soon have listened
to my traducers—my confidence would be misplaced in you—you are not the
man I thought you. Go! I won’t care _what_ you think of me.”

She turned away, and I went; for I thought that would torment her as
much as anything; and I believe I was right; for, looking back a minute
after, I saw her turn half round, as if hoping or expecting to find me
still beside her; and then she stood still, and cast one look behind.
It was a look less expressive of anger than of bitter anguish and
despair; but I immediately assumed an aspect of indifference, and
affected to be gazing carelessly around me, and I suppose she went on;
for after lingering awhile to see if she would come back or call, I
ventured one more glance, and saw her a good way off, moving rapidly up
the field, with little Arthur running by her side and apparently
talking as he went; but she kept her face averted from him, as if to
hide some uncontrollable emotion. And I returned to my business.

But I soon began to regret my precipitancy in leaving her so soon. It
was evident she loved me—probably she was tired of Mr. Lawrence, and
wished to exchange him for me; and if I had loved and reverenced her
less to begin with, the preference might have gratified and amused me;
but now the contrast between her outward seeming and her inward mind,
as I supposed,—between my former and my present opinion of her, was so
harrowing—so distressing to my feelings, that it swallowed up every
lighter consideration.

But still I was curious to know what sort of an explanation she would
have given me—or would give now, if I pressed her for it—how much she
would confess, and how she would endeavour to excuse herself. I longed
to know what to despise, and what to admire in her; how much to pity,
and how much to hate;—and, what was more, I _would_ know. I would see
her once more, and fairly satisfy myself in what light to regard her,
before we parted. Lost to me she was, for ever, of course; but still I
could not bear to think that we had parted, for the last time, with so
much unkindness and misery on both sides. That last look of hers had
sunk into my heart; I could not forget it. But what a fool I was! Had
she not deceived me, injured me—blighted my happiness for life? “Well,
I’ll see her, however,” was my concluding resolve, “but not to-day:
to-day and to-night she may think upon her sins, and be as miserable as
she will: to-morrow I will see her once again, and know something more
about her. The interview may be serviceable to her, or it may not. At
any rate, it will give a breath of excitement to the life she has
doomed to stagnation, and may calm with certainty some agitating
thoughts.”

I did go on the morrow, but not till towards evening, after the
business of the day was concluded, that is, between six and seven; and
the westering sun was gleaming redly on the old Hall, and flaming in
the latticed windows, as I reached it, imparting to the place a
cheerfulness not its own. I need not dilate upon the feelings with
which I approached the shrine of my former divinity—that spot teeming
with a thousand delightful recollections and glorious dreams—all
darkened now by one disastrous truth.

Rachel admitted me into the parlour, and went to call her mistress, for
she was not there: but there was her desk left open on the little round
table beside the high-backed chair, with a book laid upon it. Her
limited but choice collection of books was almost as familiar to me as
my own; but this volume I had not seen before. I took it up. It was Sir
Humphry Davy’s “Last Days of a Philosopher,” and on the first leaf was
written, “Frederick Lawrence.” I closed the book, but kept it in my
hand, and stood facing the door, with my back to the fire-place, calmly
waiting her arrival; for I did not doubt she would come. And soon I
heard her step in the hall. My heart was beginning to throb, but I
checked it with an internal rebuke, and maintained my
composure—outwardly at least. She entered, calm, pale, collected.

“To what am I indebted for this favour, Mr. Markham?” said she, with
such severe but quiet dignity as almost disconcerted me; but I answered
with a smile, and impudently enough,—

“Well, I am come to hear your explanation.”

“I told you I would not give it,” said she. “I said you were unworthy
of my confidence.”

“Oh, very well,” replied I, moving to the door.

“Stay a moment,” said she. “This is the last time I shall see you:
don’t go just yet.”

I remained, awaiting her further commands.

“Tell me,” resumed she, “on what grounds you believe these things
against me; who told you; and what did they say?”

I paused a moment. She met my eye as unflinchingly as if her bosom had
been steeled with conscious innocence. She was resolved to know the
worst, and determined to dare it too. “I can crush that bold spirit,”
thought I. But while I secretly exulted in my power, I felt disposed to
dally with my victim like a cat. Showing her the book that I still
held, in my hand, and pointing to the name on the fly-leaf, but fixing
my eye upon her face, I asked,—“Do you know that gentleman?”

“Of course I do,” replied she; and a sudden flush suffused her
features—whether of shame or anger I could not tell: it rather
resembled the latter. “What next, sir?”

“How long is it since you saw him?”

“Who gave you the right to catechize me on this or any other subject?”

“Oh, no one!—it’s quite at your option whether to answer or not. And
now, let me ask—have you heard what has lately befallen this friend of
yours?—because, if you have not—”

“I will not be insulted, Mr. Markham!” cried she, almost infuriated at
my manner. “So you had better leave the house at once, if you came only
for that.”

“I did not come to insult you: I came to hear your explanation.”

“And I tell you I won’t give it!” retorted she, pacing the room in a
state of strong excitement, with her hands clasped tightly together,
breathing short, and flashing fires of indignation from her eyes. “I
will not condescend to explain myself to one that can make a jest of
such horrible suspicions, and be so easily led to entertain them.”

“I do not make a jest of them, Mrs. Graham,” returned I, dropping at
once my tone of taunting sarcasm. “I heartily wish I could find them a
jesting matter. And as to being easily led to suspect, God only knows
what a blind, incredulous fool I have hitherto been, perseveringly
shutting my eyes and stopping my ears against everything that
threatened to shake my confidence in you, till proof itself confounded
my infatuation!”

“What proof, sir?”

“Well, I’ll tell you. You remember that evening when I was here last?”

“I do.”

“Even then you dropped some hints that might have opened the eyes of a
wiser man; but they had no such effect upon me: I went on trusting and
believing, hoping against hope, and adoring where I could not
comprehend. It so happened, however, that after I left you I turned
back—drawn by pure depth of sympathy and ardour of affection—not daring
to intrude my presence openly upon you, but unable to resist the
temptation of catching one glimpse through the window, just to see how
you were: for I had left you apparently in great affliction, and I
partly blamed my own want of forbearance and discretion as the cause of
it. If I did wrong, love alone was my incentive, and the punishment was
severe enough; for it was just as I had reached that tree, that you
came out into the garden with your friend. Not choosing to show myself,
under the circumstances, I stood still, in the shadow, till you had
both passed by.”

“And how much of our conversation did you hear?”

“I heard quite enough, Helen. And it was well for me that I did hear
it; for nothing less could have cured my infatuation. I always said and
thought, that I would never believe a word against you, unless I heard
it from your own lips. All the hints and affirmations of others I
treated as malignant, baseless slanders; your own self-accusations I
believed to be overstrained; and all that seemed unaccountable in your
position I trusted that you could account for if you chose.”

Mrs. Graham had discontinued her walk. She leant against one end of the
chimney-piece, opposite that near which I was standing, with her chin
resting on her closed hand, her eyes—no longer burning with anger, but
gleaming with restless excitement—sometimes glancing at me while I
spoke, then coursing the opposite wall, or fixed upon the carpet.

“You should have come to me after all,” said she, “and heard what I had
to say in my own justification. It was ungenerous and wrong to withdraw
yourself so secretly and suddenly, immediately after such ardent
protestations of attachment, without ever assigning a reason for the
change. You should have told me all—no matter _how_ bitterly. It would
have been better than this silence.”

“To what end should I have done so? You could not have enlightened me
further, on the subject which alone concerned me; nor could you have
made me discredit the evidence of my senses. I desired our intimacy to
be discontinued at once, as you yourself had acknowledged would
probably be the case if I knew all; but I did not wish to upbraid
you,—though (as you also acknowledged) you had deeply wronged me. Yes,
you have done me an injury you can never repair—or any other either—you
have blighted the freshness and promise of youth, and made my life a
wilderness! I might live a hundred years, but I could never recover
from the effects of this withering blow—and never forget it!
Hereafter—You smile, Mrs. Graham,” said I, suddenly stopping short,
checked in my passionate declamation by unutterable feelings to behold
her actually _smiling_ at the picture of the ruin she had wrought.

“Did I?” replied she, looking seriously up; “I was not aware of it. If
I did, it was not for pleasure at the thoughts of the harm I had done
you. Heaven knows I have had torment enough at the bare possibility of
that; it was for joy to find that you had some depth of soul and
feeling after all, and to hope that I had not been utterly mistaken in
your worth. But smiles and tears are so alike with me, they are neither
of them confined to any particular feelings: I often cry when I am
happy, and smile when I am sad.”

She looked at me again, and seemed to expect a reply; but I continued
silent.

“Would you be _very_ glad,” resumed she, “to find that you were
mistaken in your conclusions?”

“How can you ask it, Helen?”

“I don’t say I can clear myself altogether,” said she, speaking low and
fast, while her heart beat visibly and her bosom heaved with
excitement,—“but would you be glad to discover I was better than you
think me?”

“Anything that could in the least degree tend to restore my former
opinion of you, to excuse the regard I still feel for you, and
alleviate the pangs of unutterable regret that accompany it, would be
only too gladly, too eagerly received!” Her cheeks burned, and her
whole frame trembled, now, with excess of agitation. She did not speak,
but flew to her desk, and snatching thence what seemed a thick album or
manuscript volume, hastily tore away a few leaves from the end, and
thrust the rest into my hand, saying, “You needn’t read it all; but
take it home with you,” and hurried from the room. But when I had left
the house, and was proceeding down the walk, she opened the window and
called me back. It was only to say,—“Bring it back when you have read
it; and don’t breathe a word of what it tells you to any living being.
I trust to your honour.”

Before I could answer she had closed the casement and turned away. I
saw her cast herself back in the old oak chair, and cover her face with
her hands. Her feelings had been wrought to a pitch that rendered it
necessary to seek relief in tears.

Panting with eagerness, and struggling to suppress my hopes, I hurried
home, and rushed up-stairs to my room, having first provided myself
with a candle, though it was scarcely twilight yet—then, shut and
bolted the door, determined to tolerate no interruption; and sitting
down before the table, opened out my prize and delivered myself up to
its perusal—first hastily turning over the leaves and snatching a
sentence here and there, and then setting myself steadily to read it
through.

I have it now before me; and though you could not, of course, peruse it
with half the interest that I did, I know you would not be satisfied
with an abbreviation of its contents, and you shall have the whole,
save, perhaps, a few passages here and there of merely temporary
interest to the writer, or such as would serve to encumber the story
rather than elucidate it. It begins somewhat abruptly, thus—but we will
reserve its commencement for another chapter.




 CHAPTER XVI


June 1st, 1821.—We have just returned to Staningley—that is, we
returned some days ago, and I am not yet settled, and feel as if I
never should be. We left town sooner than was intended, in consequence
of my uncle’s indisposition;—I wonder what would have been the result
if we had stayed the full time. I am quite ashamed of my new-sprung
distaste for country life. All my former occupations seem so tedious
and dull, my former amusements so insipid and unprofitable. I cannot
enjoy my music, because there is no one to hear it. I cannot enjoy my
walks, because there is no one to meet. I cannot enjoy my books,
because they have not power to arrest my attention: my head is so
haunted with the recollections of the last few weeks, that I cannot
attend to them. My drawing suits me best, for I can draw and think at
the same time; and if my productions cannot now be seen by any one but
myself, and those who do not care about them, they, possibly, may be,
hereafter. But, then, there is one face I am always trying to paint or
to sketch, and always without success; and that vexes me. As for the
owner of that face, I cannot get him out of my mind—and, indeed, I
never try. I wonder whether he ever thinks of me; and I wonder whether
I shall ever see him again. And then might follow a train of other
wonderments—questions for time and fate to answer—concluding
with—Supposing all the rest be answered in the affirmative, I wonder
whether I shall ever repent it? as my aunt would tell me I should, if
she knew what I was thinking about.

How distinctly I remember our conversation that evening before our
departure for town, when we were sitting together over the fire, my
uncle having gone to bed with a slight attack of the gout.

“Helen,” said she, after a thoughtful silence, “do you ever think about
marriage?”

“Yes, aunt, often.”

“And do you ever contemplate the possibility of being married yourself,
or engaged, before the season is over?”

“Sometimes; but I don’t think it at all likely that I _ever_ shall.”

“Why so?”

“Because, I imagine, there must be only a very, very few men in the
world that I should like to marry; and of those few, it is ten to one I
may never be acquainted with one; or if I should, it is twenty to one
he may not happen to be single, or to take a fancy to me.”

“That is no argument at all. It may be very true—and I hope is true,
that there are very few men whom you would choose to marry, of
yourself. It is not, indeed, to be supposed that you would _wish_ to
marry _any_ one till you were asked: a girl’s affections should never
be won unsought. But when they _are_ sought—when the citadel of the
heart is fairly besieged—it is apt to surrender sooner than the owner
is aware of, and often against her better judgment, and in opposition
to all her preconceived ideas of what she could have loved, unless she
be extremely careful and discreet. Now, I want to warn you, Helen, of
these things, and to exhort you to be watchful and circumspect from the
very commencement of your career, and not to suffer your heart to be
stolen from you by the first foolish or unprincipled person that covets
the possession of it.—You know, my dear, you are only just eighteen;
there is plenty of time before you, and neither your uncle nor I are in
any hurry to get you off our hands, and I may venture to say, there
will be no lack of suitors; for you can boast a good family, a pretty
considerable fortune and expectations, and, I may as well tell you
likewise—for, if I don’t, others will—that you have a fair share of
beauty besides—and I hope you may never have cause to regret it!”

“I hope not, aunt; but why should you fear it?”

“Because, my dear, beauty is that quality which, next to money, is
generally the most attractive to the worst kinds of men; and,
therefore, it is likely to entail a great deal of trouble on the
possessor.”

“Have _you_ been troubled in that way, aunt?”

“No, Helen,” said she, with reproachful gravity, “but I know many that
have; and some, through carelessness, have been the wretched victims of
deceit; and some, through weakness, have fallen into snares and
temptations terrible to relate.”

“Well, I shall be neither careless nor weak.”

“Remember Peter, Helen! Don’t boast, but _watch_. Keep a guard over
your eyes and ears as the inlets of your heart, and over your lips as
the outlet, lest they betray you in a moment of unwariness. Receive,
coldly and dispassionately, every attention, till you have ascertained
and duly considered the worth of the aspirant; and let your affections
be consequent upon approbation alone. First study; then approve; then
love. Let your eyes be blind to all external attractions, your ears
deaf to all the fascinations of flattery and light discourse.—These are
nothing—and worse than nothing—snares and wiles of the tempter, to lure
the thoughtless to their own destruction. Principle is the first thing,
after all; and next to that, good sense, respectability, and moderate
wealth. If you should marry the handsomest, and most accomplished and
superficially agreeable man in the world, you little know the misery
that would overwhelm you if, after all, you should find him to be a
worthless reprobate, or even an impracticable fool.”

“But what are all the poor fools and reprobates to do, aunt? If
everybody followed your advice, the world would soon come to an end.”

“Never fear, my dear! the male fools and reprobates will never want for
partners, while there are so many of the other sex to match them; but
do _you_ follow my advice. And this is no subject for jesting, Helen—I
am sorry to see you treat the matter in that light way. Believe me,
_matrimony is a serious thing_.” And she spoke it _so_ seriously, that
one might have fancied she had known it to her cost; but I asked no
more impertinent questions, and merely answered,—

“I know it is; and I know there is truth and sense in what you say; but
you need not fear me, for I not only should think it _wrong_ to marry a
man that was deficient in sense or in principle, but I should never be
_tempted_ to do it; for I could not like him, if he were ever so
handsome, and ever so charming, in other respects; I should hate
him—despise him—pity him—anything but love him. My affections not only
_ought_ to be founded on approbation, but they will and must be so:
for, without approving, I cannot love. It is needless to say, I ought
to be able to respect and honour the man I marry, as _well_ as love
him, for I cannot love him without. So set your mind at rest.”

“I hope it may be so,” answered she.

“I _know_ it _is_ so,” persisted I.

“You have not been tried yet, Helen—we can but hope,” said she in her
cold, cautious way.

“I was vexed at her incredulity; but I am not sure her doubts were
entirely without sagacity; I fear I have found it much easier to
remember her advice than to profit by it;—indeed, I have sometimes been
led to question the soundness of her doctrines on those subjects. Her
counsels may be good, as far as they go—in the main points at
least;—but there are some things she has overlooked in her
calculations. I wonder if _she_ was ever in love.

I commenced my career—or my first campaign, as my uncle calls
it—kindling with bright hopes and fancies—chiefly raised by this
conversation—and full of confidence in my own discretion. At first, I
was delighted with the novelty and excitement of our London life; but
soon I began to weary of its mingled turbulence and constraint, and
sigh for the freshness and freedom of home. My new acquaintances, both
male and female, disappointed my expectations, and vexed and depressed
me by turns; for I soon grew tired of studying their peculiarities, and
laughing at their foibles—particularly as I was obliged to keep my
criticisms to myself, for my aunt would not hear them—and they—the
ladies especially—appeared so provokingly mindless, and heartless, and
artificial. The gentlemen seemed better, but, perhaps, it was because I
knew them less—perhaps, because they flattered me; but I did not fall
in love with any of them; and, if their attentions pleased me one
moment, they provoked me the next, because they put me out of humour
with myself, by revealing my vanity and making me fear I was becoming
like some of the ladies I so heartily despised.

There was one elderly gentleman that annoyed me very much; a rich old
friend of my uncle’s, who, I believe, thought I could not do better
than marry him; but, besides being old, he was ugly and
disagreeable,—and wicked, I am sure, though my aunt scolded me for
saying so; but she allowed he was no saint. And there was another, less
hateful, but still _more_ tiresome, because she favoured him, and was
always thrusting him upon me, and sounding his praises in my ears—Mr.
Boarham by name, Bore’em, as I prefer spelling it, for a terrible bore
he was: I shudder still at the remembrance of his voice—drone, drone,
drone, in my ear—while he sat beside me, prosing away by the half-hour
together, and beguiling himself with the notion that he was improving
my mind by useful information, or impressing his dogmas upon me and
reforming my errors of judgment, or perhaps that he was talking down to
my level, and amusing me with entertaining discourse. Yet he was a
decent man enough in the main, I daresay; and if he had kept his
distance, I never would have hated him. As it was, it was almost
impossible to help it, for he not only bothered me with the infliction
of his own presence, but he kept me from the enjoyment of more
agreeable society.

One night, however, at a ball, he had been more than usually
tormenting, and my patience was quite exhausted. It appeared as if the
whole evening was fated to be insupportable: I had just had one dance
with an empty-headed coxcomb, and then Mr. Boarham had come upon me and
seemed determined to cling to me for the rest of the night. He never
danced himself, and there he sat, poking his head in my face, and
impressing all beholders with the idea that he was a confirmed,
acknowledged lover; my aunt looking complacently on all the time, and
wishing him God-speed. In vain I attempted to drive him away by giving
a loose to my exasperated feelings, even to positive rudeness: nothing
could convince him that his presence was disagreeable. Sullen silence
was taken for rapt attention, and gave him greater room to talk; sharp
answers were received as smart sallies of girlish vivacity, that only
required an indulgent rebuke; and flat contradictions were but as oil
to the flames, calling forth new strains of argument to support his
dogmas, and bringing down upon me endless floods of reasoning to
overwhelm me with conviction.

But there was one present who seemed to have a better appreciation of
my frame of mind. A gentleman stood by, who had been watching our
conference for some time, evidently much amused at my companion’s
remorseless pertinacity and my manifest annoyance, and laughing to
himself at the asperity and uncompromising spirit of my replies. At
length, however, he withdrew, and went to the lady of the house,
apparently for the purpose of asking an introduction to me, for,
shortly after, they both came up, and she introduced him as Mr.
Huntingdon, the son of a late friend of my uncle’s. He asked me to
dance. I gladly consented, of course; and he was my companion during
the remainder of my stay, which was not long, for my aunt, as usual,
insisted upon an early departure.

I was sorry to go, for I had found my new acquaintance a very lively
and entertaining companion. There was a certain graceful ease and
freedom about all he said and did, that gave a sense of repose and
expansion to the mind, after so much constraint and formality as I had
been doomed to suffer. There might be, it is true, a little too much
careless boldness in his manner and address, but I was in so good a
humour, and so grateful for my late deliverance from Mr. Boarham, that
it did not anger me.

“Well, Helen, how do you like Mr. Boarham now?” said my aunt, as we
took our seats in the carriage and drove away.

“Worse than ever,” I replied.

She looked displeased, but said no more on that subject.

“Who was the gentleman you danced with last,” resumed she, after a
pause—“that was so officious in helping you on with your shawl?”

“He was not officious at all, aunt: he never _attempted_ to help me,
till he saw Mr. Boarham coming to do so; and then he stepped laughingly
forward and said, ‘Come, I’ll preserve you from that infliction.’”

“Who was it, I ask?” said she, with frigid gravity.

“It was Mr. Huntingdon, the son of uncle’s old friend.”

“I have heard your uncle speak of young Mr. Huntingdon. I’ve heard him
say, ‘He’s a fine lad, that young Huntingdon, but a bit wildish, I
fancy.’ So I’d have you beware.”

“What does ‘a bit wildish’ mean?” I inquired.

“It means destitute of principle, and prone to every vice that is
common to youth.”

“But I’ve heard uncle say he was a sad wild fellow himself, when he was
young.”

She sternly shook her head.

“He was jesting then, I suppose,” said I, “and here he was speaking at
random—at least, I cannot believe there is any harm in those laughing
blue eyes.”

“False reasoning, Helen!” said she, with a sigh.

“Well, we ought to be charitable, you know, aunt—besides, I don’t think
it _is_ false: I am an excellent physiognomist, and I always judge of
people’s characters by their looks—not by whether they are handsome or
ugly, but by the general cast of the countenance. For instance, I
should know by your countenance that you were not of a cheerful,
sanguine disposition; and I should know by Mr. Wilmot’s, that he was a
worthless old reprobate; and by Mr. Boarham’s, that he was not an
agreeable companion; and by Mr. Huntingdon’s, that he was neither a
fool nor a knave, though, possibly, neither a sage nor a saint—but that
is no matter to me, as I am not likely to meet him again—unless as an
occasional partner in the ball-room.”

It was not so, however, for I met him again next morning. He came to
call upon my uncle, apologising for not having done so before, by
saying he was only lately returned from the Continent, and had not
heard, till the previous night, of my uncle’s arrival in town; and
after that I often met him; sometimes in public, sometimes at home; for
he was very assiduous in paying his respects to his old friend, who did
not, however, consider himself greatly obliged by the attention.

“I wonder what the deuce the lad means by coming so often,” he would
say,—“can _you_ tell, Helen?—Hey? He wants none o’ my company, nor I
his—that’s certain.”

“I wish you’d tell him so, then,” said my aunt.

“Why, what for? If I don’t want him, somebody does, mayhap” (winking at
me). “Besides, he’s a pretty tidy fortune, Peggy, you know—not such a
catch as Wilmot; but then Helen won’t hear of that match: for, somehow,
these old chaps don’t go down with the girls—with _all_ their money,
and their experience to boot. I’ll bet anything she’d rather have this
young fellow without a penny, than Wilmot with his house full of gold.
Wouldn’t you, Nell?”

“Yes, uncle; but that’s not saying much for Mr. Huntingdon; for I’d
rather be an old maid and a pauper than Mrs. Wilmot.”

“And Mrs. Huntingdon? What would you rather be than Mrs.
Huntingdon—eh?”

“I’ll tell you when I’ve considered the matter.”

“Ah! it needs consideration, then? But come, now—would you rather be an
old maid—let alone the pauper?”

“I can’t tell till I’m asked.”

And I left the room immediately, to escape further examination. But
five minutes after, in looking from my window, I beheld Mr. Boarham
coming up to the door. I waited nearly half-an-hour in uncomfortable
suspense, expecting every minute to be called, and vainly longing to
hear him go. Then footsteps were heard on the stairs, and my aunt
entered the room with a solemn countenance, and closed the door behind
her.

“Here is Mr. Boarham, Helen,” said she. “He wishes to see you.”

“Oh, aunt!—Can’t you tell him I’m indisposed?—I’m sure I am—to see
_him_.”

“Nonsense, my dear! this is no trifling matter. He is come on a very
important errand—to ask your hand in marriage of your uncle and me.”

“I hope my uncle and you told him it was not in your power to give it.
What right had he to ask _any_ one before me?”

“Helen!”

“What did my uncle say?”

“He said he would not interfere in the matter; if you liked to accept
Mr. Boarham’s obliging offer, you—”

“Did he say obliging offer?”

“No; he said if you liked to take him you might; and if not, you might
please yourself.”

“He said right; and what did you say?”

“It is no matter what I said. What will _you_ say?—that is the
question. He is now waiting to ask you himself; but consider well
before you go; and if you intend to refuse him, give me your reasons.”

“I _shall_ refuse him, of course; but you must tell me how, for I want
to be civil and yet decided—and when I’ve got rid of him, I’ll give you
my reasons afterwards.”

“But stay, Helen; sit down a little and compose yourself. Mr. Boarham
is in no particular hurry, for he has little doubt of your acceptance;
and I want to speak with you. Tell me, my dear, what are your
objections to him? Do you deny that he is an upright, honourable man?”

“No.”

“Do you deny that he is sensible, sober, respectable?”

“No; he may be all this, but—”

“_But_ Helen! How many such men do you expect to meet with in the
world? Upright, honourable, sensible, sober, respectable! Is _this_
such an every-day character that you should reject the possessor of
such noble qualities without a moment’s hesitation? Yes, _noble_ I may
call them; for think of the full meaning of each, and how many
inestimable virtues they include (and I might add many more to the
list), and consider that all this is laid at your feet. It is in your
power to secure this inestimable blessing for life—a worthy and
excellent husband, who loves you tenderly, but not too fondly so as to
blind him to your faults, and will be your guide throughout life’s
pilgrimage, and your partner in eternal bliss. Think how—”

“But I hate him, aunt,” said I, interrupting this unusual flow of
eloquence.

“Hate him, Helen! Is this a Christian spirit?—_you hate him?_ and he so
good a man!”

“I don’t hate him as a man, but as a husband. As a man, I love him so
much that I wish him a better wife than I—one as good as himself, or
better—if you think that possible—provided she could like him; but I
never could, and therefore—”

“But why not? What objection do you find?”

“Firstly, he is at least forty years old—considerably more, I should
think—and I am but eighteen; secondly, he is narrow-minded and bigoted
in the extreme; thirdly, his tastes and feelings are wholly dissimilar
to mine; fourthly, his looks, voice, and manner are particularly
displeasing to me; and, finally, I have an aversion to his whole person
that I never can surmount.”

“Then you ought to surmount it. And please to compare him for a moment
with Mr. Huntingdon, and, good looks apart (which contribute nothing to
the merit of the man, or to the happiness of married life, and which
you have so often professed to hold in light esteem), tell me which is
the better man.”

“I have no doubt Mr. Huntingdon is a much better man than you think
him; but we are not talking about him now, but about Mr. Boarham; and
as I would rather grow, live, and die in single blessedness—than be his
wife, it is but right that I should tell him so at once, and put him
out of suspense—so let me go.”

“But don’t give him a flat denial; he has no idea of such a thing, and
it would offend him greatly: say you have no thoughts of matrimony at
present—”

“But I _have_ thoughts of it.”

“Or that you desire a further acquaintance.”

“But I don’t desire a further acquaintance—quite the contrary.”

And without waiting for further admonitions I left the room and went to
seek Mr. Boarham. He was walking up and down the drawing-room, humming
snatches of tunes and nibbling the end of his cane.

“My dear young lady,” said he, bowing and smirking with great
complacency, “I have your kind guardian’s permission—”

“I know, sir,” said I, wishing to shorten the scene as much as
possible, “and I am greatly obliged for your preference, but must beg
to decline the honour you wish to confer, for I think we were not made
for each other, as you yourself would shortly discover if the
experiment were tried.”

My aunt was right. It was quite evident he had had little doubt of my
acceptance, and no idea of a positive denial. He was amazed, astounded
at such an answer, but too incredulous to be much offended; and after a
little humming and hawing, he returned to the attack.

“I know, my dear, that there exists a considerable disparity between us
in years, in temperament, and perhaps some other things; but let me
assure you, I shall not be severe to mark the faults and foibles of a
young and ardent nature such as yours, and while I acknowledge them to
myself, and even rebuke them with all a father’s care, believe me, no
youthful lover could be more tenderly indulgent towards the object of
his affections than I to you; and, on the other hand, let me hope that
my more experienced years and graver habits of reflection will be no
disparagement in your eyes, as I shall endeavour to make them all
conducive to your happiness. Come, now! What do you say? Let us have no
young lady’s affectations and caprices, but speak out at once.”

“I will, but only to repeat what I said before, that I am certain we
were not made for each other.”

“You really think so?”

“I do.”

“But you don’t know me—you wish for a further acquaintance—a longer
time to—”

“No, I don’t. I know you as well as I ever shall, and better than you
know me, or you would never dream of uniting yourself to one so
incongruous—so utterly unsuitable to you in every way.”

“But, my dear young lady, I don’t look for perfection; I can excuse—”

“Thank you, Mr. Boarham, but I won’t trespass upon your goodness. You
may save your indulgence and consideration for some more worthy object,
that won’t tax them so heavily.”

“But let me beg you to consult your aunt; that excellent lady, I am
sure, will—”

“I have consulted her; and I know her wishes coincide with yours; but
in such important matters, I take the liberty of judging for myself;
and no persuasion can alter my inclinations, or induce me to believe
that such a step would be conducive to my happiness or yours—and I
wonder that a man of your experience and discretion should think of
choosing such a wife.”

“Ah, well!” said he, “I have sometimes wondered at that myself. I have
sometimes said to myself, ‘Now Boarham, what is this you’re after? Take
care, man—look before you leap! This is a sweet, bewitching creature,
but remember, the brightest attractions to the lover too often prove
the husband’s greatest torments!’ I assure you my choice has not been
made without much reasoning and reflection. The seeming imprudence of
the match has cost me many an anxious thought by day, and many a
sleepless hour by night; but at length I satisfied myself that it was
not, in very deed, imprudent. I saw my sweet girl was not without her
faults, but of these her youth, I trusted, was not one, but rather an
earnest of virtues yet unblown—a strong ground of presumption that her
little defects of temper and errors of judgment, opinion, or manner
were not irremediable, but might easily be removed or mitigated by the
patient efforts of a watchful and judicious adviser, and where I failed
to enlighten and control, I thought I might safely undertake to pardon,
for the sake of her many excellences. Therefore, my dearest girl, since
_I_ am satisfied, why should _you_ object—on my account, at least?”

“But to tell you the truth, Mr. Boarham, it is on my own account I
principally object; so let us—drop the subject,” I would have said,
“for it is worse than useless to pursue it any further,” but he
pertinaciously interrupted me with,—“But why so? I would love you,
cherish you, protect you,” &c., &c.

I shall not trouble myself to put down all that passed between us.
Suffice it to say, that I found him very troublesome, and very hard to
convince that I really meant what I said, and really _was_ so obstinate
and blind to my own interests, that there was no shadow of a chance
that either he or my aunt would ever be able to overcome my objections.
Indeed, I am not sure that I succeeded after all; though wearied with
his so pertinaciously returning to the same point and repeating the
same arguments over and over again, forcing me to reiterate the same
replies, I at length turned short and sharp upon him, and my last words
were,—“I tell you plainly, that it cannot be. No consideration can
induce me to marry against my inclinations. I respect you—at least, I
would respect you, if you would behave like a sensible man—but I cannot
love you, and never could—and the more you talk the further you repel
me; so pray don’t say any more about it.”

Whereupon he wished me a good-morning, and withdrew, disconcerted and
offended, no doubt; but surely it was not my fault.




 CHAPTER XVII


The next day I accompanied my uncle and aunt to a dinner-party at Mr.
Wilmot’s. He had two ladies staying with him: his niece Annabella, a
fine dashing girl, or rather young woman,—of some five-and-twenty, too
great a flirt to be married, according to her own assertion, but
greatly admired by the gentlemen, who universally pronounced her a
splendid woman; and her gentle cousin, Milicent Hargrave, who had taken
a violent fancy to me, mistaking me for something vastly better than I
was. And I, in return, was very fond of her. I should entirely exclude
poor Milicent in my general animadversions against the ladies of my
acquaintance. But it was not on her account, or her cousin’s, that I
have mentioned the party: it was for the sake of another of Mr.
Wilmot’s guests, to wit Mr. Huntingdon. I have good reason to remember
his presence there, for this was the last time I saw him.

He did not sit near me at dinner; for it was his fate to hand in a
capacious old dowager, and mine to be handed in by Mr. Grimsby, a
friend of his, but a man I very greatly disliked: there was a sinister
cast in his countenance, and a mixture of lurking ferocity and fulsome
insincerity in his demeanour, that I could not away with. What a
tiresome custom that is, by-the-by—one among the many sources of
factitious annoyance of this ultra-civilised life. If the gentlemen
_must_ lead the ladies into the dining-room, why cannot they take those
they like best?

I am not sure, however, that Mr. Huntingdon would have taken me, if he
_had_ been at liberty to make his own selection. It is quite possible
he might have chosen Miss Wilmot; for she seemed bent upon engrossing
his attention to herself, and he seemed nothing loth to pay the homage
she demanded. I thought so, at least, when I saw how they talked and
laughed, and glanced across the table, to the neglect and evident
umbrage of their respective neighbours—and afterwards, as the gentlemen
joined us in the drawing-room, when she, immediately upon his entrance,
loudly called upon him to be the arbiter of a dispute between herself
and another lady, and he answered the summons with alacrity, and
decided the question without a moment’s hesitation in her
favour—though, to my thinking, she was obviously in the wrong—and then
stood chatting familiarly with her and a group of other ladies; while I
sat with Milicent Hargrave at the opposite end of the room, looking
over the latter’s drawings, and aiding her with my critical
observations and advice, at her particular desire. But in spite of my
efforts to remain composed, my attention wandered from the drawings to
the merry group, and against my better judgment my wrath rose, and
doubtless my countenance lowered; for Milicent, observing that I must
be tired of her daubs and scratches, begged I would join the company
now, and defer the examination of the remainder to another opportunity.
But while I was assuring her that I had no wish to join them, and was
not tired, Mr. Huntingdon himself came up to the little round table at
which we sat.

“Are these yours?” said he, carelessly taking up one of the drawings.

“No, they are Miss Hargrave’s.”

“Oh! well, let’s have a look at them.”

And, regardless of Miss Hargrave’s protestations that they were not
worth looking at, he drew a chair to my side, and receiving the
drawings, one by one from my hand, successively scanned them over, and
threw them on the table, but said not a word about them, though he was
talking all the time. I don’t know what Milicent Hargrave thought of
such conduct, but _I_ found his conversation extremely interesting;
though, as I afterwards discovered, when I came to analyse it, it was
chiefly confined to quizzing the different members of the company
present; and albeit he made some clever remarks, and some excessively
droll ones, I do not think the whole would appear anything very
particular, if written here, without the adventitious aids of look, and
tone, and gesture, and that ineffable but indefinite charm, which cast
a halo over all he did and said, and which would have made it a delight
to look in his face, and hear the music of his voice, if he had been
talking positive nonsense—and which, moreover, made me feel so bitter
against my aunt when she put a stop to this enjoyment, by coming
composedly forward, under pretence of wishing to see the drawings, that
she cared and knew nothing about, and while making believe to examine
them, addressing herself to Mr. Huntingdon, with one of her coldest and
most repellent aspects, and beginning a series of the most common-place
and formidably formal questions and observations, on purpose to wrest
his attention from me—on purpose to vex me, as I thought: and having
now looked through the portfolio, I left them to their _tête-à-tête_,
and seated myself on a sofa, quite apart from the company—never
thinking how strange such conduct would appear, but merely to indulge,
at first, the vexation of the moment, and subsequently to enjoy my
private thoughts.

But I was not left long alone, for Mr. Wilmot, of all men the least
welcome, took advantage of my isolated position to come and plant
himself beside me. I had flattered myself that I had so effectually
repulsed his advances on all former occasions, that I had nothing more
to apprehend from his unfortunate predilection; but it seems I was
mistaken: so great was his confidence, either in his wealth or his
remaining powers of attraction, and so firm his conviction of feminine
weakness, that he thought himself warranted to return to the siege,
which he did with renovated ardour, enkindled by the quantity of wine
he had drunk—a circumstance that rendered him infinitely the more
disgusting; but greatly as I abhorred him at that moment, I did not
like to treat him with rudeness, as I was now his guest, and had just
been enjoying his hospitality; and I was no hand at a polite but
determined rejection, nor would it have greatly availed me if I had,
for he was too coarse-minded to take any repulse that was not as plain
and positive as his own effrontery. The consequence was, that he waxed
more fulsomely tender, and more repulsively warm, and I was driven to
the very verge of desperation, and about to say I know not what, when I
felt my hand, that hung over the arm of the sofa, suddenly taken by
another and gently but fervently pressed. Instinctively, I guessed who
it was, and, on looking up, was less surprised than delighted to see
Mr. Huntingdon smiling upon me. It was like turning from some
purgatorial fiend to an angel of light, come to announce that the
season of torment was past.

“Helen,” said he (he frequently called me Helen, and I never resented
the freedom), “I want you to look at this picture. Mr. Wilmot will
excuse you a moment, I’m sure.”

I rose with alacrity. He drew my arm within his, and led me across the
room to a splendid painting of Vandyke’s that I had noticed before, but
not sufficiently examined. After a moment of silent contemplation, I
was beginning to comment on its beauties and peculiarities, when,
playfully pressing the hand he still retained within his arm, he
interrupted me with,—“Never mind the picture: it was not for that I
brought you here; it was to get you away from that scoundrelly old
profligate yonder, who is looking as if he would like to challenge me
for the affront.”

“I am very much obliged to you,” said I. “This is twice you have
delivered me from such unpleasant companionship.”

“Don’t be too thankful,” he answered: “it is not all kindness to you;
it is partly from a feeling of spite to your tormentors that makes me
delighted to do the old fellows a bad turn, though I don’t think I have
any great reason to dread them as rivals. Have I, Helen?”

“You know I detest them both.”

“And me?”

“I have no reason to detest _you_.”

“But what are your sentiments towards me? Helen—Speak! How do you
regard me?”

And again he pressed my hand; but I feared there was more of conscious
power than tenderness in his demeanour, and I felt he had no right to
extort a confession of attachment from me when he had made no
correspondent avowal himself, and knew not what to answer. At last I
said,—

“How do _you_ regard _me?_”

“Sweet angel, I adore you! I—”

“Helen, I want you a moment,” said the distinct, low voice of my aunt,
close beside us. And I left him, muttering maledictions against his
evil angel.

“Well, aunt, what is it? What do you want?” said I, following her to
the embrasure of the window.

“I want you to join the company, when you are fit to be seen,” returned
she, severely regarding me; “but please to stay here a little, till
that shocking colour is somewhat abated, and your eyes have recovered
something of their natural expression. I should be ashamed for anyone
to see you in your present state.”

Of course, such a remark had no effect in reducing the “shocking
colour”; on the contrary, I felt my face glow with redoubled fires
kindled by a complication of emotions, of which indignant, swelling
anger was the chief. I offered no reply, however, but pushed aside the
curtain and looked into the night—or rather into the lamp-lit square.

“Was Mr. Huntingdon proposing to you, Helen?” inquired my too watchful
relative.

“No.”

“What was he saying then? I heard something very like it.”

“I don’t know what he would have said, if you hadn’t interrupted him.”

“And would you have accepted him, Helen, if he had proposed?”

“Of course not—without consulting uncle and you.”

“Oh! I’m glad, my dear, you have so much prudence left. Well, now,” she
added, after a moment’s pause, “you have made yourself conspicuous
enough for one evening. The ladies are directing inquiring glances
towards us at this moment, I see: I shall join them. Do you come too,
when you are sufficiently composed to appear as usual.”

“I am so now.”

“Speak gently then, and don’t look so malicious,” said my calm, but
provoking aunt. “We shall return home shortly, and then,” she added
with solemn significance, “I have much to say to you.”

So I went home prepared for a formidable lecture. Little was said by
either party in the carriage during our short transit homewards; but
when I had entered my room and thrown myself into an easy-chair, to
reflect on the events of the day, my aunt followed me thither, and
having dismissed Rachel, who was carefully stowing away my ornaments,
closed the door; and placing a chair beside me, or rather at right
angles with mine, sat down. With due deference I offered her my more
commodious seat. She declined it, and thus opened the conference: “Do
you remember, Helen, our conversation the night but one before we left
Staningley?”

“Yes, aunt.”

“And do you remember how I warned you against letting your heart be
stolen from you by those unworthy of its possession, and fixing your
affections where approbation did not go before, and where reason and
judgment withheld their sanction?”

“Yes; but _my_ reason—”

“Pardon me—and do you remember assuring me that there was no occasion
for uneasiness on your account; for you should never be _tempted_ to
marry a man who was deficient in sense or principle, however handsome
or charming in other respects he might be, for you could not love him;
you should hate—despise—pity—anything but love him—were not those your
words?”

“Yes; but—”

“And did you not say that your affection _must_ be founded on
approbation; and that, unless you could approve and honour and respect,
you could not love?”

“Yes; but I do approve, and honour, and respect—”

“How so, my dear? Is Mr. Huntingdon a good man?”

“He is a much better man than you think him.”

“That is nothing to the purpose. Is he a _good_ man?”

“Yes—in some respects. He has a good disposition.”

“Is he a man of _principle?_”

“Perhaps not, exactly; but it is only for want of thought. If he had
some one to advise him, and remind him of what is right—”

“He would soon learn, you think—and you yourself would willingly
undertake to be his teacher? But, my dear, he is, I believe, full ten
years older than you—how is it that you are so beforehand in moral
acquirements?”

“Thanks to you, aunt, I have been well brought up, and had good
examples always before me, which he, most likely, has not; and,
besides, he is of a sanguine temperament, and a gay, thoughtless
temper, and I am naturally inclined to reflection.”

“Well, now you have made him out to be deficient in both sense and
principle, by your own confession—”

“Then, my sense and my principle are at his service.”

“That sounds presumptuous, Helen. Do you think you have enough for
both; and do you imagine your merry, thoughtless profligate would allow
himself to be guided by a young girl like you?”

“No; I should not wish to guide him; but I think I might have influence
sufficient to save him from some errors, and I should think my life
well spent in the effort to preserve so noble a nature from
destruction. He always listens attentively now when I speak seriously
to him (and I often venture to reprove his random way of talking), and
sometimes he says that if he had me always by his side he should never
do or say a wicked thing, and that a little daily talk with me would
make him quite a saint. It may he partly jest and partly flattery, but
still—”

“But still you think it may be truth?”

“If I do think there is any mixture of truth in it, it is not from
confidence in my own powers, but in _his_ natural goodness. And you
have no right to call him a profligate, aunt; he is nothing of the
kind.”

“Who told you so, my dear? What was that story about his intrigue with
a married lady—Lady who was it?—Miss Wilmot herself was telling you the
other day?”

“It was false—false!” I cried. “I don’t believe a word of it.”

“You think, then, that he is a virtuous, well-conducted young man?”

“I know nothing positive respecting his character. I only know that I
have heard nothing definite against it—nothing that could be proved, at
least; and till people can prove their slanderous accusations, I will
not believe them. And I know this, that if he has committed errors,
they are only such as are common to youth, and such as nobody thinks
anything about; for I see that everybody likes him, and all the mammas
smile upon him, and their daughters—and Miss Wilmot herself—are only
too glad to attract his attention.”

“Helen, the world _may_ look upon such offences as venial; a few
unprincipled mothers may be anxious to catch a young man of fortune
without reference _may_ his character; and thoughtless girls _may_ be
glad to win the smiles of so handsome a gentleman, without seeking to
penetrate beyond the surface; but _you_, I trusted, were better
informed than to see with their eyes, and judge with their perverted
judgment. I did not think _you_ would call these venial errors!”

“Nor do I, aunt; but if I hate the sins, I love the sinner, and would
do much for his salvation, even supposing your suspicions to be mainly
true, which I do not and will not believe.”

“Well, my dear, ask your uncle what sort of company he keeps, and if he
is not banded with a set of loose, profligate young men, whom he calls
his friends, his jolly companions, and whose chief delight is to wallow
in vice, and vie with each other who can run fastest and furthest down
the headlong road to the place prepared for the devil and his angels.”

“Then I will save him from them.”

“Oh, Helen, Helen! you little know the misery of uniting your fortunes
to such a man!”

“I have such confidence in him, aunt, notwithstanding all you say, that
I would willingly risk my happiness for the chance of securing his. I
will leave better men to those who only consider their own advantage.
If he has done amiss, I shall consider my life well spent in saving him
from the consequences of his early errors, and striving to recall him
to the path of virtue. God grant me success!”

Here the conversation ended, for at this juncture my uncle’s voice was
heard from his chamber, loudly calling upon my aunt to come to bed. He
was in a bad humour that night; for his gout was worse. It had been
gradually increasing upon him ever since we came to town; and my aunt
took advantage of the circumstance next morning to persuade him to
return to the country immediately, without waiting for the close of the
season. His physician supported and enforced her arguments; and
contrary to her usual habits, she so hurried the preparations for
removal (as much for my sake as my uncle’s, I think), that in a very
few days we departed; and I saw no more of Mr. Huntingdon. My aunt
flatters herself I shall soon forget him—perhaps she thinks I have
forgotten him already, for I never mention his name; and she may
continue to think so, till we meet again—if ever that should be. I
wonder if it will?




 CHAPTER XVIII


August 25th.—I am now quite settled down to my usual routine of steady
occupations and quiet amusements—tolerably contented and cheerful, but
still looking forward to spring with the hope of returning to town, not
for its gaieties and dissipations, but for the chance of meeting Mr.
Huntingdon once again; for still he is always in my thoughts and in my
dreams. In all my employments, whatever I do, or see, or hear, has an
ultimate reference to him; whatever skill or knowledge I acquire is
some day to be turned to his advantage or amusement; whatever new
beauties in nature or art I discover are to be depicted to meet his
eye, or stored in my memory to be told him at some future period. This,
at least, is the hope that I cherish, the fancy that lights me on my
lonely way. It may be only an ignis fatuus, after all, but it can do no
harm to follow it with my eyes and rejoice in its lustre, as long as it
does not lure me from the path I ought to keep; and I think it will
not, for I have thought deeply on my aunt’s advice, and I see clearly,
now, the folly of throwing myself away on one that is unworthy of all
the love I have to give, and incapable of responding to the best and
deepest feelings of my inmost heart—_so_ clearly, that even if I should
see him again, and if he should remember me and love me still (which,
alas! is too little probable, considering how he is situated, and by
whom surrounded), and if he should ask me to marry him—I am determined
not to consent until I know for certain whether my aunt’s opinion of
him or mine is nearest the truth; for if mine is altogether wrong, it
is not he that I love; it is a creature of my own imagination. But I
think it is not wrong—no, no—there is a secret something—an inward
instinct that assures me I am right. There is essential goodness in
him;—and what delight to unfold it! If he has wandered, what bliss to
recall him! If he is now exposed to the baneful influence of corrupting
and wicked companions, what glory to deliver him from them! Oh! if I
could but believe that Heaven has designed me for this!

* * * * *


To-day is the first of September; but my uncle has ordered the
gamekeeper to spare the partridges till the gentlemen come. “What
gentlemen?” I asked when I heard it. A small party he had invited to
shoot. His friend Mr. Wilmot was one, and my aunt’s friend, Mr.
Boarham, another. This struck me as terrible news at the moment; but
all regret and apprehension vanished like a dream when I heard that Mr.
Huntingdon was actually to be a third! My aunt is greatly against his
coming, of course: she earnestly endeavoured to dissuade my uncle from
asking him; but he, laughing at her objections, told her it was no use
talking, for the mischief was already done: he had invited Huntingdon
and his friend Lord Lowborough before we left London, and nothing now
remained but to fix the day for their coming. So he is safe, and I am
sure of seeing him. I cannot express my joy. I find it very difficult
to conceal it from my aunt; but I don’t wish to trouble her with my
feelings till I know whether I ought to indulge them or not. If I find
it my absolute duty to suppress them, they shall trouble no one but
myself; and if I can really feel myself justified in indulging this
attachment, I can dare anything, even the anger and grief of my best
friend, for its object—surely, I shall soon know. But they are not
coming till about the middle of the month.

We are to have two lady visitors also: Mr. Wilmot is to bring his niece
and her cousin Milicent. I suppose my aunt thinks the latter will
benefit me by her society, and the salutary example of her gentle
deportment and lowly and tractable spirit; and the former I suspect she
intends as a species of counter-attraction to win Mr. Huntingdon’s
attention from me. I don’t thank her for this; but I shall be glad of
Milicent’s company: she is a sweet, good girl, and I wish I were like
her—_more_ like her, at least, than I am.

* * * * *


19th.—They are come. They came the day before yesterday. The gentlemen
are all gone out to shoot, and the ladies are with my aunt, at work in
the drawing-room. I have retired to the library, for I am very unhappy,
and I want to be alone. Books cannot divert me; so having opened my
desk, I will try what may be done by detailing the cause of my
uneasiness. This paper will serve instead of a confidential friend into
whose ear I might pour forth the overflowings of my heart. It will not
sympathise with my distresses, but then it will not laugh at them, and,
if I keep it close, it cannot tell again; so it is, perhaps, the best
friend I could have for the purpose.

First, let me speak of his arrival—how I sat at my window, and watched
for nearly two hours, before his carriage entered the park-gates—for
they all came before him,—and how deeply I was disappointed at every
arrival, because it was not his. First came Mr. Wilmot and the ladies.
When Milicent had got into her room, I quitted my post a few minutes to
look in upon her and have a little private conversation, for she was
now my intimate friend, several long epistles having passed between us
since our parting. On returning to my window, I beheld another carriage
at the door. Was it his? No; it was Mr. Boarham’s plain dark chariot;
and there stood he upon the steps, carefully superintending the
dislodging of his various boxes and packages. What a collection! One
would have thought he projected a visit of six months at least. A
considerable time after, came Lord Lowborough in his barouche. Is he
one of the profligate friends, I wonder? I should think not; for no one
could call _him_ a jolly companion, I’m sure,—and, besides, he appears
too sober and gentlemanly in his demeanour to merit such suspicions. He
is a tall, thin, gloomy-looking man, apparently between thirty and
forty, and of a somewhat sickly, careworn aspect.

At last, Mr. Huntingdon’s light phaeton came bowling merrily up the
lawn. I had but a transient glimpse of him: for the moment it stopped,
he sprang out over the side on to the portico steps, and disappeared
into the house.

I now submitted to be dressed for dinner—a duty which Rachel had been
urging upon me for the last twenty minutes; and when that important
business was completed, I repaired to the drawing-room, where I found
Mr. and Miss Wilmot and Milicent Hargrave already assembled. Shortly
after, Lord Lowborough entered, and then Mr. Boarham, who seemed quite
willing to forget and forgive my former conduct, and to hope that a
little conciliation and steady perseverance on his part might yet
succeed in bringing me to reason. While I stood at the window,
conversing with Milicent, he came up to me, and was beginning to talk
in nearly his usual strain, when Mr. Huntingdon entered the room.

“How will he greet me, I wonder?” said my bounding heart; and, instead
of advancing to meet him, I turned to the window to hide or subdue my
emotion. But having saluted his host and hostess, and the rest of the
company, he came to me, ardently squeezed my hand, and murmured he was
glad to see me once again. At that moment dinner was announced: my aunt
desired him to take Miss Hargrave into the dining-room, and odious Mr.
Wilmot, with unspeakable grimaces, offered his arm to me; and I was
condemned to sit between himself and Mr. Boarham. But afterwards, when
we were all again assembled in the drawing-room, I was indemnified for
so much suffering by a few delightful minutes of conversation with Mr.
Huntingdon.

In the course of the evening, Miss Wilmot was called upon to sing and
play for the amusement of the company, and I to exhibit my drawings,
and, though he likes music, and she is an accomplished musician, I
think I am right in affirming, that he paid more attention to my
drawings than to her music.

So far so good;—but hearing him pronounce, sotto voce, but with
peculiar emphasis, concerning one of the pieces, “THIS is better than
all!”—I looked up, curious to see which it was, and, to my horror,
beheld him complacently gazing at the _back_ of the picture:—it was his
own face that I had sketched there and forgotten to rub out! To make
matters worse, in the agony of the moment, I attempted to snatch it
from his hand; but he prevented me, and exclaiming, “No—by George, I’ll
keep it!” placed it against his waistcoat and buttoned his coat upon it
with a delighted chuckle.

Then, drawing a candle close to his elbow, he gathered all the drawings
to himself, as well what he had seen as the others, and muttering, “I
must look at _both_ sides now,” he eagerly commenced an examination,
which I watched, at first, with tolerable composure, in the confidence
that his vanity would not be gratified by any further discoveries; for,
though I must plead guilty to having disfigured the backs of several
with abortive attempts to delineate that too fascinating physiognomy, I
was sure that, with that one unfortunate exception, I had carefully
obliterated all such witnesses of my infatuation. But the pencil
frequently leaves an impression upon cardboard that no amount of
rubbing can efface. Such, it seems, was the case with most of these;
and, I confess, I trembled when I saw him holding them so close to the
candle, and poring so intently over the seeming blanks; but still, I
trusted, he would not be able to make out these dim traces to his own
satisfaction. I was mistaken, however. Having ended his scrutiny, he
quietly remarked,—“I perceive the backs of young ladies’ drawings, like
the postscripts of their letters, are the most important and
interesting part of the concern.”

Then, leaning back in his chair, he reflected a few minutes in silence,
complacently smiling to himself, and while I was concocting some
cutting speech wherewith to check his gratification, he rose, and
passing over to where Annabella Wilmot sat vehemently coquetting with
Lord Lowborough, seated himself on the sofa beside her, and attached
himself to her for the rest of the evening.

“So then,” thought I, “he despises me, because he knows I love him.”

And the reflection made me so miserable I knew not what to do. Milicent
came and began to admire my drawings, and make remarks upon them; but I
could not talk to her—I could talk to no one, and, upon the
introduction of tea, I took advantage of the open door and the slight
diversion caused by its entrance to slip out—for I was sure I could not
take any—and take refuge in the library. My aunt sent Thomas in quest
of me, to ask if I were not coming to tea; but I bade him say I should
not take any to-night, and, happily, she was too much occupied with her
guests to make any further inquiries at the time.

As most of the company had travelled far that day, they retired early
to rest; and having heard them all, as I thought, go up-stairs, I
ventured out, to get my candlestick from the drawing-room sideboard.
But Mr. Huntingdon had lingered behind the rest. He was just at the
foot of the stairs when I opened the door, and hearing my step in the
hall—though I could hardly hear it myself—he instantly turned back.

“Helen, is that you?” said he. “Why did you run away from us?”

“Good-night, Mr. Huntingdon,” said I, coldly, not choosing to answer
the question. And I turned away to enter the drawing-room.

“But you’ll shake hands, won’t you?” said he, placing himself in the
doorway before me. And he seized my hand and held it, much against my
will.

“Let me go, Mr. Huntingdon,” said I. “I want to get a candle.”

“The candle will keep,” returned he.

I made a desperate effort to free my hand from his grasp.

“Why are you in such a hurry to leave me, Helen?” he said, with a smile
of the most provoking self-sufficiency. “You don’t hate me, you
_know_.”

“Yes, I do—at this moment.”

“Not you. It is Annabella Wilmot you hate, not me.”

“I have nothing to do with Annabella Wilmot,” said I, burning with
indignation.

“But _I_ have, you know,” returned he, with peculiar emphasis.

“That is nothing to me, sir,” I retorted.

“_Is_ it nothing to you, Helen? Will you swear it? Will you?”

“No I won’t, Mr. Huntingdon! and I _will_ go,” cried I, not knowing
whether to laugh, or to cry, or to break out into a tempest of fury.

“Go, then, you vixen!” he said; but the instant he released my hand he
had the audacity to put his arm round my neck, and kiss me.

Trembling with anger and agitation, and I don’t know what besides, I
broke away, and got my candle, and rushed up-stairs to my room. He
would not have done so but for that hateful picture. And there he had
it still in his possession, an eternal monument to his pride and my
humiliation.

It was but little sleep I got that night, and in the morning I rose
perplexed and troubled with the thoughts of meeting him at breakfast. I
knew not how it was to be done. An assumption of dignified, cold
indifference would hardly do, after what he knew of my devotion—to his
face, at least. Yet something must be done to check his presumption—I
would not submit to be tyrannised over by those bright, laughing eyes.
And, accordingly, I received his cheerful morning salutation as calmly
and coldly as my aunt could have wished, and defeated with brief
answers his one or two attempts to draw me into conversation, while I
comported myself with unusual cheerfulness and complaisance towards
every other member of the party, especially Annabella Wilmot, and even
her uncle and Mr. Boarham were treated with an extra amount of civility
on the occasion, not from any motives of coquetry, but just to show him
that my particular coolness and reserve arose from no general
ill-humour or depression of spirits.

He was not, however, to be repelled by such acting as this. He did not
talk much to me, but when he did speak it was with a degree of freedom
and openness, and _kindliness_ too, that plainly seemed to intimate he
knew his words were music to my ears; and when his looks met mine it
was with a smile—presumptuous, it might be—but oh! so sweet, so bright,
so genial, that I could not possibly retain my anger; every vestige of
displeasure soon melted away beneath it like morning clouds before the
summer sun.

Soon after breakfast all the gentlemen save one, with boyish eagerness,
set out on their expedition against the hapless partridges; my uncle
and Mr. Wilmot on their shooting ponies, Mr. Huntingdon and Lord
Lowborough on their legs: the one exception being Mr. Boarham, who, in
consideration of the rain that had fallen during the night, thought it
prudent to remain behind a little and join them in a while when the sun
had dried the grass. And he favoured us all with a long and minute
disquisition upon the evils and dangers attendant upon damp feet,
delivered with the most imperturbable gravity, amid the jeers and
laughter of Mr. Huntingdon and my uncle, who, leaving the prudent
sportsman to entertain the ladies with his medical discussions, sallied
forth with their guns, bending their steps to the stables first, to
have a look at the horses and let out the dogs.

Not desirous of sharing Mr. Boarham’s company for the whole of the
morning, I betook myself to the library, and there brought forth my
easel and began to paint. The easel and the painting apparatus would
serve as an excuse for abandoning the drawing-room if my aunt should
come to complain of the desertion, and besides I wanted to finish the
picture. It was one I had taken great pains with, and I intended it to
be my masterpiece, though it was somewhat presumptuous in the design.
By the bright azure of the sky, and by the warm and brilliant lights
and deep long shadows, I had endeavoured to convey the idea of a sunny
morning. I had ventured to give more of the bright verdure of spring or
early summer to the grass and foliage than is commonly attempted in
painting. The scene represented was an open glade in a wood. A group of
dark Scotch firs was introduced in the middle distance to relieve the
prevailing freshness of the rest; but in the foreground was part of the
gnarled trunk and of the spreading boughs of a large forest-tree, whose
foliage was of a brilliant golden green—not golden from autumnal
mellowness, but from the sunshine and the very immaturity of the scarce
expanded leaves. Upon this bough, that stood out in bold relief against
the sombre firs, were seated an amorous pair of turtle doves, whose
soft sad-coloured plumage afforded a contrast of another nature; and
beneath it a young girl was kneeling on the daisy-spangled turf, with
head thrown back and masses of fair hair falling on her shoulders, her
hands clasped, lips parted, and eyes intently gazing upward in pleased
yet earnest contemplation of those feathered lovers—too deeply absorbed
in each other to notice her.

I had scarcely settled to my work, which, however, wanted but a few
touches to the finishing, when the sportsmen passed the window on their
return from the stables. It was partly open, and Mr. Huntingdon must
have seen me as he went by, for in half a minute he came back, and
setting his gun against the wall, threw up the sash and sprang in, and
set himself before my picture.

“Very pretty, i’faith,” said he, after attentively regarding it for a
few seconds; “and a very fitting study for a young lady. Spring just
opening into summer—morning just approaching noon—girlhood just
ripening into womanhood, and hope just verging on fruition. She’s a
sweet creature! but why didn’t you make her black hair?”

“I thought light hair would suit her better. You see I have made her
blue-eyed and plump, and fair and rosy.”

“Upon my word—a very Hebe! I should fall in love with her if I hadn’t
the artist before me. Sweet innocent! she’s thinking there will come a
time when she will be wooed and won like that pretty hen-dove by as
fond and fervent a lover; and she’s thinking how pleasant it will be,
and how tender and faithful he will find her.”

“And perhaps,” suggested I, “how tender and faithful she shall find
him.”

“Perhaps, for there is no limit to the wild extravagance of Hope’s
imaginings at such an age.”

“Do you call _that_, then, one of her wild, extravagant delusions?”

“No; my heart tells me it is not. I might have thought so once, but
now, I say, give me the girl I love, and I will swear eternal constancy
to her and her alone, through summer and winter, through youth and age,
and life and death! if age and death _must_ come.”

He spoke this in such serious earnest that my heart bounded with
delight; but the minute after he changed his tone, and asked, with a
significant smile, if I had “any more portraits.”

“No,” replied I, reddening with confusion and wrath.

But my portfolio was on the table: he took it up, and coolly sat down
to examine its contents.

“Mr. Huntingdon, those are my unfinished sketches,” cried I, “and I
never let any one see them.”

And I placed my hand on the portfolio to wrest it from him, but he
maintained his hold, assuring me that he “liked unfinished sketches of
all things.”

“But I hate them to be seen,” returned I. “I can’t let you have it,
indeed!”

“Let me have its bowels then,” said he; and just as I wrenched the
portfolio from his hand, he deftly abstracted the greater part of its
contents, and after turning them over a moment he cried out,—“Bless my
stars, here’s another;” and slipped a small oval of ivory paper into
his waistcoat pocket—a complete miniature portrait that I had sketched
with such tolerable success as to be induced to colour it with great
pains and care. But I was determined he should not keep it.

“Mr. Huntingdon,” cried I, “I _insist_ upon having that back! It is
mine, and you have no _right_ to take it. Give it me directly—I’ll
never forgive you if you don’t!”

But the more vehemently I insisted, the more he aggravated my distress
by his insulting, gleeful laugh. At length, however, he restored it to
me, saying,—“Well, well, since you value it so much, I’ll not deprive
you of it.”

To show him how I valued it, I tore it in two and threw it into the
fire. He was not prepared for this. His merriment suddenly ceasing, he
stared in mute amazement at the consuming treasure; and then, with a
careless “Humph! I’ll go and shoot now,” he turned on his heel and
vacated the apartment by the window as he came, and setting on his hat
with an air, took up his gun and walked away, whistling as he went—and
leaving me not too much agitated to finish my picture, for I was glad,
at the moment, that I had vexed him.

When I returned to the drawing-room, I found Mr. Boarham had ventured
to follow his comrades to the field; and shortly after lunch, to which
they did not think of returning, I volunteered to accompany the ladies
in a walk, and show Annabella and Milicent the beauties of the country.
We took a long ramble, and re-entered the park just as the sportsmen
were returning from their expedition. Toil-spent and travel-stained,
the main body of them crossed over the grass to avoid us, but Mr.
Huntingdon, all spattered and splashed as he was, and stained with the
blood of his prey—to the no small offence of my aunt’s strict sense of
propriety—came out of his way to meet us, with cheerful smiles and
words for all but me, and placing himself between Annabella Wilmot and
myself, walked up the road and began to relate the various exploits and
disasters of the day, in a manner that would have convulsed me with
laughter if I had been on good terms with him; but he addressed himself
entirely to Annabella, and I, of course, left all the laughter and all
the badinage to her, and affecting the utmost indifference to whatever
passed between them, walked along a few paces apart, and looking every
way but theirs, while my aunt and Milicent went before, linked arm in
arm and gravely discoursing together. At length Mr. Huntingdon turned
to me, and addressing me in a confidential whisper, said,—“Helen, why
did you burn my picture?”

“Because I wished to destroy it,” I answered, with an asperity it is
useless now to lament.

“Oh, very good!” was the reply; “if _you_ don’t value me, I must turn
to somebody that will.”

I thought it was partly in jest—a half-playful mixture of mock
resignation and pretended indifference: but immediately he resumed his
place beside Miss Wilmot, and from that hour to this—during all that
evening, and all the next day, and the next, and the next, and all this
morning (the 22nd), he has never given me one kind word or one pleasant
look—never spoken to me, but from pure necessity—never glanced towards
me but with a cold, unfriendly look I thought him quite incapable of
assuming.

My aunt observes the change, and though she has not inquired the cause
or made any remark to me on the subject, I see it gives her pleasure.
Miss Wilmot observes it, too, and triumphantly ascribes it to her own
superior charms and blandishments; but I am truly miserable—more so
than I like to acknowledge to myself. Pride refuses to aid me. It has
brought me into the scrape, and will not help me out of it.

He meant no harm—it was only his joyous, playful spirit; and I, by my
acrimonious resentment—so serious, so disproportioned to the
offence—have so wounded his feelings, so deeply offended him, that I
fear he will never forgive me—and all for a mere jest! He thinks I
dislike him, and he must continue to think so. I must lose him for
ever, and Annabella may win him, and triumph as she will.

But it is not my loss nor her triumph that I deplore so greatly as the
wreck of my fond hopes for his advantage, and her unworthiness of his
affection, and the injury he will do himself by trusting his happiness
to her. _She_ does not love him: she thinks only of herself. She cannot
appreciate the good that is in him: she will neither see it, nor value
it, nor cherish it. She will neither deplore his faults nor attempt
their amendment, but rather aggravate them by her own. And I doubt
whether she will not deceive him after all. I see she is playing double
between him and Lord Lowborough, and while she amuses herself with the
lively Huntingdon, she tries her utmost to enslave his moody friend;
and should she succeed in bringing both to her feet, the fascinating
commoner will have but little chance against the lordly peer. If he
observes her artful by-play, it gives him no uneasiness, but rather
adds new zest to his diversion by opposing a stimulating check to his
otherwise too easy conquest.

Messrs. Wilmot and Boarham have severally taken occasion by his neglect
of me to renew their advances; and if I were like Annabella and some
others I should take advantage of their perseverance to endeavour to
pique him into a revival of affection; but, justice and honesty apart,
I could not _bear_ to do it. I am annoyed enough by their present
persecutions without encouraging them further; and even if I did it
would have precious little effect upon him. He sees me suffering under
the condescending attentions and prosaic discourses of the one, and the
repulsive obtrusions of the other, without so much as a shadow of
commiseration for me, or resentment against my tormentors. He never
could have loved me, or he would not have resigned me so willingly, and
he would not go on talking to everybody else so cheerfully as he
does—laughing and jesting with Lord Lowborough and my uncle, teasing
Milicent Hargrave, and flirting with Annabella Wilmot—as if nothing
were on his mind. Oh! why can’t I hate him? I must be infatuated, or I
should scorn to regret him as I do. But I must rally all the powers I
have remaining, and try to tear him from my heart. There goes the
dinner-bell, and here comes my aunt to scold me for sitting here at my
desk all day, instead of staying with the company: wish the company
were—gone.




 CHAPTER XIX


Twenty-Second: Night.—What have I done? and what will be the end of it?
I cannot calmly reflect upon it; I cannot sleep. I must have recourse
to my diary again; I will commit it to paper to-night, and see what I
shall think of it to-morrow.

I went down to dinner resolving to be cheerful and well-conducted, and
kept my resolution very creditably, considering how my head ached and
how internally wretched I felt. I don’t know what is come over me of
late; my very energies, both mental and physical, must be strangely
impaired, or I should not have acted so weakly in many respects as I
have done; but I have not been well this last day or two. I suppose it
is with sleeping and eating so little, and thinking so much, and being
so continually out of humour. But to return. I was exerting myself to
sing and play for the amusement, and at the request, of my aunt and
Milicent, before the gentlemen came into the drawing-room (Miss Wilmot
never likes to waste her musical efforts on ladies’ ears alone).
Milicent had asked for a little Scotch song, and I was just in the
middle of it when they entered. The first thing Mr. Huntingdon did was
to walk up to Annabella.

“Now, Miss Wilmot, won’t _you_ give us some music to-night?” said he.
“Do now! I know you will, when I tell you that I have been hungering
and thirsting all day for the sound of your voice. Come! the piano’s
vacant.”

It was, for I had quitted it immediately upon hearing his petition. Had
I been endowed with a proper degree of self-possession, I should have
turned to the lady myself, and cheerfully joined my entreaties to his,
whereby I should have disappointed his expectations, if the affront had
been purposely given, or made him sensible of the wrong, if it had only
arisen from thoughtlessness; but I felt it too deeply to do anything
but rise from the music-stool, and throw myself back on the sofa,
suppressing with difficulty the audible expression of the bitterness I
felt within. I knew Annabella’s musical talents were superior to mine,
but that was no reason why I should be treated as a perfect nonentity.
The time and the manner of his asking her appeared like a gratuitous
insult to me; and I could have wept with pure vexation.

Meantime, she exultingly seated herself at the piano, and favoured him
with two of his favourite songs, in such superior style that even I
soon lost my anger in admiration, and listened with a sort of gloomy
pleasure to the skilful modulations of her full-toned and powerful
voice, so judiciously aided by her rounded and spirited touch; and
while my ears drank in the sound, my eyes rested on the face of her
principal auditor, and derived an equal or superior delight from the
contemplation of his speaking countenance, as he stood beside her—that
eye and brow lighted up with keen enthusiasm, and that sweet smile
passing and appearing like gleams of sunshine on an April day. No
wonder he should hunger and thirst to hear her sing. I now forgave him
from my heart his reckless slight of me, and I felt ashamed at my
pettish resentment of such a trifle—ashamed too of those bitter envious
pangs that gnawed my inmost heart, in spite of all this admiration and
delight.

“There now,” said she, playfully running her fingers over the keys when
she had concluded the second song. “What shall I give you next?”

But in saying this she looked back at Lord Lowborough, who was standing
a little behind, leaning against the back of a chair, an attentive
listener, too, experiencing, to judge by his countenance, much the same
feelings of mingled pleasure and sadness as I did. But the look she
gave him plainly said, “Do you choose for me now: I have done enough
for him, and will gladly exert myself to gratify you;” and thus
encouraged, his lordship came forward, and turning over the music,
presently set before her a little song that I had noticed before, and
read more than once, with an interest arising from the circumstance of
my connecting it in my mind with the reigning tyrant of my thoughts.
And now, with my nerves already excited and half unstrung, I could not
hear those words so sweetly warbled forth without some symptoms of
emotion I was not able to suppress. Tears rose unbidden to my eyes, and
I buried my face in the sofa-pillow that they might flow unseen while I
listened. The air was simple, sweet, and sad. It is still running in my
head, and so are the words:—

Farewell to thee! but not farewell
    To all my fondest thoughts of thee:
Within my heart they still shall dwell;
    And they shall cheer and comfort me.

O beautiful, and full of grace!
    If thou hadst never met mine eye,
I had not dreamed a living face
    Could fancied charms so far outvie.

If I may ne’er behold again
    That form and face so dear to me,
Nor hear thy voice, still would I fain
    Preserve, for aye, their memory.

That voice, the magic of whose tone
    Can wake an echo in my breast,
Creating feelings that, alone,
    Can make my tranced spirit blest.

That laughing eye, whose sunny beam
    My memory would not cherish less;—
And oh, that smile! I whose joyous gleam
    No mortal languish can express.

Adieu! but let me cherish, still,
    The hope with which I cannot part.
Contempt may wound, and coldness chill,
    But still it lingers in my heart.

And who can tell but Heaven, at last,
    May answer all my thousand prayers,
And bid the future pay the past
    With joy for anguish, smiles for tears.


When it ceased, I longed for nothing so much as to be out of the room.
The sofa was not far from the door, but I did not dare to raise my
head, for I knew Mr. Huntingdon was standing near me, and I knew by the
sound of his voice, as he spoke in answer to some remark of Lord
Lowborough’s, that his face was turned towards me. Perhaps a
half-suppressed sob had caught his ear, and caused him to look
round—heaven forbid! But with a violent effort, I checked all further
signs of weakness, dried my tears, and, when I thought he had turned
away again, rose, and instantly left the apartment, taking refuge in my
favourite resort, the library.

