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diff --git a/969-h/969-h.htm b/969-h/969-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9c32ed9 --- /dev/null +++ b/969-h/969-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,25016 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, by Anne Brontë</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.footnote {font-size: 90%; + text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +sup { vertical-align: top; font-size: 0.6em; } + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold;'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, by Anne Brontë</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Tenant of Wildfell Hall</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Anne Brontë</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: July, 1997 [eBook #969]<br /> +[Most recently updated: December 6, 2020]</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Price</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL ***</div> + +<h1>The Tenant of Wildfell Hall</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Anne Brontë</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<small>WITH AN INTRODUCTION</small><br /> +BY MRS HUMPHREY WARD +</p> + +<p class="center"> +LONDON<br /> +JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.<br /> +1920 +</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<p> +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. +<br /><br /> +</p> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">I. A Discovery</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">II. An Interview</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">III. A Controversy</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">IV. The Party</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">V. The Studio</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">VI. Progression</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">VII. The Excursion</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">VIII. The Present</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">IX. A Snake in the Grass</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">X. A Contract and a Quarrel</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">XI. The Vicar Again</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">XII. A Tête-à-Tête and a Discovery</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">XIII. A Return to Duty</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">XIV. An Assault</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">XV. An Encounter and its Consequences</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">XVI. The Warnings of Experience</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">XVII. Further Warnings</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">XVIII. The Miniature</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">XIX. An Incident</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap20">XX. Persistence</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap21">XXI. Opinions</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap22">XXII. Traits of Friendship</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap23">XXIII. First Weeks of Matrimony</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap24">XXIV. First Quarrel</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap25">XXV. First Absence</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap26">XXVI. The Guests</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap27">XXVII. A Misdemeanour</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap28">XXVIII. Parental Feelings</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap29">XXIX. The Neighbour</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap30">XXX. Domestic Scenes</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap31">XXXI. Social Virtues</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap32">XXXII. Comparisons: Information Rejected</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap33">XXXIII. Two Evenings</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap34">XXXIV. Concealment</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap35">XXXV. Provocations</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap36">XXXVI. Dual Solitude</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap37">XXXVII. The Neighbour Again</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap38">XXXVIII. The Injured Man</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap39">XXXIX. A Scheme of Escape</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap40">XL. A Misadventure</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap41">XLI. “Hope Springs Eternal in the Human Breast”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap42">XLII. A Reformation</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap43">XLIII. The Boundary Past</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap44">XLIV. The Retreat</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap45">XLV. Reconciliation</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap46">XLVI. Friendly Counsels</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap47">XLVII. Startling Intelligence</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap48">XLVIII. Further Intelligence</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap49">XLIX. </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap50">L. Doubts and Disappointments</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap51">LI. An Unexpected Occurrence</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap52">LII. Fluctuations</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap53">LIII. Conclusion</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<hr /> + +<h2>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus01">Portrait of Anne Brontë</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus02">Moorland Scene, Haworth</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus03">Moorland scene (with water): Haworth</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus04">Moorland scene (with cottage), Haworth</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus05">Blake Hall—The Approach (Grassdale Manor)</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus06">Blake Hall—Front (Grassdale Manor)</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#illus07">Blake Hall—Side (Grassdale Manor)</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<hr /> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus01"></a> +<a href="images/p0b.jpg"> +<img src="images/p0s.jpg" width="311" height="376" alt="Illustration: +Anne Brontë from a drawing by Charlotte Brontë in the possession of the Rev. A. B. Nicholls" /></a> +</div> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>INTRODUCTION</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.”<a href="#fn-1" name="fnref-1" id="fnref-1"><sup>[1]</sup></a> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +There is a spot, ’mid barren hills,<br /> + Where winter howls, and driving rain;<br /> +But, if the dreary tempest chills,<br /> + There is a light that warms again.<br /> +<br /> +The house is old, the trees are bare,<br /> + Moonless above bends twilight’s dome,<br /> +But what on earth is half so dear—<br /> + So longed for—as the hearth of home?<br /> +<br /> +The mute bird sitting on the stone,<br /> + The dank moss dripping from the wall,<br /> +The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o’ergrown,<br /> + I love them—how I love them all! +</p> + +<p> +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!— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +For yonder garden, fair and wide,<br /> + With groves of evergreen,<br /> +Long winding walks, and borders trim,<br /> + And velvet lawns between—<br /> +<br /> +Restore to me that little spot,<br /> + With gray walls compassed round,<br /> +Where knotted grass neglected lies,<br /> + And weeds usurp the ground.<br /> +<br /> +Though all around this mansion high<br /> + Invites the foot to roam,<br /> +And though its halls are fair within—<br /> + Oh, give me back my Home! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +MARY A. WARD. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>AUTHOR’S PREFACE<a href="#fn-2" name="fnref-2" id="fnref-2"><sup>[2]</sup></a><br /> +<small>TO THE SECOND EDITION</small></h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>con amore</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>will</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +<i>July</i> 22<i>nd</i>, 1848. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a> CHAPTER I</h2> + +<p> +You must go back with me to the autumn of 1827. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>your</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s my brave boy!—and Fergus, what have you been +doing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Badger-baiting.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“What <i>can</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now take your tea,” said she; “and I’ll tell you what +<i>I’ve</i> been doing. I’ve been to call on the Wilsons; and +it’s a <i>thousand</i> pities you didn’t go with me, Gilbert, for +Eliza Millward was there!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well! what of her?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, hush, my dear! your brother has no such idea!” whispered my +mother earnestly, holding up her finger. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Impossible!” cried my mother. +</p> + +<p> +“Preposterous!!!” shrieked Fergus. +</p> + +<p> +“It has indeed!—and by a single lady!” +</p> + +<p> +“Good gracious, my dear! The place is in ruins!” +</p> + +<p> +“She has had two or three rooms made habitable; and there she lives, all +alone—except an old woman for a servant!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Strange! I can hardly believe it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>so</i> 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 <i>she</i> can succeed in wheedling something out of her—you +know, Gilbert, <i>she</i> can do anything. And <i>we</i> should call some time, +mamma; it’s only proper, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, my dear. Poor thing! How lonely she must feel!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“On what points, mother?” asked I. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>have</i> 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>I</i> knew better.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I think not,” observed Rose; “for she didn’t seem +<i>very</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And so you prefer her faults to other people’s perfections?” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so—saving my mother’s presence.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“She thinks me an impudent puppy,” thought I. +“Humph!—she shall change her mind before long, if I think it worth +while.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>retroussé</i>,—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 +<i>diabolically</i>—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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>his</i> opinions were always right, and whoever differed from them must be +either most deplorably ignorant, or wilfully blind. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +Yours immutably,<br /> +G<small>ILBERT</small> M<small>ARKHAM</small>. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a> CHAPTER II</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>my</i> property. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus02"></a> +<a href="images/p14b.jpg"> +<img src="images/p14s.jpg" width="424" height="227" alt="Illustration: Moorland +Scene, Haworth" /></a> +</div> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +She stooped to kiss the child, and fondly clasped her arm round his neck. +</p> + +<p> +“You thought I was going to kidnap your son, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +I bowed, but ventured to ask how she knew me. +</p> + +<p> +“Your sister called here, a few days ago, with Mrs. Markham.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mary—Mary! put them away!” Eliza was hastily saying, just as +I entered the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Not I, indeed!” was the phlegmatic reply; and my appearance +prevented further discussion. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you’ll be very good and amusing, we shall not +object.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let your permission be unconditional, pray; for I came not to give +pleasure, but to seek it,” I answered. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>tête-à-tête</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mary, dear, <i>that</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe it is natural for our unamiable sex to dislike the +creatures,” replied I; “for you ladies lavish so many caresses upon +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t, Eliza!” said Miss Millward, somewhat gruffly, as she +impatiently pushed her away. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a> CHAPTER III</h2> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you have a servant,” said Rose; “could you not leave him +with her?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you left him to come to church.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he so mischievous?” asked my mother, considerably shocked. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ruin!</i> Mrs. Markham!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; it is spoiling the child. Even at <i>his</i> age, he ought not to +be always tied to his mother’s apron-string; he should learn to be +ashamed of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Markham, I beg you will not say such things, in <i>his</i> +presence, at least. I trust my son will <i>never</i> be ashamed to love his +mother!” said Mrs. Graham, with a serious energy that startled the +company. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Farmer’s Magazine</i>, +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Arthur,” said she, at length, “come here. You are +troublesome to Mr. Markham: he wishes to read.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“No, mamma,” said the child; “let me look at these pictures +first; and then I’ll come, and tell you all about them.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, I never go to parties.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Everybody laughed, except the young widow and her son. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>rest</i>—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?” +</p> + +<p> +“You are very complimentary to us all,” I observed. +</p> + +<p> +“I know nothing about <i>you</i>—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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but the surest means will be to endeavour to fortify him +<i>against</i> temptation, not to remove it out of his way.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, <i>no!</i>—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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I perfectly agree with you, Mrs. Markham; but nothing can be further +from my principles and practice than such criminal weakness as that.” +</p> + +<p> +“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:—<i>he’ll</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Granted;—but would you use the same argument with regard to a +girl?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>has</i> no virtue?” +</p> + +<p> +“Assuredly not.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>must</i> be either that you think she is essentially so +vicious, or so feeble-minded, that she <i>cannot</i> withstand +temptation,—and though she may be pure and innocent as long as she is +kept in ignorance and restraint, yet, being destitute of <i>real</i> 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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Heaven forbid that I should think so!” I interrupted her at last. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, it must be that you think they are <i>both</i> 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>I</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 ‘<i>seen +life</i>,’ 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well! you ladies must always have the last word, I suppose,” said +I, observing her rise, and begin to take leave of my mother. +</p> + +<p> +“You may have as many words as you please,—only I can’t stay +to hear them.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>you</i> +are or not. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a> CHAPTER IV</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>refined</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +To proceed, then, with the various individuals of our party; Rose was simple +and natural as usual, and full of mirth and vivacity. +</p> + +<p> +Fergus was impertinent and absurd; but his impertinence and folly served to +make others laugh, if they did not raise himself in their estimation. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +All eyes were turned to Mr. Lawrence. I thought he looked unnecessarily +confused at being so appealed to. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He then immediately turned to Rose, and asked her to favour the company with a +song, or a tune on the piano. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said she, “you must ask Miss Wilson: she outshines us +all in singing, and music too.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Wilson demurred. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>She’ll</i> sing readily enough,” said Fergus, “if +you’ll undertake to stand by her, Mr. Lawrence, and turn over the leaves +for her.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be most happy to do so, Miss Wilson; will you allow me?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But we had not done with Mrs. Graham yet. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now <small>THIS</small> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nothing like this, Mrs. Markham!” said he. “I +always maintain that there’s nothing to compare with your home-brewed +ale.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Quite right</i>, Mrs. Markham!” +</p> + +<p> +“But then, Mr. Millward, you don’t think it <i>wrong</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But Mrs. Graham doesn’t think so. You shall just hear now what she +told us the other day—I <i>told</i> her I’d tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.) +</p> + +<p> +“Some precautions, it may be; but temperance, sir, is one thing, and +abstinence another.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And take another, I hope, Mr. Lawrence,” said my mother, pushing +the bottle towards him. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I have met her once or twice,” I replied. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you think of her?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, papa!” pleaded Eliza. +</p> + +<p> +“High time, my girl—high time! Moderation in all things, remember! +That’s the plan—‘Let your moderation be known unto all +men!’” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>see</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>all?</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>do</i> marry her, Gilbert, you’ll break my heart—so +there’s an end of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +So saying, I lighted my candle, and went to bed, considerably quenched in +spirit. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a> CHAPTER V</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you don’t intend to keep the picture?” said I, anxious +to say anything to change the subject. +</p> + +<p> +“No; I cannot afford to paint for my own amusement.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mamma sends all her pictures to London,” said Arthur; “and +somebody sells them for her there, and sends us the money.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“In what direction does it lie?” +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s mamma’s friend,” said Arthur. +</p> + +<p> +Rose and I looked at each other. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know what to make of her at all,” whispered Rose. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +I had not had the portrait in my hands two minutes before the fair artist +returned. +</p> + +<p> +“Only some one come about the pictures,” said she, in apology for +her abrupt departure: “I told him to wait.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“It <i>is</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +When a lady condescends to apologise, there is no keeping one’s anger, of +course; so we parted good friends for once; and <i>this</i> time I squeezed her +hand with a cordial, not a spiteful pressure. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a> CHAPTER VI</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>her</i> instead of with <i>him</i>, and +therefore incapable of doing him any injury directly or indirectly, designedly +or otherwise, small thanks to her for that same. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Then,” said I, “I’ll talk to Arthur till you’ve +done.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to have a ride, Mr. Markham, if mamma will let me,” +said the child. +</p> + +<p> +“What on, my boy?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think there’s a horse in that field,” replied he, pointing +to where the strong black mare was pulling the roller. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, Arthur; it’s too far,” objected his mother. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus03"></a> +<a href="images/p46b.jpg"> +<img src="images/p46s.jpg" width="424" height="262" alt="Illustration: Moorland +scene (with water): Haworth" /></a> +</div> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you not find it a desolate place to live in?” said I, after a +moment of silent contemplation. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Was that Mrs. Graham you were speaking to just now?” said he, +after the first few words of greeting had passed between us. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well! what then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, nothing!” replied he. “Only I thought you disliked +her,” he quietly added, curling his classic lip with a slightly sarcastic +smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Suppose I did; mayn’t a man change his mind on further +acquaintance?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>have</i> changed your mind?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t say that I have exactly. No; I think I hold the same +opinion respecting her as before—but slightly ameliorated.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Lawrence,” said I, calmly looking him in the face, “are you +in love with Mrs. Graham?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>I</i> in love with her!” repeated he. “What makes you +dream of such a thing?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed again. “Jealous! no. But I thought you were going to marry +Eliza Millward.” +</p> + +<p> +“You thought wrong, then; I am not going to marry either one or the +other—that I know of—” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I think you’d better let them alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going to marry Jane Wilson?” +</p> + +<p> +He coloured, and played with the mane again, but answered—“No, I +think not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you had better let her alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>you</i>—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>I’m</i> 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>I</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.’” +</p> + +<p> +“And very good doctrine too,” said my mother. “Gilbert thinks +so, I’m sure.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>you</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! and you never <i>will</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>then</i> comes the trial.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, we must bear one another’s burdens.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Is it so, Halford? Is that the extent of <i>your</i> domestic virtues; and does +your happy wife exact no more? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a> CHAPTER VII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg <i>your</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t you both go?” suggested Eliza, disregarding the latter +half of the speech. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! as good as to say you wish we would all of us mind our own business, +and let you alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Hold your tongue, Fergus!” cried Rose, in a fever of apprehension +and wrath. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Except this—” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I was about to comply with her request, but Rose would not suffer me to +proceed. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what did you take me for?” said I: “if I had known you +were so nervous, I would have been more cautious; but—” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, never mind. What did you come for? are they all coming?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; this little ledge could scarcely contain them all.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m glad, for I’m tired of talking.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, I won’t talk. I’ll only sit and watch your +drawing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but you know I don’t like that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I’ll content myself with admiring this magnificent +prospect.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +But, though this satisfaction was denied me, I was very well content to sit +beside her there, and say nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What was Arthur doing when you came away?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you—I always manage best, on such occasions, without +assistance.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, at least, I can carry your stool and sketch-book.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That,” replied I, “is only one of many evils to which a +solitary life exposes us.” +</p> + +<p> +“True,” said she; and again we relapsed into silence. +</p> + +<p> +About two minutes after, however, she declared her sketch completed, and closed +the book. