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diff --git a/969-0.txt b/969-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dead17f --- /dev/null +++ b/969-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,18861 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, by Anne Brontë + +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 +www.gutenberg.org. 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. + +Title: The Tenant of Wildfell Hall + +Author: Anne Brontë + +Release Date: July, 1997 [eBook #969] +[Most recently updated: December 6, 2020] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: David Price + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL *** + + + + +The Tenant of Wildfell Hall + +by Anne Brontë + +WITH AN INTRODUCTION +BY MRS HUMPHREY WARD + +LONDON +JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W. +1920 + + + + +Contents + + +This Table of Contents contains the original chapter headings that were present +in the first printed edition of 1848. These headings were removed in later +(one-volume) editions of the text, after Anne Brontë’s death in 1849. + + I. A Discovery + II. An Interview + III. A Controversy + IV. The Party + V. The Studio + VI. Progression + VII. The Excursion + VIII. The Present + IX. A Snake in the Grass + X. A Contract and a Quarrel + XI. The Vicar Again + XII. A Tête-à-Tête and a Discovery + XIII. A Return to Duty + XIV. An Assault + XV. An Encounter and its Consequences + XVI. The Warnings of Experience + XVII. Further Warnings + XVIII. The Miniature + XIX. An Incident + XX. Persistence + XXI. Opinions + XXII. Traits of Friendship + XXIII. First Weeks of Matrimony + XXIV. First Quarrel + XXV. First Absence + XXVI. The Guests + XXVII. A Misdemeanour + XXVIII. Parental Feelings + XXIX. The Neighbour + XXX. Domestic Scenes + XXXI. Social Virtues + XXXII. Comparisons: Information Rejected + XXXIII. Two Evenings + XXXIV. Concealment + XXXV. Provocations + XXXVI. Dual Solitude + XXXVII. The Neighbour Again + XXXVIII. The Injured Man + XXXIX. A Scheme of Escape + XL. A Misadventure + XLI. “Hope Springs Eternal in the Human Breast” + XLII. A Reformation + XLIII. The Boundary Past + XLIV. The Retreat + XLV. Reconciliation + XLVI. Friendly Counsels + XLVII. Startling Intelligence + XLVIII. Further Intelligence + XLIX. + L. Doubts and Disappointments + LI. An Unexpected Occurrence + LII. Fluctuations + LIII. Conclusion + + +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + + Portrait of Anne Brontë + Moorland Scene, Haworth + Moorland scene (with water): Haworth + Moorland scene (with cottage), Haworth + Blake Hall—The Approach (Grassdale Manor) + Blake Hall—Front (Grassdale Manor) + Blake Hall—Side (Grassdale Manor) + +[Illustration] + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + +Anne Brontë serves a twofold purpose in the study of what the Brontës +wrote and were. In the first place, her gentle and delicate presence, +her sad, short story, her hard life and early death, enter deeply into +the poetry and tragedy that have always been entwined with the memory +of the Brontës, as women and as writers; in the second, the books and +poems that she wrote serve as matter of comparison by which to test the +greatness of her two sisters. She is the measure of their genius—like +them, yet not with them. + +Many years after Anne’s death her brother-in-law protested against a +supposed portrait of her, as giving a totally wrong impression of the +“dear, gentle Anne Brontë.” “Dear” and “gentle” indeed she seems to +have been through life, the youngest and prettiest of the sisters, with +a delicate complexion, a slender neck, and small, pleasant features. +Notwithstanding, she possessed in full the Brontë seriousness, the +Brontë strength of will. When her father asked her at four years old +what a little child like her wanted most, the tiny creature replied—if +it were not a Brontë it would be incredible!—“Age and experience.” When +the three children started their “Island Plays” together in 1827, Anne, +who was then eight, chose Guernsey for her imaginary island, and +peopled it with “Michael Sadler, Lord Bentinck, and Sir Henry Halford.” +She and Emily were constant companions, and there is evidence that they +shared a common world of fancy from very early days to mature +womanhood. “The Gondal Chronicles” seem to have amused them for many +years, and to have branched out into innumerable books, written in the +“tiny writing” of which Mr. Clement Shorter has given us facsimiles. “I +am now engaged in writing the fourth volume of Solala Vernon’s Life,” +says Anne at twenty-one. And four years later Emily says, “The Gondals +still flourish bright as ever. I am at present writing a work on the +First War. Anne has been writing some articles on this and a book