There was no light there but the faint red glow of the neglected
fire;—but I did not want a light; I only wanted to indulge my thoughts,
unnoticed and undisturbed; and sitting down on a low stool before the
easy-chair, I sunk my head upon its cushioned seat, and thought, and
thought, until the tears gushed out again, and I wept like any child.
Presently, however, the door was gently opened and someone entered the
room. I trusted it was only a servant, and did not stir. The door was
closed again—but I was not alone; a hand gently touched my shoulder,
and a voice said, softly,—“Helen, what is the matter?”

I could not answer at the moment.

“You must, and shall tell me,” was added, more vehemently, and the
speaker threw himself on his knees beside me on the rug, and forcibly
possessed himself of my hand; but I hastily caught it away, and
replied,—“It is nothing to you, Mr. Huntingdon.”

“Are you sure it is nothing to me?” he returned; “can you swear that
you were not thinking of me while you wept?” This was unendurable. I
made an effort to rise, but he was kneeling on my dress.

“Tell me,” continued he—“I want to know,—because if you were, I have
something to say to you,—and if not, I’ll go.”

“Go then!” I cried; but, fearing he would obey too well, and never come
again, I hastily added—“Or say what you have to say, and have done with
it!”

“But which?” said he—“for I shall only say it if you really were
thinking of me. So tell me, Helen.”

“You’re excessively impertinent, Mr. Huntingdon!”

“Not at all—too pertinent, you mean. So you won’t tell me?—Well, I’ll
spare your woman’s pride, and, construing your silence into ‘Yes,’ I’ll
take it for granted that I was the subject of your thoughts, and the
cause of your affliction—”

“Indeed, sir—”

“If you deny it, I won’t tell you my secret,” threatened he; and I did
not interrupt him again, or even attempt to repulse him: though he had
taken my hand once more, and half embraced me with his other arm, I was
scarcely conscious of it at the time.

“It is this,” resumed he: “that Annabella Wilmot, in comparison with
you, is like a flaunting peony compared with a sweet, wild rosebud
gemmed with dew—and I love you to distraction!—Now, tell me if that
intelligence gives you any pleasure. Silence again? That means yes.
Then let me add, that I cannot live without you, and if you answer No
to this last question, you will drive me mad.—Will you bestow yourself
upon me?—you will!” he cried, nearly squeezing me to death in his arms.

“No, no!” I exclaimed, struggling to free myself from him—“you must ask
my uncle and aunt.”

“They won’t refuse me, if you don’t.”

“I’m not so sure of that—my aunt dislikes you.”

“But _you_ don’t, Helen—say you love me, and I’ll go.”

“I wish you _would_ go!” I replied.

“I will, this instant,—if you’ll only say you love me.”

“You know I do,” I answered. And again he caught me in his arms, and
smothered me with kisses.

At that moment my aunt opened wide the door, and stood before us,
candle in hand, in shocked and horrified amazement, gazing alternately
at Mr. Huntingdon and me—for we had both started up, and now stood wide
enough asunder. But _his_ confusion was only for a moment. Rallying in
an instant, with the most enviable assurance, he began,—“I beg ten
thousand pardons, Mrs. Maxwell! Don’t be too severe upon me. I’ve been
asking your sweet niece to take me for better, for worse; and she, like
a good girl, informs me she cannot think of it without her uncle’s and
aunt’s consent. So let me implore you not to condemn me to eternal
wretchedness: if _you_ favour my cause, I am safe; for Mr. Maxwell, I
am certain, can refuse you nothing.”

“We will talk of this to-morrow, sir,” said my aunt, coldly. “It is a
subject that demands mature and serious deliberation. At present, you
had better return to the drawing-room.”

“But meantime,” pleaded he, “let me commend my cause to your most
indulgent—”

“No indulgence for you, Mr. Huntingdon, must come between me and the
consideration of my niece’s happiness.”

“Ah, true! I know she is an angel, and I am a presumptuous dog to dream
of possessing such a treasure; but, nevertheless, I would sooner die
than relinquish her in favour of the best man that ever went to
heaven—and as for her happiness, I would sacrifice my body and soul—”

“Body and _soul_, Mr. Huntingdon—sacrifice your _soul?_”

“Well, I would lay down life—”

“You would not be required to lay it down.”

“I would spend it, then—devote my life—and all its powers to the
promotion and preservation—”

“Another time, sir, we will talk of this—and I should have felt
disposed to judge more favourably of your pretensions, if you too had
chosen another time and place, and let me add—another _manner_ for your
declaration.”

“Why, you see, Mrs. Maxwell,” he began—

“Pardon me, sir,” said she, with dignity—“The company are inquiring for
you in the other room.” And she turned to me.

“Then _you_ must plead for me, Helen,” said he, and at length withdrew.

“You had better retire to your room, Helen,” said my aunt, gravely. “I
will discuss this matter with you, too, to-morrow.”

“Don’t be angry, aunt,” said I.

“My dear, I am not angry,” she replied: “I am _surprised_. If it is
true that you told him you could not accept his offer without our
consent—”

“It _is_ true,” interrupted I.

“Then how could you permit—?”

“I couldn’t help it, aunt,” I cried, bursting into tears. They were not
altogether the tears of sorrow, or of fear for her displeasure, but
rather the outbreak of the general tumultuous excitement of my
feelings. But my good aunt was touched at my agitation. In a softer
tone, she repeated her recommendation to retire, and, gently kissing my
forehead, bade me good-night, and put her candle in my hand; and I
went; but my brain worked so, I could not think of sleeping. I feel
calmer now that I have written all this; and I will go to bed, and try
to win tired nature’s sweet restorer.




 CHAPTER XX


September 24th.—In the morning I rose, light and cheerful—nay,
intensely happy. The hovering cloud cast over me by my aunt’s views,
and by the fear of not obtaining her consent, was lost in the bright
effulgence of my own hopes, and the too delightful consciousness of
requited love. It was a splendid morning; and I went out to enjoy it,
in a quiet ramble, in company with my own blissful thoughts. The dew
was on the grass, and ten thousand gossamers were waving in the breeze;
the happy red-breast was pouring out its little soul in song, and my
heart overflowed with silent hymns of gratitude and praise to heaven.

But I had not wandered far before my solitude was interrupted by the
only person that could have disturbed my musings, at that moment,
without being looked upon as an unwelcome intruder: Mr. Huntingdon came
suddenly upon me. So unexpected was the apparition, that I might have
thought it the creation of an over-excited imagination, had the sense
of sight alone borne witness to his presence; but immediately I felt
his strong arm round my waist and his warm kiss on my cheek, while his
keen and gleeful salutation, “My own Helen!” was ringing in my ear.

“Not yours yet!” said I, hastily swerving aside from this too
presumptuous greeting. “Remember my guardians. You will not easily
obtain my aunt’s consent. Don’t you see she is prejudiced against you?”

“I do, dearest; and you must tell me why, that I may best know how to
combat her objections. I suppose she thinks I am a prodigal,” pursued
he, observing that I was unwilling to reply, “and concludes that I
shall have but little worldly goods wherewith to endow my better half?
If so, you must tell her that my property is mostly entailed, and I
cannot get rid of it. There may be a few mortgages on the rest—a few
trifling debts and incumbrances here and there, but nothing to speak
of; and though I acknowledge I am not so rich as I might be—or have
been—still, I think, we could manage pretty comfortably on what’s left.
My father, you know, was something of a miser, and in his latter days
especially saw no pleasure in life but to amass riches; and so it is no
wonder that his son should make it his chief delight to spend them,
which was accordingly the case, until my acquaintance with you, dear
Helen, taught me other views and nobler aims. And the very idea of
having you to care for under my roof would force me to moderate my
expenses and live like a Christian—not to speak of all the prudence and
virtue you would instil into my mind by your wise counsels and sweet,
attractive goodness.”

“But it is not that,” said I; “it is not money my aunt thinks about.
She knows better than to value worldly wealth above its price.”

“What is it, then?”

“She wishes me to—to marry none but a really good man.”

“What, a man of ‘decided piety’?—ahem!—Well, come, I’ll manage that
too! It’s Sunday to-day, isn’t it? I’ll go to church morning,
afternoon, and evening, and comport myself in such a godly sort that
she shall regard me with admiration and sisterly love, as a brand
plucked from the burning. I’ll come home sighing like a furnace, and
full of the savour and unction of dear Mr. Blatant’s discourse—”

“Mr. Leighton,” said I, dryly.

“Is Mr. Leighton a ‘sweet preacher,’ Helen—a ‘dear, delightful,
heavenly-minded man’?”

“He is a _good_ man, Mr. Huntingdon. I wish I could say half as much
for you.”

“Oh, I forgot, you are a saint, too. I crave your pardon, dearest—but
don’t call me Mr. Huntingdon; my name is Arthur.”

“I’ll call you nothing—for I’ll have nothing at all to do with you if
you talk in that way any more. If you really mean to deceive my aunt as
you say, you are very wicked; and if not, you are very wrong to jest on
such a subject.”

“I stand corrected,” said he, concluding his laugh with a sorrowful
sigh. “Now,” resumed he, after a momentary pause, “let us talk about
something else. And come nearer to me, Helen, and take my arm; and then
I’ll let you alone. I can’t be quiet while I see you walking there.”

I complied; but said we must soon return to the house.

“No one will be down to breakfast yet, for long enough,” he answered.
“You spoke of your guardians just now, Helen, but is not your father
still living?”

“Yes, but I always look upon my uncle and aunt as my guardians, for
they are so in deed, though not in name. My father has entirely given
me up to their care. I have never seen him since dear mamma died, when
I was a very little girl, and my aunt, at her request, offered to take
charge of me, and took me away to Staningley, where I have remained
ever since; and I don’t think he would object to anything for me that
she thought proper to sanction.”

“But would he sanction anything to which she thought proper to object?”

“No, I don’t think he cares enough about me.”

“He is very much to blame—but he doesn’t know what an angel he has for
his daughter—which is all the better for me, as, if he did, he would
not be willing to part with such a treasure.”

“And Mr. Huntingdon,” said I, “I suppose you _know_ I am not an
heiress?”

He protested he had never given it a thought, and begged I would not
disturb his present enjoyment by the mention of such uninteresting
subjects. I was glad of this proof of disinterested affection; for
Annabella Wilmot is the probable heiress to all her uncle’s wealth, in
addition to her late father’s property, which she has already in
possession.

I now insisted upon retracing our steps to the house; but we walked
slowly, and went on talking as we proceeded. I need not repeat all we
said: let me rather refer to what passed between my aunt and me, after
breakfast, when Mr. Huntingdon called my uncle aside, no doubt to make
his proposals, and she beckoned me into another room, where she once
more commenced a solemn remonstrance, which, however, entirely failed
to convince me that her view of the case was preferable to my own.

“You judge him uncharitably, aunt, I know,” said I. “His very friends
are not half so bad as you represent them. There is Walter Hargrave,
Milicent’s brother, for one: he is but a little lower than the angels,
if half she says of him is true. She is continually talking to me about
him, and lauding his many virtues to the skies.”

“You will form a very inadequate estimate of a man’s character,”
replied she, “if you judge by what a fond sister says of him. The worst
of them generally know how to hide their misdeeds from their sisters’
eyes, and their mother’s, too.”

“And there is Lord Lowborough,” continued I, “quite a decent man.”

“Who told you so? Lord Lowborough is a _desperate_ man. He has
dissipated his fortune in gambling and other things, and is now seeking
an heiress to retrieve it. I told Miss Wilmot so; but you’re all alike:
she haughtily answered she was very much obliged to me, but she
believed _she_ knew when a man was seeking her for her fortune, and
when for herself; she flattered herself she had had experience enough
in those matters to be justified in trusting to her own judgment—and as
for his lordship’s lack of fortune, she cared nothing about that, as
she hoped her own would suffice for both; and as for his wildness, she
supposed he was no worse than others—besides, he was reformed now. Yes,
they can all play the hypocrite when they want to take in a fond,
misguided woman!”

“Well, I think he’s about as good as she is,” said I. “But when Mr.
Huntingdon is married, he won’t have many opportunities of consorting
with his bachelor friends;—and the worse they are, the more I long to
deliver him from them.”

“To be sure, my dear; and the worse _he_ is, I suppose, the more you
long to deliver him from himself.”

“Yes, provided he is not incorrigible—that is, the more I long to
deliver him from his faults—to give him an opportunity of shaking off
the adventitious evil got from contact with others worse than himself,
and shining out in the unclouded light of his own genuine goodness—to
do my utmost to help his better self against his worse, and make him
what he would have been if he had not, from the beginning, had a bad,
selfish, miserly father, who, to gratify his own sordid passions,
restricted him in the most innocent enjoyments of childhood and youth,
and so disgusted him with every kind of restraint;—and a foolish mother
who indulged him to the top of his bent, deceiving her husband for him,
and doing her utmost to encourage those germs of folly and vice it was
her duty to suppress,—and then, such a set of companions as you
represent his friends to be—”

“Poor man!” said she, sarcastically, “his kind have greatly wronged
him!”

“They have!” cried I—“and they shall wrong him no more—his wife shall
undo what his mother did!”

“Well,” said she, after a short pause, “I must say, Helen, I thought
better of your judgment than this—and your taste too. How you can love
such a man I cannot tell, or what pleasure you can find in his company;
for ‘what fellowship hath light with darkness; or he that believeth
with an infidel?’”

“He is not an infidel;—and I am not light, and he is not darkness; his
worst and only vice is thoughtlessness.”

“And thoughtlessness,” pursued my aunt, “may lead to every crime, and
will but poorly excuse our errors in the sight of God. Mr. Huntingdon,
I suppose, is not without the common faculties of men: he is not so
light-headed as to be irresponsible: his Maker has endowed him with
reason and conscience as well as the rest of us; the Scriptures are
open to him as well as to others;—and ‘if he hear not them, neither
will he hear though one rose from the dead.’ And remember, Helen,”
continued she, solemnly, “‘the wicked shall be turned into hell, and
they that _forget_ God!’” And suppose, even, that he should continue to
love you, and you him, and that you should pass through life together
with tolerable comfort—how will it be in the end, when you see
yourselves parted for ever; you, perhaps, taken into eternal bliss, and
he cast into the lake that burneth with unquenchable fire—there for
ever to—”

“Not for ever,” I exclaimed, “‘only till he has paid the uttermost
farthing;’ for ‘if any man’s work abide not the fire, he shall suffer
loss, yet himself shall be saved, but so as by fire;’ and He that ‘is
able to subdue all things to Himself will have all men to be saved,’
and ‘will, in the fulness of time, gather together in one all things in
Christ Jesus, who tasted death for every man, and in whom God will
reconcile all things to Himself, whether they be things in earth or
things in heaven.’”

“Oh, Helen! where did you learn all this?”

“In the Bible, aunt. I have searched it through, and found nearly
thirty passages, all tending to support the same theory.”

“And is _that_ the use you make of your Bible? And did you find no
passages tending to prove the danger and the falsity of such a belief?”

“No: I found, indeed, some passages that, taken by themselves, might
seem to contradict that opinion; but they will all bear a different
construction to that which is commonly given, and in most the only
difficulty is in the word which we translate ‘everlasting’ or
‘eternal.’ I don’t know the Greek, but I believe it strictly means for
ages, and might signify either endless or long-enduring. And as for the
danger of the belief, I would not publish it abroad if I thought any
poor wretch would be likely to presume upon it to his own destruction,
but it is a glorious thought to cherish in one’s own heart, and I would
not part with it for all the world can give!”

Here our conference ended, for it was now high time to prepare for
church. Every one attended the morning service, except my uncle, who
hardly ever goes, and Mr. Wilmot, who stayed at home with him to enjoy
a quiet game of cribbage. In the afternoon Miss Wilmot and Lord
Lowborough likewise excused themselves from attending; but Mr.
Huntingdon vouchsafed to accompany us again. Whether it was to
ingratiate himself with my aunt I cannot tell, but, if so, he certainly
should have behaved better. I must confess, I did not like his conduct
during service at all. Holding his prayer-book upside down, or open at
any place but the right, he did nothing but stare about him, unless he
happened to catch my aunt’s eye or mine, and then he would drop his own
on his book, with a puritanical air of mock solemnity that would have
been ludicrous, if it had not been too provoking. Once, during the
sermon, after attentively regarding Mr. Leighton for a few minutes, he
suddenly produced his gold pencil-case and snatched up a Bible.
Perceiving that I observed the movement, he whispered that he was going
to make a note of the sermon; but instead of that, as I sat next him, I
could not help seeing that he was making a caricature of the preacher,
giving to the respectable, pious, elderly gentleman, the air and aspect
of a most absurd old hypocrite. And yet, upon his return, he talked to
my aunt about the sermon with a degree of modest, serious
discrimination that tempted me to believe he had really attended to and
profited by the discourse.

Just before dinner my uncle called me into the library for the
discussion of a very important matter, which was dismissed in few
words.

“Now, Nell,” said he, “this young Huntingdon has been asking for you:
what must I say about it? Your aunt would answer ‘no’—but what say
you?”

“I say yes, uncle,” replied I, without a moment’s hesitation; for I had
thoroughly made up my mind on the subject.

“Very good!” cried he. “Now that’s a good honest answer—wonderful for a
girl!—Well, I’ll write to your father to-morrow. He’s sure to give his
consent; so you may look on the matter as settled. You’d have done a
deal better if you’d taken Wilmot, I can tell you; but that you won’t
believe. At your time of life, it’s love that rules the roast: at mine,
it’s solid, serviceable gold. I suppose now, you’d never dream of
looking into the state of your husband’s finances, or troubling your
head about settlements, or anything of that sort?”

“I don’t think I should.”

“Well, be thankful, then, that you’ve wiser heads to think for you. I
haven’t had time, yet, to examine thoroughly into this young rascal’s
affairs, but I see that a great part of his father’s fine property has
been squandered away;—but still, I think, there’s a pretty fair share
of it left, and a little careful nursing may make a handsome thing of
it yet; and then we must persuade your father to give you a decent
fortune, as he has only one besides yourself to care for;—and, if you
behave well, who knows but what I may be induced to remember you in my
will!” continued he, putting his fingers to his nose, with a knowing
wink.

“Thanks, uncle, for that and all your kindness,” replied I.

“Well, and I questioned this young spark on the matter of settlements,”
continued he; “and he seemed disposed to be generous enough on that
point—”

“I knew he would!” said I. “But pray don’t trouble your head—or his, or
mine about that; for all I have will be his, and all he has will be
mine; and what more could either of us require?” And I was about to
make my exit, but he called me back.

“Stop, stop!” cried he; “we haven’t mentioned the time yet. When must
it be? Your aunt would put it off till the Lord knows when, but he is
anxious to be bound as soon as may be: he won’t hear of waiting beyond
next month; and you, I guess, will be of the same mind, so—”

“Not at all, uncle; on the contrary, I should like to wait till after
Christmas, at least.”

“Oh! pooh, pooh! never tell me that tale—I know better,” cried he; and
he persisted in his incredulity. Nevertheless, it is quite true. I am
in no hurry at all. How can I be, when I think of the momentous change
that awaits me, and of all I have to leave? It is happiness enough to
know that we _are_ to be united; and that he really loves me, and I may
love _him_ as devotedly, and think of him as often as I please.
However, I insisted upon consulting my aunt about the _time_ of the
wedding, for I determined her counsels should not be utterly
disregarded; and no conclusions on that particular are come to yet.




 CHAPTER XXI


October 1st.—All is settled now. My father has given his consent, and
the time is fixed for Christmas, by a sort of compromise between the
respective advocates for hurry and delay. Milicent Hargrave is to be
one bridesmaid and Annabella Wilmot the other—not that I am
particularly fond of the latter, but she is an intimate of the family,
and I have not another friend.

When I told Milicent of my engagement, she rather provoked me by her
manner of taking it. After staring a moment in mute surprise, she
said,—

“Well, Helen, I suppose I ought to congratulate you—and I _am_ glad to
see you so happy; but I did not think you would take him; and I can’t
help feeling surprised that you should like him so much.”

“Why so?”

“Because you are so superior to him in every way, and there’s something
so bold and reckless about him—so, I don’t know how—but I always feel a
wish to get out of his way when I see him approach.”

“You are timid, Milicent; but that’s no fault of his.”

“And then his look,” continued she. “People say he’s handsome, and of
course he is; but _I_ don’t _like_ that kind of beauty, and I wonder
that you should.”

“Why so, pray?”

“Well, you know, I think there’s nothing noble or lofty in his
appearance.”

“In fact, you wonder that I can like any one so unlike the stilted
heroes of romance. Well, give me my flesh and blood lover, and I’ll
leave all the Sir Herberts and Valentines to you—if you can find them.”

“I don’t want them,” said she. “I’ll be satisfied with flesh and blood
too—only the spirit must shine through and predominate. But don’t you
think Mr. Huntingdon’s face is too red?”

“No!” cried I, indignantly. “It is not red at all. There is just a
pleasant glow, a healthy freshness in his complexion—the warm, pinky
tint of the whole harmonising with the deeper colour of the cheeks,
exactly as it ought to do. I hate a man to be red and white, like a
painted doll, or all sickly white, or smoky black, or cadaverous
yellow.”

“Well, tastes differ—but _I_ like pale or dark,” replied she. “But, to
tell you the truth, Helen, I had been deluding myself with the hope
that you would one day be my sister. I expected Walter would be
introduced to you next season; and I thought you would like him, and
was certain he would like you; and I flattered myself I should thus
have the felicity of seeing the two persons I like best in the
world—except mamma—united in one. He mayn’t be exactly what you would
call handsome, but he’s far more distinguished-looking, and nicer and
better than Mr. Huntingdon;—and I’m sure you would say so, if you knew
him.”

“Impossible, Milicent! You think so, because you’re his sister; and, on
that account, I’ll forgive you; but nobody else should so disparage
Arthur Huntingdon to me with impunity.”

Miss Wilmot expressed her feelings on the subject almost as openly.

“And so, Helen,” said she, coming up to me with a smile of no amiable
import, “you are to be Mrs. Huntingdon, I suppose?”

“Yes,” replied I. “Don’t you envy me?”

“Oh, _dear_, no!” she exclaimed. “I shall probably be Lady Lowborough
some day, and then you know, dear, I shall be in a capacity to inquire,
‘Don’t you envy _me?_’”

“Henceforth I shall envy no one,” returned I.

“Indeed! Are you so happy then?” said she, thoughtfully; and something
very like a cloud of disappointment shadowed her face. “And does he
love you—I mean, does he idolise you as much as you do him?” she added,
fixing her eyes upon me with ill-disguised anxiety for the reply.

“I don’t want to be idolised,” I answered; “but I am well assured that
he _loves_ me more than anybody else in the world—as I do him.”

“Exactly,” said she, with a nod. “I wish—” she paused.

“What do you wish?” asked I, annoyed at the vindictive expression of
her countenance.

“I wish,” returned, she, with a short laugh, “that all the attractive
points and desirable qualifications of the two gentlemen were united in
one—that Lord Lowborough had Huntingdon’s handsome face and good
temper, and all his wit, and mirth and charm, or else that Huntingdon
had Lowborough’s pedigree, and title, and delightful old family seat,
and I had him; and you might have the other and welcome.”

“Thank you, dear Annabella: I am better satisfied with things as they
are, for my own part; and for you, I wish you were as well content with
your intended as I am with mine,” said I; and it was true enough; for,
though vexed at first at her unamiable spirit, her frankness touched
me, and the contrast between our situations was such, that I could well
afford to pity her and wish her well.

Mr. Huntingdon’s acquaintances appear to be no better pleased with our
approaching union than mine. This morning’s post brought him letters
from several of his friends, during the perusal of which, at the
breakfast-table, he excited the attention of the company by the
singular variety of his grimaces. But he crushed them all into his
pocket, with a private laugh, and said nothing till the meal was
concluded. Then, while the company were hanging over the fire or
loitering through the room, previous to settling to their various
morning avocations, he came and leant over the back of my chair, with
his face in contact with my curls, and commencing with a quiet little
kiss, poured forth the following complaints into my ear:—

“Helen, you witch, do you know that you’ve entailed upon me the curses
of all my friends? I wrote to them the other day, to tell them of my
happy prospects, and now, instead of a bundle of congratulations, I’ve
got a pocketful of bitter execrations and reproaches. There’s not one
kind wish for me, or one good word for you, among them all. They say
there’ll be no more fun now, no more merry days and glorious nights—and
all my fault—I am the first to break up the jovial band, and others, in
pure despair, will follow my example. I was the very life and prop of
the community, they do me the honour to say, and I have shamefully
betrayed my trust—”

“You may join them again, if you like,” said I, somewhat piqued at the
sorrowful tone of his discourse. “I should be sorry to stand between
any man—or body of men, and so much happiness; and perhaps I can manage
to do without you, as well as your poor deserted friends.”

“Bless you, no,” murmured he. “It’s ‘all for love or the world well
lost,’ with me. Let them go to—where they belong, to speak politely.
But if you saw how they abuse me, Helen, you would love me all the more
for having ventured so much for your sake.”

He pulled out his crumpled letters. I thought he was going to show them
to me, and told him I did not wish to see them.

“I’m not going to show them to you, love,” said he. “They’re hardly fit
for a lady’s eyes—the most part of them. But look here. This is
Grimsby’s scrawl—only three lines, the sulky dog! He doesn’t say much,
to be sure, but his very silence implies more than all the others’
words, and the less he says, the more he thinks—and this is Hargrave’s
missive. He is particularly grieved at me, because, forsooth he had
fallen in love with you from his sister’s reports, and meant to have
married you himself, as soon as he had sown his wild oats.”

“I’m vastly obliged to him,” observed I.

“And so am I,” said he. “And look at this. This is Hattersley’s—every
page stuffed full of railing accusations, bitter curses, and lamentable
complaints, ending up with swearing that he’ll get married himself in
revenge: he’ll throw himself away on the first old maid that chooses to
set her cap at him,—as if _I_ cared what he did with himself.”

“Well,” said I, “if you do give up your intimacy with these men, I
don’t think you will have much cause to regret the loss of their
society; for it’s my belief they never did you much good.”

“Maybe not; but we’d a merry time of it, too, though mingled with
sorrow and pain, as Lowborough knows to his cost—Ha, ha!” and while he
was laughing at the recollection of Lowborough’s troubles, my uncle
came and slapped him on the shoulder.

“Come, my lad!” said he. “Are you too busy making love to my niece to
make war with the pheasants?—First of October, remember! Sun shines
out—rain ceased—even Boarham’s not afraid to venture in his waterproof
boots; and Wilmot and I are going to beat you all. I declare, we old
’uns are the keenest sportsmen of the lot!”

“I’ll show you what I can do to-day, however,” said my companion. “I’ll
murder your birds by wholesale, just for keeping me away from better
company than either you or them.”

And so saying he departed; and I saw no more of him till dinner. It
seemed a weary time; I wonder what I shall do without him.

It is very true that the three elder gentlemen have proved themselves
much keener sportsmen than the two younger ones; for both Lord
Lowborough and Arthur Huntingdon have of late almost daily neglected
the shooting excursions to accompany us in our various rides and
rambles. But these merry times are fast drawing to a close. In less
than a fortnight the party break up, much to my sorrow, for every day I
enjoy it more and more—now that Messrs. Boarham and Wilmot have ceased
to tease me, and my aunt has ceased to lecture me, and I have ceased to
be jealous of Annabella—and even to dislike her—and now that Mr.
Huntingdon is become _my_ Arthur, and I may enjoy his society without
restraint. What _shall_ I do without him, I repeat?




 CHAPTER XXII


October 5th.—My cup of sweets is not unmingled: it is dashed with a
bitterness that I cannot hide from myself, disguise it as I will. I may
try to persuade myself that the sweetness overpowers it; I may call it
a pleasant aromatic flavour; but say what I will, it is still there,
and I cannot but taste it. I cannot shut my eyes to Arthur’s faults;
and the more I love him the more they trouble me. His very heart, that
I trusted so, is, I fear, less warm and generous than I thought it. At
least, he gave me a specimen of his character to-day that seemed to
merit a harder name than thoughtlessness. He and Lord Lowborough were
accompanying Annabella and me in a long, delightful ride; he was riding
by my side, as usual, and Annabella and Lord Lowborough were a little
before us, the latter bending towards his companion as if in tender and
confidential discourse.

“Those two will get the start of us, Helen, if we don’t look sharp,”
observed Huntingdon. “They’ll make a match of it, as sure as can be.
That Lowborough’s fairly besotted. But he’ll find himself in a fix when
he’s got her, I doubt.”

“And she’ll find _her_self in a fix when she’s got _him_,” said I, “if
what I’ve heard of him is true.”

“Not a bit of it. She knows what she’s about; but he, poor fool,
deludes himself with the notion that she’ll make him a good wife, and
because she has amused him with some rodomontade about despising rank
and wealth in matters of love and marriage, he flatters himself that
she’s devotedly attached to him; that she will not refuse him for his
poverty, and does not court him for his rank, but loves him for himself
alone.”

“But is not _he_ courting _her_ for her fortune?”

“No, not he. That was the first attraction, certainly; but now he has
quite lost sight of it: it never enters his calculations, except merely
as an essential without which, for the lady’s own sake, he could not
think of marrying her. No; he’s fairly in love. He thought he never
could be again, but he’s in for it once more. He was to have been
married before, some two or three years ago; but he lost his bride by
losing his fortune. He got into a bad way among us in London: he had an
unfortunate taste for gambling; and surely the fellow was born under an
unlucky star, for he always lost thrice where he gained once. That’s a
mode of self-torment I never was much addicted to. When I spend my
money I like to enjoy the full value of it: I see no fun in wasting it
on thieves and blacklegs; and as for _gaining_ money, hitherto I have
always had sufficient; it’s time enough to be clutching for more, I
think, when you begin to see the end of what you have. But I have
sometimes frequented the gaming-houses just to watch the on-goings of
those mad votaries of chance—a very interesting study, I assure you,
Helen, and sometimes very diverting: I’ve had many a laugh at the
boobies and bedlamites. Lowborough was quite infatuated—not willingly,
but of necessity,—he was always resolving to give it up, and always
breaking his resolutions. Every venture was the “just once more:” if he
gained a little, he hoped to gain a little more next time, and if he
lost, it would not do to leave off at that juncture; he must go on till
he had retrieved that last misfortune, at least: bad luck could not
last for ever; and every lucky hit was looked upon as the dawn of
better times, till experience proved the contrary. At length he grew
desperate, and we were daily on the look-out for a case of
_felo-de-se_—no great matter, some of us whispered, as his existence
had ceased to be an acquisition to our club. At last, however, he came
to a check. He made a large stake, which he determined should be the
last, whether he lost or won. He had often so determined before, to be
sure, and as often broken his determination; and so it was this time.
He lost; and while his antagonist smilingly swept away the stakes, he
turned chalky white, drew back in silence, and wiped his forehead. I
was present at the time; and while he stood with folded arms and eyes
fixed on the ground, I knew well enough what was passing in his mind.

“‘Is it to be the last, Lowborough?’ said I, stepping up to him.

“‘The last but ONE,’ he answered, with a grim smile; and then, rushing
back to the table, he struck his hand upon it, and, raising his voice
high above all the confusion of jingling coins and muttered oaths and
curses in the room, he swore a deep and solemn oath that, come what
would, THIS trial _should_ be the last, and imprecated unspeakable
curses on his head if ever he should shuffle a card or rattle a
dice-box again. He then doubled his former stake, and challenged any
one present to play against him. Grimsby instantly presented himself.
Lowborough glared fiercely at him, for Grimsby was almost as celebrated
for his luck as _he_ was for his ill-fortune. However, they fell to
work. But Grimsby had much skill and little scruple, and whether he
took advantage of the other’s trembling, blinded eagerness to deal
unfairly by him, I cannot undertake to say; but Lowborough lost again,
and fell dead sick.

“‘You’d better try once more,’ said Grimsby, leaning across the table.
And then he winked at me.

“‘I’ve nothing to try with,’ said the poor devil, with a ghastly smile.

“‘Oh, Huntingdon will lend you what you want,’ said the other.

“‘No; you heard my oath,’ answered Lowborough, turning away in quiet
despair. And I took him by the arm and led him out.

“‘Is it to be the last, Lowborough?’ I asked, when I got him into the
street.

“‘The last,’ he answered, somewhat against my expectation. And I took
him home—that is, to our club—for he was as submissive as a child—and
plied him with brandy-and-water till he began to look rather
brighter—rather more alive, at least.

“‘Huntingdon, I’m ruined!’ said he, taking the third glass from my
hand—he had drunk the others in dead silence.

“‘Not you,’ said I. ‘You’ll find a man can live without his money as
merrily as a tortoise without its head, or a wasp without its body.’

“‘But I’m in debt,’ said he—‘deep in debt. And I can never, _never_ get
out of it.’

“‘Well, what of that? Many a better man than you has lived and died in
debt; and they can’t put you in prison, you know, because you’re a
peer.’ And I handed him his fourth tumbler.

“‘But I hate to be in debt!’ he shouted. ‘I wasn’t born for it, and I
cannot _bear_ it.’

“‘What can’t be cured must be endured,’ said I, beginning to mix the
fifth.

“‘And then, I’ve lost my Caroline.’ And he began to snivel then, for
the brandy had softened his heart.

“‘No matter,’ I answered, ‘there are more Carolines in the world than
one.’

“‘There’s only one for me,’ he replied, with a dolorous sigh. ‘And if
there were fifty more, who’s to get them, I wonder, without money?’

“‘Oh, somebody will take you for your title; and then you’ve your
family estate yet; that’s entailed, you know.’

“‘I wish to God I could sell it to pay my debts,’ he muttered.

“‘And then,’ said Grimsby, who had just come in, ‘you can _try again_,
you know. I _would_ have more than one chance, if I were you. I’d never
stop here.’

“‘I _won’t_, I tell you!’ shouted he. And he started up, and left the
room—walking rather unsteadily, for the liquor had got into his head.
He was not so much used to it then, but after that he took to it kindly
to solace his cares.

“He kept his oath about gambling (not a little to the surprise of us
all), though Grimsby did his utmost to tempt him to break it, but now
he had got hold of another habit that bothered him nearly as much, for
he soon discovered that the demon of drink was as black as the demon of
play, and nearly as hard to get rid of—especially as his kind friends
did all they could to second the promptings of his own insatiable
cravings.”

“Then, they were demons themselves,” cried I, unable to contain my
indignation. “And you, Mr. Huntingdon, it seems, were the first to
tempt him.”

“Well, what could we do?” replied he, deprecatingly.—“We meant it in
kindness—we couldn’t bear to see the poor fellow so miserable:—and
besides, he was such a damper upon us, sitting there silent and glum,
when he was under the threefold influence—of the loss of his
sweetheart, the loss of his fortune, and the reaction of the lost
night’s debauch; whereas, when he had something in him, if he was not
merry himself, he was an unfailing source of merriment to us. Even
Grimsby could chuckle over his odd sayings: they delighted him far more
than my merry jests, or Hattersley’s riotous mirth. But one evening,
when we were sitting over our wine, after one of our club dinners, and
all had been hearty together,—Lowborough giving us mad toasts, and
hearing our wild songs, and bearing a hand in the applause, if he did
not help us to sing them himself,—he suddenly relapsed into silence,
sinking his head on his hand, and never lifting his glass to his
lips;—but this was nothing new; so we let him alone, and went on with
our jollification, till, suddenly raising his head, he interrupted us
in the middle of a roar of laughter by exclaiming,—

“Gentlemen, where is all this to end?—Will you just tell me _that_
now?—Where is it all to end?” He rose.

“‘A speech, a speech!’ shouted we. ‘Hear, hear! Lowborough’s going to
give us a speech!’

“He waited calmly till the thunders of applause and jingling of glasses
had ceased, and then proceeded,—‘It’s only this, gentlemen,—that I
think we’d better go no further. We’d better stop while we can.’

“‘Just so!’ cried Hattersley—

‘Stop poor sinner, stop and think
    Before you farther go,
No longer sport upon the brink
    Of everlasting woe.’


“‘Exactly!’ replied his lordship, with the utmost gravity. ‘And if
_you_ choose to visit the bottomless pit, I won’t go with you—we must
part company, for I swear I’ll not move another step towards it!—What’s
this?’ he said, taking up his glass of wine.

“‘Taste it,’ suggested I.

“‘This is hell broth!’ he exclaimed. ‘I renounce it for ever!’ And he
threw it out into the middle of the table.

“‘Fill again!’ said I, handing him the bottle—‘and let us drink to your
renunciation.’

“‘It’s rank poison,’ said he, grasping the bottle by the neck, ‘and I
forswear it! I’ve given up gambling, and I’ll give up this too.’ He was
on the point of deliberately pouring the whole contents of the bottle
on to the table, but Hargrave wrested it from him. ‘On you be the
curse, then!’ said he. And, backing from the room, he shouted,
‘Farewell, ye tempters!’ and vanished amid shouts of laughter and
applause.

“We expected him back among us the next day; but, to our surprise, the
place remained vacant: we saw nothing of him for a whole week; and we
really began to think he was going to keep his word. At last, one
evening, when we were most of us assembled together again, he entered,
silent and grim as a ghost, and would have quietly slipped into his
usual seat at my elbow, but we all rose to welcome him, and several
voices were raised to ask what he would have, and several hands were
busy with bottle and glass to serve him; but I knew a smoking tumbler
of brandy-and-water would comfort him best, and had nearly prepared it,
when he peevishly pushed it away, saying,—

“‘Do let me alone, Huntingdon! Do be quiet, all of you! I’m not come to
join you: I’m only come to be with you awhile, because I can’t bear my
own thoughts.’ And he folded his arms, and leant back in his chair; so
we let him be. But I left the glass by him; and, after awhile, Grimsby
directed my attention towards it, by a significant wink; and, on
turning my head, I saw it was drained to the bottom. He made me a sign
to replenish, and quietly pushed up the bottle. I willingly complied;
but Lowborough detected the pantomime, and, nettled at the intelligent
grins that were passing between us, snatched the glass from my hand,
dashed the contents of it in Grimsby’s face, threw the empty tumbler at
me, and then bolted from the room.”

“I hope he broke your head,” said I.

“No, love,” replied he, laughing immoderately at the recollection of
the whole affair; “he would have done so,—and perhaps, spoilt my face,
too, but, providentially, this forest of curls” (taking off his hat,
and showing his luxuriant chestnut locks) “saved my skull, and
prevented the glass from breaking, till it reached the table.”

“After that,” he continued, “Lowborough kept aloof from us a week or
two longer. I used to meet him occasionally in the town; and then, as I
was too good-natured to resent his unmannerly conduct, and he bore no
malice against me,—he was never unwilling to talk to me; on the
contrary, he would cling to me, and follow me anywhere but to the club,
and the gaming-houses, and such-like dangerous places of resort—he was
so weary of his own moping, melancholy mind. At last, I got him to come
in with me to the club, on condition that I would not tempt him to
drink; and, for some time, he continued to look in upon us pretty
regularly of an evening,—still abstaining, with wonderful perseverance,
from the ‘rank poison’ he had so bravely forsworn. But some of our
members protested against this conduct. They did not like to have him
sitting there like a skeleton at a feast, instead of contributing his
quota to the general amusement, casting a cloud over all, and watching,
with greedy eyes, every drop they carried to their lips—they vowed it
was not fair; and some of them maintained that he should either be
compelled to do as others did, or expelled from the society; and swore
that, next time he showed himself, they would tell him as much, and, if
he did not take the warning, proceed to active measures. However, I
befriended him on this occasion, and recommended them to let him be for
a while, intimating that, with a little patience on our parts, he would
soon come round again. But, to be sure, it _was_ rather provoking; for,
though he refused to drink like an honest Christian, it was well known
to me that he kept a private bottle of laudanum about him, which he was
continually soaking at—or rather, holding off and on with, abstaining
one day and exceeding the next—just like the spirits.

“One night, however, during one of our orgies—one of our high
festivals, I mean—he glided in, like the ghost in ‘Macbeth,’ and seated
himself, as usual, a little back from the table, in the chair we always
placed for ‘the spectre,’ whether it chose to fill it or not. I saw by
his face that he was suffering from the effects of an overdose of his
insidious comforter; but nobody spoke to him, and he spoke to nobody. A
few sidelong glances, and a whispered observation, that ‘the ghost was
come,’ was all the notice he drew by his appearance, and we went on
with our merry carousals as before, till he startled us all by suddenly
drawing in his chair, and leaning forward with his elbows on the table,
and exclaiming with portentous solemnity,—

‘Well! it puzzles me what you can find to be so merry about. What _you_
see in life I don’t know—_I_ see only the blackness of darkness, and a
fearful looking for of judgment and fiery indignation!’

“All the company simultaneously pushed up their glasses to him, and I
set them before him in a semicircle, and, tenderly patting him on the
back, bid him drink, and he would soon see as bright a prospect as any
of us; but he pushed them back, muttering,—

“‘Take them away! I won’t taste it, I tell you. I won’t—I won’t!’ So I
handed them down again to the owners; but I saw that he followed them
with a glare of hungry regret as they departed. Then he clasped his
hands before his eyes to shut out the sight, and two minutes after
lifted his head again, and said, in a hoarse but vehement whisper,—

“‘And yet I must! Huntingdon, get me a glass!’

“‘Take the bottle, man!’ said I, thrusting the brandy-bottle into his
hand—but stop, I’m telling too much,” muttered the narrator, startled
at the look I turned upon him. “But no matter,” he recklessly added,
and thus continued his relation: “In his desperate eagerness, he seized
the bottle and sucked away, till he suddenly dropped from his chair,
disappearing under the table amid a tempest of applause. The
consequence of this imprudence was something like an apoplectic fit,
followed by a rather severe brain fever—”

“And what did you think of _yourself_, sir?” said I, quickly.

“Of course, I was very penitent,” he replied. “I went to see him once
or twice—nay, twice or thrice—or by’r lady, some four times—and when he
got better, I tenderly brought him back to the fold.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I restored him to the bosom of the club, and compassionating
the feebleness of his health and extreme lowness of his spirits, I
recommended him to ‘take a little wine for his stomach’s sake,’ and,
when he was sufficiently re-established, to embrace the media-via,
ni-jamais-ni-toujours plan—not to kill himself like a fool, and not to
abstain like a ninny—in a word, to enjoy himself like a rational
creature, and do as I did; for, don’t think, Helen, that I’m a tippler;
I’m nothing at all of the kind, and never was, and never shall be. I
value my comfort far too much. I see that a man cannot give himself up
to drinking without being miserable one-half his days and mad the
other; besides, I like to enjoy my life at all sides and ends, which
cannot be done by one that suffers himself to be the slave of a single
propensity—and, moreover, drinking spoils one’s good looks,” he
concluded, with a most conceited smile that ought to have provoked me
more than it did.

“And did Lord Lowborough profit by your advice?” I asked.

“Why, yes, in a manner. For a while he managed very well; indeed, he
was a model of moderation and prudence—something too much so for the
tastes of our wild community; but, somehow, Lowborough had not the gift
of moderation: if he stumbled a little to one side, he must go down
before he could right himself: if he overshot the mark one night, the
effects of it rendered him so miserable the next day that he must
repeat the offence to mend it; and so on from day to day, till his
clamorous conscience brought him to a stand. And then, in his sober
moments, he so bothered his friends with his remorse, and his terrors
and woes, that they were obliged, in self-defence, to get him to drown
his sorrows in wine, or any more potent beverage that came to hand; and
when his first scruples of conscience were overcome, he would need no
more persuading, he would often grow desperate, and be as great a
blackguard as any of them could desire—but only to lament his own
unutterable wickedness and degradation the more when the fit was over.

“At last, one day when he and I were alone together, after pondering
awhile in one of his gloomy, abstracted moods, with his arms folded and
his head sunk on his breast, he suddenly woke up, and vehemently
grasping my arm, said,—

“‘Huntingdon, this won’t do! I’m resolved to have done with it.’

“‘What, are you going to shoot yourself?’ said I.

“‘No; I’m going to reform.’

“‘Oh, _that’s_ nothing new! You’ve been going to reform these twelve
months and more.’

“‘Yes, but you wouldn’t let me; and I was such a fool I couldn’t live
without you. But now I see what it is that keeps me back, and what’s
wanted to save me; and I’d compass sea and land to get it—only I’m
afraid there’s no chance.’ And he sighed as if his heart would break.

“‘What is it, Lowborough?’ said I, thinking he was fairly cracked at
last.

“‘A wife,’ he answered; ‘for I can’t live alone, because my own mind
distracts me, and I can’t live with you, because you take the devil’s
part against me.’

“‘Who—I?’

“‘Yes—all of you do—and you more than any of them, you know. But if I
could get a wife, with fortune enough to pay off my debts and set me
straight in the world—’

“‘To be sure,’ said I.

“‘And sweetness and goodness enough,’ he continued, ‘to make home
tolerable, and to reconcile me to myself, I think I should do yet. I
shall never be in love again, that’s certain; but perhaps that would be
no great matter, it would enable me to choose with my eyes open—and I
should make a good husband in spite of it; but could any one be in love
with _me?_—that’s the question. With _your_ good looks and powers of
fascination’ (he was pleased to say), ‘I might hope; but as it is,
Huntingdon, do you think _any_body would take me—ruined and wretched as
I am?’

“‘Yes, certainly.’

“‘Who?’

“‘Why, any neglected old maid, fast sinking in despair, would be
delighted to—’

“‘No, no,’ said he—‘it must be somebody that I can love.’

“‘Why, you just said you never could be in love again!’

“‘Well, love is not the word—but somebody that I can like. I’ll search
all England through, at all events!’ he cried, with a sudden burst of
hope, or desperation. ‘Succeed or fail, it will be better than rushing
headlong to destruction at that d—d club: so farewell to it and you.
Whenever I meet you on honest ground or under a Christian roof, I shall
be glad to see you; but never more shall you entice me to that _devil’s
den!_’

“This was shameful language, but I shook hands with him, and we parted.
He kept his word; and from that time forward he has been a pattern of
propriety, as far as I can tell; but till lately I have not had very
much to do with him. He occasionally sought my company, but as
frequently shrunk from it, fearing lest I should wile him back to
destruction, and I found his not very entertaining, especially as he
sometimes attempted to awaken my conscience and draw me from the
perdition he considered himself to have escaped; but when I did happen
to meet him, I seldom failed to ask after the progress of his
matrimonial efforts and researches, and, in general, he could give me
but a poor account. The mothers were repelled by his empty coffers and
his reputation for gambling, and the daughters by his cloudy brow and
melancholy temper—besides, he didn’t understand them; he wanted the
spirit and assurance to carry his point.

“I left him at it when I went to the continent; and on my return, at
the year’s end, I found him still a disconsolate bachelor—though,
certainly, looking somewhat less like an unblest exile from the tomb
than before. The young ladies had ceased to be afraid of him, and were
beginning to think him quite interesting; but the mammas were still
unrelenting. It was about this time, Helen, that my good angel brought
me into conjunction with you; and then I had eyes and ears for nobody
else. But, meantime, Lowborough became acquainted with our charming
friend, Miss Wilmot—through the intervention of _his_ good angel, no
doubt he would tell you, though he did not dare to fix his hopes on one
so courted and admired, till after they were brought into closer
contact here at Staningley, and she, in the absence of her other
admirers, indubitably courted his notice and held out every
encouragement to his timid advances. Then, indeed, he began to hope for
a dawn of brighter days; and if, for a while, I darkened his prospects
by standing between him and his sun—and so nearly plunged him again
into the abyss of despair—it only intensified his ardour and
strengthened his hopes when I chose to abandon the field in the pursuit
of a brighter treasure. In a word, as I told you, he is fairly
besotted. At first, he could dimly perceive her faults, and they gave
him considerable uneasiness; but now his passion and her art together
have blinded him to everything but her perfections and his amazing good
fortune. Last night he came to me brimful of his new-found felicity:

“‘Huntingdon, I am not a castaway!’ said he, seizing my hand and
squeezing it like a vice. ‘There is happiness in store for me yet—even
in this life—she loves me!’

“‘Indeed!’ said I. ‘Has she told you so?’

“‘No, but I can no longer doubt it. Do you not see how pointedly kind
and affectionate she is? And she knows the utmost extent of my poverty,
and cares nothing about it! She knows all the folly and all the
wickedness of my former life, and is not afraid to trust me—and my rank
and title are no allurements to her; for them she utterly disregards.
She is the most generous, high-minded being that can be conceived of.
She will save me, body and soul, from destruction. Already, she has
ennobled me in my own estimation, and made me three times better,
wiser, greater than I was. Oh! if I had but known her before, how much
degradation and misery I should have been spared! But what have I done
to deserve so magnificent a creature?’

“And the cream of the jest,” continued Mr. Huntingdon, laughing, “is,
that the artful minx loves nothing about him but his title and
pedigree, and ‘that delightful old family seat.’”

“How do you know?” said I.

“She told me so herself; she said, ‘As for the man himself, I
thoroughly despise him; but then, I suppose, it is time to be making my
choice, and if I waited for some one capable of eliciting my esteem and
affection, I should have to pass my life in single blessedness, for I
detest you all!’ Ha, ha! I suspect she was wrong there; but, however,
it is evident she has no love for _him_, poor fellow.”

“Then you ought to tell him so.”

“What! and spoil all her plans and prospects, poor girl? No, no: that
would be a breach of confidence, wouldn’t it, Helen? Ha, ha! Besides,
it would break his heart.” And he laughed again.

“Well, Mr. Huntingdon, I don’t know what you see so amazingly diverting
in the matter; I see nothing to laugh at.”

“I’m laughing at _you_, just now, love,” said he, redoubling his
machinations.

And leaving him to enjoy his merriment alone, I touched Ruby with the
whip, and cantered on to rejoin our companions; for we had been walking
our horses all this time, and were consequently a long way behind.
Arthur was soon at my side again; but not disposed to talk to him, I
broke into a gallop. He did the same; and we did not slacken our pace
till we came up with Miss Wilmot and Lord Lowborough, which was within
half a mile of the park-gates. I avoided all further conversation with
him till we came to the end of our ride, when I meant to jump off my
horse and vanish into the house, before he could offer his assistance;
but while I was disengaging my habit from the crutch, he lifted me off,
and held me by both hands, asserting that he would not let me go till I
had forgiven him.

“I have nothing to forgive,” said I. “You have not injured _me_.”

“No, darling—God forbid that I should! but you are angry because it was
to me that Annabella confessed her lack of esteem for her lover.”

“No, Arthur, it is not _that_ that displeases me: it is the whole
system of your conduct towards your friend, and if you wish me to
forget it, go now, and tell him what sort of a woman it is that he
adores so madly, and on whom he has hung his hopes of future
happiness.”

“I tell you, Helen, it would break his heart—it would be the death of
him—besides being a scandalous trick to poor Annabella. There is no
help for him now; he is past praying for. Besides, she may keep up the
deception to the end of the chapter; and then he will be just as happy
in the illusion as if it were reality; or perhaps he will only discover
his mistake when he has ceased to love her; and if not, it is much
better that the truth should dawn gradually upon him. So now, my angel,
I hope I have made out a clear case, and fully convinced you that I
cannot make the atonement you require. What other requisition have you
to make? Speak, and I will gladly obey.”

“I have none but this,” said I, as gravely as before: “that, in future,
you will never make a jest of the sufferings of others, and always use
your influence with your friends for their own advantage against their
evil propensities, instead of seconding their evil propensities against
themselves.”

“I will do my utmost,” said he, “to remember and perform the
injunctions of my angel monitress;” and after kissing both my gloved
hands, he let me go.

When I entered my room, I was surprised to see Annabella Wilmot
standing before my toilet-table, composedly surveying her features in
the glass, with one hand flirting her gold-mounted whip, and the other
holding up her long habit.

“She certainly _is_ a magnificent creature!” thought I, as I beheld
that tall, finely developed figure, and the reflection of the handsome
face in the mirror before me, with the glossy dark hair, slightly and
not ungracefully disordered by the breezy ride, the rich brown
complexion glowing with exercise, and the black eyes sparkling with
unwonted brilliance. On perceiving me, she turned round, exclaiming,
with a laugh that savoured more of malice than of mirth,—

“Why, Helen! what _have_ you been doing so long? I came to tell you my
good fortune,” she continued, regardless of Rachel’s presence. “Lord
Lowborough has proposed, and I have been graciously pleased to accept
him. Don’t you envy me, dear?”

“No, love,” said I—“or him either,” I mentally added. “And do you like
him, Annabella?”

“Like him! yes, to be sure—over head and ears in love!”

“Well, I hope you’ll make him a good wife.”

“Thank you, my dear! And what besides do you hope?”

“I hope you will both love each other, and both be happy.”

“Thanks; and I hope you will make a _very_ good wife to Mr.
Huntingdon!” said she, with a queenly bow, and retired.

“Oh, Miss! how could you say so to her!” cried Rachel.

“Say what?” replied I.

“Why, that you hoped she would make him a good wife. I never heard such
a thing!”

“Because I do hope it, or rather, I wish it; she’s almost past hope.”

“Well,” said she, “I’m sure I hope he’ll make _her_ a good husband.
They tell queer things about him downstairs. They were saying—”

“I know, Rachel. I’ve heard all about him; but he’s reformed now. And
they have no business to tell tales about their masters.”

“No, mum—or else, they _have_ said some things about Mr. Huntingdon
too.”

“I won’t hear them, Rachel; they tell lies.”

“Yes, mum,” said she, quietly, as she went on arranging my hair.

“Do _you_ believe them, Rachel?” I asked, after a short pause.

“No, Miss, not all. You know when a lot of servants gets together they
like to talk about their betters; and some, for a bit of swagger, likes
to make it appear as though they knew more than they do, and to throw
out hints and things just to astonish the others. But I think, if I was
you, Miss Helen, I’d look _very_ well before I leaped. I do believe a
young lady can’t be too careful who she marries.”

“Of course not,” said I; “but be quick, will you, Rachel? I want to be
dressed.”

And, indeed, I was anxious to be rid of the good woman, for I was in
such a melancholy frame I could hardly keep the tears out of my eyes
while she dressed me. It was not for Lord Lowborough—it was not for
Annabella—it was not for myself—it was for Arthur Huntingdon that they
rose.

* * * * *


13th.—They are gone, and he is gone. We are to be parted for more than
two months, above ten weeks! a long, long time to live and not to see
him. But he has promised to write often, and made me promise to write
still oftener, because he will be busy settling his affairs, and I
shall have nothing better to do. Well, I think I shall always have
plenty to say. But oh! for the time when we shall be always together,
and can exchange our thoughts without the intervention of these cold
go-betweens, pen, ink, and paper!

* * * * *


22nd.—I have had several letters from Arthur already. They are not
long, but passing sweet, and just like himself, full of ardent
affection, and playful lively humour; but there is always a _but_ in
this imperfect world, and I do wish he would _sometimes_ be serious. I
cannot get him to write or speak in real, solid earnest. I don’t much
mind it now, but if it be always so, what shall I do with the serious
part of myself?




 CHAPTER XXIII


Feb. 18, 1822.—Early this morning Arthur mounted his hunter and set off
in high glee to meet the —— hounds. He will be away all day, and so I
will amuse myself with my neglected diary, if I can give that name to
such an irregular composition. It is exactly four months since I opened
it last.

I am married now, and settled down as Mrs. Huntingdon of Grassdale
Manor. I have had eight weeks’ experience of matrimony. And do I regret
the step I have taken? No, though I must confess, in my secret heart,
that Arthur is not what I thought him at first, and if I had known him
in the beginning as thoroughly as I do now, I probably never should
have loved him, and if I loved him first, and then made the discovery,
I fear I should have thought it my duty not to have married him. To be
sure I might have known him, for every one was willing enough to tell
me about him, and he himself was no accomplished hypocrite, but I was
wilfully blind; and now, instead of regretting that I did not discern
his full character before I was indissolubly bound to him, I am _glad_,
for it has saved me a great deal of battling with my conscience, and a
great deal of consequent trouble and pain; and, whatever I _ought_ to
have done, my duty now is plainly to love him and to cleave to him, and
this just tallies with my inclination.

He is very fond of me, almost _too_ fond. I could do with less
caressing and more rationality. I should like to be less of a pet and
more of a friend, if I might choose; but I won’t complain of that: I am
only afraid his affection loses in depth where it gains in ardour. I
sometimes liken it to a fire of dry twigs and branches compared with
one of solid coal, very bright and hot; but if it should burn itself
out and leave nothing but ashes behind, what shall I do? But it won’t,
it _shan_’t, I am determined; and surely I have power to keep it alive.
So let me dismiss _that_ thought at once. But Arthur is selfish; I am
constrained to acknowledge that; and, indeed, the admission gives me
less pain than might be expected, for, since _I_ love him so much, I
can easily forgive him for loving himself: he likes to be pleased, and
it is my delight to please him; and when I regret this tendency of his,
it is for his own sake, not for mine.

The first instance he gave was on the occasion of our bridal tour. He
wanted to hurry it over, for all the continental scenes were already
familiar to him: many had lost their interest in his eyes, and others
had never had anything to lose. The consequence was, that after a
flying transit through part of France and part of Italy, I came back
nearly as ignorant as I went, having made no acquaintance with persons
and manners, and very little with things, my head swarming with a
motley confusion of objects and scenes; some, it is true, leaving a
deeper and more pleasing impression than others, but these embittered
by the recollection that my emotions had not been shared by my
companion, but that, on the contrary, when I had expressed a particular
interest in anything that I saw or desired to see, it had been
displeasing to him, inasmuch as it proved that I could take delight in
anything disconnected with himself.

[Illustration]

As for Paris, we only just touched at that, and he would not give me
time to see one-tenth of the beauties and interesting objects of Rome.
He wanted to get me home, he said, to have me all to himself, and to
see me safely installed as the mistress of Grassdale Manor, just as
single-minded, as naïve, and piquante as I was; and as if I had been
some frail butterfly, he expressed himself fearful of rubbing the
silver off my wings by bringing me into contact with society,
especially that of Paris and Rome; and, more-over, he did not scruple
to tell me that there were ladies in both places that would tear his
eyes out if they happened to meet him with me.

Of course I was vexed at all this; but still it was less the
disappointment to myself that annoyed me, than the disappointment _in
him_, and the trouble I was at to frame excuses to my friends for
having seen and observed so little, without imputing one particle of
blame to my companion. But when we got home—to my new, delightful
home—I was so happy and he was so kind that I freely forgave him all;
and I was beginning to think my lot _too_ happy, and my husband
actually too good for me, if not too good for this world, when, on the
second Sunday after our arrival, he shocked and horrified me by another
instance of his unreasonable exaction. We were walking home from the
morning service, for it was a fine frosty day, and as we are so near
the church, I had requested the carriage should not be used.

“Helen,” said he, with unusual gravity, “I am not quite satisfied with
you.”

I desired to know what was wrong.

“But will you promise to reform if I tell you?”

“Yes, if I can, and without offending a higher authority.”

“Ah! there it is, you see: you don’t love me with all your heart.”

“I don’t understand you, Arthur (at least I hope I don’t): pray tell me
what I have done or said amiss.”

“It is nothing you have done or said; it is something that you _are:_
you are too religious. Now I like a woman to be religious, and I think
your piety one of your greatest charms; but then, like all other good
things, it may be carried too far. To my thinking, a woman’s religion
ought not to lessen her devotion to her earthly lord. She should have
enough to purify and etherealise her soul, but not enough to refine
away her heart, and raise her above all human sympathies.”

“And am _I_ above all human sympathies?” said I.

“No, darling; but you are making more progress towards that saintly
condition than I like; for all these two hours I have been thinking of
you and wanting to catch your eye, and you were so absorbed in your
devotions that you had not even a glance to spare for me—I declare it
is enough to make one jealous of one’s Maker—which is very wrong, you
know; so don’t excite such wicked passions again, for my soul’s sake.”

“I will give my whole heart and soul to my Maker if I can,” I answered,
“and not one atom more of it to you than He allows. What are _you_,
sir, that you should set yourself up as a god, and presume to dispute
possession of my heart with Him to whom I owe all I have and all I am,
every blessing I ever did or ever can enjoy—and yourself among the
rest—if you _are_ a blessing, which I am half inclined to doubt.”

“Don’t be so hard upon me, Helen; and don’t pinch my arm so: you are
squeezing your fingers into the bone.”

“Arthur,” continued I, relaxing my hold of his arm, “you don’t love me
half as much as I do you; and yet, if you loved me far less than you
do, I would not complain, provided you loved your Maker more. I should
_rejoice_ to see you at any time so deeply absorbed in your devotions
that you had not a single thought to spare for me. But, indeed, I
should lose nothing by the change, for the more you loved your God the
more deep and pure and true would be your love to me.”

At this he only laughed and kissed my hand, calling me a sweet
enthusiast. Then taking off his hat, he added: “But look here,
Helen—what can a man do with such a head as this?”

The head looked right enough, but when he placed my hand on the top of
it, it sunk in a bed of curls, rather alarmingly low, especially in the
middle.

“You see I was not made to be a saint,” said he, laughing, “If God
meant me to be religious, why didn’t He give me a proper organ of
veneration?”

“You are like the servant,” I replied, “who, instead of employing his
one talent in his master’s service, restored it to him unimproved,
alleging, as an excuse, that he knew him ‘to be a hard man, reaping
where he had not sown, and gathering where he had not strawed.’ Of him
to whom less is given, less will be required, but our utmost exertions
are required of us all. You are not without the capacity of veneration,
and faith and hope, and conscience and reason, and every other
requisite to a Christian’s character, if you choose to employ them; but
all our talents increase in the using, and every faculty, both good and
bad, strengthens by exercise: therefore, if you choose to use the bad,
or those which tend to evil, till they become your masters, and neglect
the good till they dwindle away, you have only yourself to blame. But
you _have_ talents, Arthur—natural endowments both of heart and mind
and temper, such as many a better Christian would be glad to possess,
if you would only employ them in God’s service. I should never expect
to see you a devotee, but it is quite possible to be a good Christian
without ceasing to be a happy, merry-hearted man.”

“You speak like an oracle, Helen, and all you say is indisputably true;
but listen here: I am hungry, and I see before me a good substantial
dinner; I am told that if I abstain from this to-day I shall have a
sumptuous feast to-morrow, consisting of all manner of dainties and
delicacies. Now, in the first place, I should be loth to wait till
to-morrow when I have the means of appeasing my hunger already before
me: in the second place, the solid viands of to-day are more to my
taste than the dainties that are promised me; in the third place, I
don’t _see_ to-morrow’s banquet, and how can I tell that it is not all
a fable, got up by the greasy-faced fellow that is advising me to
abstain in order that he may have all the good victuals to himself? in
the fourth place, this table must be spread for somebody, and, as
Solomon says, ‘Who can eat, or who else can hasten hereunto more than
I?’ and finally, with your leave, I’ll sit down and satisfy my cravings
of to-day, and leave to-morrow to shift for itself—who knows but what I
may secure both this and that?”

“But you are not required to abstain from the substantial dinner of
to-day: you are only advised to partake of these coarser viands in such
moderation as not to incapacitate you from enjoying the choicer banquet
of to-morrow. If, regardless of that counsel, you choose to make a
beast of yourself now, and over-eat and over-drink yourself till you
turn the good victuals into poison, who is to blame if, hereafter,
while you are suffering the torments of yesterday’s gluttony and
drunkenness, you see more temperate men sitting down to enjoy
themselves at that splendid entertainment which you are unable to
taste?”

“Most true, my patron saint; but again, our friend Solomon says, ‘There
is nothing better for a man than to eat and to drink, and to be
merry.’”

“And again,” returned I, “he says, ‘Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth;
and walk in the ways of thine heart, and in the sight of thine eyes:
but know thou, that for all these things God will bring thee into
judgment.’”

“Well, but, Helen, I’m sure I’ve been very good these last few weeks.
What have you seen amiss in me, and what would you have me to do?”

“Nothing more than you do, Arthur: your actions are all right so far;
but I would have your thoughts changed; I would have you to fortify
yourself against temptation, and not to call evil good, and good evil;
I should wish you to think more deeply, to look further, and aim higher
than you do.”




 CHAPTER XXIV


March 25th.—Arthur is getting tired—not of me, I trust, but of the
idle, quiet life he leads—and no wonder, for he has so few sources of
amusement: he never reads anything but newspapers and sporting
magazines; and when he sees me occupied with a book, he won’t let me
rest till I close it. In fine weather he generally manages to get
through the time pretty well, but on rainy days, of which we have had a
good many of late, it is quite painful to witness his ennui. I do all I
can to amuse him, but it is impossible to get him to feel interested in
what I most like to talk about, while, on the other hand, he likes to
talk about things that cannot interest me—or even that annoy me—and
these please him—the most of all: for his favourite amusement is to sit
or loll beside me on the sofa, and tell me stories of his former
amours, always turning upon the ruin of some confiding girl or the
cozening of some unsuspecting husband; and when I express my horror and
indignation, he lays it all to the charge of jealousy, and laughs till
the tears run down his cheeks. I used to fly into passions or melt into
tears at first, but seeing that his delight increased in proportion to
my anger and agitation, I have since endeavoured to suppress my
feelings and receive his revelations in the silence of calm contempt;
but still he reads the inward struggle in my face, and misconstrues my
bitterness of soul for his unworthiness into the pangs of wounded
jealousy; and when he has sufficiently diverted himself with that, or
fears my displeasure will become too serious for his comfort, he tries
to kiss and soothe me into smiles again—never were his caresses so
little welcome as then! This is _double_ selfishness, displayed to me
and to the victims of his former love. There are times when, with a
momentary pang—a flash of wild dismay, I ask myself, “Helen, what have
you done?” But I rebuke the inward questioner, and repel the obtrusive
thoughts that crowd upon me; for were he ten times as sensual and
impenetrable to good and lofty thoughts, I well know I have no right to
complain. And I don’t and won’t complain. I do and will love him still;
and I do not and will not regret that I have linked my fate with his.

April 4th.—We have had a downright quarrel. The particulars are as
follows: Arthur had told me, at different intervals, the whole story of
his intrigue with Lady F——, which I would not believe before. It was
some consolation, however, to find that in this instance the lady had
been more to blame than he, for he was very young at the time, and she
had decidedly made the first advances, if what he said was true. I
hated her for it, for it seemed as if she had chiefly contributed to
his corruption; and when he was beginning to talk about her the other
day, I begged he would not mention her, for I detested the very sound
of her name.

“Not because you loved her, Arthur, mind, but because she injured you
and deceived her husband, and was altogether a very abominable woman,
whom you ought to be ashamed to mention.”

But he defended her by saying that she had a doting old husband, whom
it was impossible to love.

“Then why did she marry him?” said I.

“For his money,” was the reply.

“Then that was another crime, and her solemn promise to love and honour
him was another, that only increased the enormity of the last.”

“You are too severe upon the poor lady,” laughed he. “But never mind,
Helen, I don’t care for her now; and I never loved any of them half as
much as I do you, so you needn’t fear to be forsaken like them.”

“If you had told me these things before, Arthur, I never should have
given you the chance.”

“_Wouldn’t_ you, my darling?”

“Most certainly not!”

He laughed incredulously.

“I wish I could convince you of it now!” cried I, starting up from
beside him: and for the first time in my life, and I hope the last, I
wished I had not married him.

“Helen,” said he, more gravely, “do you know that if I believed you now
I should be very angry? but thank heaven I don’t. Though you stand
there with your white face and flashing eyes, looking at me like a very
tigress, I know the heart within you perhaps a trifle better than you
know it yourself.”

Without another word I left the room and locked myself up in my own
chamber. In about half an hour he came to the door, and first he tried
the handle, then he knocked.

“Won’t you let me in, Helen?” said he. “No; you have displeased me,” I
replied, “and I don’t want to see your face or hear your voice again
till the morning.”

He paused a moment as if dumfounded or uncertain how to answer such a
speech, and then turned and walked away. This was only an hour after
dinner: I knew he would find it very dull to sit alone all the evening;
and this considerably softened my resentment, though it did not make me
relent. I was determined to show him that my heart was not his slave,
and I could live without him if I chose; and I sat down and wrote a
long letter to my aunt, of course telling her nothing of all this. Soon
after ten o’clock I heard him come up again, but he passed my door and
went straight to his own dressing-room, where he shut himself in for
the night.

I was rather anxious to see how he would meet me in the morning, and
not a little disappointed to behold him enter the breakfast-room with a
careless smile.

“Are you cross still, Helen?” said he, approaching as if to salute me.
I coldly turned to the table, and began to pour out the coffee,
observing that he was rather late.

He uttered a low whistle and sauntered away to the window, where he
stood for some minutes looking out upon the pleasing prospect of sullen
grey clouds, streaming rain, soaking lawn, and dripping leafless trees,
and muttering execrations on the weather, and then sat down to
breakfast. While taking his coffee he muttered it was “d—d cold.”

“You should not have left it so long,” said I.

He made no answer, and the meal was concluded in silence. It was a
relief to both when the letter-bag was brought in. It contained upon
examination a newspaper and one or two letters for him, and a couple of
letters for me, which he tossed across the table without a remark. One
was from my brother, the other from Milicent Hargrave, who is now in
London with her mother. His, I think, were business letters, and
apparently not much to his mind, for he crushed them into his pocket
with some muttered expletives that I should have reproved him for at
any other time. The paper he set before him, and pretended to be deeply
absorbed in its contents during the remainder of breakfast, and a
considerable time after.

The reading and answering of my letters, and the direction of household
concerns, afforded me ample employment for the morning: after lunch I
got my drawing, and from dinner till bed-time I read. Meanwhile, poor
Arthur was sadly at a loss for something to amuse him or to occupy his
time. He wanted to appear as busy and as unconcerned as I did. Had the
weather at all permitted, he would doubtless have ordered his horse and
set off to some distant region, no matter where, immediately after
breakfast, and not returned till night: had there been a lady anywhere
within reach, of any age between fifteen and forty-five, he would have
sought revenge and found employment in getting up, or trying to get up,
a desperate flirtation with her; but being, to my private satisfaction,
entirely cut off from both these sources of diversion, his sufferings
were truly deplorable. When he had done yawning over his paper and
scribbling short answers to his shorter letters, he spent the remainder
of the morning and the whole of the afternoon in fidgeting about from
room to room, watching the clouds, cursing the rain, alternately
petting and teasing and abusing his dogs, sometimes lounging on the
sofa with a book that he could not force himself to read, and very
often fixedly gazing at me when he thought I did not perceive it, with
the vain hope of detecting some traces of tears, or some tokens of
remorseful anguish in my face. But I managed to preserve an undisturbed
though grave serenity throughout the day. I was not really angry: I
felt for him all the time, and longed to be reconciled; but I
determined he should make the first advances, or at least show some
signs of an humble and contrite spirit first; for, if I began, it would
only minister to his self-conceit, increase his arrogance, and quite
destroy the lesson I wanted to give him.

He made a long stay in the dining-room after dinner, and, I fear, took
an unusual quantity of wine, but not enough to loosen his tongue: for
when he came in and found me quietly occupied with my book, too busy to
lift my head on his entrance, he merely murmured an expression of
suppressed disapprobation, and, shutting the door with a bang, went and
stretched himself at full length on the sofa, and composed himself to
sleep. But his favourite cocker, Dash, that had been lying at my feet,
took the liberty of jumping upon him and beginning to lick his face. He
struck it off with a smart blow, and the poor dog squeaked and ran
cowering back to me. When he woke up, about half an hour after, he
called it to him again, but Dash only looked sheepish and wagged the
tip of his tail. He called again more sharply, but Dash only clung the
closer to me, and licked my hand, as if imploring protection. Enraged
at this, his master snatched up a heavy book and hurled it at his head.
The poor dog set up a piteous outcry, and ran to the door. I let him
out, and then quietly took up the book.

“Give that book to me,” said Arthur, in no very courteous tone. I gave
it to him.

“Why did you let the dog out?” he asked; “you knew I wanted him.”

“By what token?” I replied; “by your throwing the book at him? but
perhaps it was intended for me?”

“No; but I see you’ve got a taste of it,” said he, looking at my hand,
that had also been struck, and was rather severely grazed.

I returned to my reading, and he endeavoured to occupy himself in the
same manner; but in a little while, after several portentous yawns, he
pronounced _his_ book to be “cursed trash,” and threw it on the table.
Then followed eight or ten minutes of silence, during the greater part
of which, I believe, he was staring at me. At last his patience was
tired out.

“What _is_ that book, Helen?” he exclaimed.

I told him.

“Is it interesting?”

“Yes, very.”