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a> CHAPTER VIII</h2> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He pronounced this with a tone and look so prodigiously knowing, that I was +glad to contradict him. +</p> + +<p> +“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>i.e.</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Till you come back?—and where are you going, pray?” +</p> + +<p> +“No matter—<i>where</i>—the <i>when</i> is all that concerns +you;—and I shall be back by dinner, at least.” +</p> + +<p> +“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>I</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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“You were wishing to see “Marmion,” Mrs. Graham; and here it +is, if you will be so kind as to take it.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why cannot you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because,”—she paused, and looked at the carpet. +</p> + +<p> +“Why cannot you?” I repeated, with a degree of irascibility that +roused her to lift her eyes and look me steadily in the face. +</p> + +<p> +“Because I don’t like to put myself under obligations that I can +never repay—I <i>am</i> obliged to you already for your kindness to my +son; but his grateful affection and your own good feelings must reward you for +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense!” ejaculated I. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you won’t take the book?” I asked, more mildly than I +had yet spoken. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, I’ll take you at your word,” she answered, with +a most angelic smile, returning the odious money to her purse—“but +<i>remember!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>more</i> distant than before,” said I, +extending my hand to take leave, for I was too much excited to remain. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a> CHAPTER IX</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“What reports?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, now! <i>you</i> know!” she slily smiled and shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“I know nothing about them. What in the world do you mean, Eliza?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, don’t ask <i>me!—I</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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite right, Miss Millward!—and so do I—whatever it may +be.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you ever see such art?” whispered Eliza, who was my nearest +neighbour. “Would you not say they were perfect strangers?” +</p> + +<p> +“Almost; but what then?” +</p> + +<p> +“What then; why, you can’t pretend to be ignorant?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ignorant of <i>what?</i>” demanded I, so sharply that she started +and replied,— +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, hush! don’t speak so loud.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, tell me then,” I answered in a lower tone, “what is it +you mean? I hate enigmas.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you know, I don’t vouch for the truth of it—indeed, +far from it—but haven’t you heard—?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve heard <i>nothing</i>, except from you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She closed her lips and folded her hands before her, with an air of injured +meekness. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“May I sit by you?” said a soft voice at my elbow. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I handed down her tea with a slightly contemptuous smile, and said nothing, for +I had nothing to say. +</p> + +<p> +“What have I done to offend you?” said she, more plaintively. +“I wish I knew.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, take your tea, Eliza, and don’t be foolish,” responded +I, handing her the sugar and cream. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +This latter clause was added in a sort of soliloquy when Rose was gone; but I +was not polite enough to let it pass. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you be so good as to tell me what you mean, Miss Wilson?” +said I. +</p> + +<p> +The question startled her a little, but not much. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is not, nor am I; and therefore you would oblige me by explaining +your meaning a little further.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can you tell me, then, who was her husband, or if she ever had +any?” +</p> + +<p> +Indignation kept me silent. At such a time and place I could not trust myself +to answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you never observed,” said Eliza, “what a striking +likeness there is between that child of hers and—” +</p> + +<p> +“And whom?” demanded Miss Wilson, with an air of cold, but keen +severity. +</p> + +<p> +Eliza was startled; the timidly spoken suggestion had been intended for my ear +alone. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I beg your pardon!” pleaded she; “I may be +mistaken—perhaps I <i>was</i> mistaken.” But she accompanied the +words with a sly glance of derision directed to me from the corner of her +disingenuous eye. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no need to ask <i>my</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.’” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>was</i> a +likeness; but, on further contemplation, I concluded it was only in +imagination. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>would</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, don’t let us disturb you, Mr. Markham!” said she. +“We came here to seek retirement ourselves, not to intrude on your +seclusion.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am no hermit, Mrs. Graham—though I own it looks rather like it +to absent myself in this uncourteous fashion from my guests.” +</p> + +<p> +“I feared you were unwell,” said she, with a look of real concern. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +But that word refuge disturbed me. Had their unkindness then really driven her +to seek for peace in solitude? +</p> + +<p> +“Why have they left you alone?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>can</i> go on as they do.” +</p> + +<p> +I could not help smiling at the serious depth of her wonderment. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it that they think it a <i>duty</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not all of them, surely?” cried the lady, astonished at the +bitterness of my remark. +</p> + +<p> +“No, certainly; I exonerate my sister from such degraded tastes, and my +mother too, if you included <i>her</i> in your animadversions.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t quite believe you; but if it were so you would exactly +suit me for a companion.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am all you wish, then, in other respects?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I almost wish I were not a painter,” observed my companion. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you cannot do it to satisfy yourself, but you may and do succeed +in delighting others with the result of your endeavours.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She seemed vexed at the interruption. +</p> + +<p> +“It is only Mr. Lawrence and Miss Wilson,” said I, “coming to +enjoy a quiet stroll. They will not disturb us.” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“What sort of a person is Miss Wilson?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“She is elegant and accomplished above the generality of her birth and +station; and some say she is ladylike and agreeable.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought her somewhat frigid and rather supercilious in her manner +to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Me! Impossible, Mr. Markham!” said she, evidently astonished and +annoyed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I know nothing about it,” returned I, rather doggedly; for I +thought her annoyance was chiefly against myself. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It was true, then, that he <i>had</i> some designs upon Mrs. Graham; and, were +they honourable, he would not be so anxious to conceal them. <i>She</i> was +blameless, of course, but he was detestable beyond all count. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>tête-à-tête</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter, Markham?” whispered he. +</p> + +<p> +I replied by a wrathful and contemptuous stare. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +But, swallowing down all fiercer answers, I merely demanded,—“What +business is it of yours?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Hypocrite!” I exclaimed; and he held his breath, and looked very +blank, turned white about the gills, and went away without another word. +</p> + +<p> +I had wounded him to the quick; and I was glad of it. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a> CHAPTER X</h2> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p> +“I misdoubted that appearance of mystery from the very first—I +<i>thought</i> there would no good come of it; but this is a sad, sad business, +to be sure!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, mother, you said you didn’t believe these tales,” said +Fergus. +</p> + +<p> +“No more I do, my dear; but then, you know, there must be some +foundation.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, but, Gilbert, there must be something in her <i>manner</i> to +countenance such reports.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did <i>you</i> see anything in her manner?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, certainly; but then, you know, I always said there was something +strange about her.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go and ask her,” said the child. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mr. Markham, what is it?” said the young mother, accosting +me with a pleasant smile. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>be</i> for a matter of no greater +importance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell him to come in, mamma,” said Arthur. +</p> + +<p> +“Would you like to come in?” asked the lady. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; I should like to see your improvements in the garden.” +</p> + +<p> +“And how your sister’s roots have prospered in my charge,” +added she, as she opened the gate. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“May I not keep it myself?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“No; but here is another for you.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +There was a perplexed and thoughtful pause. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it in consequence of some rash vow?” +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +“I will not,” I replied. “But you pardon <i>this</i> +offence?” +</p> + +<p> +“On condition that you never repeat it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And may I come to see you now and then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps—occasionally; provided you never abuse the +privilege.” +</p> + +<p> +“I make no empty promises, but you shall see.” +</p> + +<p> +“The moment you do our intimacy is at an end, that’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +“And will you always call me Gilbert? It sounds more sisterly, and it +will serve to remind me of our contract.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you take your hand off the bridle?” said he, +quietly—“you’re hurting my pony’s mouth.” +</p> + +<p> +“You and your pony be—” +</p> + +<p> +“What makes you so coarse and brutal, Markham? I’m quite ashamed of +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You answer my questions—before you leave this spot! I <i>will</i> +know what you mean by this perfidious duplicity!” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall answer no questions till you let go the bridle,—if you +stand till morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now then,” said I, unclosing my hand, but still standing before +him. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Really, Mr. Markham, this is <i>too</i> much!” said the latter. +“Can I not go to see my tenant on matters of business, without being +assaulted in this manner by—?” +</p> + +<p> +“This is no time for business, sir!—I’ll tell you, now, what +I think of your conduct.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“M<small>R</small>. M<small>ILLWARD</small>,” 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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a> CHAPTER XI</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Where are you going, Gilbert?” said Rose, one evening, shortly +after tea, when I had been busy with the farm all day. +</p> + +<p> +“To take a walk,” was the reply. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not always.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re going to Wildfell Hall, aren’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“What makes you think so?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because you look as if you were—but I wish you wouldn’t go +so often.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense, child! I don’t go once in six weeks—what do you +mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, but if I were you, I wouldn’t have so much to do with Mrs. +Graham.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Rose, are you, too, giving in to the prevailing opinion?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Gilbert!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, do you think I <i>could</i> believe anything of the +kind,—whatever the Wilsons and Millwards dared to whisper?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should hope <i>not</i> indeed!” +</p> + +<p> +“And why not?—Because I know you—Well, and I know her just as +well.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no! you know nothing of her former life; and last year, at this +time, you did not know that such a person existed.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you <i>are</i> going to see her this evening?” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure I am!” +</p> + +<p> +“But what would mamma say, Gilbert!” +</p> + +<p> +“Mamma needn’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +“But she must know some time, if you go on.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Confound Jane Wilson!” +</p> + +<p> +“And Eliza Millward is quite grieved about you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope she is.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I wouldn’t, if I were you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wouldn’t what?—How do they know that I go there?” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nothing hid from them: they spy out everything.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it, sir?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been busy,” I said, for an apology was evidently demanded. +</p> + +<p> +“Busy!” repeated he, derisively. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you know I’ve been getting in my hay; and now the harvest is +beginning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Humph!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Not any for me, I thank you,” replied he; “I shall be at +home in a few minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but do stay and take a little! it will be ready in five +minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +But he rejected the offer with a majestic wave of the hand. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you what I’ll take, Mrs. Markham,” said he: +“I’ll take a glass of your excellent ale.” +</p> + +<p> +“With pleasure!” cried my mother, proceeding with alacrity to pull +the bell and order the favoured beverage. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you, indeed?” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded gravely, and added with awful emphasis—“I thought it +incumbent upon me to do so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Really!” ejaculated my mother. +</p> + +<p> +“Why so, Mr. Millward?” asked I. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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:— +</p> + +<p> +“It was a painful duty, Mrs. Markham—but I told her!” +</p> + +<p> +“And how did she take it?” asked my mother. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>presence was</i> 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 <i>my</i> daughters—shall—not—consort with her. +Do you adopt the same resolution with regard to yours!—As for your +sons—as for <i>you</i>, young man,” he continued, sternly turning +to me— +</p> + +<p> +“As for <small>ME</small>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a> CHAPTER XII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She smiled upon me, faintly it is true, but most kindly—I had almost said +thankfully, as her apprehensions were removed. +</p> + +<p> +“How dismal you are, Helen! Why have you no fire?” I said, looking +round on the gloomy apartment. +</p> + +<p> +“It is summer yet,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +“But <i>we always</i> have a fire in the evenings, if we can bear it; and +you especially require one in this cold house and dreary room.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I have a fancy for a fire, nevertheless. Will you order one, if I +ring?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Gilbert, you don’t <i>look</i> cold!” said she, +smilingly regarding my face, which no doubt seemed warm enough. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” replied I, “but I want to see you comfortable before I +go.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +But determined to have my own way, I pulled the bell. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>you</i> here for, I wonder?” Her mistress +did not fail to notice it, and a shade of uneasiness darkened her brow. +</p> + +<p> +“You must not stay long, Gilbert,” said she, when the door was +closed upon us. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see,” said I. “You want me to go, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +This outburst brought a flush of colour to her face. +</p> + +<p> +“You have heard, then, what they say of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I heard some detestable falsehoods; but none but fools would credit them +for a moment, Helen, so don’t let them trouble you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, then? You promised I should know some time, +and—” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>You</i>, Helen? Impossible?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Or as yours?” +</p> + +<p> +“Or as mine—ought to have been—of such a light and selfish, +superficial nature, that—” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>There</i>, indeed, you wronged me.” +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus04"></a> +<a href="images/p100b.jpg"> +<img src="images/p100s.jpg" width="365" height="410" alt="Illustration: +Moorland scene (with cottage), Haworth" /></a> +</div> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Seem</i>, Helen?” +</p> + +<p> +“That you <i>do</i> feel, then, I would have acted differently.” +</p> + +<p> +“How? You <i>could</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can safely answer no to that: you cannot have such grave confessions +to make—you must be trying my faith, Helen.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I will; but answer me this one question first;—do you love +me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will not answer it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I will conclude you do; and so good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +She turned from me to hide the emotion she could not quite control; but I took +her hand and fervently kissed it. +</p> + +<p> +“Gilbert, <i>do</i> leave me!” she cried, in a tone of such +thrilling anguish that I felt it would be cruel to disobey. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>thought</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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—<i>her</i> voice—said,—“Come +out—I want to see the moon, and breathe the evening air: they will do me +good—if anything will.” +</p> + +<p> +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—<i>not</i> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“You should not let it worry you so much, Helen,” said he; “I +will be more cautious in future; and in time—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But where could you find a better place?” replied he, “so +secluded—so near me, if you think anything of that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” interrupted she, “it is all I could wish, if they +could only have left me alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Gilbert! how <i>could</i> you do so? Where <i>have</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, nothing—give me a candle.” +</p> + +<p> +“But won’t you take some supper?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; I want to go to bed,” said I, taking a candle and lighting it +at the one she held in her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Gilbert, how you tremble!” exclaimed my anxious parent. +“How white you look! Do tell me what it is? Has anything happened?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Gilbert, why are you not in bed—you said you wanted to go?” +</p> + +<p> +“Confound it! I’m going,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“But why are you so long about it? You must have something on your +mind—” +</p> + +<p> +“For heaven’s sake, let me alone, and get to bed yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can it be that Mrs. Graham that distresses you so?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, I tell you—it’s nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a> CHAPTER XIII</h2> + +<p> +“My dear Gilbert, I wish you <i>would</i> 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 <i>saw</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Check what?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, your strange temper. You don’t know <i>how</i> 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 <i>that</i> +way.” +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t touch him, mother! he’ll bite! He’s a very tiger +in human form. <i>I’ve</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Gilbert! how could you?” exclaimed my mother. +</p> + +<p> +“I told you to hold your noise first, you know, Fergus,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you be silent <small>NOW</small>?” 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>like</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“What! are you beginning to tire already? I thought so noble a creature +would have power to attach you for a year at least!” +</p> + +<p> +“I would rather not speak of her now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! then you are convinced, at last, of your mistake—you have at +length discovered that your divinity is not quite the immaculate—” +</p> + +<p> +“I desired you not to speak of her, Miss Eliza.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>not</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a> CHAPTER XIV</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +As I trotted along, however, chewing the cud of—<i>bitter</i> 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 <i>look</i>, at which he placidly +smiled. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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>I</i> to blame for it? I +warned you beforehand, you know, but you would not—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s good enough for <i>you</i>,” I muttered. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, you fellow—scoundrel—dog—give me your hand, and +I’ll help you to mount.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me alone, if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +“Humph; with all my heart. You may go to the d—l, if you +choose—and say I sent you.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>my</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>obliged</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Bad news flies fast: it was hardly four o’clock when I got home, but my +mother gravely accosted me with—“Oh, Gilbert!—<i>Such</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You must go and see him to-morrow,” said my mother. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no—how can we tell that it isn’t all a false report? +It’s highly im-” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; but the horse kicked him—or something.” +</p> + +<p> +“What, his quiet little pony?” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know it was that?” +</p> + +<p> +“He seldom rides any other.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fergus may go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not you?” +</p> + +<p> +“He has more time. I am busy just now.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is <i>not</i>, I tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“For anything you know, he <i>may</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Confound it! I can’t. He and I have not been on good terms of +late.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my <i>dear</i> boy! Surely, surely you are not so unforgiving as to +carry your little differences to such a length as—” +</p> + +<p> +“Little differences, indeed!” I muttered. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, but only remember the occasion. Think how—” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, don’t bother me now—I’ll see about +it,” I replied. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It was evident, then, that for Mrs. Graham’s sake it was not his +intention to criminate me. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a> CHAPTER XV</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wants <i>me</i>, Arthur?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m busy just now,” I replied, scarce knowing what to +answer. +</p> + +<p> +He looked up in childish bewilderment; but before I could speak again the lady +herself was at my side. +</p> + +<p> +“Gilbert, I <i>must</i> speak with you!” said she, in a tone of +suppressed vehemence. +</p> + +<p> +I looked at her pale cheek and glittering eye, but answered nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I accompanied her through the gap. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +She fixed her eyes upon me with a look that pierced me to the heart; and yet it +made me smile. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I happened, in the interim, to learn all you would have told +me—and a trifle more, I imagine.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +And her pale lips quivered with agitation. +</p> + +<p> +“Why not, may I ask?” +</p> + +<p> +She repelled my mocking smile with a glance of scornful indignation. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>what</i> you think of +me.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>would</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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,— +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I am come to hear your explanation.” +</p> + +<p> +“I told you I would not give it,” said she. “I said you were +unworthy of my confidence.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, very well,” replied I, moving to the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Stay a moment,” said she. “This is the last time I shall see +you: don’t go just yet.” +</p> + +<p> +I remained, awaiting her further commands. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me,” resumed she, “on what grounds you believe these +things against me; who told you; and what did they say?” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“How long is it since you saw him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who gave you the right to catechize me on this or any other +subject?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not come to insult you: I came to hear your explanation.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“What proof, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’ll tell you. You remember that evening when I was here +last?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And how much of our conversation did you hear?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>how</i> bitterly. It would have +been better than this silence.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>smiling</i> at the picture of the ruin she +had wrought. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at me again, and seemed to expect a reply; but I continued silent. +</p> + +<p> +“Would you be <i>very</i> glad,” resumed she, “to find that +you were mistaken in your conclusions?” +</p> + +<p> +“How can you ask it, Helen?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a> CHAPTER XVI</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Helen,” said she, after a thoughtful silence, “do you ever +think about marriage?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, aunt, often.” +</p> + +<p> +“And do you ever contemplate the possibility of being married yourself, +or engaged, before the season is over?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sometimes; but I don’t think it at all likely that I <i>ever</i> +shall.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why so?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>wish</i> to marry +<i>any</i> one till you were asked: a girl’s affections should never be +won unsought. But when they <i>are</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope not, aunt; but why should you fear it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have <i>you</i> been troubled in that way, aunt?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I shall be neither careless nor weak.” +</p> + +<p> +“Remember Peter, Helen! Don’t boast, but <i>watch</i>. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>you</i> 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, +<i>matrimony is a serious thing</i>.” And she spoke it <i>so</i> +seriously, that one might have fancied she had known it to her cost; but I +asked no more impertinent questions, and merely answered,— +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>wrong</i> to marry a +man that was deficient in sense or in principle, but I should never be +<i>tempted</i> 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 +<i>ought</i> 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 <i>well</i> as love him, for I cannot +love him without. So set your mind at rest.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope it may be so,” answered she. +</p> + +<p> +“I <i>know</i> it <i>is</i> so,” persisted I. +</p> + +<p> +“You have not been tried yet, Helen—we can but hope,” said +she in her cold, cautious way. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>she</i> was +ever in love. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>more</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Helen, how do you like Mr. Boarham now?” said my aunt, as we +took our seats in the carriage and drove away. +</p> + +<p> +“Worse than ever,” I replied. +</p> + +<p> +She looked displeased, but said no more on that subject. +</p> + +<p> +“Who was the gentleman you danced with last,” resumed she, after a +pause—“that was so officious in helping you on with your +shawl?” +</p> + +<p> +“He was not officious at all, aunt: he never <i>attempted</i> 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.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Who was it, I ask?” said she, with frigid gravity. +</p> + +<p> +“It was Mr. Huntingdon, the son of uncle’s old friend.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does ‘a bit wildish’ mean?” I inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“It means destitute of principle, and prone to every vice that is common +to youth.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I’ve heard uncle say he was a sad wild fellow himself, when he +was young.” +</p> + +<p> +She sternly shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“False reasoning, Helen!” said she, with a sigh. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we ought to be charitable, you know, aunt—besides, I +don’t think it <i>is</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder what the deuce the lad means by coming so often,” he +would say,—“can <i>you</i> tell, Helen?—Hey? He wants none +o’ my company, nor I his—that’s certain.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish you’d tell him so, then,” said my aunt. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>all</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And Mrs. Huntingdon? What would you rather be than Mrs. +Huntingdon—eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you when I’ve considered the matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! it needs consideration, then? But come, now—would you rather +be an old maid—let alone the pauper?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t tell till I’m asked.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Here is Mr. Boarham, Helen,” said she. “He wishes to see +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, aunt!—Can’t you tell him I’m +indisposed?—I’m sure I am—to see <i>him</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope my uncle and you told him it was not in your power to give it. +What right had he to ask <i>any</i> one before me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Helen!” +</p> + +<p> +“What did my uncle say?” +</p> + +<p> +“He said he would not interfere in the matter; if you liked to accept Mr. +Boarham’s obliging offer, you—” +</p> + +<p> +“Did he say obliging offer?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; he said if you liked to take him you might; and if not, you might +please yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“He said right; and what did you say?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is no matter what I said. What will <i>you</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I <i>shall</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you deny that he is sensible, sober, respectable?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; he may be all this, but—” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>But</i> Helen! How many such men do you expect to meet with in the +world? Upright, honourable, sensible, sober, respectable! Is <i>this</i> such +an every-day character that you should reject the possessor of such noble +qualities without a moment’s hesitation? Yes, <i>noble</i> 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—” +</p> + +<p> +“But I hate him, aunt,” said I, interrupting this unusual flow of +eloquence. +</p> + +<p> +“Hate him, Helen! Is this a Christian spirit?—<i>you hate him?</i> +and he so good a man!” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“But why not? What objection do you find?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“But I <i>have</i> thoughts of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Or that you desire a further acquaintance.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I don’t desire a further acquaintance—quite the +contrary.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear young lady,” said he, bowing and smirking with great +complacency, “I have your kind guardian’s permission—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will, but only to repeat what I said before, that I am certain we were +not made for each other.” +</p> + +<p> +“You really think so?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you don’t know me—you wish for a further +acquaintance—a longer time to—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, my dear young lady, I don’t look for perfection; I can +excuse—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But let me beg you to consult your aunt; that excellent lady, I am sure, +will—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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>I</i> am satisfied, why should <i>you</i> +object—on my account, at least?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>was</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +Whereupon he wished me a good-morning, and withdrew, disconcerted and offended, +no doubt; but surely it was not my fault. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a> CHAPTER XVII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>must</i> lead the ladies into the dining-room, why cannot they +take those they like best? +</p> + +<p> +I am not sure, however, that Mr. Huntingdon would have taken me, if he +<i>had</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Are these yours?” said he, carelessly taking up one of the +drawings. +</p> + +<p> +“No, they are Miss Hargrave’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! well, let’s have a look at them.” +</p> + +<p> +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>I</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 +<i>tête-à-tête</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very much obliged to you,” said I. “This is twice you +have delivered me from such unpleasant companionship.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“You know I detest them both.” +</p> + +<p> +“And me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no reason to detest <i>you</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what are your sentiments towards me? Helen—Speak! How do you +regard me?” +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p> +“How do <i>you</i> regard <i>me?</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“Sweet angel, I adore you! I—” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, aunt, what is it? What do you want?” said I, following her +to the embrasure of the window. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Was Mr. Huntingdon proposing to you, Helen?” inquired my too +watchful relative. +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“What was he saying then? I heard something very like it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know what he would have said, if you hadn’t +interrupted him.” +</p> + +<p> +“And would you have accepted him, Helen, if he had proposed?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course not—without consulting uncle and you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am so now.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, aunt.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but <i>my</i> reason—” +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me—and do you remember assuring me that there was no +occasion for uneasiness on your account; for you should never be <i>tempted</i> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but—” +</p> + +<p> +“And did you not say that your affection <i>must</i> be founded on +approbation; and that, unless you could approve and honour and respect, you +could not love?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but I do approve, and honour, and respect—” +</p> + +<p> +“How so, my dear? Is Mr. Huntingdon a good man?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is a much better man than you think him.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is nothing to the purpose. Is he a <i>good</i> man?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—in some respects. He has a good disposition.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he a man of <i>principle?</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, now you have made him out to be deficient in both sense and +principle, by your own confession—” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, my sense and my principle are at his service.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“But still you think it may be truth?” +</p> + +<p> +“If I do think there is any mixture of truth in it, it is not from +confidence in my own powers, but in <i>his</i> natural goodness. And you have +no right to call him a profligate, aunt; he is nothing of the kind.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was false—false!” I cried. “I don’t believe a +word of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You think, then, that he is a virtuous, well-conducted young man?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Helen, the world <i>may</i> look upon such offences as venial; a few +unprincipled mothers may be anxious to catch a young man of fortune without +reference <i>may</i> his character; and thoughtless girls <i>may</i> be glad to +win the smiles of so handsome a gentleman, without seeking to penetrate beyond +the surface; but <i>you</i>, I trusted, were better informed than to see with +their eyes, and judge with their perverted judgment. I did not think <i>you</i> +would call these venial errors!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I will save him from them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Helen, Helen! you little know the misery of uniting your fortunes to +such a man!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a> CHAPTER XVIII</h2> + +<p> +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—<i>so</i> 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! +</p> + +<p class="center"> +* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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—<i>more</i> like her, at least, than I am. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>him</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +So far so good;—but hearing him pronounce, sotto voce, but with peculiar +emphasis, concerning one of the pieces, “T<small>HIS</small> is better +than all!”—I looked up, curious to see which it was, and, to my +horror, beheld him complacently gazing at the <i>back</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>both</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“So then,” thought I, “he despises me, because he knows I +love him.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Helen, is that you?” said he. “Why did you run away from +us?” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, Mr. Huntingdon,” said I, coldly, not choosing to +answer the question. And I turned away to enter the drawing-room. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me go, Mr. Huntingdon,” said I. “I want to get a +candle.” +</p> + +<p> +“The candle will keep,” returned he. +</p> + +<p> +I made a desperate effort to free my hand from his grasp. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>know</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I do—at this moment.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not you. It is Annabella Wilmot you hate, not me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have nothing to do with Annabella Wilmot,” said I, burning with +indignation. +</p> + +<p> +“But <i>I</i> have, you know,” returned he, with peculiar emphasis. +</p> + +<p> +“That is nothing to me, sir,” I retorted. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Is</i> it nothing to you, Helen? Will you swear it? Will you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No I won’t, Mr. Huntingdon! and I <i>will</i> go,” cried I, +not knowing whether to laugh, or to cry, or to break out into a tempest of +fury. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>kindliness</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought light hair would suit her better. You see I have made her +blue-eyed and plump, and fair and rosy.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And perhaps,” suggested I, “how tender and faithful she +shall find him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps, for there is no limit to the wild extravagance of Hope’s +imaginings at such an age.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you call <i>that</i>, then, one of her wild, extravagant +delusions?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>must</i> come.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” replied I, reddening with confusion and wrath. +</p> + +<p> +But my portfolio was on the table: he took it up, and coolly sat down to +examine its contents. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Huntingdon, those are my unfinished sketches,” cried I, +“and I never let any one see them.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I hate them to be seen,” returned I. “I can’t let +you have it, indeed!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Huntingdon,” cried I, “I <i>insist</i> upon having that +back! It is mine, and you have no <i>right</i> to take it. Give it me +directly—I’ll never forgive you if you don’t!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I wished to destroy it,” I answered, with an asperity it +is useless now to lament. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, very good!” was the reply; “if <i>you</i> don’t +value me, I must turn to somebody that will.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. <i>She</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>bear</i> 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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a> CHAPTER XIX</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Miss Wilmot, won’t <i>you</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“There now,” said she, playfully running her fingers over the keys +when she had concluded the second song. “What shall I give you +next?” +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Farewell to thee! but not farewell<br /> + To all my fondest thoughts of thee:<br /> +Within my heart they still shall dwell;<br /> + And they shall cheer and comfort me.<br /> +<br /> +O beautiful, and full of grace!<br /> + If thou hadst never met mine eye,<br /> +I had not dreamed a living face<br /> + Could fancied charms so far outvie.<br /> +<br /> +If I may ne’er behold again<br /> + That form and face so dear to me,<br /> +Nor hear thy voice, still would I fain<br /> + Preserve, for aye, their memory.<br /> +<br /> +That voice, the magic of whose tone<br /> + Can wake an echo in my breast,<br /> +Creating feelings that, alone,<br /> + Can make my tranced spirit blest.<br /> +<br /> +That laughing eye, whose sunny beam<br /> + My memory would not cherish less;—<br /> +And oh, that smile! I whose joyous gleam<br /> + No mortal languish can express.<br /> +<br /> +Adieu! but let me cherish, still,<br /> + The hope with which I cannot part.<br /> +Contempt may wound, and coldness chill,<br /> + But still it lingers in my heart.<br /> +<br /> +And who can tell but Heaven, at last,<br /> + May answer all my thousand prayers,<br /> +And bid the future pay the past<br /> + With joy for anguish, smiles for tears. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +I could not answer at the moment. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“But which?” said he—“for I shall only say it if you +really were thinking of me. So tell me, Helen.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re excessively impertinent, Mr. Huntingdon!” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, sir—” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no!” I exclaimed, struggling to free myself from +him—“you must ask my uncle and aunt.” +</p> + +<p> +“They won’t refuse me, if you don’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not so sure of that—my aunt dislikes you.” +</p> + +<p> +“But <i>you</i> don’t, Helen—say you love me, and I’ll +go.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish you <i>would</i> go!” I replied. +</p> + +<p> +“I will, this instant,—if you’ll only say you love me.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know I do,” I answered. And again he caught me in his arms, +and smothered me with kisses. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>his</i> 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 +<i>you</i> favour my cause, I am safe; for Mr. Maxwell, I am certain, can +refuse you nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But meantime,” pleaded he, “let me commend my cause to your +most indulgent—” +</p> + +<p> +“No indulgence for you, Mr. Huntingdon, must come between me and the +consideration of my niece’s happiness.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Body and <i>soul</i>, Mr. Huntingdon—sacrifice your +<i>soul?</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I would lay down life—” +</p> + +<p> +“You would not be required to lay it down.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would spend it, then—devote my life—and all its powers to +the promotion and preservation—” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>manner</i> for your +declaration.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you see, Mrs. Maxwell,” he began— +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me, sir,” said she, with dignity—“The company +are inquiring for you in the other room.” And she turned to me. +</p> + +<p> +“Then <i>you</i> must plead for me, Helen,” said he, and at length +withdrew. +</p> + +<p> +“You had better retire to your room, Helen,” said my aunt, gravely. +“I will discuss this matter with you, too, to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be angry, aunt,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear, I am not angry,” she replied: “I am +<i>surprised</i>. If it is true that you told him you could not accept his +offer without our consent—” +</p> + +<p> +“It <i>is</i> true,” interrupted I. +</p> + +<p> +“Then how could you permit—?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a> CHAPTER XX</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“She wishes me to—to marry none but a really good man.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Leighton,” said I, dryly. +</p> + +<p> +“Is Mr. Leighton a ‘sweet preacher,’ Helen—a +‘dear, delightful, heavenly-minded man’?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is a <i>good</i> man, Mr. Huntingdon. I wish I could say half as much +for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I forgot, you are a saint, too. I crave your pardon, +dearest—but don’t call me Mr. Huntingdon; my name is Arthur.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I complied; but said we must soon return to the house. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But would he sanction anything to which she thought proper to +object?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I don’t think he cares enough about me.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And Mr. Huntingdon,” said I, “I suppose you <i>know</i> I am +not an heiress?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And there is Lord Lowborough,” continued I, “quite a decent +man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who told you so? Lord Lowborough is a <i>desperate</i> 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 <i>she</i> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure, my dear; and the worse <i>he</i> is, I suppose, the more you +long to deliver him from himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor man!” said she, sarcastically, “his kind have greatly +wronged him!” +</p> + +<p> +“They have!” cried I—“and they shall wrong him no +more—his wife shall undo what his mother did!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?’” +</p> + +<p> +“He is not an infidel;—and I am not light, and he is not darkness; +his worst and only vice is thoughtlessness.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>forget</i> 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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Helen! where did you learn all this?” +</p> + +<p> +“In the Bible, aunt. I have searched it through, and found nearly thirty +passages, all tending to support the same theory.” +</p> + +<p> +“And is <i>that</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Just before dinner my uncle called me into the library for the discussion of a +very important matter, which was dismissed in few words. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I say yes, uncle,” replied I, without a moment’s hesitation; +for I had thoroughly made up my mind on the subject. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think I should.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks, uncle, for that and all your kindness,” replied I. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, uncle; on the contrary, I should like to wait till after +Christmas, at least.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>are</i> to be united; and that he really loves me, and I may love +<i>him</i> as devotedly, and think of him as often as I please. However, I +insisted upon consulting my aunt about the <i>time</i> of the wedding, for I +determined her counsels should not be utterly disregarded; and no conclusions +on that particular are come to yet. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a> CHAPTER XXI</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Helen, I suppose I ought to congratulate you—and I <i>am</i> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why so?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are timid, Milicent; but that’s no fault of his.” +</p> + +<p> +“And then his look,” continued she. “People say he’s +handsome, and of course he is; but <i>I</i> don’t <i>like</i> that kind +of beauty, and I wonder that you should.