by +Henry Sophona. We intend sticking firm by the rascals as long as they +delight us, which I am glad to say they do at present.” + +That the author of “Wildfell Hall” should ever have delighted in the +Gondals, should ever have written the story of Solala Vernon or Henry +Sophona, is pleasant to know. Then, for her too, as for her sisters, +there was a moment when the power of “making out” could turn loneliness +and disappointment into riches and content. For a time at least, and +before a hard and degrading experience had broken the spring of her +youth, and replaced the disinterested and spontaneous pleasure that is +to be got from the life and play of imagination, by a sad sense of +duty, and an inexorable consciousness of moral and religious mission, +Anne Brontë wrote stories for her own amusement, and loved the +“rascals” she created. + +But already in 1841, when we first hear of the Gondals and Solala +Vernon, the material for quite other books was in poor Anne’s mind. She +was then teaching in the family at Thorpe Green, where Branwell joined +her as tutor in 1843, and where, owing to events that are still a +mystery, she seems to have passed through an ordeal that left her +shattered in health and nerve, with nothing gained but those melancholy +and repulsive memories that she was afterwards to embody in “Wildfell +Hall.” She seems, indeed, to have been partly the victim of Branwell’s +morbid imagination, the imagination of an opium-eater and a drunkard. +That he was neither the conqueror nor the villain that he made his +sisters believe, all the evidence that has been gathered since Mrs. +Gaskell wrote goes to show. But poor Anne believed his account of +himself, and no doubt saw enough evidence of vicious character in +Branwell’s daily life to make the worst enormities credible. She seems +to have passed the last months of her stay at Thorpe Green under a +cloud of dread and miserable suspicion, and was thankful to escape from +her situation in the summer of 1845. At the same moment Branwell was +summarily dismissed from his tutorship, his employer, Mr. Robinson, +writing a stern letter of complaint to Branwell’s father, concerned no +doubt with the young man’s disorderly and intemperate habits. Mrs. +Gaskell says: “The premature deaths of two at least of the sisters—all +the great possibilities of their earthly lives snapped short—may be +dated from Midsummer 1845.” The facts as we now know them hardly bear +out so strong a judgment. There is nothing to show that Branwell’s +conduct was responsible in any way for Emily’s illness and death, and +Anne, in the contemporary fragment recovered by Mr. Shorter, gives a +less tragic account of the matter. “During my stay (at Thorpe Green),” +she writes on July 31, 1845, “I have had some very unpleasant and +undreamt-of experience of human nature. . . . Branwell has . . . been a +tutor at Thorpe Green, and had much tribulation and ill-health. . . . +We hope he will be better and do better in future.” And at the end of +the paper she says, sadly, forecasting the coming years, “I for my part +cannot well be flatter or older in mind than I am now.” This is the +language of disappointment and anxiety; but it hardly fits the tragic +story that Mrs. Gaskell believed. + +That story was, no doubt, the elaboration of Branwell’s diseased fancy +during the three years which elapsed between his dismissal from Thorpe +Green and his death. He imagined a guilty romance with himself and his +employer’s wife for characters, and he imposed the horrid story upon +his sisters. Opium and drink are the sufficient explanations; and no +time need now be wasted upon unravelling the sordid mystery. But the +vices of the brother, real or imaginary, have a certain importance in +literature, because of the effect they produced upon his sisters. There +can be no question that Branwell’s opium madness, his bouts of +drunkenness at the Black Bull, his violence at home, his free and +coarse talk, and his perpetual boast of guilty secrets, influenced the +imagination of his wholly pure and inexperienced sisters. Much of +“Wuthering Heights,” and all of “Wildfell Hall,” show Branwell’s mark, +and there are many passages in Charlotte’s books also where those who +know the history of the parsonage can hear the voice of those sharp +moral repulsions, those dismal moral questionings, to which Branwell’s +misconduct and ruin gave rise. Their brother’s fate was an element in +the genius of Emily and Charlotte which they were strong enough to +assimilate, which may have done them some harm, and weakened in them +certain delicate or sane perceptions, but was ultimately, by the +strange alchemy of talent, far more profitable than hurtful, inasmuch +as it troubled the waters of the soul, and brought them near to the +more