I went on reading, or pretending to read, at least—I cannot say there
was much communication between my eyes and my brain; for, while the
former ran over the pages, the latter was earnestly wondering when
Arthur would speak next, and what he would say, and what I should
answer. But he did not speak again till I rose to make the tea, and
then it was only to say he should not take any. He continued lounging
on the sofa, and alternately closing his eyes and looking at his watch
and at me, till bed-time, when I rose, and took my candle and retired.

“Helen!” cried he, the moment I had left the room. I turned back, and
stood awaiting his commands.

“What do you want, Arthur?” I said at length.

“Nothing,” replied he. “Go!”

I went, but hearing him mutter something as I was closing the door, I
turned again. It sounded very like “confounded slut,” but I was quite
willing it should be something else.

“Were you speaking, Arthur?” I asked.

“No,” was the answer, and I shut the door and departed. I saw nothing
more of him till the following morning at breakfast, when he came down
a full hour after the usual time.

“You’re very late,” was my morning’s salutation.

“You needn’t have waited for me,” was his; and he walked up to the
window again. It was just such weather as yesterday.

“Oh, this confounded rain!” he muttered. But, after studiously
regarding it for a minute or two, a bright idea, seemed to strike him,
for he suddenly exclaimed, “But I know what I’ll do!” and then returned
and took his seat at the table. The letter-bag was already there,
waiting to be opened. He unlocked it and examined the contents, but
said nothing about them.

“Is there anything for me?” I asked.

“No.”

He opened the newspaper and began to read.

“You’d better take your coffee,” suggested I; “it will be cold again.”

“You may go,” said he, “if you’ve done; I don’t want you.”

I rose and withdrew to the next room, wondering if we were to have
another such miserable day as yesterday, and wishing intensely for an
end of these mutually inflicted torments. Shortly after I heard him
ring the bell and give some orders about his wardrobe that sounded as
if he meditated a long journey. He then sent for the coachman, and I
heard something about the carriage and the horses, and London, and
seven o’clock to-morrow morning, that startled and disturbed me not a
little.

“I must not let him go to London, whatever comes of it,” said I to
myself; “he will run into all kinds of mischief, and I shall be the
cause of it. But the question is, How am I to alter his purpose? Well,
I will wait awhile, and see if he mentions it.”

I waited most anxiously, from hour to hour; but not a word was spoken,
on that or any other subject, to me. He whistled and talked to his
dogs, and wandered from room to room, much the same as on the previous
day. At last I began to think I must introduce the subject myself, and
was pondering how to bring it about, when John unwittingly came to my
relief with the following message from the coachman:

“Please, sir, Richard says one of the horses has got a very bad cold,
and he thinks, sir, if you could make it convenient to go the day after
to-morrow, instead of to-morrow, he could physic it to-day, so as—”

“Confound his impudence!” interjected the master.

“Please, sir, he says it would be a deal better if you could,”
persisted John, “for he hopes there’ll be a change in the weather
shortly, and he says it’s not _likely_, when a horse is so bad with a
cold, and physicked and all—”

“Devil take the horse!” cried the gentleman. “Well, tell him I’ll think
about it,” he added, after a moment’s reflection. He cast a searching
glance at me, as the servant withdrew, expecting to see some token of
deep astonishment and alarm; but, being previously prepared, I
preserved an aspect of stoical indifference. His countenance fell as he
met my steady gaze, and he turned away in very obvious disappointment,
and walked up to the fire-place, where he stood in an attitude of
undisguised dejection, leaning against the chimney-piece with his
forehead sunk upon his arm.

“Where do you want to go, Arthur?” said I.

“To London,” replied he, gravely.

“What for?” I asked.

“Because I cannot be happy here.”

“Why not?”

“Because my wife doesn’t love me.”

“She would love you with all her heart, if you deserved it.”

“What must I do to deserve it?”

This seemed humble and earnest enough; and I was so much affected,
between sorrow and joy, that I was obliged to pause a few seconds
before I could steady my voice to reply.

“If she gives you her heart,” said I, “you must take it, thankfully,
and use it well, and not pull it in pieces, and laugh in her face,
because she cannot snatch it away.”

He now turned round, and stood facing me, with his back to the fire.
“Come, then, Helen, are you going to be a good girl?” said he.

This sounded rather too arrogant, and the smile that accompanied it did
not please me. I therefore hesitated to reply. Perhaps my former answer
had implied too much: he had heard my voice falter, and might have seen
me brush away a tear.

“Are you going to forgive me, Helen?” he resumed, more humbly.

“Are _you_ penitent?” I replied, stepping up to him and smiling in his
face.

“Heart-broken!” he answered, with a rueful countenance, yet with a
merry smile just lurking within his eyes and about the corners of his
mouth; but this could not repulse me, and I flew into his arms. He
fervently embraced me, and though I shed a torrent of tears, I think I
never was happier in my life than at that moment.

“Then you won’t go to London, Arthur?” I said, when the first transport
of tears and kisses had subsided.

“No, love,—unless you will go with me.”

“I will, gladly,” I answered, “if you think the change will amuse you,
and if you will put off the journey till next week.”

He readily consented, but said there was no need of much preparation,
as he should not be for staying long, for he did not wish me to be
Londonized, and to lose my country freshness and originality by too
much intercourse with the ladies of the world. I thought this folly;
but I did not wish to contradict him now: I merely said that I was of
very domestic habits, as he well knew, and had no particular wish to
mingle with the world.

So we are to go to London on Monday, the day after to-morrow. It is now
four days since the termination of our quarrel, and I am sure it has
done us both good: it has made me like Arthur a great deal better, and
made him behave a great deal better to me. He has never once attempted
to annoy me since, by the most distant allusion to Lady F——, or any of
those disagreeable reminiscences of his former life. I wish I could
blot them from my memory, or else get him to regard such matters in the
same light as I do. Well! it is something, however, to have made him
see that they are not fit subjects for a conjugal jest. He may see
further some time. I will put no limits to my hopes; and, in spite of
my aunt’s forebodings and my own unspoken fears, I trust we shall be
happy yet.




 CHAPTER XXV


On the eighth of April we went to London, on the eighth of May I
returned, in obedience to Arthur’s wish; very much against my own,
because I left him behind. If he had come with me, I should have been
very glad to get home again, for he led me such a round of restless
dissipation while there, that, in that short space of time, I was quite
tired out. He seemed bent upon displaying me to his friends and
acquaintances in particular, and the public in general, on every
possible occasion, and to the greatest possible advantage. It was
something to feel that he considered me a worthy object of pride; but I
paid dear for the gratification: for, in the first place, to please him
I had to violate my cherished predilections, my almost rooted
principles in favour of a plain, dark, sober style of dress—I must
sparkle in costly jewels and deck myself out like a painted butterfly,
just as I had, long since, determined I would never do—and this was no
trifling sacrifice; in the second place, I was continually straining to
satisfy his sanguine expectations and do honour to his choice by my
general conduct and deportment, and fearing to disappoint him by some
awkward misdemeanour, or some trait of inexperienced ignorance about
the customs of society, especially when I acted the part of hostess,
which I was not unfrequently called upon to do; and, in the third
place, as I intimated before, I was wearied of the throng and bustle,
the restless hurry and ceaseless change of a life so alien to all my
previous habits. At last, he suddenly discovered that the London air
did not agree with me, and I was languishing for my country home, and
must immediately return to Grassdale.

I laughingly assured him that the case was not so urgent as he appeared
to think it, but I was quite willing to go home if he was. He replied
that he should be obliged to remain a week or two longer, as he had
business that required his presence.

[Illustration]

“Then I will stay with you,” said I.

“But I can’t do with you, Helen,” was his answer: “as long as you stay
I shall attend to you and neglect my business.”

“But I won’t let you,” I returned; “now that I know you have business
to attend to, I shall insist upon your attending to it, and letting me
alone; and, to tell the truth, I shall be glad of a little rest. I can
take my rides and walks in the Park as usual; and your business cannot
occupy all your time: I shall see you at meal-times, and in the
evenings at least, and that will be better than being leagues away and
never seeing you at all.”

“But, my love, I cannot let you stay. How can I settle my affairs when
I know that you are here, neglected—?”

“I shall not feel myself neglected: while you are doing your duty,
Arthur, I shall never complain of neglect. If you had told me before,
that you had anything to do, it would have been half done before this;
and now you must make up for lost time by redoubled exertions. Tell me
what it is; and I will be your taskmaster, instead of being a
hindrance.”

“No, no,” persisted the impracticable creature; “you _must_ go home,
Helen; I must have the satisfaction of knowing that you are safe and
well, though far away. Your bright eyes are faded, and that tender,
delicate bloom has quite deserted your cheek.”

“That is only with too much gaiety and fatigue.”

“It is not, I tell you; it is the London air: you are pining for the
fresh breezes of your country home, and you shall feel them before you
are two days older. And remember your situation, dearest Helen; on your
health, you know, depends the health, if not the life, of our future
hope.”

“Then you really wish to get rid of me?”

“Positively, I do; and I will take you down myself to Grassdale, and
then return. I shall not be absent above a week or fortnight at most.”

“But if I must go, I will go alone: if you must stay, it is needless to
waste your time in the journey there and back.”

But he did not like the idea of sending me alone.

“Why, what helpless creature do you take me for,” I replied, “that you
cannot trust me to go a hundred miles in our own carriage, with our own
footman and a maid to attend me? If you come with me I shall assuredly
keep you. But tell me, Arthur, what _is_ this tiresome business; and
why did you never mention it before?”

“It is only a little business with my lawyer,” said he; and he told me
something about a piece of property he wanted to sell, in order to pay
off a part of the incumbrances on his estate; but either the account
was a little confused, or I was rather dull of comprehension, for I
could not clearly understand how that should keep him in town a
fortnight after me. Still less can I now comprehend how it should keep
him a month, for it is nearly that time since I left him, and no signs
of his return as yet. In every letter he promises to be with me in a
few days, and every time deceives me, or deceives himself. His excuses
are vague and insufficient. I cannot doubt that he has got among his
former companions again. Oh, why did I leave him! I wish—I do intensely
wish he would return!

June 29th.—No Arthur yet; and for many days I have been looking and
longing in vain for a letter. His letters, when they come, are kind, if
fair words and endearing epithets can give them a claim to the
title—but very short, and full of trivial excuses and promises that I
cannot trust; and yet how anxiously I look forward to them! how eagerly
I open and devour one of those little, hastily-scribbled returns for
the three or four long letters, hitherto unanswered, he has had from
me!

Oh, it is cruel to leave me so long alone! He knows I have no one but
Rachel to speak to, for we have no neighbours here, except the
Hargraves, whose residence I can dimly descry from these upper windows
embosomed among those low, woody hills beyond the Dale. I was glad when
I learnt that Milicent was so near us; and her company would be a
soothing solace to me now; but she is still in town with her mother;
there is no one at the Grove but little Esther and her French
governess, for Walter is always away. I saw that paragon of manly
perfections in London: he seemed scarcely to merit the eulogiums of his
mother and sister, though he certainly appeared more conversable and
agreeable than Lord Lowborough, more candid and high-minded than Mr.
Grimsby, and more polished and gentlemanly than Mr. Hattersley,
Arthur’s only other friend whom he judged fit to introduce to me.—Oh,
Arthur, why won’t you come? why won’t you write to me at least? You
talked about my health: how can you expect me to gather bloom and
vigour here, pining in solitude and restless anxiety from day to
day?—It would serve you right to come back and find my good looks
entirely wasted away. I would beg my uncle and aunt, or my brother, to
come and see me, but I do not like to complain of my loneliness to
them, and indeed loneliness is the least of my sufferings. But what is
he doing—what is it that keeps him away? It is this ever-recurring
question, and the horrible suggestions it raises, that distract me.

July 3rd.—My last bitter letter has wrung from him an answer at last,
and a rather longer one than usual; but still I don’t know what to make
of it. He playfully abuses me for the gall and vinegar of my latest
effusion, tells me I can have no conception of the multitudinous
engagements that keep him away, but avers that, in spite of them all,
he will assuredly be with me before the close of next week; though it
is impossible for a man so circumstanced as he is to fix the precise
day of his return: meantime he exhorts me to the exercise of patience,
“that first of woman’s virtues,” and desires me to remember the saying,
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” and comfort myself with the
assurance that the longer he stays away the better he shall love me
when he returns; and till he does return, he begs I will continue to
write to him constantly, for, though he is sometimes too idle and often
too busy to answer my letters as they come, he likes to receive them
daily; and if I fulfil my threat of punishing his seeming neglect by
ceasing to write, he shall be so angry that he will do his utmost to
forget me. He adds this piece of intelligence respecting poor Milicent
Hargrave:

“Your little friend Milicent is likely, before long, to follow your
example, and take upon her the yoke of matrimony in conjunction with a
friend of mine. Hattersley, you know, has not yet fulfilled his direful
threat of throwing his precious person away on the first old maid that
chose to evince a tenderness for him; but he still preserves a resolute
determination to see himself a married man before the year is out.
‘Only,’ said he to me, ‘I must have somebody that will let me have my
own way in everything—not like _your_ wife, Huntingdon: she is a
charming creature, but she looks as if she had a will of her own, and
could play the vixen upon occasion’ (I thought ‘you’re right there,
man,’ but I didn’t say so). ‘I must have some good, quiet soul that
will let me just do what I like and go where I like, keep at home or
stay away, without a word of reproach or complaint; for I can’t do with
being bothered.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘I know somebody that will suit you to
a tee, if you don’t care for money, and that’s Hargrave’s sister,
Milicent.’ He desired to be introduced to her forthwith, for he said he
had plenty of the needful himself, or should have when his old governor
chose to quit the stage. So you see, Helen, I have managed pretty well,
both for your friend and mine.”

Poor Milicent! But I cannot imagine she will ever be led to accept such
a suitor—one so repugnant to all her ideas of a man to be honoured and
loved.

5th.—Alas! I was mistaken. I have got a long letter from her this
morning, telling me she is already engaged, and expects to be married
before the close of the month.

“I hardly know what to say about it,” she writes, “or what to think. To
tell you the truth, Helen, I don’t like the thoughts of it at all. If I
_am_ to be Mr. Hattersley’s wife, I must try to love him; and I do try
with all my might; but I have made very little progress yet; and the
worst symptom of the case is, that the further he is from me the better
I like him: he frightens me with his abrupt manners and strange
hectoring ways, and I dread the thoughts of marrying him. ‘Then why
have you accepted him?’ you will ask; and I didn’t know I had accepted
him; but mamma tells me I have, and he seems to think so too. I
certainly didn’t mean to do so; but I did not like to give him a flat
refusal, for fear mamma should be grieved and angry (for I knew she
wished me to marry him), and I wanted to talk to her first about it: so
I gave him what _I_ thought was an evasive, half negative answer; but
she says it was as good as an acceptance, and he would think me very
capricious if I were to attempt to draw back—and indeed I was so
confused and frightened at the moment, I can hardly tell what I said.
And next time I saw him, he accosted me in all confidence as his
affianced bride, and immediately began to settle matters with mamma. I
had not courage to contradict them then, and how can I do it now? I
cannot; they would think me mad. Besides, mamma is so delighted with
the idea of the match; she thinks she has managed so well for me; and I
cannot bear to disappoint her. I do object sometimes, and tell her what
I feel, but you don’t know _how_ she talks. Mr. Hattersley, you know,
is the son of a rich banker, and as Esther and I have no fortunes, and
Walter very little, our dear mamma is very anxious to see us all well
married, that is, united to rich partners. It is not _my_ idea of being
well married, but she means it all for the best. She says when I am
safe off her hands it will be such a relief to her mind; and she
assures me it will be a good thing for the family as well as for me.
Even Walter is pleased at the prospect, and when I confessed my
reluctance to him, he said it was all childish nonsense. Do _you_ think
it nonsense, Helen? I should not care if I could see any prospect of
being able to love and admire him, but I can’t. There is nothing about
him to hang one’s esteem and affection upon; he is so diametrically
opposite to what I imagined my husband should be. Do write to me, and
say all you can to encourage me. Don’t attempt to dissuade me, for my
fate is fixed: preparations for the important event are already going
on around me; and don’t say a word against Mr. Hattersley, for I want
to think well of him; and though I have spoken against him myself, it
is for the last time: hereafter, I shall never permit myself to utter a
word in his dispraise, however he may seem to deserve it; and whoever
ventures to speak slightingly of the man I have promised to love, to
honour, and obey, must expect my serious displeasure. After all, I
think he is quite as good as Mr. Huntingdon, if not better; and yet you
love _him_, and seem to be happy and contented; and perhaps I may
manage as well. You must tell me, if you can, that Mr. Hattersley is
better than he seems—that he is upright, honourable, and
open-hearted—in fact, a perfect diamond in the rough. He may be all
this, but I don’t know him. I know only the exterior, and what, I
trust, is the worst part of him.”

She concludes with “Good-by, dear Helen. I am waiting anxiously for
your advice—but mind you let it be all on the right side.”

Alas! poor Milicent, what encouragement can I give you? or what
advice—except that it is better to make a bold stand now, though at the
expense of disappointing and angering both mother and brother and
lover, than to devote your whole life, hereafter, to misery and vain
regret?

Saturday, 13th.—The week is over, and he is not come. All the sweet
summer is passing away without one breath of pleasure to me or benefit
to him. And I had all along been looking forward to this season with
the fond, delusive hope that we should enjoy it so sweetly together;
and that, with God’s help and my exertions, it would be the means of
elevating his mind, and refining his taste to a due appreciation of the
salutary and pure delights of nature, and peace, and holy love. But
now—at evening, when I see the round red sun sink quietly down behind
those woody hills, leaving them sleeping in a warm, red, golden haze, I
only think another lovely day is lost to him and me; and at morning,
when roused by the flutter and chirp of the sparrows, and the gleeful
twitter of the swallows—all intent upon feeding their young, and full
of life and joy in their own little frames—I open the window to inhale
the balmy, soul-reviving air, and look out upon the lovely landscape,
laughing in dew and sunshine—I too often shame that glorious scene with
tears of thankless misery, because _he_ cannot feel its freshening
influence; and when I wander in the ancient woods, and meet the little
wild flowers smiling in my path, or sit in the shadow of our noble
ash-trees by the water-side, with their branches gently swaying in the
light summer breeze that murmurs through their feathery foliage—my ears
full of that low music mingled with the dreamy hum of insects, my eyes
abstractedly gazing on the glassy surface of the little lake before me,
with the trees that crowd about its bank, some gracefully bending to
kiss its waters, some rearing their stately heads high above, but
stretching their wide arms over its margin, all faithfully mirrored
far, far down in its glassy depth—though sometimes the images are
partially broken by the sport of aquatic insects, and sometimes, for a
moment, the whole is shivered into trembling fragments by a transient
breeze that sweeps the surface too roughly—still I have no pleasure;
for the greater the happiness that nature sets before me, the more I
lament that _he_ is not here to taste it: the greater the bliss we
might enjoy together, the more I feel our present wretchedness apart
(yes, ours; he must be wretched, though he may not know it); and the
more my senses are pleased, the more my heart is oppressed; for he
keeps it with him confined amid the dust and smoke of London—perhaps
shut up within the walls of his own abominable club.

But most of all, at night, when I enter my lonely chamber, and look out
upon the summer moon, “sweet regent of the sky,” floating above me in
the “black blue vault of heaven,” shedding a flood of silver radiance
over park, and wood, and water, so pure, so peaceful, so divine—and
think, Where is he now?—what is he doing at this moment? wholly
unconscious of this heavenly scene—perhaps revelling with his boon
companions, perhaps—God help me, it is too—_too_ much!

23rd.—Thank heaven, he is come at last! But how altered! flushed and
feverish, listless and languid, his beauty strangely diminished, his
vigour and vivacity quite departed. I have not upbraided him by word or
look; I have not even asked him what he has been doing. I have not the
heart to do it, for I think he is ashamed of himself—he must be so
indeed, and such inquiries could not fail to be painful to both. My
forbearance pleases him—touches him even, I am inclined to think. He
says he is glad to be home again, and God knows how glad I am to get
him back, even as he is. He lies on the sofa, nearly all day long; and
I play and sing to him for hours together. I write his letters for him,
and get him everything he wants; and sometimes I read to him, and
sometimes I talk, and sometimes only sit by him and soothe him with
silent caresses. I know he does not deserve it; and I fear I am
spoiling him; but this once, I will forgive him, freely and entirely. I
will shame him into virtue if I can, and I will never let him leave me
again.

He is pleased with my attentions—it may be, grateful for them. He likes
to have me near him: and though he is peevish and testy with his
servants and his dogs, he is gentle and kind to me. What he would be,
if I did not so watchfully anticipate his wants, and so carefully
avoid, or immediately desist from doing anything that has a tendency to
irritate or disturb him, with however little reason, I cannot tell. How
intensely I wish he were worthy of all this care! Last night, as I sat
beside him, with his head in my lap, passing my fingers through his
beautiful curls, this thought made my eyes overflow with sorrowful
tears—as it often does; but this time, a tear fell on his face and made
him look up. He smiled, but not insultingly.

“Dear Helen!” he said—“why do you cry? you know that I love you” (and
he pressed my hand to his feverish lips), “and what more could you
desire?”

“Only, Arthur, that you would love _yourself_ as truly and as
faithfully as you are loved by me.”

“That would be hard, indeed!” he replied, tenderly squeezing my hand.

August 24th.—Arthur is himself again, as lusty and reckless, as light
of heart and head as ever, and as restless and hard to amuse as a
spoilt child, and almost as full of mischief too, especially when wet
weather keeps him within doors. I wish he had something to do, some
useful trade, or profession, or employment—anything to occupy his head
or his hands for a few hours a day, and give him something besides his
own pleasure to think about. If he would play the country gentleman and
attend to the farm—but that he knows nothing about, and won’t give his
mind to consider,—or if he would take up with some literary study, or
learn to draw or to play—as he is so fond of music, I often try to
persuade him to learn the piano, but he is far too idle for such an
undertaking: he has no more idea of exerting himself to overcome
obstacles than he has of restraining his natural appetites; and these
two things are the ruin of him. I lay them both to the charge of his
harsh yet careless father, and his madly indulgent mother.—If ever I am
a mother I will zealously strive against this _crime_ of
over-indulgence. I can hardly give it a milder name when I think of the
evils it brings.

Happily, it will soon be the shooting season, and then, if the weather
permit, he will find occupation enough in the pursuit and destruction
of the partridges and pheasants: we have no grouse, or he might have
been similarly occupied at this moment, instead of lying under the
acacia-tree pulling poor Dash’s ears. But he says it is dull work
shooting alone; he must have a friend or two to help him.

“Let them be tolerably decent then, Arthur,” said I. The word “friend”
in his mouth makes me shudder: I know it was some of his “friends” that
induced him to stay behind me in London, and kept him away so long:
indeed, from what he has unguardedly told me, or hinted from time to
time, I cannot doubt that he frequently showed them my letters, to let
them see how fondly his wife watched over his interests, and how keenly
she regretted his absence; and that they induced him to remain week
after week, and to plunge into all manner of excesses, to avoid being
laughed at for a wife-ridden fool, and, perhaps, to show how far he
could venture to go without danger of shaking the fond creature’s
devoted attachment. It is a hateful idea, but I cannot believe it is a
false one.

“Well,” replied he, “I thought of Lord Lowborough for one; but there is
no possibility of getting him without his better half, our mutual
friend, Annabella; so we must ask them both. You’re not afraid of her,
are you, Helen?” he asked, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“Of course not,” I answered: “why should I? And who besides?”

“Hargrave for one. He will be glad to come, though his own place is so
near, for he has little enough land of his own to shoot over, and we
can extend our depredations into it, if we like; and he is thoroughly
respectable, you know, Helen—quite a lady’s man: and I think, Grimsby
for another: he’s a decent, quiet fellow enough. You’ll not object to
Grimsby?”

“I hate him: but, however, if you wish it, I’ll try to endure his
presence for a while.”

“All a prejudice, Helen, a mere woman’s antipathy.”

“No; I have solid grounds for my dislike. And is that all?”

“Why, yes, I think so. Hattersley will be too busy billing and cooing,
with his bride to have much time to spare for guns and dogs at
present,” he replied. And that reminds me, that I have had several
letters from Milicent since her marriage, and that she either is, or
pretends to be, quite reconciled to her lot. She professes to have
discovered numberless virtues and perfections in her husband, some of
which, I fear, less partial eyes would fail to distinguish, though they
sought them carefully with tears; and now that she is accustomed to his
loud voice, and abrupt, uncourteous manners, she affirms she finds no
difficulty in loving him as a wife should do, and begs I will burn that
letter wherein she spoke so unadvisedly against him. So that I trust
she may yet be happy; but, if she is, it will be entirely the reward of
her own goodness of heart; for had she chosen to consider herself the
victim of fate, or of her mother’s worldly wisdom, she might have been
thoroughly miserable; and if, for duty’s sake, she had not made every
effort to love her husband, she would, doubtless, have hated him to the
end of her days.




 CHAPTER XXVI


Sept. 23rd.—Our guests arrived about three weeks ago. Lord and Lady
Lowborough have now been married above eight months; and I will do the
lady the credit to say that her husband is quite an altered man; his
looks, his spirits, and his temper, are all perceptibly changed for the
better since I last saw him. But there is room for improvement still.
He is not always cheerful, nor always contented, and she often
complains of his ill-humour, which, however, of all persons, _she_
ought to be the last to accuse him of, as he never displays it against
her, except for such conduct as would provoke a saint. He adores her
still, and would go to the world’s end to please her. She knows her
power, and she uses it too; but well knowing that to wheedle and coax
is safer than to command, she judiciously tempers her despotism with
flattery and blandishments enough to make him deem himself a favoured
and a happy man.

But she has a way of tormenting him, in which I am a fellow-sufferer,
or might be, if I chose to regard myself as such. This is by openly,
but not too glaringly, coquetting with Mr. Huntingdon, who is quite
willing to be her partner in the game; but I don’t care for it,
because, with him, I know there is nothing but personal vanity, and a
mischievous desire to excite my jealousy, and, perhaps, to torment his
friend; and she, no doubt, is actuated by much the same motives; only,
there is more of malice and less of playfulness in _her_ manœuvres. It
is obviously, therefore, my interest to disappoint them both, as far as
I am concerned, by preserving a cheerful, undisturbed serenity
throughout; and, accordingly, I endeavour to show the fullest
confidence in my husband, and the greatest indifference to the arts of
my attractive guest. I have never reproached the former but once, and
that was for laughing at Lord Lowborough’s depressed and anxious
countenance one evening, when they had both been particularly
provoking; and then, indeed, I said a good deal on the subject, and
rebuked him sternly enough; but he only laughed, and said,—“You can
feel for him, Helen, can’t you?”

“I can feel for anyone that is unjustly treated,” I replied, “and I can
feel for those that injure them too.”

“Why, Helen, you are as jealous as he is!” cried he, laughing still
more; and I found it impossible to convince him of his mistake. So,
from that time, I have carefully refrained from any notice of the
subject whatever, and left Lord Lowborough to take care of himself. He
either has not the sense or the power to follow my example, though he
does try to conceal his uneasiness as well as he can; but still, it
will appear in his face, and his ill-humour will peep out at intervals,
though not in the expression of open resentment—they never go far
enough for that. But I confess I do feel jealous at times, most
painfully, bitterly so; when she sings and plays to him, and he hangs
over the instrument, and dwells upon her voice with no affected
interest; for then I know he is really delighted, and I have no power
to awaken similar fervour. I can amuse and please him with my simple
songs, but not delight him thus.

28th.—Yesterday, we all went to the Grove, Mr. Hargrave’s
much-neglected home. His mother frequently asks us over, that she may
have the pleasure of her dear Walter’s company; and this time she had
invited us to a dinner-party, and got together as many of the country
gentry as were within reach to meet us. The entertainment was very well
got up; but I could not help thinking about the cost of it all the
time. I don’t like Mrs. Hargrave; she is a hard, pretentious,
worldly-minded woman. She has money enough to live very comfortably, if
she only knew how to use it judiciously, and had taught her son to do
the same; but she is ever straining to keep up appearances, with that
despicable pride that shuns the semblance of poverty as of a shameful
crime. She grinds her dependents, pinches her servants, and deprives
even her daughters and herself of the real comforts of life, because
she will not consent to yield the palm in outward show to those who
have three times her wealth; and, above all, because she is determined
her cherished son shall be enabled to “hold up his head with the
highest gentlemen in the land.” This same son, I imagine, is a man of
expensive habits, no reckless spendthrift and no abandoned sensualist,
but one who likes to have “everything handsome about him,” and to go to
a certain length in youthful indulgences, not so much to gratify his
own tastes as to maintain his reputation as a man of fashion in the
world, and a respectable fellow among his own lawless companions; while
he is too selfish to consider how many comforts might be obtained for
his fond mother and sisters with the money he thus wastes upon himself:
as long as they can contrive to make a respectable appearance once a
year, when they come to town, he gives himself little concern about
their private stintings and struggles at home. This is a harsh judgment
to form of “dear, noble-minded, generous-hearted Walter,” but I fear it
is too just.

Mrs. Hargrave’s anxiety to make good matches for her daughters is
partly the cause, and partly the result, of these errors: by making a
figure in the world, and showing them off to advantage, she hopes to
obtain better chances for them; and by thus living beyond her
legitimate means, and lavishing so much on their brother, she renders
them portionless, and makes them burdens on her hands. Poor Milicent, I
fear, has already fallen a sacrifice to the manœuvrings of this
mistaken mother, who congratulates herself on having so satisfactorily
discharged her maternal duty, and hopes to do as well for Esther. But
Esther is a child as yet, a little merry romp of fourteen: as
honest-hearted, and as guileless and simple as her sister, but with a
fearless spirit of her own, that I fancy her mother will find some
difficulty in bending to her purposes.




 CHAPTER XXVII


October 9th.—It was on the night of the 4th, a little after tea, that
Annabella had been singing and playing, with Arthur as usual at her
side: she had ended her song, but still she sat at the instrument; and
he stood leaning on the back of her chair, conversing in scarcely
audible tones, with his face in very close proximity with hers. I
looked at Lord Lowborough. He was at the other end of the room, talking
with Messrs. Hargrave and Grimsby; but I saw him dart towards his lady
and his host a quick, impatient glance, expressive of intense
disquietude, at which Grimsby smiled. Determined to interrupt the
_tête-à-tête_, I rose, and, selecting a piece of music from the music
stand, stepped up to the piano, intending to ask the lady to play it;
but I stood transfixed and speechless on seeing her seated there,
listening, with what seemed an exultant smile on her flushed face to
his soft murmurings, with her hand quietly surrendered to his clasp.
The blood rushed first to my heart, and then to my head; for there was
more than this: almost at the moment of my approach, he cast a hurried
glance over his shoulder towards the other occupants of the room, and
then ardently pressed the unresisting hand to his lips. On raising his
eyes, he beheld me, and dropped them again, confounded and dismayed.
She saw me too, and confronted me with a look of hard defiance. I laid
the music on the piano, and retired. I felt ill; but I did not leave
the room: happily, it was getting late, and could not be long before
the company dispersed.

I went to the fire, and leant my head against the chimney-piece. In a
minute or two, some one asked me if I felt unwell. I did not answer;
indeed, at the time, I knew not what was said; but I mechanically
looked up, and saw Mr. Hargrave standing beside me on the rug.

“Shall I get you a glass of wine?” said he.

“No, thank you,” I replied; and, turning from him, I looked round. Lady
Lowborough was beside her husband, bending over him as he sat, with her
hand on his shoulder, softly talking and smiling in his face; and
Arthur was at the table, turning over a book of engravings. I seated
myself in the nearest chair; and Mr. Hargrave, finding his services
were not desired, judiciously withdrew. Shortly after, the company
broke up, and, as the guests were retiring to their rooms, Arthur
approached me, smiling with the utmost assurance.

“Are you _very_ angry, Helen?” murmured he.

“This is no jest, Arthur,” said I, seriously, but as calmly as I
could—“unless you think it a jest to lose my affection for ever.”

“What! so bitter?” he exclaimed, laughingly, clasping my hand between
both his; but I snatched it away, in indignation—almost in disgust, for
he was obviously affected with wine.

“Then I must go down on my knees,” said he; and kneeling before me,
with clasped hands, uplifted in mock humiliation, he continued
imploringly—“Forgive me, Helen—dear Helen, forgive me, and I’ll _never_
do it again!” and, burying his face in his handkerchief, he affected to
sob aloud.

Leaving him thus employed, I took my candle, and, slipping quietly from
the room, hastened up-stairs as fast as I could. But he soon discovered
that I had left him, and, rushing up after me, caught me in his arms,
just as I had entered the chamber, and was about to shut the door in
his face.

“No, no, by heaven, you sha’n’t escape me so!” he cried. Then, alarmed
at my agitation, he begged me not to put myself in such a passion,
telling me I was white in the face, and should kill myself if I did so.

“Let me go, then,” I murmured; and immediately he released me—and it
was well he did, for I was really in a passion. I sank into the
easy-chair and endeavoured to compose myself, for I wanted to speak to
him calmly. He stood beside me, but did not venture to touch me or to
speak for a few seconds; then, approaching a little nearer, he dropped
on one knee—not in mock humility, but to bring himself nearer my level,
and leaning his hand on the arm of the chair, he began in a low voice:
“It is all nonsense, Helen—a jest, a mere nothing—not worth a thought.
Will you _never_ learn,” he continued more boldly, “that you have
nothing to fear from me? that I love you wholly and entirely?—or if,”
he added with a lurking smile, “I ever give a thought to another, you
may well spare it, for those fancies are here and gone like a flash of
lightning, while my love for you burns on steadily, and for ever, like
the sun. You little exorbitant tyrant, will not _that_—”

“Be quiet a moment, will you, Arthur?” said I, “and listen to me—and
don’t think I’m in a jealous fury: I am perfectly calm. Feel my hand.”
And I gravely extended it towards him—but closed it upon his with an
energy that seemed to disprove the assertion, and made him smile. “You
needn’t smile, sir,” said I, still tightening my grasp, and looking
steadfastly on him till he almost quailed before me. “You may think it
all very fine, Mr. Huntingdon, to amuse yourself with rousing my
jealousy; but take care you don’t rouse my hate instead. And when you
have once extinguished my love, you will find it no easy matter to
kindle it again.”

“Well, Helen, I won’t repeat the offence. But I meant nothing by it, I
assure you. I had taken too much wine, and I was scarcely myself at the
time.”

“You often take too much; and that is another practice I detest.” He
looked up astonished at my warmth. “Yes,” I continued; “I never
mentioned it before, because I was ashamed to do so; but now I’ll tell
you that it distresses me, and may disgust me, if you go on and suffer
the habit to grow upon you, as it will if you don’t check it in time.
But the whole system of your conduct to Lady Lowborough is not
referable to wine; and this night you knew perfectly well what you were
doing.”

“Well, I’m sorry for it,” replied he, with more of sulkiness than
contrition: “what more would you have?”

“You are sorry that I saw you, no doubt,” I answered coldly.

“If you had not seen me,” he muttered, fixing his eyes on the carpet,
“it would have done no harm.”

My heart felt ready to burst; but I resolutely swallowed back my
emotion, and answered calmly,

“You think not?”

“No,” replied he, boldly. “After all, what have I done? It’s
nothing—except as you choose to make it a subject of accusation and
distress.”

“What would Lord Lowborough, your _friend_, think, if he knew all? or
what would you yourself think, if he or any other had acted the same
part to me, throughout, as you have to Annabella?”

“I would blow his brains out.”

“Well, then, Arthur, how can you call it nothing—an offence for which
you would think yourself justified in blowing another man’s brains out?
Is it nothing to trifle with your friend’s feelings and mine—to
endeavour to steal a woman’s affections from her husband—what he values
more than his gold, and therefore what it is more dishonest to take?
Are the marriage vows a jest; and is it nothing to make it your sport
to break them, and to tempt another to do the same? Can I love a man
that does such things, and coolly maintains it is nothing?”

“You are breaking your marriage vows yourself,” said he, indignantly
rising and pacing to and fro. “You promised to honour and obey me, and
now you attempt to hector over me, and threaten and accuse me, and call
me worse than a highwayman. If it were not for your situation, Helen, I
would not submit to it so tamely. I won’t be dictated to by a woman,
though she be my wife.”

“What will you do then? Will you go on till I hate you, and then accuse
me of breaking my vows?”

He was silent a moment, and then replied: “You never will hate me.”
Returning and resuming his former position at my feet, he repeated more
vehemently—“You cannot hate me as long as I love you.”

“But how can I believe that you love me, if you continue to act in this
way? Just imagine yourself in my place: would _you_ think I loved
_you_, if _I_ did so? Would you believe my protestations, and honour
and trust me under such circumstances?”

“The cases are different,” he replied. “It is a woman’s nature to be
constant—to love one and one only, blindly, tenderly, and for
ever—bless them, dear creatures! and you above them all; but you must
have some commiseration for us, Helen; you must give us a little more
licence, for, as Shakespeare has it—

However we do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won
Than women’s are.”


“Do you mean by that, that your fancies are lost to me, and won by Lady
Lowborough?”

“No! heaven is my witness that I think her mere dust and ashes in
comparison with you, and shall continue to think so, unless you drive
me from you by too much severity. She is a daughter of earth; you are
an angel of heaven; only be not too austere in your divinity, and
remember that I am a poor, fallible mortal. Come now, Helen; won’t you
forgive me?” he said, gently taking my hand, and looking up with an
innocent smile.

“If I do, you will repeat the offence.”

“I swear by—”

“Don’t swear; I’ll believe your word as well as your oath. I wish I
could have confidence in either.”

“Try me, then, Helen: only trust and pardon me this once, and you shall
see! Come, I am in hell’s torments till you speak the word.”

I did not speak it, but I put my hand on his shoulder and kissed his
forehead, and then burst into tears. He embraced me tenderly; and we
have been good friends ever since. He has been decently temperate at
table, and well-conducted towards Lady Lowborough. The first day he
held himself aloof from her, as far as he could without any flagrant
breach of hospitality: since that he has been friendly and civil, but
nothing more—in my presence, at least, nor, I think, at any other time;
for she seems haughty and displeased, and Lord Lowborough is manifestly
more cheerful, and more cordial towards his host than before. But I
shall be glad when they are gone, for I have so little love for
Annabella that it is quite a task to be civil to her, and as she is the
only woman here besides myself, we are necessarily thrown so much
together. Next time Mrs. Hargrave calls I shall hail her advent as
quite a relief. I have a good mind to ask Arthur’s leave to invite the
old lady to stay with us till our guests depart. I think I will. She
will take it as a kind attention, and, though I have little relish for
her society, she will be truly welcome as a third to stand between Lady
Lowborough and me.

The first time the latter and I were alone together, after that unhappy
evening, was an hour or two after breakfast on the following day, when
the gentlemen were gone out, after the usual time spent in the writing
of letters, the reading of newspapers, and desultory conversation. We
sat silent for two or three minutes. She was busy with her work, and I
was running over the columns of a paper from which I had extracted all
the pith some twenty minutes before. It was a moment of painful
embarrassment to me, and I thought it must be infinitely more so to
her; but it seems I was mistaken. She was the first to speak; and,
smiling with the coolest assurance, she began,—

“Your husband was merry last night, Helen: is he often so?”

My blood boiled in my face; but it was better she should seem to
attribute his conduct to this than to anything else.

“No,” replied I, “and never will be so again, I trust.”

“You gave him a curtain lecture, did you?”

“No! but I told him I disliked such conduct, and he promised me not to
repeat it.”

“I _thought_ he looked rather subdued this morning,” she continued;
“and you, Helen? you’ve been weeping, I see—that’s our grand resource,
you know. But doesn’t it make your eyes smart? and do you always find
it to answer?”

“I never cry for effect; nor can I conceive how any one can.”

“Well, I don’t know: I never had occasion to try it; but I think if
Lowborough were to commit such improprieties, I’d make _him_ cry. I
don’t wonder at your being angry, for I’m sure I’d give my husband a
lesson he would not soon forget for a lighter offence than that. But
then he never _will_ do anything of the kind; for I keep him in too
good order for that.”

“Are you sure you don’t arrogate too much of the credit to yourself.
Lord Lowborough was quite as remarkable for his abstemiousness for some
time before you married him, as he is now, I have heard.”

“Oh, about the _wine_ you mean—yes, he’s safe enough for that. And as
to looking askance to another woman, he’s safe enough for that too,
while I live, for he worships the very ground I tread on.”

“Indeed! and are you sure you deserve it?”

“Why, as to that, I can’t say: you know we’re all fallible creatures,
Helen; we none of us deserve to be worshipped. But are _you_ sure your
darling Huntingdon deserves all the love you give to _him?_”

I knew not what to answer to this. I was burning with anger; but I
suppressed all outward manifestations of it, and only bit my lip and
pretended to arrange my work.

“At any rate,” resumed she, pursuing her advantage, “you can console
yourself with the assurance that _you_ are worthy of all the love he
gives to you.”

“You flatter me,” said I; “but, at least, I can try to be worthy of
it.” And then I turned the conversation.




 CHAPTER XXVIII


December 25th.—Last Christmas I was a bride, with a heart overflowing
with present bliss, and full of ardent hopes for the future, though not
unmingled with foreboding fears. Now I am a wife: my bliss is sobered,
but not destroyed; my hopes diminished, but not departed; my fears
increased, but not yet thoroughly confirmed; and, thank heaven, I am a
mother too. God has sent me a soul to educate for heaven, and give me a
new and calmer bliss, and stronger hopes to comfort me.

Dec. 25th, 1823.—Another year is gone. My little Arthur lives and
thrives. He is healthy, but not robust, full of gentle playfulness and
vivacity, already affectionate, and susceptible of passions and
emotions it will be long ere he can find words to express. He has won
his father’s heart at last; and now my constant terror is, lest he
should be ruined by that father’s thoughtless indulgence. But I must
beware of my own weakness too, for I never knew till now how strong are
a parent’s temptations to spoil an only child.

I have need of consolation in my son, for (to this silent paper I may
confess it) I have but little in my husband. I love him still; and he
loves me, in his own way—but oh, how different from the love I could
have given, and once had hoped to receive! How little real sympathy
there exists between us; how many of my thoughts and feelings are
gloomily cloistered within my own mind; how much of my higher and
better self is indeed unmarried—doomed either to harden and sour in the
sunless shade of solitude, or to quite degenerate and fall away for
lack of nutriment in this unwholesome soil! But, I repeat, I have no
right to complain; only let me state the truth—some of the truth, at
least,—and see hereafter if any darker truths will blot these pages. We
have now been full two years united; the “romance” of our attachment
must be worn away. Surely I have now got down to the lowest gradation
in Arthur’s affection, and discovered all the evils of his nature: if
there be any further change, it must be for the better, as we become
still more accustomed to each other; surely we shall find no lower
depth than this. And, if so, I can bear it well—as well, at least, as I
have borne it hitherto.

Arthur is not what is commonly called a _bad_ man: he has many good
qualities; but he is a man without self-restraint or lofty aspirations,
a lover of pleasure, given up to animal enjoyments: he is not a bad
husband, but his notions of matrimonial duties and comforts are not my
notions. Judging from appearances, his idea of a wife is a thing to
love one devotedly, and to stay at home to wait upon her husband, and
amuse him and minister to his comfort in every possible way, while he
chooses to stay with her; and, when he is absent, to attend to his
interests, domestic or otherwise, and patiently wait his return, no
matter how he may be occupied in the meantime.

Early in spring he announced his intention of going to London: his
affairs there demanded his attendance, he said, and he could refuse it
no longer. He expressed his regret at having to leave me, but hoped I
would amuse myself with the baby till he returned.

“But why leave me?” I said. “I can go with you: I can be ready at any
time.”

“You would not take that child to town?”

“Yes; why not?”

The thing was absurd: the air of the town would be certain to disagree
with him, and with me as a nurse; the late hours and London habits
would not suit me under such circumstances; and altogether he assured
me that it would be excessively troublesome, injurious, and unsafe. I
over-ruled his objections as well as I could, for I trembled at the
thoughts of his going alone, and would sacrifice almost anything for
myself, much even for my child, to prevent it; but at length he told
me, plainly, and somewhat testily, that he could not do with me: he was
worn out with the baby’s restless nights, and must have some repose. I
proposed separate apartments; but it would not do.

“The truth is, Arthur,” I said at last, “you are weary of my company,
and determined not to have me with you. You might as well have said so
at once.”

He denied it; but I immediately left the room, and flew to the nursery,
to hide my feelings, if I could not soothe them, there.

I was too much hurt to express any further dissatisfaction with his
plans, or at all to refer to the subject again, except for the
necessary arrangements concerning his departure and the conduct of
affairs during his absence, till the day before he went, when I
earnestly exhorted him to take care of himself and keep out of the way
of temptation. He laughed at my anxiety, but assured me there was no
cause for it, and promised to attend to my advice.

“I suppose it is no use asking you to fix a day for your return?” said
I.

“Why, no; I hardly can, under the circumstances; but be assured, love,
I shall not be long away.”

“I don’t wish to keep you a prisoner at home,” I replied; “I should not
grumble at your staying whole months away—if you can be happy so long
without me—provided I knew you were safe; but I don’t like the idea of
your being there among your friends, as you call them.”

“Pooh, pooh, you silly girl! Do you think I can’t take care of myself?”

“You didn’t last time. But THIS time, Arthur,” I added, earnestly,
“show me that you can, and teach me that I need not fear to trust you!”

He promised fair, but in such a manner as we seek to soothe a child.
And did he keep his promise? No; and henceforth _I can never trust his
word_. Bitter, bitter confession! Tears blind me while I write. It was
early in March that he went, and he did not return till July. This time
he did not trouble himself to make excuses as before, and his letters
were less frequent, and shorter and less affectionate, especially after
the first few weeks: they came slower and slower, and more terse and
careless every time. But still, when _I_ omitted writing, he complained
of my neglect. When I wrote sternly and coldly, as I confess I
frequently did at the last, he blamed my harshness, and said it was
enough to scare him from his home: when I tried mild persuasion, he was
a little more gentle in his replies, and promised to return; but I had
learnt, at last, to disregard his promises.




 CHAPTER XXIX


Those were four miserable months, alternating between intense anxiety,
despair, and indignation, pity for him and pity for myself. And yet,
through all, I was not wholly comfortless: I had my darling, sinless,
inoffensive little one to console me; but even this consolation was
embittered by the constantly-recurring thought, “How shall I teach him
hereafter to respect his father, and yet to avoid his example?”

But I remembered that I had brought all these afflictions, in a manner
wilfully, upon myself; and I determined to bear them without a murmur.
At the same time I resolved not to give myself up to misery for the
transgressions of another, and endeavoured to divert myself as much as
I could; and besides the companionship of my child, and my dear,
faithful Rachel, who evidently guessed my sorrows and felt for them,
though she was too discreet to allude to them, I had my books and
pencil, my domestic affairs, and the welfare and comfort of Arthur’s
poor tenants and labourers to attend to: and I sometimes sought and
obtained amusement in the company of my young friend Esther Hargrave:
occasionally I rode over to see her, and once or twice I had her to
spend the day with me at the Manor. Mrs. Hargrave did not visit London
that season: having no daughter to marry, she thought it as well to
stay at home and economise; and, for a wonder, Walter came down to join
her in the beginning of June, and stayed till near the close of August.

The first time I saw him was on a sweet, warm evening, when I was
sauntering in the park with little Arthur and Rachel, who is head-nurse
and lady’s-maid in one—for, with my secluded life and tolerably active
habits, I require but little attendance, and as she had nursed me and
coveted to nurse my child, and was moreover so very trustworthy, I
preferred committing the important charge to her, with a young
nursery-maid under her directions, to engaging any one else: besides,
it saves money; and since I have made acquaintance with Arthur’s
affairs, I have learnt to regard that as no trifling recommendation;
for, by my own desire, nearly the whole of the income of my fortune is
devoted, for years to come, to the paying off of his debts, and the
money he contrives to squander away in London is incomprehensible. But
to return to Mr. Hargrave. I was standing with Rachel beside the water,
amusing the laughing baby in her arms with a twig of willow laden with
golden catkins, when, greatly to my surprise, he entered the park,
mounted on his costly black hunter, and crossed over the grass to meet
me. He saluted me with a very fine compliment, delicately worded, and
modestly delivered withal, which he had doubtless concocted as he rode
along. He told me he had brought a message from his mother, who, as he
was riding that way, had desired him to call at the Manor and beg the
pleasure of my company to a friendly family dinner to-morrow.

“There is no one to meet but ourselves,” said he; “but Esther is very
anxious to see you; and my mother fears you will feel solitary in this
great house so much alone, and wishes she could persuade you to give
her the pleasure of your company more frequently, and make yourself at
home in our more humble dwelling, till Mr. Huntingdon’s return shall
render this a little more conducive to your comfort.”

“She is very kind,” I answered, “but I am not alone, you see;—and those
whose time is fully occupied seldom complain of solitude.”

“Will you not come to-morrow, then? She will be sadly disappointed if
you refuse.”

I did not relish being thus compassionated for my loneliness; but,
however, I promised to come.

“What a sweet evening this is!” observed he, looking round upon the
sunny park, with its imposing swell and slope, its placid water, and
majestic clumps of trees. “And what a paradise you live in!”

“It is a lovely evening,” answered I; and I sighed to think how little
I had felt its loveliness, and how little of a paradise sweet Grassdale
was to me—how still less to the voluntary exile from its scenes.
Whether Mr. Hargrave divined my thoughts, I cannot tell, but, with a
half-hesitating, sympathising seriousness of tone and manner, he asked
if I had lately heard from Mr. Huntingdon.

“Not lately,” I replied.

“I thought not,” he muttered, as if to himself, looking thoughtfully on
the ground.

“Are you not lately returned from London?” I asked.

“Only yesterday.”

“And did you see him there?”

“Yes—I saw him.”

“Was he well?”

“Yes—that is,” said he, with increasing hesitation and an appearance of
suppressed indignation, “he was as well as—as he deserved to be, but
under circumstances I should have deemed incredible for a man so
favoured as he is.” He here looked up and pointed the sentence with a
serious bow to me. I suppose my face was crimson.

“Pardon me, Mrs. Huntingdon,” he continued, “but I cannot suppress my
indignation when I behold such infatuated blindness and perversion of
taste;—but, perhaps, you are not aware—” He paused.

“I am aware of nothing, sir—except that he delays his coming longer
than I expected; and if, at present, he prefers the society of his
friends to that of his wife, and the dissipations of the town to the
quiet of country life, I suppose I have those friends to thank for it.
_Their_ tastes and occupations are similar to his, and I don’t see why
his conduct should awaken either their indignation or surprise.”

“You wrong me cruelly,” answered he. “I have shared but little of Mr.
Huntingdon’s society for the last few weeks; and as for his tastes and
occupations, they are quite beyond me—lonely wanderer as I am. Where I
have but sipped and tasted, he drains the cup to the dregs; and if ever
for a moment I have sought to drown the voice of reflection in madness
and folly, or if I have wasted too much of my time and talents among
reckless and dissipated companions, God knows I would gladly renounce
them entirely and for ever, if I had but _half_ the blessings that man
so thanklessly casts behind his back—but _half_ the inducements to
virtue and domestic, orderly habits that he despises—but _such_ a home,
and _such_ a partner to share it! It is infamous!” he muttered, between
his teeth. “And don’t think, Mrs. Huntingdon,” he added aloud, “that I
could be guilty of inciting him to persevere in his present pursuits:
on the contrary, I have remonstrated with him again and again; I have
frequently expressed my surprise at his conduct, and reminded him of
his duties and his privileges—but to no purpose; he only—”

“Enough, Mr. Hargrave; you ought to be aware that whatever my husband’s
faults may be, it can only aggravate the evil for me to hear them from
a stranger’s lips.”

“_Am_ I then a stranger?” said he in a sorrowful tone. “I am your
nearest neighbour, your son’s godfather, and your husband’s friend; may
I not be yours also?”

“Intimate acquaintance must precede real friendship; I know but little
of you, Mr. Hargrave, except from report.”

“Have you then forgotten the six or seven weeks I spent under your roof
last autumn? _I_ have not forgotten them. And I know enough of _you_,
Mrs. Huntingdon, to think that your husband is the most enviable man in
the world, and I should be the next if you would deem me worthy of your
friendship.”

“If you knew more of me, you would not think it, or if you did you
would not say it, and expect me to be flattered by the compliment.”

I stepped backward as I spoke. He saw that I wished the conversation to
end; and immediately taking the hint, he gravely bowed, wished me
good-evening, and turned his horse towards the road. He appeared
grieved and hurt at my unkind reception of his sympathising overtures.
I was not sure that I had done right in speaking so harshly to him;
but, at the time, I had felt irritated—almost insulted by his conduct;
it seemed as if he was presuming upon the absence and neglect of my
husband, and insinuating even more than the truth against him.

Rachel had moved on, during our conversation, to some yards’ distance.
He rode up to her, and asked to see the child. He took it carefully
into his arms, looked upon it with an almost paternal smile, and I
heard him say, as I approached,—

“And this, too, he has forsaken!”

He then tenderly kissed it, and restored it to the gratified nurse.

“Are you fond of children, Mr. Hargrave?” said I, a little softened
towards him.

“Not in general,” he replied, “but that is such a _sweet_ child, and so
like its mother,” he added in a lower tone.

“You are mistaken there; it is its father it resembles.”

“Am I not right, nurse?” said he, appealing to Rachel.

“I think, sir, there’s a bit of both,” she replied.

He departed; and Rachel pronounced him a very nice gentleman. I had
still my doubts on the subject.

In the course of the following six weeks I met him several times, but
always, save once, in company with his mother, or his sister, or both.
When I called on them, he always happened to be at home, and, when they
called on me, it was always he that drove them over in the phaeton. His
mother, evidently, was quite delighted with his dutiful attentions and
newly-acquired domestic habits.

The time that I met him alone was on a bright, but not oppressively hot
day, in the beginning of July: I had taken little Arthur into the wood
that skirts the park, and there seated him on the moss-cushioned roots
of an old oak; and, having gathered a handful of bluebells and
wild-roses, I was kneeling before him, and presenting them, one by one,
to the grasp of his tiny fingers; enjoying the heavenly beauty of the
flowers, through the medium of his smiling eyes: forgetting, for the
moment, all my cares, laughing at his gleeful laughter, and delighting
myself with his delight,—when a shadow suddenly eclipsed the little
space of sunshine on the grass before us; and looking up, I beheld
Walter Hargrave standing and gazing upon us.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Huntingdon,” said he, “but I was spell-bound; I had
neither the power to come forward and interrupt you, nor to withdraw
from the contemplation of such a scene. How vigorous my little godson
grows! and how merry he is this morning!” He approached the child, and
stooped to take his hand; but, on seeing that his caresses were likely
to produce tears and lamentations, instead of a reciprocation of
friendly demonstrations, he prudently drew back.

“What a pleasure and comfort that little creature must be to you, Mrs.
Huntingdon!” he observed, with a touch of sadness in his intonation, as
he admiringly contemplated the infant.

“It is,” replied I; and then I asked after his mother and sister.

He politely answered my inquiries, and then returned again to the
subject I wished to avoid; though with a degree of timidity that
witnessed his fear to offend.

“You have not heard from Huntingdon lately?” he said.

“Not this week,” I replied. Not these three weeks, I might have said.

“I had a letter from him this morning. I wish it were such a one as I
could show to his lady.” He half drew from his waistcoat-pocket a
letter with Arthur’s still beloved hand on the address, scowled at it,
and put it back again, adding—“But he tells me he is about to return
next week.”

“He tells _me_ so every time he writes.”

“Indeed! well, it is like him. But to me he always avowed it his
intention to stay till the present month.”

It struck me like a blow, this proof of premeditated transgression and
systematic disregard of truth.

“It is only of a piece with the rest of his conduct,” observed Mr.
Hargrave, thoughtfully regarding me, and reading, I suppose, my
feelings in my face.

“Then he is really coming next week?” said I, after a pause.

“You may rely upon it, if the assurance can give you any pleasure. And
is it _possible_, Mrs. Huntingdon, that you can rejoice at his return?”
he exclaimed, attentively perusing my features again.

“Of course, Mr. Hargrave; is he not my husband?”

“Oh, Huntingdon; you know not _what_ you slight!” he passionately
murmured.

I took up my baby, and, wishing him good-morning, departed, to indulge
my thoughts unscrutinized, within the sanctum of my home.

And _was_ I glad? Yes, delighted; though I was angered by Arthur’s
conduct, and though I felt that he had wronged me, and was determined
he should feel it too.




 CHAPTER XXX


On the following morning I received a few lines from him myself,
confirming Hargrave’s intimations respecting his approaching return.
And he did come next week, but in a condition of body and mind even
worse than before. I did not, however, intend to pass over his
derelictions this time without a remark; I found it would not do. But
the first day he was weary with his journey, and I was glad to get him
back: I would not upbraid him then; I would wait till to-morrow. Next
morning he was weary still: I would wait a little longer. But at
dinner, when, after breakfasting at twelve o’clock on a bottle of
soda-water and a cup of strong coffee, and lunching at two on another
bottle of soda-water mingled with brandy, he was finding fault with
everything on the table, and declaring we must change our cook, I
thought the time was come.

“It is the same cook as we had before you went, Arthur,” said I. “You
were generally pretty well satisfied with her then.”

“You must have been letting her get into slovenly habits, then, while I
was away. It is enough to poison one, eating such a disgusting mess!”
And he pettishly pushed away his plate, and leant back despairingly in
his chair.

“I think it is you that are changed, not she,” said I, but with the
utmost gentleness, for I did not wish to irritate him.

“It may be so,” he replied carelessly, as he seized a tumbler of wine
and water, adding, when he had tossed it off, “for I have an infernal
fire in my veins, that all the waters of the ocean cannot quench!”

“What kindled it?” I was about to ask, but at that moment the butler
entered and began to take away the things.

“Be quick, Benson; do have done with that infernal clatter!” cried his
master. “And _don’t_ bring the cheese, unless you want to make me sick
outright!”

Benson, in some surprise, removed the cheese, and did his best to
effect a quiet and speedy clearance of the rest; but, unfortunately,
there was a rumple in the carpet, caused by the hasty pushing back of
his master’s chair, at which he tripped and stumbled, causing a rather
alarming concussion with the trayful of crockery in his hands, but no
positive damage, save the fall and breaking of a sauce tureen; but, to
my unspeakable shame and dismay, Arthur turned furiously around upon
him, and swore at him with savage coarseness. The poor man turned pale,
and visibly trembled as he stooped to pick up the fragments.

“He couldn’t help it, Arthur,” said I; “the carpet caught his foot, and
there’s no great harm done. Never mind the pieces now, Benson; you can
clear them away afterwards.”

Glad to be released, Benson expeditiously set out the dessert and
withdrew.

“What _could_ you mean, Helen, by taking the servant’s part against
me,” said Arthur, as soon as the door was closed, “when you knew I was
distracted?”

“I did not know you were distracted, Arthur: and the poor man was quite
frightened and hurt at your sudden explosion.”

“Poor man, indeed! and do you think I could stop to consider the
feelings of an insensate brute like that, when my own nerves were
racked and torn to pieces by his confounded blunders?”

“I never heard you complain of your nerves before.”

“And why shouldn’t I have nerves as well as you?”

“Oh, I don’t dispute your claim to their possession, but _I_ never
complain of mine.”

“No, how should you, when you never do anything to try them?”

“Then why do you try yours, Arthur?”

“Do you think I have nothing to do but to stay at home and take care of
myself like a woman?”

“Is it impossible, then, to take care of yourself like a man when you
go abroad? You told me that you could, and would too; and you
promised—”

“Come, come, Helen, don’t begin with that nonsense now; I can’t bear
it.”

“Can’t bear what?—to be reminded of the promises you have broken?”

“Helen, you are cruel. If you knew how my heart throbbed, and how every
nerve thrilled through me while you spoke, you would spare me. You can
pity a dolt of a servant for breaking a dish; but you have no
compassion for _me_ when my head is split in two and all on fire with
this consuming fever.”

He leant his head on his hand, and sighed. I went to him and put my
hand on his forehead. It was burning indeed.

“Then come with me into the drawing-room, Arthur; and don’t take any
more wine: you have taken several glasses since dinner, and eaten next
to nothing all the day. How can _that_ make you better?”

With some coaxing and persuasion, I got him to leave the table. When
the baby was brought I tried to amuse him with that; but poor little
Arthur was cutting his teeth, and his father could not bear his
complaints: sentence of immediate banishment was passed upon him on the
first indication of fretfulness; and because, in the course of the
evening, I went to share his exile for a little while, I was
reproached, on my return, for preferring my child to my husband. I
found the latter reclining on the sofa just as I had left him.

“Well!” exclaimed the injured man, in a tone of pseudo-resignation. “I
thought I wouldn’t send for you; I thought I’d just see how long it
would please you to leave me alone.”

“I have not been very long, have I, Arthur? I have not been an hour,
I’m sure.”

“Oh, of course, an hour is nothing to you, so pleasantly employed; but
to _me_—”

“It has not been pleasantly employed,” interrupted I. “I have been
nursing our poor little baby, who is very far from well, and I could
not leave him till I got him to sleep.”

“Oh, to be sure, you’re overflowing with kindness and pity for
everything but me.”

“And why should I pity _you?_ What is the matter with you?”

“Well! that passes everything! After all the wear and tear that I’ve
had, when I come home sick and weary, longing for comfort, and
expecting to find attention and kindness, at least from my wife, she
calmly asks what is the matter with me!”

“There is _nothing_ the matter with you,” returned I, “except what you
have wilfully brought upon yourself, against my earnest exhortation and
entreaty.”

“Now, Helen,” said he emphatically, half rising from his recumbent
posture, “if you bother me with another word, I’ll ring the bell and
order six bottles of wine, and, by heaven, I’ll drink them dry before I
stir from this place!”

I said no more, but sat down before the table and drew a book towards
me.

“Do let me have quietness at least!” continued he, “if you deny me
every other comfort;” and sinking back into his former position, with
an impatient expiration between a sigh and a groan, he languidly closed
his eyes, as if to sleep.

What the book was that lay open on the table before me, I cannot tell,
for I never looked at it. With an elbow on each side of it, and my
hands clasped before my eyes, I delivered myself up to silent weeping.
But Arthur was not asleep: at the first slight sob, he raised his head
and looked round, impatiently exclaiming, “What are you crying for,
Helen? What the deuce is the matter _now?_”

“I’m crying for you, Arthur,” I replied, speedily drying my tears; and
starting up, I threw myself on my knees before him, and clasping his
nerveless hand between my own, continued: “Don’t you know that you are
a part of myself? And do you think you can injure and degrade yourself,
and I not feel it?”

“_Degrade_ myself, Helen?”

“Yes, degrade! What have you been doing all this time?”

“You’d better not ask,” said he, with a faint smile.

“And you had better not tell; but you cannot deny that you _have_
degraded yourself miserably. You have shamefully wronged yourself, body
and soul, and me too; and I can’t endure it quietly, and I won’t!”

“Well, don’t squeeze my hand so frantically, and don’t agitate me so,
for heaven’s sake! Oh, Hattersley! you were right: this woman will be
the death of me, with her keen feelings and her interesting force of
character. There, there, do spare me a little.”

“Arthur, you _must_ repent!” cried I, in a frenzy of desperation,
throwing my arms around him and burying my face in his bosom. “You
_shall_ say you are sorry for what you have done!”

“Well, well, I am.”

“You are not! you’ll do it again.”

“I shall never live to do it again if you treat me so savagely,”
replied he, pushing me from him. “You’ve nearly squeezed the breath out
of my body.” He pressed his hand to his heart, and looked really
agitated and ill.

“Now get me a glass of wine,” said he, “to remedy what you’ve done, you
she tiger! I’m almost ready to faint.”

I flew to get the required remedy. It seemed to revive him
considerably.

“What a shame it is,” said I, as I took the empty glass from his hand,
“for a strong young man like you to reduce yourself to such a state!”

“If you knew all, my girl, you’d say rather, ‘What a wonder it is you
can bear it so well as you do!’ I’ve lived more in these four months,
Helen, than you have in the whole course of your existence, or will to
the end of your days, if they numbered a hundred years; so I must
expect to pay for it in some shape.”

“You will have to pay a higher price than you anticipate, if you don’t
take care: there will be the total loss of your own health, and of my
affection too, if _that_ is of any value to you.”

“What! you’re at that game of threatening me with the loss of your
affection again, are you? I think it couldn’t have been very genuine
stuff to begin with, if it’s so easily demolished. If you don’t mind,
my pretty tyrant, you’ll make me regret my choice in good earnest, and
envy my friend Hattersley his meek little wife: she’s quite a pattern
to her sex, Helen. He had her with him in London all the season, and
she was no trouble at all. He might amuse himself just as he pleased,
in regular bachelor style, and she never complained of neglect; he
might come home at any hour of the night or morning, or not come home
at all; be sullen, sober, or glorious drunk; and play the fool or the
madman to his own heart’s desire, without any fear or botheration. She
never gives him a word of reproach or complaint, do what he will. He
says there’s not such a jewel in all England, and swears he wouldn’t
take a kingdom for her.”

“But he makes her life a curse to her.”

“Not he! She has no will but his, and is always contented and happy as
long as he is enjoying himself.”

“In that case she is as great a fool as he is; but it is not so. I have
several letters from her, expressing the greatest anxiety about his
proceedings, and complaining that you incite him to commit those
extravagances—one especially, in which she implores me to use my
influence with you to get you away from London, and affirms that her
husband never did such things before you came, and would certainly
discontinue them as soon as you departed and left him to the guidance
of his own good sense.”

“The detestable little traitor! Give me the letter, and he shall see it
as sure as I’m a living man.”

“No, he shall not see it without her consent; but if he did, there is
nothing there to anger him, nor in any of the others. She never speaks
a word against him: it is only anxiety _for_ him that she expresses.
She only alludes to his conduct in the most delicate terms, and makes
every excuse for him that she can possibly think of; and as for her own
misery, I rather _feel_ it than _see_ it expressed in her letters.”

“But she abuses _me;_ and no doubt you helped her.”

“No; I told her she over-rated my influence with you, that I would
gladly draw you away from the temptations of the town if I could, but
had little hope of success, and that I thought she was wrong in
supposing that you enticed Mr. Hattersley or any one else into error. I
had myself held the _contrary_ opinion at one time, but I now believed
that you mutually corrupted each other; and, perhaps, if she used a
little gentle but serious remonstrance with her husband, it might be of
some service; as, though he was more rough-hewn than mine, I believed
he was of a less impenetrable material.”

“And so _that_ is the way you go on—heartening each other up to mutiny,
and abusing each other’s partners, and throwing out implications
against your own, to the mutual gratification of both!”

“According to your own account,” said I, “my evil counsel has had but
little effect upon _her_. And as to abuse and aspersions, we are both
of us far too deeply ashamed of the errors and vices of our other
halves, to make them the common subject of our correspondence. Friends
as we are, we would willingly keep your failings to ourselves—even
_from_ ourselves if we could, unless by knowing them we could deliver
you from them.”

“Well, well! don’t worry me about them: you’ll never effect any good by
that. Have patience with me, and bear with my languor and crossness a
little while, till I get this cursed low fever out of my veins, and
then you’ll find me cheerful and kind as ever. Why can’t you be gentle
and good, as you were last time?—I’m sure I was very grateful for it.”

“And what good did your gratitude do? I deluded myself with the idea
that you were ashamed of your transgressions, and hoped you would never
repeat them again; but now you have left me nothing to hope!”

“My case is quite desperate, is it? A very blessed consideration, if it
will only secure me from the pain and worry of my dear anxious wife’s
efforts to convert me, and her from the toil and trouble of such
exertions, and her sweet face and silver accents from the ruinous
effects of the same. A burst of passion is a fine rousing thing upon
occasion, Helen, and a flood of tears is marvellously affecting, but,
when indulged too often, they are both deuced plaguy things for
spoiling one’s beauty and tiring out one’s friends.”

Thenceforth I restrained my tears and passions as much as I could. I
spared him my exhortations and fruitless efforts at conversion too, for
I saw it was all in vain: God might awaken that heart, supine and
stupefied with self-indulgence, and remove the film of sensual darkness
from his eyes, but I could not. His injustice and ill-humour towards
his inferiors, who could not defend themselves, I still resented and
withstood; but when I alone was their object, as was frequently the
case, I endured it with calm forbearance, except at times, when my
temper, worn out by repeated annoyances, or stung to distraction by
some new instance of irrationality, gave way in spite of myself, and
exposed me to the imputations of fierceness, cruelty, and impatience. I
attended carefully to his wants and amusements, but not, I own, with
the same devoted fondness as before, because I could not feel it;
besides, I had now another claimant on my time and care—my ailing
infant, for whose sake I frequently braved and suffered the reproaches
and complaints of his unreasonably exacting father.

But Arthur is not naturally a peevish or irritable man; so far from it,
that there was something almost ludicrous in the incongruity of this
adventitious fretfulness and nervous irritability, rather calculated to
excite laughter than anger, if it were not for the intensely painful
considerations attendant upon those symptoms of a disordered frame, and
his temper gradually improved as his bodily health was restored, which
was much sooner than would have been the case but for my strenuous
exertions; for there was still one thing about him that I did not give
up in despair, and one effort for his preservation that I would not
remit. His appetite for the stimulus of wine had increased upon him, as
I had too well foreseen. It was now something more to him than an
accessory to social enjoyment: it was an important source of enjoyment
in itself. In this time of weakness and depression he would have made
it his medicine and support, his comforter, his recreation, and his
friend, and thereby sunk deeper and deeper, and bound himself down for
ever in the bathos whereinto he had fallen. But I determined this
should never be, as long as I had any influence left; and though I
could not prevent him from taking more than was good for him, still, by
incessant perseverance, by kindness, and firmness, and vigilance, by
coaxing, and daring, and determination, I succeeded in preserving him
from absolute bondage to that detestable propensity, so insidious in
its advances, so inexorable in its tyranny, so disastrous in its
effects.

And here I must not forget that I am not a little indebted to his
friend Mr. Hargrave. About that time he frequently called at Grassdale,
and often dined with us, on which occasions I fear Arthur would
willingly have cast prudence and decorum to the winds, and made “a
night of it,” as often as his friend would have consented to join him
in that exalted pastime; and if the latter had chosen to comply, he
might, in a night or two, have ruined the labour of weeks, and
overthrown with a touch the frail bulwark it had cost me such trouble
and toil to construct. I was so fearful of this at first, that I
humbled myself to intimate to him, in private, my apprehensions of
Arthur’s proneness to these excesses, and to express a hope that he
would not encourage it. He was pleased with this mark of confidence,
and certainly did not betray it. On that and every subsequent occasion
his presence served rather as a check upon his host, than an incitement
to further acts of intemperance; and he always succeeded in bringing
him from the dining-room in good time, and in tolerably good condition;
for if Arthur disregarded such intimations as “Well, I must not detain
you from your lady,” or “We must not forget that Mrs. Huntingdon is
alone,” he would insist upon leaving the table himself, to join me, and
his host, however unwillingly, was obliged to follow.

Hence I learned to welcome Mr. Hargrave as a real friend to the family,
a harmless companion for Arthur, to cheer his spirits and preserve him
from the tedium of absolute idleness and a total isolation from all
society but mine, and a useful ally to me. I could not but feel
grateful to him under such circumstances; and I did not scruple to
acknowledge my obligation on the first convenient opportunity; yet, as
I did so, my heart whispered all was not right, and brought a glow to
my face, which he heightened by his steady, serious gaze, while, by his
manner of receiving those acknowledgments, he more than doubled my
misgivings. His high delight at being able to serve me was chastened by
sympathy for me and commiseration for himself—about, I know not what,
for I would not stay to inquire, or suffer him to unburden his sorrows
to me. His sighs and intimations of suppressed affliction seemed to
come from a full heart; but either he must contrive to retain them
within it, or breathe them forth in other ears than mine: there was
enough of confidence between us already. It seemed wrong that there
should exist a secret understanding between my husband’s friend and me,
unknown to him, of which he was the object. But my after-thought was,
“If it is wrong, surely Arthur’s is the fault, not mine.”

