The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

by Bronte · Cluster: Wine and Drink · Ballad Ballade · Road

Abstract

Anne Bronte’s 1848 novel, framed as Gilbert Markham’s narrative enclosing Helen Graham’s diary, in which a wife flees her dissolute, alcoholic and abusive husband Arthur Huntingdon to protect herself and her son; a morally bold social novel on marriage, debauchery, a woman’s independence, faith and redemption.

Capitoli / Chapters

• Chapter 5
• Chapter 8
• Chapter 10
• Chapter 11
• Chapter 13
• Chapter 21
• Chapter 23
• Chapter 26
• Chapter 28
• Chapter 34
• Chapter 36
• Chapter 40
• Chapter 42

Readability (prose)69.4 Flesch ease8.9 FK grade11.8 Fog8% complex21.4 words/sent

Connections

Archetypes: (Reputed) Fallen Woman, Rebel, Lover Motifs: Wine and Drink, Letters and Writing, Concealment Hidden Identity, Money and Gold Themes & Concepts: Marriage and Fidelity, Romantic Love, Identity, Temptation, Sin and the Fall, Grace and Redemption, Faith, Conscience, Social Injustice, Appearance vs Reality, Maturation and Growth Forms & Genres: Novel, Social Novel (Novel of Manners), Epistolary Diary Novel Historical References: Christianity Settings: Rural England Characters: Helen Huntingdon, Gilbert Markham, Arthur Huntingdon, Walter Hargrave, Annabella Lowborough, Lord Lowborough

Testo integrale / Full text

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.