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why so, pray?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you know, I think there’s nothing noble or lofty in his +appearance.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, tastes differ—but <i>I</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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Wilmot expressed her feelings on the subject almost as openly. +</p> + +<p> +“And so, Helen,” said she, coming up to me with a smile of no +amiable import, “you are to be Mrs. Huntingdon, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” replied I. “Don’t you envy me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, <i>dear</i>, 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 <i>me?</i>’” +</p> + +<p> +“Henceforth I shall envy no one,” returned I. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t want to be idolised,” I answered; “but I am +well assured that he <i>loves</i> me more than anybody else in the +world—as I do him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly,” said she, with a nod. “I wish—” she +paused. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you wish?” asked I, annoyed at the vindictive expression +of her countenance. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m vastly obliged to him,” observed I. +</p> + +<p> +“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>I</i> cared what he did +with himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>my</i> Arthur, and I may enjoy his society +without restraint. What <i>shall</i> I do without him, I repeat? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap22"></a> CHAPTER XXII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And she’ll find <i>her</i>self in a fix when she’s got +<i>him</i>,” said I, “if what I’ve heard of him is +true.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But is not <i>he</i> courting <i>her</i> for her fortune?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>gaining</i> 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 <i>felo-de-se</i>—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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Is it to be the last, Lowborough?’ said I, stepping up to +him. +</p> + +<p> +“‘The last but <small>ONE</small>,’ 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, <small>THIS</small> trial <i>should</i> 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 +<i>he</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘You’d better try once more,’ said Grimsby, leaning +across the table. And then he winked at me. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I’ve nothing to try with,’ said the poor devil, with +a ghastly smile. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Oh, Huntingdon will lend you what you want,’ said the +other. +</p> + +<p> +“‘No; you heard my oath,’ answered Lowborough, turning away +in quiet despair. And I took him by the arm and led him out. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Is it to be the last, Lowborough?’ I asked, when I got him +into the street. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Huntingdon, I’m ruined!’ said he, taking the third +glass from my hand—he had drunk the others in dead silence. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘But I’m in debt,’ said he—‘deep in debt. +And I can never, <i>never</i> get out of it.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘But I hate to be in debt!’ he shouted. ‘I +wasn’t born for it, and I cannot <i>bear</i> it.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘What can’t be cured must be endured,’ said I, +beginning to mix the fifth. +</p> + +<p> +“‘And then, I’ve lost my Caroline.’ And he began to +snivel then, for the brandy had softened his heart. +</p> + +<p> +“‘No matter,’ I answered, ‘there are more Carolines in +the world than one.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Oh, somebody will take you for your title; and then you’ve +your family estate yet; that’s entailed, you know.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I wish to God I could sell it to pay my debts,’ he +muttered. +</p> + +<p> +“‘And then,’ said Grimsby, who had just come in, ‘you +can <i>try again</i>, you know. I <i>would</i> have more than one chance, if I +were you. I’d never stop here.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I <i>won’t</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, they were demons themselves,” cried I, unable to contain my +indignation. “And you, Mr. Huntingdon, it seems, were the first to tempt +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“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,— +</p> + +<p> +“Gentlemen, where is all this to end?—Will you just tell me +<i>that</i> now?—Where is it all to end?” He rose. +</p> + +<p> +“‘A speech, a speech!’ shouted we. ‘Hear, hear! +Lowborough’s going to give us a speech!’ +</p> + +<p> +“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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Just so!’ cried Hattersley— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +‘Stop poor sinner, stop and think<br /> + Before you farther go,<br /> +No longer sport upon the brink<br /> + Of everlasting woe.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Exactly!’ replied his lordship, with the utmost gravity. +‘And if <i>you</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Taste it,’ suggested I. +</p> + +<p> +“‘This is hell broth!’ he exclaimed. ‘I renounce it for +ever!’ And he threw it out into the middle of the table. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Fill again!’ said I, handing him the +bottle—‘and let us drink to your renunciation.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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. +</p> + +<p> +“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,— +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope he broke your head,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>was</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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,— +</p> + +<p> +‘Well! it puzzles me what you can find to be so merry about. What +<i>you</i> see in life I don’t know—<i>I</i> see only the blackness +of darkness, and a fearful looking for of judgment and fiery +indignation!’ +</p> + +<p> +“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,— +</p> + +<p> +“‘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,— +</p> + +<p> +“‘And yet I must! Huntingdon, get me a glass!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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—” +</p> + +<p> +“And what did you think of <i>yourself</i>, sir?” said I, quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“And did Lord Lowborough profit by your advice?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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,— +</p> + +<p> +“‘Huntingdon, this won’t do! I’m resolved to have done +with it.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘What, are you going to shoot yourself?’ said I. +</p> + +<p> +“‘No; I’m going to reform.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Oh, <i>that’s</i> nothing new! You’ve been going to +reform these twelve months and more.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘What is it, Lowborough?’ said I, thinking he was fairly +cracked at last. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Who—I?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘To be sure,’ said I. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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 +<i>me?</i>—that’s the question. With <i>your</i> good looks and +powers of fascination’ (he was pleased to say), ‘I might hope; but +as it is, Huntingdon, do you think <i>any</i>body would take me—ruined +and wretched as I am?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Yes, certainly.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Who?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Why, any neglected old maid, fast sinking in despair, would be +delighted to—’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘No, no,’ said he—‘it must be somebody that I +can love.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Why, you just said you never could be in love again!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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 +<i>devil’s den!</i>’ +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>his</i> 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: +</p> + +<p> +“‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Indeed!’ said I. ‘Has she told you so?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +“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.’” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>him</i>, poor fellow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you ought to tell him so.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mr. Huntingdon, I don’t know what you see so amazingly +diverting in the matter; I see nothing to laugh at.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m laughing at <i>you</i>, just now, love,” said he, +redoubling his machinations. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I have nothing to forgive,” said I. “You have not injured +<i>me</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Arthur, it is not <i>that</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“She certainly <i>is</i> 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,— +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Helen! what <i>have</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, love,” said I—“or him either,” I mentally +added. “And do you like him, Annabella?” +</p> + +<p> +“Like him! yes, to be sure—over head and ears in love!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I hope you’ll make him a good wife.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, my dear! And what besides do you hope?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you will both love each other, and both be happy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks; and I hope you will make a <i>very</i> good wife to Mr. +Huntingdon!” said she, with a queenly bow, and retired. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Miss! how could you say so to her!” cried Rachel. +</p> + +<p> +“Say what?” replied I. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, that you hoped she would make him a good wife. I never heard such a +thing!” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I do hope it, or rather, I wish it; she’s almost past +hope.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said she, “I’m sure I hope he’ll make +<i>her</i> a good husband. They tell queer things about him downstairs. They +were saying—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, mum—or else, they <i>have</i> said some things about Mr. +Huntingdon too.” +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t hear them, Rachel; they tell lies.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, mum,” said she, quietly, as she went on arranging my hair. +</p> + +<p> +“Do <i>you</i> believe them, Rachel?” I asked, after a short pause. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>very</i> well before I leaped. I do believe a young lady +can’t be too careful who she marries.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course not,” said I; “but be quick, will you, Rachel? I +want to be dressed.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p class="center"> +* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>but</i> in this imperfect world, and I +do wish he would <i>sometimes</i> 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? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap23"></a> CHAPTER XXIII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>glad</i>, 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 <i>ought</i> +to have done, my duty now is plainly to love him and to cleave to him, and this +just tallies with my inclination. +</p> + +<p> +He is very fond of me, almost <i>too</i> 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 <i>shan</i>’t, I am determined; and +surely I have power to keep it alive. So let me dismiss <i>that</i> 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>I</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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus05"></a> +<a href="images/p206b.jpg"> +<img src="images/p206s.jpg" width="275" height="412" alt="Illustration: Blake +Hall—The Approach (Grassdale Manor)" /></a> +</div> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Of course I was vexed at all this; but still it was less the disappointment to +myself that annoyed me, than the disappointment <i>in him</i>, 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 <i>too</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Helen,” said he, with unusual gravity, “I am not quite +satisfied with you.” +</p> + +<p> +I desired to know what was wrong. +</p> + +<p> +“But will you promise to reform if I tell you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, if I can, and without offending a higher authority.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! there it is, you see: you don’t love me with all your +heart.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t understand you, Arthur (at least I hope I don’t): +pray tell me what I have done or said amiss.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is nothing you have done or said; it is something that you +<i>are:</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And am <i>I</i> above all human sympathies?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>you</i>, 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 <i>are</i> a blessing, which I am half inclined to +doubt.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be so hard upon me, Helen; and don’t pinch my arm so: +you are squeezing your fingers into the bone.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>rejoice</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>have</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>see</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.’” +</p> + +<p> +“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.’” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap24"></a> CHAPTER XXIV</h2> + +<p> +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 <i>double</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +But he defended her by saying that she had a doting old husband, whom it was +impossible to love. +</p> + +<p> +“Then why did she marry him?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“For his money,” was the reply. +</p> + +<p> +“Then that was another crime, and her solemn promise to love and honour +him was another, that only increased the enormity of the last.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you had told me these things before, Arthur, I never should have +given you the chance.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Wouldn’t</i> you, my darling?” +</p> + +<p> +“Most certainly not!” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed incredulously. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You should not have left it so long,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Give that book to me,” said Arthur, in no very courteous tone. I +gave it to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Why did you let the dog out?” he asked; “you knew I wanted +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“By what token?” I replied; “by your throwing the book at +him? but perhaps it was intended for me?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>his</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“What <i>is</i> that book, Helen?” he exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +I told him. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it interesting?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, very.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Helen!” cried he, the moment I had left the room. I turned back, +and stood awaiting his commands. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you want, Arthur?” I said at length. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” replied he. “Go!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Were you speaking, Arthur?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re very late,” was my morning’s salutation. +</p> + +<p> +“You needn’t have waited for me,” was his; and he walked up +to the window again. It was just such weather as yesterday. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Is there anything for me?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +He opened the newspaper and began to read. +</p> + +<p> +“You’d better take your coffee,” suggested I; “it will +be cold again.” +</p> + +<p> +“You may go,” said he, “if you’ve done; I don’t +want you.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Confound his impudence!” interjected the master. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>likely</i>, when a horse is so bad with +a cold, and physicked and all—” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Where do you want to go, Arthur?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“To London,” replied he, gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“What for?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Because I cannot be happy here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because my wife doesn’t love me.” +</p> + +<p> +“She would love you with all her heart, if you deserved it.” +</p> + +<p> +“What must I do to deserve it?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going to forgive me, Helen?” he resumed, more humbly. +</p> + +<p> +“Are <i>you</i> penitent?” I replied, stepping up to him and +smiling in his face. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you won’t go to London, Arthur?” I said, when the first +transport of tears and kisses had subsided. +</p> + +<p> +“No, love,—unless you will go with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will, gladly,” I answered, “if you think the change will +amuse you, and if you will put off the journey till next week.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap25"></a> CHAPTER XXV</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus06"></a> +<a href="images/p222b.jpg"> +<img src="images/p222s.jpg" width="475" height="299" alt="Illustration: Blake +Hall—Front (Grassdale Manor)" /></a> +</div> + +<p> +“Then I will stay with you,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, my love, I cannot let you stay. How can I settle my affairs when I +know that you are here, neglected—?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” persisted the impracticable creature; “you +<i>must</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is only with too much gaiety and fatigue.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you really wish to get rid of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +But he did not like the idea of sending me alone. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>is</i> this tiresome business; and why +did you never mention it before?” +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>your</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>am</i> 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>I</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 <i>how</i> 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 <i>my</i> +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 <i>you</i> 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 <i>him</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>he</i> 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 +<i>he</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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—<i>too</i> much! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Only, Arthur, that you would love <i>yourself</i> as truly and as +faithfully as you are loved by me.” +</p> + +<p> +“That would be hard, indeed!” he replied, tenderly squeezing my +hand. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>crime</i> of over-indulgence. I can +hardly give it a milder name when I think of the evils it brings. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course not,” I answered: “why should I? And who +besides?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hate him: but, however, if you wish it, I’ll try to endure his +presence for a while.” +</p> + +<p> +“All a prejudice, Helen, a mere woman’s antipathy.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; I have solid grounds for my dislike. And is that all?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap26"></a> CHAPTER XXVI</h2> + +<p> +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, <i>she</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>her</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can feel for anyone that is unjustly treated,” I replied, +“and I can feel for those that injure them too.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap27"></a> CHAPTER XXVII</h2> + +<p> +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 +<i>tête-à-tête</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I get you a glass of wine?” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you <i>very</i> angry, Helen?” murmured he. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>never</i> do it again!” and, burying his face in his +handkerchief, he affected to sob aloud. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>never</i> 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 <i>that</i>—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’m sorry for it,” replied he, with more of sulkiness +than contrition: “what more would you have?” +</p> + +<p> +“You are sorry that I saw you, no doubt,” I answered coldly. +</p> + +<p> +“If you had not seen me,” he muttered, fixing his eyes on the +carpet, “it would have done no harm.” +</p> + +<p> +My heart felt ready to burst; but I resolutely swallowed back my emotion, and +answered calmly, +</p> + +<p> +“You think not?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What would Lord Lowborough, your <i>friend</i>, 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I would blow his brains out.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What will you do then? Will you go on till I hate you, and then accuse +me of breaking my vows?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But how can I believe that you love me, if you continue to act in this +way? Just imagine yourself in my place: would <i>you</i> think I loved +<i>you</i>, if <i>I</i> did so? Would you believe my protestations, and honour +and trust me under such circumstances?” +</p> + +<p> +“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— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +However we do praise ourselves,<br /> +Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,<br /> +More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won<br /> +Than women’s are.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean by that, that your fancies are lost to me, and won by Lady +Lowborough?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“If I do, you will repeat the offence.” +</p> + +<p> +“I swear by—” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t swear; I’ll believe your word as well as your oath. I +wish I could have confidence in either.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p> +“Your husband was merry last night, Helen: is he often so?” +</p> + +<p> +My blood boiled in my face; but it was better she should seem to attribute his +conduct to this than to anything else. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” replied I, “and never will be so again, I trust.” +</p> + +<p> +“You gave him a curtain lecture, did you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No! but I told him I disliked such conduct, and he promised me not to +repeat it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I <i>thought</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I never cry for effect; nor can I conceive how any one can.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>him</i> 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 <i>will</i> do anything of the kind; for I keep him in too good +order for that.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, about the <i>wine</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! and are you sure you deserve it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>you</i> +sure your darling Huntingdon deserves all the love you give to +<i>him?</i>” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“At any rate,” resumed she, pursuing her advantage, “you can +console yourself with the assurance that <i>you</i> are worthy of all the love +he gives to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You flatter me,” said I; “but, at least, I can try to be +worthy of it.” And then I turned the conversation. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap28"></a> CHAPTER XXVIII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur is not what is commonly called a <i>bad</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But why leave me?” I said. “I can go with you: I can be +ready at any time.” +</p> + +<p> +“You would not take that child to town?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; why not?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose it is no use asking you to fix a day for your return?” +said I. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, no; I hardly can, under the circumstances; but be assured, love, I +shall not be long away.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pooh, pooh, you silly girl! Do you think I can’t take care of +myself?” +</p> + +<p> +“You didn’t last time. But <small>THIS</small> time, Arthur,” +I added, earnestly, “show me that you can, and teach me that I need not +fear to trust you!” +</p> + +<p> +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>I can never trust his word</i>. 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>I</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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap29"></a> CHAPTER XXIX</h2> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is very kind,” I answered, “but I am not alone, you +see;—and those whose time is fully occupied seldom complain of +solitude.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you not come to-morrow, then? She will be sadly disappointed if you +refuse.” +</p> + +<p> +I did not relish being thus compassionated for my loneliness; but, however, I +promised to come. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Not lately,” I replied. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought not,” he muttered, as if to himself, looking +thoughtfully on the ground. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you not lately returned from London?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Only yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +“And did you see him there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—I saw him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was he well?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. <i>Their</i> tastes and +occupations are similar to his, and I don’t see why his conduct should +awaken either their indignation or surprise.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>half</i> the blessings that man so thanklessly casts +behind his back—but <i>half</i> the inducements to virtue and domestic, +orderly habits that he despises—but <i>such</i> a home, and <i>such</i> 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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Am</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Intimate acquaintance must precede real friendship; I know but little of +you, Mr. Hargrave, except from report.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you then forgotten the six or seven weeks I spent under your roof +last autumn? <i>I</i> have not forgotten them. And I know enough of <i>you</i>, +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p> +“And this, too, he has forsaken!” +</p> + +<p> +He then tenderly kissed it, and restored it to the gratified nurse. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you fond of children, Mr. Hargrave?” said I, a little softened +towards him. +</p> + +<p> +“Not in general,” he replied, “but that is such a +<i>sweet</i> child, and so like its mother,” he added in a lower tone. +</p> + +<p> +“You are mistaken there; it is its father it resembles.” +</p> + +<p> +“Am I not right, nurse?” said he, appealing to Rachel. +</p> + +<p> +“I think, sir, there’s a bit of both,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +He departed; and Rachel pronounced him a very nice gentleman. I had still my +doubts on the subject. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is,” replied I; and then I asked after his mother and sister. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You have not heard from Huntingdon lately?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Not this week,” I replied. Not these three weeks, I might have +said. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“He tells <i>me</i> so every time he writes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! well, it is like him. But to me he always avowed it his +intention to stay till the present month.” +</p> + +<p> +It struck me like a blow, this proof of premeditated transgression and +systematic disregard of truth. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Then he is really coming next week?” said I, after a pause. +</p> + +<p> +“You may rely upon it, if the assurance can give you any pleasure. And is +it <i>possible</i>, Mrs. Huntingdon, that you can rejoice at his return?” +he exclaimed, attentively perusing my features again. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, Mr. Hargrave; is he not my husband?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Huntingdon; you know not <i>what</i> you slight!” he +passionately murmured. +</p> + +<p> +I took up my baby, and, wishing him good-morning, departed, to indulge my +thoughts unscrutinized, within the sanctum of my home. +</p> + +<p> +And <i>was</i> 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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap30"></a> CHAPTER XXX</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is the same cook as we had before you went, Arthur,” said I. +“You were generally pretty well satisfied with her then.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“What kindled it?” I was about to ask, but at that moment the +butler entered and began to take away the things. +</p> + +<p> +“Be quick, Benson; do have done with that infernal clatter!” cried +his master. “And <i>don’t</i> bring the cheese, unless you want to +make me sick outright!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Glad to be released, Benson expeditiously set out the dessert and withdrew. +</p> + +<p> +“What <i>could</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not know you were distracted, Arthur: and the poor man was quite +frightened and hurt at your sudden explosion.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I never heard you complain of your nerves before.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why shouldn’t I have nerves as well as you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I don’t dispute your claim to their possession, but <i>I</i> +never complain of mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, how should you, when you never do anything to try them?” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why do you try yours, Arthur?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think I have nothing to do but to stay at home and take care of +myself like a woman?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come, Helen, don’t begin with that nonsense now; I +can’t bear it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t bear what?—to be reminded of the promises you have +broken?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>me</i> +when my head is split in two and all on fire with this consuming fever.” +</p> + +<p> +He leant his head on his hand, and sighed. I went to him and put my hand on his +forehead. It was burning indeed. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>that</i> make you better?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have not been very long, have I, Arthur? I have not been an hour, +I’m sure.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, of course, an hour is nothing to you, so pleasantly employed; but to +<i>me</i>—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, to be sure, you’re overflowing with kindness and pity for +everything but me.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why should I pity <i>you?</i> What is the matter with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“There is <i>nothing</i> the matter with you,” returned I, +“except what you have wilfully brought upon yourself, against my earnest +exhortation and entreaty.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +I said no more, but sat down before the table and drew a book towards me. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>now?</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Degrade</i> myself, Helen?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, degrade! What have you been doing all this time?” +</p> + +<p> +“You’d better not ask,” said he, with a faint smile. +</p> + +<p> +“And you had better not tell; but you cannot deny that you <i>have</i> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Arthur, you <i>must</i> repent!” cried I, in a frenzy of +desperation, throwing my arms around him and burying my face in his bosom. +“You <i>shall</i> say you are sorry for what you have done!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are not! you’ll do it again.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now get me a glass of wine,” said he, “to remedy what +you’ve done, you she tiger! I’m almost ready to faint.” +</p> + +<p> +I flew to get the required remedy. It seemed to revive him considerably. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>that</i> is of any value to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he makes her life a curse to her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not he! She has no will but his, and is always contented and happy as +long as he is enjoying himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The detestable little traitor! Give me the letter, and he shall see it +as sure as I’m a living man.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>for</i> 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 +<i>feel</i> it than <i>see</i> it expressed in her letters.” +</p> + +<p> +“But she abuses <i>me;</i> and no doubt you helped her.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>contrary</i> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And so <i>that</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +“According to your own account,” said I, “my evil counsel has +had but little effect upon <i>her</i>. 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 <i>from</i> +ourselves if we could, unless by knowing them we could deliver you from +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +And indeed I know not whether, at the time, it was not for <i>him</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you will leave me again, Arthur?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap31"></a> CHAPTER XXXI</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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>I</i> that am less patient and forbearing. I am tired out with +his injustice, his selfishness and hopeless <i>depravity</i>. 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,— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then how have you managed without me these <i>many</i> days?” said +I. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! then I was knocking about the world, now I am at home, and home +without you, my household deity, would be intolerable.” +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Sine as ye brew, my maiden fair,<br /> +Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill. +</p> + +<p> +Yes; and I <i>will</i> drink it to the very dregs: and none but myself shall +know how bitter I find it! +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>he</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +Milicent glanced at me with a half-reproachful look, as if <i>I</i> could +hinder it; but her countenance changed when she heard Hattersley’s voice, +shouting through door and wall,— +</p> + +<p> +“<i>I’m</i> your man! Send for more wine: here isn’t +<i>half</i> enough!” +</p> + +<p> +We had scarcely entered the drawing-room before we were joined by Lord +Lowborough. +</p> + +<p> +“What <i>can</i> induce you to come so soon?” exclaimed his lady, +with a most ungracious air of dissatisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +“You know I never drink, Annabella,” replied he seriously. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, but you might stay with them a little: it looks so silly to be +always dangling after the women; I wonder you can!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“At least,” said she, “I know the value of a warm heart and a +bold, manly spirit.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Annabella,” said he, in a deep and hollow tone, “since +my presence is disagreeable to you, I will relieve you of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going back to them, then?” said she, carelessly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“What <i>you</i> feel at this moment, I suppose?” said Lady +Lowborough, with a malicious smile, fixing her eyes upon her cousin’s +distressed countenance. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I’m so glad you’re come, Walter?” cried his +sister. “But I wish you could have got Ralph to come too.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t he <i>handsome</i> now, Helen!” whispered Milicent, +her sisterly pride overcoming, for the moment, all other considerations. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Here the gentleman took a seat near me at the table, and petitioned for a cup +of coffee. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hargrave laughed, and so did his cousin; but his sister and I remained +silent and grave. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>detest</i> the man!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“You are pouring the cream into your saucer, Mr. Grimsby.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! yes, I see, but we’re almost in darkness here. Hargrave, snuff +those candles, will you?” +</p> + +<p> +“They’re wax; they don’t require snuffing,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“‘The light of the body is the eye,’” observed +Hargrave, with a sarcastic smile. “‘If thine eye be <i>single</i>, +thy whole body shall be full of light.’” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>their</i> brains—I mention no names, but you’ll understand to +whom I allude—<i>their</i> 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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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>I’ve</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Huntingdon, you fool, come and help me, can’t you!” cried +Hattersley, himself somewhat weakened by his excesses. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>I</i> shall take no part in your rude sports!” replied the lady +coldly drawing back. “I wonder you can expect it.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you want, Ralph?” murmured she, reluctantly approaching +him. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not crying.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are,” persisted he, rudely pulling her hands from her face. +“How dare you tell such a lie!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not crying now,” pleaded she. +</p> + +<p> +“But you have been, and just this minute too; and I <i>will</i> know what +for. Come, now, you <i>shall</i> tell me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Do let me alone, Ralph! Remember, we are not at home.” +</p> + +<p> +“No matter: you <i>shall</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t let him treat your sister in that way,” said I to Mr. +Hargrave. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Go to the devil!” responded his brother-in-law. “Now, +Milicent, tell me what you were crying for.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you some other time,” murmured she, “when we +are alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>I’ll</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Confound you, Madam!” muttered he, with a stare of stupid +amazement at my “impudence.” “It was <i>not</i> +that—was it, Milicent?” +</p> + +<p> +She was silent. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, speak up, child!” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t tell now,” sobbed she. +</p> + +<p> +“But you can say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ as well as +‘I can’t tell.’—Come!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she whispered, hanging her head, and blushing at the awful +acknowledgment. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +The next object of assault was Arthur, who sat opposite, and had, no doubt, +richly enjoyed the whole scene. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Huntingdon,” exclaimed his irascible friend, “I +<small>WILL NOT</small> have you sitting there and laughing like an +idiot!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Hattersley,” cried he, wiping his swimming +eyes—“you’ll be the death of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>that</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>him</i>, 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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap32"></a> CHAPTER XXXII</h2> + +<p> +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 <i>her</i> lot +in life, and so does she; but <i>her</i> 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 <i>she</i> 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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Helen,” said she, “you often see Esther, don’t +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not very often.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is because she is self-willed, and my opinions more generally +coincide with her own than your mamma’s. But what then, Milicent?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But romantic notions will not do: I want her to have true +notions.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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>I</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—” +</p> + +<p> +“I understand you,” said I; “you are contented for yourself, +but you would not have your sister to suffer the same as you.” +</p> + +<p> +“No—or worse. She might have far worse to suffer than I, for <i>I +am</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“He may,” I answered, +</p> + +<p> +“He will, he <small>WILL</small>!” repeated she. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet you do hope, still, even for Mr. Huntingdon?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do, I confess, ‘even’ for <i>him;</i> for it seems as if +life and hope must cease together. And is he so <i>much</i> worse, Milicent, +than Mr. Hattersley?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not offended, love; and my opinion is, that if there <i>be</i> a +comparison made between the two, the difference, for the most part, is +certainly in Hattersley’s favour.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:100%;"> +<a name="illus07"></a> +<a href="images/p286b.jpg"> +<img src="images/p286s.jpg" width="440" height="312" alt="Illustration: Blake +Hall—Side (Grassdale Manor)" /></a> +</div> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>he</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope so, <i>indeed</i>, Mr. Hattersley.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“In the billiard-room.” +</p> + +<p> +“What a splendid creature she <i>is!</i>” 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 <i>then!</i> what do +you look so sulky for? don’t you believe me?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, <i>then</i>, what makes you so cross? Come here, Milly, and tell +me why you can’t be satisfied with my assurance.” +</p> + +<p> +She went, and putting her little hand within his arm, looked up in his face, +and said softly,— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very true; but who told you I didn’t? Did I say I loved +Annabella?” +</p> + +<p> +“You said you adored her.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>rather</i> too hard. +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure I do,” responded he: “only you bother me rather, +sometimes.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>I</i> bother you!” cried she, in very natural surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, <i>you</i>—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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why complain at all, unless because you are tired and +dissatisfied?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“What now?” said he. “Where are you going?” +</p> + +<p> +“To tidy my hair,” she answered, smiling through her disordered +locks; “you’ve made it all come down.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can enlighten you on that subject, Mr. Hattersley,” said I: +“she <i>does</i> mind it; and some other things she minds still more, +which yet you may never hear her complain of.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—it’s not <i>my</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I <i>don’t</i> oppress her; but it’s so confounded flat to +be always cherishing and protecting; and then, how can I tell that I <i>am</i> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you <i>do</i> delight to oppress her?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“None of your sneers, Mrs. Huntingdon. I <i>have</i> 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—” +</p> + +<p> +“It <i>is</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you had no higher motive than the approval of your fellow-mortal, it +would do you little good.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mistake me: I’m no termagant.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.’” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell her.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>him:</i> he’s <i>ten</i> 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—” +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder what his worst behaviour is like, then?” I could not +forbear observing. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps it would become you better,” said I, “to look at +what you are, and say, ‘God be merciful to me a sinner.’” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You wanted to interfere between me and my wife,” grumbled +Hattersley, “and that is enough to provoke any man.” +</p> + +<p> +“You justify it, then?” said his opponent, darting upon him a most +vindictive glance. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I <i>would</i> refrain from such language in a <i>lady’s</i> +presence, at least,” said Mr. Hargrave, hiding his anger under a mask of +disgust. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“You ought to forgive him, Mr. Hargrave, since he asks you,” said +I. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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,— +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Then don’t trouble yourself to reveal it!” +</p> + +<p> +“But it is of importance—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But can’t you ring and send them?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; I want the exercise of a run to the top of the house. Come, +Arthur.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you will return?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not yet; don’t wait.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then when may I see you again?” +</p> + +<p> +“At lunch,” said I, departing with little Helen in one arm and +leading Arthur by the hand. +</p> + +<p> +He turned away, muttering some sentence of impatient censure or complaint, in +which “heartless” was the only distinguishable word. +</p> + +<p> +“What nonsense is this, Mr. Hargrave?” said I, pausing in the +doorway. “What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“What <i>is</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“In three words I cannot. Send those children away and stay with +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have divined too truly, I fear; but still, since I know it, I feel +it my duty to disclose it to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +I left him. I was determined his words should not alarm me. What could +<i>he</i>, of all men, have to reveal that was of importance for <i>me</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap33"></a> CHAPTER XXXIII</h2> + +<p> +Seventh.—Yes, I <i>will</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“So, I suppose we’ve seen the last of our merry carousals in this +house,” said Mr. Hattersley; “I <i>thought</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You didn’t foresee <i>this</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>then</i> he started, and, in a tone of absolute terror, exclaimed, +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I startled you, Arthur,” said I, laughing in my glee. “How +nervous you are!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, I will!” said he, hastily kissing me. “There, +now, go. You mad creature, how <i>could</i> you come out in your light evening +dress this chill autumn night?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a glorious night,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a night that will give you your death, in another minute. Run +away, do!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, ma’am!” she answered; “it’s not for +myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“What then, Rachel? Have you been reading novels?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean, Rachel? He’s going on very properly at +present.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, ma’am, if you think so, it’s right.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“What <i>do</i> you mean, Rachel?” I exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, ma’am, I don’t know; but if—” +</p> + +<p> +“If what?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if I was you, I wouldn’t have that Lady Lowborough in the +house another minute—not another <i>minute</i> I wouldn’t! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But chess-players are so unsociable,” I objected; “they are +no company for any but themselves.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no one here but Milicent, and she—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I shall be delighted to watch you!” cried our mutual friend. +“Two <i>such</i> players—it will be quite a treat! I wonder which +will conquer.” +</p> + +<p> +I consented. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope not, Mr. Hargrave!” returned I, with vehemence that must +have startled Milicent at least; but <i>he</i> only smiled and murmured, +“Time will show.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Walter, how you talk!” cried Milicent; “she has far more +pieces than you still.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The combat deepened. The game was a long one, and I <i>did</i> give him some +trouble: but he was a better player than I. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>No, never</i>, Mr. Hargrave!” exclaimed I, quickly withdrawing +my hand. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you try another, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“You acknowledge my superiority?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, as a chess-player.” +</p> + +<p> +I rose to resume my work. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Annabella?” said Hargrave, gravely, after glancing round +the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Gone out with Lord Lowborough,” answered I, for he looked at me +for a reply. +</p> + +<p> +“And not yet returned!” he said, seriously. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Huntingdon?” looking round again. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“If it be anything worth hearing,” replied I, struggling to be +composed, for I trembled in every limb. +</p> + +<p> +He quietly pushed a chair towards me. I merely leant my hand upon it, and bid +him go on. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“And you hear,” continued he, “that Huntingdon is gone out +with Grimsby?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“I heard the latter say to your husband—or the man who calls +himself so—” +</p> + +<p> +“Go on, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“We have lingered too long; he will be back,” said Lady +Lowborough’s voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Surely not, dearest!” was <i>his</i> reply; “but you can run +across the lawn, and get in as quietly as you can; I’ll follow in a +while.