And indeed I know not whether, at the time, it was not for _him_ rather
than myself that I blushed; for, since he and I are one, I so identify
myself with him, that I feel his degradation, his failings, and
transgressions as my own: I blush for him, I fear for him; I repent for
him, weep, pray, and feel for him as for myself; but I cannot act for
him; and hence I must be, and I am, debased, contaminated by the union,
both in my own eyes and in the actual truth. I am so determined to love
him, so intensely anxious to excuse his errors, that I am continually
dwelling upon them, and labouring to extenuate the loosest of his
principles and the worst of his practices, till I am familiarised with
vice, and almost a partaker in his sins. Things that formerly shocked
and disgusted me, now seem only natural. I know them to be wrong,
because reason and God’s word declare them to be so; but I am gradually
losing that instinctive horror and repulsion which were given me by
nature, or instilled into me by the precepts and example of my aunt.
Perhaps then I was too severe in my judgments, for I abhorred the
sinner as well as the sin; now I flatter myself I am more charitable
and considerate; but am I not becoming more indifferent and insensate
too? Fool that I was, to dream that I had strength and purity enough to
save myself and him! Such vain presumption would be rightly served, if
I should perish with him in the gulf from which I sought to save him!
Yet, God preserve me from it, and him too! Yes, poor Arthur, I will
still hope and pray for you; and though I write as if you were some
abandoned wretch, past hope and past reprieve, it is only my anxious
fears, my strong desires that make me do so; one who loved you less
would be less bitter, less dissatisfied.

His conduct has, of late, been what the world calls irreproachable; but
then I know his heart is still unchanged; and I know that spring is
approaching, and deeply dread the consequences.

As he began to recover the tone and vigour of his exhausted frame, and
with it something of his former impatience of retirement and repose, I
suggested a short residence by the sea-side, for his recreation and
further restoration, and for the benefit of our little one as well. But
no: watering-places were so intolerably dull; besides, he had been
invited by one of his friends to spend a month or two in Scotland for
the better recreation of grouse-shooting and deer-stalking, and had
promised to go.

“Then you will leave me again, Arthur?” said I.

“Yes, dearest, but only to love you the better when I come back, and
make up for all past offences and short-comings; and you needn’t fear
me this time: there are no temptations on the mountains. And during my
absence you may pay a visit to Staningley, if you like: your uncle and
aunt have long been wanting us to go there, you know; but somehow
there’s such a repulsion between the good lady and me, that I never
could bring myself up to the scratch.”

About the third week in August, Arthur set out for Scotland, and Mr.
Hargrave accompanied him thither, to my private satisfaction. Shortly
after, I, with little Arthur and Rachel, went to Staningley, my dear
old home, which, as well as my dear old friends its inhabitants, I saw
again with mingled feelings of pleasure and pain so intimately blended
that I could scarcely distinguish the one from the other, or tell to
which to attribute the various tears, and smiles, and sighs awakened by
those old familiar scenes, and tones, and faces.

Arthur did not come home till several weeks after my return to
Grassdale; but I did not feel so anxious about him now; to think of him
engaged in active sports among the wild hills of Scotland, was very
different from knowing him to be immersed amid the corruptions and
temptations of London. His letters now; though neither long nor
loverlike, were more regular than ever they had been before; and when
he did return, to my great joy, instead of being worse than when he
went, he was more cheerful and vigorous, and better in every respect.
Since that time I have had little cause to complain. He still has an
unfortunate predilection for the pleasures of the table, against which
I have to struggle and watch; but he has begun to notice his boy, and
that is an increasing source of amusement to him within-doors, while
his fox-hunting and coursing are a sufficient occupation for him
without, when the ground is not hardened by frost; so that he is not
wholly dependent on me for entertainment. But it is now January; spring
is approaching; and, I repeat, I dread the consequences of its arrival.
That sweet season, I once so joyously welcomed as the time of hope and
gladness, awakens now far other anticipations by its return.




 CHAPTER XXXI


March 20th, 1824. The dreaded time is come, and Arthur is gone, as I
expected. This time he announced it his intention to make but a short
stay in London, and pass over to the Continent, where he should
probably stay a few weeks; but I shall not expect him till after the
lapse of many weeks: I now know that, with him, days signify weeks, and
weeks months.

July 30th.—He returned about three weeks ago, rather better in health,
certainly, than before, but still worse in temper. And yet, perhaps, I
am wrong: it is _I_ that am less patient and forbearing. I am tired out
with his injustice, his selfishness and hopeless _depravity_. I wish a
milder word would do; I am no angel, and my corruption rises against
it. My poor father died last week: Arthur was vexed to hear of it,
because he saw that I was shocked and grieved, and he feared the
circumstance would mar his comfort. When I spoke of ordering my
mourning, he exclaimed,—

“Oh, I hate black! But, however, I suppose you must wear it awhile, for
form’s sake; but I hope, Helen, you won’t think it your bounden duty to
compose your face and manners into conformity with your funereal garb.
Why should you sigh and groan, and I be made uncomfortable, because an
old gentleman in ——shire, a perfect stranger to us both, has thought
proper to drink himself to death? There, now, I declare you’re crying!
Well, it must be affectation.”

He would not hear of my attending the funeral, or going for a day or
two, to cheer poor Frederick’s solitude. It was quite unnecessary, he
said, and I was unreasonable to wish it. What was my father to me? I
had never seen him but once since I was a baby, and I well knew he had
never cared a stiver about me; and my brother, too, was little better
than a stranger. “Besides, dear Helen,” said he, embracing me with
flattering fondness, “I cannot spare you for a single day.”

“Then how have you managed without me these _many_ days?” said I.

“Ah! then I was knocking about the world, now I am at home, and home
without you, my household deity, would be intolerable.”

“Yes, as long as I am necessary to your comfort; but you did not say so
before, when you urged me to leave you, in order that you might get
away from your home without me,” retorted I; but before the words were
well out of my mouth, I regretted having uttered them. It seemed so
heavy a charge: if false, too gross an insult; if true, too humiliating
a fact to be thus openly cast in his teeth. But I might have spared
myself that momentary pang of self-reproach. The accusation awoke
neither shame nor indignation in him: he attempted neither denial nor
excuse, but only answered with a long, low, chuckling laugh, as if he
viewed the whole transaction as a clever, merry jest from beginning to
end. Surely that man will make me dislike him at last!

Sine as ye brew, my maiden fair,
Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill.


Yes; and I _will_ drink it to the very dregs: and none but myself shall
know how bitter I find it!

August 20th.—We are shaken down again to about our usual position.
Arthur has returned to nearly his former condition and habits; and I
have found it my wisest plan to shut my eyes against the past and
future, as far as _he_ at least is concerned, and live only for the
present: to love him when I can; to smile (if possible) when he smiles,
be cheerful when he is cheerful, and pleased when he is agreeable; and
when he is not, to try to make him so; and if that won’t answer, to
bear with him, to excuse him, and forgive him as well as I can, and
restrain my own evil passions from aggravating his; and yet, while I
thus yield and minister to his more harmless propensities to
self-indulgence, to do all in my power to save him from the worse.

But we shall not be long alone together. I shall shortly be called upon
to entertain the same select body of friends as we had the autumn
before last, with the addition of Mr. Hattersley and, at my special
request, his wife and child. I long to see Milicent, and her little
girl too. The latter is now above a year old; she will be a charming
playmate for my little Arthur.

September 30th.—Our guests have been here a week or two; but I have had
no leisure to pass any comments upon them till now. I cannot get over
my dislike to Lady Lowborough. It is not founded on mere personal
pique; it is the woman herself that I dislike, because I so thoroughly
disapprove of her. I always avoid her company as much as I can without
violating the laws of hospitality; but when we do speak or converse
together, it is with the utmost civility, even apparent cordiality on
her part; but preserve me from such cordiality! It is like handling
brier-roses and may-blossoms, bright enough to the eye, and outwardly
soft to the touch, but you know there are thorns beneath, and every now
and then you feel them too; and perhaps resent the injury by crushing
them in till you have destroyed their power, though somewhat to the
detriment of your own fingers.

Of late, however, I have seen nothing in her conduct towards Arthur to
anger or alarm me. During the first few days I thought she seemed very
solicitous to win his admiration. Her efforts were not unnoticed by
him: I frequently saw him smiling to himself at her artful manœuvres:
but, to his praise be it spoken, her shafts fell powerless by his side.
Her most bewitching smiles, her haughtiest frowns were ever received
with the same immutable, careless good-humour; till, finding he was
indeed impenetrable, she suddenly remitted her efforts, and became, to
all appearance, as perfectly indifferent as himself. Nor have I since
witnessed any symptom of pique on his part, or renewed attempts at
conquest upon hers.

This is as it should be; but Arthur never will let me be satisfied with
him. I have never, for a single hour since I married him, known what it
is to realise that sweet idea, “In quietness and confidence shall be
your rest.” Those two detestable men, Grimsby and Hattersley, have
destroyed all my labour against his love of wine. They encourage him
daily to overstep the bounds of moderation, and not unfrequently to
disgrace himself by positive excess. I shall not soon forget the second
night after their arrival. Just as I had retired from the dining-room
with the ladies, before the door was closed upon us, Arthur
exclaimed,—“Now then, my lads, what say you to a regular
jollification?”

Milicent glanced at me with a half-reproachful look, as if _I_ could
hinder it; but her countenance changed when she heard Hattersley’s
voice, shouting through door and wall,—

“_I’m_ your man! Send for more wine: here isn’t _half_ enough!”

We had scarcely entered the drawing-room before we were joined by Lord
Lowborough.

“What _can_ induce you to come so soon?” exclaimed his lady, with a
most ungracious air of dissatisfaction.

“You know I never drink, Annabella,” replied he seriously.

“Well, but you might stay with them a little: it looks so silly to be
always dangling after the women; I wonder you can!”

He reproached her with a look of mingled bitterness and surprise, and,
sinking into a chair, suppressed a heavy sigh, bit his pale lips, and
fixed his eyes upon the floor.

“You did right to leave them, Lord Lowborough,” said I. “I trust you
will always continue to honour us so early with your company. And if
Annabella knew the value of true wisdom, and the misery of folly
and—and intemperance, she would not talk such nonsense—even in jest.”

He raised his eyes while I spoke, and gravely turned them upon me, with
a half-surprised, half-abstracted look, and then bent them on his wife.

“At least,” said she, “I know the value of a warm heart and a bold,
manly spirit.”

“Well, Annabella,” said he, in a deep and hollow tone, “since my
presence is disagreeable to you, I will relieve you of it.”

“Are you going back to them, then?” said she, carelessly.

“No,” exclaimed he, with harsh and startling emphasis. “I will not go
back to them! And I will never stay with them one moment longer than I
think right, for you or any other tempter! But you needn’t mind that; I
shall never trouble you again by intruding my company upon you so
unseasonably.”

He left the room: I heard the hall-door open and shut, and immediately
after, on putting aside the curtain, I saw him pacing down the park, in
the comfortless gloom of the damp, cloudy twilight.

“It would serve you right, Annabella,” said I, at length, “if Lord
Lowborough were to return to his old habits, which had so nearly
effected his ruin, and which it cost him such an effort to break: you
would then see cause to repent such conduct as this.”

“Not at all, my dear! I should not mind if his lordship were to see fit
to intoxicate himself every day: I should only the sooner be rid of
him.”

“Oh, Annabella!” cried Milicent. “How can you say such wicked things!
It would, indeed, be a just punishment, as far as you are concerned, if
Providence should take you at your word, and make you feel what others
feel, that—” She paused as a sudden burst of loud talking and laughter
reached us from the dining-room, in which the voice of Hattersley was
pre-eminently conspicuous, even to my unpractised ear.

“What _you_ feel at this moment, I suppose?” said Lady Lowborough, with
a malicious smile, fixing her eyes upon her cousin’s distressed
countenance.

The latter offered no reply, but averted her face and brushed away a
tear. At that moment the door opened and admitted Mr. Hargrave, just a
little flushed, his dark eyes sparkling with unwonted vivacity.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re come, Walter?” cried his sister. “But I wish
you could have got Ralph to come too.”

“Utterly impossible, dear Milicent,” replied he, gaily. “I had much ado
to get away myself. Ralph attempted to keep me by violence; Huntingdon
threatened me with the eternal loss of his friendship; and Grimsby,
worse than all, endeavoured to make me ashamed of my virtue, by such
galling sarcasms and innuendoes as he knew would wound me the most. So
you see, ladies, you ought to make me welcome when I have braved and
suffered so much for the favour of your sweet society.” He smilingly
turned to me and bowed as he finished the sentence.

“Isn’t he _handsome_ now, Helen!” whispered Milicent, her sisterly
pride overcoming, for the moment, all other considerations.

“He would be,” I returned, “if that brilliance of eye, and lip, and
cheek were natural to him; but look again, a few hours hence.”

Here the gentleman took a seat near me at the table, and petitioned for
a cup of coffee.

“I consider this an apt illustration of heaven taken by storm,” said
he, as I handed one to him. “I am in paradise, now; but I have fought
my way through flood and fire to win it. Ralph Hattersley’s last
resource was to set his back against the door, and swear I should find
no passage but through his body (a pretty substantial one too).
Happily, however, that was not the only door, and I effected my escape
by the side entrance through the butler’s pantry, to the infinite
amazement of Benson, who was cleaning the plate.”

Mr. Hargrave laughed, and so did his cousin; but his sister and I
remained silent and grave.

“Pardon my levity, Mrs. Huntingdon,” murmured he, more seriously, as he
raised his eyes to my face. “You are not used to these things: you
suffer them to affect your delicate mind too sensibly. But I thought of
you in the midst of those lawless roysterers; and I endeavoured to
persuade Mr. Huntingdon to think of you too; but to no purpose: I fear
he is fully determined to enjoy himself this night; and it will be no
use keeping the coffee waiting for him or his companions; it will be
much if they join us at tea. Meantime, I earnestly wish I could banish
the thoughts of them from your mind—and my own too, for I hate to think
of them—yes—even of my dear friend Huntingdon, when I consider the
power he possesses over the happiness of one so immeasurably superior
to himself, and the use he makes of it—I positively _detest_ the man!”

“You had better not say so to me, then,” said I; “for, bad as he is, he
is part of myself, and you cannot abuse him without offending me.”

“Pardon me, then, for I would sooner die than offend you. But let us
say no more of him for the present, if you please.”

At last they came; but not till after ten, when tea, which had been
delayed for more than half an hour, was nearly over. Much as I had
longed for their coming, my heart failed me at the riotous uproar of
their approach; and Milicent turned pale, and almost started from her
seat, as Mr. Hattersley burst into the room with a clamorous volley of
oaths in his mouth, which Hargrave endeavoured to check by entreating
him to remember the ladies.

“Ah! you do well to remind me of the ladies, you dastardly deserter,”
cried he, shaking his formidable fist at his brother-in-law. “If it
were not for them, you well know, I’d demolish you in the twinkling of
an eye, and give your body to the fowls of heaven and the lilies of the
fields!” Then, planting a chair by Lady Lowborough’s side, he stationed
himself in it, and began to talk to her with a mixture of absurdity and
impudence that seemed rather to amuse than to offend her; though she
affected to resent his insolence, and to keep him at bay with sallies
of smart and spirited repartee.

Meantime Mr. Grimsby seated himself by me, in the chair vacated by
Hargrave as they entered, and gravely stated that he would thank me for
a cup of tea: and Arthur placed himself beside poor Milicent,
confidentially pushing his head into her face, and drawing in closer to
her as she shrank away from him. He was not so noisy as Hattersley, but
his face was exceedingly flushed: he laughed incessantly, and while I
blushed for all I saw and heard of him, I was glad that he chose to
talk to his companion in so low a tone that no one could hear what he
said but herself.

“What fools they are!” drawled Mr. Grimsby, who had been talking away,
at my elbow, with sententious gravity all the time; but I had been too
much absorbed in contemplating the deplorable state of the other
two—especially Arthur—to attend to him.

“Did you ever hear such nonsense as they talk, Mrs. Huntingdon?” he
continued. “I’m quite ashamed of them for my part: they can’t take so
much as a bottle between them without its getting into their heads—”

“You are pouring the cream into your saucer, Mr. Grimsby.”

“Ah! yes, I see, but we’re almost in darkness here. Hargrave, snuff
those candles, will you?”

“They’re wax; they don’t require snuffing,” said I.

“‘The light of the body is the eye,’” observed Hargrave, with a
sarcastic smile. “‘If thine eye be _single_, thy whole body shall be
full of light.’”

Grimsby repulsed him with a solemn wave of the hand, and then turning
to me, continued, with the same drawling tones and strange uncertainty
of utterance and heavy gravity of aspect as before: “But as I was
saying, Mrs. Huntingdon, they have no head at all: they can’t take half
a bottle without being affected some way; whereas I—well, I’ve taken
three times as much as they have to-night, and you see I’m perfectly
steady. Now that may strike you as very singular, but I think I can
explain it: you see _their_ brains—I mention no names, but you’ll
understand to whom I allude—_their_ brains are light to begin with, and
the fumes of the fermented liquor render them lighter still, and
produce an entire light-headedness, or giddiness, resulting in
intoxication; whereas my brains, being composed of more solid
materials, will absorb a considerable quantity of this alcoholic vapour
without the production of any sensible result—”

“I think you will find a sensible result produced on that tea,”
interrupted Mr. Hargrave, “by the quantity of sugar you have put into
it. Instead of your usual complement of one lump, you have put in six.”

“Have I so?” replied the philosopher, diving with his spoon into the
cup, and bringing up several half-dissolved pieces in confirmation of
the assertion. “Hum! I perceive. Thus, Madam, you see the evil of
absence of mind—of thinking too much while engaged in the common
concerns of life. Now, if I had had my wits about me, like ordinary
men, instead of within me like a philosopher, I should not have spoiled
this cup of tea, and been constrained to trouble you for another.”

“That is the sugar-basin, Mr. Grimsby. Now you have spoiled the sugar
too; and I’ll thank you to ring for some more, for here is Lord
Lowborough at last; and I hope his lordship will condescend to sit down
with us, such as we are, and allow me to give him some tea.”

His lordship gravely bowed in answer to my appeal, but said nothing.
Meantime, Hargrave volunteered to ring for the sugar, while Grimsby
lamented his mistake, and attempted to prove that it was owing to the
shadow of the urn and the badness of the lights.

Lord Lowborough had entered a minute or two before, unobserved by
anyone but me, and had been standing before the door, grimly surveying
the company. He now stepped up to Annabella, who sat with her back
towards him, with Hattersley still beside her, though not now attending
to her, being occupied in vociferously abusing and bullying his host.

“Well, Annabella,” said her husband, as he leant over the back of her
chair, “which of these three ‘bold, manly spirits’ would you have me to
resemble?”

“By heaven and earth, you shall resemble us all!” cried Hattersley,
starting up and rudely seizing him by the arm. “Hallo, Huntingdon!” he
shouted—“_I’ve_ got him! Come, man, and help me! And d—n me, if I don’t
make him drunk before I let him go! He shall make up for all past
delinquencies as sure as I’m a living soul!”

There followed a disgraceful contest: Lord Lowborough, in desperate
earnest, and pale with anger, silently struggling to release himself
from the powerful madman that was striving to drag him from the room. I
attempted to urge Arthur to interfere in behalf of his outraged guest,
but he could do nothing but laugh.

“Huntingdon, you fool, come and help me, can’t you!” cried Hattersley,
himself somewhat weakened by his excesses.

“I’m wishing you God-speed, Hattersley,” cried Arthur, “and aiding you
with my prayers: I can’t do anything else if my life depended on it!
I’m quite used up. Oh—oh!” and leaning back in his seat, he clapped his
hands on his sides and groaned aloud.

“Annabella, give me a candle!” said Lowborough, whose antagonist had
now got him round the waist and was endeavouring to root him from the
door-post, to which he madly clung with all the energy of desperation.

“_I_ shall take no part in your rude sports!” replied the lady coldly
drawing back. “I wonder you can expect it.”

But I snatched up a candle and brought it to him. He took it and held
the flame to Hattersley’s hands, till, roaring like a wild beast, the
latter unclasped them and let him go. He vanished, I suppose to his own
apartment, for nothing more was seen of him till the morning. Swearing
and cursing like a maniac, Hattersley threw himself on to the ottoman
beside the window. The door being now free, Milicent attempted to make
her escape from the scene of her husband’s disgrace; but he called her
back, and insisted upon her coming to him.

“What do you want, Ralph?” murmured she, reluctantly approaching him.

“I want to know what’s the matter with you,” said he, pulling her on to
his knee like a child. “What are you crying for, Milicent?—Tell me!”

“I’m not crying.”

“You are,” persisted he, rudely pulling her hands from her face. “How
dare you tell such a lie!”

“I’m not crying now,” pleaded she.

“But you have been, and just this minute too; and I _will_ know what
for. Come, now, you _shall_ tell me!”

“Do let me alone, Ralph! Remember, we are not at home.”

“No matter: you _shall_ answer my question!” exclaimed her tormentor;
and he attempted to extort the confession by shaking her, and
remorselessly crushing her slight arms in the gripe of his powerful
fingers.

“Don’t let him treat your sister in that way,” said I to Mr. Hargrave.

“Come now, Hattersley, I can’t allow that,” said that gentleman,
stepping up to the ill-assorted couple. “Let my sister alone, if you
please.”

And he made an effort to unclasp the ruffian’s fingers from her arm,
but was suddenly driven backward, and nearly laid upon the floor by a
violent blow on the chest, accompanied with the admonition, “Take that
for your insolence! and learn to interfere between me and mine again.”

“If you were not drunk, I’d have satisfaction for that!” gasped
Hargrave, white and breathless as much from passion as from the
immediate effects of the blow.

“Go to the devil!” responded his brother-in-law. “Now, Milicent, tell
me what you were crying for.”

“I’ll tell you some other time,” murmured she, “when we are alone.”

“Tell me now!” said he, with another shake and a squeeze that made her
draw in her breath and bite her lip to suppress a cry of pain.

“_I’ll_ tell you, Mr. Hattersley,” said I. “She was crying from pure
shame and humiliation for you; because she could not bear to see you
conduct yourself so disgracefully.”

“Confound you, Madam!” muttered he, with a stare of stupid amazement at
my “impudence.” “It was _not_ that—was it, Milicent?”

She was silent.

“Come, speak up, child!”

“I can’t tell now,” sobbed she.

“But you can say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ as well as ‘I can’t tell.’—Come!”

“Yes,” she whispered, hanging her head, and blushing at the awful
acknowledgment.

“Curse you for an impertinent hussy, then!” cried he, throwing her from
him with such violence that she fell on her side; but she was up again
before either I or her brother could come to her assistance, and made
the best of her way out of the room, and, I suppose, up-stairs, without
loss of time.

The next object of assault was Arthur, who sat opposite, and had, no
doubt, richly enjoyed the whole scene.

“Now, Huntingdon,” exclaimed his irascible friend, “I WILL NOT have you
sitting there and laughing like an idiot!”

“Oh, Hattersley,” cried he, wiping his swimming eyes—“you’ll be the
death of me.”

“Yes, I will, but not as you suppose: I’ll have the heart out of your
body, man, if you irritate me with any more of that imbecile
laughter!—What! are you at it yet?—There! see if that’ll settle you!”
cried Hattersley, snatching up a footstool and hurting it at the head
of his host; but he as well as missed his aim, and the latter still sat
collapsed and quaking with feeble laughter, with tears running down his
face: a deplorable spectacle indeed.

Hattersley tried cursing and swearing, but it would not do: he then
took a number of books from the table beside him, and threw them, one
by one, at the object of his wrath; but Arthur only laughed the more;
and, finally, Hattersley rushed upon him in a frenzy and seizing him by
the shoulders, gave him a violent shaking, under which he laughed and
shrieked alarmingly. But I saw no more: I thought I had witnessed
enough of my husband’s degradation; and leaving Annabella and the rest
to follow when they pleased, I withdrew, but not to bed. Dismissing
Rachel to her rest, I walked up and down my room, in an agony of misery
for what had been done, and suspense, not knowing what might further
happen, or how or when that unhappy creature would come up to bed.

At last he came, slowly and stumblingly ascending the stairs, supported
by Grimsby and Hattersley, who neither of them walked quite steadily
themselves, but were both laughing and joking at him, and making noise
enough for all the servants to hear. He himself was no longer laughing
now, but sick and stupid. I will write no more about _that_.

Such disgraceful scenes (or nearly such) have been repeated more than
once. I don’t say much to Arthur about it, for, if I did, it would do
more harm than good; but I let him know that I intensely dislike such
exhibitions; and each time he has promised they should never again be
repeated. But I fear he is losing the little self-command and
self-respect he once possessed: formerly, he would have been ashamed to
act thus—at least, before any other witnesses than his boon companions,
or such as they. His friend Hargrave, with a prudence and
self-government that I envy for _him_, never disgraces himself by
taking more than sufficient to render him a little “elevated,” and is
always the first to leave the table after Lord Lowborough, who, wiser
still, perseveres in vacating the dining-room immediately after us: but
never once, since Annabella offended him so deeply, has he entered the
drawing-room before the rest; always spending the interim in the
library, which I take care to have lighted for his accommodation; or,
on fine moonlight nights, in roaming about the grounds. But I think she
regrets her misconduct, for she has never repeated it since, and of
late she has comported herself with wonderful propriety towards him,
treating him with more uniform kindness and consideration than ever I
have observed her to do before. I date the time of this improvement
from the period when she ceased to hope and strive for Arthur’s
admiration.




 CHAPTER XXXII


October 5th.—Esther Hargrave is getting a fine girl. She is not out of
the school-room yet, but her mother frequently brings her over to call
in the mornings when the gentlemen are out, and sometimes she spends an
hour or two in company with her sister and me, and the children; and
when we go to the Grove, I always contrive to see her, and talk more to
her than to any one else, for I am very much attached to my little
friend, and so is she to me. I wonder what she can see to like in me
though, for I am no longer the happy, lively girl I used to be; but she
has no other society, save that of her uncongenial mother, and her
governess (as artificial and conventional a person as that prudent
mother could procure to rectify the pupil’s natural qualities), and,
now and then, her subdued, quiet sister. I often wonder what will be
_her_ lot in life, and so does she; but _her_ speculations on the
future are full of buoyant hope; so were mine once. I shudder to think
of her being awakened, like me, to a sense of their delusive vanity. It
seems as if I should feel her disappointment, even more deeply than my
own. I feel almost as if I were born for such a fate, but _she_ is so
joyous and fresh, so light of heart and free of spirit, and so
guileless and unsuspecting too. Oh, it would be cruel to make her feel
as I feel now, and know what I have known!

Her sister trembles for her too. Yesterday morning, one of October’s
brightest, loveliest days, Milicent and I were in the garden enjoying a
brief half-hour together with our children, while Annabella was lying
on the drawing-room sofa, deep in the last new novel. We had been
romping with the little creatures, almost as merry and wild as
themselves, and now paused in the shade of the tall copper beech, to
recover breath and rectify our hair, disordered by the rough play and
the frolicsome breeze, while they toddled together along the broad,
sunny walk; my Arthur supporting the feebler steps of her little Helen,
and sagaciously pointing out to her the brightest beauties of the
border as they passed, with semi-articulate prattle, that did as well
for her as any other mode of discourse. From laughing at the pretty
sight, we began to talk of the children’s future life; and that made us
thoughtful. We both relapsed into silent musing as we slowly proceeded
up the walk; and I suppose Milicent, by a train of associations, was
led to think of her sister.

“Helen,” said she, “you often see Esther, don’t you?”

“Not very often.”

“But you have more frequent opportunities of meeting her than I have;
and she loves you, I know, and reverences you too: there is nobody’s
opinion she thinks so much of; and she says you have more sense than
mamma.”

“That is because she is self-willed, and my opinions more generally
coincide with her own than your mamma’s. But what then, Milicent?”

“Well, since you have so much influence with her, I wish you would
seriously impress it upon her, never, on any account, or for anybody’s
persuasion, to marry for the sake of money, or rank, or establishment,
or any earthly thing, but true affection and well-grounded esteem.”

“There is no necessity for that,” said I, “for we have had some
discourse on that subject already, and I assure you her ideas of love
and matrimony are as romantic as any one could desire.”

“But romantic notions will not do: I want her to have true notions.”

“Very right: but in my judgment, what the world stigmatises as
romantic, is often more nearly allied to the truth than is commonly
supposed; for, if the generous ideas of youth are too often
over-clouded by the sordid views of after-life, that scarcely proves
them to be false.”

“Well, but if you think her ideas are what they ought to be, strengthen
them, will you? and confirm them, as far as you can; for _I_ had
romantic notions once, and—I don’t mean to say that I regret my lot,
for I am quite sure I don’t, but—”

“I understand you,” said I; “you are contented for yourself, but you
would not have your sister to suffer the same as you.”

“No—or worse. She might have far worse to suffer than I, for _I am_
really contented, Helen, though you mayn’t think it: I speak the solemn
truth in saying that I would not exchange my husband for any man on
earth, if I might do it by the plucking of this leaf.”

“Well, I believe you: now that you have him, you would not exchange him
for another; but then you would gladly exchange some of his qualities
for those of better men.”

“Yes: just as I would gladly exchange some of my own qualities for
those of better women; for neither he nor I are perfect, and I desire
his improvement as earnestly as my own. And he will improve, don’t you
think so, Helen? he’s only six-and-twenty yet.”

“He may,” I answered,

“He will, he WILL!” repeated she.

“Excuse the faintness of my acquiescence, Milicent, I would not
discourage your hopes for the world, but mine have been so often
disappointed, that I am become as cold and doubtful in my expectations
as the flattest of octogenarians.”

“And yet you do hope, still, even for Mr. Huntingdon?”

“I do, I confess, ‘even’ for _him;_ for it seems as if life and hope
must cease together. And is he so _much_ worse, Milicent, than Mr.
Hattersley?”

“Well, to give you my candid opinion, I think there is no comparison
between them. But you mustn’t be offended, Helen, for you know I always
speak my mind, and you may speak yours too. I sha’n’t care.”

“I am not offended, love; and my opinion is, that if there _be_ a
comparison made between the two, the difference, for the most part, is
certainly in Hattersley’s favour.”

Milicent’s own heart told her how much it cost me to make this
acknowledgment; and, with a childlike impulse, she expressed her
sympathy by suddenly kissing my cheek, without a word of reply, and
then turning quickly away, caught up her baby, and hid her face in its
frock. How odd it is that we so often weep for each other’s distresses,
when we shed not a tear for our own! Her heart had been full enough of
her own sorrows, but it overflowed at the idea of mine; and I, too,
shed tears at the sight of her sympathetic emotion, though I had not
wept for myself for many a week.

[Illustration]

It was one rainy day last week; most of the company were killing time
in the billiard-room, but Milicent and I were with little Arthur and
Helen in the library, and between our books, our children, and each
other, we expected to make out a very agreeable morning. We had not
been thus secluded above two hours, however, when Mr. Hattersley came
in, attracted, I suppose, by the voice of his child, as he was crossing
the hall, for he is prodigiously fond of her, and she of him.

He was redolent of the stables, where he had been regaling himself with
the company of his fellow-creatures the horses ever since breakfast.
But that was no matter to my little namesake; as soon as the colossal
person of her father darkened the door, she uttered a shrill scream of
delight, and, quitting her mother’s side, ran crowing towards him,
balancing her course with outstretched arms, and embracing his knee,
threw back her head and laughed in his face. He might well look
smilingly down upon those small, fair features, radiant with innocent
mirth, those clear blue shining eyes, and that soft flaxen hair cast
back upon the little ivory neck and shoulders. Did he not think how
unworthy he was of such a possession? I fear no such idea crossed his
mind. He caught her up, and there followed some minutes of very rough
play, during which it is difficult to say whether the father or the
daughter laughed and shouted the loudest. At length, however, the
boisterous pastime terminated, suddenly, as might be expected: the
little one was hurt, and began to cry; and the ungentle play-fellow
tossed it into its mother’s lap, bidding her “make all straight.” As
happy to return to that gentle comforter as it had been to leave her,
the child nestled in her arms, and hushed its cries in a moment; and
sinking its little weary head on her bosom, soon dropped asleep.

Meantime Mr. Hattersley strode up to the fire, and interposing his
height and breadth between us and it, stood with arms akimbo, expanding
his chest, and gazing round him as if the house and all its
appurtenances and contents were his own undisputed possessions.

“Deuced bad weather this!” he began. “There’ll be no shooting to-day, I
guess.” Then, suddenly lifting up his voice, he regaled us with a few
bars of a rollicking song, which abruptly ceasing, he finished the tune
with a whistle, and then continued:—“I say, Mrs. Huntingdon, what a
fine stud your husband has! not large, but good. I’ve been looking at
them a bit this morning; and upon my word, Black Boss, and Grey Tom,
and that young Nimrod are the finest animals I’ve seen for many a day!”
Then followed a particular discussion of their various merits,
succeeded by a sketch of the great things _he_ intended to do in the
horse-jockey line, when his old governor thought proper to quit the
stage. “Not that I wish him to close his accounts,” added he: “the old
Trojan is welcome to keep his books open as long as he pleases for me.”

“I hope so, _indeed_, Mr. Hattersley.”

“Oh, yes! It’s only my way of talking. The event must come some time,
and so I look to the bright side of it: that’s the right plan—isn’t it,
Mrs. H.? What are you two doing here? By-the-by, where’s Lady
Lowborough?”

“In the billiard-room.”

“What a splendid creature she _is!_” continued he, fixing his eyes on
his wife, who changed colour, and looked more and more disconcerted as
he proceeded. “What a noble figure she has; and what magnificent black
eyes; and what a fine spirit of her own; and what a tongue of her own,
too, when she likes to use it. I perfectly adore her! But never mind,
Milicent: I wouldn’t have her for my wife, not if she’d a kingdom for
her dowry! I’m better satisfied with the one I have. Now _then!_ what
do you look so sulky for? don’t you believe me?”

“Yes, I believe you,” murmured she, in a tone of half sad, half sullen
resignation, as she turned away to stroke the hair of her sleeping
infant, that she had laid on the sofa beside her.

“Well, _then_, what makes you so cross? Come here, Milly, and tell me
why you can’t be satisfied with my assurance.”

She went, and putting her little hand within his arm, looked up in his
face, and said softly,—

“What does it amount to, Ralph? Only to this, that though you admire
Annabella so much, and for qualities that I don’t possess, you would
still rather have me than her for your wife, which merely proves that
you don’t think it necessary to love your wife; you are satisfied if
she can keep your house, and take care of your child. But I’m not
cross; I’m only sorry; for,” added she, in a low, tremulous accent,
withdrawing her hand from his arm, and bending her looks on the rug,
“if you don’t love me, you don’t, and it can’t be helped.”

“Very true; but who told you I didn’t? Did I say I loved Annabella?”

“You said you adored her.”

“True, but adoration isn’t love. I adore Annabella, but I don’t love
her; and I love thee, Milicent, but I don’t adore thee.” In proof of
his affection, he clutched a handful of her light brown ringlets, and
appeared to twist them unmercifully.

“Do you really, Ralph?” murmured she, with a faint smile beaming
through her tears, just putting up her hand to his, in token that he
pulled _rather_ too hard.

“To be sure I do,” responded he: “only you bother me rather,
sometimes.”

“_I_ bother you!” cried she, in very natural surprise.

“Yes, _you_—but only by your exceeding goodness. When a boy has been
eating raisins and sugar-plums all day, he longs for a squeeze of sour
orange by way of a change. And did you never, Milly, observe the sands
on the sea-shore; how nice and smooth they look, and how soft and easy
they feel to the foot? But if you plod along, for half an hour, over
this soft, easy carpet—giving way at every step, yielding the more the
harder you press,—you’ll find it rather wearisome work, and be glad
enough to come to a bit of good, firm rock, that won’t budge an inch
whether you stand, walk, or stamp upon it; and, though it be hard as
the nether millstone, you’ll find it the easier footing after all.”

“I know what you mean, Ralph,” said she, nervously playing with her
watchguard and tracing the figure on the rug with the point of her tiny
foot—“I know what you mean: but I thought you always liked to be
yielded to, and I can’t alter now.”

“I do like it,” replied he, bringing her to him by another tug at her
hair. “You mustn’t mind my talk, Milly. A man must have something to
grumble about; and if he can’t complain that his wife harries him to
death with her perversity and ill-humour, he must complain that she
wears him out with her kindness and gentleness.”

“But why complain at all, unless because you are tired and
dissatisfied?”

“To excuse my own failings, to be sure. Do you think I’ll bear all the
burden of my sins on my own shoulders, as long as there’s another ready
to help me, with none of her own to carry?”

“There is no such one on earth,” said she seriously; and then, taking
his hand from her head, she kissed it with an air of genuine devotion,
and tripped away to the door.

“What now?” said he. “Where are you going?”

“To tidy my hair,” she answered, smiling through her disordered locks;
“you’ve made it all come down.”

“Off with you then!—An excellent little woman,” he remarked when she
was gone, “but a thought too soft—she almost melts in one’s hands. I
positively think I ill-use her sometimes, when I’ve taken too much—but
I can’t help it, for she never complains, either at the time or after.
I suppose she doesn’t mind it.”

“I can enlighten you on that subject, Mr. Hattersley,” said I: “she
_does_ mind it; and some other things she minds still more, which yet
you may never hear her complain of.”

“How do you know?—does she complain to you?” demanded he, with a sudden
spark of fury ready to burst into a flame if I should answer ‘yes.’

“No,” I replied; “but I have known her longer and studied her more
closely than you have done.—And I can tell you, Mr. Hattersley, that
Milicent loves you more than you deserve, and that you have it in your
power to make her very happy, instead of which you are her evil genius,
and, I will venture to say, there is not a single day passes in which
you do not inflict upon her some pang that you might spare her if you
would.”

“Well—it’s not _my_ fault,” said he, gazing carelessly up at the
ceiling and plunging his hands into his pockets: “if my ongoings don’t
suit her, she should tell me so.”

“Is she not exactly the wife you wanted? Did you not tell Mr.
Huntingdon you must have one that would submit to anything without a
murmur, and never blame you, whatever you did?”

“True, but we shouldn’t always have what we want: it spoils the best of
us, doesn’t it? How can I help playing the deuce when I see it’s all
one to her whether I behave like a Christian or like a scoundrel, such
as nature made me? and how can I help teasing her when she’s so
invitingly meek and mim, when she lies down like a spaniel at my feet
and never so much as squeaks to tell me that’s enough?”

“If you are a tyrant by nature, the temptation is strong, I allow; but
no generous mind delights to oppress the weak, but rather to cherish
and protect.”

“I _don’t_ oppress her; but it’s so confounded flat to be always
cherishing and protecting; and then, how can I tell that I _am_
oppressing her when she ‘melts away and makes no sign’? I sometimes
think she has no feeling at all; and then I go on till she cries, and
that satisfies me.”

“Then you _do_ delight to oppress her?”

“I don’t, I tell you! only when I’m in a bad humour, or a particularly
good one, and want to afflict for the pleasure of comforting; or when
she looks flat and wants shaking up a bit. And sometimes she provokes
me by crying for nothing, and won’t tell me what it’s for; and then, I
allow, it enrages me past bearing, especially when I’m not my own man.”

“As is no doubt generally the case on such occasions,” said I. “But in
future, Mr. Hattersley, when you see her looking flat, or crying for
‘nothing’ (as you call it), ascribe it all to yourself: be assured it
is something you have done amiss, or your general misconduct, that
distresses her.”

“I don’t believe it. If it were, she should tell me so: I don’t like
that way of moping and fretting in silence, and saying nothing: it’s
not honest. How can she expect me to mend my ways at that rate?”

“Perhaps she gives you credit for having more sense than you possess,
and deludes herself with the hope that you will one day see your own
errors and repair them, if left to your own reflection.”

“None of your sneers, Mrs. Huntingdon. I _have_ the sense to see that
I’m not always quite correct, but sometimes I think that’s no great
matter, as long as I injure nobody but myself—”

“It _is_ a great matter,” interrupted I, “both to yourself (as you will
hereafter find to your cost) and to all connected with you, most
especially your wife. But, indeed, it is nonsense to talk about
injuring no one but yourself: it is impossible to injure yourself,
especially by such acts as we allude to, without injuring hundreds, if
not thousands, besides, in a greater or less, degree, either by the
evil you do or the good you leave undone.”

“And as I was saying,” continued he, “or would have said if you hadn’t
taken me up so short, I sometimes think I should do better if I were
joined to one that would always remind me when I was wrong, and give me
a motive for doing good and eschewing evil, by decidedly showing her
approval of the one and disapproval of the other.”

“If you had no higher motive than the approval of your fellow-mortal,
it would do you little good.”

“Well, but if I had a mate that would not always be yielding, and
always equally kind, but that would have the spirit to stand at bay now
and then, and honestly tell me her mind at all times, such a one as
yourself for instance. Now, if I went on with you as I do with her when
I’m in London, you’d make the house too hot to hold me at times, I’ll
be sworn.”

“You mistake me: I’m no termagant.”

“Well, all the better for that, for I can’t stand contradiction, in a
general way, and I’m as fond of my own will as another; only I think
too much of it doesn’t answer for any man.”

“Well, I would never contradict you without a cause, but certainly I
would always let you know what I thought of your conduct; and if you
oppressed me, in body, mind, or estate, you should at least have no
reason to suppose ‘I didn’t mind it.’”

“I know that, my lady; and I think if my little wife were to follow the
same plan, it would be better for us both.”

“I’ll tell her.”

“No, no, let her be; there’s much to be said on both sides, and, now I
think upon it, Huntingdon often regrets that you are not more like her,
scoundrelly dog that he is, and you see, after all, you can’t reform
_him:_ he’s _ten_ times worse than I. He’s afraid of you, to be sure;
that is, he’s always on his best behaviour in your presence—but—”

“I wonder what his worst behaviour is like, then?” I could not forbear
observing.

“Why, to tell you the truth, it’s very bad indeed—isn’t it, Hargrave?”
said he, addressing that gentleman, who had entered the room
unperceived by me, for I was now standing near the fire, with my back
to the door. “Isn’t Huntingdon,” he continued, “as great a reprobate as
ever was d—d?”

“His lady will not hear him censured with impunity,” replied Mr.
Hargrave, coming forward; “but I must say, I thank God I am not such
another.”

“Perhaps it would become you better,” said I, “to look at what you are,
and say, ‘God be merciful to me a sinner.’”

“You are severe,” returned he, bowing slightly and drawing himself up
with a proud yet injured air. Hattersley laughed, and clapped him on
the shoulder. Moving from under his hand with a gesture of insulted
dignity, Mr. Hargrave took himself away to the other end of the rug.

“Isn’t it a shame, Mrs. Huntingdon?” cried his brother-in-law; “I
struck Walter Hargrave when I was drunk, the second night after we
came, and he’s turned a cold shoulder on me ever since; though I asked
his pardon the very morning after it was done!”

“Your manner of asking it,” returned the other, “and the clearness with
which you remembered the whole transaction, showed you were not too
drunk to be fully conscious of what you were about, and quite
responsible for the deed.”

“You wanted to interfere between me and my wife,” grumbled Hattersley,
“and that is enough to provoke any man.”

“You justify it, then?” said his opponent, darting upon him a most
vindictive glance.

“No, I tell you I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t been under
excitement; and if you choose to bear malice for it after all the
handsome things I’ve said, do so and be d—d!”

“I _would_ refrain from such language in a _lady’s_ presence, at
least,” said Mr. Hargrave, hiding his anger under a mask of disgust.

“What have I said?” returned Hattersley: “nothing but heaven’s truth.
He will be damned, won’t he, Mrs. Huntingdon, if he doesn’t forgive his
brother’s trespasses?”

“You ought to forgive him, Mr. Hargrave, since he asks you,” said I.

“Do you say so? Then I will!” And, smiling almost frankly, he stepped
forward and offered his hand. It was immediately clasped in that of his
relative, and the reconciliation was apparently cordial on both sides.

“The affront,” continued Hargrave, turning to me, “owed half its
bitterness to the fact of its being offered in your presence; and since
you bid me forgive it, I will, and forget it too.”

“I guess the best return I can make will be to take myself off,”
muttered Hattersley, with a broad grin. His companion smiled, and he
left the room. This put me on my guard. Mr. Hargrave turned seriously
to me, and earnestly began,—

“Dear Mrs. Huntingdon, how I have longed for, yet dreaded, this hour!
Do not be alarmed,” he added, for my face was crimson with anger: “I am
not about to offend you with any useless entreaties or complaints. I am
not going to presume to trouble you with the mention of my own feelings
or your perfections, but I have something to reveal to you which you
ought to know, and which, yet, it pains me inexpressibly—”

“Then don’t trouble yourself to reveal it!”

“But it is of importance—”

“If so I shall hear it soon enough, especially if it is bad news, as
you seem to consider it. At present I am going to take the children to
the nursery.”

“But can’t you ring and send them?”

“No; I want the exercise of a run to the top of the house. Come,
Arthur.”

“But you will return?”

“Not yet; don’t wait.”

“Then when may I see you again?”

“At lunch,” said I, departing with little Helen in one arm and leading
Arthur by the hand.

He turned away, muttering some sentence of impatient censure or
complaint, in which “heartless” was the only distinguishable word.

“What nonsense is this, Mr. Hargrave?” said I, pausing in the doorway.
“What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing; I did not intend you should hear my soliloquy. But the
fact is, Mrs. Huntingdon, I have a disclosure to make, painful for me
to offer as for you to hear; and I want you to give me a few minutes of
your attention in private at any time and place you like to appoint. It
is from no selfish motive that I ask it, and not for any cause that
could alarm your superhuman purity: therefore you need not kill me with
that look of cold and pitiless disdain. I know too well the feelings
with which the bearers of bad tidings are commonly regarded not to—”

“What _is_ this wonderful piece of intelligence?” said I, impatiently
interrupting him. “If it is anything of real importance, speak it in
three words before I go.”

“In three words I cannot. Send those children away and stay with me.”

“No; keep your bad tidings to yourself. I know it is something I don’t
want to hear, and something you would displease me by telling.”

“You have divined too truly, I fear; but still, since I know it, I feel
it my duty to disclose it to you.”

“Oh, spare us both the infliction, and I will exonerate you from the
duty. You have offered to tell; I have refused to hear: my ignorance
will not be charged on you.”

“Be it so: you shall not hear it from me. But if the blow fall too
suddenly upon you when it comes, remember I wished to soften it!”

I left him. I was determined his words should not alarm me. What could
_he_, of all men, have to reveal that was of importance for _me_ to
hear? It was no doubt some exaggerated tale about my unfortunate
husband that he wished to make the most of to serve his own bad
purposes.

6th.—He has not alluded to this momentous mystery since, and I have
seen no reason to repent of my unwillingness to hear it. The threatened
blow has not been struck yet, and I do not greatly fear it. At present
I am pleased with Arthur: he has not positively disgraced himself for
upwards of a fortnight, and all this last week has been so very
moderate in his indulgence at table that I can perceive a marked
difference in his general temper and appearance. Dare I hope this will
continue?




 CHAPTER XXXIII


Seventh.—Yes, I _will_ hope! To-night I heard Grimsby and Hattersley
grumbling together about the inhospitality of their host. They did not
know I was near, for I happened to be standing behind the curtain in
the bow of the window, watching the moon rising over the clump of tall
dark elm-trees below the lawn, and wondering why Arthur was so
sentimental as to stand without, leaning against the outer pillar of
the portico, apparently watching it too.

“So, I suppose we’ve seen the last of our merry carousals in this
house,” said Mr. Hattersley; “I _thought_ his good-fellowship wouldn’t
last long. But,” added he, laughing, “I didn’t expect it would meet its
end this way. I rather thought our pretty hostess would be setting up
her porcupine quills, and threatening to turn us out of the house if we
didn’t mind our manners.”

“You didn’t foresee _this_, then?” answered Grimsby, with a guttural
chuckle. “But he’ll change again when he’s sick of her. If we come here
a year or two hence, we shall have all our own way, you’ll see.”

“I don’t know,” replied the other: “she’s not the style of woman you
soon tire of. But be that as it may, it’s devilish provoking now that
we can’t be jolly, because he chooses to be on his good behaviour.”

“It’s all these cursed women!” muttered Grimsby: “they’re the very bane
of the world! They bring trouble and discomfort wherever they come,
with their false, fair faces and their deceitful tongues.”

At this juncture I issued from my retreat, and smiling on Mr. Grimsby
as I passed, left the room and went out in search of Arthur. Having
seen him bend his course towards the shrubbery, I followed him thither,
and found him just entering the shadowy walk. I was so light of heart,
so overflowing with affection, that I sprang upon him and clasped him
in my arms. This startling conduct had a singular effect upon him:
first, he murmured, “Bless you, darling!” and returned my close embrace
with a fervour like old times, and _then_ he started, and, in a tone of
absolute terror, exclaimed,

“Helen! what the devil is this?” and I saw, by the faint light gleaming
through the overshadowing tree, that he was positively pale with the
shock.

How strange that the instinctive impulse of affection should come
first, and then the shock of the surprise! It shows, at least, that the
affection is genuine: he is not sick of me yet.

“I startled you, Arthur,” said I, laughing in my glee. “How nervous you
are!”

“What the deuce did you do it for?” cried he, quite testily,
extricating himself from my arms, and wiping his forehead with his
handkerchief. “Go back, Helen—go back directly! You’ll get your death
of cold!”

“I won’t, till I’ve told you what I came for. They are blaming you,
Arthur, for your temperance and sobriety, and I’m come to thank you for
it. They say it is all ‘these cursed women,’ and that we are the bane
of the world; but don’t let them laugh or grumble you out of your good
resolutions, or your affection for me.”

He laughed. I squeezed him in my arms again, and cried in tearful
earnest, “Do, do persevere! and I’ll love you better than ever I did
before!”

“Well, well, I will!” said he, hastily kissing me. “There, now, go. You
mad creature, how _could_ you come out in your light evening dress this
chill autumn night?”

“It is a glorious night,” said I.

“It is a night that will give you your death, in another minute. Run
away, do!”

“Do you see my death among those trees, Arthur?” said I, for he was
gazing intently at the shrubs, as if he saw it coming, and I was
reluctant to leave him, in my new-found happiness and revival of hope
and love. But he grew angry at my delay, so I kissed him and ran back
to the house.

I was in such a good humour that night: Milicent told me I was the life
of the party, and whispered she had never seen me so brilliant.
Certainly, I talked enough for twenty, and smiled upon them all.
Grimsby, Hattersley, Hargrave, Lady Lowborough, all shared my sisterly
kindness. Grimsby stared and wondered; Hattersley laughed and jested
(in spite of the little wine he had been suffered to imbibe), but still
behaved as well as he knew how. Hargrave and Annabella, from different
motives and in different ways, emulated me, and doubtless both
surpassed me, the former in his discursive versatility and eloquence,
the latter in boldness and animation at least. Milicent, delighted to
see her husband, her brother, and her over-estimated friend acquitting
themselves so well, was lively and gay too, in her quiet way. Even Lord
Lowborough caught the general contagion: his dark greenish eyes were
lighted up beneath their moody brows; his sombre countenance was
beautified by smiles; all traces of gloom and proud or cold reserve had
vanished for the time; and he astonished us all, not only by his
general cheerfulness and animation, but by the positive flashes of true
force and brilliance he emitted from time to time. Arthur did not talk
much, but he laughed, and listened to the rest, and was in perfect
good-humour, though not excited by wine. So that, altogether, we made a
very merry, innocent, and entertaining party.

9th.—Yesterday, when Rachel came to dress me for dinner, I saw that she
had been crying. I wanted to know the cause of it, but she seemed
reluctant to tell. Was she unwell? No. Had she heard bad news from her
friends? No. Had any of the servants vexed her?

“Oh, no, ma’am!” she answered; “it’s not for myself.”

“What then, Rachel? Have you been reading novels?”

“Bless you, no!” said she, with a sorrowful shake of the head; and then
she sighed and continued: “But to tell you the truth, ma’am, I don’t
like master’s ways of going on.”

“What do you mean, Rachel? He’s going on very properly at present.”

“Well, ma’am, if you think so, it’s right.”

And she went on dressing my hair, in a hurried way, quite unlike her
usual calm, collected manner, murmuring, half to herself, she was sure
it was beautiful hair: she “could like to see ’em match it.” When it
was done, she fondly stroked it, and gently patted my head.

“Is that affectionate ebullition intended for my hair, or myself,
nurse?” said I, laughingly turning round upon her; but a tear was even
now in her eye.

“What _do_ you mean, Rachel?” I exclaimed.

“Well, ma’am, I don’t know; but if—”

“If what?”

“Well, if I was you, I wouldn’t have that Lady Lowborough in the house
another minute—not another _minute_ I wouldn’t!

I was thunderstruck; but before I could recover from the shock
sufficiently to demand an explanation, Milicent entered my room, as she
frequently does when she is dressed before me; and she stayed with me
till it was time to go down. She must have found me a very unsociable
companion this time, for Rachel’s last words rang in my ears. But still
I hoped, I trusted they had no foundation but in some idle rumour of
the servants from what they had seen in Lady Lowborough’s manner last
month; or perhaps from something that had passed between their master
and her during her former visit. At dinner I narrowly observed both her
and Arthur, and saw nothing extraordinary in the conduct of either,
nothing calculated to excite suspicion, except in distrustful minds,
which mine was not, and therefore I would not suspect.

Almost immediately after dinner Annabella went out with her husband to
share his moonlight ramble, for it was a splendid evening like the
last. Mr. Hargrave entered the drawing-room a little before the others,
and challenged me to a game of chess. He did it without any of that sad
but proud humility he usually assumes in addressing me, unless he is
excited with wine. I looked at his face to see if that was the case
now. His eye met mine keenly, but steadily: there was something about
him I did not understand, but he seemed sober enough. Not choosing to
engage with him, I referred him to Milicent.

“She plays badly,” said he, “I want to match my skill with yours. Come
now! you can’t pretend you are reluctant to lay down your work. I know
you never take it up except to pass an idle hour, when there is nothing
better you can do.”

“But chess-players are so unsociable,” I objected; “they are no company
for any but themselves.”

“There is no one here but Milicent, and she—”

“Oh, I shall be delighted to watch you!” cried our mutual friend. “Two
_such_ players—it will be quite a treat! I wonder which will conquer.”

I consented.

“Now, Mrs. Huntingdon,” said Hargrave, as he arranged the men on the
board, speaking distinctly, and with a peculiar emphasis, as if he had
a double meaning to all his words, “you are a good player, but I am a
better: we shall have a long game, and you will give me some trouble;
but I can be as patient as you, and in the end I shall certainly win.”
He fixed his eyes upon me with a glance I did not like, keen, crafty,
bold, and almost impudent;—already half triumphant in his anticipated
success.

“I hope not, Mr. Hargrave!” returned I, with vehemence that must have
startled Milicent at least; but _he_ only smiled and murmured, “Time
will show.”

We set to work: he sufficiently interested in the game, but calm and
fearless in the consciousness of superior skill: I, intensely eager to
disappoint his expectations, for I considered this the type of a more
serious contest, as I imagined he did, and I felt an almost
superstitious dread of being beaten: at all events, I could ill endure
that present success should add one tittle to his conscious power (his
insolent self-confidence I ought to say), or encourage for a moment his
dream of future conquest. His play was cautious and deep, but I
struggled hard against him. For some time the combat was doubtful: at
length, to my joy, the victory seemed inclining to my side: I had taken
several of his best pieces, and manifestly baffled his projects. He put
his hand to his brow and paused, in evident perplexity. I rejoiced in
my advantage, but dared not glory in it yet. At length, he lifted his
head, and quietly making his move, looked at me and said, calmly, “Now
you think you will win, don’t you?”

“I hope so,” replied I, taking his pawn that he had pushed into the way
of my bishop with so careless an air that I thought it was an
oversight, but was not generous enough, under the circumstances, to
direct his attention to it, and too heedless, at the moment, to foresee
the after-consequences of my move. “It is those bishops that trouble
me,” said he; “but the bold knight can overleap the reverend
gentlemen,” taking my last bishop with his knight; “and now, those
sacred persons once removed, I shall carry all before me.”

“Oh, Walter, how you talk!” cried Milicent; “she has far more pieces
than you still.”

“I intend to give you some trouble yet,” said I; “and perhaps, sir, you
will find yourself checkmated before you are aware. Look to your
queen.”

The combat deepened. The game was a long one, and I _did_ give him some
trouble: but he was a better player than I.

“What keen gamesters you are!” said Mr. Hattersley, who had now
entered, and been watching us for some time. “Why, Mrs. Huntingdon,
your hand trembles as if you had staked your all upon it! and, Walter,
you dog, you look as deep and cool as if you were certain of success,
and as keen and cruel as if you would drain her heart’s blood! But if I
were you, I wouldn’t beat her, for very fear: she’ll hate you if you
do—she will, by heaven! I see it in her eye.”

“Hold your tongue, will you?” said I: his talk distracted me, for I was
driven to extremities. A few more moves, and I was inextricably
entangled in the snare of my antagonist.

“Check,” cried he: I sought in agony some means of escape. “Mate!” he
added, quietly, but with evident delight. He had suspended the
utterance of that last fatal syllable the better to enjoy my dismay. I
was foolishly disconcerted by the event. Hattersley laughed; Milicent
was troubled to see me so disturbed. Hargrave placed his hand on mine
that rested on the table, and squeezing it with a firm but gentle
pressure, murmured, “Beaten, beaten!” and gazed into my face with a
look where exultation was blended with an expression of ardour and
tenderness yet more insulting.

“_No, never_, Mr. Hargrave!” exclaimed I, quickly withdrawing my hand.

“Do you deny?” replied he, smilingly pointing to the board. “No, no,” I
answered, recollecting how strange my conduct must appear: “you have
beaten me in that game.”

“Will you try another, then?”

“No.”

“You acknowledge my superiority?”

“Yes, as a chess-player.”

I rose to resume my work.

“Where is Annabella?” said Hargrave, gravely, after glancing round the
room.

“Gone out with Lord Lowborough,” answered I, for he looked at me for a
reply.

“And not yet returned!” he said, seriously.

“I suppose not.”

“Where is Huntingdon?” looking round again.

“Gone out with Grimsby, as you know,” said Hattersley, suppressing a
laugh, which broke forth as he concluded the sentence. Why did he
laugh? Why did Hargrave connect them thus together? Was it true, then?
And was this the dreadful secret he had wished to reveal to me? I must
know, and that quickly. I instantly rose and left the room to go in
search of Rachel and demand an explanation of her words; but Mr.
Hargrave followed me into the anteroom, and before I could open its
outer door, gently laid his hand upon the lock. “May I tell you
something, Mrs. Huntingdon?” said he, in a subdued tone, with serious,
downcast eyes.

“If it be anything worth hearing,” replied I, struggling to be
composed, for I trembled in every limb.

He quietly pushed a chair towards me. I merely leant my hand upon it,
and bid him go on.

“Do not be alarmed,” said he: “what I wish to say is nothing in itself;
and I will leave you to draw your own inferences from it. You say that
Annabella is not yet returned?”

“Yes, yes—go on!” said I, impatiently; for I feared my forced calmness
would leave me before the end of his disclosure, whatever it might be.

“And you hear,” continued he, “that Huntingdon is gone out with
Grimsby?”

“Well?”

“I heard the latter say to your husband—or the man who calls himself
so—”

“Go on, sir!”

He bowed submissively, and continued: “I heard him say,—‘I shall manage
it, you’ll see! They’re gone down by the water; I shall meet them
there, and tell him I want a bit of talk with him about some things
that we needn’t trouble the lady with; and she’ll say she can be
walking back to the house; and then I shall apologise, you know, and
all that, and tip her a wink to take the way of the shrubbery. I’ll
keep him talking there, about those matters I mentioned, and anything
else I can think of, as long as I can, and then bring him round the
other way, stopping to look at the trees, the fields, and anything else
I can find to discourse of.’” Mr. Hargrave paused, and looked at me.

Without a word of comment or further questioning, I rose, and darted
from the room and out of the house. The torment of suspense was not to
be endured: I would not suspect my husband falsely, on this man’s
accusation, and I would not trust him unworthily—I must know the truth
at once. I flew to the shrubbery. Scarcely had I reached it, when a
sound of voices arrested my breathless speed.

“We have lingered too long; he will be back,” said Lady Lowborough’s
voice.

“Surely not, dearest!” was _his_ reply; “but you can run across the
lawn, and get in as quietly as you can; I’ll follow in a while.”

My knees trembled under me; my brain swam round. I was ready to faint.
She must not see me thus. I shrunk among the bushes, and leant against
the trunk of a tree to let her pass.

“Ah, Huntingdon!” said she reproachfully, pausing where I had stood
with him the night before—“it was here you kissed that woman!” she
looked back into the leafy shade. Advancing thence, he answered, with a
careless laugh,—

“Well, dearest, I couldn’t help it. You know I must keep straight with
her as long as I can. Haven’t I seen you kiss your dolt of a husband
scores of times?—and do _I_ ever complain?”

“But tell me, don’t you love her still—a _little?_” said she, placing
her hand on his arm, looking earnestly in his face—for I could see
them, plainly, the moon shining full upon them from between the
branches of the tree that sheltered me.

“Not _one bit_, by all that’s sacred!” he replied, kissing her glowing
cheek.

“Good heavens, I _must_ be gone!” cried she, suddenly breaking from
him, and away she flew.

There he stood before me; but I had not strength to confront him now:
my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth; I was well-nigh sinking to
the earth, and I almost wondered he did not hear the beating of my
heart above the low sighing of the wind and the fitful rustle of the
falling leaves. My senses seemed to fail me, but still I saw his
shadowy form pass before me, and through the rushing sound in my ears I
distinctly heard him say, as he stood looking up the lawn,—“There goes
the fool! Run, Annabella, run! There—in with you! Ah,—he didn’t see!
That’s right, Grimsby, keep him back!” And even his low laugh reached
me as he walked away.

“God help me now!” I murmured, sinking on my knees among the damp weeds
and brushwood that surrounded me, and looking up at the moonlit sky,
through the scant foliage above. It seemed all dim and quivering now to
my darkened sight. My burning, bursting heart strove to pour forth its
agony to God, but could not frame its anguish into prayer; until a gust
of wind swept over me, which, while it scattered the dead leaves, like
blighted hopes, around, cooled my forehead, and seemed a little to
revive my sinking frame. Then, while I lifted up my soul in speechless,
earnest supplication, some heavenly influence seemed to strengthen me
within: I breathed more freely; my vision cleared; I saw distinctly the
pure moon shining on, and the light clouds skimming the clear, dark
sky; and then I saw the eternal stars twinkling down upon me; I knew
their God was mine, and He was strong to save and swift to hear. “I
will never leave thee, nor forsake thee,” seemed whispered from above
their myriad orbs. No, no; I felt He would not leave me comfortless: in
spite of earth and hell I should have strength for all my trials, and
win a glorious rest at last!

Refreshed, invigorated, if not composed, I rose and returned to the
house. Much of my new-born strength and courage forsook me, I confess,
as I entered it, and shut out the fresh wind and the glorious sky:
everything I saw and heard seemed to sicken my heart—the hall, the
lamp, the staircase, the doors of the different apartments, the social
sound of talk and laughter from the drawing-room. How could I bear my
future life! In this house, among those people—oh, how could I endure
to live! John just then entered the hall, and seeing me, told me he had
been sent in search of me, adding that he had taken in the tea, and
master wished to know if I were coming.

“Ask Mrs. Hattersley to be so kind as to make the tea, John,” said I.
“Say I am not well to-night, and wish to be excused.”

I retired into the large, empty dining-room, where all was silence and
darkness, but for the soft sighing of the wind without, and the faint
gleam of moonlight that pierced the blinds and curtains; and there I
walked rapidly up and down, thinking of my bitter thoughts alone. How
different was this from the evening of yesterday! _That_, it seems, was
the last expiring flash of my life’s happiness. Poor, blinded fool that
I was to be so happy! I could now see the reason of Arthur’s strange
reception of me in the shrubbery; the burst of kindness was for his
paramour, the start of horror for his wife. Now, too, I could better
understand the conversation between Hattersley and Grimsby; it was
doubtless of his love for _her_ they spoke, not for me.

I heard the drawing-room door open: a light quick step came out of the
ante-room, crossed the hall, and ascended the stairs. It was Milicent,
poor Milicent, gone to see how I was—no one else cared for me; but
_she_ still was kind. I shed no tears before, but now they came, fast
and free. Thus she did me good, without approaching me. Disappointed in
her search, I heard her come down, more slowly than she had ascended.
Would she come in there, and find me out? No, she turned in the
opposite direction and re-entered the drawing-room. I was glad, for I
knew not how to meet her, or what to say. I wanted no confidante in my
distress. I deserved none, and I wanted none. I had taken the burden
upon myself; let me bear it alone.

As the usual hour of retirement approached I dried my eyes, and tried
to clear my voice and calm my mind. I must see Arthur to-night, and
speak to him; but I would do it calmly: there should be no
scene—nothing to complain or to boast of to his companions—nothing to
laugh at with his lady-love. When the company were retiring to their
chambers I gently opened the door, and just as he passed, beckoned him
in.

“What’s to do with _you_, Helen?” said he. “Why couldn’t you come to
make tea for us? and what the deuce are you here for, in the dark? What
ails you, young woman: you look like a ghost!” he continued, surveying
me by the light of his candle.

“No matter,” I answered, “to you; you have no longer any regard for me
it appears; and I have no longer any for you.”

“Hal-lo! what the devil is this?” he muttered.

“I would leave you to-morrow,” continued I, “and never again come under
this roof, but for my child”—I paused a moment to steady, my voice.

“What in the devil’s name _is_ this, Helen?” cried he. “What can you be
driving at?”

“You know perfectly well. Let us waste no time in useless explanation,
but tell me, will you—?”

He vehemently swore he knew nothing about it, and insisted upon hearing
what poisonous old woman had been blackening his name, and what
infamous lies I had been fool enough to believe.

“Spare yourself the trouble of forswearing yourself and racking your
brains to stifle truth with falsehood,” I coldly replied. “I have
trusted to the testimony of no third person. I was in the shrubbery
this evening, and I saw and heard for myself.”

This was enough. He uttered a suppressed exclamation of consternation
and dismay, and muttering, “I _shall_ catch it now!” set down his
candle on the nearest chair, and rearing his back against the wall,
stood confronting me with folded arms.

“Well, what then?” said he, with the calm insolence of mingled
shamelessness and desperation.

“Only this,” returned I; “will you let me take our child and what
remains of my fortune, and go?”

“Go where?”

“Anywhere, where he will be safe from your contaminating influence, and
I shall be delivered from your presence, and you from mine.”

“No.”

“Will you let me have the child then, without the money?”

“No, nor yourself without the child. Do you think I’m going to be made
the talk of the country for your fastidious caprices?”

“Then I must stay here, to be hated and despised. But henceforth we are
husband and wife only in the name.”

“Very good.”

“I am your child’s mother, and _your_ housekeeper, nothing more. So you
need not trouble yourself any longer to feign the love you cannot feel:
I will exact no more heartless caresses from you, nor offer nor endure
them either. I will not be mocked with the empty husk of conjugal
endearments, when you have given the substance to another!”

“Very good, if _you_ please. We shall see who will tire first, my
lady.”

“If I tire, it will be of living in the world with you: not of living
without your mockery of love. When _you_ tire of your sinful ways, and
show yourself truly repentant, I will forgive you, and, perhaps, try to
love you again, though that will be hard indeed.”

“Humph! and meantime you will go and talk me over to Mrs. Hargrave, and
write long letters to aunt Maxwell to complain of the wicked wretch you
have married?”

“I shall complain to no one. Hitherto I have struggled hard to hide
your vices from every eye, and invest you with virtues you never
possessed; but now you must look to yourself.”

I left him muttering bad language to himself, and went up-stairs.

“You are poorly, ma’am,” said Rachel, surveying me with deep anxiety.

“It is too true, Rachel,” said I, answering her sad looks rather than
her words.

“I knew it, or I wouldn’t have mentioned such a thing.”

“But don’t _you_ trouble yourself about it,” said I, kissing her pale,
time-wasted cheek. “I can bear it better than you imagine.”

“Yes, you were always for ‘bearing.’ But if I was you I wouldn’t bear
it; I’d give way to it, and cry right hard! and I’d talk too, I just
_would_—I’d let him know what it was to—”

“I have talked,” said I; “I’ve said enough.”

“Then I’d cry,” persisted she. “I wouldn’t look so white and so calm,
and burst my heart with keeping it in.”

“I _have_ cried,” said I, smiling, in spite of my misery; “and I _am_
calm now, really: so don’t discompose me again, nurse: let us say no
more about it, and _don’t_ mention it to the servants. There, you may
go now. Good-night; and don’t disturb your rest for me: I shall sleep
well—if I can.”

Notwithstanding this resolution, I found my bed so intolerable that,
before two o’clock, I rose, and lighting my candle by the rushlight
that was still burning, I got my desk and sat down in my dressing-gown
to recount the events of the past evening. It was better to be so
occupied than to be lying in bed torturing my brain with recollections
of the far past and anticipations of the dreadful future. I have found
relief in describing the very circumstances that have destroyed my
peace, as well as the little trivial details attendant upon their
discovery. No sleep I could have got this night would have done so much
towards composing my mind, and preparing me to meet the trials of the
day. I fancy so, at least; and yet, when I cease writing, I find my
head aches terribly; and when I look into the glass, I am startled at
my haggard, worn appearance.

Rachel has been to dress me, and says I have had a sad night of it, she
can see. Milicent has just looked in to ask me how I was. I told her I
was better, but to excuse my appearance admitted I had had a restless
night. I wish this day were over! I shudder at the thoughts of going
down to breakfast. How shall I encounter them all? Yet let me remember
it is not _I_ that am guilty: _I_ have no cause to fear; and if _they_
scorn me as a victim of their guilt, I can pity their folly and despise
their scorn.




 CHAPTER XXXIV


Evening.—Breakfast passed well over: I was calm and cool throughout. I
answered composedly all inquiries respecting my health; and whatever
was unusual in my look or manner was generally attributed to the
trifling indisposition that had occasioned my early retirement last
night. But how am I to get over the ten or twelve days that must yet
elapse before they go? Yet why so long for their departure? When they
_are_ gone, how shall I get through the months or years of my future
life in company with that man—my greatest enemy? for none could injure
me as he has done. Oh! when I think how fondly, how foolishly I have
loved him, how madly I have trusted him, how constantly I have
laboured, and studied, and prayed, and struggled for his advantage; and
how cruelly he has trampled on my love, betrayed my trust, scorned my
prayers and tears, and efforts for his preservation, crushed my hopes,
destroyed my youth’s best feelings, and doomed me to a life of hopeless
misery, as far as man can do it, it is not enough to say that I no
longer love my husband—I HATE him! The word stares me in the face like
a guilty confession, but it is true: I hate him—I hate him! But God
have mercy on his miserable soul! and make him see and feel his guilt—I
ask no other vengeance! If he could but fully know and truly feel my
wrongs I should be well avenged, and I could freely pardon all; but he
is so lost, so hardened in his heartless depravity, that in this life I
believe he never will. But it is useless dwelling on this theme: let me
seek once more to dissipate reflection in the minor details of passing
events.

Mr. Hargrave has annoyed me all day long with his serious,
sympathising, and (as _he_ thinks) unobtrusive politeness. If it were
more obtrusive it would trouble me less, for then I could snub him;
but, as it is, he contrives to appear so really kind and thoughtful
that I cannot do so without rudeness and seeming ingratitude. I
sometimes think I ought to give him credit for the good feeling he
simulates so well; and then again, I think it is my _duty_ to suspect
him under the peculiar circumstances in which I am placed. His kindness
may not all be feigned; but still, let not the purest impulse of
gratitude to him induce me to forget myself: let me remember the game
of chess, the expressions he used on the occasion, and those
indescribable looks of his, that so justly roused my indignation, and I
think I shall be safe enough. I have done well to record them so
minutely.

I think he wishes to find an opportunity of speaking to me alone: he
has seemed to be on the watch all day; but I have taken care to
disappoint him—not that I fear anything he could say, but I have
trouble enough without the addition of his insulting consolations,
condolences, or whatever else he might attempt; and, for Milicent’s
sake, I do not wish to quarrel with him. He excused himself from going
out to shoot with the other gentlemen in the morning, under the pretext
of having letters to write; and instead of retiring for that purpose
into the library, he sent for his desk into the morning-room, where I
was seated with Milicent and Lady Lowborough. They had betaken
themselves to their work; I, less to divert my mind than to deprecate
conversation, had provided myself with a book. Milicent saw that I
wished to be quiet, and accordingly let me alone. Annabella, doubtless,
saw it too: but that was no reason why she should restrain her tongue,
or curb her cheerful spirits: _she_ accordingly chatted away,
addressing herself almost exclusively to me, and with the utmost
assurance and familiarity, growing the more animated and friendly the
colder and briefer my answers became. Mr. Hargrave saw that I could ill
endure it, and, looking up from his desk, he answered her questions and
observations for me, as far as he could, and attempted to transfer her
social attentions from me to himself; but it would not do. Perhaps she
thought I had a headache, and could not bear to talk; at any rate, she
saw that her loquacious vivacity annoyed me, as I could tell by the
malicious pertinacity with which she persisted. But I checked it
effectually by putting into her hand the book I had been trying to
read, on the fly-leaf of which I had hastily scribbled,—

“I am too well acquainted with your character and conduct to feel any
real friendship for you, and as I am without your talent for
dissimulation, I cannot assume the appearance of it. I must, therefore,
beg that hereafter all familiar intercourse may cease between us; and
if I still continue to treat you with civility, as if you were a woman
worthy of consideration and respect, understand that it is out of
regard for your cousin Milicent’s feelings, not for yours.”