desperate realities of our “frail, fall’n humankind.” + +But Anne was not strong enough, her gift was not vigorous enough, to +enable her thus to transmute experience and grief. The probability is +that when she left Thorpe Green in 1845 she was already suffering from +that religious melancholy of which Charlotte discovered such piteous +evidence among her papers after death. It did not much affect the +writing of “Agnes Grey,” which was completed in 1846, and reflected the +minor pains and discomforts of her teaching experience, but it combined +with the spectacle of Branwell’s increasing moral and physical decay to +produce that bitter mandate of conscience under which she wrote “The +Tenant of Wildfell Hall.” + +“Hers was naturally a sensitive, reserved, and dejected nature. She +hated her work, but would pursue it. It was written as a warning,”—so +said Charlotte when, in the pathetic Preface of 1850, she was +endeavouring to explain to the public how a creature so gentle and so +good as Acton Bell should have written such a book as “Wildfell Hall.” +And in the second edition of “Wildfell Hall,” which appeared in 1848, +Anne Brontë herself justified her novel in a Preface which is reprinted +in this volume for the first time. The little Preface is a curious +document. It has the same determined didactic tone which pervades the +book itself, the same narrowness of view, and inflation of expression, +an inflation which is really due not to any personal egotism in the +writer, but rather to that very gentleness and inexperience which must +yet nerve itself under the stimulus of religion to its disagreeable and +repulsive task. “I knew that such characters”—as Huntingdon and his +companions—“do exist, and if I have warned one rash youth from +following in their steps the book has not been written in vain.” If the +story has given more pain than pleasure to “any honest reader,” the +writer “craves his pardon, for such was far from my intention.” But at +the same time she cannot promise to limit her ambition to the giving of +innocent pleasure, or to the production of “a perfect work of art.” +“Time and talent so spent I should consider wasted and misapplied.” God +has given her unpalatable truths to speak, and she must speak them. + +The measure of misconstruction and abuse, therefore, which her book +brought upon her she bore, says her sister, “as it was her custom to +bear whatever was unpleasant, with mild, steady patience. She was a +very sincere and practical Christian, but the tinge of religious +melancholy communicated a sad shade to her brief, blameless life.” + +In spite of misconstruction and abuse, however, “Wildfell Hall” seems +to have attained more immediate success than anything else written by +the sisters before 1848, except “Jane Eyre.” It went into a second +edition within a very short time of its publication, and Messrs. Newby +informed the American publishers with whom they were negotiating that +it was the work of the same hand which had produced “Jane Eyre,” and +superior to either “Jane Eyre” or “Wuthering Heights”! It was, indeed, +the sharp practice connected with this astonishing judgment which led +to the sisters’ hurried journey to London in 1848—the famous journey +when the two little ladies in black revealed themselves to Mr. Smith, +and proved to him that they were not one Currer Bell, but two Miss +Brontës. It was Anne’s sole journey to London—her only contact with a +world that was not Haworth, except that supplied by her school-life at +Roehead and her two teaching engagements. + +And there was and is a considerable narrative ability, a sheer moral +energy in “Wildfell Hall,” which would not be enough, indeed, to keep +it alive if it were not the work of a Brontë, but still betray its +kinship and source. The scenes of Huntingdon’s wickedness are less +interesting but less improbable than the country-house scenes of “Jane +Eyre”; the story of his death has many true and touching passages; the +last love-scene is well, even in parts admirably, written. But the +book’s truth, so far as it is true, is scarcely the truth of +imagination; it is rather the truth of a tract or a report. There can +be little doubt that many of the pages are close transcripts from +Branwell’s conduct and language,—so far as Anne’s slighter personality +enabled her to render her brother’s temperament, which was more akin to +Emily’s than to her own. The same material might have been used by +Emily or Charlotte; Emily, as we know, did make use of it in “Wuthering +Heights”; but only after it had passed through that ineffable +transformation, that mysterious, incommunicable heightening which makes +and gives rank in literature. Some subtle, innate correspondence +between eye and brain, between brain and hand, was present in