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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,— +</p> + +<p> +“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>I</i> ever complain?” +</p> + +<p> +“But tell me, don’t you love her still—a +<i>little?</i>” 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Not <i>one bit</i>, by all that’s sacred!” he replied, +kissing her glowing cheek. +</p> + +<p> +“Good heavens, I <i>must</i> be gone!” cried she, suddenly breaking +from him, and away she flew. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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! <i>That</i>, 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 <i>her</i> they spoke, not for me. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>she</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s to do with <i>you</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“No matter,” I answered, “to you; you have no longer any +regard for me it appears; and I have no longer any for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hal-lo! what the devil is this?” he muttered. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“What in the devil’s name <i>is</i> this, Helen?” cried he. +“What can you be driving at?” +</p> + +<p> +“You know perfectly well. Let us waste no time in useless explanation, +but tell me, will you—?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +This was enough. He uttered a suppressed exclamation of consternation and +dismay, and muttering, “I <i>shall</i> catch it now!” set down his +candle on the nearest chair, and rearing his back against the wall, stood +confronting me with folded arms. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what then?” said he, with the calm insolence of mingled +shamelessness and desperation. +</p> + +<p> +“Only this,” returned I; “will you let me take our child and +what remains of my fortune, and go?” +</p> + +<p> +“Go where?” +</p> + +<p> +“Anywhere, where he will be safe from your contaminating influence, and I +shall be delivered from your presence, and you from mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you let me have the child then, without the money?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, nor yourself without the child. Do you think I’m going to be +made the talk of the country for your fastidious caprices?” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I must stay here, to be hated and despised. But henceforth we are +husband and wife only in the name.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am your child’s mother, and <i>your</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, if <i>you</i> please. We shall see who will tire first, my +lady.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I tire, it will be of living in the world with you: not of living +without your mockery of love. When <i>you</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I left him muttering bad language to himself, and went up-stairs. +</p> + +<p> +“You are poorly, ma’am,” said Rachel, surveying me with deep +anxiety. +</p> + +<p> +“It is too true, Rachel,” said I, answering her sad looks rather +than her words. +</p> + +<p> +“I knew it, or I wouldn’t have mentioned such a thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“But don’t <i>you</i> trouble yourself about it,” said I, +kissing her pale, time-wasted cheek. “I can bear it better than you +imagine.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>would</i>—I’d let him know what it +was to—” +</p> + +<p> +“I have talked,” said I; “I’ve said enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I’d cry,” persisted she. “I wouldn’t look +so white and so calm, and burst my heart with keeping it in.” +</p> + +<p> +“I <i>have</i> cried,” said I, smiling, in spite of my misery; +“and I <i>am</i> calm now, really: so don’t discompose me again, +nurse: let us say no more about it, and <i>don’t</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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>I</i> that am guilty: +<i>I</i> have no cause to fear; and if <i>they</i> scorn me as a victim of +their guilt, I can pity their folly and despise their scorn. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap34"></a> CHAPTER XXXIV</h2> + +<p> +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 <i>are</i> 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 <small>HATE</small> 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. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Hargrave has annoyed me all day long with his serious, sympathising, and +(as <i>he</i> 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 <i>duty</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +<i>she</i> 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,— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Annabella will excuse us,” said she; “she’s busy +reading.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Her impudence astounded me; but I complied, and followed her into the library. +She closed the door, and walked up to the fire. +</p> + +<p> +“Who told you this?” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“No one: I am not incapable of seeing for myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“If I <i>were</i> suspicious,” I replied, “I should have +discovered your infamy long before. No, Lady Lowborough, I do not found my +charge upon suspicion.” +</p> + +<p> +“On what <i>do</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes!” cried she eagerly, starting up from her reclining +posture. “I want to know if you will tell Lord Lowborough?” +</p> + +<p> +“Suppose I do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you are disposed to publish the matter, <i>I</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. +</p> + +<p> +“Short of renouncing your guilty connection with my husband, I suppose +you mean?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +She paused, in evident disconcertion and perplexity, mingled with anger she +dared not show. +</p> + +<p> +“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—<i>will</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not tell him.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will not!” cried she, delightedly. “Accept my sincere +thanks, then!” +</p> + +<p> +She sprang up, and offered me her hand. I drew back. +</p> + +<p> +“Give me no thanks; it is not for <i>your</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And Milicent? will you tell her?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“You use hard words, Mrs. Huntingdon, but I can pardon you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And now, Lady Lowborough,” continued I, “let me counsel you +to leave this house as soon as <i>possible</i>. 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>I</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 <i>entreat</i> you to +break off this unlawful connection at once, and return to your duty while you +may, before the dreadful consequences—” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>nearly</i> at an end +too—little more than a week—surely you can endure my presence +<i>so</i> long! I will not annoy you with any more of my friendly +impertinences.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I have nothing more to say to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you mentioned this affair to Huntingdon?” asked she, as I was +leaving the room. +</p> + +<p> +“How dare you mention his name to me!” was the only answer I gave. +</p> + +<p> +No words have passed between us since, but such as outward decency or pure +necessity demanded. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap35"></a> CHAPTER XXXV</h2> + +<p> +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 <i>she</i>—words cannot utter my abhorrence. Reason forbids, but +passion urges strongly; and I must pray and struggle long ere I subdue it. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Helen! is it you?” said she, turning as I entered. +</p> + +<p> +I gave an involuntary start back on seeing her, at which she uttered a short +laugh, observing, “I think we are <i>both</i> disappointed.” +</p> + +<p> +I came forward and busied myself with the breakfast things. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>you</i>—you lazy creature—” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I thought I was early too,” said he; “but,” +dropping his voice almost to a whisper, “you see we are not alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said I, without moving, or raising my eyes from my book, +“free to do anything but offend God and my conscience.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a momentary pause. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>tête-à-tête</i> 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,— +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you wish to talk to me, Lady Lowborough? You must know what I +think of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you <i>will</i> be so bitter against me,” replied she, +“I can’t help it; but <i>I’m</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I rose and rang for the nurse. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you, Helen?” continued the speaker. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Huntingdon,” said he as I passed, “will you allow me +one word?” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it then? be quick, if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +“I offended you this morning; and I cannot live under your +displeasure.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then go, and sin no more,” replied I, turning away. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall think my life well spent in labouring to deserve it, if you will +but pardon this offence—will you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes! but that is coldly spoken. Give me your hand and I’ll believe +you. You won’t? Then, Mrs. Huntingdon, you do <i>not</i> forgive +me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; here it is, and my forgiveness with it: only, <i>sin no +more</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>ashamed</i>, at least <i>confounded</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +Thank heaven, they are all going to-morrow. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap36"></a> CHAPTER XXXVI</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I must contrive to bear with <i>you</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>depressing</i> 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 +<i>then</i> 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 <i>my</i> 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 <small>NOT</small> my fault! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>may</i> win it; but what then? The moment he attempts to +demand anything more, he will lose it again. +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p> +“There! read that, and take a lesson by it!” +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, I <i>will</i> take a lesson by it!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>he</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>sitteth in darkness and hath no light;</i> let him trust in the name of the +Lord, and stay upon his God!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap37"></a> CHAPTER XXXVII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have done nothing willingly to offend him,” said I. “If he +is offended, he can best tell you himself what it is about.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you call, Esther?” said her brother, approaching the window +from without. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; I wanted to ask you—” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-morning, Esther,” said I, taking her hand and giving it a +severe squeeze. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Esther, how can you be so rude!” cried Mrs. Hargrave, who was +seated gravely knitting in her easy-chair. “Surely, you never <i>will</i> +learn to conduct yourself like a lady!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, Esther, I’ve brought you the rose,” said he, extending +it towards her. +</p> + +<p> +“Give it her yourself, you blockhead!” cried she, recoiling with a +spring from between us. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“You silly girl! you don’t know what you are talking about,” +replied he gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed I don’t: for I’m quite in the dark!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray don’t, Mrs. Hargrave, for I’m going to leave it +myself,” said I, and immediately made my adieux. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t object to it?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, if Lord Lowborough likes his company.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have no love left for him, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not the least.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“He <i>was</i>,” 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Revenge! No—what good would that do?—it would make him no +better, and me no happier.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“No, <i>I</i> am the ordinary mortal, I maintain,” replied Mr. +Hargrave. “I will not allow myself to be worse than my fellows; but +<i>you</i>, Madam—I equally maintain there is nobody like you. But are +you happy?” he asked in a serious tone. +</p> + +<p> +“As happy as some others, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you as happy as you desire to be?” +</p> + +<p> +“No one is so blest as that comes to on this side of eternity.” +</p> + +<p> +“One thing I know,” returned he, with a deep sad sigh; “you +are immeasurably happier than I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very sorry for you, then,” I could not help replying. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you, <i>indeed?</i> No, for if you were you would be glad to relieve +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“And so I should if I could do so without injuring myself or any +other.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>are</i> a woman I can make you so—and I +<i>will</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have a son, Mr. Hargrave, and you have a mother,” said I, +retiring from the window, whither he had followed me. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>how</i> 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>I</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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>do</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +The horse soon overtook me, and was reined up close beside me. It <i>was</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well! I don’t much care. If you want another rebuff, take +it—and welcome,” was my inward remark. “Now, sir, what +next?” +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p> +“It will be four years next April since I first saw you, Mrs. +Huntingdon—<i>you</i> may have forgotten the circumstance, but <i>I</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?” +</p> + +<p> +“In the first place, <i>I</i> don’t believe <i>you</i>,” +answered I; “in the second, if you will be such a fool, I can’t +hinder it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>pretend</i> 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 <i>must</i> 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 <i>can</i> 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>I do not believe you!</i> 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. <i>You</i> may call this religion, +but <i>I</i> call it wild fanaticism!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you really love me?” said I, seriously, pausing and looking him +calmly in the face. +</p> + +<p> +“Do I love you!” cried he. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Truly?</i>” I demanded. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p> +“But is it not a selfish love? Have you enough disinterested affection to +enable you to sacrifice your own pleasure to mine?” +</p> + +<p> +“I would give my life to serve you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Try me, and see.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you have, <i>never mention this subject again</i>. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But hear me a moment—” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir! You said you would give your life to serve me; I only ask your +<i>silence</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +He bit his lip, and bent his eyes upon the ground in silence for a while. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“If that be really <i>possible</i>,” he muttered; “and can +you bid me go so coolly? Do you really wish it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +I thank God for this deliverance! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap38"></a> CHAPTER XXXVIII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>feared</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow!” I repeated. “I do not ask the cause.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I have so long been aware of—” I paused in time, and added, +“of my husband’s character, that nothing shocks me.” +</p> + +<p> +“But <i>this</i>—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. +</p> + +<p> +I felt like a criminal. +</p> + +<p> +“Not long,” I answered. +</p> + +<p> +“You knew it!” cried he, with bitter vehemence—“and you +did not tell me! You helped to deceive me!” +</p> + +<p> +“My lord, I did <i>not</i> help to deceive you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why did you not tell me?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“O God! how long has this been going on? How long has it been, Mrs. +Huntingdon?—Tell me—I <small>MUST</small> know!” exclaimed, +with intense and fearful eagerness. +</p> + +<p> +“Two years, I believe.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you, Madam,” said he sternly, arresting himself, and turning +round upon me, “you have injured me too by this ungenerous +concealment!” +</p> + +<p> +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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“When I put the case to myself, I own it <i>was</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suffered much, at first.” +</p> + +<p> +“When was that?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Something like a smile, but a <i>very</i> bitter one, crossed his face for a +moment. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Happy?” I repeated, almost provoked at such a question. +“Could I be so, with such a husband?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“My nature was not originally calm,” said I. “I have learned +to appear so by dint of hard lessons and many repeated efforts.” +</p> + +<p> +At this juncture Mr. Hattersley burst into the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Hallo, Lowborough!” he began—“Oh! I beg your +pardon,” he exclaimed on seeing me. “I didn’t know it was a +<i>tête-à-tête</i>. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Speak, then.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I’m not sure it would be quite agreeable to the lady what I +have to say.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it would not be agreeable to me,” said his lordship, turning +to leave the room. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>know</i>, 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 +<i>your</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>not to sever without blood</i>. Whether I +or he should fall, or both, it would be an <i>inexpressible</i> relief to me, +if—” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so! Well then,—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you see, in this case,” pleaded Hattersley— +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll not hear you!” exclaimed his companion, hastily turning +away. “Not another word! I’ve enough to do against the fiend within +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you’re a white-livered fool, and I wash my hands of +you,” grumbled the tempter, as he swung himself round and departed. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Amen!” responded I; and we parted. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>her.</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“But I <i>am</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet, Annabella,” said Esther, who was sitting beside her, +“I never saw you in better spirits in my life.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She and Lord Lowborough occupied the apartments next to mine. I know not how +<i>she</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What, going already, Lowborough!” said he. “Well, +good-morning.” He smilingly offered his hand. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap39"></a> CHAPTER XXXIX</h2> + +<p> +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 <i>you</i> laugh? +Make her laugh, papa—she never will.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But here again I must do Mr. Hargrave the justice to acknowledge that I never +saw <i>him</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>all</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>did</i> look in, and did +<i>not</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He paused. I did not answer. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not rejoice at <i>your</i> departure, for you <i>can</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>very</i> 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, <i>par parenthése</i>, “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.” +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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 +<i>know</i>—’ +</p> + +<p> +“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?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Yes, go on,’ said he. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Nay, I’ve done,’ replied the other: ‘I only +want to know if you intend to take my advice.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘What advice?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I say,” replied I, calmly, “that what he prizes so lightly +will not be long in his possession.” +</p> + +<p> +“You cannot mean that you will break your heart and die for the +detestable conduct of an infamous villain like that!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you leave him then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“When: and how?” asked he, eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>When</i> I am ready, and <i>how</i> I can manage it most +effectually.” +</p> + +<p> +“But your child?” +</p> + +<p> +“My child goes with me.” +</p> + +<p> +“He will not allow it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall not ask him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, then, it is a secret flight you meditate! but with whom, Mrs. +Huntingdon?” +</p> + +<p> +“With my son: and possibly, his nurse.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alone—and unprotected! But where can you go? what can you do? He +will follow you and bring you back.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have laid my plans too well for that. Let me once get clear of +Grassdale, and I shall consider myself safe.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Huntingdon,” said he with bitter solemnity, “you are +cruel—cruel to me—cruel to yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Hargrave, remember your promise.” +</p> + +<p> +“I <i>must</i> speak: my heart will burst if I don’t! I have been +silent long enough, and you <i>must</i> 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—” +</p> + +<p> +“In a word, you would advise me to stay where I am,” interrupted I. +“Well, I’ll see about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“By <i>all means</i>, leave him!” cried he earnestly; “but +<small>NOT</small> alone! Helen! let <i>me</i> protect you!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me go, Mr. Hargrave!” said I, sternly. But he only tightened +his grasp. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me go!” I repeated, quivering with indignation. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“No one has ever dared to insult me as you are doing now!” said I, +at length releasing my hands, and recoiling from him. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>will</i> be your consoler and defender! and if your conscience upbraid you +for it, say I overcame you, and you could not choose but yield!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +His face grew blanched with anger. +</p> + +<p> +“I <i>am</i> satisfied,” he replied, with bitter emphasis, +“that you are the most cold-hearted, unnatural, ungrateful woman I ever +yet beheld!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ungrateful, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ungrateful.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir?” said Hargrave, interrogatively, and with the air of +one prepared to stand on the defensive. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir,” returned his host. +</p> + +<p> +“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>I’ll</i> +vouch for that.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“I came here to bid farewell to Mrs. Huntingdon, and tell her I must go +to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Humph! You’re mighty sudden in your resolution. What takes you off +so soon, may I ask?” +</p> + +<p> +“Business,” returned he, repelling the other’s incredulous +sneer with a glance of scornful defiance. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>dare you</i> blame me?” +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>you’ve</i> no right to blame her, you +<i>know</i>, nor him either; after what you said last night. So come +along.” +</p> + +<p> +There was something implied here that I could not endure. +</p> + +<p> +“Dare you suspect me, Mr. Hattersley?” said I, almost beside myself +with fury. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay, I suspect nobody. It’s all right, it’s all right. +So come along, Huntingdon, you blackguard.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +At this they simultaneously burst into a rude laugh that made my whole frame +tingle to the fingers’ ends. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is he? I’ll ask him myself!” said I, advancing towards +them. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Hargrave, will you please to step this way?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +He turned and looked at me in grave surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“And tell those gentlemen,” I continued—“these men, +whether or not I yielded to your solicitations.