Upon perusing this she turned scarlet, and bit her lip. Covertly
tearing away the leaf, she crumpled it up and put it in the fire, and
then employed herself in turning over the pages of the book, and,
really or apparently, perusing its contents. In a little while Milicent
announced it her intention to repair to the nursery, and asked if I
would accompany her.

“Annabella will excuse us,” said she; “she’s busy reading.”

“No, I won’t,” cried Annabella, suddenly looking up, and throwing her
book on the table; “I want to speak to Helen a minute. You may go,
Milicent, and she’ll follow in a while.” (Milicent went.) “Will you
oblige me, Helen?” continued she.

Her impudence astounded me; but I complied, and followed her into the
library. She closed the door, and walked up to the fire.

“Who told you this?” said she.

“No one: I am not incapable of seeing for myself.”

“Ah, you are suspicious!” cried she, smiling, with a gleam of hope.
Hitherto there had been a kind of desperation in her hardihood; now she
was evidently relieved.

“If I _were_ suspicious,” I replied, “I should have discovered your
infamy long before. No, Lady Lowborough, I do not found my charge upon
suspicion.”

“On what _do_ you found it, then?” said she, throwing herself into an
arm-chair, and stretching out her feet to the fender, with an obvious
effort to appear composed.

“I enjoy a moonlight ramble as well as you,” I answered, steadily
fixing my eyes upon her; “and the shrubbery happens to be one of my
favourite resorts.”

She coloured again excessively, and remained silent, pressing her
finger against her teeth, and gazing into the fire. I watched her a few
moments with a feeling of malevolent gratification; then, moving
towards the door, I calmly asked if she had anything more to say.

“Yes, yes!” cried she eagerly, starting up from her reclining posture.
“I want to know if you will tell Lord Lowborough?”

“Suppose I do?”

“Well, if you are disposed to publish the matter, _I_ cannot dissuade
you, of course—but there will be terrible work if you do—and if you
don’t, I shall think you the most generous of mortal beings—and if
there is anything in the world I can do for you—anything short of—” she
hesitated.

“Short of renouncing your guilty connection with my husband, I suppose
you mean?” said I.

She paused, in evident disconcertion and perplexity, mingled with anger
she dared not show.

“I cannot renounce what is dearer than life,” she muttered, in a low,
hurried tone. Then, suddenly raising her head and fixing her gleaming
eyes upon me, she continued earnestly: “But, Helen—or Mrs. Huntingdon,
or whatever you would have me call you—_will_ you tell him? If you are
generous, here is a fitting opportunity for the exercise of your
magnanimity: if you are proud, here am I—your rival—ready to
acknowledge myself your debtor for an act of the most noble
forbearance.”

“I shall not tell him.”

“You will not!” cried she, delightedly. “Accept my sincere thanks,
then!”

She sprang up, and offered me her hand. I drew back.

“Give me no thanks; it is not for _your_ sake that I refrain. Neither
is it an act of any forbearance: I have no wish to publish your shame.
I should be sorry to distress your husband with the knowledge of it.”

“And Milicent? will you tell her?”

“No: on the contrary, I shall do my utmost to conceal it from her. I
would not for much that she should know the infamy and disgrace of her
relation!”

“You use hard words, Mrs. Huntingdon, but I can pardon you.”

“And now, Lady Lowborough,” continued I, “let me counsel you to leave
this house as soon as _possible_. You must be aware that your
continuance here is excessively disagreeable to me—not for Mr.
Huntingdon’s sake,” said I, observing the dawn of a malicious smile of
triumph on her face—“you are welcome to him, if you like him, as far as
_I_ am concerned—but because it is painful to be always disguising my
true sentiments respecting you, and straining to keep up an appearance
of civility and respect towards one for whom I have not the most
distant shadow of esteem; and because, if you stay, your conduct cannot
possibly remain concealed much longer from the only two persons in the
house who do not know it already. And, for your husband’s sake,
Annabella, and even for your own, I wish—I earnestly advise and
_entreat_ you to break off this unlawful connection at once, and return
to your duty while you may, before the dreadful consequences—”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said she, interrupting me with a gesture of
impatience. “But I cannot go, Helen, before the time appointed for our
departure. What possible pretext could I frame for such a thing?
Whether I proposed going back alone—which Lowborough would not hear
of—or taking him with me, the very circumstance itself would be certain
to excite suspicion—and when our visit is so _nearly_ at an end
too—little more than a week—surely you can endure my presence _so_
long! I will not annoy you with any more of my friendly impertinences.”

“Well, I have nothing more to say to you.”

“Have you mentioned this affair to Huntingdon?” asked she, as I was
leaving the room.

“How dare you mention his name to me!” was the only answer I gave.

No words have passed between us since, but such as outward decency or
pure necessity demanded.




 CHAPTER XXXV


Nineteenth.—In proportion as Lady Lowborough finds she has nothing to
fear from me, and as the time of departure draws nigh, the more
audacious and insolent she becomes. She does not scruple to speak to my
husband with affectionate familiarity in my presence, when no one else
is by, and is particularly fond of displaying her interest in his
health and welfare, or in anything that concerns him, as if for the
purpose of contrasting her kind solicitude with my cold indifference.
And he rewards her by such smiles and glances, such whispered words, or
boldly-spoken insinuations, indicative of his sense of her goodness and
my neglect, as make the blood rush into my face, in spite of myself—for
I would be utterly regardless of it all—deaf and blind to everything
that passes between them, since the more I show myself sensible of
their wickedness the more she triumphs in her victory, and the more he
flatters himself that I love him devotedly still, in spite of my
pretended indifference. On such occasions I have sometimes been
startled by a subtle, fiendish suggestion inciting me to show him the
contrary by a seeming encouragement of Hargrave’s advances; but such
ideas are banished in a moment with horror and self-abasement; and then
I hate him tenfold more than ever for having brought me to this!—God
pardon me for it and all my sinful thoughts! Instead of being humbled
and purified by my afflictions, I feel that they are turning my nature
into gall. This must be my fault as much as theirs that wrong me. No
true Christian could cherish such bitter feelings as I do against him
and her, especially the latter: him, I still feel that I could
pardon—freely, gladly—on the slightest token of repentance; but
_she_—words cannot utter my abhorrence. Reason forbids, but passion
urges strongly; and I must pray and struggle long ere I subdue it.

It is well that she is leaving to-morrow, for I could not well endure
her presence for another day. This morning she rose earlier than usual.
I found her in the room alone, when I went down to breakfast.

“Oh, Helen! is it you?” said she, turning as I entered.

I gave an involuntary start back on seeing her, at which she uttered a
short laugh, observing, “I think we are _both_ disappointed.”

I came forward and busied myself with the breakfast things.

“This is the last day I shall burden your hospitality,” said she, as
she seated herself at the table. “Ah, here comes one that will not
rejoice at it!” she murmured, half to herself, as Arthur entered the
room.

He shook hands with her and wished her good-morning: then, looking
lovingly in her face, and still retaining her hand in his, murmured
pathetically, “The last—last day!”

“Yes,” said she with some asperity; “and I rose early to make the best
of it—I have been here alone this half-hour, and _you_—you lazy
creature—”

“Well, I thought I was early too,” said he; “but,” dropping his voice
almost to a whisper, “you see we are not alone.”

“We never are,” returned she. But they were almost as good as alone,
for I was now standing at the window, watching the clouds, and
struggling to suppress my wrath.

Some more words passed between them, which, happily, I did not
overhear; but Annabella had the audacity to come and place herself
beside me, and even to put her hand upon my shoulder and say softly,
“You need not grudge him to me, Helen, for I love him more than ever
you could do.”

This put me beside myself. I took her hand and violently dashed it from
me, with an expression of abhorrence and indignation that could not be
suppressed. Startled, almost appalled, by this sudden outbreak, she
recoiled in silence. I would have given way to my fury and said more,
but Arthur’s low laugh recalled me to myself. I checked the
half-uttered invective, and scornfully turned away, regretting that I
had given him so much amusement. He was still laughing when Mr.
Hargrave made his appearance. How much of the scene he had witnessed I
do not know, for the door was ajar when he entered. He greeted his host
and his cousin both coldly, and me with a glance intended to express
the deepest sympathy mingled with high admiration and esteem.

“How much allegiance do you owe to that man?” he asked below his
breath, as he stood beside me at the window, affecting to be making
observations on the weather.

“None,” I answered. And immediately returning to the table, I employed
myself in making the tea. He followed, and would have entered into some
kind of conversation with me, but the other guests were now beginning
to assemble, and I took no more notice of him, except to give him his
coffee.

After breakfast, determined to pass as little of the day as possible in
company with Lady Lowborough, I quietly stole away from the company and
retired to the library. Mr. Hargrave followed me thither, under
pretence of coming for a book; and first, turning to the shelves, he
selected a volume, and then quietly, but by no means timidly,
approaching me, he stood beside me, resting his hand on the back of my
chair, and said softly, “And so you consider yourself free at last?”

“Yes,” said I, without moving, or raising my eyes from my book, “free
to do anything but offend God and my conscience.”

There was a momentary pause.

“Very right,” said he, “provided your conscience be not too morbidly
tender, and your ideas of God not too erroneously severe; but can you
suppose it would offend that benevolent Being to make the happiness of
one who would die for yours?—to raise a devoted heart from purgatorial
torments to a state of heavenly bliss, when you could do it without the
slightest injury to yourself or any other?”

This was spoken in a low, earnest, melting tone, as he bent over me. I
now raised my head; and steadily confronting his gaze, I answered
calmly, “Mr. Hargrave, do you mean to insult me?”

He was not prepared for this. He paused a moment to recover the shock;
then, drawing himself up and removing his hand from my chair, he
answered, with proud sadness,—“That was not my intention.”

I just glanced towards the door, with a slight movement of the head,
and then returned to my book. He immediately withdrew. This was better
than if I had answered with more words, and in the passionate spirit to
which my first impulse would have prompted. What a good thing it is to
be able to command one’s temper! I must labour to cultivate this
inestimable quality: God only knows how often I shall need it in this
rough, dark road that lies before me.

In the course of the morning I drove over to the Grove with the two
ladies, to give Milicent an opportunity for bidding farewell to her
mother and sister. They persuaded her to stay with them the rest of the
day, Mrs. Hargrave promising to bring her back in the evening and
remain till the party broke up on the morrow. Consequently, Lady
Lowborough and I had the pleasure of returning _tête-à-tête_ in the
carriage together. For the first mile or two we kept silence, I looking
out of my window, and she leaning back in her corner. But I was not
going to restrict myself to any particular position for her; when I was
tired of leaning forward, with the cold, raw wind in my face, and
surveying the russet hedges and the damp, tangled grass of their banks,
I gave it up and leant back too. With her usual impudence, my companion
then made some attempts to get up a conversation; but the monosyllables
“yes,” or “no” or “humph,” were the utmost her several remarks could
elicit from me. At last, on her asking my opinion upon some immaterial
point of discussion, I answered,—

“Why do you wish to talk to me, Lady Lowborough? You must know what I
think of you.”

“Well, if you _will_ be so bitter against me,” replied she, “I can’t
help it; but _I’m_ not going to sulk for anybody.” Our short drive was
now at an end. As soon as the carriage door was opened, she sprang out,
and went down the park to meet the gentlemen, who were just returning
from the woods. Of course I did not follow.

But I had not done with her impudence yet: after dinner, I retired to
the drawing-room, as usual, and she accompanied me, but I had the two
children with me, and I gave them my whole attention, and determined to
keep them till the gentlemen came, or till Milicent arrived with her
mother. Little Helen, however, was soon tired of playing, and insisted
upon going to sleep; and while I sat on the sofa with her on my knee,
and Arthur seated beside me, gently playing with her soft, flaxen hair,
Lady Lowborough composedly came and placed herself on the other side.

“To-morrow, Mrs. Huntingdon,” said she, “you will be delivered from my
presence, which, no doubt, you will be very glad of—it is natural you
should; but do you know I have rendered you a great service? Shall I
tell you what it is?”

“I shall be glad to hear of any service you have rendered me,” said I,
determined to be calm, for I knew by the tone of her voice she wanted
to provoke me.

“Well,” resumed she, “have you not observed the salutary change in Mr.
Huntingdon? Don’t you see what a sober, temperate man he is become? You
saw with regret the sad habits he was contracting, I know: and I know
you did your utmost to deliver him from them, but without success,
until I came to your assistance. I told him in few words that I could
not bear to see him degrade himself so, and that I should cease to—no
matter what I told him, but you see the reformation I have wrought; and
you ought to thank me for it.”

I rose and rang for the nurse.

“But I desire no thanks,” she continued; “all the return I ask is, that
you will take care of him when I am gone, and not, by harshness and
neglect, drive him back to his old courses.”

I was almost sick with passion, but Rachel was now at the door. I
pointed to the children, for I could not trust myself to speak: she
took them away, and I followed.

“Will you, Helen?” continued the speaker.

I gave her a look that blighted the malicious smile on her face, or
checked it, at least for a moment, and departed. In the ante-room I met
Mr. Hargrave. He saw I was in no humour to be spoken to, and suffered
me to pass without a word; but when, after a few minutes’ seclusion in
the library, I had regained my composure, and was returning to join
Mrs. Hargrave and Milicent, whom I had just heard come downstairs and
go into the drawing-room, I found him there still lingering in the
dimly-lighted apartment, and evidently waiting for me.

“Mrs. Huntingdon,” said he as I passed, “will you allow me one word?”

“What is it then? be quick, if you please.”

“I offended you this morning; and I cannot live under your
displeasure.”

“Then go, and sin no more,” replied I, turning away.

“No, no!” said he, hastily, setting himself before me. “Pardon me, but
I must have your forgiveness. I leave you to-morrow, and I may not have
an opportunity of speaking to you again. I was wrong to forget myself
and you, as I did; but let me implore you to forget and forgive my rash
presumption, and think of me as if those words had never been spoken;
for, believe me, I regret them deeply, and the loss of your esteem is
too severe a penalty: I cannot bear it.”

“Forgetfulness is not to be purchased with a wish; and I cannot bestow
my esteem on all who desire it, unless they deserve it too.”

“I shall think my life well spent in labouring to deserve it, if you
will but pardon this offence—will you?”

“Yes.”

“Yes! but that is coldly spoken. Give me your hand and I’ll believe
you. You won’t? Then, Mrs. Huntingdon, you do _not_ forgive me!”

“Yes; here it is, and my forgiveness with it: only, _sin no more_.”

He pressed my cold hand with sentimental fervour, but said nothing, and
stood aside to let me pass into the room, where all the company were
now assembled. Mr. Grimsby was seated near the door: on seeing me
enter, almost immediately followed by Hargrave, he leered at me with a
glance of intolerable significance, as I passed. I looked him in the
face, till he sullenly turned away, if not _ashamed_, at least
_confounded_ for the moment. Meantime Hattersley had seized Hargrave by
the arm, and was whispering something in his ear—some coarse joke, no
doubt, for the latter neither laughed nor spoke in answer, but, turning
from him with a slight curl of the lip, disengaged himself and went to
his mother, who was telling Lord Lowborough how many reasons she had to
be proud of her son.

Thank heaven, they are all going to-morrow.




 CHAPTER XXXVI


December 20th, 1824.—This is the third anniversary of our felicitous
union. It is now two months since our guests left us to the enjoyment
of each other’s society; and I have had nine weeks’ experience of this
new phase of conjugal life—two persons living together, as master and
mistress of the house, and father and mother of a winsome, merry little
child, with the mutual understanding that there is no love, friendship,
or sympathy between them. As far as in me lies, I endeavour to live
peaceably with him: I treat him with unimpeachable civility, give up my
convenience to his, wherever it may reasonably be done, and consult him
in a business-like way on household affairs, deferring to his pleasure
and judgment, even when I know the latter to be inferior to my own.

As for him, for the first week or two, he was peevish and low,
fretting, I suppose, over his dear Annabella’s departure, and
particularly ill-tempered to me: everything I did was wrong; I was
cold-hearted, hard, insensate; my sour, pale face was perfectly
repulsive; my voice made him shudder; he knew not how he could live
through the winter with me; I should kill him by inches. Again I
proposed a separation, but it would not do: he was not going to be the
talk of all the old gossips in the neighbourhood: he would not have it
said that he was such a brute his wife could not live with him. No; he
must contrive to bear with me.

“I must contrive to bear with _you_, you mean,” said I; “for so long as
I discharge my functions of steward and house-keeper, so
conscientiously and well, without pay and without thanks, you cannot
afford to part with me. I shall therefore remit these duties when my
bondage becomes intolerable.” This threat, I thought, would serve to
keep him in check, if anything would.

I believe he was much disappointed that I did not feel his offensive
sayings more acutely, for when he had said anything particularly well
calculated to hurt my feelings, he would stare me searchingly in the
face, and then grumble against my “marble heart” or my “brutal
insensibility.” If I had bitterly wept and deplored his lost affection,
he would, perhaps, have condescended to pity me, and taken me into
favour for a while, just to comfort his solitude and console him for
the absence of his beloved Annabella, until he could meet her again, or
some more fitting substitute. Thank heaven, I am not so weak as that! I
was infatuated once with a foolish, besotted affection, that clung to
him in spite of his unworthiness, but it is fairly gone now—wholly
crushed and withered away; and he has none but himself and his vices to
thank for it.

At first (in compliance with his sweet lady’s injunctions, I suppose),
he abstained wonderfully well from seeking to solace his cares in wine;
but at length he began to relax his virtuous efforts, and now and then
exceeded a little, and still continues to do so; nay, sometimes, not a
little. When he is under the exciting influence of these excesses, he
sometimes fires up and attempts to play the brute; and then I take
little pains to suppress my scorn and disgust. When he is under the
_depressing_ influence of the after-consequences, he bemoans his
sufferings and his errors, and charges them both upon me; he knows such
indulgence injures his health, and does him more harm than good; but he
says I drive him to it by my unnatural, unwomanly conduct; it will be
the ruin of him in the end, but it is all my fault; and _then_ I am
roused to defend myself, sometimes with bitter recrimination. This is a
kind of injustice I cannot patiently endure. Have I not laboured long
and hard to save him from this very vice? Would I not labour still to
deliver him from it if I could? but could I do so by fawning upon him
and caressing him when I know that he scorns me? Is it _my_ fault that
I have lost my influence with him, or that he has forfeited every claim
to my regard? And should I seek a reconciliation with him, when I feel
that I abhor him, and that he despises me? and while he continues still
to correspond with Lady Lowborough, as I know he does? No, never,
never, never! he may drink himself dead, but it is NOT my fault!

Yet I do my part to save him still: I give him to understand that
drinking makes his eyes dull, and his face red and bloated; and that it
tends to render him imbecile in body and mind; and if Annabella were to
see him as often as I do, she would speedily be disenchanted; and that
she certainly will withdraw her favour from him, if he continues such
courses. Such a mode of admonition wins only coarse abuse for me—and,
indeed, I almost feel as if I deserved it, for I hate to use such
arguments; but they sink into his stupefied heart, and make him pause,
and ponder, and abstain, more than anything else I could say.

At present I am enjoying a temporary relief from his presence: he is
gone with Hargrave to join a distant hunt, and will probably not be
back before to-morrow evening. How differently I used to feel his
absence!

Mr. Hargrave is still at the Grove. He and Arthur frequently meet to
pursue their rural sports together: he often calls upon us here, and
Arthur not unfrequently rides over to him. I do not think either of
these soi-disant friends is overflowing with love for the other; but
such intercourse serves to get the time on, and I am very willing it
should continue, as it saves me some hours of discomfort in Arthur’s
society, and gives him some better employment than the sottish
indulgence of his sensual appetites. The only objection I have to Mr.
Hargrave’s being in the neighbourhood, is that the fear of meeting him
at the Grove prevents me from seeing his sister so often as I otherwise
should; for, of late, he has conducted himself towards me with such
unerring propriety, that I have almost forgotten his former conduct. I
suppose he is striving to “win my esteem.” If he continue to act in
this way, he _may_ win it; but what then? The moment he attempts to
demand anything more, he will lose it again.

February 10th.—It is a hard, embittering thing to have one’s kind
feelings and good intentions cast back in one’s teeth. I was beginning
to relent towards my wretched partner; to pity his forlorn, comfortless
condition, unalleviated as it is by the consolations of intellectual
resources and the answer of a good conscience towards God; and to think
I ought to sacrifice my pride, and renew my efforts once again to make
his home agreeable and lead him back to the path of virtue; not by
false professions of love, and not by pretended remorse, but by
mitigating my habitual coldness of manner, and commuting my frigid
civility into kindness wherever an opportunity occurred; and not only
was I beginning to think so, but I had already begun to act upon the
thought—and what was the result? No answering spark of kindness, no
awakening penitence, but an unappeasable ill-humour, and a spirit of
tyrannous exaction that increased with indulgence, and a lurking gleam
of self-complacent triumph at every detection of relenting softness in
my manner, that congealed me to marble again as often as it recurred;
and this morning he finished the business:—I think the petrifaction is
so completely effected at last that nothing can melt me again. Among
his letters was one which he perused with symptoms of unusual
gratification, and then threw it across the table to me, with the
admonition,—

“There! read that, and take a lesson by it!”

It was in the free, dashing hand of Lady Lowborough. I glanced at the
first page; it seemed full of extravagant protestations of affection;
impetuous longings for a speedy reunion—and impious defiance of God’s
mandates, and railings against His providence for having cast their lot
asunder, and doomed them both to the hateful bondage of alliance with
those they could not love. He gave a slight titter on seeing me change
colour. I folded up the letter, rose, and returned it to him, with no
remark, but—

“Thank you, I _will_ take a lesson by it!”

My little Arthur was standing between his knees, delightedly playing
with the bright, ruby ring on his finger. Urged by a sudden, imperative
impulse to deliver my son from that contaminating influence, I caught
him up in my arms and carried him with me out of the room. Not liking
this abrupt removal, the child began to pout and cry. This was a new
stab to my already tortured heart. I would not let him go; but, taking
him with me into the library, I shut the door, and, kneeling on the
floor beside him, I embraced him, kissed him, wept over with him with
passionate fondness. Rather frightened than consoled by this, he turned
struggling from me, and cried out aloud for his papa. I released him
from my arms, and never were more bitter tears than those that now
concealed him from my blinded, burning eyes. Hearing his cries, the
father came to the room. I instantly turned away, lest he should see
and misconstrue my emotion. He swore at me, and took the now pacified
child away.

It is hard that my little darling should love him more than me; and
that, when the well-being and culture of my son is all I have to live
for, I should see my influence destroyed by one whose selfish affection
is more injurious than the coldest indifference or the harshest tyranny
could be. If I, for his good, deny him some trifling indulgence, he
goes to his father, and the latter, in spite of his selfish indolence,
will even give himself some trouble to meet the child’s desires: if I
attempt to curb his will, or look gravely on him for some act of
childish disobedience, he knows his other parent will smile and take
his part against me. Thus, not only have I the father’s spirit in the
son to contend against, the germs of his evil tendencies to search out
and eradicate, and his corrupting intercourse and example in after-life
to counteract, but already _he_ counteracts my arduous labour for the
child’s advantage, destroys my influence over his tender mind, and robs
me of his very love; I had no earthly hope but this, and he seems to
take a diabolical delight in tearing it away.

But it is wrong to despair; I will remember the counsel of the inspired
writer to him “that feareth the Lord and obeyeth the voice of his
servant, that _sitteth in darkness and hath no light;_ let him trust in
the name of the Lord, and stay upon his God!”




 CHAPTER XXXVII


December 20th, 1825.—Another year is past; and I am weary of this life.
And yet I cannot wish to leave it: whatever afflictions assail me here,
I cannot wish to go and leave my darling in this dark and wicked world
alone, without a friend to guide him through its weary mazes, to warn
him of its thousand snares, and guard him from the perils that beset
him on every hand. I am not well fitted to be his only companion, I
know; but there is no other to supply my place. I am too grave to
minister to his amusements and enter into his infantile sports as a
nurse or a mother ought to do, and often his bursts of gleeful
merriment trouble and alarm me; I see in them his father’s spirit and
temperament, and I tremble for the consequences; and too often damp the
innocent mirth I ought to share. That father, on the contrary, has no
weight of sadness on his mind; is troubled with no fears, no scruples
concerning his son’s future welfare; and at evenings especially, the
times when the child sees him the most and the oftenest, he is always
particularly jocund and open-hearted: ready to laugh and to jest with
anything or anybody but me, and I am particularly silent and sad:
therefore, of course, the child dotes upon his seemingly joyous
amusing, ever-indulgent papa, and will at any time gladly exchange my
company for his. This disturbs me greatly; not so much for the sake of
my son’s affection (though I do prize that highly, and though I feel it
is my right, and know I have done much to earn it) as for that
influence over him which, for his own advantage, I would strive to
purchase and retain, and which for very spite his father delights to
rob me of, and, from motives of mere idle egotism, is pleased to win to
himself; making no use of it but to torment me and ruin the child. My
only consolation is, that he spends comparatively little of his time at
home, and, during the months he passes in London or elsewhere, I have a
chance of recovering the ground I had lost, and overcoming with good
the evil he has wrought by his wilful mismanagement. But then it is a
bitter trial to behold him, on his return, doing his utmost to subvert
my labours and transform my innocent, affectionate, tractable darling
into a selfish, disobedient, and mischievous boy; thereby preparing the
soil for those vices he has so successfully cultivated in his own
perverted nature.

Happily, there were none of Arthur’s “friends” invited to Grassdale
last autumn: he took himself off to visit some of them instead. I wish
he would always do so, and I wish his friends were numerous and loving
enough to keep him amongst them all the year round. Mr. Hargrave,
considerably to my annoyance, did not go with him; but I think I have
done with that gentleman at last.

For seven or eight months he behaved so remarkably well, and managed so
skilfully too, that I was almost completely off my guard, and was
really beginning to look upon him as a friend, and even to treat him as
such, with certain prudent restrictions (which I deemed scarcely
necessary); when, presuming upon my unsuspecting kindness, he thought
he might venture to overstep the bounds of decent moderation and
propriety that had so long restrained him. It was on a pleasant evening
at the close of May: I was wandering in the park, and he, on seeing me
there as he rode past, made bold to enter and approach me, dismounting
and leaving his horse at the gate. This was the first time he had
ventured to come within its inclosure since I had been left alone,
without the sanction of his mother’s or sister’s company, or at least
the excuse of a message from them. But he managed to appear so calm and
easy, so respectful and self-possessed in his friendliness, that,
though a little surprised, I was neither alarmed nor offended at the
unusual liberty, and he walked with me under the ash-trees and by the
water-side, and talked, with considerable animation, good taste, and
intelligence, on many subjects, before I began to think about getting
rid of him. Then, after a pause, during which we both stood gazing on
the calm, blue water—I revolving in my mind the best means of politely
dismissing my companion, he, no doubt, pondering other matters equally
alien to the sweet sights and sounds that alone were present to his
senses,—he suddenly electrified me by beginning, in a peculiar tone,
low, soft, but perfectly distinct, to pour forth the most unequivocal
expressions of earnest and passionate love; pleading his cause with all
the bold yet artful eloquence he could summon to his aid. But I cut
short his appeal, and repulsed him so determinately, so decidedly, and
with such a mixture of scornful indignation, tempered with cool,
dispassionate sorrow and pity for his benighted mind, that he withdrew,
astonished, mortified, and discomforted; and, a few days after, I heard
that he had departed for London. He returned, however, in eight or nine
weeks, and did not entirely keep aloof from me, but comported himself
in so remarkable a manner that his quick-sighted sister could not fail
to notice the change.

“What have you done to Walter, Mrs. Huntingdon?” said she one morning,
when I had called at the Grove, and he had just left the room after
exchanging a few words of the coldest civility. “He has been so
extremely ceremonious and stately of late, I can’t imagine what it is
all about, unless you have desperately offended him. Tell me what it
is, that I may be your mediator, and make you friends again.”

“I have done nothing willingly to offend him,” said I. “If he is
offended, he can best tell you himself what it is about.”

“I’ll ask him,” cried the giddy girl, springing up and putting her head
out of the window: “he’s only in the garden—Walter!”

“No, no, Esther! you will seriously displease me if you do; and I shall
leave you immediately, and not come again for months—perhaps years.”

“Did you call, Esther?” said her brother, approaching the window from
without.

“Yes; I wanted to ask you—”

“Good-morning, Esther,” said I, taking her hand and giving it a severe
squeeze.

“To ask you,” continued she, “to get me a rose for Mrs. Huntingdon.” He
departed. “Mrs. Huntingdon,” she exclaimed, turning to me and still
holding me fast by the hand, “I’m quite shocked at you—you’re just as
angry, and distant, and cold as he is: and I’m determined you shall be
as good friends as ever before you go.”

“Esther, how can you be so rude!” cried Mrs. Hargrave, who was seated
gravely knitting in her easy-chair. “Surely, you never _will_ learn to
conduct yourself like a lady!”

“Well, mamma, you said yourself—” But the young lady was silenced by
the uplifted finger of her mamma, accompanied with a very stern shake
of the head.

“Isn’t she cross?” whispered she to me; but, before I could add my
share of reproof, Mr. Hargrave reappeared at the window with a
beautiful moss-rose in his hand.

“Here, Esther, I’ve brought you the rose,” said he, extending it
towards her.

“Give it her yourself, you blockhead!” cried she, recoiling with a
spring from between us.

“Mrs. Huntingdon would rather receive it from you,” replied he, in a
very serious tone, but lowering his voice that his mother might not
hear. His sister took the rose and gave it to me.

“My brother’s compliments, Mrs. Huntingdon, and he hopes you and he
will come to a better understanding by-and-by. Will that do, Walter?”
added the saucy girl, turning to him and putting her arm round his
neck, as he stood leaning upon the sill of the window—“or should I have
said that you are sorry you were so touchy? or that you hope she will
pardon your offence?”

“You silly girl! you don’t know what you are talking about,” replied he
gravely.

“Indeed I don’t: for I’m quite in the dark!”

“Now, Esther,” interposed Mrs. Hargrave, who, if equally benighted on
the subject of our estrangement, saw at least that her daughter was
behaving very improperly, “I must insist upon your leaving the room!”

“Pray don’t, Mrs. Hargrave, for I’m going to leave it myself,” said I,
and immediately made my adieux.

About a week after Mr. Hargrave brought his sister to see me. He
conducted himself, at first, with his usual cold, distant,
half-stately, half-melancholy, altogether injured air; but Esther made
no remark upon it this time: she had evidently been schooled into
better manners. She talked to me, and laughed and romped with little
Arthur, her loved and loving playmate. He, somewhat to my discomfort,
enticed her from the room to have a run in the hall, and thence into
the garden. I got up to stir the fire. Mr. Hargrave asked if I felt
cold, and shut the door—a very unseasonable piece of officiousness, for
I had meditated following the noisy playfellows if they did not
speedily return. He then took the liberty of walking up to the fire
himself, and asking me if I were aware that Mr. Huntingdon was now at
the seat of Lord Lowborough, and likely to continue there some time.

“No; but it’s no matter,” I answered carelessly; and if my cheek glowed
like fire, it was rather at the question than the information it
conveyed.

“You don’t object to it?” he said.

“Not at all, if Lord Lowborough likes his company.”

“You have no love left for him, then?”

“Not the least.”

“I knew that—I knew you were too high-minded and pure in your own
nature to continue to regard one so utterly false and polluted with any
feelings but those of indignation and scornful abhorrence!”

“Is he not your friend?” said I, turning my eyes from the fire to his
face, with perhaps a slight touch of those feelings he assigned to
another.

“He _was_,” replied he, with the same calm gravity as before; “but do
not wrong me by supposing that I could continue my friendship and
esteem to a man who could so infamously, so impiously forsake and
injure one so transcendently—well, I won’t speak of it. But tell me, do
you never think of revenge?”

“Revenge! No—what good would that do?—it would make him no better, and
me no happier.”

“I don’t know how to talk to you, Mrs. Huntingdon,” said he, smiling;
“you are only half a woman—your nature must be half human, half
angelic. Such goodness overawes me; I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Then, sir, I fear you must be very much worse than you should be, if
I, a mere ordinary mortal, am, by your own confession, so vastly your
superior; and since there exists so little sympathy between us, I think
we had better each look out for some more congenial companion.” And
forthwith moving to the window, I began to look out for my little son
and his gay young friend.

“No, _I_ am the ordinary mortal, I maintain,” replied Mr. Hargrave. “I
will not allow myself to be worse than my fellows; but _you_, Madam—I
equally maintain there is nobody like you. But are you happy?” he asked
in a serious tone.

“As happy as some others, I suppose.”

“Are you as happy as you desire to be?”

“No one is so blest as that comes to on this side of eternity.”

“One thing I know,” returned he, with a deep sad sigh; “you are
immeasurably happier than I am.”

“I am very sorry for you, then,” I could not help replying.

“Are you, _indeed?_ No, for if you were you would be glad to relieve
me.”

“And so I should if I could do so without injuring myself or any
other.”

“And can you suppose that I should wish you to injure yourself? No: on
the contrary, it is your own happiness I long for more than mine. You
are miserable now, Mrs. Huntingdon,” continued he, looking me boldly in
the face. “You do not complain, but I see—and feel—and know that you
are miserable—and must remain so as long as you keep those walls of
impenetrable ice about your still warm and palpitating heart; and I am
miserable, too. Deign to smile on me and I am happy: trust me, and you
shall be happy also, for if you _are_ a woman I can make you so—and I
_will_ do it in spite of yourself!” he muttered between his teeth; “and
as for others, the question is between ourselves alone: you cannot
injure your husband, you know, and no one else has any concern in the
matter.”

“I have a son, Mr. Hargrave, and you have a mother,” said I, retiring
from the window, whither he had followed me.

“They need not know,” he began; but before anything more could be said
on either side, Esther and Arthur re-entered the room. The former
glanced at Walter’s flushed, excited countenance, and then at mine—a
little flushed and excited too, I daresay, though from far different
causes. She must have thought we had been quarrelling desperately, and
was evidently perplexed and disturbed at the circumstance; but she was
too polite or too much afraid of her brother’s anger to refer to it.
She seated herself on the sofa, and putting back her bright, golden
ringlets, that were scattered in wild profusion over her face, she
immediately began to talk about the garden and her little playfellow,
and continued to chatter away in her usual strain till her brother
summoned her to depart.

“If I have spoken too warmly, forgive me,” he murmured on taking his
leave, “or I shall never forgive myself.” Esther smiled and glanced at
me: I merely bowed, and her countenance fell. She thought it a poor
return for Walter’s generous concession, and was disappointed in her
friend. Poor child, she little knows the world she lives in!

Mr. Hargrave had not an opportunity of meeting me again in private for
several weeks after this; but when he did meet me there was less of
pride and more of touching melancholy in his manner than before. Oh,
_how_ he annoyed me! I was obliged at last almost entirely to remit my
visits to the Grove, at the expense of deeply offending Mrs. Hargrave
and seriously afflicting poor Esther, who really values my society for
want of better, and who ought not to suffer for the fault of her
brother. But that indefatigable foe was not yet vanquished: he seemed
to be always on the watch. I frequently saw him riding lingeringly past
the premises, looking searchingly round him as he went—or, if _I_ did
not, Rachel did. That sharp-sighted woman soon guessed how matters
stood between us, and descrying the enemy’s movements from her
elevation at the nursery-window, she would give me a quiet intimation
if she saw me preparing for a walk when she had reason to believe he
was about, or to think it likely that he would meet or overtake me in
the way I meant to traverse. I would then defer my ramble, or confine
myself for that day to the park and gardens, or, if the proposed
excursion was a matter of importance, such as a visit to the sick or
afflicted, I would take Rachel with me, and then I was never molested.

But one mild, sunshiny day, early in November, I had ventured forth
alone to visit the village school and a few of the poor tenants, and on
my return I was alarmed at the clatter of a horse’s feet behind me,
approaching at a rapid, steady trot. There was no stile or gap at hand
by which I could escape into the fields, so I walked quietly on, saying
to myself, “It may not be he after all; and if it is, and if he _do_
annoy me, it shall be for the last time, I am determined, if there be
power in words and looks against cool impudence and mawkish
sentimentality so inexhaustible as his.”

The horse soon overtook me, and was reined up close beside me. It _was_
Mr. Hargrave. He greeted me with a smile intended to be soft and
melancholy, but his triumphant satisfaction at having caught me at last
so shone through that it was quite a failure. After briefly answering
his salutation and inquiring after the ladies at the Grove, I turned
away and walked on; but he followed and kept his horse at my side: it
was evident he intended to be my companion all the way.

“Well! I don’t much care. If you want another rebuff, take it—and
welcome,” was my inward remark. “Now, sir, what next?”

This question, though unspoken, was not long unanswered; after a few
passing observations upon indifferent subjects, he began in solemn
tones the following appeal to my humanity:—

“It will be four years next April since I first saw you, Mrs.
Huntingdon—_you_ may have forgotten the circumstance, but _I_ never
can. I admired you then most deeply, but I dared not love you. In the
following autumn I saw so much of your perfections that I could not
fail to love you, though I dared not show it. For upwards of three
years I have endured a perfect martyrdom. From the anguish of
suppressed emotions, intense and fruitless longings, silent sorrow,
crushed hopes, and trampled affections, I have suffered more than I can
tell, or you imagine—and you were the cause of it, and not altogether
the innocent cause. My youth is wasting away; my prospects are
darkened; my life is a desolate blank; I have no rest day or night: I
am become a burden to myself and others, and you might save me by a
word—a glance, and will not do it—is this right?”

“In the first place, _I_ don’t believe _you_,” answered I; “in the
second, if you will be such a fool, I can’t hinder it.”

“If you affect,” replied he, earnestly, “to regard as folly the best,
the strongest, the most godlike impulses of our nature, I don’t believe
you. I know you are not the heartless, icy being you pretend to be—you
had a heart once, and gave it to your husband. When you found him
utterly unworthy of the treasure, you reclaimed it; and you will not
_pretend_ that you loved that sensual, earthly-minded profligate so
deeply, so devotedly, that you can never love another? I know that
there are feelings in your nature that have never yet been called
forth; I know, too, that in your present neglected lonely state you are
and _must_ be miserable. You have it in your power to raise two human
beings from a state of actual suffering to such unspeakable beatitude
as only generous, noble, self-forgetting love can give (for you _can_
love me if you will); you may tell me that you scorn and detest me,
but, since you have set me the example of plain speaking, I will answer
that _I do not believe you!_ But you will not do it! you choose rather
to leave us miserable; and you coolly tell me it is the will of God
that we should remain so. _You_ may call this religion, but _I_ call it
wild fanaticism!”

“There is another life both for you and for me,” said I. “If it be the
will of God that we should sow in tears now, it is only that we may
reap in joy hereafter. It is His will that we should not injure others
by the gratification of our own earthly passions; and you have a
mother, and sisters, and friends who would be seriously injured by your
disgrace; and I, too, have friends, whose peace of mind shall never be
sacrificed to my enjoyment, or yours either, with my consent; and if I
were alone in the world, I have still my God and my religion, and I
would sooner die than disgrace my calling and break my faith with
heaven to obtain a few brief years of false and fleeting
happiness—happiness sure to end in misery even here—for myself or any
other!”

“There need be no disgrace, no misery or sacrifice in any quarter,”
persisted he. “I do not ask you to leave your home or defy the world’s
opinion.” But I need not repeat all his arguments. I refuted them to
the best of my power; but that power was provokingly small, at the
moment, for I was too much flurried with indignation—and even
shame—that he should thus dare to address me, to retain sufficient
command of thought and language to enable me adequately to contend
against his powerful sophistries. Finding, however, that he could not
be silenced by reason, and even covertly exulted in his seeming
advantage, and ventured to deride those assertions I had not the
coolness to prove, I changed my course and tried another plan.

“Do you really love me?” said I, seriously, pausing and looking him
calmly in the face.

“Do I love you!” cried he.

“_Truly?_” I demanded.

His countenance brightened; he thought his triumph was at hand. He
commenced a passionate protestation of the truth and fervour of his
attachment, which I cut short by another question:—

“But is it not a selfish love? Have you enough disinterested affection
to enable you to sacrifice your own pleasure to mine?”

“I would give my life to serve you.”

“I don’t want your life; but have you enough real sympathy for my
afflictions to induce you to make an effort to relieve them, at the
risk of a little discomfort to yourself?”

“Try me, and see.”

“If you have, _never mention this subject again_. You cannot recur to
it in any way without doubling the weight of those sufferings you so
feelingly deplore. I have nothing left me but the solace of a good
conscience and a hopeful trust in heaven, and you labour continually to
rob me of these. If you persist, I must regard you as my deadliest
foe.”

“But hear me a moment—”

“No, sir! You said you would give your life to serve me; I only ask
your _silence_ on one particular point. I have spoken plainly; and what
I say I mean. If you torment me in this way any more, I must conclude
that your protestations are entirely false, and that you hate me in
your heart as fervently as you profess to love me!”

He bit his lip, and bent his eyes upon the ground in silence for a
while.

“Then I must leave you,” said he at length, looking steadily upon me,
as if with the last hope of detecting some token of irrepressible
anguish or dismay awakened by those solemn words. “I must leave you. I
cannot live here, and be for ever silent on the all-absorbing subject
of my thoughts and wishes.”

“Formerly, I believe, you spent but little of your time at home,” I
answered; “it will do you no harm to absent yourself again, for a
while—if that be really necessary.”

“If that be really _possible_,” he muttered; “and can you bid me go so
coolly? Do you really wish it?”

“Most certainly I do. If you cannot see me without tormenting me as you
have lately done, I would gladly say farewell and never see you more.”

He made no answer, but, bending from his horse, held out his hand
towards me. I looked up at his face, and saw therein such a look of
genuine agony of soul, that, whether bitter disappointment, or wounded
pride, or lingering love, or burning wrath were uppermost, I could not
hesitate to put my hand in his as frankly as if I bade a friend
farewell. He grasped it very hard, and immediately put spurs to his
horse and galloped away. Very soon after, I learned that he was gone to
Paris, where he still is; and the longer he stays there the better for
me.

I thank God for this deliverance!




 CHAPTER XXXVIII


December 20th, 1826.—The fifth anniversary of my wedding-day, and, I
trust, the last I shall spend under this roof. My resolution is formed,
my plan concocted, and already partly put in execution. My conscience
does not blame me, but while the purpose ripens let me beguile a few of
these long winter evenings in stating the case for my own satisfaction:
a dreary amusement enough, but having the air of a useful occupation,
and being pursued as a task, it will suit me better than a lighter one.

In September, quiet Grassdale was again alive with a party of ladies
and gentlemen (so called), consisting of the same individuals as those
invited the year before last, with the addition of two or three others,
among whom were Mrs. Hargrave and her younger daughter. The gentlemen
and Lady Lowborough were invited for the pleasure and convenience of
the host; the other ladies, I suppose, for the sake of appearances, and
to keep me in check, and make me discreet and civil in my demeanour.
But the ladies stayed only three weeks; the gentlemen, with two
exceptions, above two months: for their hospitable entertainer was loth
to part with them and be left alone with his bright intellect, his
stainless conscience, and his loved and loving wife.

On the day of Lady Lowborough’s arrival, I followed her into her
chamber, and plainly told her that, if I found reason to believe that
she still continued her criminal connection with Mr. Huntingdon, I
should think it my absolute duty to inform her husband of the
circumstance—or awaken his suspicions at least—however painful it might
be, or however dreadful the consequences. She was startled at first by
the declaration, so unexpected, and so determinately yet calmly
delivered; but rallying in a moment, she coolly replied that, if I saw
anything at all reprehensible or suspicious in her conduct, she would
freely give me leave to tell his lordship all about it. Willing to be
satisfied with this, I left her; and certainly I saw nothing
thenceforth particularly reprehensible or suspicious in her demeanour
towards her host; but then I had the other guests to attend to, and I
did not watch them narrowly—for, to confess the truth, I _feared_ to
see anything between them. I no longer regarded it as any concern of
mine, and if it was my duty to enlighten Lord Lowborough, it was a
painful duty, and I dreaded to be called to perform it.

But my fears were brought to an end in a manner I had not anticipated.
One evening, about a fortnight after the visitors’ arrival, I had
retired into the library to snatch a few minutes’ respite from forced
cheerfulness and wearisome discourse, for after so long a period of
seclusion, dreary indeed as I had often found it, I could not always
bear to be doing violence to my feelings, and goading my powers to
talk, and smile and listen, and play the attentive hostess, or even the
cheerful friend: I had just ensconced myself within the bow of the
window, and was looking out upon the west, where the darkening hills
rose sharply defined against the clear amber light of evening, that
gradually blended and faded away into the pure, pale blue of the upper
sky, where one bright star was shining through, as if to promise—“When
that dying light is gone, the world will not be left in darkness, and
they who trust in God, whose minds are unbeclouded by the mists of
unbelief and sin, are never wholly comfortless,”—when I heard a hurried
step approaching, and Lord Lowborough entered. This room was still his
favourite resort. He flung the door to with unusual violence, and cast
his hat aside regardless where it fell. What could be the matter with
him? His face was ghastly pale; his eyes were fixed upon the ground;
his teeth clenched: his forehead glistened with the dews of agony. It
was plain he knew his wrongs at last!

Unconscious of my presence, he began to pace the room in a state of
fearful agitation, violently wringing his hands and uttering low groans
or incoherent ejaculations. I made a movement to let him know that he
was not alone; but he was too preoccupied to notice it. Perhaps, while
his back was towards me, I might cross the room and slip away
unobserved. I rose to make the attempt, but then he perceived me. He
started and stood still a moment; then wiped his streaming forehead,
and, advancing towards me, with a kind of unnatural composure, said in
a deep, almost sepulchral tone,—“Mrs. Huntingdon, I must leave you
to-morrow.”

“To-morrow!” I repeated. “I do not ask the cause.”

“You know it then, and you can be so calm!” said he, surveying me with
profound astonishment, not unmingled with a kind of resentful
bitterness, as it appeared to me.

“I have so long been aware of—” I paused in time, and added, “of my
husband’s character, that nothing shocks me.”

“But _this_—how long have you been aware of this?” demanded he, laying
his clenched hand on the table beside him, and looking me keenly and
fixedly in the face.

I felt like a criminal.

“Not long,” I answered.

“You knew it!” cried he, with bitter vehemence—“and you did not tell
me! You helped to deceive me!”

“My lord, I did _not_ help to deceive you.”

“Then why did you not tell me?”

“Because I knew it would be painful to you. I hoped she would return to
her duty, and then there would be no need to harrow your feelings with
such—”

“O God! how long has this been going on? How long has it been, Mrs.
Huntingdon?—Tell me—I MUST know!” exclaimed, with intense and fearful
eagerness.

“Two years, I believe.”

“Great heaven! and she has duped me all this time!” He turned away with
a suppressed groan of agony, and paced the room again in a paroxysm of
renewed agitation. My heart smote me; but I would try to console him,
though I knew not how to attempt it.

“She is a wicked woman,” I said. “She has basely deceived and betrayed
you. She is as little worthy of your regret as she was of your
affection. Let her injure you no further; abstract yourself from her,
and stand alone.”

“And you, Madam,” said he sternly, arresting himself, and turning round
upon me, “you have injured me too by this ungenerous concealment!”

There was a sudden revulsion in my feelings. Something rose within me,
and urged me to resent this harsh return for my heartfelt sympathy, and
defend myself with answering severity. Happily, I did not yield to the
impulse. I saw his anguish as, suddenly smiting his forehead, he turned
abruptly to the window, and, looking upward at the placid sky, murmured
passionately, “O God, that I might die!”—and felt that to add one drop
of bitterness to that already overflowing cup would be ungenerous
indeed. And yet I fear there was more coldness than gentleness in the
quiet tone of my reply:—“I might offer many excuses that some would
admit to be valid, but I will not attempt to enumerate them—”

“I know them,” said he hastily: “you would say that it was no business
of yours: that I ought to have taken care of myself; that if my own
blindness has led me into this pit of hell, I have no right to blame
another for giving me credit for a larger amount of sagacity than I
possessed—”

“I confess I was wrong,” continued I, without regarding this bitter
interruption; “but whether want of courage or mistaken kindness was the
cause of my error, I think you blame me too severely. I told Lady
Lowborough two weeks ago, the very hour she came, that I should
certainly think it my duty to inform you if she continued to deceive
you: she gave me full liberty to do so if I should see anything
reprehensible or suspicious in her conduct; I have seen nothing; and I
trusted she had altered her course.”

He continued gazing from the window while I spoke, and did not answer,
but, stung by the recollections my words awakened, stamped his foot
upon the floor, ground his teeth, and corrugated his brow, like one
under the influence of acute physical pain.

“It was wrong, it was wrong!” he muttered at length. “Nothing can
excuse it; nothing can atone for it,—for nothing can recall those years
of cursed credulity; nothing obliterate them!—nothing, nothing!” he
repeated in a whisper, whose despairing bitterness precluded all
resentment.

“When I put the case to myself, I own it _was_ wrong,” I answered; “but
I can only now regret that I did not see it in this light before, and
that, as you say, nothing can recall the past.”

Something in my voice or in the spirit of this answer seemed to alter
his mood. Turning towards me, and attentively surveying my face by the
dim light, he said, in a milder tone than he had yet employed,—“You,
too, have suffered, I suppose.”

“I suffered much, at first.”

“When was that?”

“Two years ago; and two years hence you will be as calm as I am now,
and far, far happier, I trust, for you are a man, and free to act as
you please.”

Something like a smile, but a _very_ bitter one, crossed his face for a
moment.

“You have not been happy, lately?” he said, with a kind of effort to
regain composure, and a determination to waive the further discussion
of his own calamity.

“Happy?” I repeated, almost provoked at such a question. “Could I be
so, with such a husband?”

“I have noticed a change in your appearance since the first years of
your marriage,” pursued he: “I observed it to—to that infernal demon,”
he muttered between his teeth; “and he said it was your own sour temper
that was eating away your bloom: it was making you old and ugly before
your time, and had already made his fireside as comfortless as a
convent cell. You smile, Mrs. Huntingdon; nothing moves you. I wish my
nature were as calm as yours.”

“My nature was not originally calm,” said I. “I have learned to appear
so by dint of hard lessons and many repeated efforts.”

At this juncture Mr. Hattersley burst into the room.

“Hallo, Lowborough!” he began—“Oh! I beg your pardon,” he exclaimed on
seeing me. “I didn’t know it was a _tête-à-tête_. Cheer up, man,” he
continued, giving Lord Lowborough a thump on the back, which caused the
latter to recoil from him with looks of ineffable disgust and
irritation. “Come, I want to speak with you a bit.”

“Speak, then.”

“But I’m not sure it would be quite agreeable to the lady what I have
to say.”

“Then it would not be agreeable to me,” said his lordship, turning to
leave the room.

“Yes, it would,” cried the other, following him into the hall. “If
you’ve the heart of a man, it would be the very ticket for you. It’s
just this, my lad,” he continued, rather lowering his voice, but not
enough to prevent me from hearing every word he said, though the
half-closed door stood between us. “I think you’re an ill-used man—nay,
now, don’t flare up; I don’t want to offend you: it’s only my rough way
of talking. I must speak right out, you _know_, or else not at all; and
I’m come—stop now! let me explain—I’m come to offer you my services,
for though Huntingdon is my friend, he’s a devilish scamp, as we all
know, and I’ll be _your_ friend for the nonce. I know what it is you
want, to make matters straight: it’s just to exchange a shot with him,
and then you’ll feel yourself all right again; and if an accident
happens—why, that’ll be all right too, I daresay, to a desperate fellow
like you. Come now, give me your hand, and don’t look so black upon it.
Name time and place, and I’ll manage the rest.”

“That,” answered the more low, deliberate voice of Lord Lowborough, “is
just the remedy my own heart, or the devil within it, suggested—to meet
him, and _not to sever without blood_. Whether I or he should fall, or
both, it would be an _inexpressible_ relief to me, if—”

“Just so! Well then,—”

“No!” exclaimed his lordship, with deep, determined emphasis. “Though I
hate him from my heart, and should rejoice at any calamity that could
befall him, I’ll leave him to God; and though I abhor my own life, I’ll
leave that, too, to Him that gave it.”

“But you see, in this case,” pleaded Hattersley—

“I’ll not hear you!” exclaimed his companion, hastily turning away.
“Not another word! I’ve enough to do against the fiend within me.”

“Then you’re a white-livered fool, and I wash my hands of you,”
grumbled the tempter, as he swung himself round and departed.

“Right, right, Lord Lowborough,” cried I, darting out and clasping his
burning hand, as he was moving away to the stairs. “I begin to think
the world is not worthy of you!” Not understanding this sudden
ebullition, he turned upon me with a stare of gloomy, bewildered
amazement, that made me ashamed of the impulse to which I had yielded;
but soon a more humanised expression dawned upon his countenance, and
before I could withdraw my hand, he pressed it kindly, while a gleam of
genuine feeling flashed from his eyes as he murmured, “God help us
both!”

“Amen!” responded I; and we parted.

I returned to the drawing-room, where, doubtless, my presence would be
expected by most, desired by one or two. In the ante-room was Mr.
Hattersley, railing against Lord Lowborough’s poltroonery before a
select audience, viz. Mr. Huntingdon, who was lounging against the
table, exulting in his own treacherous villainy, and laughing his
victim to scorn, and Mr. Grimsby, standing by, quietly rubbing his
hands and chuckling with fiendish satisfaction.

In the drawing-room I found Lady Lowborough, evidently in no very
enviable state of mind, and struggling hard to conceal her discomposure
by an overstrained affectation of unusual cheerfulness and vivacity,
very uncalled-for under the circumstances, for she had herself given
the company to understand that her husband had received unpleasant
intelligence from home, which necessitated his immediate departure, and
that he had suffered it so to bother his mind that it had brought on a
bilious headache, owing to which, and the preparations he judged
necessary to hasten his departure, she believed they would not have the
pleasure of seeing him to-night. However, she asserted, it was only a
business concern, and so she did not intend it should trouble _her._
She was just saying this as I entered, and she darted upon me such a
glance of hardihood and defiance as at once astonished and revolted me.

“But I _am_ troubled,” continued she, “and vexed too, for I think it my
duty to accompany his lordship, and of course I am very sorry to part
with all my kind friends so unexpectedly and so soon.”

“And yet, Annabella,” said Esther, who was sitting beside her, “I never
saw you in better spirits in my life.”

“Precisely so, my love: because I wish to make the best of your
society, since it appears this is to be the last night I am to enjoy it
till heaven knows when; and I wish to leave a good impression on you
all,”—she glanced round, and seeing her aunt’s eye fixed upon her,
rather too scrutinizingly, as she probably thought, she started up and
continued: “To which end I’ll give you a song—shall I, aunt? shall I,
Mrs. Huntingdon? shall I ladies and gentlemen all? Very well. I’ll do
my best to amuse you.”

She and Lord Lowborough occupied the apartments next to mine. I know
not how _she_ passed the night, but I lay awake the greater part of it
listening to his heavy step pacing monotonously up and down his
dressing-room, which was nearest my chamber. Once I heard him pause and
throw something out of the window with a passionate ejaculation; and in
the morning, after they were gone, a keen-bladed clasp-knife was found
on the grass-plot below; a razor, likewise, was snapped in two and
thrust deep into the cinders of the grate, but partially corroded by
the decaying embers. So strong had been the temptation to end his
miserable life, so determined his resolution to resist it.

My heart bled for him as I lay listening to that ceaseless tread.
Hitherto I had thought too much of myself, too little of him: now I
forgot my own afflictions, and thought only of his; of the ardent
affection so miserably wasted, the fond faith so cruelly betrayed,
the—no, I will not attempt to enumerate his wrongs—but I hated his wife
and my husband more intensely than ever, and not for my sake, but for
his.

They departed early in the morning, before any one else was down,
except myself, and just as I was leaving my room Lord Lowborough was
descending to take his place in the carriage, where his lady was
already ensconced; and Arthur (or Mr. Huntingdon, as I prefer calling
him, for the other is my child’s name) had the gratuitous insolence to
come out in his dressing-gown to bid his “friend” good-by.

“What, going already, Lowborough!” said he. “Well, good-morning.” He
smilingly offered his hand.

I think the other would have knocked him down, had he not instinctively
started back before that bony fist quivering with rage and clenched
till the knuckles gleamed white and glistening through the skin.
Looking upon him with a countenance livid with furious hate, Lord
Lowborough muttered between his closed teeth a deadly execration he
would not have uttered had he been calm enough to choose his words, and
departed.

“I call that an unchristian spirit now,” said the villain. “But I’d
never give up an old friend for the sake of a wife. You may have mine
if you like, and I call that handsome; I can do no more than offer
restitution, can I?”

But Lowborough had gained the bottom of the stairs, and was now
crossing the hall; and Mr. Huntingdon, leaning over the banisters,
called out, “Give my love to Annabella! and I wish you both a happy
journey,” and withdrew, laughing, to his chamber.

He subsequently expressed himself rather glad she was gone. “She was so
deuced imperious and exacting,” said he. “Now I shall be my own man
again, and feel rather more at my ease.”




 CHAPTER XXXIX


My greatest source of uneasiness, in this time of trial, was my son,
whom his father and his father’s friends delighted to encourage in all
the embryo vices a little child can show, and to instruct in all the
evil habits he could acquire—in a word, to “make a man of him” was one
of their staple amusements; and I need say no more to justify my alarm
on his account, and my determination to deliver him at any hazard from
the hands of such instructors. I first attempted to keep him always
with me, or in the nursery, and gave Rachel particular injunctions
never to let him come down to dessert as long as these “gentlemen”
stayed; but it was no use: these orders were immediately countermanded
and overruled by his father; he was not going to have the little fellow
moped to death between an old nurse and a cursed fool of a mother. So
the little fellow came down every evening in spite of his cross mamma,
and learned to tipple wine like papa, to swear like Mr. Hattersley, and
to have his own way like a man, and sent mamma to the devil when she
tried to prevent him. To see such things done with the roguish naïveté
of that pretty little child, and hear such things spoken by that small
infantile voice, was as peculiarly piquant and irresistibly droll to
them as it was inexpressibly distressing and painful to me; and when he
had set the table in a roar he would look round delightedly upon them
all, and add his shrill laugh to theirs. But if that beaming blue eye
rested on me, its light would vanish for a moment, and he would say, in
some concern, “Mamma, why don’t _you_ laugh? Make her laugh, papa—she
never will.”

Hence was I obliged to stay among these human brutes, watching an
opportunity to get my child away from them instead of leaving them
immediately after the removal of the cloth, as I should always
otherwise have done. He was never willing to go, and I frequently had
to carry him away by force, for which he thought me very cruel and
unjust; and sometimes his father would insist upon my letting him
remain; and then I would leave him to his kind friends, and retire to
indulge my bitterness and despair alone, or to rack my brains for a
remedy to this great evil.

But here again I must do Mr. Hargrave the justice to acknowledge that I
never saw _him_ laugh at the child’s misdemeanours, nor heard him utter
a word of encouragement to his aspirations after manly accomplishments.
But when anything very extraordinary was said or done by the infant
profligate, I noticed, at times, a peculiar expression in his face that
I could neither interpret nor define: a slight twitching about the
muscles of the mouth; a sudden flash in the eye, as he darted a sudden
glance at the child and then at me: and then I could fancy there arose
a gleam of hard, keen, sombre satisfaction in his countenance at the
look of impotent wrath and anguish he was too certain to behold in
mine. But on one occasion, when Arthur had been behaving particularly
ill, and Mr. Huntingdon and his guests had been particularly provoking
and insulting to me in their encouragement of him, and I particularly
anxious to get him out of the room, and on the very point of demeaning
myself by a burst of uncontrollable passion—Mr. Hargrave suddenly rose
from his seat with an aspect of stern determination, lifted the child
from his father’s knee, where he was sitting half-tipsy, cocking his
head and laughing at me, and execrating me with words he little knew
the meaning of, handed him out of the room, and, setting him down in
the hall, held the door open for me, gravely bowed as I withdrew, and
closed it after me. I heard high words exchanged between him and his
already half-inebriated host as I departed, leading away my bewildered
and disconcerted boy.

But this should not continue: my child must not be abandoned to this
corruption: better far that he should live in poverty and obscurity,
with a fugitive mother, than in luxury and affluence with such a
father. These guests might not be with us long, but they would return
again: and he, the most injurious of the whole, his child’s worst
enemy, would still remain. I could endure it for myself, but for my son
it must be borne no longer: the world’s opinion and the feelings of my
friends must be alike unheeded here, at least—alike unable to deter me
from my duty. But where should I find an asylum, and how obtain
subsistence for us both? Oh, I would take my precious charge at early
dawn, take the coach to M——, flee to the port of ——, cross the
Atlantic, and seek a quiet, humble home in New England, where I would
support myself and him by the labour of my hands. The palette and the
easel, my darling playmates once, must be my sober toil-fellows now.
But was I sufficiently skilful as an artist to obtain my livelihood in
a strange land, without friends and without recommendation? No; I must
wait a little; I must labour hard to improve my talent, and to produce
something worth while as a specimen of my powers, something to speak
favourably for me, whether as an actual painter or a teacher. Brilliant
success, of course, I did not look for, but some degree of security
from positive failure was indispensable: I must not take my son to
starve. And then I must have money for the journey, the passage, and
some little to support us in our retreat in case I should be
unsuccessful at first: and not too little either: for who could tell
how long I might have to struggle with the indifference or neglect of
others, or my own inexperience or inability to suit their tastes?

What should I do then? Apply to my brother and explain my circumstances
and my resolves to him? No, no: even if I told him _all_ my grievances,
which I should be very reluctant to do, he would be certain to
disapprove of the step: it would seem like madness to him, as it would
to my uncle and aunt, or to Milicent. No; I must have patience and
gather a hoard of my own. Rachel should be my only confidante—I thought
I could persuade her into the scheme; and she should help me, first, to
find out a picture-dealer in some distant town; then, through her
means, I would privately sell what pictures I had on hand that would do
for such a purpose, and some of those I should thereafter paint.
Besides this, I would contrive to dispose of my jewels, not the family
jewels, but the few I brought with me from home, and those my uncle
gave me on my marriage. A few months’ arduous toil might well be borne
by me with such an end in view; and in the interim my son could not be
much more injured than he was already.

Having formed this resolution, I immediately set to work to accomplish
it, I might possibly have been induced to wax cool upon it afterwards,
or perhaps to keep weighing the pros and cons in my mind till the
latter overbalanced the former, and I was driven to relinquish the
project altogether, or delay the execution of it to an indefinite
period, had not something occurred to confirm me in that determination,
to which I still adhere, which I still think I did well to form, and
shall do better to execute.

Since Lord Lowborough’s departure I had regarded the library as
entirely my own, a secure retreat at all hours of the day. None of our
gentlemen had the smallest pretensions to a literary taste, except Mr.
Hargrave; and he, at present, was quite contented with the newspapers
and periodicals of the day. And if, by any chance, he should look in
here, I felt assured he would soon depart on seeing me, for, instead of
becoming less cool and distant towards me, he had become decidedly more
so since the departure of his mother and sisters, which was just what I
wished. Here, then, I set up my easel, and here I worked at my canvas
from daylight till dusk, with very little intermission, saving when
pure necessity, or my duties to little Arthur, called me away: for I
still thought proper to devote some portion of every day exclusively to
his instruction and amusement. But, contrary to my expectation, on the
third morning, while I was thus employed, Mr. Hargrave _did_ look in,
and did _not_ immediately withdraw on seeing me. He apologized for his
intrusion, and said he was only come for a book; but when he had got
it, he condescended to cast a glance over my picture. Being a man of
taste, he had something to say on this subject as well as another, and
having modestly commented on it, without much encouragement from me, he
proceeded to expatiate on the art in general. Receiving no
encouragement in that either, he dropped it, but did not depart.

“You don’t give us much of your company, Mrs. Huntingdon,” observed he,
after a brief pause, during which I went on coolly mixing and tempering
my colours; “and I cannot wonder at it, for you must be heartily sick
of us all. I myself am so thoroughly ashamed of my companions, and so
weary of their irrational conversation and pursuits—now that there is
no one to humanize them and keep them in check, since you have justly
abandoned us to our own devices—that I think I shall presently withdraw
from amongst them, probably within this week; and I cannot suppose you
will regret my departure.”

He paused. I did not answer.

“Probably,” he added, with a smile, “your only regret on the subject
will be that I do not take all my companions along with me. I flatter
myself, at times, that though among them I am not of them; but it is
natural that you should be glad to get rid of me. I may regret this,
but I cannot blame you for it.”

“I shall not rejoice at _your_ departure, for you _can_ conduct
yourself like a gentleman,” said I, thinking it but right to make some
acknowledgment for his good behaviour; “but I must confess I shall
rejoice to bid adieu to the rest, inhospitable as it may appear.”

“No one can blame you for such an avowal,” replied he gravely: “not
even the gentlemen themselves, I imagine. I’ll just tell you,” he
continued, as if actuated by a sudden resolution, “what was said last
night in the dining-room, after you left us: perhaps you will not mind
it, as you’re so _very_ philosophical on certain points,” he added with
a slight sneer. “They were talking about Lord Lowborough and his
delectable lady, the cause of whose sudden departure is no secret
amongst them; and her character is so well known to them all, that,
nearly related to me as she is, I could not attempt to defend it. Curse
me!” he muttered, _par parenthése_, “if I don’t have vengeance for
this! If the villain must disgrace the family, must he blazon it abroad
to every low-bred knave of his acquaintance? I beg your pardon, Mrs.
Huntingdon. Well, they were talking of these things, and some of them
remarked that, as she was separated from her husband, he might see her
again when he pleased.”

“‘Thank you,’ said he; ‘I’ve had enough of her for the present: I’ll
not trouble to see her, unless she comes to me.’

“‘Then what do you mean to do, Huntingdon, when we’re gone?’ said Ralph
Hattersley. ‘Do you mean to turn from the error of your ways, and be a
good husband, a good father, and so forth; as I do, when I get shut of
you and all these rollicking devils you call your friends? I think it’s
time; and your wife is fifty times too good for you, you _know_—’

“And he added some praise of you, which you would not thank me for
repeating, nor him for uttering; proclaiming it aloud, as he did,
without delicacy or discrimination, in an audience where it seemed
profanation to utter your name: himself utterly incapable of
understanding or appreciating your real excellences. Huntingdon,
meanwhile, sat quietly drinking his wine,—or looking smilingly into his
glass and offering no interruption or reply, till Hattersley shouted
out,—‘Do you hear me, man?’

“‘Yes, go on,’ said he.

“‘Nay, I’ve done,’ replied the other: ‘I only want to know if you
intend to take my advice.’

“‘What advice?’

“‘To turn over a new leaf, you double-dyed scoundrel,’ shouted Ralph,
‘and beg your wife’s pardon, and be a good boy for the future.’

“‘My wife! what wife? I have no wife,’ replied Huntingdon, looking
innocently up from his glass, ‘or if I have, look you, gentlemen: I
value her so highly that any one among you, that can fancy her, may
have her and welcome: you may, by Jove, and my blessing into the
bargain!’

“I—hem—someone asked if he really meant what he said; upon which he
solemnly swore he did, and no mistake. What do you think of that, Mrs.
Huntingdon?” asked Mr. Hargrave, after a short pause, during which I
had felt he was keenly examining my half-averted face.

“I say,” replied I, calmly, “that what he prizes so lightly will not be
long in his possession.”

“You cannot mean that you will break your heart and die for the
detestable conduct of an infamous villain like that!”

“By no means: my heart is too thoroughly dried to be broken in a hurry,
and I mean to live as long as I can.”

“Will you leave him then?”

“Yes.”

“When: and how?” asked he, eagerly.

“_When_ I am ready, and _how_ I can manage it most effectually.”

“But your child?”

“My child goes with me.”

“He will not allow it.”

“I shall not ask him.”

“Ah, then, it is a secret flight you meditate! but with whom, Mrs.
Huntingdon?”

“With my son: and possibly, his nurse.”

“Alone—and unprotected! But where can you go? what can you do? He will
follow you and bring you back.”

“I have laid my plans too well for that. Let me once get clear of
Grassdale, and I shall consider myself safe.”

Mr. Hargrave advanced one step towards me, looked me in the face, and
drew in his breath to speak; but that look, that heightened colour,
that sudden sparkle of the eye, made my blood rise in wrath: I abruptly
turned away, and, snatching up my brush, began to dash away at my
canvas with rather too much energy for the good of the picture.

“Mrs. Huntingdon,” said he with bitter solemnity, “you are cruel—cruel
to me—cruel to yourself.”

“Mr. Hargrave, remember your promise.”

“I _must_ speak: my heart will burst if I don’t! I have been silent
long enough, and you _must_ hear me!” cried he, boldly intercepting my
retreat to the door. “You tell me you owe no allegiance to your
husband; he openly declares himself weary of you, and calmly gives you
up to anybody that will take you; you are about to leave him; no one
will believe that you go alone; all the world will say, ‘She has left
him at last, and who can wonder at it? Few can blame her, fewer still
can pity him; but who is the companion of her flight?’ Thus you will
have no credit for your virtue (if you call it such): even your best
friends will not believe in it; because it is monstrous, and not to be
credited but by those who suffer, from the effects of it, such cruel
torments that they know it to be indeed reality. But what can you do in
the cold, rough world alone? you, a young and inexperienced woman,
delicately nurtured, and utterly—”

“In a word, you would advise me to stay where I am,” interrupted I.
“Well, I’ll see about it.”

“By _all means_, leave him!” cried he earnestly; “but NOT alone! Helen!
let _me_ protect you!”

“Never! while heaven spares my reason,” replied I, snatching away the
hand he had presumed to seize and press between his own. But he was in
for it now; he had fairly broken the barrier: he was completely roused,
and determined to hazard all for victory.

“I must not be denied!” exclaimed he, vehemently; and seizing both my
hands, he held them very tight, but dropped upon his knee, and looked
up in my face with a half-imploring, half-imperious gaze. “You have no
reason now: you are flying in the face of heaven’s decrees. God has
designed me to be your comfort and protector—I feel it, I know it as
certainly as if a voice from heaven declared, ‘Ye twain shall be one
flesh’—and you spurn me from you—”

“Let me go, Mr. Hargrave!” said I, sternly. But he only tightened his
grasp.

“Let me go!” I repeated, quivering with indignation.

His face was almost opposite the window as he knelt. With a slight
start, I saw him glance towards it; and then a gleam of malicious
triumph lit up his countenance. Looking over my shoulder, I beheld a
shadow just retiring round the corner.

“That is Grimsby,” said he deliberately. “He will report what he has
seen to Huntingdon and all the rest, with such embellishments as he
thinks proper. He has no love for you, Mrs. Huntingdon—no reverence for
your sex, no belief in virtue, no admiration for its image. He will
give such a version of this story as will leave no doubt at all about
your character, in the minds of those who hear it. Your fair fame is
gone; and nothing that I or you can say can ever retrieve it. But give
me the power to protect you, and show me the villain that dares to
insult!”

“No one has ever dared to insult me as you are doing now!” said I, at
length releasing my hands, and recoiling from him.

“I do not insult you,” cried he: “I worship you. You are my angel, my
divinity! I lay my powers at your feet, and you must and shall accept
them!” he exclaimed, impetuously starting to his feet. “I _will_ be
your consoler and defender! and if your conscience upbraid you for it,
say I overcame you, and you could not choose but yield!”

I never saw a man go terribly excited. He precipitated himself towards
me. I snatched up my palette-knife and held it against him. This
startled him: he stood and gazed at me in astonishment; I daresay I
looked as fierce and resolute as he. I moved to the bell, and put my
hand upon the cord. This tamed him still more. With a
half-authoritative, half-deprecating wave of the hand, he sought to
deter me from ringing.

“Stand off, then!” said I; he stepped back. “And listen to me. I don’t
like you,” I continued, as deliberately and emphatically as I could, to
give the greater efficacy to my words; “and if I were divorced from my
husband, or if he were dead, I would not marry you. There now! I hope
you’re satisfied.”

His face grew blanched with anger.

“I _am_ satisfied,” he replied, with bitter emphasis, “that you are the
most cold-hearted, unnatural, ungrateful woman I ever yet beheld!”

“Ungrateful, sir?”

“Ungrateful.”

“No, Mr. Hargrave, I am not. For all the good you ever did me, or ever
wished to do, I most sincerely thank you: for all the evil you have
done me, and all you would have done, I pray God to pardon you, and
make you of a better mind.”

Here the door was thrown open, and Messrs. Huntingdon and Hattersley
appeared without. The latter remained in the hall, busy with his ramrod
and his gun; the former walked in, and stood with his back to the fire,
surveying Mr. Hargrave and me, particularly the former, with a smile of
insupportable meaning, accompanied as it was by the impudence of his
brazen brow, and the sly, malicious, twinkle of his eye.

“Well, sir?” said Hargrave, interrogatively, and with the air of one
prepared to stand on the defensive.

“Well, sir,” returned his host.

“We want to know if you are at liberty to join us in a go at the
pheasants, Walter,” interposed Hattersley from without. “Come! there
shall be nothing shot besides, except a puss or two; _I’ll_ vouch for
that.”

Walter did not answer, but walked to the window to collect his
faculties. Arthur uttered a low whistle, and followed him with his
eyes. A slight flush of anger rose to Hargrave’s cheek; but in a moment
he turned calmly round, and said carelessly:

“I came here to bid farewell to Mrs. Huntingdon, and tell her I must go
to-morrow.”

“Humph! You’re mighty sudden in your resolution. What takes you off so
soon, may I ask?”

“Business,” returned he, repelling the other’s incredulous sneer with a
glance of scornful defiance.

“Very good,” was the reply; and Hargrave walked away. Thereupon Mr.
Huntingdon, gathering his coat-laps under his arms, and setting his
shoulder against the mantel-piece, turned to me, and, addressing me in
a low voice, scarcely above his breath, poured forth a volley of the
vilest and grossest abuse it was possible for the imagination to
conceive or the tongue to utter. I did not attempt to interrupt him;
but my spirit kindled within me, and when he had done, I replied, “If
your accusation were true, Mr. Huntingdon, how _dare you_ blame me?”

“She’s hit it, by Jove!” cried Hattersley, rearing his gun against the
wall; and, stepping into the room, he took his precious friend by the
arm, and attempted to drag him away. “Come, my lad,” he muttered; “true
or false, _you’ve_ no right to blame her, you _know_, nor him either;
after what you said last night. So come along.”

There was something implied here that I could not endure.

“Dare you suspect me, Mr. Hattersley?” said I, almost beside myself
with fury.

“Nay, nay, I suspect nobody. It’s all right, it’s all right. So come
along, Huntingdon, you blackguard.”

“She can’t deny it!” cried the gentleman thus addressed, grinning in
mingled rage and triumph. “She can’t deny it if her life depended on
it!” and muttering some more abusive language, he walked into the hall,
and took up his hat and gun from the table.

“I scorn to justify myself to you!” said I. “But you,” turning to
Hattersley, “if you presume to have any doubts on the subject, ask Mr.
Hargrave.”

At this they simultaneously burst into a rude laugh that made my whole
frame tingle to the fingers’ ends.

“Where is he? I’ll ask him myself!” said I, advancing towards them.

Suppressing a new burst of merriment, Hattersley pointed to the outer
door. It was half open. His brother-in-law was standing on the front
without.

“Mr. Hargrave, will you please to step this way?” said I.

He turned and looked at me in grave surprise.

“Step this way, if you please!” I repeated, in so determined a manner
that he could not, or did not choose to resist its authority. Somewhat
reluctantly he ascended the steps and advanced a pace or two into the
hall.

“And tell those gentlemen,” I continued—“these men, whether or not I
yielded to your solicitations.”

“I don’t understand you, Mrs. Huntingdon.”

“You _do_ understand me, sir; and I charge you, upon your honour as a
gentleman (if you have any), to answer truly. Did I, or did I not?”

“No,” muttered he, turning away.

“Speak up, sir; they can’t hear you. Did I grant your request?

“You did not.”

“No, I’ll be sworn she didn’t,” said Hattersley, “or he’d never look so
black.”

“I’m willing to grant you the satisfaction of a gentleman, Huntingdon,”
said Mr. Hargrave, calmly addressing his host, but with a bitter sneer
upon his countenance.

“Go to the deuce!” replied the latter, with an impatient jerk of the
head. Hargrave withdrew with a look of cold disdain, saying,—“You know
where to find me, should you feel disposed to send a friend.”

Muttered oaths and curses were all the answer this intimation obtained.

“Now, Huntingdon, you see!” said Hattersley. “Clear as the day.”

“I don’t care _what_ he sees,” said I, “or what he imagines; but you,
Mr. Hattersley, when you hear my name belied and slandered, will you
defend it?”

“I will.”

I instantly departed and shut myself into the library. What could
possess me to make such a request of such a man I cannot tell; but
drowning men catch at straws: they had driven me desperate between
them; I hardly knew what I said. There was no other to preserve my name
from being blackened and aspersed among this nest of boon companions,
and through them, perhaps, into the world; and beside my abandoned
wretch of a husband, the base, malignant Grimsby, and the false villain
Hargrave, this boorish ruffian, coarse and brutal as he was, shone like
a glow-worm in the dark, among its fellow worms.

What a scene was this! Could I ever have imagined that I should be
doomed to bear such insults under my own roof—to hear such things
spoken in my presence; nay, spoken _to_ me and _of_ me; and by those
who arrogated to themselves the name of gentlemen? And could I have
imagined that I should have been able to endure it as calmly, and to
repel their insults as firmly and as boldly as I had done? A hardness
such as this is taught by rough experience and despair alone.

Such thoughts as these chased one another through my mind, as I paced
to and fro the room, and longed—oh, _how_ I longed—to take my child and
leave them now, without an hour’s delay! But it could not be; there was
work before me: hard work, that must be done.

“Then let me do it,” said I, “and lose not a moment in vain repinings
and idle chafings against my fate, and those who influence it.”

And conquering my agitation with a powerful effort, I immediately
resumed my task, and laboured hard all day.

Mr. Hargrave did depart on the morrow; and I have never seen him since.
The others stayed on for two or three weeks longer; but I kept aloof
from them as much as possible, and still continued my labour, and have
continued it, with almost unabated ardour, to the present day. I soon
acquainted Rachel with my design, confiding all my motives and
intentions to her ear, and, much to my agreeable surprise, found little
difficulty in persuading her to enter into my views. She is a sober,
cautious woman, but she so hates her master, and so loves her mistress
and her nursling, that after several ejaculations, a few faint
objections, and many tears and lamentations that I should be brought to
such a pass, she applauded my resolution and consented to aid me with
all her might: on one condition only: that she might share my exile:
otherwise, she was utterly inexorable, regarding it as perfect madness
for me and Arthur to go alone. With touching generosity, she modestly
offered to aid me with her little hoard of savings, hoping I would
“excuse her for the liberty, but really, if I would do her the favour
to accept it as a loan, she would be very happy.” Of course I could not
think of such a thing; but now, thank heaven, I have gathered a little
hoard of my own, and my preparations are so far advanced that I am
looking forward to a speedy emancipation. Only let the stormy severity
of this winter weather be somewhat abated, and then, some morning, Mr.
Huntingdon will come down to a solitary breakfast-table, and perhaps be
clamouring through the house for his invisible wife and child, when
they are some fifty miles on their way to the Western world, or it may
be more: for we shall leave him hours before the dawn, and it is not
probable he will discover the loss of both until the day is far
advanced.

I am fully alive to the evils that may and must result upon the step I
am about to take; but I never waver in my resolution, because I never
forget my son. It was only this morning, while I pursued my usual
employment, he was sitting at my feet, quietly playing with the shreds
of canvas I had thrown upon the carpet; but his mind was otherwise
occupied, for, in a while, he looked up wistfully in my face, and
gravely asked,—“Mamma, why are you wicked?”

“Who told you I was wicked, love?”

“Rachel.”

“No, Arthur, Rachel never said so, I am certain.”

“Well, then, it was papa,” replied he, thoughtfully. Then, after a
reflective pause, he added, “At least, I’ll tell you how it was I got
to know: when I’m with papa, if I say mamma wants me, or mamma says I’m
not to do something that he tells me to do, he always says, ‘Mamma be
damned,’ and Rachel says it’s only wicked people that are damned. So,
mamma, that’s why I think you must be wicked: and I wish you wouldn’t.”

“My dear child, I am not. Those are bad words, and wicked people often
say them of others better than themselves. Those words cannot make
people be damned, nor show that they deserve it. God will judge us by
our own thoughts and deeds, not by what others say about us. And when
you hear such words spoken, Arthur, remember never to repeat them: it
is wicked to say such things of others, not to have them said against
you.”

“Then it’s papa that’s wicked,” said he, ruefully.

“Papa is wrong to say such things, and you will be very wrong to
imitate him now that you know better.”

“What _is_ imitate?”

“To do as he does.”

“Does _he_ know better?”

“Perhaps he does; but that is nothing to you.”

“If he doesn’t, you ought to tell him, mamma.”

“I _have_ told him.”

The little moralist paused and pondered. I tried in vain to divert his
mind from the subject.

“I’m sorry papa’s wicked,” said he mournfully, at length, “for I don’t
want him to go to hell.” And so saying he burst into tears.

I consoled him with the hope that perhaps his papa would alter and
become good before he died—; but is it not time to deliver him from
such a parent?




 CHAPTER XL


January 10th, 1827.—While writing the above, yesterday evening, I sat
in the drawing-room. Mr. Huntingdon was present, but, as I thought,
asleep on the sofa behind me. He had risen, however, unknown to me,
and, actuated by some base spirit of curiosity, been looking over my
shoulder for I know not how long; for when I had laid aside my pen, and
was about to close the book, he suddenly placed his hand upon it, and
saying,—“With your leave, my dear, I’ll have a look at this,” forcibly
wrested it from me, and, drawing a chair to the table, composedly sat
down to examine it: turning back leaf after leaf to find an explanation
of what he had read. Unluckily for me, he was more sober that night
than he usually is at such an hour.

Of course I did not leave him to pursue this occupation in quiet: I
made several attempts to snatch the book from his hands, but he held it
too firmly for that; I upbraided him in bitterness and scorn for his
mean and dishonourable conduct, but that had no effect upon him; and,
finally, I extinguished both the candles, but he only wheeled round to
the fire, and raising a blaze sufficient for his purposes, calmly
continued the investigation. I had serious thoughts of getting a
pitcher of water and extinguishing that light too; but it was evident
his curiosity was too keenly excited to be quenched by that, and the
more I manifested my anxiety to baffle his scrutiny, the greater would
be his determination to persist in it, besides it was too late.

“It seems very interesting, love,” said he, lifting his head and
turning to where I stood, wringing my hands in silent rage and anguish;
“but it’s rather long; I’ll look at it some other time; and meanwhile
I’ll trouble you for your keys, my dear.”

“What keys?”

“The keys of your cabinet, desk, drawers, and whatever else you
possess,” said he, rising and holding out his hand.

“I’ve not got them,” I replied. The key of my desk, in fact, was at
that moment in the lock, and the others were attached to it.

“Then you must send for them,” said he; “and if that old devil, Rachel,
doesn’t immediately deliver them up, she tramps bag and baggage
tomorrow.”

“She doesn’t know where they are,” I answered, quietly placing my hand
upon them, and taking them from the desk, as I thought, unobserved.
“_I_ know, but I shall not give them up without a reason.”

“And _I_ know, too,” said he, suddenly seizing my closed hand and
rudely abstracting them from it. He then took up one of the candles and
relighted it by thrusting it into the fire.

“Now, then,” sneered he, “we must have a confiscation of property. But,
first, let us take a peep into the studio.”

And putting the keys into his pocket, he walked into the library. I
followed, whether with the dim idea of preventing mischief, or only to
know the worst, I can hardly tell. My painting materials were laid
together on the corner table, ready for to-morrow’s use, and only
covered with a cloth. He soon spied them out, and putting down the
candle, deliberately proceeded to cast them into the fire: palette,
paints, bladders, pencils, brushes, varnish: I saw them all consumed:
the palette-knives snapped in two, the oil and turpentine sent hissing
and roaring up the chimney. He then rang the bell.

“Benson, take those things away,” said he, pointing to the easel,
canvas, and stretcher; “and tell the housemaid she may kindle the fire
with them: your mistress won’t want them any more.”

Benson paused aghast and looked at me.

“Take them away, Benson,” said I; and his master muttered an oath.

“And this and all, sir?” said the astonished servant, referring to the
half-finished picture.

“That and all,” replied the master; and the things were cleared away.

Mr. Huntingdon then went up-stairs. I did not attempt to follow him,
but remained seated in the arm-chair, speechless, tearless, and almost
motionless, till he returned about half-an-hour after, and walking up
to me, held the candle in my face and peered into my eyes with looks
and laughter too insulting to be borne. With a sudden stroke of my hand
I dashed the candle to the floor.

“Hal-lo!” muttered he, starting back; “she’s the very devil for spite.
Did _ever_ any mortal see such eyes?—they shine in the dark like a
cat’s. _Oh_, you’re a sweet one!” So saying, he gathered up the candle
and the candlestick. The former being broken as well as extinguished,
he rang for another.

“Benson, your mistress has broken the candle; bring another.”

“You expose yourself finely,” observed I, as the man departed.

“I didn’t say _I’d_ broken it, did I?” returned he. He then threw my
keys into my lap, saying,—“There! you’ll find nothing gone but your
money, and the jewels, and a few little trifles I thought it advisable
to take into my own possession, lest your mercantile spirit should be
tempted to turn them into gold. I’ve left you a few sovereigns in your
purse, which I expect to last you through the month; at all events,
when you want more you will be so good as to give me an account of how
that’s spent. I shall put you upon a small monthly allowance, in
future, for your own private expenses; and you needn’t trouble yourself
any more about my concerns; I shall look out for a steward, my dear—I
won’t expose you to the temptation. And as for the household matters,
Mrs. Greaves must be very particular in keeping her accounts; we must
go upon an entirely new plan—”

“What great discovery have you made now, Mr. Huntingdon? Have I
attempted to defraud you?”

“Not in money matters, exactly, it seems; but it’s best to keep out of
the way of temptation.”

Here Benson entered with the candles, and there followed a brief
interval of silence; I sitting still in my chair, and he standing with
his back to the fire, silently triumphing in my despair.

“And so,” said he at length, “you thought to disgrace me, did you, by
running away and turning artist, and supporting yourself by the labour
of your hands, forsooth? And you thought to rob me of my son, too, and
bring him up to be a dirty Yankee tradesman, or a low, beggarly
painter?”

“Yes, to obviate his becoming such a gentleman as his father.”

“It’s well you couldn’t keep your own secret—ha, ha! It’s well these
women must be blabbing. If they haven’t a friend to talk to, they must
whisper their secrets to the fishes, or write them on the sand, or
something; and it’s well, too, I wasn’t over full to-night, now I think
of it, or I might have snoozed away and never dreamt of looking what my
sweet lady was about; or I might have lacked the sense or the power to
carry my point like a man, as I have done.”

Leaving him to his self-congratulations, I rose to secure my
manuscript, for I now remembered it had been left upon the drawing-room
table, and I determined, if possible, to save myself the humiliation of
seeing it in his hands again. I could not bear the idea of his amusing
himself over my secret thoughts and recollections; though, to be sure,
he would find little good of himself therein indited, except in the
former part; and oh, I would sooner burn it all than he should read
what I had written when I was such a fool as to love him!

“And by-the-by,” cried he, as I was leaving the room, “you’d better
tell that d—d old sneak of a nurse to keep out of my way for a day or
two; I’d pay her her wages and send her packing to-morrow, but I know
she’d do more mischief out of the house than in it.”

And as I departed, he went on cursing and abusing my faithful friend
and servant with epithets I will not defile this paper with repeating.
I went to her as soon as I had put away my book, and told her how our
project was defeated. She was as much distressed and horrified as I
was—and more so than I was that night, for I was partly stunned by the
blow, and partly excited and supported against it by the bitterness of
my wrath. But in the morning, when I woke without that cheering hope
that had been my secret comfort and support so long, and all this day,
when I have wandered about restless and objectless, shunning my
husband, shrinking even from my child, knowing that I am unfit to be
his teacher or companion, hoping nothing for his future life, and
fervently wishing he had never been born,—I felt the full extent of my
calamity, and I feel it now. I know that day after day such feelings
will return upon me. I am a slave—a prisoner—but that is nothing; if it
were myself alone I would not complain, but I am forbidden to rescue my
son from ruin, and what was once my only consolation is become the
crowning source of my despair.

Have I no faith in God? I try to look to Him and raise my heart to
heaven, but it will cleave to the dust. I can only say, “He hath hedged
me about, that I cannot get out: He hath made my chain heavy. He hath
filled me with bitterness—He hath made me drunken with wormwood.” I
forget to add, “But though He cause grief, yet will He have compassion
according to the multitude of His mercies. For He doth not afflict
willingly nor grieve the children of men.” I ought to think of this;
and if there be nothing but sorrow for me in this world, what is the
longest life of misery to a whole eternity of peace? And for my little
Arthur—has he no friend but me? Who was it said, “It is not the will of
your Father which is in heaven that one of these little ones should
perish?”




 CHAPTER XLI


March 20th.—Having now got rid of Mr. Huntingdon for a season, my
spirits begin to revive. He left me early in February; and the moment
he was gone, I breathed again, and felt my vital energy return; not
with the hope of escape—he has taken care to leave me no visible chance
of that—but with a determination to make the best of existing
circumstances. Here was Arthur left to me at last; and rousing from my
despondent apathy, I exerted all my powers to eradicate the weeds that
had been fostered in his infant mind, and sow again the good seed they
had rendered unproductive. Thank heaven, it is not a barren or a stony
soil; if weeds spring fast there, so do better plants. His
apprehensions are more quick, his heart more overflowing with affection
than ever his father’s could have been, and it is no hopeless task to
bend him to obedience and win him to love and know his own true friend,
as long as there is no one to counteract my efforts.

I had much trouble at first in breaking him of those evil habits his
father had taught him to acquire, but already that difficulty is nearly
vanquished now: bad language seldom defiles his mouth, and I have
succeeded in giving him an absolute disgust for all intoxicating
liquors, which I hope not even his father or his father’s friends will
be able to overcome. He was inordinately fond of them for so young a
creature, and, remembering my unfortunate father as well as his, I
dreaded the consequences of such a taste. But if I had stinted him, in
his usual quantity of wine, or forbidden him to taste it altogether,
that would only have increased his partiality for it, and made him
regard it as a greater treat than ever. I therefore gave him quite as
much as his father was accustomed to allow him; as much, indeed, as he
desired to have—but into every glass I surreptitiously introduced a
small quantity of tartar-emetic, just enough to produce inevitable
nausea and depression without positive sickness. Finding such
disagreeable consequences invariably to result from this indulgence, he
soon grew weary of it, but the more he shrank from the daily treat the
more I pressed it upon him, till his reluctance was strengthened to
perfect abhorrence. When he was thoroughly disgusted with every kind of
wine, I allowed him, at his own request, to try brandy-and-water, and
then gin-and-water, for the little toper was familiar with them all,
and I was determined that all should be equally hateful to him. This I
have now effected; and since he declares that the taste, the smell, the
sight of any one of them is sufficient to make him sick, I have given
up teasing him about them, except now and then as objects of terror in
cases of misbehaviour. “Arthur, if you’re not a good boy I shall give
you a glass of wine,” or “Now, Arthur, if you say that again you shall
have some brandy-and-water,” is as good as any other threat; and once
or twice, when he was sick, I have obliged the poor child to swallow a
little wine-and-water _without_ the tartar-emetic, by way of medicine;
and this practice I intend to continue for some time to come; not that
I think it of any real service in a physical sense, but because I am
determined to enlist all the powers of association in my service; I
wish this aversion to be so deeply grounded in his nature that nothing
in after-life may be able to overcome it.

Thus, I flatter myself, I shall secure him from this one vice; and for
the rest, if on his father’s return I find reason to apprehend that my
good lessons will be all destroyed—if Mr. Huntingdon commence again the
game of teaching the child to hate and despise his mother, and emulate
his father’s wickedness—I will yet deliver my son from his hands. I
have devised another scheme that might be resorted to in such a case;
and if I could but obtain my brother’s consent and assistance, I should
not doubt of its success. The old hall where he and I were born, and
where our mother died, is not now inhabited, nor yet quite sunk into
decay, as I believe. Now, if I could persuade him to have one or two
rooms made habitable, and to let them to me as a stranger, I might live
there, with my child, under an assumed name, and still support myself
by my favourite art. He should lend me the money to begin with, and I
would pay him back, and live in lowly independence and strict
seclusion, for the house stands in a lonely place, and the
neighbourhood is thinly inhabited, and he himself should negotiate the
sale of my pictures for me. I have arranged the whole plan in my head:
and all I want is to persuade Frederick to be of the same mind as
myself. He is coming to see me soon, and then I will make the proposal
to him, having first enlightened him upon my circumstances sufficiently
to excuse the project.

Already, I believe, he knows much more of my situation than I have told
him. I can tell this by the air of tender sadness pervading his
letters; and by the fact of his so seldom mentioning my husband, and
generally evincing a kind of covert bitterness when he does refer to
him; as well as by the circumstance of his never coming to see me when
Mr. Huntingdon is at home. But he has never openly expressed any
disapprobation of him or sympathy for me; he has never asked any
questions, or said anything to invite my confidence. Had he done so, I
should probably have had but few concealments from him. Perhaps he
feels hurt at my reserve. He is a strange being; I wish we knew each
other better. He used to spend a month at Staningley every year, before
I was married; but, since our father’s death, I have only seen him
once, when he came for a few days while Mr. Huntingdon was away. He
shall stay many days this time, and there shall be more candour and
cordiality between us than ever there was before, since our early
childhood. My heart clings to him more than ever; and my soul is sick
of solitude.

April 16th.—He is come and gone. He would not stay above a fortnight.
The time passed quickly, but very, very happily, and it has done me
good. I must have a bad disposition, for my misfortunes have soured and
embittered me exceedingly: I was beginning insensibly to cherish very
unamiable feelings against my fellow-mortals, the male part of them
especially; but it is a comfort to see there is at least one among them
worthy to be trusted and esteemed; and doubtless there are more, though
I have never known them, unless I except poor Lord Lowborough, and he
was bad enough in his day. But what would Frederick have been, if he
had lived in the world, and mingled from his childhood with such men as
these of my acquaintance? and what _will_ Arthur be, with all his
natural sweetness of disposition, if I do not save him from that world
and those companions? I mentioned my fears to Frederick, and introduced
the subject of my plan of rescue on the evening after his arrival, when
I presented my little son to his uncle.

“He is like you, Frederick,” said I, “in some of his moods: I sometimes
think he resembles you more than his father; and I am glad of it.”

“You flatter me, Helen,” replied he, stroking the child’s soft, wavy
locks.

“No, you will think it no compliment when I tell you I would rather
have him to resemble _Benson_ than his father.”

He slightly elevated his eyebrows, but said nothing.

“Do you know what sort of man Mr. Huntingdon is?” said I.

“I think I have an idea.”

“Have you so clear an idea that you can hear, without surprise or
disapproval, that I meditate escaping with that child to some secret
asylum, where we can live in peace, and never see him again?”

“Is it really so?”

“If you have not,” continued I, “I’ll tell you something more about
him”; and I gave a sketch of his general conduct, and a more particular
account of his behaviour with regard to his child, and explained my
apprehensions on the latter’s account, and my determination to deliver
him from his father’s influence.

Frederick was exceedingly indignant against Mr. Huntingdon, and very
much grieved for me; but still he looked upon my project as wild and
impracticable. He deemed my fears for Arthur disproportioned to the
circumstances, and opposed so many objections to my plan, and devised
so many milder methods for ameliorating my condition, that I was
obliged to enter into further details to convince him that my husband
was utterly incorrigible, and that nothing could persuade him to give
up his son, whatever became of me, he being as fully determined the
child should not leave him, as I was not to leave the child; and that,
in fact, nothing would answer but this, unless I fled the country, as I
had intended before. To obviate that, he at length consented to have
one wing of the old hall put into a habitable condition, as a place of
refuge against a time of need; but hoped I would not take advantage of
it unless circumstances should render it really necessary, which I was
ready enough to promise: for though, for my own sake, such a hermitage
appears like paradise itself, compared with my present situation, yet
for my friends’ sakes, for Milicent and Esther, my sisters in heart and
affection, for the poor tenants of Grassdale, and, above all, for my
aunt, I will stay if I possibly can.

July 29th.—Mrs. Hargrave and her daughter are come back from London.
Esther is full of her first season in town; but she is still
heart-whole and unengaged. Her mother sought out an excellent match for
her, and even brought the gentleman to lay his heart and fortune at her
feet; but Esther had the audacity to refuse the noble gifts. He was a
man of good family and large possessions, but the naughty girl
maintained he was old as Adam, ugly as sin, and hateful as—one who
shall be nameless.

“But, indeed, I had a hard time of it,” said she: “mamma was very
greatly disappointed at the failure of her darling project, and very,
very angry at my obstinate resistance to her will, and is so still; but
I can’t help it. And Walter, too, is so seriously displeased at my
perversity and absurd caprice, as he calls it, that I fear he will
never forgive me—I did not think he _could_ be so unkind as he has
lately shown himself. But Milicent begged me not to yield, and I’m
sure, Mrs. Huntingdon, if you had seen the man they wanted to palm upon
me, you would have advised me not to take him too.”

“I should have done so whether I had seen him or not,” said I; “it is
enough that you dislike him.”

“I knew you would say so; though mamma affirmed you would be quite
shocked at my undutiful conduct. You can’t imagine how she lectures me:
I am disobedient and ungrateful; I am thwarting her wishes, wronging my
brother, and making myself a burden on her hands. I sometimes fear
she’ll overcome me after all. I have a strong will, but so has she, and
when she says such bitter things, it provokes me to such a pass that I
feel inclined to do as she bids me, and then break my heart and say,
‘There, mamma, it’s all your fault!’”

“Pray don’t!” said I. “Obedience from such a motive would be positive
wickedness, and certain to bring the punishment it deserves. Stand
firm, and your mamma will soon relinquish her persecution; and the
gentleman himself will cease to pester you with his addresses if he
finds them steadily rejected.”

“Oh, no! mamma will weary all about her before she tires herself with
her exertions; and as for Mr. Oldfield, she has given him to understand
that I have refused his offer, not from any dislike of his person, but
merely because I am giddy and young, and cannot at present reconcile
myself to the thoughts of marriage under any circumstances: but by next
season, she has no doubt, I shall have more sense, and hopes my girlish
fancies will be worn away. So she has brought me home, to school me
into a proper sense of my duty, against the time comes round again.
Indeed, I believe she will not put herself to the expense of taking me
up to London again, unless I surrender: she cannot afford to take me to
town for pleasure and nonsense, she says, and it is not _every_ rich
gentleman that will consent to take me without a fortune, whatever
exalted ideas I may have of my own attractions.”

“Well, Esther, I pity you; but still, I repeat, stand firm. You might
as well sell yourself to slavery at once, as marry a man you dislike.
If your mother and brother are unkind to you, you may leave them, but
remember you are bound to your husband for life.”

“But I cannot leave them unless I get married, and I cannot get married
if nobody sees me. I saw one or two gentlemen in London that I might
have liked, but they were younger sons, and mamma would not let me get
to know them—one especially, who I believe rather liked me—but she
threw every possible obstacle in the way of our better acquaintance.
Wasn’t it provoking?”

“I have no doubt you would feel it so, but it is possible that if you
married him, you might have more reason to regret it hereafter than if
you married Mr. Oldfield. When I tell you not to marry _without_ love,
I do not advise you to marry for love alone: there are many, many other
things to be considered. Keep both heart and hand in your own
possession, till you see good reason to part with them; and if such an
occasion should never present itself, comfort your mind with this
reflection, that though in single life your joys may not be very many,
your sorrows, at least, will not be more than you can bear. Marriage
_may_ change your circumstances for the better, but, in my private
opinion, it is far more likely to produce a contrary result.”

“So thinks Milicent; but allow me to say _I_ think otherwise. If I
thought myself doomed to old-maidenhood, I should cease to value my
life. The thoughts of living on, year after year, at the Grove—a
hanger-on upon mamma and Walter, a mere cumberer of the ground (now
that I know in what light they would regard it), is perfectly
intolerable; I would rather run away with the butler.”

“Your circumstances are peculiar, I allow; but have patience, love; do
nothing rashly. Remember you are not yet nineteen, and many years are
yet to pass before any one can set you down as an old maid: you cannot
tell what Providence may have in store for you. And meantime, remember
you have a _right_ to the protection and support of your mother and
brother, however they may seem to grudge it.”

“You are so grave, Mrs. Huntingdon,” said Esther, after a pause. “When
Milicent uttered the same discouraging sentiments concerning marriage,
I asked if she was happy: she said she was; but I only half believed
her; and now I must put the same question to you.”

“It is a very impertinent question,” laughed I, “from a young girl to a
married woman so many years her senior, and I shall not answer it.”

“Pardon me, dear _madam_,” said she, laughingly throwing herself into
my arms, and kissing me with playful affection; but I felt a tear on my
neck, as she dropped her head on my bosom and continued, with an odd
mixture of sadness and levity, timidity and audacity,—“I know you are
not so happy as I mean to be, for you spend half your life alone at
Grassdale, while Mr. Huntingdon goes about enjoying himself where and
how he pleases. I shall expect _my_ husband to have no pleasures but
what he shares with me; and if his greatest pleasure of all is not the
enjoyment of my company, why, it will be the worse for him, that’s
all.”

“If such are your expectations of matrimony, Esther, you must, indeed,
be careful whom you marry—or rather, you must avoid it altogether.”




 CHAPTER XLII


September 1st.—No Mr. Huntingdon yet. Perhaps he will stay among his
friends till Christmas; and then, next spring, he will be off again. If
he continue this plan, I shall be able to stay at Grassdale well
enough—that is, I _shall_ be able to stay, and that is enough; even an
occasional bevy of friends at the shooting season may be borne, if
Arthur get so firmly attached to me, so well established in good sense
and principles before they come that I shall be able, by reason and
affection, to keep him pure from their contaminations. Vain hope, I
fear! but still, till such a time of trial comes I will forbear to
think of my quiet asylum in the beloved old hall.

Mr. and Mrs. Hattersley have been staying at the Grove a fortnight: and
as Mr. Hargrave is still absent, and the weather was remarkably fine, I
never passed a day without seeing my two friends, Milicent and Esther,
either there or here. On one occasion, when Mr. Hattersley had driven
them over to Grassdale in the phaeton, with little Helen and Ralph, and
we were all enjoying ourselves in the garden—I had a few minutes’
conversation with that gentleman, while the ladies were amusing
themselves with the children.

“Do you want to hear anything of your husband, Mrs. Huntingdon?” said
he.

“No, unless you can tell me when to expect him home.”

“I can’t.—You don’t want him, do you?” said he, with a broad grin.

“No.”

“Well, I think you’re better without him, sure enough—for my part, I’m
downright weary of him. I told him I’d leave him if he didn’t mend his
manners, and he wouldn’t; so I left him. You see, I’m a better man than
you think me; and, what’s more, I have serious thoughts of washing my
hands of him entirely, and the whole set of ’em, and comporting myself
from this day forward with all decency and sobriety, as a Christian and
the father of a family should do. What do you think of that?”

“It is a resolution you ought to have formed long ago.”

“Well, I’m not thirty yet; it isn’t too late, is it?”

“No; it is never too late to reform, as long as you have the sense to
desire it, and the strength to execute your purpose.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I’ve thought of it often and often
before; but he’s such devilish good company, is Huntingdon, after all.
You can’t imagine what a jovial good fellow he is when he’s not fairly
drunk, only just primed or half-seas-over. We all have a bit of a
liking for him at the bottom of our hearts, though we can’t respect
him.”

“But should you wish yourself to be like him?”

“No, I’d rather be like myself, bad as I am.”

“You can’t continue as bad as you are without getting worse and more
brutalised every day, and therefore more like him.”

I could not help smiling at the comical, half-angry, half-confounded
look he put on at this rather unusual mode of address.

“Never mind my plain speaking,” said I; “it is from the best of
motives. But tell me, should you wish your sons to be like Mr.
Huntingdon—or even like yourself?”

“Hang it! no.”

“Should you wish your daughter to despise you—or, at least, to feel no
vestige of respect for you, and no affection but what is mingled with
the bitterest regret?”

“Oh, no! I couldn’t stand that.”

“And, finally, should you wish your wife to be ready to sink into the
earth when she hears you mentioned; and to loathe the very sound of
your voice, and shudder at your approach?”

“She never will; she likes me all the same, whatever I do.”

“Impossible, Mr. Hattersley! you mistake her quiet submission for
affection.”

“Fire and fury—”

“Now don’t burst into a tempest at that. I don’t mean to say she does
not love you—she does, I know, a great deal better than you deserve;
but I am quite sure, that if you behave better, she will love you more,
and if you behave worse, she will love you less and less, till all is
lost in fear, aversion, and bitterness of soul, if not in secret hatred
and contempt. But, dropping the subject of affection, should you wish
to be the tyrant of her life—to take away all the sunshine from her
existence, and make her thoroughly miserable?”

“Of course not; and I don’t, and I’m not going to.”

“You have done more towards it than you suppose.”

“Pooh, pooh! she’s not the susceptible, anxious, worriting creature you
imagine: she’s a little meek, peaceable, affectionate body; apt to be
rather sulky at times, but quiet and cool in the main, and ready to
take things as they come.”

“Think of what she was five years ago, when you married her, and what
she is now.”

“I know she was a little plump lassie then, with a pretty pink and
white face: now she’s a poor little bit of a creature, fading and
melting away like a snow-wreath. But hang it!—that’s not my fault.”

“What is the cause of it then? Not years, for she’s only
five-and-twenty.”

“It’s her own delicate health, and confound it, madam! what would you
make of me?—and the children, to be sure, that worry her to death
between them.”

“No, Mr. Hattersley, the children give her more pleasure than pain:
they are fine, well-dispositioned children—”

“I know they are—bless them!”

“Then why lay the blame on them?—I’ll tell you what it is: it’s silent
fretting and constant anxiety on your account, mingled, I suspect, with
something of bodily fear on her own. When you behave well, she can only
rejoice with trembling; she has no security, no confidence in your
judgment or principles; but is continually dreading the close of such
short-lived felicity; when you behave ill, her causes of terror and
misery are more than any one can tell but herself. In patient endurance
of evil, she forgets it is our duty to admonish our neighbours of their
transgressions. Since you _will_ mistake her silence for indifference,
come with me, and I’ll show you one or two of her letters—no breach of
confidence, I hope, since you are her other half.”

He followed me into the library. I sought out and put into his hands
two of Milicent’s letters: one dated from London, and written during
one of his wildest seasons of reckless dissipation; the other in the
country, during a lucid interval. The former was full of trouble and
anguish; not accusing _him_, but deeply regretting his connection with
his profligate companions, abusing Mr. Grimsby and others, insinuating
bitter things against Mr. Huntingdon, and most ingeniously throwing the
blame of her husband’s misconduct on to other men’s shoulders. The
latter was full of hope and joy, yet with a trembling consciousness
that this happiness would not last; praising his goodness to the skies,
but with an evident, though but half-expressed wish, that it were based
on a surer foundation than the natural impulses of the heart, and a
half-prophetic dread of the fall of that house so founded on the
sand,—which fall had shortly after taken place, as Hattersley must have
been conscious while he read.

Almost at the commencement of the first letter I had the unexpected
pleasure of seeing him blush; but he immediately turned his back to me,
and finished the perusal at the window. At the second, I saw him, once
or twice, raise his hand, and hurriedly pass it across his face. Could
it be to dash away a tear? When he had done, there was an interval
spent in clearing his throat and staring out of the window, and then,
after whistling a few bars of a favourite air, he turned round, gave me
back the letters, and silently shook me by the hand.

“I’ve been a cursed rascal, God knows,” said he, as he gave it a hearty
squeeze, “but you see if I don’t make amends for it—d—n me if I don’t!”

“Don’t curse yourself, Mr. Hattersley; if God had heard half your
invocations of that kind, you would have been in hell long before
now—and you _cannot_ make amends for the past by doing your duty for
the future, inasmuch as your duty is only what you _owe_ to your Maker,
and you cannot do _more_ than fulfil it: another must make amends for
your past delinquencies. If you intend to reform, invoke God’s
blessing, His mercy, and His aid; not His curse.”

“God help me, then—for I’m sure I need it. Where’s Milicent?”

“She’s there, just coming in with her sister.”

He stepped out at the glass door, and went to meet them. I followed at
a little distance. Somewhat to his wife’s astonishment, he lifted her
off from the ground, and saluted her with a hearty kiss and a strong
embrace; then placing his two hands on her shoulders, he gave her, I
suppose, a sketch of the great things he meant to do, for she suddenly
threw her arms round him, and burst into tears, exclaiming,—“Do, do,
Ralph—we shall be so happy! How very, very good you are!”

“Nay, not I,” said he, turning her round, and pushing her towards me.
“Thank _her;_ it’s her doing.”

Milicent flew to thank me, overflowing with gratitude. I disclaimed all
title to it, telling her her husband was predisposed to amendment
before I added my mite of exhortation and encouragement, and that I had
only done what she might, and ought to have done herself.

“Oh, no!” cried she; “I couldn’t have influenced him, I’m sure, by
anything that I could have said. I should only have bothered him by my
clumsy efforts at persuasion, if I had made the attempt.”

“You never tried me, Milly,” said he.

Shortly after they took their leave. They are now gone on a visit to
Hattersley’s father. After that they will repair to their country home.
I hope his good resolutions will not fall through, and poor Milicent
will not be again disappointed. Her last letter was full of present
bliss, and pleasing anticipations for the future; but no particular
temptation has yet occurred to put his virtue to the test. Henceforth,
however, she will doubtless be somewhat less timid and reserved, and he
more kind and thoughtful.—Surely, then, her hopes are not unfounded;
and I have one bright spot, at least, whereon to rest my thoughts.




 CHAPTER XLIII


October 10th.—Mr. Huntingdon returned about three weeks ago. His
appearance, his demeanour and conversation, and my feelings with regard
to him, I shall not trouble myself to describe. The day after his
arrival, however, he surprised me by the announcement of an intention
to procure a governess for little Arthur: I told him it was quite
unnecessary, not to say ridiculous, at the present season: I thought I
was fully competent to the task of teaching him myself—for some years
to come, at least: the child’s education was the only pleasure and
business of my life; and since he had deprived me of every other
occupation, he might surely leave me that.

He said I was not fit to teach children, or to be with them: I had
already reduced the boy to little better than an automaton; I had
broken his fine spirit with my rigid severity; and I should freeze all
the sunshine out of his heart, and make him as gloomy an ascetic as
myself, if I had the handling of him much longer. And poor Rachel, too,
came in for her share of abuse, as usual; he cannot endure Rachel,
because he knows she has a proper appreciation of him.

I calmly defended our several qualifications as nurse and governess,
and still resisted the proposed addition to our family; but he cut me
short by saying it was no use bothering about the matter, for he had
engaged a governess already, and she was coming next week; so that all
I had to do was to get things ready for her reception. This was a
rather startling piece of intelligence. I ventured to inquire her name
and address, by whom she had been recommended, or how he had been led
to make choice of her.

“She is a very estimable, pious young person,” said he; “you needn’t be
afraid. Her name is Myers, I believe; and she was recommended to me by
a respectable old dowager: a lady of high repute in the religious
world. I have not seen her myself, and therefore cannot give you a
particular account of her person and conversation, and so forth; but,
if the old lady’s eulogies are correct, you will find her to possess
all desirable qualifications for her position: an inordinate love of
children among the rest.”

All this was gravely and quietly spoken, but there was a laughing demon
in his half-averted eye that boded no good, I imagined. However, I
thought of my asylum in ——shire, and made no further objections.

When Miss Myers arrived, I was not prepared to give her a very cordial
reception. Her appearance was not particularly calculated to produce a
favourable impression at first sight, nor did her manners and
subsequent conduct, in any degree, remove the prejudice I had already
conceived against her. Her attainments were limited, her intellect
noways above mediocrity. She had a fine voice, and could sing like a
nightingale, and accompany herself sufficiently well on the piano; but
these were her only accomplishments. There was a look of guile and
subtlety in her face, a sound of it in her voice. She seemed afraid of
me, and would start if I suddenly approached her. In her behaviour she
was respectful and complaisant, even to servility: she attempted to
flatter and fawn upon me at first, but I soon checked that. Her
fondness for her little pupil was overstrained, and I was obliged to
remonstrate with her on the subject of over-indulgence and injudicious
praise; but she could not gain his heart. Her piety consisted in an
occasional heaving of sighs, and uplifting of eyes to the ceiling, and
the utterance of a few cant phrases. She told me she was a clergyman’s
daughter, and had been left an orphan from her childhood, but had had
the good fortune to obtain a situation in a very pious family; and then
she spoke so gratefully of the kindness she had experienced from its
different members, that I reproached myself for my uncharitable
thoughts and unfriendly conduct, and relented for a time, but not for
long: my causes of dislike were too rational, my suspicions too well
founded for that; and I knew it was my duty to watch and scrutinize
till those suspicions were either satisfactorily removed or confirmed.

I asked the name and residence of the kind and pious family. She
mentioned a common name, and an unknown and distant place of abode, but
told me they were now on the Continent, and their present address was
unknown to her. I never saw her speak much to Mr. Huntingdon; but he
would frequently look into the school-room to see how little Arthur got
on with his new companion, when I was not there. In the evening, she
sat with us in the drawing-room, and would sing and play to amuse him
or us, as she pretended, and was very attentive to his wants, and
watchful to anticipate them, though she only talked to me; indeed, he
was seldom in a condition to be talked to. Had she been other than she
was, I should have felt her presence a great relief to come between us
thus, except, indeed, that I should have been thoroughly ashamed for
any decent person to see him as he often was.

I did not mention my suspicions to Rachel; but she, having sojourned
for half a century in this land of sin and sorrow, has learned to be
suspicious herself. She told me from the first she was “down of that
new governess,” and I soon found she watched her quite as narrowly as I
did; and I was glad of it, for I longed to know the truth: the
atmosphere of Grassdale seemed to stifle me, and I could only live by
thinking of Wildfell Hall.

At last, one morning, she entered my chamber with such intelligence
that my resolution was taken before she had ceased to speak. While she
dressed me I explained to her my intentions and what assistance I
should require from her, and told her which of my things she was to
pack up, and what she was to leave behind for herself, as I had no
other means of recompensing her for this sudden dismissal after her
long and faithful service: a circumstance I most deeply regretted, but
could not avoid.

“And what will you do, Rachel?” said I; “will you go home, or seek
another place?”

“I have no home, ma’am, but with you,” she replied; “and if I leave you
I’ll never go into place again as long as I live.”

“But I can’t afford to live like a lady now,” returned I: “I must be my
own maid and my child’s nurse.”

“What _signifies!_” replied she, in some excitement. “You’ll want
somebody to clean and wash, and cook, won’t you? I can do all that; and
never mind the wages: I’ve my bits o’ savings yet, and if you wouldn’t
take me I should have to find my own board and lodging out of ’em
somewhere, or else work among strangers: and it’s what I’m not used to:
so you can please yourself, ma’am.” Her voice quavered as she spoke,
and the tears stood in her eyes.

“I should like it above all things, Rachel, and I’d give you such wages
as I could afford: such as I should give to any servant-of-all-work I
might employ: but don’t you see I should be dragging you down with me
when you have done nothing to deserve it?”

“Oh, fiddle!” ejaculated she.

“And, besides, my future way of living will be so widely different to
the past: so different to all you have been accustomed to—”

“Do you think, ma’am, I can’t bear what my missis can? surely I’m not
so proud and so dainty as that comes to; and my little master, too, God
bless him!”

“But I’m young, Rachel; I sha’n’t mind it; and Arthur is young too: it
will be nothing to him.”

“Nor me either: I’m not so old but what I can stand hard fare and hard
work, if it’s only to help and comfort them as I’ve loved like my own
bairns: for all I’m too old to bide the thoughts o’ leaving ’em in
trouble and danger, and going amongst strangers myself.”

“Then you sha’n’t, Rachel!” cried I, embracing my faithful friend.
“We’ll all go together, and you shall see how the new life suits you.”

“Bless you, honey!” cried she, affectionately returning my embrace.
“Only let us get shut of this wicked house, and we’ll do right enough,
you’ll see.”

“So think I,” was my answer; and so that point was settled.

By that morning’s post I despatched a few hasty lines to Frederick,
beseeching him to prepare my asylum for my immediate reception: for I
should probably come to claim it within a day after the receipt of that
note: and telling him, in few words, the cause of my sudden resolution.
I then wrote three letters of adieu: the first to Esther Hargrave, in
which I told her that I found it impossible to stay any longer at
Grassdale, or to leave my son under his father’s protection; and, as it
was of the last importance that our future abode should be unknown to
him and his acquaintance, I should disclose it to no one but my
brother, through the medium of whom I hoped still to correspond with my
friends. I then gave her his address, exhorted her to write frequently,
reiterated some of my former admonitions regarding her own concerns,
and bade her a fond farewell.

The second was to Milicent; much to the same effect, but a little more
confidential, as befitted our longer intimacy, and her greater
experience and better acquaintance with my circumstances.

The third was to my aunt: a much more difficult and painful
undertaking, and therefore I had left it to the last; but I must give
her some explanation of that extraordinary step I had taken: and that
quickly, for she and my uncle would no doubt hear of it within a day or
two after my disappearance, as it was probable that Mr. Huntingdon
would speedily apply to them to know what was become of me. At last,
however, I told her I was sensible of my error: I did not complain of
its punishment, and I was sorry to trouble my friends with its
consequences; but in duty to my son I must submit no longer; it was
absolutely necessary that he should be delivered from his father’s
corrupting influence. I should not disclose my place of refuge even to
her, in order that she and my uncle might be able, with truth, to deny
all knowledge concerning it; but any communications addressed to me
under cover to my brother would be certain to reach me. I hoped she and
my uncle would pardon the step I had taken, for if they knew all, I was
sure they would not blame me; and I trusted they would not afflict
themselves on my account, for if I could only reach my retreat in
safety and keep it unmolested, I should be very happy, but for the
thoughts of them; and should be quite contented to spend my life in
obscurity, devoting myself to the training up of my child, and teaching
him to avoid the errors of both his parents.

These things were done yesterday: I have given two whole days to the
preparation for our departure, that Frederick may have more time to
prepare the rooms, and Rachel to pack up the things: for the latter
task must be done with the utmost caution and secrecy, and there is no
one but me to assist her. I can help to get the articles together, but
I do not understand the art of stowing them into the boxes, so as to
take up the smallest possible space; and there are her own things to
do, as well as mine and Arthur’s. I can ill afford to leave anything
behind, since I have no money, except a few guineas in my purse; and
besides, as Rachel observed, whatever I left would most likely become
the property of Miss Myers, and I should not relish that.

But what trouble I have had throughout these two days, struggling to
appear calm and collected, to meet him and her as usual, when I was
obliged to meet them, and forcing myself to leave my little Arthur in
her hands for hours together! But I trust these trials are over now: I
have laid him in my bed for better security, and never more, I trust,
shall his innocent lips be defiled by their contaminating kisses, or
his young ears polluted by their words. But shall we escape in safety?
Oh, that the morning were come, and we were on our way at least! This
evening, when I had given Rachel all the assistance I could, and had
nothing left me but to wait, and wish and tremble, I became so greatly
agitated that I knew not what to do. I went down to dinner, but I could
not force myself to eat. Mr. Huntingdon remarked the circumstance.

“What’s to do with you _now?_” said he, when the removal of the second
course gave him time to look about him.

“I am not well,” I replied: “I think I must lie down a little; you
won’t miss me much?”

“Not the least: if you leave your chair, it’ll do just as well—better,
a trifle,” he muttered, as I left the room, “for I can fancy somebody
else fills it.”

“Somebody else _may_ fill it to-morrow,” I thought, but did not say.
“There! I’ve seen the last of _you_, I hope,” I muttered, as I closed
the door upon him.

Rachel urged me to seek repose at once, to recruit my strength for
to-morrow’s journey, as we must be gone before the dawn; but in my
present state of nervous excitement that was entirely out of the
question. It was equally out of the question to sit, or wander about my
room, counting the hours and the minutes between me and the appointed
time of action, straining my ears and trembling at every sound, lest
someone should discover and betray us after all. I took up a book and
tried to read: my eyes wandered over the pages, but it was impossible
to bind my thoughts to their contents. Why not have recourse to the old
expedient, and add this last event to my chronicle? I opened its pages
once more, and wrote the above account—with difficulty, at first, but
gradually my mind became more calm and steady. Thus several hours have
passed away: the time is drawing near; and now my eyes feel heavy and
my frame exhausted. I will commend my cause to God, and then lie down
and gain an hour or two of sleep; and _then!_—

Little Arthur sleeps soundly. All the house is still: there can be no
one watching. The boxes were all corded by Benson, and quietly conveyed
down the back stairs after dusk, and sent away in a cart to the M——
coach-office. The name upon the cards was Mrs. Graham, which
appellation I mean henceforth to adopt. My mother’s maiden name was
Graham, and therefore I fancy I have some claim to it, and prefer it to
any other, except my own, which I dare not resume.




 CHAPTER XLIV


October 24th.—Thank Heaven, I am free and safe at last. Early we rose,
swiftly and quietly dressed, slowly and stealthily descended to the
hall, where Benson stood ready with a light, to open the door and
fasten it after us. We were obliged to let one man into our secret on
account of the boxes, &c. All the servants were but too well acquainted
with their master’s conduct, and either Benson or John would have been
willing to serve me; but as the former was more staid and elderly, and
a crony of Rachel’s besides, I of course directed her to make choice of
him as her assistant and confidant on the occasion, as far as necessity
demanded, I only hope he may not be brought into trouble thereby, and
only wish I could reward him for the perilous service he was so ready
to undertake. I slipped two guineas into his hand, by way of
remembrance, as he stood in the doorway, holding the candle to light
our departure, with a tear in his honest grey eye, and a host of good
wishes depicted on his solemn countenance. Alas! I could offer no more:
I had barely sufficient remaining for the probable expenses of the
journey.

What trembling joy it was when the little wicket closed behind us, as
we issued from the park! Then, for one moment, I paused, to inhale one
draught of that cool, bracing air, and venture one look back upon the
house. All was dark and still: no light glimmered in the windows, no
wreath of smoke obscured the stars that sparkled above it in the frosty
sky. As I bade farewell for ever to that place, the scene of so much
guilt and misery, I felt glad that I had not left it before, for now
there was no doubt about the propriety of such a step—no shadow of
remorse for him I left behind. There was nothing to disturb my joy but
the fear of detection; and every step removed us further from the
chance of that.

We had left Grassdale many miles behind us before the round red sun
arose to welcome our deliverance; and if any inhabitant of its vicinity
had chanced to see us then, as we bowled along on the top of the coach,
I scarcely think they would have suspected our identity. As I intend to
be taken for a widow, I thought it advisable to enter my new abode in
mourning: I was, therefore, attired in a plain black silk dress and
mantle, a black veil (which I kept carefully over my face for the first
twenty or thirty miles of the journey), and a black silk bonnet, which
I had been constrained to borrow of Rachel, for want of such an article
myself. It was not in the newest fashion, of course; but none the worse
for that, under present circumstances. Arthur was clad in his plainest
clothes, and wrapped in a coarse woollen shawl; and Rachel was muffled
in a grey cloak and hood that had seen better days, and gave her more
the appearance of an ordinary though decent old woman, than of a
lady’s-maid.

Oh, what delight it was to be thus seated aloft, rumbling along the
broad, sunshiny road, with the fresh morning breeze in my face,
surrounded by an unknown country, all smiling—cheerfully, gloriously
smiling in the yellow lustre of those early beams; with my darling
child in my arms, almost as happy as myself, and my faithful friend
beside me: a prison and despair behind me, receding further, further
back at every clatter of the horses’ feet; and liberty and hope before!
I could hardly refrain from praising God aloud for my deliverance, or
astonishing my fellow-passengers by some surprising outburst of
hilarity.

But the journey was a very long one, and we were all weary enough
before the close of it. It was far into the night when we reached the
town of L——, and still we were seven miles from our journey’s end; and
there was no more coaching, nor any conveyance to be had, except a
common cart, and that with the greatest difficulty, for half the town
was in bed. And a dreary ride we had of it, that last stage of the
journey, cold and weary as we were; sitting on our boxes, with nothing
to cling to, nothing to lean against, slowly dragged and cruelly shaken
over the rough, hilly roads. But Arthur was asleep in Rachel’s lap, and
between us we managed pretty well to shield him from the cold night
air.

At last we began to ascend a terribly steep and stony lane, which, in
spite of the darkness, Rachel said she remembered well: she had often
walked there with me in her arms, and little thought to come again so
many years after, under such circumstances as the present. Arthur being
now awakened by the jolting and the stoppages, we all got out and
walked. We had not far to go; but what if Frederick should not have
received my letter? or if he should not have had time to prepare the
rooms for our reception, and we should find them all dark, damp, and
comfortless, destitute of food, fire, and furniture, after all our
toil?

At length the grim, dark pile appeared before us. The lane conducted us
round by the back way. We entered the desolate court, and in breathless
anxiety surveyed the ruinous mass. Was it all blackness and desolation?
No; one faint red glimmer cheered us from a window where the lattice
was in good repair. The door was fastened, but after due knocking and
waiting, and some parleying with a voice from an upper window, we were
admitted by an old woman who had been commissioned to air and keep the
house till our arrival, into a tolerably snug little apartment,
formerly the scullery of the mansion, which Frederick had now fitted up
as a kitchen. Here she procured us a light, roused the fire to a
cheerful blaze, and soon prepared a simple repast for our refreshment;
while we disencumbered ourselves of our travelling-gear, and took a
hasty survey of our new abode. Besides the kitchen, there were two
bedrooms, a good-sized parlour, and another smaller one, which I
destined for my studio, all well aired and seemingly in good repair,
but only partly furnished with a few old articles, chiefly of ponderous
black oak, the veritable ones that had been there before, and which had
been kept as antiquarian relics in my brother’s present residence, and
now, in all haste, transported back again.

The old woman brought my supper and Arthur’s into the parlour, and told
me, with all due formality, that “the master desired his compliments to
Mrs. Graham, and he had prepared the rooms as well as he could upon so
short a notice; but he would do himself the pleasure of calling upon
her to-morrow, to receive her further commands.”

I was glad to ascend the stern-looking stone staircase, and lie down in
the gloomy, old-fashioned bed, beside my little Arthur. He was asleep
in a minute; but, weary as I was, my excited feelings and restless
cogitations kept me awake till dawn began to struggle with the
darkness; but sleep was sweet and refreshing when it came, and the
waking was delightful beyond expression. It was little Arthur that
roused me, with his gentle kisses. He was here, then, safely clasped in
my arms, and many leagues away from his unworthy father! Broad daylight
illumined the apartment, for the sun was high in heaven, though
obscured by rolling masses of autumnal vapour.

The scene, indeed, was not remarkably cheerful in itself, either within
or without. The large bare room, with its grim old furniture, the
narrow, latticed windows, revealing the dull, grey sky above and the
desolate wilderness below, where the dark stone walls and iron gate,
the rank growth of grass and weeds, and the hardy evergreens of
preternatural forms, alone remained to tell that there had been once a
garden,—and the bleak and barren fields beyond might have struck me as
gloomy enough at another time; but now, each separate object seemed to
echo back my own exhilarating sense of hope and freedom: indefinite
dreams of the far past and bright anticipations of the future seemed to
greet me at every turn. I should rejoice with more security, to be
sure, had the broad sea rolled between my present and my former homes;
but surely in this lonely spot I might remain unknown; and then I had
my brother here to cheer my solitude with his occasional visits.

He came that morning; and I have had several interviews with him since;
but he is obliged to be very cautious when and how he comes; not even
his servants or his best friends must know of his visits to
Wildfell—except on such occasions as a landlord might be expected to
call upon a stranger tenant—lest suspicion should be excited against
me, whether of the truth or of some slanderous falsehood.

I have now been here nearly a fortnight, and, but for one disturbing
care, the haunting dread of discovery, I am comfortably settled in my
new home: Frederick has supplied me with all requisite furniture and
painting materials: Rachel has sold most of my clothes for me, in a
distant town, and procured me a wardrobe more suitable to my present
position: I have a second-hand piano, and a tolerably well-stocked
bookcase in my parlour; and my other room has assumed quite a
professional, business-like appearance already. I am working hard to
repay my brother for all his expenses on my account; not that there is
the slightest necessity for anything of the kind, but it pleases me to
do so: I shall have so much more pleasure in my labour, my earnings, my
frugal fare, and household economy, when I know that I am paying my way
honestly, and that what little I possess is legitimately all my own;
and that no one suffers for my folly—in a pecuniary way at least. I
shall make him take the last penny I owe him, if I can possibly effect
it without offending him too deeply. I have a few pictures already
done, for I told Rachel to pack up all I had; and she executed her
commission but too well—for among the rest, she put up a portrait of
Mr. Huntingdon that I had painted in the first year of my marriage. It
struck me with dismay, at the moment, when I took it from the box and
beheld those eyes fixed upon me in their mocking mirth, as if exulting
still in his power to control my fate, and deriding my efforts to
escape.

How widely different had been my feelings in painting that portrait to
what they now were in looking upon it! How I had studied and toiled to
produce something, as I thought, worthy of the original! what mingled
pleasure and dissatisfaction I had had in the result of my
labours!—pleasure for the likeness I had caught; dissatisfaction,
because I had not made it handsome enough. Now, I see no beauty in
it—nothing pleasing in any part of its expression; and yet it is far
handsomer and far more agreeable—far less repulsive I should rather
say—than he is now: for these six years have wrought almost as great a
change upon himself as on my feelings regarding him. The frame,
however, is handsome enough; it will serve for another painting. The
picture itself I have not destroyed, as I had first intended; I have
put it aside; not, I think, from any lurking tenderness for the memory
of past affection, nor yet to remind me of my former folly, but chiefly
that I may compare my son’s features and countenance with this, as he
grows up, and thus be enabled to judge how much or how little he
resembles his father—if I may be allowed to keep him with me still, and
never to behold that father’s face again—a blessing I hardly dare
reckon upon.

It seems Mr. Huntingdon is making every exertion to discover the place
of my retreat. He has been in person to Staningley, seeking redress for
his grievances—expecting to hear of his victims, if not to find them
there—and has told so many lies, and with such unblushing coolness,
that my uncle more than half believes him, and strongly advocates my
going back to him and being friends again. But my aunt knows better:
she is too cool and cautious, and too well acquainted with both my
husband’s character and my own to be imposed upon by any specious
falsehoods the former could invent. But he does not _want_ me back; he
wants my child; and gives my friends to understand that if I prefer
living apart from him, he will indulge the whim and let me do so
unmolested, and even settle a reasonable allowance on me, provided I
will immediately deliver up his son. But heaven help me! I am not going
to sell my child for gold, though it were to save both him and me from
starving: it would be better that he should die with me than that he
should live with his father.

Frederick showed me a letter he had received from that gentleman, full
of cool impudence such as would astonish any one who did not know him,
but such as, I am convinced, none would know better how to answer than
my brother. He gave me no account of his reply, except to tell me that
he had not acknowledged his acquaintance with my place of refuge, but
rather left it to be inferred that it was quite unknown to him, by
saying it was useless to apply to him, or any other of my relations,
for information on the subject, as it appeared I had been driven to
such extremity that I had concealed my retreat even from my best
friends; but that if he _had_ known it, or should at any time be made
aware of it, most certainly Mr. Huntingdon would be the last person to
whom he should communicate the intelligence; and that he need not
trouble himself to bargain for the child, for he (Frederick) fancied he
knew enough of his sister to enable him to declare, that wherever she
might be, or however situated, no consideration would induce her to
deliver him up.

30th.—Alas! my kind neighbours will not let me alone. By some means
they have ferreted me out, and I have had to sustain visits from three
different families, all more or less bent upon discovering who and what
I am, whence I came, and why I have chosen such a home as this. Their
society is unnecessary to me, to say the least, and their curiosity
annoys and alarms me: if I gratify it, it may lead to the ruin of my
son, and if I am too mysterious it will only excite their suspicions,
invite conjecture, and rouse them to greater exertions—and perhaps be
the means of spreading my fame from parish to parish, till it reach the
ears of some one who will carry it to the Lord of Grassdale Manor.

I shall be expected to return their calls, but if, upon inquiry, I find
that any of them live too far away for Arthur to accompany me, they
must expect in vain for a while, for I cannot bear to leave him, unless
it be to go to church, and I have not attempted _that_ yet: for—it may
be foolish weakness, but I am under such constant dread of his being
snatched away, that I am never easy when he is not by my side; and I
fear these nervous terrors would so entirely disturb my devotions, that
I should obtain no benefit from the attendance. I mean, however, to
make the experiment next Sunday, and oblige myself to leave him in
charge of Rachel for a few hours. It will be a hard task, but surely no
imprudence; and the vicar has been to scold me for my neglect of the
ordinances of religion. I had no sufficient excuse to offer, and I
promised, if all were well, he should see me in my pew next Sunday; for
I do not wish to be set down as an infidel; and, besides, I know I
should derive great comfort and benefit from an occasional attendance
at public worship, if I could only have faith and fortitude to compose
my thoughts in conformity with the solemn occasion, and forbid them to
be for ever dwelling on my absent child, and on the dreadful
possibility of finding him gone when I return; and surely God in His
mercy will preserve me from so severe a trial: for my child’s own sake,
if not for mine, He will not suffer him to be torn away.

November 3rd.—I have made some further acquaintance with my neighbours.
The fine gentleman and beau of the parish and its vicinity (in his own
estimation, at least) is a young . . . .

* * * * *


Here it ended. The rest was torn away. How cruel, just when she was
going to mention me! for I could not doubt it _was_ your humble servant
she was about to mention, though not very favourably, of course. I
could tell that, as well by those few words as by the recollection of
her whole aspect and demeanour towards me in the commencement of our
acquaintance. Well! I could readily forgive her prejudice against me,
and her hard thoughts of our sex in general, when I saw to what
brilliant specimens her experience had been limited.

Respecting me, however, she had long since seen her error, and perhaps
fallen into another in the opposite extreme: for if, at first, her
opinion of me had been lower than I deserved, I was convinced that now
my deserts were lower than her opinion; and if the former part of this
continuation had been torn away to avoid wounding my feelings, perhaps
the latter portion had been removed for fear of ministering too much to
my self-conceit. At any rate, I would have given much to have seen it
all—to have witnessed the gradual change, and watched the progress of
her esteem and friendship for me, and whatever warmer feeling she might
have; to have seen how much of love there was in her regard, and how it
had grown upon her in spite of her virtuous resolutions and strenuous
exertions to—but no, I had no right to see it: all this was too sacred
for any eyes but her own, and she had done well to keep it from me.




 CHAPTER XLV


Well, Halford, what do you think of all this? and while you read it,
did you ever picture to yourself what my feelings would probably be
during its perusal? Most likely not; but I am not going to descant upon
them now: I will only make this acknowledgment, little honourable as it
may be to human nature, and especially to myself,—that the former half
of the narrative was, to me, more painful than the latter, not that I
was at all insensible to Mrs. Huntingdon’s wrongs or unmoved by her
sufferings, but, I must confess, I felt a kind of selfish gratification
in watching her husband’s gradual decline in her good graces, and
seeing how completely he extinguished all her affection at last. The
effect of the whole, however, in spite of all my sympathy for her, and
my fury against him, was to relieve my mind of an intolerable burden,
and fill my heart with joy, as if some friend had roused me from a
dreadful nightmare.

It was now near eight o’clock in the morning, for my candle had expired
in the midst of my perusal, leaving me no alternative but to get
another, at the expense of alarming the house, or to go to bed, and
wait the return of daylight. On my mother’s account, I chose the
latter; but how _willingly_ I sought my pillow, and how much sleep it
brought me, I leave you to imagine.

At the first appearance of dawn, I rose, and brought the manuscript to
the window, but it was impossible to read it yet. I devoted half an
hour to dressing, and then returned to it again. Now, with a little
difficulty, I could manage; and with intense and eager interest, I
devoured the remainder of its contents. When it was ended, and my
transient regret at its abrupt conclusion was over, I opened the window
and put out my head to catch the cooling breeze, and imbibe deep
draughts of the pure morning air. A splendid morning it was; the
half-frozen dew lay thick on the grass, the swallows were twittering
round me, the rooks cawing, and cows lowing in the distance; and early
frost and summer sunshine mingled their sweetness in the air. But I did
not think of that: a confusion of countless thoughts and varied
emotions crowded upon me while I gazed abstractedly on the lovely face
of nature. Soon, however, this chaos of thoughts and passions cleared
away, giving place to two distinct emotions: joy unspeakable that my
adored Helen was all I wished to think her—that through the noisome
vapours of the world’s aspersions and my own fancied convictions, her
character shone bright, and clear, and stainless as that sun I could
not bear to look on; and shame and deep remorse for my own conduct.

Immediately after breakfast I hurried over to Wildfell Hall. Rachel had
risen many degrees in my estimation since yesterday. I was ready to
greet her quite as an old friend; but every kindly impulse was checked
by the look of cold distrust she cast upon me on opening the door. The
old virgin had constituted herself the guardian of her lady’s honour, I
suppose, and doubtless she saw in me another Mr. Hargrave, only the
more dangerous in being more esteemed and trusted by her mistress.

“Missis can’t see any one to-day, sir—she’s poorly,” said she, in
answer to my inquiry for Mrs. Graham.

“But I must see her, Rachel,” said I, placing my hand on the door to
prevent its being shut against me.

“Indeed, sir, you can’t,” replied she, settling her countenance in
still more iron frigidity than before.

“Be so good as to announce me.”

“It’s no manner of use, Mr. Markham; she’s poorly, I tell you.”

Just in time to prevent me from committing the impropriety of taking
the citadel by storm, and pushing forward unannounced, an inner door
opened, and little Arthur appeared with his frolicsome playfellow, the
dog. He seized my hand between both his, and smilingly drew me forward.

“Mamma says you’re to come in, Mr. Markham,” said he, “and I am to go
out and play with Rover.”

Rachel retired with a sigh, and I stepped into the parlour and shut the
door. There, before the fire-place, stood the tall, graceful figure,
wasted with many sorrows. I cast the manuscript on the table, and
looked in her face. Anxious and pale, it was turned towards me; her
clear, dark eyes were fixed on mine with a gaze so intensely earnest
that they bound me like a spell.

“Have you looked it over?” she murmured. The spell was broken.

“I’ve read it through,” said I, advancing into the room,—“and I want to
know if you’ll forgive me—if you _can_ forgive me?”

She did not answer, but her eyes glistened, and a faint red mantled on
her lip and cheek. As I approached, she abruptly turned away, and went
to the window. It was not in anger, I was well assured, but only to
conceal or control her emotion. I therefore ventured to follow and
stand beside her there,—but not to speak. She gave me her hand, without
turning her head, and murmured in a voice she strove in vain to
steady,—

“Can _you_ forgive _me?_”

It might be deemed a breach of trust, I thought, to convey that lily
hand to my lips, so I only gently pressed it between my own, and
smilingly replied,—“I hardly can. You should have told me this before.
It shows a want of confidence—”

“Oh, no,” cried she, eagerly interrupting me; “it was not that. It was
no want of confidence in you; but if I had told you anything of my
history, I must have told you all, in order to excuse my conduct; and I
might well shrink from such a disclosure, till necessity obliged me to
make it. But you forgive me?—I have done very, very wrong, I know; but,
as usual, I have reaped the bitter fruits of my own error,—and must
reap them to the end.”

Bitter, indeed, was the tone of anguish, repressed by resolute
firmness, in which this was spoken. Now, I raised her hand to my lips,
and fervently kissed it again and again; for tears prevented any other
reply. She suffered these wild caresses without resistance or
resentment; then, suddenly turning from me, she paced twice or thrice
through the room. I knew by the contraction of her brow, the tight
compression of her lips, and wringing of her hands, that meantime a
violent conflict between reason and passion was silently passing
within. At length she paused before the empty fire-place, and turning
to me, said calmly—if that might be called calmness which was so
evidently the result of a violent effort,—

“Now, Gilbert, you must leave me—not this moment, but soon—and you must
_never come again_.”

“Never again, Helen? just when I love you more than ever.”

“For that very reason, if it be so, we should not meet again. I thought
_this_ interview was necessary—at least, I persuaded myself it was
so—that we might severally ask and receive each other’s pardon for the
past; but there can be no excuse for another. I shall leave this place,
as soon as I have means to seek another asylum; but our intercourse
must end here.”

“End here!” echoed I; and approaching the high, carved chimney-piece, I
leant my hand against its heavy mouldings, and dropped my forehead upon
it in silent, sullen despondency.

“You must not come again,” continued she. There was a slight tremor in
her voice, but I thought her whole manner was provokingly composed,
considering the dreadful sentence she pronounced. “You must know why I
tell you so,” she resumed; “and you must see that it is better to part
at once:—if it be hard to say adieu for ever, you ought to help me.”
She paused. I did not answer. “Will you promise not to come?—if you
won’t, and if you do come here again, you will drive me away before I
know where to find another place of refuge—or how to seek it.”

“Helen,” said I, turning impatiently towards her, “I cannot discuss the
matter of eternal separation calmly and dispassionately as you can do.
It is no question of mere expedience with _me;_ it is a question of
life and death!”

She was silent. Her pale lips quivered, and her fingers trembled with
agitation, as she nervously entwined them in the hair-chain to which
was appended her small gold watch—the only thing of value she had
permitted herself to keep. I had said an unjust and cruel thing; but I
must needs follow it up with something worse.

“But, Helen!” I began in a soft, low tone, not daring to raise my eyes
to her face, “that man is not your husband: in the sight of heaven he
has forfeited all claim to—” She seized my arm with a grasp of
startling energy.

“_Gilbert, don’t!_” she cried, in a tone that would have pierced a
heart of adamant. “For God’s sake, don’t _you_ attempt these arguments!
No _fiend_ could torture me like this!”

“I won’t, I won’t!” said I, gently laying my hand on hers; almost as
much alarmed at her vehemence as ashamed of my own misconduct.

“Instead of acting like a true friend,” continued she, breaking from
me, and throwing herself into the old arm-chair, “and helping me with
all your might—or rather taking your own part in the struggle of right
against passion—you leave all the burden to me;—and not satisfied with
that, you do your utmost to fight against me—when you know that!—” she
paused, and hid her face in her handkerchief.

“Forgive me, Helen!” pleaded I. “I will never utter another word on the
subject. But may we not still meet as friends?”

“It will not do,” she replied, mournfully shaking her head; and then
she raised her eyes to mine, with a mildly reproachful look that seemed
to say, “You must know that as well as I.”

“Then what _must_ we do?” cried I, passionately. But immediately I
added in a quieter tone—“I’ll do whatever you desire; only _don’t_ say
that this meeting is to be our last.”

“And why not? Don’t you know that every time we meet the thoughts of
the final parting will become more painful? Don’t you _feel_ that every
interview makes us dearer to each other than the last?”

The utterance of this last question was hurried and low, and the
downcast eyes and burning blush too plainly showed that _she_, at
least, had felt it. It was scarcely prudent to make such an admission,
or to add—as she presently did—“I have power to bid you go, now:
another time it might be different,”—but I was not base enough to
attempt to take advantage of her candour.

“But we may write,” I timidly suggested. “You will not deny me that
consolation?”

“We can hear of each other through my brother.”

“Your brother!” A pang of remorse and shame shot through me. She had
not heard of the injury he had sustained at my hands; and I had not the
courage to tell her. “Your brother will not help us,” I said: “he would
have all communion between us to be entirely at an end.”