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t understand you, Mrs. Huntingdon.” +</p> + +<p> +“You <i>do</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” muttered he, turning away. +</p> + +<p> +“Speak up, sir; they can’t hear you. Did I grant your request? +</p> + +<p> +“You did not.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I’ll be sworn she didn’t,” said Hattersley, +“or he’d never look so black.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Muttered oaths and curses were all the answer this intimation obtained. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Huntingdon, you see!” said Hattersley. “Clear as the +day.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t care <i>what</i> he sees,” said I, “or what he +imagines; but you, Mr. Hattersley, when you hear my name belied and slandered, +will you defend it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>to</i> me and <i>of</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +Such thoughts as these chased one another through my mind, as I paced to and +fro the room, and longed—oh, <i>how</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And conquering my agitation with a powerful effort, I immediately resumed my +task, and laboured hard all day. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who told you I was wicked, love?” +</p> + +<p> +“Rachel.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Arthur, Rachel never said so, I am certain.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then it’s papa that’s wicked,” said he, ruefully. +</p> + +<p> +“Papa is wrong to say such things, and you will be very wrong to imitate +him now that you know better.” +</p> + +<p> +“What <i>is</i> imitate?” +</p> + +<p> +“To do as he does.” +</p> + +<p> +“Does <i>he</i> know better?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps he does; but that is nothing to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“If he doesn’t, you ought to tell him, mamma.” +</p> + +<p> +“I <i>have</i> told him.” +</p> + +<p> +The little moralist paused and pondered. I tried in vain to divert his mind +from the subject. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap40"></a> CHAPTER XL</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What keys?” +</p> + +<p> +“The keys of your cabinet, desk, drawers, and whatever else you +possess,” said he, rising and holding out his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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>I</i> know, but I shall not give them up without a +reason.” +</p> + +<p> +“And <i>I</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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, then,” sneered he, “we must have a confiscation of +property. But, first, let us take a peep into the studio.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Benson paused aghast and looked at me. +</p> + +<p> +“Take them away, Benson,” said I; and his master muttered an oath. +</p> + +<p> +“And this and all, sir?” said the astonished servant, referring to +the half-finished picture. +</p> + +<p> +“That and all,” replied the master; and the things were cleared +away. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hal-lo!” muttered he, starting back; “she’s the very +devil for spite. Did <i>ever</i> any mortal see such eyes?—they shine in +the dark like a cat’s. <i>Oh</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Benson, your mistress has broken the candle; bring another.” +</p> + +<p> +“You expose yourself finely,” observed I, as the man departed. +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t say <i>I’d</i> 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—” +</p> + +<p> +“What great discovery have you made now, Mr. Huntingdon? Have I attempted +to defraud you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not in money matters, exactly, it seems; but it’s best to keep out +of the way of temptation.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, to obviate his becoming such a gentleman as his father.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap41"></a> CHAPTER XLI</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>without</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>will</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You flatter me, Helen,” replied he, stroking the child’s +soft, wavy locks. +</p> + +<p> +“No, you will think it no compliment when I tell you I would rather have +him to resemble <i>Benson</i> than his father.” +</p> + +<p> +He slightly elevated his eyebrows, but said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know what sort of man Mr. Huntingdon is?” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“I think I have an idea.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it really so?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>could</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should have done so whether I had seen him or not,” said I; +“it is enough that you dislike him.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!’” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>every</i> rich +gentleman that will consent to take me without a fortune, whatever exalted +ideas I may have of my own attractions.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>without</i> 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 <i>may</i> change your circumstances for the better, but, in my +private opinion, it is far more likely to produce a contrary result.” +</p> + +<p> +“So thinks Milicent; but allow me to say <i>I</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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>right</i> to the protection and support of your mother and brother, however +they may seem to grudge it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me, dear <i>madam</i>,” 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 <i>my</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“If such are your expectations of matrimony, Esther, you must, indeed, be +careful whom you marry—or rather, you must avoid it altogether.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap42"></a> CHAPTER XLII</h2> + +<p> +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 <i>shall</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you want to hear anything of your husband, Mrs. Huntingdon?” +said he. +</p> + +<p> +“No, unless you can tell me when to expect him home.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t.—You don’t want him, do you?” said he, +with a broad grin. +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a resolution you ought to have formed long ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’m not thirty yet; it isn’t too late, is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But should you wish yourself to be like him?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I’d rather be like myself, bad as I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“You can’t continue as bad as you are without getting worse and +more brutalised every day, and therefore more like him.” +</p> + +<p> +I could not help smiling at the comical, half-angry, half-confounded look he +put on at this rather unusual mode of address. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hang it! no.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no! I couldn’t stand that.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“She never will; she likes me all the same, whatever I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Impossible, Mr. Hattersley! you mistake her quiet submission for +affection.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fire and fury—” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course not; and I don’t, and I’m not going to.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have done more towards it than you suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Think of what she was five years ago, when you married her, and what she +is now.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is the cause of it then? Not years, for she’s only +five-and-twenty.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Mr. Hattersley, the children give her more pleasure than pain: they +are fine, well-dispositioned children—” +</p> + +<p> +“I know they are—bless them!” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>will</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>him</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>cannot</i> make amends for the past by doing your duty for the future, +inasmuch as your duty is only what you <i>owe</i> to your Maker, and you cannot +do <i>more</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“God help me, then—for I’m sure I need it. Where’s +Milicent?” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s there, just coming in with her sister.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, not I,” said he, turning her round, and pushing her towards +me. “Thank <i>her;</i> it’s her doing.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You never tried me, Milly,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap43"></a> CHAPTER XLIII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And what will you do, Rachel?” said I; “will you go home, or +seek another place?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I can’t afford to live like a lady now,” returned I: +“I must be my own maid and my child’s nurse.” +</p> + +<p> +“What <i>signifies!</i>” 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, fiddle!” ejaculated she. +</p> + +<p> +“And, besides, my future way of living will be so widely different to the +past: so different to all you have been accustomed to—” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“But I’m young, Rachel; I sha’n’t mind it; and Arthur +is young too: it will be nothing to him.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“So think I,” was my answer; and so that point was settled. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s to do with you <i>now?</i>” said he, when the removal +of the second course gave him time to look about him. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not well,” I replied: “I think I must lie down a +little; you won’t miss me much?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Somebody else <i>may</i> fill it to-morrow,” I thought, but did +not say. “There! I’ve seen the last of <i>you</i>, I hope,” I +muttered, as I closed the door upon him. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>then!</i>— +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap44"></a> CHAPTER XLIV</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>want</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>had</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>that</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 . . . . +</p> + +<p class="center"> +* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +Here it ended. The rest was torn away. How cruel, just when she was going to +mention me! for I could not doubt it <i>was</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap45"></a> CHAPTER XLV</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>willingly</i> I sought my pillow, and how much sleep it brought me, I leave +you to imagine. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Missis can’t see any one to-day, sir—she’s +poorly,” said she, in answer to my inquiry for Mrs. Graham. +</p> + +<p> +“But I must see her, Rachel,” said I, placing my hand on the door +to prevent its being shut against me. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, sir, you can’t,” replied she, settling her +countenance in still more iron frigidity than before. +</p> + +<p> +“Be so good as to announce me.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s no manner of use, Mr. Markham; she’s poorly, I tell +you.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mamma says you’re to come in, Mr. Markham,” said he, +“and I am to go out and play with Rover.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you looked it over?” she murmured. The spell was broken. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve read it through,” said I, advancing into the +room,—“and I want to know if you’ll forgive me—if you +<i>can</i> forgive me?” +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p> +“Can <i>you</i> forgive <i>me?</i>” +</p> + +<p> +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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Gilbert, you must leave me—not this moment, but +soon—and you must <i>never come again</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never again, Helen? just when I love you more than ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“For that very reason, if it be so, we should not meet again. I thought +<i>this</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>me;</i> it is a question of +life and death!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Gilbert, don’t!</i>” she cried, in a tone that would have +pierced a heart of adamant. “For God’s sake, don’t <i>you</i> +attempt these arguments! No <i>fiend</i> could torture me like this!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive me, Helen!” pleaded I. “I will never utter another +word on the subject. But may we not still meet as friends?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then what <i>must</i> we do?” cried I, passionately. But +immediately I added in a quieter tone—“I’ll do whatever you +desire; only <i>don’t</i> say that this meeting is to be our last.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>feel</i> that +every interview makes us dearer to each other than the last?” +</p> + +<p> +The utterance of this last question was hurried and low, and the downcast eyes +and burning blush too plainly showed that <i>she</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“But we may write,” I timidly suggested. “You will not deny +me that consolation?” +</p> + +<p> +“We can hear of each other through my brother.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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—” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t, Helen.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will go—in a minute, if <i>that</i> can relieve you—and +<small>NEVER</small> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>both</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Six months!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“And must we never meet again?” I murmured, in the anguish of my +soul. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Gilbert, there is perfect love in heaven!” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>So</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is your love <i>all</i> earthly, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but I am supposing we shall have no more intimate communion with +each other than with the rest.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But can <i>you</i>, Helen, contemplate with delight this prospect of +losing me in a sea of glory?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Helen, I can! if faith would never fail.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, then,” exclaimed she, “while this hope is strong within +us—” +</p> + +<p> +“We will part,” I cried. “You shall not have the pain of +another effort to dismiss me. I will go at once; but—” +</p> + +<p> +I did not put my request in words: she understood it instinctively, and +<i>this</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Markham, I scarcely expected this!” he said; and the blood +left his cheek as he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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>I’ve</i> done <i>my</i> duty—that’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And how came you to know that I was her brother?” asked he, in +some anxiety. +</p> + +<p> +“She told me herself. She told me all. <i>She</i> knew I might be +trusted. But you needn’t disturb yourself about <i>that</i>, Mr. +Lawrence, for I’ve seen the last of her!” +</p> + +<p> +“The last! Is she gone, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>brutality</i>, as you rightly term it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“How dry and burning your hand is, Lawrence,” said I. “You +are really ill, and I have made you worse by all this talk.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it is nothing; only a cold got by the rain.” +</p> + +<p> +“My doing, too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind that. But tell me, did you mention this affair to my +sister?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think not.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I had told her,” said I. “If it were not for my +promise, I would tell her now.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap46"></a> CHAPTER XLVI</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll <i>never</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve seen her already,” said he, quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve seen her!” cried I, in astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” And then he told me what considerations had impelled him to +make the venture, and with what precautions he had made it. +</p> + +<p> +“And how was she?” I eagerly asked. +</p> + +<p> +“As usual,” was the brief though sad reply. +</p> + +<p> +“As usual—that is, far from happy and far from strong.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. And, Lawrence, did she—did your sister mention me?” +</p> + +<p> +“She asked if I had seen you lately.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what else did she say?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But did she say no more about me?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“She was right.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I fear <i>your</i> anxiety is quite the other way respecting +her.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>her;</i> and she is right to wish me not to remember her too well. I should +not desire her to regret me <i>too</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>more</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“From me,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“And I wish you would make the like exertions,” continued he. +</p> + +<p> +“Did she <i>tell</i> you that that was her intention?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; the question was not broached between us: there was no necessity for +it, for I had no doubt that such was her determination.” +</p> + +<p> +“To forget me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Markham! Why not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well!” was my only audible reply; but I internally +answered,—“No, Lawrence, you’re wrong there: she is +<i>not</i> determined to forget me. It would be <i>wrong</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +In little more than a week after this I met him returning from a visit to the +Wilsons’; and I now resolved to do <i>him</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve been to call on the Wilsons, Lawrence,” said I, as I +walked beside his pony. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all Miss Wilson’s doing.” +</p> + +<p> +“And if it is,” returned he, with a very perceptible blush, +“is that any reason why I should not make a suitable +acknowledgment?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a reason why you should not make the acknowledgment she looks +for.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us drop that subject if you please,” said he, in evident +displeasure. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Markham, what now?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Miss Wilson hates your sister.</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Markham!” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>your</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot believe it,” interrupted my companion, his face burning +with indignation. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>were</i> so, you will do well to be cautious, till you have +proved it to be otherwise.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never told you, Markham, that I <i>intended</i> to marry Miss +Wilson,” said he, proudly. +</p> + +<p> +“No, but whether you do or not, she intends to marry you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did she tell you so?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but—” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait a moment, Lawrence, and let me explain myself; and don’t be +so very—I don’t know what to call it—<i>inaccessible</i> 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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Enough, Markham—enough!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you done?” asked my companion quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap47"></a> CHAPTER XLVII</h2> + +<p> +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>I</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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I have had a good deal to do of late,” said I, without looking up +from my letter. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you, indeed! Somebody said you had been strangely neglecting your +business these last few months.” +</p> + +<p> +“Somebody said wrong, for, these last two months especially, I have been +particularly plodding and diligent.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. <i>Formerly</i>,” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re very kind, Miss Eliza. When I think you can do anything to +comfort me, I’ll make bold to tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pray do!—I suppose I mayn’t guess what it is that troubles +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should be sorry to injure any one’s feelings,” returned +she, speaking below her breath. “Another time, perhaps.” +</p> + +<p> +“Speak out, Miss Eliza!” said I, not deigning to notice the +other’s buffooneries: “you needn’t fear to say anything in my +presence.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>not</i> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“And who gave you this piece of intelligence, Miss Eliza?” said I, +interrupting my sister’s exclamations. +</p> + +<p> +“I had it from a very authentic source.” +</p> + +<p> +“From whom, may I ask?” +</p> + +<p> +“From one of the servants at Woodford.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I was not aware that you were on such intimate terms with Mr. +Lawrence’s household.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“In confidence, I suppose? And you tell it in confidence to us? But +<i>I</i> can tell <i>you</i> that it is but a lame story after all, and +scarcely one-half of it true.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>was</i> a lame one—that the +supposed Mrs. Graham, most certainly, had not <i>voluntarily</i> 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 +<i>conjectured</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Is your sister gone?” were my first words as I grasped his hand, +instead of the usual inquiry after his health. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, she’s gone,” was his answer, so calmly spoken that my +terror was at once removed. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +My companion gravely took my arm, and leading me away to the garden, thus +answered my question,—“She is at Grassdale Manor, in +——shire.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” cried I, with a convulsive start. +</p> + +<p> +“At Grassdale Manor.” +</p> + +<p> +“How was it?” I gasped. “Who betrayed her?” +</p> + +<p> +“She went of her own accord.” +</p> + +<p> +“Impossible, Lawrence! She <i>could</i> not be so frantic!” +exclaimed I, vehemently grasping his arm, as if to force him to unsay those +hateful words. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And so she went to nurse him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fool!” I could not help exclaiming, and Lawrence looked up with a +rather reproachful glance. “Is he dying, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think not, Markham.” +</p> + +<p> +“And how many more nurses has he? How many ladies are there besides to +take care of him?” +</p> + +<p> +“None; he was alone, or she would not have gone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, confound it! This is intolerable!” +</p> + +<p> +“What is? That he should be alone?” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing persuaded her but her own sense of duty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Humbug!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +It was <i>her</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, take it,” said I, “if you don’t want me to read +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” replied he, “you may read it if you like.” +</p> + +<p> +I read it, and so may you. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +Grassdale, Nov. 4th. +</p> + +<p> +D<small>EAR</small> F<small>REDERICK</small>,—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 <i>him</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it you, Alice, come again?” he murmured. “What did you +leave me for?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is I, Arthur—it is Helen, your wife,” I replied. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is Helen Huntingdon,” said I, quietly rising at the same time, +and removing to a less conspicuous position. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“That seems comfortable,” continued he, without noticing my words; +“and while you do it, the other fancies fade away—but <i>this</i> +only strengthens.—Go on—go on, till it vanishes, too. I can’t +stand such a mania as this; it would kill me!” +</p> + +<p> +“It never will vanish,” said I, distinctly, “for it is the +truth!” +</p> + +<p> +“The truth!” he cried, starting, as if an asp had stung him. +“You don’t mean to say that you are really she?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>them</i> +would do.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Where are they?” said he: “have they all left +me—servants and all?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes; if you could overwhelm me with remorse and confusion of face, +now’s the time. What have you done with my son?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is well, and you may see him some time, if you will compose yourself, +but not now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where is he?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is safe.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he here?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, let me see him now, I promise, if it <i>must</i> be so.” +</p> + +<p> +“No—” +</p> + +<p> +“I swear it, as God is in Heaven! Now, then, let me see him.