“And he would be right, I suppose. As a friend of both, he would wish
us both well; and every friend would tell us it was our interest, as
well as our duty, to forget each other, though we might not see it
ourselves. But don’t be afraid, Gilbert,” she added, smiling sadly at
my manifest discomposure; “there is little chance of my forgetting you.
But I did not mean that Frederick should be the means of transmitting
messages between us—only that each might know, through him, of the
other’s welfare;—and more than this ought not to be: for you are young,
Gilbert, and you ought to marry—and will some time, though you may
think it impossible now: and though I hardly can say I wish you to
forget me, I know it is right that you should, both for your own
happiness, and that of your future wife;—and therefore I must and will
wish it,” she added resolutely.

“And you are young too, Helen,” I boldly replied; “and when that
profligate scoundrel has run through his career, you will give your
hand to me—I’ll wait till then.”

But she would not leave me this support. Independently of the moral
evil of basing our hopes upon the death of another, who, if unfit for
this world, was at least no less so for the next, and whose
amelioration would thus become our bane and his greatest transgression
our greatest benefit,—she maintained it to be madness: many men of Mr.
Huntingdon’s habits had lived to a ripe though miserable old age. “And
if I,” said she, “am young in years, I am old in sorrow; but even if
trouble should fail to kill me before vice destroys him, think, if he
reached but fifty years or so, would you wait twenty or fifteen—in
vague uncertainty and suspense—through all the prime of youth and
manhood—and marry at last a woman faded and worn as I shall be—without
ever having seen me from this day to that?—You would not,” she
continued, interrupting my earnest protestations of unfailing
constancy,—“or if you would, you should not. Trust me, Gilbert; in this
matter I know better than you. You think me cold and stony-hearted, and
you may, but—”

“I don’t, Helen.”

“Well, never mind: you might if you would: but I have not spent my
solitude in utter idleness, and I am not speaking now from the impulse
of the moment, as you do. I have thought of all these matters again and
again; I have argued these questions with myself, and pondered well our
past, and present, and future career; and, believe me, I have come to
the right conclusion at last. Trust my words rather than your own
feelings now, and in a few years you will see that I was right—though
at present I hardly can see it myself,” she murmured with a sigh as she
rested her head on her hand. “And don’t argue against me any more: all
you can say has been already said by my own heart and refuted by my
reason. It was hard enough to combat those suggestions as they were
whispered within me; in your mouth they are ten times worse, and if you
knew how much they pain me you would cease at once, I know. If you knew
my present feelings, you would even try to relieve them at the expense
of your own.”

“I will go—in a minute, if _that_ can relieve you—and NEVER return!”
said I, with bitter emphasis. “But, if we may never meet, and never
hope to meet again, is it a crime to exchange our thoughts by letter?
May not kindred spirits meet, and mingle in communion, whatever be the
fate and circumstances of their earthly tenements?”

“They may, they may!” cried she, with a momentary burst of glad
enthusiasm. “I thought of that too, Gilbert, but I feared to mention
it, because I feared you would not understand my views upon the
subject. I fear it even now—I fear any kind friend would tell us we are
_both_ deluding ourselves with the idea of keeping up a spiritual
intercourse without hope or prospect of anything further—without
fostering vain regrets and hurtful aspirations, and feeding thoughts
that should be sternly and pitilessly left to perish of inanition.”

“Never mind our kind friends: if they can part our bodies, it is
enough; in God’s name, let them not sunder our souls!” cried I, in
terror lest she should deem it her duty to deny us this last remaining
consolation.

“But no letters can pass between us here,” said she, “without giving
fresh food for scandal; and when I departed, I had intended that my new
abode should be unknown to you as to the rest of the world; not that I
should doubt your word if you promised not to visit me, but I thought
you would be more tranquil in your own mind if you knew you could not
do it, and likely to find less difficulty in abstracting yourself from
me if you could not picture my situation to your mind. But listen,”
said she, smilingly putting up her finger to check my impatient reply:
“in six months you shall hear from Frederick precisely where I am; and
if you still retain your wish to write to me, and think you can
maintain a correspondence all thought, all spirit—such as disembodied
souls or unimpassioned friends, at least, might hold,—write, and I will
answer you.”

“Six months!”

“Yes, to give your present ardour time to cool, and try the truth and
constancy of your soul’s love for mine. And now, enough has been said
between us. Why can’t we part at once?” exclaimed she, almost wildly,
after a moment’s pause, as she suddenly rose from her chair, with her
hands resolutely clasped together. I thought it was my duty to go
without delay; and I approached and half extended my hand as if to take
leave—she grasped it in silence. But this thought of final separation
was too intolerable: it seemed to squeeze the blood out of my heart;
and my feet were glued to the floor.

“And must we never meet again?” I murmured, in the anguish of my soul.

“We shall meet in heaven. Let us think of that,” said she in a tone of
desperate calmness; but her eyes glittered wildly, and her face was
deadly pale.

“But not as we are now,” I could not help replying. “It gives me little
consolation to think I shall next behold you as a disembodied spirit,
or an altered being, with a frame perfect and glorious, but not like
this!—and a heart, perhaps, entirely estranged from me.”

“No, Gilbert, there is perfect love in heaven!”

“_So_ perfect, I suppose, that it soars above distinctions, and you
will have no closer sympathy with me than with any one of the ten
thousand thousand angels and the innumerable multitude of happy spirits
round us.”

“Whatever I am, you will be the same, and, therefore, cannot possibly
regret it; and whatever that change may be we know it must be for the
better.”

“But if I am to be so changed that I shall cease to adore you with my
whole heart and soul, and love you beyond every other creature, I shall
not be myself; and though, if ever I win heaven at all, I must, I know,
be infinitely better and happier than I am now, my earthly nature
cannot rejoice in the anticipation of such beatitude, from which itself
and its chief joy must be excluded.”

“Is your love _all_ earthly, then?”

“No, but I am supposing we shall have no more intimate communion with
each other than with the rest.”

“If so, it will be because we love them more, and not each other less.
Increase of love brings increase of happiness, when it is mutual, and
pure as that will be.”

“But can _you_, Helen, contemplate with delight this prospect of losing
me in a sea of glory?”

“I own I cannot; but we know not that it will be so;—and I do know that
to regret the exchange of earthly pleasures for the joys of heaven, is
as if the grovelling caterpillar should lament that it must one day
quit the nibbled leaf to soar aloft and flutter through the air, roving
at will from flower to flower, sipping sweet honey from their cups, or
basking in their sunny petals. If these little creatures knew how great
a change awaited them, no doubt they would regret it; but would not all
such sorrow be misplaced? And if that illustration will not move you,
here is another:—We are children now; we feel as children, and we
understand as children; and when we are told that men and women do not
play with toys, and that our companions will one day weary of the
trivial sports and occupations that interest them and us so deeply now,
we cannot help being saddened at the thoughts of such an alteration,
because we cannot conceive that as we grow up our own minds will become
so enlarged and elevated that we ourselves shall then regard as
trifling those objects and pursuits we now so fondly cherish, and that,
though our companions will no longer join us in those childish
pastimes, they will drink with us at other fountains of delight, and
mingle their souls with ours in higher aims and nobler occupations
beyond our present comprehension, but not less deeply relished or less
truly good for that, while yet both we and they remain essentially the
same individuals as before. But, Gilbert, can you really derive no
consolation from the thought that we may meet together where there is
no more pain and sorrow, no more striving against sin, and struggling
of the spirit against the flesh; where both will behold the same
glorious truths, and drink exalted and supreme felicity from the same
fountain of light and goodness—that Being whom both will worship with
the same intensity of holy ardour—and where pure and happy creatures
both will love with the same divine affection? If you cannot, never
write to me!”

“Helen, I can! if faith would never fail.”

“Now, then,” exclaimed she, “while this hope is strong within us—”

“We will part,” I cried. “You shall not have the pain of another effort
to dismiss me. I will go at once; but—”

I did not put my request in words: she understood it instinctively, and
_this_ time she yielded too—or rather, there was nothing so deliberate
as requesting or yielding in the matter: there was a sudden impulse
that neither could resist. One moment I stood and looked into her face,
the next I held her to my heart, and we seemed to grow together in a
close embrace from which no physical or mental force could rend us. A
whispered “God bless you!” and “Go—go!” was all she said; but while she
spoke she held me so fast that, without violence, I could not have
obeyed her. At length, however, by some heroic effort, we tore
ourselves apart, and I rushed from the house.

I have a confused remembrance of seeing little Arthur running up the
garden-walk to meet me, and of bolting over the wall to avoid him—and
subsequently running down the steep fields, clearing the stone fences
and hedges as they came in my way, till I got completely out of sight
of the old hall and down to the bottom of the hill; and then of long
hours spent in bitter tears and lamentations, and melancholy musings in
the lonely valley, with the eternal music in my ears, of the west wind
rushing through the overshadowing trees, and the brook babbling and
gurgling along its stony bed; my eyes, for the most part, vacantly
fixed on the deep, chequered shades restlessly playing over the bright
sunny grass at my feet, where now and then a withered leaf or two would
come dancing to share the revelry; but my heart was away up the hill in
that dark room where she was weeping desolate and alone—she whom I was
not to comfort, not to see again, till years or suffering had overcome
us both, and torn our spirits from their perishing abodes of clay.

There was little business done that day, you may be sure. The farm was
abandoned to the labourers, and the labourers were left to their own
devices. But one duty must be attended to; I had not forgotten my
assault upon Frederick Lawrence; and I must see him to apologise for
the unhappy deed. I would fain have put it off till the morrow; but
what if he should denounce me to his sister in the meantime? No, no! I
must ask his pardon to-day, and entreat him to be lenient in his
accusation, if the revelation must be made. I deferred it, however,
till the evening, when my spirits were more composed, and when—oh,
wonderful perversity of human nature!—some faint germs of indefinite
hopes were beginning to rise in my mind; not that I intended to cherish
them, after all that had been said on the subject, but there they must
lie for a while, uncrushed though not encouraged, till I had learnt to
live without them.

Arrived at Woodford, the young squire’s abode, I found no little
difficulty in obtaining admission to his presence. The servant that
opened the door told me his master was very ill, and seemed to think it
doubtful whether he would be able to see me. I was not going to be
baulked, however. I waited calmly in the hall to be announced, but
inwardly determined to take no denial. The message was such as I
expected—a polite intimation that Mr. Lawrence could see no one; he was
feverish, and must not be disturbed.

“I shall not disturb him long,” said I; “but I must see him for a
moment: it is on business of importance that I wish to speak to him.”

“I’ll tell him, sir,” said the man. And I advanced further into the
hall and followed him nearly to the door of the apartment where his
master was—for it seemed he was not in bed. The answer returned was
that Mr. Lawrence hoped I would be so good as to leave a message or a
note with the servant, as he could attend to no business at present.

“He may as well see me as you,” said I; and, stepping past the
astonished footman, I boldly rapped at the door, entered, and closed it
behind me. The room was spacious and handsomely furnished—very
comfortably, too, for a bachelor. A clear, red fire was burning in the
polished grate: a superannuated greyhound, given up to idleness and
good living, lay basking before it on the thick, soft rug, on one
corner of which, beside the sofa, sat a smart young springer, looking
wistfully up in its master’s face—perhaps asking permission to share
his couch, or, it might be, only soliciting a caress from his hand or a
kind word from his lips. The invalid himself looked very interesting as
he lay reclining there, in his elegant dressing-gown, with a silk
handkerchief bound across his temples. His usually pale face was
flushed and feverish; his eyes were half closed, until he became
sensible of my presence—and then he opened them wide enough: one hand
was thrown listlessly over the back of the sofa, and held a small
volume, with which, apparently, he had been vainly attempting to
beguile the weary hours. He dropped it, however, in his start of
indignant surprise as I advanced into the room and stood before him on
the rug. He raised himself on his pillows, and gazed upon me with equal
degrees of nervous horror, anger, and amazement depicted on his
countenance.

“Mr. Markham, I scarcely expected this!” he said; and the blood left
his cheek as he spoke.

“I know you didn’t,” answered I; “but be quiet a minute, and I’ll tell
you what I came for.” Unthinkingly, I advanced a step or two nearer. He
winced at my approach, with an expression of aversion and instinctive
physical fear anything but conciliatory to my feelings. I stepped back,
however.

“Make your story a short one,” said he, putting his hand on the small
silver bell that stood on the table beside him, “or I shall be obliged
to call for assistance. I am in no state to bear your brutalities now,
or your presence either.” And in truth the moisture started from his
pores and stood on his pale forehead like dew.

Such a reception was hardly calculated to diminish the difficulties of
my unenviable task. It must be performed however, in some fashion; and
so I plunged into it at once, and floundered through it as I could.

“The truth is, Lawrence,” said I, “I have not acted quite correctly
towards you of late—especially on this last occasion; and I’m come
to—in short, to express my regret for what has been done, and to beg
your pardon. If you don’t choose to grant it,” I added hastily, not
liking the aspect of his face, “it’s no matter; only _I’ve_ done _my_
duty—that’s all.”

“It’s easily done,” replied he, with a faint smile bordering on a
sneer: “to abuse your friend and knock him on the head without any
assignable cause, and then tell him the deed was not quite correct, but
it’s no matter whether he pardons it or not.”

“I forgot to tell you that it was in consequence of a
mistake,”—muttered I. “I should have made a very handsome apology, but
you provoked me so confoundedly with your—. Well, I suppose it’s my
fault. The fact is, I didn’t know that you were Mrs. Graham’s brother,
and I saw and heard some things respecting your conduct towards her
which were calculated to awaken unpleasant suspicions, that, allow me
to say, a little candour and confidence on your part might have
removed; and, at last, I chanced to overhear a part of a conversation
between you and her that made me think I had a right to hate you.”

“And how came you to know that I was her brother?” asked he, in some
anxiety.

“She told me herself. She told me all. _She_ knew I might be trusted.
But you needn’t disturb yourself about _that_, Mr. Lawrence, for I’ve
seen the last of her!”

“The last! Is she gone, then?”

“No; but she has bid adieu to me, and I have promised never to go near
that house again while she inhabits it.” I could have groaned aloud at
the bitter thoughts awakened by this turn in the discourse. But I only
clenched my hands and stamped my foot upon the rug. My companion,
however, was evidently relieved.

“You have done right,” he said, in a tone of unqualified approbation,
while his face brightened into almost a sunny expression. “And as for
the mistake, I am sorry for both our sakes that it should have
occurred. Perhaps you can forgive my want of candour, and remember, as
some partial mitigation of the offence, how little encouragement to
friendly confidence you have given me of late.”

“Yes, yes—I remember it all: nobody can blame me more than I blame
myself in my own heart; at any rate, nobody can regret more sincerely
than I do the result of my _brutality_, as you rightly term it.”

“Never mind that,” said he, faintly smiling; “let us forget all
unpleasant words on both sides, as well as deeds, and consign to
oblivion everything that we have cause to regret. Have you any
objection to take my hand, or you’d rather not?” It trembled through
weakness as he held it out, and dropped before I had time to catch it
and give it a hearty squeeze, which he had not the strength to return.

“How dry and burning your hand is, Lawrence,” said I. “You are really
ill, and I have made you worse by all this talk.”

“Oh, it is nothing; only a cold got by the rain.”

“My doing, too.”

“Never mind that. But tell me, did you mention this affair to my
sister?”

“To confess the truth, I had not the courage to do so; but when you
tell her, will you just say that I deeply regret it, and—?”

“Oh, never fear! I shall say nothing against you, as long as you keep
your good resolution of remaining aloof from her. She has not heard of
my illness, then, that you are aware of?”

“I think not.”

“I’m glad of that, for I have been all this time tormenting myself with
the fear that somebody would tell her I was dying, or desperately ill,
and she would be either distressing herself on account of her inability
to hear from me or do me any good, or perhaps committing the madness of
coming to see me. I must contrive to let her know something about it,
if I can,” continued he, reflectively, “or she will be hearing some
such story. Many would be glad to tell her such news, just to see how
she would take it; and then she might expose herself to fresh scandal.”

“I wish I had told her,” said I. “If it were not for my promise, I
would tell her now.”

“By no means! I am not dreaming of that;—but if I were to write a short
note, now, not mentioning you, Markham, but just giving a slight
account of my illness, by way of excuse for my not coming to see her,
and to put her on her guard against any exaggerated reports she may
hear,—and address it in a disguised hand—would you do me the favour to
slip it into the post-office as you pass? for I dare not trust any of
the servants in such a case.”

Most willingly I consented, and immediately brought him his desk. There
was little need to disguise his hand, for the poor fellow seemed to
have considerable difficulty in writing at all, so as to be legible.
When the note was done, I thought it time to retire, and took leave,
after asking if there was anything in the world I could do for him,
little or great, in the way of alleviating his sufferings, and
repairing the injury I had done.

“No,” said he; “you have already done much towards it; you have done
more for me than the most skilful physician could do: for you have
relieved my mind of two great burdens—anxiety on my sister’s account,
and deep regret upon your own: for I do believe these two sources of
torment have had more effect in working me up into a fever than
anything else; and I am persuaded I shall soon recover now. There is
one more thing you can do for me, and that is, come and see me now and
then—for you see I am very lonely here, and I promise your entrance
shall not be disputed again.”

I engaged to do so, and departed with a cordial pressure of the hand. I
posted the letter on my way home, most manfully resisting the
temptation of dropping in a word from myself at the same time.




 CHAPTER XLVI


I felt strongly tempted, at times, to enlighten my mother and sister on
the real character and circumstances of the persecuted tenant of
Wildfell Hall, and at first I greatly regretted having omitted to ask
that lady’s permission to do so; but, on due reflection, I considered
that if it were known to them, it could not long remain a secret to the
Millwards and Wilsons, and such was my present appreciation of Eliza
Millward’s disposition, that, if once she got a clue to the story, I
should fear she would soon find means to enlighten Mr. Huntingdon upon
the place of his wife’s retreat. I would therefore wait patiently till
these weary six months were over, and then, when the fugitive had found
another home, and I was permitted to write to her, I would beg to be
allowed to clear her name from these vile calumnies: at present I must
content myself with simply asserting that I knew them to be false, and
would prove it some day, to the shame of those who slandered her. I
don’t think anybody believed me, but everybody soon learned to avoid
insinuating a word against her, or even mentioning her name in my
presence. They thought I was so madly infatuated by the seductions of
that unhappy lady that I was determined to support her in the very face
of reason; and meantime I grow insupportably morose and misanthropical
from the idea that every one I met was harbouring unworthy thoughts of
the supposed Mrs. Graham, and would express them if he dared. My poor
mother was quite distressed about me; but I couldn’t help it—at least I
thought I could not, though sometimes I felt a pang of remorse for my
undutiful conduct to her, and made an effort to amend, attended with
some partial success; and indeed I was generally more humanised in my
demeanour to her than to any one else, Mr. Lawrence excepted. Rose and
Fergus usually shunned my presence; and it was well they did, for I was
not fit company for them, nor they for me, under the present
circumstances.

Mrs. Huntingdon did not leave Wildfell Hall till above two months after
our farewell interview. During that time she never appeared at church,
and I never went near the house: I only knew she was still there by her
brother’s brief answers to my many and varied inquiries respecting her.
I was a very constant and attentive visitor to him throughout the whole
period of his illness and convalescence; not only from the interest I
took in his recovery, and my desire to cheer him up and make the utmost
possible amends for my former “brutality,” but from my growing
attachment to himself, and the increasing pleasure I found in his
society—partly from his increased cordiality to me, but chiefly on
account of his close connection, both in blood and in affection, with
my adored Helen. I loved him for it better than I liked to express: and
I took a secret delight in pressing those slender white fingers, so
marvellously like her own, considering he was not a woman, and in
watching the passing changes in his fair, pale features, and observing
the intonations of his voice, detecting resemblances which I wondered
had never struck me before. He provoked me at times, indeed, by his
evident reluctance to talk to me about his sister, though I did not
question the friendliness of his motives in wishing to discourage my
remembrance of her.

His recovery was not quite so rapid as he had expected it to be; he was
not able to mount his pony till a fortnight after the date of our
reconciliation; and the first use he made of his returning strength was
to ride over by night to Wildfell Hall, to see his sister. It was a
hazardous enterprise both for him and for her, but he thought it
necessary to consult with her on the subject of her projected
departure, if not to calm her apprehensions respecting his health, and
the worst result was a slight relapse of his illness, for no one knew
of the visit but the inmates of the old Hall, except myself; and I
believe it had not been his intention to mention it to me, for when I
came to see him the next day, and observed he was not so well as he
ought to have been, he merely said he had caught cold by being out too
late in the evening.

“You’ll _never_ be able to see your sister, if you don’t take care of
yourself,” said I, a little provoked at the circumstance on her
account, instead of commiserating him.

“I’ve seen her already,” said he, quietly.

“You’ve seen her!” cried I, in astonishment.

“Yes.” And then he told me what considerations had impelled him to make
the venture, and with what precautions he had made it.

“And how was she?” I eagerly asked.

“As usual,” was the brief though sad reply.

“As usual—that is, far from happy and far from strong.”

“She is not positively ill,” returned he; “and she will recover her
spirits in a while, I have no doubt—but so many trials have been almost
too much for her. How threatening those clouds look,” continued he,
turning towards the window. “We shall have thunder-showers before
night, I imagine, and they are just in the midst of stacking my corn.
Have you got yours all in yet?”

“No. And, Lawrence, did she—did your sister mention me?”

“She asked if I had seen you lately.”

“And what else did she say?”

“I cannot tell you all she said,” replied he, with a slight smile; “for
we talked a good deal, though my stay was but short; but our
conversation was chiefly on the subject of her intended departure,
which I begged her to delay till I was better able to assist her in her
search after another home.”

“But did she say no more about me?”

“She did not say much about you, Markham. I should not have encouraged
her to do so, had she been inclined; but happily she was not: she only
asked a few questions concerning you, and seemed satisfied with my
brief answers, wherein she showed herself wiser than her friend; and I
may tell you, too, that she seemed to be far more anxious lest you
should think too much of her, than lest you should forget her.”

“She was right.”

“But I fear _your_ anxiety is quite the other way respecting her.”

“No, it is not: I wish her to be happy; but I don’t wish her to forget
me altogether. She knows it is impossible that I should forget _her;_
and she is right to wish me not to remember her too well. I should not
desire her to regret me _too_ deeply; but I can scarcely imagine she
will make herself very unhappy about me, because I know I am not worthy
of it, except in my appreciation of her.”

“You are neither of you worthy of a broken heart,—nor of all the sighs,
and tears, and sorrowful thoughts that have been, and I fear will be,
wasted upon you both; but, at present, each has a more exalted opinion
of the other than, I fear, he or she deserves; and my sister’s feelings
are naturally full as keen as yours, and I believe _more_ constant; but
she has the good sense and fortitude to strive against them in this
particular; and I trust she will not rest till she has entirely weaned
her thoughts—” he hesitated.

“From me,” said I.

“And I wish you would make the like exertions,” continued he.

“Did she _tell_ you that that was her intention?”

“No; the question was not broached between us: there was no necessity
for it, for I had no doubt that such was her determination.”

“To forget me?”

“Yes, Markham! Why not?”

“Oh, well!” was my only audible reply; but I internally answered,—“No,
Lawrence, you’re wrong there: she is _not_ determined to forget me. It
would be _wrong_ to forget one so deeply and fondly devoted to her, who
can so thoroughly appreciate her excellencies, and sympathise with all
her thoughts, as I can do, and it would be wrong in me to forget so
excellent and divine a piece of God’s creation as she, when I have once
so truly loved and known her.” But I said no more to him on that
subject. I instantly started a new topic of conversation, and soon took
leave of my companion, with a feeling of less cordiality towards him
than usual. Perhaps I had no right to be annoyed at him, but I was so
nevertheless.

In little more than a week after this I met him returning from a visit
to the Wilsons’; and I now resolved to do _him_ a good turn, though at
the expense of his feelings, and perhaps at the risk of incurring that
displeasure which is so commonly the reward of those who give
disagreeable information, or tender their advice unasked. In this,
believe me, I was actuated by no motives of revenge for the occasional
annoyances I had lately sustained from him,—nor yet by any feeling of
malevolent enmity towards Miss Wilson, but purely by the fact that I
could not endure that such a woman should be Mrs. Huntingdon’s sister,
and that, as well for his own sake as for hers, I could not bear to
think of his being deceived into a union with one so unworthy of him,
and so utterly unfitted to be the partner of his quiet home, and the
companion of his life. He had had uncomfortable suspicions on that head
himself, I imagined; but such was his inexperience, and such were the
lady’s powers of attraction, and her skill in bringing them to bear
upon his young imagination, that they had not disturbed him long; and I
believe the only effectual causes of the vacillating indecision that
had preserved him hitherto from making an actual declaration of love,
was the consideration of her connections, and especially of her mother,
whom he could not abide. Had they lived at a distance, he might have
surmounted the objection, but within two or three miles of Woodford it
was really no light matter.

“You’ve been to call on the Wilsons, Lawrence,” said I, as I walked
beside his pony.

“Yes,” replied he, slightly averting his face: “I thought it but civil
to take the first opportunity of returning their kind attentions, since
they have been so very particular and constant in their inquiries
throughout the whole course of my illness.”

“It’s all Miss Wilson’s doing.”

“And if it is,” returned he, with a very perceptible blush, “is that
any reason why I should not make a suitable acknowledgment?”

“It is a reason why you should not make the acknowledgment she looks
for.”

“Let us drop that subject if you please,” said he, in evident
displeasure.

“No, Lawrence, with your leave we’ll continue it a while longer; and
I’ll tell you something, now we’re about it, which you may believe or
not as you choose—only please to remember that it is not my custom to
speak falsely, and that in this case I can have no motive for
misrepresenting the truth—”

“Well, Markham, what now?”

“_Miss Wilson hates your sister._ It may be natural enough that, in her
ignorance of the relationship, she should feel some degree of enmity
against her, but no good or amiable woman would be capable of evincing
that bitter, cold-blooded, designing malice towards a fancied rival
that I have observed in her.”

“Markham!”

“Yes—and it is my belief that Eliza Millward and she, if not the very
originators of the slanderous reports that have been propagated, were
designedly the encouragers and chief disseminators of them. She was not
desirous to mix up _your_ name in the matter, of course, but her
delight was, and still is, to blacken your sister’s character to the
utmost of her power, without risking too greatly the exposure of her
own malevolence!”

“I cannot believe it,” interrupted my companion, his face burning with
indignation.

“Well, as I cannot prove it, I must content myself with asserting that
it is so to the best of my belief; but as you would not willingly marry
Miss Wilson if it _were_ so, you will do well to be cautious, till you
have proved it to be otherwise.”

“I never told you, Markham, that I _intended_ to marry Miss Wilson,”
said he, proudly.

“No, but whether you do or not, she intends to marry you.”

“Did she tell you so?”

“No, but—”

“Then you have no right to make such an assertion respecting her.” He
slightly quickened his pony’s pace, but I laid my hand on its mane,
determined he should not leave me yet.

“Wait a moment, Lawrence, and let me explain myself; and don’t be so
very—I don’t know what to call it—_inaccessible_ as you are.—I know
what you think of Jane Wilson; and I believe I know how far you are
mistaken in your opinion: you think she is singularly charming,
elegant, sensible, and refined: you are not aware that she is selfish,
cold-hearted, ambitious, artful, shallow-minded—”

“Enough, Markham—enough!”

“No; let me finish:—you don’t know that, if you married her, your home
would be rayless and comfortless; and it would break your heart at last
to find yourself united to one so wholly incapable of sharing your
tastes, feelings, and ideas—so utterly destitute of sensibility, good
feeling, and true nobility of soul.”

“Have you done?” asked my companion quietly.

“Yes;—I know you hate me for my impertinence, but I don’t care if it
only conduces to preserve you from that fatal mistake.”

“Well!” returned he, with a rather wintry smile—“I’m glad you have
overcome or forgotten your own afflictions so far as to be able to
study so deeply the affairs of others, and trouble your head so
unnecessarily about the fancied or possible calamities of their future
life.”

We parted—somewhat coldly again: but still we did not cease to be
friends; and my well-meant warning, though it might have been more
judiciously delivered, as well as more thankfully received, was not
wholly unproductive of the desired effect: his visit to the Wilsons was
not repeated, and though, in our subsequent interviews, he never
mentioned her name to me, nor I to him,—I have reason to believe he
pondered my words in his mind, eagerly though covertly sought
information respecting the fair lady from other quarters, secretly
compared my character of her with what he had himself observed and what
he heard from others, and finally came to the conclusion that, all
things considered, she had much better remain Miss Wilson of Ryecote
Farm than be transmuted into Mrs. Lawrence of Woodford Hall. I believe,
too, that he soon learned to contemplate with secret amazement his
former predilection, and to congratulate himself on the lucky escape he
had made; but he never confessed it to me, or hinted one word of
acknowledgment for the part I had had in his deliverance, but this was
not surprising to any one that knew him as I did.

As for Jane Wilson, she, of course, was disappointed and embittered by
the sudden cold neglect and ultimate desertion of her former admirer.
Had I done wrong to blight her cherished hopes? I think not; and
certainly my conscience has never accused me, from that day to this, of
any evil design in the matter.




 CHAPTER XLVII


One morning, about the beginning of November, while I was inditing some
business letters, shortly after breakfast, Eliza Millward came to call
upon my sister. Rose had neither the discrimination nor the virulence
to regard the little demon as I did, and they still preserved their
former intimacy. At the moment of her arrival, however, there was no
one in the room but Fergus and myself, my mother and sister being both
of them absent, “on household cares intent”; but _I_ was not going to
lay myself out for her amusement, whoever else might so incline: I
merely honoured her with a careless salutation and a few words of
course, and then went on with my writing, leaving my brother to be more
polite if he chose. But she wanted to tease me.

“What a pleasure it is to find you at home, Mr. Markham!” said she,
with a disingenuously malicious smile. “I so seldom see you now, for
you never come to the vicarage. Papa, is quite offended, I can tell
you,” she added playfully, looking into my face with an impertinent
laugh, as she seated herself, half beside and half before my desk, off
the corner of the table.

“I have had a good deal to do of late,” said I, without looking up from
my letter.

“Have you, indeed! Somebody said you had been strangely neglecting your
business these last few months.”

“Somebody said wrong, for, these last two months especially, I have
been particularly plodding and diligent.”

“Ah! well, there’s nothing like active employment, I suppose, to
console the afflicted;—and, excuse me, Mr. Markham, but you look so
very far from well, and have been, by all accounts, so moody and
thoughtful of late,—I could almost think you have some secret care
preying on your spirits. _Formerly_,” said she timidly, “I could have
ventured to ask you what it was, and what I could do to comfort you: I
dare not do it now.”

“You’re very kind, Miss Eliza. When I think you can do anything to
comfort me, I’ll make bold to tell you.”

“Pray do!—I suppose I mayn’t guess what it is that troubles you?”

“There’s no necessity, for I’ll tell you plainly. The thing that
troubles me the most at present is a young lady sitting at my elbow,
and preventing me from finishing my letter, and, thereafter, repairing
to my daily business.”

Before she could reply to this ungallant speech, Rose entered the room;
and Miss Eliza rising to greet her, they both seated themselves near
the fire, where that idle lad Fergus was standing, leaning his shoulder
against the corner of the chimney-piece, with his legs crossed and his
hands in his breeches-pockets.

“Now, Rose, I’ll tell you a piece of news—I hope you have not heard it
before: for good, bad, or indifferent, one always likes to be the first
to tell. It’s about that sad Mrs. Graham—”

“Hush-sh-sh!” whispered Fergus, in a tone of solemn import. “‘We never
mention her; her name is never heard.’” And glancing up, I caught him
with his eye askance on me, and his finger pointed to his forehead;
then, winking at the young lady with a doleful shake of the head, he
whispered—“A monomania—but don’t mention it—all right but that.”

“I should be sorry to injure any one’s feelings,” returned she,
speaking below her breath. “Another time, perhaps.”

“Speak out, Miss Eliza!” said I, not deigning to notice the other’s
buffooneries: “you needn’t fear to say anything in my presence.”

“Well,” answered she, “perhaps you know already that Mrs. Graham’s
husband is not really dead, and that she had run away from him?” I
started, and felt my face glow; but I bent it over my letter, and went
on folding it up as she proceeded. “But perhaps you did _not_ know that
she is now gone back to him again, and that a perfect reconciliation
has taken place between them? Only think,” she continued, turning to
the confounded Rose, “what a fool the man must be!”

“And who gave you this piece of intelligence, Miss Eliza?” said I,
interrupting my sister’s exclamations.

“I had it from a very authentic source.”

“From whom, may I ask?”

“From one of the servants at Woodford.”

“Oh! I was not aware that you were on such intimate terms with Mr.
Lawrence’s household.”

“It was not from the man himself that I heard it, but he told it in
confidence to our maid Sarah, and Sarah told it to me.”

“In confidence, I suppose? And you tell it in confidence to us? But _I_
can tell _you_ that it is but a lame story after all, and scarcely
one-half of it true.”

While I spoke I completed the sealing and direction of my letters, with
a somewhat unsteady hand, in spite of all my efforts to retain
composure, and in spite of my firm conviction that the story _was_ a
lame one—that the supposed Mrs. Graham, most certainly, had not
_voluntarily_ gone back to her husband, or dreamt of a reconciliation.
Most likely she was gone away, and the tale-bearing servant, not
knowing what was become of her, had _conjectured_ that such was the
case, and our fair visitor had detailed it as a certainty, delighted
with such an opportunity of tormenting me. But it was possible—barely
possible—that some one might have betrayed her, and she had been taken
away by force. Determined to know the worst, I hastily pocketed my two
letters, and muttered something about being too late for the post, left
the room, rushed into the yard, and vociferously called for my horse.
No one being there, I dragged him out of the stable myself, strapped
the saddle on to his back and the bridle on to his head, mounted, and
speedily galloped away to Woodford. I found its owner pensively
strolling in the grounds.

“Is your sister gone?” were my first words as I grasped his hand,
instead of the usual inquiry after his health.

“Yes, she’s gone,” was his answer, so calmly spoken that my terror was
at once removed.

“I suppose I mayn’t know where she is?” said I, as I dismounted, and
relinquished my horse to the gardener, who, being the only servant
within call, had been summoned by his master, from his employment of
raking up the dead leaves on the lawn, to take him to the stables.

My companion gravely took my arm, and leading me away to the garden,
thus answered my question,—“She is at Grassdale Manor, in ——shire.”

“Where?” cried I, with a convulsive start.

“At Grassdale Manor.”

“How was it?” I gasped. “Who betrayed her?”

“She went of her own accord.”

“Impossible, Lawrence! She _could_ not be so frantic!” exclaimed I,
vehemently grasping his arm, as if to force him to unsay those hateful
words.

“She did,” persisted he in the same grave, collected manner as before;
“and not without reason,” he continued, gently disengaging himself from
my grasp. “Mr. Huntingdon is ill.”

“And so she went to nurse him?”

“Yes.”

“Fool!” I could not help exclaiming, and Lawrence looked up with a
rather reproachful glance. “Is he dying, then?”

“I think not, Markham.”

“And how many more nurses has he? How many ladies are there besides to
take care of him?”

“None; he was alone, or she would not have gone.”

“Oh, confound it! This is intolerable!”

“What is? That he should be alone?”

I attempted no reply, for I was not sure that this circumstance did not
partly conduce to my distraction. I therefore continued to pace the
walk in silent anguish, with my hand pressed to my forehead; then
suddenly pausing and turning to my companion, I impatiently exclaimed,
“Why did she take this infatuated step? What fiend persuaded her to
it?”

“Nothing persuaded her but her own sense of duty.”

“Humbug!”

“I was half inclined to say so myself, Markham, at first. I assure you
it was not by my advice that she went, for I detest that man as
fervently as you can do,—except, indeed, that his reformation would
give me much greater pleasure than his death; but all I did was to
inform her of the circumstance of his illness (the consequence of a
fall from his horse in hunting), and to tell her that that unhappy
person, Miss Myers, had left him some time ago.”

“It was ill done! Now, when he finds the convenience of her presence,
he will make all manner of lying speeches and false, fair promises for
the future, and she will believe him, and then her condition will be
ten times worse and ten times more irremediable than before.”

“There does not appear to be much ground for such apprehensions at
present,” said he, producing a letter from his pocket. “From the
account I received this morning, I should say—”

It was _her_ writing! By an irresistible impulse I held out my hand,
and the words, “Let me see it,” involuntarily passed my lips. He was
evidently reluctant to grant the request, but while he hesitated I
snatched it from his hand. Recollecting myself, however, the minute
after, I offered to restore it.

“Here, take it,” said I, “if you don’t want me to read it.”

“No,” replied he, “you may read it if you like.”

I read it, and so may you.

Grassdale, Nov. 4th.


DEAR FREDERICK,—I know you will be anxious to hear from me, and I will
tell you all I can. Mr. Huntingdon is very ill, but not dying, or in
any immediate danger; and he is rather better at present than he was
when I came. I found the house in sad confusion: Mrs. Greaves, Benson,
every decent servant had left, and those that were come to supply their
places were a negligent, disorderly set, to say no worse—I must change
them again, if I stay. A professional nurse, a grim, hard old woman,
had been hired to attend the wretched invalid. He suffers much, and has
no fortitude to bear him through. The immediate injuries he sustained
from the accident, however, were not very severe, and would, as the
doctor says, have been but trifling to a man of temperate habits, but
with _him_ it is very different. On the night of my arrival, when I
first entered his room, he was lying in a kind of half delirium. He did
not notice me till I spoke, and then he mistook me for another.

“Is it you, Alice, come again?” he murmured. “What did you leave me
for?”

“It is I, Arthur—it is Helen, your wife,” I replied.

“My wife!” said he, with a start. “For heaven’s sake, don’t mention
her—I have none. Devil take her,” he cried, a moment after, “and you,
too! What did you do it for?”

I said no more; but observing that he kept gazing towards the foot of
the bed, I went and sat there, placing the light so as to shine full
upon me, for I thought he might be dying, and I wanted him to know me.
For a long time he lay silently looking upon me, first with a vacant
stare, then with a fixed gaze of strange growing intensity. At last he
startled me by suddenly raising himself on his elbow and demanding in a
horrified whisper, with his eyes still fixed upon me, “Who is it?”

“It is Helen Huntingdon,” said I, quietly rising at the same time, and
removing to a less conspicuous position.

“I must be going mad,” cried he, “or something—delirious, perhaps; but
leave me, whoever you are. I can’t bear that white face, and those
eyes. For God’s sake go, and send me somebody else that doesn’t look
like that!”

I went at once, and sent the hired nurse; but next morning I ventured
to enter his chamber again, and, taking the nurse’s place by his
bedside, I watched him and waited on him for several hours, showing
myself as little as possible, and only speaking when necessary, and
then not above my breath. At first he addressed me as the nurse, but,
on my crossing the room to draw up the window-blinds, in obedience to
his directions, he said, “No, it isn’t nurse; it’s Alice. Stay with me,
do! That old hag will be the death of me.”

“I mean to stay with you,” said I. And after that he would call me
Alice, or some other name almost equally repugnant to my feelings. I
forced myself to endure it for a while, fearing a contradiction might
disturb him too much; but when, having asked for a glass of water,
while I held it to his lips, he murmured, “Thanks, dearest!” I could
not help distinctly observing, “You would not say so if you knew me,”
intending to follow that up with another declaration of my identity;
but he merely muttered an incoherent reply, so I dropped it again, till
some time after, when, as I was bathing his forehead and temples with
vinegar and water to relieve the heat and pain in his head, he
observed, after looking earnestly upon me for some minutes, “I have
such strange fancies—I can’t get rid of them, and they won’t let me
rest; and the most singular and pertinacious of them all is your face
and voice—they seem just like hers. I could swear at this moment that
she was by my side.”

“She is,” said I.

“That seems comfortable,” continued he, without noticing my words; “and
while you do it, the other fancies fade away—but _this_ only
strengthens.—Go on—go on, till it vanishes, too. I can’t stand such a
mania as this; it would kill me!”

“It never will vanish,” said I, distinctly, “for it is the truth!”

“The truth!” he cried, starting, as if an asp had stung him. “You don’t
mean to say that you are really she?”

“I do; but you needn’t shrink away from me, as if I were your greatest
enemy: I am come to take care of you, and do what none of _them_ would
do.”

“For God’s sake, don’t torment me now!” cried he in pitiable agitation;
and then he began to mutter bitter curses against me, or the evil
fortune that had brought me there; while I put down the sponge and
basin, and resumed my seat at the bed-side.

“Where are they?” said he: “have they all left me—servants and all?”

“There are servants within call if you want them; but you had better
lie down now and be quiet: none of them could or would attend you as
carefully as I shall do.”

“I can’t understand it at all,” said he, in bewildered perplexity. “Was
it a dream that—” and he covered his eyes with his hands, as if trying
to unravel the mystery.

“No, Arthur, it was not a dream, that your conduct was such as to
oblige me to leave you; but I heard that you were ill and alone, and I
am come back to nurse you. You need not fear to trust me: tell me all
your wants, and I will try to satisfy them. There is no one else to
care for you; and I shall not upbraid you now.”

“Oh! I see,” said he, with a bitter smile; “it’s an act of Christian
charity, whereby you hope to gain a higher seat in heaven for yourself,
and scoop a deeper pit in hell for me.”

“No; I came to offer you that comfort and assistance your situation
required; and if I could benefit your soul as well as your body, and
awaken some sense of contrition and—”

“Oh, yes; if you could overwhelm me with remorse and confusion of face,
now’s the time. What have you done with my son?”

“He is well, and you may see him some time, if you will compose
yourself, but not now.”

“Where is he?”

“He is safe.”

“Is he here?”

“Wherever he is, you will not see him till you have promised to leave
him entirely under my care and protection, and to let me take him away
whenever and wherever I please, if I should hereafter judge it
necessary to remove him again. But we will talk of that to-morrow: you
must be quiet now.”

“No, let me see him now, I promise, if it _must_ be so.”

“No—”

“I swear it, as God is in Heaven! Now, then, let me see him.”

“But I cannot trust your oaths and promises: I must have a written
agreement, and you must sign it in presence of a witness: but not
to-day—to-morrow.”

“No, to-day; now,” persisted he: and he was in such a state of feverish
excitement, and so bent upon the immediate gratification of his wish,
that I thought it better to grant it at once, as I saw he would not
rest till I did. But I was determined my son’s interest should not be
forgotten; and having clearly written out the promise I wished Mr.
Huntingdon to give upon a slip of paper, I deliberately read it over to
him, and made him sign it in the presence of Rachel. He begged I would
not insist upon this: it was a useless exposure of my want of faith in
his word to the servant. I told him I was sorry, but since he had
forfeited my confidence, he must take the consequence. He next pleaded
inability to hold the pen. “Then we must wait until you can hold it,”
said I. Upon which he said he would try; but then he could not see to
write. I placed my finger where the signature was to be, and told him
he might write his name in the dark, if he only knew where to put it.
But he had not power to form the letters. “In that case, you must be
too ill to see the child,” said I; and finding me inexorable, he at
length managed to ratify the agreement; and I bade Rachel send the boy.

All this may strike you as harsh, but I felt I must not lose my present
advantage, and my son’s future welfare should not be sacrificed to any
mistaken tenderness for this man’s feelings. Little Arthur had not
forgotten his father, but thirteen months of absence, during which he
had seldom been permitted to hear a word about him, or hardly to
whisper his name, had rendered him somewhat shy; and when he was
ushered into the darkened room where the sick man lay, so altered from
his former self, with fiercely flushed face and wildly-gleaming eyes—he
instinctively clung to me, and stood looking on his father with a
countenance expressive of far more awe than pleasure.

“Come here, Arthur,” said the latter, extending his hand towards him.
The child went, and timidly touched that burning hand, but almost
started in alarm, when his father suddenly clutched his arm and drew
him nearer to his side.

“Do you know me?” asked Mr. Huntingdon, intently perusing his features.

“Yes.”

“Who am I?”

“Papa.”

“Are you glad to see me?”

“Yes.”

“You’re _not!_” replied the disappointed parent, relaxing his hold, and
darting a vindictive glance at me.

Arthur, thus released, crept back to me and put his hand in mine. His
father swore I had made the child hate him, and abused and cursed me
bitterly. The instant he began I sent our son out of the room; and when
he paused to breathe, I calmly assured him that he was entirely
mistaken; I had never once attempted to prejudice his child against
him.

“I did indeed desire him to _forget_ you,” I said, “and especially to
forget the lessons you taught him; and for that cause, and to lessen
the danger of discovery, I own I have generally discouraged his
inclination to talk about you; but no one can blame me for that, I
think.”

The invalid only replied by groaning aloud, and rolling his head on a
pillow in a paroxysm of impatience.

“I am in hell, already!” cried he. “This cursed thirst is burning my
heart to ashes! Will _nobody_—”

Before he could finish the sentence I had poured out a glass of some
acidulated, cooling drink that was on the table, and brought it to him.
He drank it greedily, but muttered, as I took away the glass,—“I
suppose you’re heaping coals of fire on my head, you think?”

Not noticing this speech, I asked if there was anything else I could do
for him.

“Yes; I’ll give you another opportunity of showing your Christian
magnanimity,” sneered he: “set my pillow straight, and these confounded
bed-clothes.” I did so. “There: now get me another glass of that slop.”
I complied. “This is delightful, isn’t it?” said he with a malicious
grin, as I held it to his lips; “you never hoped for such a glorious
opportunity?”

“Now, shall I stay with you?” said I, as I replaced the glass on the
table: “or will you be more quiet if I go and send the nurse?”

“Oh, yes, you’re wondrous gentle and obliging! But you’ve driven me mad
with it all!” responded he, with an impatient toss.

“I’ll leave you, then,” said I; and I withdrew, and did not trouble him
with my presence again that day, except for a minute or two at a time,
just to see how he was and what he wanted.

Next morning the doctor ordered him to be bled; and after that he was
more subdued and tranquil. I passed half the day in his room at
different intervals. My presence did not appear to agitate or irritate
him as before, and he accepted my services quietly, without any bitter
remarks: indeed, he scarcely spoke at all, except to make known his
wants, and hardly then. But on the morrow, that is to say, in
proportion as he recovered from the state of exhaustion and
stupefaction, his ill-nature appeared to revive.

“Oh, this sweet revenge!” cried he, when I had been doing all I could
to make him comfortable and to remedy the carelessness of his nurse.
“And you can enjoy it with such a quiet conscience too, because it’s
all in the way of duty.”

“It is well for me that I _am_ doing my duty,” said I, with a
bitterness I could not repress, “for it is the only comfort I have; and
the satisfaction of my own conscience, it seems, is the only reward I
need look for!”

He looked rather surprised at the earnestness of my manner.

“What reward _did_ you look for?” he asked.

“You will think me a liar if I tell you; but I _did_ hope to benefit
you: as well to better your mind as to alleviate your present
sufferings; but it appears I am to do neither; your own bad spirit will
not let me. As far as _you_ are concerned, I have sacrificed my own
feelings, and all the little earthly comfort that was left me, to no
purpose; and every little thing I do for you is ascribed to
self-righteous malice and refined revenge!”

“It’s all very fine, I daresay,” said he, eyeing me with stupid
amazement; “and of course I ought to be melted to tears of penitence
and admiration at the sight of so much generosity and superhuman
goodness; but you see I can’t manage it. However, pray do me all the
good you can, if you do really find any pleasure in it; for you
perceive I am almost as miserable just now as you need wish to see me.
Since you came, I confess, I have had better attendance than before,
for these wretches neglected me shamefully, and all my old friends seem
to have fairly forsaken me. I’ve had a dreadful time of it, I assure
you: I sometimes thought I should have died: do you think there’s any
chance?”

“There’s always a chance of death; and it is always well to live with
such a chance in view.”

“Yes, yes! but do you think there’s any likelihood that this illness
will have a fatal termination?”

“I cannot tell; but, supposing it should, how are you prepared to meet
the event?”

“Why, the doctor told me I wasn’t to think about it, for I was sure to
get better if I stuck to his regimen and prescriptions.”

“I hope you may, Arthur; but neither the doctor nor I can speak with
certainty in such a case; there is internal injury, and it is difficult
to know to what extent.”

“There now! you want to scare me to death.”

“No; but I don’t want to lull you to false security. If a consciousness
of the uncertainty of life can dispose you to serious and useful
thoughts, I would not deprive you of the benefit of such reflections,
whether you do eventually recover or not. Does the idea of death appal
you very much?”

“It’s just the only thing I can’t bear to think of; so if you’ve any—”

“But it must come some time,” interrupted I, “and if it be years hence,
it will as certainly overtake you as if it came to-day,—and no doubt be
as unwelcome then as now, unless you—”

“Oh, hang it! don’t torment me with your preachments now, unless you
want to kill me outright. I can’t stand it, I tell you. I’ve sufferings
enough without that. If you think there’s danger, save me from it; and
then, in gratitude, I’ll hear whatever you like to say.”

I accordingly dropped the unwelcome topic. And now, Frederick, I think
I may bring my letter to a close. From these details you may form your
own judgment of the state of my patient, and of my own position and
future prospects. Let me hear from you soon, and I will write again to
tell you how we get on; but now that my presence is tolerated, and even
required, in the sick-room, I shall have but little time to spare
between my husband and my son,—for I must not entirely neglect the
latter: it would not do to keep him always with Rachel, and I dare not
leave him for a moment with any of the other servants, or suffer him to
be alone, lest he should meet them. If his father get worse, I shall
ask Esther Hargrave to take charge of him for a time, till I have
reorganised the household at least; but I greatly prefer keeping him
under my own eye.

I find myself in rather a singular position: I am exerting my utmost
endeavours to promote the recovery and reformation of my husband, and
if I succeed, what shall I do? My duty, of course,—but how? No matter;
I can perform the task that is before me now, and God will give me
strength to do whatever He requires hereafter. Good-by, dear Frederick.

HELEN HUNTINGDON.


“What do you think of it?” said Lawrence, as I silently refolded the
letter.

“It seems to me,” returned I, “that she is casting her pearls before
swine. May they be satisfied with trampling them under their feet, and
not turn again and rend her! But I shall say no more against her: I see
that she was actuated by the best and noblest motives in what she has
done; and if the act is not a wise one, may heaven protect her from its
consequences! May I keep this letter, Lawrence?—you see she has never
once mentioned me throughout—or made the most distant allusion to me;
therefore, there can be no impropriety or harm in it.”

“And, therefore, why should you wish to keep it?”

“Were not these characters written by her hand? and were not these
words conceived in her mind, and many of them spoken by her lips?”

“Well,” said he. And so I kept it; otherwise, Halford, you could never
have become so thoroughly acquainted with its contents.

“And when you write,” said I, “will you have the goodness to ask her if
I may be permitted to enlighten my mother and sister on her real
history and circumstance, just so far as is necessary to make the
neighbourhood sensible of the shameful injustice they have done her? I
want no tender messages, but just ask her that, and tell her it is the
greatest favour she could do me; and tell her—no, nothing more. You see
I know the address, and I might write to her myself, but I am so
virtuous as to refrain.”

“Well, I’ll do this for you, Markham.”

“And as soon as you receive an answer, you’ll let me know?”

“If all be well, I’ll come myself and tell you immediately.”




 CHAPTER XLVIII


Five or six days after this Mr. Lawrence paid us the honour of a call;
and when he and I were alone together—which I contrived as soon as
possible by bringing him out to look at my cornstacks—he showed me
another letter from his sister. This one he was quite willing to submit
to my longing gaze; he thought, I suppose, it would do me good. The
only answer it gave to my message was this:—

“Mr. Markham is at liberty to make such revelations concerning me as he
judges necessary. He will know that I should wish but little to be said
on the subject. I hope he is well; but tell him he must not think of
me.”

I can give you a few extracts from the rest of the letter, for I was
permitted to keep this also—perhaps, as an antidote to all pernicious
hopes and fancies.

* * * * *


He is decidedly better, but very low from the depressing effects of his
severe illness and the strict regimen he is obliged to observe—so
opposite to all his previous habits. It is deplorable to see how
completely his past life has degenerated his once noble constitution,
and vitiated the whole system of his organization. But the doctor says
he may now be considered out of danger, if he will only continue to
observe the necessary restrictions. Some stimulating cordials he must
have, but they should be judiciously diluted and sparingly used; and I
find it very difficult to keep him to this. At first, his extreme dread
of death rendered the task an easy one; but in proportion as he feels
his acute suffering abating, and sees the danger receding, the more
intractable he becomes. Now, also, his appetite for food is beginning
to return; and here, too, his long habits of self-indulgence are
greatly against him. I watch and restrain him as well as I can, and
often get bitterly abused for my rigid severity; and sometimes he
contrives to elude my vigilance, and sometimes acts in opposition to my
will. But he is now so completely reconciled to my attendance in
general that he is never satisfied when I am not by his side. I am
obliged to be a little stiff with him sometimes, or he would make a
complete slave of me; and I know it would be unpardonable weakness to
give up all other interests for him. I have the servants to overlook,
and my little Arthur to attend to,—and my own health too, all of which
would be entirely neglected were I to satisfy his exorbitant demands. I
do not generally sit up at night, for I think the nurse who has made it
her business is better qualified for such undertakings than I am;—but
still, an unbroken night’s rest is what I but seldom enjoy, and never
can venture to reckon upon; for my patient makes no scruple of calling
me up at an hour when his wants or his fancies require my presence. But
he is manifestly afraid of my displeasure; and if at one time he tries
my patience by his unreasonable exactions, and fretful complaints and
reproaches, at another he depresses me by his abject submission and
deprecatory self-abasement when he fears he has gone too far. But all
this I can readily pardon; I know it is chiefly the result of his
enfeebled frame and disordered nerves. What annoys me the most, is his
occasional attempts at affectionate fondness that I can neither credit
nor return; not that I hate him: his sufferings and my own laborious
care have given him some claim to my regard—to my affection even, if he
would only be quiet and sincere, and content to let things remain as
they are; but the more he tries to conciliate me, the more I shrink
from him and from the future.

“Helen, what do you mean to do when I get well?” he asked this morning.
“Will you run away again?”

“It entirely depends upon your own conduct.”

“Oh, I’ll be very good.”

“But if I find it necessary to leave you, Arthur, I shall not ‘run
away’: you know I have your own promise that I may go whenever I
please, and take my son with me.”

“Oh, but you shall have no cause.” And then followed a variety of
professions, which I rather coldly checked.

“Will you not forgive me, then?” said he.

“Yes,—I _have_ forgiven you: but I know you cannot love me as you once
did—and I should be very sorry if you were to, for I could not pretend
to return it: so let us drop the subject, and never recur to it again.
By what I _have_ done for you, you may judge of what I _will_ do—if it
be not incompatible with the higher duty I owe to my son (higher,
because he never forfeited his claims, and because I hope to do more
good to him than I can ever do to you); and if you wish me to feel
kindly towards you, it is _deeds_ not _words_ which must purchase my
affection and esteem.”

His sole reply to this was a slight grimace, and a scarcely perceptible
shrug. Alas, unhappy man! words, with him, are so much cheaper than
deeds; it was as if I had said, “Pounds, not pence, must buy the
article you want.” And then he sighed a querulous, self-commiserating
sigh, as if in pure regret that he, the loved and courted of so many
worshippers, should be now abandoned to the mercy of a harsh, exacting,
cold-hearted woman like that, and even glad of what kindness she chose
to bestow.

“It’s a pity, isn’t it?” said I; and whether I rightly divined his
musings or not, the observation chimed in with his thoughts, for he
answered—“It can’t be helped,” with a rueful smile at my penetration.

* * * * *


I have seen Esther Hargrave twice. She is a charming creature, but her
blithe spirit is almost broken, and her sweet temper almost spoiled, by
the still unremitting persecutions of her mother in behalf of her
rejected suitor—not violent, but wearisome and unremitting like a
continual dropping. The unnatural parent seems determined to make her
daughter’s life a burden, if she will not yield to her desires.

“Mamma does all she can,” said she, “to make me feel myself a burden
and incumbrance to the family, and the most ungrateful, selfish, and
undutiful daughter that ever was born; and Walter, too, is as stern and
cold and haughty as if he hated me outright. I believe I should have
yielded at once if I had known, from the beginning, how much resistance
would have cost me; but now, for very obstinacy’s sake, I _will_ stand
out!”

“A bad motive for a good resolve,” I answered. “But, however, I know
you have better motives, really, for your perseverance: and I counsel
you to keep them still in view.”

“Trust me I will. I threaten mamma sometimes that I’ll run away, and
disgrace the family by earning my own livelihood, if she torments me
any more; and then that frightens her a little. But I _will_ do it, in
good earnest, if they don’t mind.”

“Be quiet and patient a while,” said I, “and better times will come.”

Poor girl! I wish somebody that was worthy to possess her would come
and take her away—don’t you, Frederick?

* * * * *


If the perusal of this letter filled me with dismay for Helen’s future
life and mine, there was one great source of consolation: it was now in
my power to clear her name from every foul aspersion. The Millwards and
the Wilsons should see with their own eyes the bright sun bursting from
the cloud—and they should be scorched and dazzled by its beams;—and my
own friends too should see it—they whose suspicions had been such gall
and wormwood to my soul. To effect this I had only to drop the seed
into the ground, and it would soon become a stately, branching herb: a
few words to my mother and sister, I knew, would suffice to spread the
news throughout the whole neighbourhood, without any further exertion
on my part.

Rose was delighted; and as soon as I had told her all I thought
proper—which was all I affected to know—she flew with alacrity to put
on her bonnet and shawl, and hasten to carry the glad tidings to the
Millwards and Wilsons—glad tidings, I suspect, to none but herself and
Mary Millward—that steady, sensible girl, whose sterling worth had been
so quickly perceived and duly valued by the supposed Mrs. Graham, in
spite of her plain outside; and who, on her part, had been better able
to see and appreciate that lady’s true character and qualities than the
brightest genius among them.

As I may never have occasion to mention her again, I may as well tell
you here that she was at this time privately engaged to Richard
Wilson—a secret, I believe, to every one but themselves. That worthy
student was now at Cambridge, where his most exemplary conduct and his
diligent perseverance in the pursuit of learning carried him safely
through, and eventually brought him with hard-earned honours, and an
untarnished reputation, to the close of his collegiate career. In due
time he became Mr. Millward’s first and only curate—for that
gentleman’s declining years forced him at last to acknowledge that the
duties of his extensive parish were a little too much for those vaunted
energies which he was wont to boast over his younger and less active
brethren of the cloth. This was what the patient, faithful lovers had
privately planned and quietly waited for years ago; and in due time
they were united, to the astonishment of the little world they lived
in, that had long since declared them both born to single blessedness;
affirming it impossible that the pale, retiring bookworm should ever
summon courage to seek a wife, or be able to obtain one if he did, and
equally impossible that the plain-looking, plain-dealing, unattractive,
unconciliating Miss Millward should ever find a husband.

They still continued to live at the vicarage, the lady dividing her
time between her father, her husband, and their poor parishioners,—and
subsequently her rising family; and now that the Reverend Michael
Millward has been gathered to his fathers, full of years and honours,
the Reverend Richard Wilson has succeeded him to the vicarage of
Lindenhope, greatly to the satisfaction of its inhabitants, who had so
long tried and fully proved his merits, and those of his excellent and
well-loved partner.

If you are interested in the after fate of that lady’s sister, I can
only tell you—what perhaps you have heard from another quarter—that
some twelve or thirteen years ago she relieved the happy couple of her
presence by marrying a wealthy tradesman of L——; and I don’t envy him
his bargain. I fear she leads him a rather uncomfortable life, though,
happily, he is too dull to perceive the extent of his misfortune. I
have little enough to do with her myself: we have not met for many
years; but, I am well assured, she has not yet forgotten or forgiven
either her former lover, or the lady whose superior qualities first
opened his eyes to the folly of his boyish attachment.

As for Richard Wilson’s sister, she, having been wholly unable to
recapture Mr. Lawrence, or obtain any partner rich and elegant enough
to suit her ideas of what the husband of Jane Wilson ought to be, is
yet in single blessedness. Shortly after the death of her mother she
withdrew the light of her presence from Ryecote Farm, finding it
impossible any longer to endure the rough manners and unsophisticated
habits of her honest brother Robert and his worthy wife, or the idea of
being identified with such vulgar people in the eyes of the world, and
took lodgings in —— the county town, where she lived, and still lives,
I suppose, in a kind of close-fisted, cold, uncomfortable gentility,
doing no good to others, and but little to herself; spending her days
in fancy-work and scandal; referring frequently to her “brother the
vicar,” and her “sister, the vicar’s lady,” but never to her brother
the farmer and her sister the farmer’s wife; seeing as much company as
she can without too much expense, but loving no one and beloved by
none—a cold-hearted, supercilious, keenly, insidiously censorious old
maid.




 CHAPTER XLIX


Though Mr. Lawrence’s health was now quite re-established, my visits to
Woodford were as unremitting as ever; though often less protracted than
before. We seldom _talked_ about Mrs. Huntingdon; but yet we never met
without mentioning her, for I never sought his company but with the
hope of hearing something about her, and he never sought mine at all,
because he saw me often enough without. But I always began to talk of
other things, and waited first to see if _he_ would introduce the
subject. If he did not, I would casually ask, “Have you heard from your
sister lately?” If he said “No,” the matter was dropped: if he said
“Yes,” I would venture to inquire, “How is she?” but never “How is her
husband?” though I might be burning to know; because I had not the
hypocrisy to profess any anxiety for his recovery, and I had not the
face to express any desire for a contrary result. Had I any such
desire?—I fear I must plead guilty; but since you have heard my
confession, you must hear my justification as well—a few of the
excuses, at least, wherewith I sought to pacify my own accusing
conscience.

In the first place, you see, his life did harm to others, and evidently
no good to himself; and though I wished it to terminate, I would not
have hastened its close if, by the lifting of a finger, I could have
done so, or if a spirit had whispered in my ear that a single effort of
the will would be enough,—unless, indeed, I had the power to exchange
him for some other victim of the grave, whose life might be of service
to his race, and whose death would be lamented by his friends. But was
there any harm in wishing that, among the many thousands whose souls
would certainly be required of them before the year was over, this
wretched mortal might be one? I thought not; and therefore I wished
with all my heart that it might please heaven to remove him to a better
world, or if that might not be, still to take him out of this; for if
he were unfit to answer the summons now, after a warning sickness, and
with such an angel by his side, it seemed but too certain that he never
would be—that, on the contrary, returning health would bring returning
lust and villainy, and as he grew more certain of recovery, more
accustomed to her generous goodness, his feelings would become more
callous, his heart more flinty and impervious to her persuasive
arguments—but God knew best. Meantime, however, I could not but be
anxious for the result of His decrees; knowing, as I did, that (leaving
myself entirely out of the question), however Helen might feel
interested in her husband’s welfare, however she might deplore his
fate, still while he lived she must be miserable.

A fortnight passed away, and my inquiries were always answered in the
negative. At length a welcome “yes” drew from me the second question.
Lawrence divined my anxious thoughts, and appreciated my reserve. I
feared, at first, he was going to torture me by unsatisfactory replies,
and either leave me quite in the dark concerning what I wanted to know,
or force me to drag the information out of him, morsel by morsel, by
direct inquiries. “And serve you right,” you will say; but he was more
merciful; and in a little while he put his sister’s letter into my
hand. I silently read it, and restored it to him without comment or
remark. This mode of procedure suited him so well, that thereafter he
always pursued the plan of showing me her letters at once, when
“inquired” after her, if there were any to show—it was so much less
trouble than to tell me their contents; and I received such confidences
so quietly and discreetly that he was never induced to discontinue
them.

But I devoured those precious letters with my eyes, and never let them
go till their contents were stamped upon my mind; and when I got home,
the most important passages were entered in my diary among the
remarkable events of the day.

The first of these communications brought intelligence of a serious
relapse in Mr. Huntingdon’s illness, entirely the result of his own
infatuation in persisting in the indulgence of his appetite for
stimulating drink. In vain had she remonstrated, in vain she had
mingled his wine with water: her arguments and entreaties were a
nuisance, her interference was an insult so intolerable that, at
length, on finding she had covertly diluted the pale port that was
brought him, he threw the bottle out of the window, swearing he would
not be cheated like a baby, ordered the butler, on pain of instant
dismissal, to bring a bottle of the strongest wine in the cellar, and
affirming that he should have been well long ago if he had been let to
have his own way, but she wanted to keep him weak in order that she
might have him under her thumb—but, by the Lord Harry, he would have no
more humbug—seized a glass in one hand and the bottle in the other, and
never rested till he had drunk it dry. Alarming symptoms were the
immediate result of this “imprudence,” as she mildly termed it—symptoms
which had rather increased than diminished since; and this was the
cause of her delay in writing to her brother. Every former feature of
his malady had returned with augmented virulence: the slight external
wound, half healed, had broken out afresh; internal inflammation had
taken place, which might terminate fatally if not soon removed. Of
course, the wretched sufferer’s temper was not improved by this
calamity—in fact, I suspect it was well nigh insupportable, though his
kind nurse did not complain; but she said she had been obliged at last
to give her son in charge to Esther Hargrave, as her presence was so
constantly required in the sick-room that she could not possibly attend
to him herself; and though the child had begged to be allowed to
continue with her there, and to help her to nurse his papa, and though
she had no doubt he would have been very good and quiet, she could not
think of subjecting his young and tender feelings to the sight of so
much suffering, or of allowing him to witness his father’s impatience,
or hear the dreadful language he was wont to use in his paroxysms of
pain or irritation.

The latter (continued she) most deeply regrets the step that has
occasioned his relapse; but, as usual, he throws the blame upon me. If
I had reasoned with him like a rational creature, he says, it never
would have happened; but to be treated like a baby or a fool was enough
to put any man past his patience, and drive him to assert his
independence even at the sacrifice of his own interest. He forgets how
often I had _reasoned_ him “past his patience” before. He appears to be
sensible of his danger; but nothing can induce him to behold it in the
proper light. The other night, while I was waiting on him, and just as
I had brought him a draught to assuage his burning thirst, he observed,
with a return of his former sarcastic bitterness, “Yes, you’re mighty
attentive _now!_ I suppose there’s _nothing_ you wouldn’t do for me
now?”

“You know,” said I, a little surprised at his manner, “that I am
willing to do anything I can to relieve you.”

“Yes, _now_, my immaculate angel; but when once you have secured your
reward, and find yourself safe in heaven, and me howling in hell-fire,
catch you lifting a finger to serve me _then!_ No, you’ll look
complacently on, and not so much as dip the tip of your finger in water
to cool my tongue!”

“If so, it will be because of the great gulf over which I cannot pass;
and if I _could_ look complacently on in such a case, it would be only
from the assurance that you were being purified from your sins, and
fitted to enjoy the happiness I felt.—But are you _determined_, Arthur,
that I shall not meet you in heaven?”

“Humph! What should I do there, I should like to know?”

“Indeed, I cannot tell; and I fear it is too certain that your tastes
and feelings must be widely altered before you can have any enjoyment
there. But do you prefer sinking, without an effort, into the state of
torment you picture to yourself?”

“Oh, it’s all a fable,” said he, contemptuously.

“Are you sure, Arthur? are you _quite_ sure? Because, if there is any
doubt, and if you _should_ find yourself mistaken after all, when it is
too late to turn—”

“It would be rather awkward, to be sure,” said he; “but don’t bother me
now—I’m not going to die yet. I can’t and won’t,” he added vehemently,
as if suddenly struck with the appalling aspect of that terrible event.
“Helen, you _must_ save me!” And he earnestly seized my hand, and
looked into my face with such imploring eagerness that my heart bled
for him, and I could not speak for tears.

* * * * *


The next letter brought intelligence that the malady was fast
increasing; and the poor sufferer’s horror of death was still more
distressing than his impatience of bodily pain. _All_ his friends had
not forsaken him; for Mr. Hattersley, hearing of his danger, had come
to see him from his distant home in the north. His wife had accompanied
him, as much for the pleasure of seeing her dear friend, from whom she
had been parted so long, as to visit her mother and sister.

Mrs. Huntingdon expressed herself glad to see Milicent once more, and
pleased to behold her so happy and well. She is now at the Grove,
continued the letter, but she often calls to see me. Mr. Hattersley
spends much of his time at Arthur’s bed-side. With more good feeling
than I gave him credit for, he evinces considerable sympathy for his
unhappy friend, and is far more willing than able to comfort him.
Sometimes he tries to joke and laugh with him, but that will not do;
sometimes he endeavours to cheer him with talk about old times, and
this at one time may serve to divert the sufferer from his own sad
thoughts; at another, it will only plunge him into deeper melancholy
than before; and then Hattersley is confounded, and knows not what to
say, unless it be a timid suggestion that the clergyman might be sent
for. But Arthur will never consent to that: he knows he has rejected
the clergyman’s well-meant admonitions with scoffing levity at other
times, and cannot dream of turning to him for consolation now.

Mr. Hattersley sometimes offers his services instead of mine, but
Arthur will not let me go: that strange whim still increases, as his
strength declines—the fancy to have me always by his side. I hardly
ever leave him, except to go into the next room, where I sometimes
snatch an hour or so of sleep when he is quiet; but even then the door
is left ajar, that he may know me to be within call. I am with him now,
while I write, and I fear my occupation annoys him; though I frequently
break off to attend to him, and though Mr. Hattersley is also by his
side. That gentleman came, as he said, to beg a holiday for me, that I
might have a run in the park, this fine frosty morning, with Milicent
and Esther and little Arthur, whom he had driven over to see me. Our
poor invalid evidently felt it a heartless proposition, and would have
felt it still more heartless in me to accede to it. I therefore said I
would only go and speak to them a minute, and then come back. I did but
exchange a few words with them, just outside the portico, inhaling the
fresh, bracing air as I stood, and then, resisting the earnest and
eloquent entreaties of all three to stay a little longer, and join them
in a walk round the garden, I tore myself away and returned to my
patient. I had not been absent five minutes, but he reproached me
bitterly for my levity and neglect. His friend espoused my cause.

“Nay, nay, Huntingdon,” said he, “you’re too hard upon her; she must
have food and sleep, and a mouthful of fresh air now and then, or she
can’t stand it, I tell you. Look at her, man! she’s worn to a shadow
already.”

“What are her sufferings to mine?” said the poor invalid. “You don’t
grudge me these attentions, do you, Helen?”

“No, Arthur, if I could really serve you by them. I would give my life
to save you, if I might.”

“Would you, _indeed?_ No!”

“Most willingly I would.”

“Ah! that’s because you think yourself more fit to die!”

There was a painful pause. He was evidently plunged in gloomy
reflections; but while I pondered for something to say that might
benefit without alarming him, Hattersley, whose mind had been pursuing
almost the same course, broke silence with, “I say, Huntingdon, I
_would_ send for a parson of some sort: if you didn’t like the vicar,
you know, you could have his curate, or somebody else.”

“No; none of them can benefit me if _she_ can’t,” was the answer. And
the tears gushed from his eyes as he earnestly exclaimed, “Oh, Helen,
if I had listened to you, it never would have come to this! and if I
had heard you long ago—oh, God! how different it would have been!”

“Hear me now, then, Arthur,” said I, gently pressing his hand.

“It’s too late now,” said he despondingly. And after that another
paroxysm of pain came on; and then his mind began to wander, and we
feared his death was approaching: but an opiate was administered: his
sufferings began to abate, he gradually became more composed, and at
length sank into a kind of slumber. He has been quieter since; and now
Hattersley has left him, expressing a hope that he shall find him
better when he calls to-morrow.

“Perhaps I _may_ recover,” he replied; “who knows? This may have been
the crisis. What do _you_ think, Helen?”

Unwilling to depress him, I gave the most cheering answer I could, but
still recommended him to prepare for the possibility of what I inly
feared was but too certain. But he was determined to hope. Shortly
after he relapsed into a kind of doze, but now he groans again.

There is a change. Suddenly he called me to his side, with such a
strange, excited manner, that I feared he was delirious, but he was
not. “That _was_ the crisis, Helen!” said he, delightedly. “I had an
infernal pain here—it is quite gone now. I never was so easy since the
fall—quite gone, by heaven!” and he clasped and kissed my hand in the
very fulness of his heart; but finding I did not participate in his
joy, he quickly flung it from him, and bitterly cursed my coldness and
insensibility. How could I reply? Kneeling beside him, I took his hand
and fondly pressed it to my lips—for the first time since our
separation—and told him, as well as tears would let me speak, that it
was not _that_ that kept me silent: it was the fear that this sudden
cessation of pain was not so favourable a symptom as he supposed. I
immediately sent for the doctor: we are now anxiously awaiting him. I
will tell you what he says. There is still the same freedom from pain,
the same deadness to all sensation where the suffering was most acute.