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know me?” asked Mr. Huntingdon, intently perusing his +features. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who am I?” +</p> + +<p> +“Papa.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you glad to see me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re <i>not!</i>” replied the disappointed parent, +relaxing his hold, and darting a vindictive glance at me. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I did indeed desire him to <i>forget</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +The invalid only replied by groaning aloud, and rolling his head on a pillow in +a paroxysm of impatience. +</p> + +<p> +“I am in hell, already!” cried he. “This cursed thirst is +burning my heart to ashes! Will <i>nobody</i>—” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +Not noticing this speech, I asked if there was anything else I could do for +him. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, you’re wondrous gentle and obliging! But you’ve +driven me mad with it all!” responded he, with an impatient toss. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is well for me that I <i>am</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +He looked rather surprised at the earnestness of my manner. +</p> + +<p> +“What reward <i>did</i> you look for?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“You will think me a liar if I tell you; but I <i>did</i> 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 +<i>you</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s always a chance of death; and it is always well to live +with such a chance in view.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes! but do you think there’s any likelihood that this +illness will have a fatal termination?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot tell; but, supposing it should, how are you prepared to meet +the event?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“There now! you want to scare me to death.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s just the only thing I can’t bear to think of; so if +you’ve any—” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +H<small>ELEN</small> H<small>UNTINGDON</small>. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you think of it?” said Lawrence, as I silently refolded +the letter. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And, therefore, why should you wish to keep it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said he. And so I kept it; otherwise, Halford, you could +never have become so thoroughly acquainted with its contents. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’ll do this for you, Markham.” +</p> + +<p> +“And as soon as you receive an answer, you’ll let me know?” +</p> + +<p> +“If all be well, I’ll come myself and tell you immediately.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap48"></a> CHAPTER XLVIII</h2> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Helen, what do you mean to do when I get well?” he asked this +morning. “Will you run away again?” +</p> + +<p> +“It entirely depends upon your own conduct.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I’ll be very good.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but you shall have no cause.” And then followed a variety of +professions, which I rather coldly checked. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you not forgive me, then?” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,—I <i>have</i> 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 <i>have</i> done for you, you may judge of what I <i>will</i> +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 <i>deeds</i> not <i>words</i> which must purchase my +affection and esteem.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>will</i> stand out!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>will</i> do it, in good +earnest, if they don’t mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“Be quiet and patient a while,” said I, “and better times +will come.” +</p> + +<p> +Poor girl! I wish somebody that was worthy to possess her would come and take +her away—don’t you, Frederick? +</p> + +<p class="center"> +* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap49"></a> CHAPTER XLIX</h2> + +<p> +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 <i>talked</i> 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 <i>he</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>reasoned</i> 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 <i>now!</i> I suppose there’s <i>nothing</i> you +wouldn’t do for me now?” +</p> + +<p> +“You know,” said I, a little surprised at his manner, “that I +am willing to do anything I can to relieve you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, <i>now</i>, 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 <i>then!</i> No, you’ll look +complacently on, and not so much as dip the tip of your finger in water to cool +my tongue!” +</p> + +<p> +“If so, it will be because of the great gulf over which I cannot pass; +and if I <i>could</i> 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 <i>determined</i>, Arthur, that I +shall not meet you in heaven?” +</p> + +<p> +“Humph! What should I do there, I should like to know?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it’s all a fable,” said he, contemptuously. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you sure, Arthur? are you <i>quite</i> sure? Because, if there is +any doubt, and if you <i>should</i> find yourself mistaken after all, when it +is too late to turn—” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>must</i> 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. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +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. <i>All</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are her sufferings to mine?” said the poor invalid. +“You don’t grudge me these attentions, do you, Helen?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Arthur, if I could really serve you by them. I would give my life to +save you, if I might.” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you, <i>indeed?</i> No!” +</p> + +<p> +“Most willingly I would.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! that’s because you think yourself more fit to die!” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>would</i> send for a parson of some sort: +if you didn’t like the vicar, you know, you could have his curate, or +somebody else.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; none of them can benefit me if <i>she</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hear me now, then, Arthur,” said I, gently pressing his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps I <i>may</i> recover,” he replied; “who knows? This +may have been the crisis. What do <i>you</i> think, Helen?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>was</i> 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 <i>that</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>can</i> 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>I</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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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 +<i>will</i> come—it is coming now—fast, fast!—and—oh, +if I <i>could</i> believe there was nothing after!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Don’t try to believe it, Arthur; there is joy and glory +after, if you will but try to reach it!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘What, for <i>me?</i>’ 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!’” +</p> + +<p> +“‘But if you <i>sincerely</i> repent—’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I <i>can’t</i> repent; I only fear.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘You only regret the past for its consequences to yourself?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Just so—except that I’m sorry to have wronged you, +Nell, because you’re so good to me.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Think of the goodness of God, and you cannot but be grieved to +have offended Him.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘What <i>is</i> God?—I cannot see Him or hear Him.—God +is only an idea.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘God is Infinite Wisdom, and Power, and Goodness—and +L<small>OVE</small>; 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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Death is so terrible,’ he cried, ‘I cannot bear it! +<i>You</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘You needn’t let <i>that</i> distress you,’ I said; +‘we shall all follow you soon enough.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I wish to God I could take you with me now!’ he exclaimed: +‘you should plead for me.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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 <i>Him</i> plead for you.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p class="center"> +* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The next day but one there came another letter. That too was put into my hands +without a remark, and these are its contents:— +</p> + +<p class="right"> +Dec. 5th. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I do pray for you, every hour and every minute, Arthur; but you must +pray for yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>will</i> bless it in the end! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +H<small>ELEN</small> H<small>UNTINGDON</small>. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap50"></a> CHAPTER L</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You will go to her, Lawrence?” said I, as I put the letter into +his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, immediately.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right! I’ll leave you, then, to prepare for your +departure.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>me?</i> Not <i>now</i>—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 <i>trying</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Where <i>is</i> Staningley?” I asked at last. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“When will she return to Grassdale?” was my next question. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Confound it!” I muttered. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>he</i> that sought <i>me</i> out. One bright +morning, early in June, he came into the field, where I was just commencing my +hay harvest. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I called once, and you were out.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was sorry, but that was long since; I hoped you would call again, and +now <i>I</i> have called, and <i>you</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where are you going?” +</p> + +<p> +“To Grassdale first,” said he, with a half-smile he would willingly +have suppressed if he could. +</p> + +<p> +“To Grassdale! Is she there, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.) +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>offer</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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>i.e.</i>, +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. <i>He</i>, 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 <i>their</i> respective selections +afford them half the genuine satisfaction in the end, or repay their preference +with affection half as lasting and sincere. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap51"></a> CHAPTER LI</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, when it’s agreeable.” +</p> + +<p> +“That of course,” rejoined the young lady, smiling archly. +</p> + +<p> +So we proceeded together. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I find Rose at home, do you think?” said she, as we closed +the garden gate, and set our faces towards Linden-Car. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe so.” +</p> + +<p> +“I trust I shall, for I’ve a little bit of news for her—if +you haven’t forestalled me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes: do you know what Mr. Lawrence is gone for?” She looked up +anxiously for my reply. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Is</i> he gone?” said I; and her face brightened. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! then he hasn’t told you about his sister?” +</p> + +<p> +“What of <i>her?</i>” I demanded in terror, lest some evil should +have befallen her. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Miss Eliza, that’s false.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you charge me with a falsehood, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“You are misinformed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Am I? Do you know better, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.—” +</p> + +<p> +“Hargrave?” suggested I, with a bitter smile. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re right,” cried she; “that was the very +name.” +</p> + +<p> +“Impossible, Miss Eliza!” I exclaimed, in a tone that made her +start. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Jests</i> indeed! I wasn’t <i>jesting!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Is Mr. Lawrence at home?” I eagerly asked of the servant that +opened the door. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, master went yesterday,” replied he, looking very alert. +</p> + +<p> +“Went where?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But what was to be done now? Could it be possible that she had left me for +<i>that</i> man? I could not believe it. Me she might forsake, but <i>not</i> +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 <i>must</i> be +there before the marriage. And why? Because a thought struck me that +<i>perhaps</i> 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 <i>was</i> 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 <i>must</i> 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 +<i>could</i> save her, if she <i>might</i> be mine!—it was too rapturous +a thought! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>them</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>not</i> my +Helen! The first glimpse made me start—but my eyes were darkened with +exhaustion and despair. Dare I trust them? “Yes—it <i>is</i> 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 <i>spiritual</i> yet gentle charm, that ineffable power to attract and +subjugate the heart—<i>my</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that you, Markham?” said he, startled and confounded at the +apparition—perhaps, too, at the wildness of my looks. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Lawrence; is that you?” I mustered the presence of mind to +reply. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I bowed to the bride, and vehemently wrung the bridegroom’s hand. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>that</i> 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). +</p> + +<p> +“I <i>did</i> tell you,” said he, with an air of guilty confusion; +“you received my letter?” +</p> + +<p> +“What letter?” +</p> + +<p> +“The one announcing my intended marriage.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never received the most distant hint of such an intention.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +It was now <i>my</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +He only answered with a kiss, and pressed her still closer to his bosom. +</p> + +<p> +“But what is this?” he murmured. “Why, Esther, you’re +crying now!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it’s nothing—it’s only too much +happiness—and the wish,” sobbed she, “that our dear Helen +were as happy as ourselves.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bless you for that wish!” I inwardly responded, as the carriage +rolled away—“and heaven grant it be not wholly vain!” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>such</i> a moment it was impossible. The +contrast between her fate and his <i>must</i> 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 <i>that</i> charge now, and deeply lamented +my former ungenerous suspicions; but he <i>had</i> 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 <i>me?</i> 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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap52"></a> CHAPTER LII</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“There they go!” said he, as the carriages filed away before us. +“There’ll be brave doings on yonder <i>to-day</i>, as what come +to-morra.—Know anything of that family, sir? or you’re a stranger +in these parts?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know them by report.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is Mr. Hargrave married, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You seem to be well acquainted with him,” I observed. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are we not near the house?” said I, interrupting him. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir; yond’s the park.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 ——.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>faint</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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: “<i>very</i> fine land, if you +saw it in the summer or spring.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It <i>was</i> his, sir; but he’s dead now, you’re aware, and +has left it all to his niece.” +</p> + +<p> +“All?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s strange, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Humph! She’ll be a fine catch for somebody.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +This exclamation was occasioned by the sudden stoppage of the coach at the +park-gates. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Sickly, sir?” asked my talkative neighbour, staring me in the +face. I daresay it was white enough. +</p> + +<p> +“No. Here, coachman!” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank’ee, sir.—All right!” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>love</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Adieu then, dear Helen, forever! Forever adieu!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap53"></a> CHAPTER LIII</h2> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +I did not hear the reply, but presently the same voice answered, “It is +indeed, mamma—look for yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I—I came to see the place,” faltered I. +</p> + +<p> +“The <i>place</i>,” repeated she, in a tone which betokened more +displeasure or disappointment than surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you not enter it, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you wish it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can you doubt?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes! he <i>must</i> enter,” cried Arthur, running round from +the other door; and seizing my hand in both his, he shook it heartily. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you remember me, sir?” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Am I not grown?” said he, stretching himself up to his full +height. +</p> + +<p> +“Grown! three inches, upon my word!” +</p> + +<p> +“I was <i>seven</i> last birthday,” was the proud rejoinder. +“In seven years more I shall be as tall as you nearly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Arthur,” said his mother, “tell him to come in. Go on, +Richard.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Not quite twenty miles,” I answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Not on foot!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Madam, by coach.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>just then</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody dead? nobody married?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Or—or expecting to marry?—No old ties dissolved or new ones +formed? no old friends forgotten or supplanted?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe not,” I answered. “Certainly not, if others are as +little changed as I.” Her face glowed in sympathy with mine. +</p> + +<p> +“And you really did not mean to call?” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“I feared to intrude.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Markham is over-modest,” observed Mrs. Maxwell. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“Gilbert, what <i>is</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not changed, Helen—unfortunately I am as keen and passionate +as ever—it is not I, it is circumstances that are changed.” +</p> + +<p> +“What circumstances? <i>Do</i> 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? +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you expect me to write to <i>you</i>, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your brother never told me that you had mentioned my name.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you ever ask him?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going already?” said she, taking the hand I offered, and +not immediately letting it go. +</p> + +<p> +“Why should I stay any longer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait till Arthur comes, at least.” +</p> + +<p> +Only too glad to obey, I stood and leant against the opposite side of the +window. +</p> + +<p> +“You told me you were not changed,” said my companion: “you +<i>are</i>—very much so.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Mrs. Huntingdon, I only ought to be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean to maintain that you have the same regard for me that you +had when last we met?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have; but it would be wrong to talk of it now.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was wrong to talk of it <i>then</i>, Gilbert; it would <i>not</i> +now—unless to do so would be to violate the truth.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“This rose is not so fragrant as a summer flower, but it has stood +through hardships none of <i>them</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Helen, what means this?” I cried, electrified at this startling +change in her demeanour. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“And will this content you?” said she, as she took it in her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“It shall,” I answered. +</p> + +<p> +“There, then; take it.” +</p> + +<p> +I pressed it earnestly to my lips, and put it in my bosom, Mrs. Huntingdon +looking on with a half-sarcastic smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, are you going?” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“I will if—if I must.” +</p> + +<p> +“You <i>are</i> changed,” persisted she—“you are grown +either very proud or very indifferent.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am neither, Helen—Mrs. Huntingdon. If you could see my +heart—” +</p> + +<p> +“You <i>must</i> be one,—if not both. And why Mrs. +Huntingdon?—why not Helen, as before?” +</p> + +<p> +“Helen, then—dear Helen!” I murmured. I was in an agony of +mingled love, hope, delight, uncertainty, and suspense. +</p> + +<p> +“The rose I gave you was an emblem of my heart,” said she; +“would you take it away and leave me here alone?” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you give me your hand too, if I asked it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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,— +</p> + +<p> +“But have you considered the consequences?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p> +“But if you <i>should</i> repent!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“My darling angel—my <i>own Helen</i>,” 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“No—in another year,” replied she, gently disengaging herself +from my embrace, but still fondly clasping my hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Another year! Oh, Helen, I could not wait so long!” +</p> + +<p> +“Where is your fidelity?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean I could not endure the misery of so long a separation.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your friends will disapprove.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Can I be otherwise, with your love? And you <i>do</i> love me, +Helen?” said I, not doubting the fact, but wishing to hear it confirmed +by her own acknowledgment. +</p> + +<p> +“If you loved as <i>I</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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Next</i> spring?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no—next autumn, perhaps.” +</p> + +<p> +“Summer, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, the close of summer. There now! be satisfied.” +</p> + +<p> +While she was speaking Arthur re-entered the room—good boy for keeping +out so long. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>them</i>. +It was not, however, for any tender colloquy that my companion had brought me +there:— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p class="center"> +* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>your</i> 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— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Of course I was delighted with the compliment, and hoped to show her that she +was not mistaken in her favourable judgment. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +Till then, farewell,<br /> +G<small>ILBERT</small> M<small>ARKHAM</small>. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Staningley</i>, <i>June</i> 10<i>th</i>, 1847. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +<small>THE END</small> +</p> + +<p class="center"> +Printed by S<small>POTTISWOODE</small>, B<small>ALLENTYNE</small> & +C<small>O</small>. L<small>TD.</small><br /> +Colchester, London & Eton, England. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Footnotes:</h2> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn-1" id="fn-1"></a> <a href="#fnref-1">[1]</a> +Introduction to <i>Wuthering Heights</i>, p. xl. “Still, as I mused the +naked room,” &c. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="fn-2" id="fn-2"></a> <a href="#fnref-2">[2]</a> +This Preface is now printed here for the first time in a collected edition of +the works of the Brontë sisters. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL ***</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This file should be named 969-h.htm or 969-h.zip</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in https://www.gutenberg.org/9/6/969/</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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