My worst fears are realised: mortification has commenced. The doctor
has told him there is no hope. No words can describe his anguish. I can
write no more.

* * * * *


The next was still more distressing in the tenor of its contents. The
sufferer was fast approaching dissolution—dragged almost to the verge
of that awful chasm he trembled to contemplate, from which no agony of
prayers or tears could save him. Nothing could comfort him now;
Hattersley’s rough attempts at consolation were utterly in vain. The
world was nothing to him: life and all its interests, its petty cares
and transient pleasures, were a cruel mockery. To talk of the past was
to torture him with vain remorse; to refer to the future was to
increase his anguish; and yet to be silent was to leave him a prey to
his own regrets and apprehensions. Often he dwelt with shuddering
minuteness on the fate of his perishing clay—the slow, piecemeal
dissolution already invading his frame: the shroud, the coffin, the
dark, lonely grave, and all the horrors of corruption.

“If I try,” said his afflicted wife, “to divert him from these
things—to raise his thoughts to higher themes, it is no better:—‘Worse
and worse!’ he groans. ‘If there be really life beyond the tomb, and
judgment after death, how _can_ I face it?’—I cannot do him any good;
he will neither be enlightened, nor roused, nor comforted by anything I
say; and yet he clings to me with unrelenting pertinacity—with a kind
of childish desperation, as if _I_ could save him from the fate he
dreads. He keeps me night and day beside him. He is holding my left
hand now, while I write; he has held it thus for hours: sometimes
quietly, with his pale face upturned to mine: sometimes clutching my
arm with violence—the big drops starting from his forehead at the
thoughts of what he sees, or thinks he sees, before him. If I withdraw
my hand for a moment it distresses him.

“‘Stay with me, Helen,’ he says; ‘let me hold you so: it seems as if
harm could not reach me while you are here. But death _will_ come—it is
coming now—fast, fast!—and—oh, if I _could_ believe there was nothing
after!’

“‘Don’t try to believe it, Arthur; there is joy and glory after, if you
will but try to reach it!’

“‘What, for _me?_’ he said, with something like a laugh. ‘Are we not to
be judged according to the deeds done in the body? Where’s the use of a
probationary existence, if a man may spend it as he pleases, just
contrary to God’s decrees, and then go to heaven with the best—if the
vilest sinner may win the reward of the holiest saint, by merely
saying, ‘I repent!’”

“‘But if you _sincerely_ repent—’

“‘I _can’t_ repent; I only fear.’

“‘You only regret the past for its consequences to yourself?’

“‘Just so—except that I’m sorry to have wronged you, Nell, because
you’re so good to me.’

“‘Think of the goodness of God, and you cannot but be grieved to have
offended Him.’

“‘What _is_ God?—I cannot see Him or hear Him.—God is only an idea.’

“‘God is Infinite Wisdom, and Power, and Goodness—and LOVE; but if this
idea is too vast for your human faculties—if your mind loses itself in
its overwhelming infinitude, fix it on Him who condescended to take our
nature upon Him, who was raised to heaven even in His glorified human
body, in whom the fulness of the Godhead shines.’

“But he only shook his head and sighed. Then, in another paroxysm of
shuddering horror, he tightened his grasp on my hand and arm, and,
groaning and lamenting, still clung to me with that wild, desperate
earnestness so harrowing to my soul, because I know I cannot help him.
I did my best to soothe and comfort him.

“‘Death is so terrible,’ he cried, ‘I cannot bear it! _You_ don’t know,
Helen—you can’t imagine what it is, because you haven’t it before you!
and when I’m buried, you’ll return to your old ways and be as happy as
ever, and all the world will go on just as busy and merry as if I had
never been; while I—’ He burst into tears.

“‘You needn’t let _that_ distress you,’ I said; ‘we shall all follow
you soon enough.’

“‘I wish to God I could take you with me now!’ he exclaimed: ‘you
should plead for me.’

“‘No man can deliver his brother, nor make agreement unto God for him,’
I replied: ‘it cost more to redeem their souls—it cost the blood of an
incarnate God, perfect and sinless in Himself, to redeem us from the
bondage of the evil one:—let _Him_ plead for you.’

“But I seem to speak in vain. He does not now, as formerly, laugh these
blessed truths to scorn: but still he cannot trust, or will not
comprehend them. He cannot linger long. He suffers dreadfully, and so
do those that wait upon him. But I will not harass you with further
details: I have said enough, I think, to convince you that I did well
to go to him.”

* * * * *


Poor, poor Helen! dreadful indeed her trials must have been! And I
could do nothing to lessen them—nay, it almost seemed as if I had
brought them upon her myself by my own secret desires; and whether I
looked at her husband’s sufferings or her own, it seemed almost like a
judgment upon myself for having cherished such a wish.

The next day but one there came another letter. That too was put into
my hands without a remark, and these are its contents:—

Dec. 5th.


He is gone at last. I sat beside him all night, with my hand fast
locked in his, watching the changes of his features and listening to
his failing breath. He had been silent a long time, and I thought he
would never speak again, when he murmured, faintly but
distinctly,—“Pray for me, Helen!”

“I do pray for you, every hour and every minute, Arthur; but you must
pray for yourself.”

His lips moved, but emitted no sound;—then his looks became unsettled;
and, from the incoherent, half-uttered words that escaped him from time
to time, supposing him to be now unconscious, I gently disengaged my
hand from his, intending to steal away for a breath of air, for I was
almost ready to faint; but a convulsive movement of the fingers, and a
faintly whispered “Don’t leave me!” immediately recalled me: I took his
hand again, and held it till he was no more—and then I fainted. It was
not grief; it was exhaustion, that, till then, I had been enabled
successfully to combat. Oh, Frederick! none can imagine the miseries,
bodily and mental, of that death-bed! How could I endure to think that
that poor trembling soul was hurried away to everlasting torment? it
would drive me mad. But, thank God, I have hope—not only from a vague
dependence on the possibility that penitence and pardon might have
reached him at the last, but from the blessed confidence that, through
whatever purging fires the erring spirit may be doomed to pass—whatever
fate awaits it—still it is not lost, and God, who hateth nothing that
He hath made, _will_ bless it in the end!

His body will be consigned on Thursday to that dark grave he so much
dreaded; but the coffin must be closed as soon as possible. If you will
attend the funeral, come quickly, for I need help.

HELEN HUNTINGDON.




 CHAPTER L


On reading this I had no reason to disguise my joy and hope from
Frederick Lawrence, for I had none to be ashamed of. I felt no joy but
that his sister was at length released from her afflictive,
overwhelming toil—no hope but that she would in time recover from the
effects of it, and be suffered to rest in peace and quietness, at
least, for the remainder of her life. I experienced a painful
commiseration for her unhappy husband (though fully aware that he had
brought every particle of his sufferings upon himself, and but too well
deserved them all), and a profound sympathy for her own afflictions,
and deep anxiety for the consequences of those harassing cares, those
dreadful vigils, that incessant and deleterious confinement beside a
living corpse—for I was persuaded she had not hinted half the
sufferings she had had to endure.

“You will go to her, Lawrence?” said I, as I put the letter into his
hand.

“Yes, immediately.”

“That’s right! I’ll leave you, then, to prepare for your departure.”

“I’ve done that already, while you were reading the letter, and before
you came; and the carriage is now coming round to the door.”

Inly approving his promptitude, I bade him good-morning, and withdrew.
He gave me a searching glance as we pressed each other’s hands at
parting; but whatever he sought in my countenance, he saw there nothing
but the most becoming gravity—it might be mingled with a little
sternness in momentary resentment at what I suspected to be passing in
his mind.

Had I forgotten my own prospects, my ardent love, my pertinacious
hopes? It seemed like sacrilege to revert to them now, but I had not
forgotten them. It was, however, with a gloomy sense of the darkness of
those prospects, the fallacy of those hopes, and the vanity of that
affection, that I reflected on those things as I remounted my horse and
slowly journeyed homewards. Mrs. Huntingdon was free now; it was no
longer a crime to think of her—but did she ever think of _me?_ Not
_now_—of course it was not to be expected—but would she when this shock
was over? In all the course of her correspondence with her brother (our
mutual friend, as she herself had called him) she had never mentioned
me but once—and that was from necessity. This alone afforded strong
presumption that I was already forgotten; yet this was not the worst:
it might have been her sense of duty that had kept her silent: she
might be only _trying_ to forget; but in addition to this, I had a
gloomy conviction that the awful realities she had seen and felt, her
reconciliation with the man she had once loved, his dreadful sufferings
and death, must eventually efface from her mind all traces of her
passing love for me. She might recover from these horrors so far as to
be restored to her former health, her tranquillity, her cheerfulness
even—but never to those feelings which would appear to her, henceforth,
as a fleeting fancy, a vain, illusive dream; especially as there was no
one to remind her of my existence—no means of assuring her of my
fervent constancy, now that we were so far apart, and delicacy forbade
me to see her or to write to her, for months to come at least. And how
could I engage her brother in my behalf? how could I break that icy
crust of shy reserve? Perhaps he would disapprove of my attachment now
as highly as before; perhaps he would think me too poor—too lowly born,
to match with his sister. Yes, there was another barrier: doubtless
there was a wide distinction between the rank and circumstances of Mrs.
Huntingdon, the lady of Grassdale Manor, and those of Mrs. Graham, the
artist, the tenant of Wildfell Hall. And it might be deemed presumption
in me to offer my hand to the former, by the world, by her friends, if
not by herself; a penalty I might brave, if I were certain she loved
me; but otherwise, how could I? And, finally, her deceased husband,
with his usual selfishness, might have so constructed his will as to
place restrictions upon her marrying again. So that you see I had
reasons enough for despair if I chose to indulge it.

Nevertheless, it was with no small degree of impatience that I looked
forward to Mr. Lawrence’s return from Grassdale: impatience that
increased in proportion as his absence was prolonged. He stayed away
some ten or twelve days. All very right that he should remain to
comfort and help his sister, but he might have written to tell me how
she was, or at least to tell me when to expect his return; for he might
have known I was suffering tortures of anxiety for her, and uncertainty
for my own future prospects. And when he did return, all he told me
about her was, that she had been greatly exhausted and worn by her
unremitting exertions in behalf of that man who had been the scourge of
her life, and had dragged her with him nearly to the portals of the
grave, and was still much shaken and depressed by his melancholy end
and the circumstances attendant upon it; but no word in reference to
me; no intimation that my name had ever passed her lips, or even been
spoken in her presence. To be sure, I asked no questions on the
subject; I could not bring my mind to do so, believing, as I did, that
Lawrence was indeed averse to the idea of my union with his sister.

I saw that he expected to be further questioned concerning his visit,
and I saw too, with the keen perception of awakened jealousy, or
alarmed self-esteem, or by whatever name I ought to call it, that he
rather shrank from that impending scrutiny, and was no less pleased
than surprised to find it did not come. Of course, I was burning with
anger, but pride obliged me to suppress my feelings, and preserve a
smooth face, or at least a stoic calmness, throughout the interview. It
was well it did, for, reviewing the matter in my sober judgment, I must
say it would have been highly absurd and improper to have quarrelled
with him on such an occasion. I must confess, too, that I wronged him
in my heart: the truth was, he liked me very well, but he was fully
aware that a union between Mrs. Huntingdon and me would be what the
world calls a mésalliance; and it was not in his nature to set the
world at defiance; especially in such a case as this, for its dread
laugh, or ill opinion, would be far more terrible to him directed
against his sister than himself. Had he believed that a union was
necessary to the happiness of both, or of either, or had he known how
fervently I loved her, he would have acted differently; but seeing me
so calm and cool, he would not for the world disturb my philosophy; and
though refraining entirely from any active opposition to the match, he
would yet do nothing to bring it about, and would much rather take the
part of prudence, in aiding us to overcome our mutual predilections,
than that of feeling, to encourage them. “And he was in the right of
it,” you will say. Perhaps he was; at any rate, I had no business to
feel so bitterly against him as I did; but I could not then regard the
matter in such a moderate light; and, after a brief conversation upon
indifferent topics, I went away, suffering all the pangs of wounded
pride and injured friendship, in addition to those resulting from the
fear that I was indeed forgotten, and the knowledge that she I loved
was alone and afflicted, suffering from injured health and dejected
spirits, and I was forbidden to console or assist her: forbidden even
to assure her of my sympathy, for the transmission of any such message
through Mr. Lawrence was now completely out of the question.

But what should I do? I would wait, and see if she would notice me,
which of course she would not, unless by some kind message intrusted to
her brother, that, in all probability, he would not deliver, and then,
dreadful thought! she would think me cooled and changed for not
returning it, or, perhaps, he had already given her to understand that
I had ceased to think of her. I would wait, however, till the six
months after our parting were fairly passed (which would be about the
close of February), and then I would send her a letter, modestly
reminding her of her former permission to write to her at the close of
that period, and hoping I might avail myself of it—at least to express
my heartfelt sorrow for her late afflictions, my just appreciation of
her generous conduct, and my hope that her health was now completely
re-established, and that she would, some time, be permitted to enjoy
those blessings of a peaceful, happy life, which had been denied her so
long, but which none could more truly be said to merit than
herself—adding a few words of kind remembrance to my little friend
Arthur, with a hope that he had not forgotten me, and perhaps a few
more in reference to bygone times, to the delightful hours I had passed
in her society, and my unfading recollection of them, which was the
salt and solace of my life, and a hope that her recent troubles had not
entirely banished me from her mind. If she did not answer this, of
course I should write no more: if she did (as surely she would, in some
fashion), my future proceedings should be regulated by her reply.

Ten weeks was long to wait in such a miserable state of uncertainty;
but courage! it must be endured! and meantime I would continue to see
Lawrence now and then, though not so often as before, and I would still
pursue my habitual inquiries after his sister, if he had lately heard
from her, and how she was, but nothing more.

I did so, and the answers I received were always provokingly limited to
the letter of the inquiry: she was much as usual: she made no
complaints, but the tone of her last letter evinced great depression of
mind: she said she was better: and, finally, she said she was well, and
very busy with her son’s education, and with the management of her late
husband’s property, and the regulation of his affairs. The rascal had
never told me how that property was disposed, or whether Mr. Huntingdon
had died intestate or not; and I would sooner die than ask him, lest he
should misconstrue into covetousness my desire to know. He never
offered to show me his sister’s letters now, and I never hinted a wish
to see them. February, however, was approaching; December was past;
January, at length, was almost over—a few more weeks, and then, certain
despair or renewal of hope would put an end to this long agony of
suspense.

But alas! it was just about that time she was called to sustain another
blow in the death of her uncle—a worthless old fellow enough in
himself, I daresay, but he had always shown more kindness and affection
to her than to any other creature, and she had always been accustomed
to regard him as a parent. She was with him when he died, and had
assisted her aunt to nurse him during the last stage of his illness.
Her brother went to Staningley to attend the funeral, and told me, upon
his return, that she was still there, endeavouring to cheer her aunt
with her presence, and likely to remain some time. This was bad news
for me, for while she continued there I could not write to her, as I
did not know the address, and would not ask it of him. But week
followed week, and every time I inquired about her she was still at
Staningley.

“Where _is_ Staningley?” I asked at last.

“In ——shire,” was the brief reply; and there was something so cold and
dry in the manner of it, that I was effectually deterred from
requesting a more definite account.

“When will she return to Grassdale?” was my next question.

“I don’t know.”

“Confound it!” I muttered.

“Why, Markham?” asked my companion, with an air of innocent surprise.
But I did not deign to answer him, save by a look of silent, sullen
contempt, at which he turned away, and contemplated the carpet with a
slight smile, half pensive, half amused; but quickly looking up, he
began to talk of other subjects, trying to draw me into a cheerful and
friendly conversation, but I was too much irritated to discourse with
him, and soon took leave.

You see Lawrence and I somehow could not manage to get on very well
together. The fact is, I believe, we were both of us a little too
touchy. It is a troublesome thing, Halford, this susceptibility to
affronts where none are intended. I am no martyr to it now, as you can
bear me witness: I have learned to be merry and wise, to be more easy
with myself and more indulgent to my neighbours, and I can afford to
laugh at both Lawrence and you.

Partly from accident, partly from wilful negligence on my part (for I
was really beginning to dislike him), several weeks elapsed before I
saw my friend again. When we did meet, it was _he_ that sought _me_
out. One bright morning, early in June, he came into the field, where I
was just commencing my hay harvest.

“It is long since I saw you, Markham,” said he, after the first few
words had passed between us. “Do you never mean to come to Woodford
again?”

“I called once, and you were out.”

“I was sorry, but that was long since; I hoped you would call again,
and now _I_ have called, and _you_ were out, which you generally are,
or I would do myself the pleasure of calling more frequently; but being
determined to see you this time, I have left my pony in the lane, and
come over hedge and ditch to join you; for I am about to leave Woodford
for a while, and may not have the pleasure of seeing you again for a
month or two.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Grassdale first,” said he, with a half-smile he would willingly
have suppressed if he could.

“To Grassdale! Is she there, then?”

“Yes, but in a day or two she will leave it to accompany Mrs. Maxwell
to F—— for the benefit of the sea air, and I shall go with them.” (F——
was at that time a quiet but respectable watering-place: it is
considerably more frequented now.)

Lawrence seemed to expect me to take advantage of this circumstance to
entrust him with some sort of a message to his sister; and I believe he
would have undertaken to deliver it without any material objections, if
I had had the sense to ask him, though of course he would not _offer_
to do so, if I was content to let it alone. But I could not bring
myself to make the request, and it was not till after he was gone, that
I saw how fair an opportunity I had lost; and then, indeed, I deeply
regretted my stupidity and my foolish pride, but it was now too late to
remedy the evil.

He did not return till towards the latter end of August. He wrote to me
twice or thrice from F——, but his letters were most provokingly
unsatisfactory, dealing in generalities or in trifles that I cared
nothing about, or replete with fancies and reflections equally
unwelcome to me at the time, saying next to nothing about his sister,
and little more about himself. I would wait, however, till he came
back; perhaps I could get something more out of him then. At all
events, I would not write to her now, while she was with him and her
aunt, who doubtless would be still more hostile to my presumptuous
aspirations than himself. When she was returned to the silence and
solitude of her own home, it would be my fittest opportunity.

When Lawrence came, however, he was as reserved as ever on the subject
of my keen anxiety. He told me that his sister had derived considerable
benefit from her stay at F—— that her son was quite well, and—alas!
that both of them were gone, with Mrs. Maxwell, back to Staningley, and
there they stayed at least three months. But instead of boring you with
my chagrin, my expectations and disappointments, my fluctuations of
dull despondency and flickering hope, my varying resolutions, now to
drop it, and now to persevere—now to make a bold push, and now to let
things pass and patiently abide my time,—I will employ myself in
settling the business of one or two of the characters introduced in the
course of this narrative, whom I may not have occasion to mention
again.

Some time before Mr. Huntingdon’s death Lady Lowborough eloped with
another gallant to the Continent, where, having lived a while in
reckless gaiety and dissipation, they quarrelled and parted. She went
dashing on for a season, but years came and money went: she sunk, at
length, in difficulty and debt, disgrace and misery; and died at last,
as I have heard, in penury, neglect, and utter wretchedness. But this
might be only a report: she may be living yet for anything I or any of
her relatives or former acquaintances can tell; for they have all lost
sight of her long years ago, and would as thoroughly forget her if they
could. Her husband, however, upon this second misdemeanour, immediately
sought and obtained a divorce, and, not long after, married again. It
was well he did, for Lord Lowborough, morose and moody as he seemed,
was not the man for a bachelor’s life. No public interests, no
ambitious projects, or active pursuits,—or ties of friendship even (if
he had had any friends), could compensate to him for the absence of
domestic comforts and endearments. He had a son and a nominal daughter,
it is true, but they too painfully reminded him of their mother, and
the unfortunate little Annabella was a source of perpetual bitterness
to his soul. He had obliged himself to treat her with paternal
kindness: he had forced himself not to hate her, and even, perhaps, to
feel some degree of kindly regard for her, at last, in return for her
artless and unsuspecting attachment to himself; but the bitterness of
his self-condemnation for his inward feelings towards that innocent
being, his constant struggles to subdue the evil promptings of his
nature (for it was not a generous one), though partly guessed at by
those who knew him, could be known to God and his own heart alone;—so
also was the hardness of his conflicts with the temptation to return to
the vice of his youth, and seek oblivion for past calamities, and
deadness to the present misery of a blighted heart a joyless,
friendless life, and a morbidly disconsolate mind, by yielding again to
that insidious foe to health, and sense, and virtue, which had so
deplorably enslaved and degraded him before.

The second object of his choice was widely different from the first.
Some wondered at his taste; some even ridiculed it—but in this their
folly was more apparent than his. The lady was about his own
age—_i.e._, between thirty and forty—remarkable neither for beauty, nor
wealth, nor brilliant accomplishments; nor any other thing that I ever
heard of, except genuine good sense, unswerving integrity, active
piety, warm-hearted benevolence, and a fund of cheerful spirits. These
qualities, however, as you may readily imagine, combined to render her
an excellent mother to the children, and an invaluable wife to his
lordship. _He_, with his usual self-depreciation, thought her a world
too good for him, and while he wondered at the kindness of Providence
in conferring such a gift upon him, and even at her taste in preferring
him to other men, he did his best to reciprocate the good she did him,
and so far succeeded that she was, and I believe still is, one of the
happiest and fondest wives in England; and all who question the good
taste of either partner may be thankful if _their_ respective
selections afford them half the genuine satisfaction in the end, or
repay their preference with affection half as lasting and sincere.

If you are at all interested in the fate of that low scoundrel,
Grimsby, I can only tell you that he went from bad to worse, sinking
from bathos to bathos of vice and villainy, consorting only with the
worst members of his club and the lowest dregs of society—happily for
the rest of the world—and at last met his end in a drunken brawl, from
the hands, it is said, of some brother scoundrel he had cheated at
play.

As for Mr. Hattersley, he had never wholly forgotten his resolution to
“come out from among them,” and behave like a man and a Christian, and
the last illness and death of his once jolly friend Huntingdon so
deeply and seriously impressed him with the evil of their former
practices, that he never needed another lesson of the kind. Avoiding
the temptations of the town, he continued to pass his life in the
country, immersed in the usual pursuits of a hearty, active, country
gentleman; his occupations being those of farming, and breeding horses
and cattle, diversified with a little hunting and shooting, and
enlivened by the occasional companionship of his friends (better
friends than those of his youth), and the society of his happy little
wife (now cheerful and confiding as heart could wish), and his fine
family of stalwart sons and blooming daughters. His father, the banker,
having died some years ago and left him all his riches, he has now full
scope for the exercise of his prevailing tastes, and I need not tell
you that Ralph Hattersley, Esq., is celebrated throughout the country
for his noble breed of horses.




 CHAPTER LI


We will now turn to a certain still, cold, cloudy afternoon about the
commencement of December, when the first fall of snow lay thinly
scattered over the blighted fields and frozen roads, or stored more
thickly in the hollows of the deep cart-ruts and footsteps of men and
horses impressed in the now petrified mire of last month’s drenching
rains. I remember it well, for I was walking home from the vicarage
with no less remarkable a personage than Miss Eliza Millward by my
side. I had been to call upon her father,—a sacrifice to civility
undertaken entirely to please my mother, not myself, for I hated to go
near the house; not merely on account of my antipathy to the once so
bewitching Eliza, but because I had not half forgiven the old gentleman
himself for his ill opinion of Mrs. Huntingdon; for though now
constrained to acknowledge himself mistaken in his former judgment, he
still maintained that she had done wrong to leave her husband; it was a
violation of her sacred duties as a wife, and a tempting of Providence
by laying herself open to temptation; and nothing short of bodily
ill-usage (and that of no trifling nature) could excuse such a step—nor
even that, for in such a case she ought to appeal to the laws for
protection. But it was not of him I intended to speak; it was of his
daughter Eliza. Just as I was taking leave of the vicar, she entered
the room, ready equipped for a walk.

“I was just coming to see your sister, Mr. Markham,” said she; “and so,
if you have no objection, I’ll accompany you home. I like company when
I’m walking out—don’t you?”

“Yes, when it’s agreeable.”

“That of course,” rejoined the young lady, smiling archly.

So we proceeded together.

“Shall I find Rose at home, do you think?” said she, as we closed the
garden gate, and set our faces towards Linden-Car.

“I believe so.”

“I trust I shall, for I’ve a little bit of news for her—if you haven’t
forestalled me.”

“I?”

“Yes: do you know what Mr. Lawrence is gone for?” She looked up
anxiously for my reply.

“_Is_ he gone?” said I; and her face brightened.

“Ah! then he hasn’t told you about his sister?”

“What of _her?_” I demanded in terror, lest some evil should have
befallen her.

“Oh, Mr. Markham, how you blush!” cried she, with a tormenting laugh.
“Ha, ha, you have not forgotten her yet. But you had better be quick
about it, I can tell you, for—alas, alas!—she’s going to be married
next Thursday!”

“No, Miss Eliza, that’s false.”

“Do you charge me with a falsehood, sir?”

“You are misinformed.”

“Am I? Do you know better, then?”

“I think I do.”

“What makes you look so pale then?” said she, smiling with delight at
my emotion. “Is it anger at poor me for telling such a fib? Well, I
only ‘tell the tale as ’twas told to me:’ I don’t vouch for the truth
of it; but at the same time, I don’t see what reason Sarah should have
for deceiving me, or her informant for deceiving her; and that was what
she told me the footman told her:—that Mrs. Huntingdon was going to be
married on Thursday, and Mr. Lawrence was gone to the wedding. She did
tell me the name of the gentleman, but I’ve forgotten that. Perhaps you
can assist me to remember it. Is there not some one that lives near—or
frequently visits the neighbourhood, that has long been attached to
her?—a Mr.—oh, dear! Mr.—”

“Hargrave?” suggested I, with a bitter smile.

“You’re right,” cried she; “that was the very name.”

“Impossible, Miss Eliza!” I exclaimed, in a tone that made her start.

“Well, you know, that’s what they told me,” said she, composedly
staring me in the face. And then she broke out into a long shrill laugh
that put me to my wit’s end with fury.

“Really you must excuse me,” cried she. “I know it’s very rude, but ha,
ha, ha!—did you think to marry her yourself? Dear, dear, what a
pity!—ha, ha, ha! Gracious, Mr. Markham, are you going to faint? Oh,
mercy! shall I call this man? Here, Jacob—” But checking the word on
her lips, I seized her arm and gave it, I think, a pretty severe
squeeze, for she shrank into herself with a faint cry of pain or
terror; but the spirit within her was not subdued: instantly rallying,
she continued, with well-feigned concern, “What can I do for you? Will
you have some water—some brandy? I daresay they have some in the
public-house down there, if you’ll let me run.”

“Have done with this nonsense!” cried I, sternly. She looked
confounded—almost frightened again, for a moment. “You know I hate such
jests,” I continued.

“_Jests_ indeed! I wasn’t _jesting!_”

“You were laughing, at all events; and I don’t like to be laughed at,”
returned I, making violent efforts to speak with proper dignity and
composure, and to say nothing but what was coherent and sensible. “And
since you are in such a merry mood, Miss Eliza, you must be good enough
company for yourself; and therefore I shall leave you to finish your
walk alone—for, now I think of it, I have business elsewhere; so
good-evening.”

With that I left her (smothering her malicious laughter) and turned
aside into the fields, springing up the bank, and pushing through the
nearest gap in the hedge. Determined at once to prove the truth—or
rather the falsehood—of her story, I hastened to Woodford as fast as my
legs could carry me; first veering round by a circuitous course, but
the moment I was out of sight of my fair tormentor cutting away across
the country, just as a bird might fly, over pasture-land, and fallow,
and stubble, and lane, clearing hedges and ditches and hurdles, till I
came to the young squire’s gates. Never till now had I known the full
fervour of my love—the full strength of my hopes, not wholly crushed
even in my hours of deepest despondency, always tenaciously clinging to
the thought that one day she might be mine, or, if not that, at least
that something of my memory, some slight remembrance of our friendship
and our love, would be for ever cherished in her heart. I marched up to
the door, determined, if I saw the master, to question him boldly
concerning his sister, to wait and hesitate no longer, but cast false
delicacy and stupid pride behind my back, and know my fate at once.

“Is Mr. Lawrence at home?” I eagerly asked of the servant that opened
the door.

“No, sir, master went yesterday,” replied he, looking very alert.

“Went where?”

“To Grassdale, sir—wasn’t you aware, sir? He’s very close, is master,”
said the fellow, with a foolish, simpering grin. “I suppose, sir—”

But I turned and left him, without waiting to hear what he supposed. I
was not going to stand there to expose my tortured feelings to the
insolent laughter and impertinent curiosity of a fellow like that.

But what was to be done now? Could it be possible that she had left me
for _that_ man? I could not believe it. Me she might forsake, but _not_
to give herself to him! Well, I would know the truth; to no concerns of
daily life could I attend while this tempest of doubt and dread, of
jealousy and rage, distracted me. I would take the morning coach from
L—— (the evening one would be already gone), and fly to Grassdale—I
_must_ be there before the marriage. And why? Because a thought struck
me that _perhaps_ I might prevent it—that if I did not, she and I might
both lament it to the latest moment of our lives. It struck me that
someone might have belied me to her: perhaps her brother; yes, no doubt
her brother had persuaded her that I was false and faithless, and
taking advantage of her natural indignation, and perhaps her desponding
carelessness about her future life, had urged her, artfully, cruelly,
on to this other marriage, in order to secure her from me. If this
_was_ the case, and if she should only discover her mistake when too
late to repair it—to what a life of misery and vain regret might she be
doomed as well as me; and what remorse for me to think my foolish
scruples had induced it all! Oh, I _must_ see her—she must know my
truth even if I told it at the church door! I might pass for a madman
or an impertinent fool—even she might be offended at such an
interruption, or at least might tell me it was now too late. But if I
_could_ save her, if she _might_ be mine!—it was too rapturous a
thought!

Winged by this hope, and goaded by these fears, I hurried homewards to
prepare for my departure on the morrow. I told my mother that urgent
business which admitted no delay, but which I could not then explain,
called me away.

My deep anxiety and serious preoccupation could not be concealed from
her maternal eyes; and I had much ado to calm her apprehensions of some
disastrous mystery.

That night there came a heavy fall of snow, which so retarded the
progress of the coaches on the following day that I was almost driven
to distraction. I travelled all night, of course, for this was
Wednesday: to-morrow morning, doubtless, the marriage would take place.
But the night was long and dark: the snow heavily clogged the wheels
and balled the horses’ feet; the animals were consumedly lazy; the
coachman most execrably cautious; the passengers confoundedly apathetic
in their supine indifference to the rate of our progression. Instead of
assisting me to bully the several coachmen and urge them forward, they
merely stared and grinned at my impatience: one fellow even ventured to
rally me upon it—but I silenced him with a look that quelled him for
the rest of the journey; and when, at the last stage, I would have
taken the reins into my own hand, they all with one accord opposed it.

It was broad daylight when we entered M—— and drew up at the “Rose and
Crown.” I alighted and called aloud for a post-chaise to Grassdale.
There was none to be had: the only one in the town was under repair. “A
gig, then—a fly—car—anything—only be quick!” There was a gig, but not a
horse to spare. I sent into the town to seek one: but they were such an
intolerable time about it that I could wait no longer—I thought my own
feet could carry me sooner; and bidding them send the conveyance after
me, if it were ready within an hour, I set off as fast as I could walk.
The distance was little more than six miles, but the road was strange,
and I had to keep stopping to inquire my way; hallooing to carters and
clodhoppers, and frequently invading the cottages, for there were few
abroad that winter’s morning; sometimes knocking up the lazy people
from their beds, for where so little work was to be done, perhaps so
little food and fire to be had, they cared not to curtail their
slumbers. I had no time to think of _them_, however; aching with
weariness and desperation, I hurried on. The gig did not overtake me:
and it was well I had not waited for it; vexatious rather, that I had
been fool enough to wait so long.

At length, however, I entered the neighbourhood of Grassdale. I
approached the little rural church—but lo! there stood a train of
carriages before it; it needed not the white favours bedecking the
servants and horses, nor the merry voices of the village idlers
assembled to witness the show, to apprise me that there was a wedding
within. I ran in among them, demanding, with breathless eagerness, had
the ceremony long commenced? They only gaped and stared. In my
desperation, I pushed past them, and was about to enter the churchyard
gate, when a group of ragged urchins, that had been hanging like bees
to the window, suddenly dropped off and made a rush for the porch,
vociferating in the uncouth dialect of their country something which
signified, “It’s over—they’re coming out!”

If Eliza Millward had seen me then she might indeed have been
delighted. I grasped the gate-post for support, and stood intently
gazing towards the door to take my last look on my soul’s delight, my
first on that detested mortal who had torn her from my heart, and
doomed her, I was certain, to a life of misery and hollow, vain
repining—for what happiness could she enjoy with him? I did not wish to
shock her with my presence now, but I had not power to move away. Forth
came the bride and bridegroom. Him I saw not; I had eyes for none but
her. A long veil shrouded half her graceful form, but did not hide it;
I could see that while she carried her head erect, her eyes were bent
upon the ground, and her face and neck were suffused with a crimson
blush; but every feature was radiant with smiles, and gleaming through
the misty whiteness of her veil were clusters of golden ringlets! Oh,
heavens! it was _not_ my Helen! The first glimpse made me start—but my
eyes were darkened with exhaustion and despair. Dare I trust them?
“Yes—it _is_ not she! It was a younger, slighter, rosier beauty—lovely
indeed, but with far less dignity and depth of soul—without that
indefinable grace, that keenly _spiritual_ yet gentle charm, that
ineffable power to attract and subjugate the heart—_my_ heart at least.
I looked at the bridegroom—it was Frederick Lawrence! I wiped away the
cold drops that were trickling down my forehead, and stepped back as he
approached; but, his eyes fell upon me, and he knew me, altered as my
appearance must have been.

“Is that you, Markham?” said he, startled and confounded at the
apparition—perhaps, too, at the wildness of my looks.

“Yes, Lawrence; is that you?” I mustered the presence of mind to reply.

He smiled and coloured, as if half-proud and half-ashamed of his
identity; and if he had reason to be proud of the sweet lady on his
arm, he had no less cause to be ashamed of having concealed his good
fortune so long.

“Allow me to introduce you to my bride,” said he, endeavouring to hide
his embarrassment by an assumption of careless gaiety. “Esther, this is
Mr. Markham; my friend Markham, Mrs. Lawrence, late Miss Hargrave.”

I bowed to the bride, and vehemently wrung the bridegroom’s hand.

“Why did you not tell me of this?” I said, reproachfully, pretending a
resentment I did not feel (for in truth I was almost wild with joy to
find myself so happily mistaken, and overflowing with affection to him
for this and for the base injustice I felt that I had done him in my
mind—he might have wronged me, but not to _that_ extent; and as I had
hated him like a demon for the last forty hours, the reaction from such
a feeling was so great that I could pardon all offences for the
moment—and love him in spite of them too).

“I _did_ tell you,” said he, with an air of guilty confusion; “you
received my letter?”

“What letter?”

“The one announcing my intended marriage.”

“I never received the most distant hint of such an intention.”

“It must have crossed you on your way then—it should have reached you
yesterday morning—it was rather late, I acknowledge. But what brought
you here, then, if you received no information?”

It was now _my_ turn to be confounded; but the young lady, who had been
busily patting the snow with her foot during our short sotto-voce
colloquy, very opportunely came to my assistance by pinching her
companion’s arm and whispering a suggestion that his friend should be
invited to step into the carriage and go with them; it being scarcely
agreeable to stand there among so many gazers, and keeping their
friends waiting into the bargain.

“And so cold as it is too!” said he, glancing with dismay at her slight
drapery, and immediately handing her into the carriage. “Markham, will
you come? We are going to Paris, but we can drop you anywhere between
this and Dover.”

“No, thank you. Good-by—I needn’t wish you a pleasant journey; but I
shall expect a very handsome apology, some time, mind, and scores of
letters, before we meet again.”

He shook my hand, and hastened to take his place beside his lady. This
was no time or place for explanation or discourse: we had already stood
long enough to excite the wonder of the village sight-seers, and
perhaps the wrath of the attendant bridal party; though, of course, all
this passed in a much shorter time than I have taken to relate, or even
than you will take to read it. I stood beside the carriage, and, the
window being down, I saw my happy friend fondly encircle his
companion’s waist with his arm, while she rested her glowing cheek on
his shoulder, looking the very impersonation of loving, trusting bliss.
In the interval between the footman’s closing the door and taking his
place behind she raised her smiling brown eyes to his face, observing,
playfully,—“I fear you must think me very insensible, Frederick: I know
it is the custom for ladies to cry on these occasions, but I couldn’t
squeeze a tear for my life.”

He only answered with a kiss, and pressed her still closer to his
bosom.

“But what is this?” he murmured. “Why, Esther, you’re crying now!”

“Oh, it’s nothing—it’s only too much happiness—and the wish,” sobbed
she, “that our dear Helen were as happy as ourselves.”

“Bless you for that wish!” I inwardly responded, as the carriage rolled
away—“and heaven grant it be not wholly vain!”

I thought a cloud had suddenly darkened her husband’s face as she
spoke. What did he think? Could he grudge such happiness to his dear
sister and his friend as he now felt himself? At _such_ a moment it was
impossible. The contrast between her fate and his _must_ darken his
bliss for a time. Perhaps, too, he thought of me: perhaps he regretted
the part he had had in preventing our union, by omitting to help us, if
not by actually plotting against us. I exonerated him from _that_
charge now, and deeply lamented my former ungenerous suspicions; but he
_had_ wronged us, still—I hoped, I trusted that he had. He had not
attempted to check the course of our love by actually damming up the
streams in their passage, but he had passively watched the two currents
wandering through life’s arid wilderness, declining to clear away the
obstructions that divided them, and secretly hoping that both would
lose themselves in the sand before they could be joined in one. And
meantime he had been quietly proceeding with his own affairs; perhaps,
his heart and head had been so full of his fair lady that he had had
but little thought to spare for others. Doubtless he had made his first
acquaintance with her—his first intimate acquaintance at least—during
his three months’ sojourn at F——, for I now recollected that he had
once casually let fall an intimation that his aunt and sister had a
young friend staying with them at the time, and this accounted for at
least one-half his silence about all transactions there. Now, too, I
saw a reason for many little things that had slightly puzzled me
before; among the rest, for sundry departures from Woodford, and
absences more or less prolonged, for which he never satisfactorily
accounted, and concerning which he hated to be questioned on his
return. Well might the servant say his master was “very close.” But why
this strange reserve to _me?_ Partly, from that remarkable idiosyncrasy
to which I have before alluded; partly, perhaps, from tenderness to my
feelings, or fear to disturb my philosophy by touching upon the
infectious theme of love.




 CHAPTER LII


The tardy gig had overtaken me at last. I entered it, and bade the man
who brought it drive to Grassdale Manor—I was too busy with my own
thoughts to care to drive it myself. I would see Mrs. Huntingdon—there
could be no impropriety in that now that her husband had been dead
above a year—and by her indifference or her joy at my unexpected
arrival I could soon tell whether her heart was truly mine. But my
companion, a loquacious, forward fellow, was not disposed to leave me
to the indulgence of my private cogitations.

“There they go!” said he, as the carriages filed away before us.
“There’ll be brave doings on yonder _to-day_, as what come
to-morra.—Know anything of that family, sir? or you’re a stranger in
these parts?”

“I know them by report.”

“Humph! There’s the best of ’em gone, anyhow. And I suppose the old
missis is agoing to leave after this stir’s gotten overed, and take
herself off, somewhere, to live on her bit of a jointure; and the young
’un—at least the new ’un (she’s none so very young)—is coming down to
live at the Grove.”

“Is Mr. Hargrave married, then?”

“Ay, sir, a few months since. He should a been wed afore, to a widow
lady, but they couldn’t agree over the money: she’d a rare long purse,
and Mr. Hargrave wanted it all to hisself; but she wouldn’t let it go,
and so then they fell out. This one isn’t quite as rich, nor as
handsome either, but she hasn’t been married before. She’s very plain,
they say, and getting on to forty or past, and so, you know, if she
didn’t jump at this hopportunity, she thought she’d never get a better.
I guess she thought such a handsome young husband was worth all ’at
ever she had, and he might take it and welcome, but I lay she’ll rue
her bargain afore long. They say she begins already to see ’at he isn’t
not altogether that nice, generous, perlite, delightful gentleman ’at
she thought him afore marriage—he begins a being careless and masterful
already. Ay, and she’ll find him harder and carelesser nor she thinks
on.”

“You seem to be well acquainted with him,” I observed.

“I am, sir; I’ve known him since he was quite a young gentleman; and a
proud ’un he was, and a wilful. I was servant yonder for several years;
but I couldn’t stand their niggardly ways—she got ever longer and
worse, did missis, with her nipping and screwing, and watching and
grudging; so I thought I’d find another place.”

“Are we not near the house?” said I, interrupting him.

“Yes, sir; yond’s the park.”

My heart sank within me to behold that stately mansion in the midst of
its expansive grounds. The park as beautiful now, in its wintry garb,
as it could be in its summer glory: the majestic sweep, the undulating
swell and fall, displayed to full advantage in that robe of dazzling
purity, stainless and printless—save one long, winding track left by
the trooping deer—the stately timber-trees with their heavy-laden
branches gleaming white against the dull, grey sky; the deep,
encircling woods; the broad expanse of water sleeping in frozen quiet;
and the weeping ash and willow drooping their snow-clad boughs above
it—all presented a picture, striking indeed, and pleasing to an
unencumbered mind, but by no means encouraging to me. There was one
comfort, however,—all this was entailed upon little Arthur, and could
not under any circumstances, strictly speaking, be his mother’s. But
how was she situated? Overcoming with a sudden effort my repugnance to
mention her name to my garrulous companion, I asked him if he knew
whether her late husband had left a will, and how the property had been
disposed of. Oh, yes, he knew all about it; and I was quickly informed
that to her had been left the full control and management of the estate
during her son’s minority, besides the absolute, unconditional
possession of her own fortune (but I knew that her father had not given
her much), and the small additional sum that had been settled upon her
before marriage.

Before the close of the explanation we drew up at the park-gates. Now
for the trial. If I should find her within—but alas! she might be still
at Staningley: her brother had given me no intimation to the contrary.
I inquired at the porter’s lodge if Mrs. Huntingdon were at home. No,
she was with her aunt in ——shire, but was expected to return before
Christmas. She usually spent most of her time at Staningley, only
coming to Grassdale occasionally, when the management of affairs, or
the interest of her tenants and dependents, required her presence.

“Near what town is Staningley situated?” I asked. The requisite
information was soon obtained. “Now then, my man, give me the reins,
and we’ll return to M——. I must have some breakfast at the ‘Rose and
Crown,’ and then away to Staningley by the first coach for ——.”

At M—— I had time before the coach started to replenish my forces with
a hearty breakfast, and to obtain the refreshment of my usual morning’s
ablutions, and the amelioration of some slight change in my toilet, and
also to despatch a short note to my mother (excellent son that I was),
to assure her that I was still in existence, and to excuse my
non-appearance at the expected time. It was a long journey to
Staningley for those slow-travelling days, but I did not deny myself
needful refreshment on the road, nor even a night’s rest at a wayside
inn, choosing rather to brook a little delay than to present myself
worn, wild, and weather-beaten before my mistress and her aunt, who
would be astonished enough to see me without that. Next morning,
therefore, I not only fortified myself with as substantial a breakfast
as my excited feelings would allow me to swallow, but I bestowed a
little more than usual time and care upon my toilet; and, furnished
with a change of linen from my small carpet-bag, well-brushed clothes,
well-polished boots, and neat new gloves, I mounted “The Lightning,”
and resumed my journey. I had nearly two stages yet before me, but the
coach, I was informed, passed through the neighbourhood of Staningley,
and having desired to be set down as near the Hall as possible, I had
nothing to do but to sit with folded arms and speculate upon the coming
hour.

It was a clear, frosty morning. The very fact of sitting exalted aloft,
surveying the snowy landscape and sweet sunny sky, inhaling the pure,
bracing air, and crunching away over the crisp frozen snow, was
exhilarating enough in itself; but add to this the idea of to what goal
I was hastening, and whom I expected to meet, and you may have some
faint conception of my frame of mind at the time—only a _faint_ one,
though, for my heart swelled with unspeakable delight, and my spirits
rose almost to madness, in spite of my prudent endeavours to bind them
down to a reasonable platitude by thinking of the undeniable difference
between Helen’s rank and mine; of all that she had passed through since
our parting; of her long, unbroken silence; and, above all, of her
cool, cautious aunt, whose counsels she would doubtless be careful not
to slight again. These considerations made my heart flutter with
anxiety, and my chest heave with impatience to get the crisis over; but
they could not dim her image in my mind, or mar the vivid recollection
of what had been said and felt between us, or destroy the keen
anticipation of what was to be: in fact, I could not realise their
terrors now. Towards the close of the journey, however, a couple of my
fellow-passengers kindly came to my assistance, and brought me low
enough.

“Fine land this,” said one of them, pointing with his umbrella to the
wide fields on the right, conspicuous for their compact hedgerows,
deep, well-cut ditches, and fine timber-trees, growing sometimes on the
borders, sometimes in the midst of the enclosure: “_very_ fine land, if
you saw it in the summer or spring.”

“Ay,” responded the other, a gruff elderly man, with a drab greatcoat
buttoned up to the chin, and a cotton umbrella between his knees. “It’s
old Maxwell’s, I suppose.”

“It _was_ his, sir; but he’s dead now, you’re aware, and has left it
all to his niece.”

“All?”

“Every rood of it, and the mansion-house and all! every hatom of his
worldly goods, except just a trifle, by way of remembrance, to his
nephew down in ——shire, and an annuity to his wife.”

“It’s strange, sir!”

“It is, sir; and she wasn’t his own niece neither. But he had no near
relations of his own—none but a nephew he’d quarrelled with; and he
always had a partiality for this one. And then his wife advised him to
it, they say: she’d brought most of the property, and it was her wish
that this lady should have it.”

“Humph! She’ll be a fine catch for somebody.”

“She will so. She’s a widow, but quite young yet, and uncommon
handsome: a fortune of her own, besides, and only one child, and she’s
nursing a fine estate for him in ——. There’ll be lots to speak for her!
’fraid there’s no chance for uz”—(facetiously jogging me with his
elbow, as well as his companion)—“ha, ha, ha! No offence, sir, I
hope?”—(to me). “Ahem! I should think she’ll marry none but a nobleman
myself. Look ye, sir,” resumed he, turning to his other neighbour, and
pointing past me with his umbrella, “that’s the Hall: grand park, you
see, and all them woods—plenty of timber there, and lots of game.
Hallo! what now?”

This exclamation was occasioned by the sudden stoppage of the coach at
the park-gates.

“Gen’leman for Staningley Hall?” cried the coachman and I rose and
threw my carpet-bag on to the ground, preparatory to dropping myself
down after it.

“Sickly, sir?” asked my talkative neighbour, staring me in the face. I
daresay it was white enough.

“No. Here, coachman!”

“Thank’ee, sir.—All right!”

The coachman pocketed his fee and drove away, leaving me, not walking
up the park, but pacing to and fro before its gates, with folded arms,
and eyes fixed upon the ground, an overwhelming force of images,
thoughts, impressions crowding on my mind, and nothing tangibly
distinct but this: My love had been cherished in vain—my hope was gone
for ever; I must tear myself away at once, and banish or suppress all
thoughts of her, like the remembrance of a wild, mad dream. Gladly
would I have lingered round the place for hours, in the hope of
catching at least one distant glimpse of her before I went, but it must
not be—I must not suffer her to see me; for what could have brought me
hither but the hope of reviving her attachment, with a view hereafter
to obtain her hand? And could I bear that she should think me capable
of such a thing?—of presuming upon the acquaintance—the _love_, if you
will—accidentally contracted, or rather forced upon her against her
will, when she was an unknown fugitive, toiling for her own support,
apparently without fortune, family, or connections; to come upon her
now, when she was reinstated in her proper sphere, and claim a share in
her prosperity, which, had it never failed her, would most certainly
have kept her unknown to me for ever? And this, too, when we had parted
sixteen months ago, and she had expressly forbidden me to hope for a
re-union in this world, and never sent me a line or a message from that
day to this. No! The very idea was intolerable.

And even if she should have a lingering affection for me still, ought I
to disturb her peace by awakening those feelings? to subject her to the
struggles of conflicting duty and inclination—to whichsoever side the
latter might allure, or the former imperatively call her—whether she
should deem it her duty to risk the slights and censures of the world,
the sorrow and displeasure of those she loved, for a romantic idea of
truth and constancy to me, or to sacrifice her individual wishes to the
feelings of her friends and her own sense of prudence and the fitness
of things? No—and I would not! I would go at once, and she should never
know that I had approached the place of her abode: for though I might
disclaim all idea of ever aspiring to her hand, or even of soliciting a
place in her friendly regard, her peace should not be broken by my
presence, nor her heart afflicted by the sight of my fidelity.

“Adieu then, dear Helen, forever! Forever adieu!”

So said I—and yet I could not tear myself away. I moved a few paces,
and then looked back, for one last view of her stately home, that I
might have its outward form, at least, impressed upon my mind as
indelibly as her own image, which, alas! I must not see again—then
walked a few steps further; and then, lost in melancholy musings,
paused again and leant my back against a rough old tree that grew
beside the road.




 CHAPTER LIII


While standing thus, absorbed in my gloomy reverie, a gentleman’s
carriage came round the corner of the road. I did not look at it; and
had it rolled quietly by me, I should not have remembered the fact of
its appearance at all; but a tiny voice from within it roused me by
exclaiming, “Mamma, mamma, here’s Mr. Markham!”

I did not hear the reply, but presently the same voice answered, “It is
indeed, mamma—look for yourself.”

I did not raise my eyes, but I suppose mamma looked, for a clear
melodious voice, whose tones thrilled through my nerves, exclaimed,
“Oh, aunt! here’s Mr. Markham, Arthur’s friend! Stop, Richard!”

There was such evidence of joyous though suppressed excitement in the
utterance of those few words—especially that tremulous, “Oh, aunt”—that
it threw me almost off my guard. The carriage stopped immediately, and
I looked up and met the eye of a pale, grave, elderly lady surveying me
from the open window. She bowed, and so did I, and then she withdrew
her head, while Arthur screamed to the footman to let him out; but
before that functionary could descend from his box a hand was silently
put forth from the carriage window. I knew that hand, though a black
glove concealed its delicate whiteness and half its fair proportions,
and quickly seizing it, I pressed it in my own—ardently for a moment,
but instantly recollecting myself, I dropped it, and it was immediately
withdrawn.

“Were you coming to see us, or only passing by?” asked the low voice of
its owner, who, I felt, was attentively surveying my countenance from
behind the thick black veil which, with the shadowing panels, entirely
concealed her own from me.

“I—I came to see the place,” faltered I.

“The _place_,” repeated she, in a tone which betokened more displeasure
or disappointment than surprise.

“Will you not enter it, then?”

“If you wish it.”

“Can you doubt?”

“Yes, yes! he _must_ enter,” cried Arthur, running round from the other
door; and seizing my hand in both his, he shook it heartily.

“Do you remember me, sir?” said he.

“Yes, full well, my little man, altered though you are,” replied I,
surveying the comparatively tall, slim young gentleman, with his
mother’s image visibly stamped upon his fair, intelligent features, in
spite of the blue eyes beaming with gladness, and the bright locks
clustering beneath his cap.

“Am I not grown?” said he, stretching himself up to his full height.

“Grown! three inches, upon my word!”

“I was _seven_ last birthday,” was the proud rejoinder. “In seven years
more I shall be as tall as you nearly.”

“Arthur,” said his mother, “tell him to come in. Go on, Richard.”

There was a touch of sadness as well as coldness in her voice, but I
knew not to what to ascribe it. The carriage drove on and entered the
gates before us. My little companion led me up the park, discoursing
merrily all the way. Arrived at the hall-door, I paused on the steps
and looked round me, waiting to recover my composure, if possible—or,
at any rate, to remember my new-formed resolutions and the principles
on which they were founded; and it was not till Arthur had been for
some time gently pulling my coat, and repeating his invitations to
enter, that I at length consented to accompany him into the apartment
where the ladies awaited us.

Helen eyed me as I entered with a kind of gentle, serious scrutiny, and
politely asked after Mrs. Markham and Rose. I respectfully answered her
inquiries. Mrs. Maxwell begged me to be seated, observing it was rather
cold, but she supposed I had not travelled far that morning.

“Not quite twenty miles,” I answered.

“Not on foot!”

“No, Madam, by coach.”

“Here’s Rachel, sir,” said Arthur, the only truly happy one amongst us,
directing my attention to that worthy individual, who had just entered
to take her mistress’s things. She vouchsafed me an almost friendly
smile of recognition—a favour that demanded, at least, a civil
salutation on my part, which was accordingly given and respectfully
returned—she had seen the error of her former estimation of my
character.

When Helen was divested of her lugubrious bonnet and veil, her heavy
winter cloak, &c., she looked so like herself that I knew not how to
bear it. I was particularly glad to see her beautiful black hair,
unstinted still, and unconcealed in its glossy luxuriance.

“Mamma has left off her widow’s cap in honour of uncle’s marriage,”
observed Arthur, reading my looks with a child’s mingled simplicity and
quickness of observation. Mamma looked grave and Mrs. Maxwell shook her
head. “And aunt Maxwell is never going to leave off hers,” persisted
the naughty boy; but when he saw that his pertness was seriously
displeasing and painful to his aunt, he went and silently put his arm
round her neck, kissed her cheek, and withdrew to the recess of one of
the great bay-windows, where he quietly amused himself with his dog,
while Mrs. Maxwell gravely discussed with me the interesting topics of
the weather, the season, and the roads. I considered her presence very
useful as a check upon my natural impulses—an antidote to those
emotions of tumultuous excitement which would otherwise have carried me
away against my reason and my will; but _just then_ I felt the
restraint almost intolerable, and I had the greatest difficulty in
forcing myself to attend to her remarks and answer them with ordinary
politeness; for I was sensible that Helen was standing within a few
feet of me beside the fire. I dared not look at her, but I felt her eye
was upon me, and from one hasty, furtive glance, I thought her cheek
was slightly flushed, and that her fingers, as she played with her
watch-chain, were agitated with that restless, trembling motion which
betokens high excitement.

“Tell me,” said she, availing herself of the first pause in the
attempted conversation between her aunt and me, and speaking fast and
low, with her eyes bent on the gold chain—for I now ventured another
glance—“Tell me how you all are at Lindenhope—has nothing happened
since I left you?”

“I believe not.”

“Nobody dead? nobody married?”

“No.”

“Or—or expecting to marry?—No old ties dissolved or new ones formed? no
old friends forgotten or supplanted?”

She dropped her voice so low in the last sentence that no one could
have caught the concluding words but myself, and at the same time
turned her eyes upon me with a dawning smile, most sweetly melancholy,
and a look of timid though keen inquiry that made my cheeks tingle with
inexpressible emotions.

“I believe not,” I answered. “Certainly not, if others are as little
changed as I.” Her face glowed in sympathy with mine.

“And you really did not mean to call?” she exclaimed.

“I feared to intrude.”

“To intrude!” cried she, with an impatient gesture. “What—” but as if
suddenly recollecting her aunt’s presence, she checked herself, and,
turning to that lady, continued—“Why, aunt, this man is my brother’s
close friend, and was my own intimate acquaintance (for a few short
months at least), and professed a great attachment to my boy—and when
he passes the house, so many scores of miles from his home, he declines
to look in for fear of intruding!”

“Mr. Markham is over-modest,” observed Mrs. Maxwell.

“Over-ceremonious rather,” said her niece—“over—well, it’s no matter.”
And turning from me, she seated herself in a chair beside the table,
and pulling a book to her by the cover, began to turn over the leaves
in an energetic kind of abstraction.

“If I had known,” said I, “that you would have honoured me by
remembering me as an intimate acquaintance, I most likely should not
have denied myself the pleasure of calling upon you, but I thought you
had forgotten me long ago.”

“You judged of others by yourself,” muttered she without raising her
eyes from the book, but reddening as she spoke, and hastily turning
over a dozen leaves at once.

There was a pause, of which Arthur thought he might venture to avail
himself to introduce his handsome young setter, and show me how
wonderfully it was grown and improved, and to ask after the welfare of
its father Sancho. Mrs. Maxwell then withdrew to take off her things.
Helen immediately pushed the book from her, and after silently
surveying her son, his friend, and his dog for a few moments, she
dismissed the former from the room under pretence of wishing him to
fetch his last new book to show me. The child obeyed with alacrity; but
I continued caressing the dog. The silence might have lasted till its
master’s return, had it depended on me to break it; but, in half a
minute or less, my hostess impatiently rose, and, taking her former
station on the rug between me and the chimney corner, earnestly
exclaimed—

“Gilbert, what _is_ the matter with you?—why are you so changed? It is
a very indiscreet question, I know,” she hastened to add: “perhaps a
very rude one—don’t answer it if you think so—but I hate mysteries and
concealments.”

“I am not changed, Helen—unfortunately I am as keen and passionate as
ever—it is not I, it is circumstances that are changed.”

“What circumstances? _Do_ tell me!” Her cheek was blanched with the
very anguish of anxiety—could it be with the fear that I had rashly
pledged my faith to another?

“I’ll tell you at once,” said I. “I will confess that I came here for
the purpose of seeing you (not without some monitory misgivings at my
own presumption, and fears that I should be as little welcome as
expected when I came), but I did not know that this estate was yours
until enlightened on the subject of your inheritance by the
conversation of two fellow-passengers in the last stage of my journey;
and then I saw at once the folly of the hopes I had cherished, and the
madness of retaining them a moment longer; and though I alighted at
your gates, I determined not to enter within them; I lingered a few
minutes to see the place, but was fully resolved to return to M——
without seeing its mistress.”

“And if my aunt and I had not been just returning from our morning
drive, I should have seen and heard no more of you?”

“I thought it would be better for both that we should not meet,”
replied I, as calmly as I could, but not daring to speak above my
breath, from conscious inability to steady my voice, and not daring to
look in her face lest my firmness should forsake me altogether. “I
thought an interview would only disturb your peace and madden me. But I
am glad, now, of this opportunity of seeing you once more and knowing
that you have not forgotten me, and of assuring you that I shall never
cease to remember you.”

There was a moment’s pause. Mrs. Huntingdon moved away, and stood in
the recess of the window. Did she regard this as an intimation that
modesty alone prevented me from asking her hand? and was she
considering how to repulse me with the smallest injury to my feelings?
Before I could speak to relieve her from such a perplexity, she broke
the silence herself by suddenly turning towards me and observing—

“You might have had such an opportunity before—as far, I mean, as
regards assuring me of your kindly recollections, and yourself of mine,
if you had written to me.”

“I would have done so, but I did not know your address, and did not
like to ask your brother, because I thought he would object to my
writing; but this would not have deterred me for a moment, if I could
have ventured to believe that you expected to hear from me, or even
wasted a thought upon your unhappy friend; but your silence naturally
led me to conclude myself forgotten.”

“Did you expect me to write to _you_, then?”

“No, Helen—Mrs. Huntingdon,” said I, blushing at the implied
imputation, “certainly not; but if you had sent me a message through
your brother, or even asked him about me now and then—”

“I did ask about you frequently. I was not going to do more,” continued
she, smiling, “so long as you continued to restrict yourself to a few
polite inquiries about my health.”

“Your brother never told me that you had mentioned my name.”

“Did you ever ask him?”

“No; for I saw he did not wish to be questioned about you, or to afford
the slightest encouragement or assistance to my too obstinate
attachment.” Helen did not reply. “And he was perfectly right,” added
I. But she remained in silence, looking out upon the snowy lawn. “Oh, I
will relieve her of my presence,” thought I; and immediately I rose and
advanced to take leave, with a most heroic resolution—but pride was at
the bottom of it, or it could not have carried me through.

“Are you going already?” said she, taking the hand I offered, and not
immediately letting it go.

“Why should I stay any longer?”

“Wait till Arthur comes, at least.”

Only too glad to obey, I stood and leant against the opposite side of
the window.

“You told me you were not changed,” said my companion: “you _are_—very
much so.”

“No, Mrs. Huntingdon, I only ought to be.”

“Do you mean to maintain that you have the same regard for me that you
had when last we met?”

“I have; but it would be wrong to talk of it now.”

“It was wrong to talk of it _then_, Gilbert; it would _not_ now—unless
to do so would be to violate the truth.”

I was too much agitated to speak; but, without waiting for an answer,
she turned away her glistening eye and crimson cheek, and threw up the
window and looked out, whether to calm her own, excited feelings, or to
relieve her embarrassment, or only to pluck that beautiful half-blown
Christmas-rose that grew upon the little shrub without, just peeping
from the snow that had hitherto, no doubt, defended it from the frost,
and was now melting away in the sun. Pluck it, however, she did, and
having gently dashed the glittering powder from its leaves, approached
it to her lips and said:

“This rose is not so fragrant as a summer flower, but it has stood
through hardships none of _them_ could bear: the cold rain of winter
has sufficed to nourish it, and its faint sun to warm it; the bleak
winds have not blanched it, or broken its stem, and the keen frost has
not blighted it. Look, Gilbert, it is still fresh and blooming as a
flower can be, with the cold snow even now on its petals.—Will you have
it?”

I held out my hand: I dared not speak lest my emotion should overmaster
me. She laid the rose across my palm, but I scarcely closed my fingers
upon it, so deeply was I absorbed in thinking what might be the meaning
of her words, and what I ought to do or say upon the occasion; whether
to give way to my feelings or restrain them still. Misconstruing this
hesitation into indifference—or reluctance even—to accept her gift,
Helen suddenly snatched it from my hand, threw it out on to the snow,
shut down the window with an emphasis, and withdrew to the fire.

“Helen, what means this?” I cried, electrified at this startling change
in her demeanour.

“You did not understand my gift,” said she—“or, what is worse, you
despised it. I’m sorry I gave it you; but since I did make such a
mistake, the only remedy I could think of was to take it away.”

“You misunderstood me cruelly,” I replied, and in a minute I had opened
the window again, leaped out, picked up the flower, brought it in, and
presented it to her, imploring her to give it me again, and I would
keep it for ever for her sake, and prize it more highly than anything
in the world I possessed.

“And will this content you?” said she, as she took it in her hand.

“It shall,” I answered.

“There, then; take it.”

I pressed it earnestly to my lips, and put it in my bosom, Mrs.
Huntingdon looking on with a half-sarcastic smile.

“Now, are you going?” said she.

“I will if—if I must.”

“You _are_ changed,” persisted she—“you are grown either very proud or
very indifferent.”

“I am neither, Helen—Mrs. Huntingdon. If you could see my heart—”

“You _must_ be one,—if not both. And why Mrs. Huntingdon?—why not
Helen, as before?”

“Helen, then—dear Helen!” I murmured. I was in an agony of mingled
love, hope, delight, uncertainty, and suspense.

“The rose I gave you was an emblem of my heart,” said she; “would you
take it away and leave me here alone?”

“Would you give me your hand too, if I asked it?”

“Have I not said enough?” she answered, with a most enchanting smile. I
snatched her hand, and would have fervently kissed it, but suddenly
checked myself, and said,—

“But have you considered the consequences?”

“Hardly, I think, or I should not have offered myself to one too proud
to take me, or too indifferent to make his affection outweigh my
worldly goods.”

Stupid blockhead that I was!—I trembled to clasp her in my arms, but
dared not believe in so much joy, and yet restrained myself to say,—

“But if you _should_ repent!”

“It would be your fault,” she replied: “I never shall, unless you
bitterly disappoint me. If you have not sufficient confidence in my
affection to believe this, let me alone.”

“My darling angel—my _own Helen_,” cried I, now passionately kissing
the hand I still retained, and throwing my left arm around her, “you
never shall repent, if it depend on me alone. But have you thought of
your aunt?” I trembled for the answer, and clasped her closer to my
heart in the instinctive dread of losing my new-found treasure.

“My aunt must not know of it yet,” said she. “She would think it a
rash, wild step, because she could not imagine how well I know you; but
she must know you herself, and learn to like you. You must leave us
now, after lunch, and come again in spring, and make a longer stay, and
cultivate her acquaintance, and I know you will like each other.”

“And then you will be mine,” said I, printing a kiss upon her lips, and
another, and another; for I was as daring and impetuous now as I had
been backward and constrained before.

“No—in another year,” replied she, gently disengaging herself from my
embrace, but still fondly clasping my hand.

“Another year! Oh, Helen, I could not wait so long!”

“Where is your fidelity?”

“I mean I could not endure the misery of so long a separation.”

“It would not be a separation: we will write every day: my spirit shall
be always with you, and sometimes you shall see me with your bodily
eye. I will not be such a hypocrite as to pretend that I desire to wait
so long myself, but as my marriage is to please myself, alone, I ought
to consult my friends about the time of it.”

“Your friends will disapprove.”

“They will not greatly disapprove, dear Gilbert,” said she, earnestly
kissing my hand; “they cannot, when they know you, or, if they could,
they would not be true friends—I should not care for their
estrangement. Now are you satisfied?” She looked up in my face with a
smile of ineffable tenderness.

“Can I be otherwise, with your love? And you _do_ love me, Helen?” said
I, not doubting the fact, but wishing to hear it confirmed by her own
acknowledgment.

“If you loved as _I_ do,” she earnestly replied, “you would not have so
nearly lost me—these scruples of false delicacy and pride would never
thus have troubled you—you would have seen that the greatest worldly
distinctions and discrepancies of rank, birth, and fortune are as dust
in the balance compared with the unity of accordant thoughts and
feelings, and truly loving, sympathising hearts and souls.”

“But this is too much happiness,” said I, embracing her again; “I have
not deserved it, Helen—I dare not believe in such felicity: and the
longer I have to wait, the greater will be my dread that something will
intervene to snatch you from me—and think, a thousand things may happen
in a year!—I shall be in one long fever of restless terror and
impatience all the time. And besides, winter is such a dreary season.”

“I thought so too,” replied she gravely: “I would not be married in
winter—in December, at least,” she added, with a shudder—for in that
month had occurred both the ill-starred marriage that had bound her to
her former husband, and the terrible death that released her—“and
therefore I said another year, in spring.”

“_Next_ spring?”

“No, no—next autumn, perhaps.”

“Summer, then?”

“Well, the close of summer. There now! be satisfied.”

While she was speaking Arthur re-entered the room—good boy for keeping
out so long.

“Mamma, I couldn’t find the book in either of the places you told me to
look for it” (there was a conscious something in mamma’s smile that
seemed to say, “No, dear, I knew you could not”), “but Rachel got it
for me at last. Look, Mr. Markham, a natural history, with all kinds of
birds and beasts in it, and the reading as nice as the pictures!”

In great good humour I sat down to examine the book, and drew the
little fellow between my knees. Had he come a minute before I should
have received him less graciously, but now I affectionately stroked his
curling locks, and even kissed his ivory forehead: he was my own
Helen’s son, and therefore mine; and as such I have ever since regarded
him. That pretty child is now a fine young man: he has realised his
mother’s brightest expectations, and is at present residing in
Grassdale Manor with his young wife—the merry little Helen Hattersley
of yore.

I had not looked through half the book before Mrs. Maxwell appeared to
invite me into the other room to lunch. That lady’s cool, distant
manners rather chilled me at first; but I did my best to propitiate
her, and not entirely without success, I think, even in that first
short visit; for when I talked cheerfully to her, she gradually became
more kind and cordial, and when I departed she bade me a gracious
adieu, hoping ere long to have the pleasure of seeing me again.

“But you must not go till you have seen the conservatory, my aunt’s
winter garden,” said Helen, as I advanced to take leave of her, with as
much philosophy and self-command as I could summon to my aid.

I gladly availed myself of such a respite, and followed her into a
large and beautiful conservatory, plentifully furnished with flowers,
considering the season—but, of course, I had little attention to spare
for _them_. It was not, however, for any tender colloquy that my
companion had brought me there:—

“My aunt is particularly fond of flowers,” she observed, “and she is
fond of Staningley too: I brought you here to offer a petition in her
behalf, that this may be her home as long as she lives, and—if it be
not our home likewise—that I may often see her and be with her; for I
fear she will be sorry to lose me; and though she leads a retired and
contemplative life, she is apt to get low-spirited if left too much
alone.”

“By all means, dearest Helen!—do what you will with your own. I should
not dream of wishing your aunt to leave the place under any
circumstances; and we will live either here or elsewhere as you and she
may determine, and you shall see her as often as you like. I know she
must be pained to part with you, and I am willing to make any
reparation in my power. I love her for your sake, and her happiness
shall be as dear to me as that of my own mother.”

“Thank you, darling! you shall have a kiss for that. Good-by. There
now—there, Gilbert—let me go—here’s Arthur; don’t astonish his
infantile brain with your madness.”

* * * * *


But it is time to bring my narrative to a close. Any one but you would
say I had made it too long already. But for _your_ satisfaction I will
add a few words more; because I know you will have a fellow-feeling for
the old lady, and will wish to know the last of her history. I did come
again in spring, and, agreeably to Helen’s injunctions, did my best to
cultivate her acquaintance. She received me very kindly, having been,
doubtless, already prepared to think highly of my character by her
niece’s too favourable report. I turned my best side out, of course,
and we got along marvellously well together. When my ambitious
intentions were made known to her, she took it more sensibly than I had
ventured to hope. Her only remark on the subject, in my hearing, was—

“And so, Mr. Markham, you are going to rob me of my niece, I
understand. Well! I hope God will prosper your union, and make my dear
girl happy at last. Could she have been contented to remain single, I
own I should have been better satisfied; but if she must marry again, I
know of no one, now living and of a suitable age, to whom I would more
willingly resign her than yourself, or who would be more likely to
appreciate her worth and make, her truly happy, as far as I can tell.”

Of course I was delighted with the compliment, and hoped to show her
that she was not mistaken in her favourable judgment.

“I have, however, one request to offer,” continued she. “It seems I am
still to look on Staningley as my home: I wish you to make it yours
likewise, for Helen is attached to the place and to me—as I am to her.
There are painful associations connected with Grassdale, which she
cannot easily overcome; and I shall not molest you with my company or
interference here: I am a very quiet person, and shall keep my own
apartments, and attend to my own concerns, and only see you now and
then.”

Of course I most readily consented to this; and we lived in the
greatest harmony with our dear aunt until the day of her death, which
melancholy event took place a few years after—melancholy, not to
herself (for it came quietly upon her, and she was glad to reach her
journey’s end), but only to the few loving friends and grateful
dependents she left behind.

To return, however, to my own affairs: I was married in summer, on a
glorious August morning. It took the whole eight months, and all
Helen’s kindness and goodness to boot, to overcome my mother’s
prejudices against my bride-elect, and to reconcile her to the idea of
my leaving Linden Grange and living so far away. Yet she was gratified
at her son’s good fortune after all, and proudly attributed it all to
his own superior merits and endowments. I bequeathed the farm to
Fergus, with better hopes of its prosperity than I should have had a
year ago under similar circumstances; for he had lately fallen in love
with the Vicar of L——’s eldest daughter—a lady whose superiority had
roused his latent virtues, and stimulated him to the most surprising
exertions, not only to gain her affection and esteem, and to obtain a
fortune sufficient to aspire to her hand, but to render himself worthy
of her, in his own eyes, as well as in those of her parents; and in the
end he was successful, as you already know. As for myself, I need not
tell you how happily my Helen and I have lived together, and how
blessed we still are in each other’s society, and in the promising
young scions that are growing up about us. We are just now looking
forward to the advent of you and Rose, for the time of your annual
visit draws nigh, when you must leave your dusty, smoky, noisy,
toiling, striving city for a season of invigorating relaxation and
social retirement with us.

Till then, farewell,
GILBERT MARKHAM.


_Staningley_, _June_ 10_th_, 1847.

THE END

Printed by SPOTTISWOODE, BALLENTYNE & CO. LTD.
Colchester, London & Eton, England.




Footnotes:

 [1] Introduction to _Wuthering Heights_, p. xl. “Still, as I mused the
 naked room,” &c.

 [2] This Preface is now printed here for the first time in a collected
 edition of the works of the Brontë sisters.






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