Emily and +Charlotte, and absent in Anne. There is no other account to be given of +this or any other case of difference between serviceable talent and the +high gifts of “Delos” and Patara’s own “Apollo.” + +The same world of difference appears between her poems and those of her +playfellow and comrade, Emily. If ever our descendants should establish +the schools for writers which are even now threatened or attempted, +they will hardly know perhaps any better than we what genius is, nor +how it can be produced. But if they try to teach by example, then Anne +and Emily Brontë are ready to their hand. Take the verses written by +Emily at Roehead which contain the lovely lines which I have already +quoted in an earlier “Introduction.”[1] Just before those lines there +are two or three verses which it is worth while to compare with a poem +of Anne’s called “Home.” Emily was sixteen at the time of writing; Anne +about twenty-one or twenty-two. Both sisters take for their motive the +exile’s longing thought of home. Emily’s lines are full of faults, but +they have the indefinable quality—here, no doubt, only in the bud, only +as a matter of promise—which Anne’s are entirely without. From the +twilight schoolroom at Roehead, Emily turns in thought to the distant +upland of Haworth and the little stone-built house upon its crest:— + +There is a spot, ’mid barren hills, + Where winter howls, and driving rain; +But, if the dreary tempest chills, + There is a light that warms again. + +The house is old, the trees are bare, + Moonless above bends twilight’s dome, +But what on earth is half so dear— + So longed for—as the hearth of home? + +The mute bird sitting on the stone, + The dank moss dripping from the wall, +The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o’ergrown, + I love them—how I love them all! + + +Anne’s verses, written from one of the houses where she was a +governess, express precisely the same feeling, and movement of mind. +But notice the instinctive rightness and swiftness of Emily’s, the +blurred weakness of Anne’s!— + +For yonder garden, fair and wide, + With groves of evergreen, +Long winding walks, and borders trim, + And velvet lawns between— + +Restore to me that little spot, + With gray walls compassed round, +Where knotted grass neglected lies, + And weeds usurp the ground. + +Though all around this mansion high + Invites the foot to roam, +And though its halls are fair within— + Oh, give me back my Home! + + +A similar parallel lies between Anne’s lines “Domestic Peace,”—a sad +and true reflection of the terrible times with Branwell in 1846—and +Emily’s “Wanderer from the Fold”; while in Emily’s “Last Lines,” the +daring spirit of the sister to whom the magic gift was granted +separates itself for ever from the gentle and accustomed piety of the +sister to whom it was denied. Yet Anne’s “Last Lines”—“I hoped that +with the brave and strong”—have sweetness and sincerity; they have +gained and kept a place in English religious verse, and they must +always appeal to those who love the Brontës because, in the language of +Christian faith and submission, they record the death of Emily and the +passionate affection which her sisters bore her. + +And so we are brought back to the point from which we started. It is +not as the writer of “Wildfell Hall,” but as the sister of Charlotte +and Emily Brontë, that Anne Brontë escapes oblivion—as the frail +“little one,” upon whom the other two lavished a tender and protecting +care, who was a witness of Emily’s death, and herself, within a few +minutes of her own farewell to life, bade Charlotte “take courage.” + +“When my thoughts turn to Anne,” said Charlotte many years earlier, +“they always see her as a patient, persecuted stranger,—more lonely, +less gifted with the power of making friends even than I am.” Later on, +however, this power of making friends seems to have belonged to Anne in +greater measure than to the others. Her gentleness conquered; she was +not set apart, as they were, by the lonely and self-sufficing +activities of great powers; her Christianity, though sad and timid, was +of a kind which those around her could understand; she made no grim +fight with suffering and death as did Emily. Emily was “torn” from life +“conscious, panting, reluctant,” to use Charlotte’s own words; Anne’s +“sufferings were mild,” her mind “generally serene,” and at the last +“she thanked God that death was come, and come so gently.” When +Charlotte returned to the desolate house at Haworth, Emily’s large +house-dog and Anne’s little spaniel welcomed her in “a strange, +heart-touching way,” she writes to Mr. Williams. She alone was left, +heir to all the memories and tragedies of the house. She took up again +the task of life and labour. She cared for her father; she returned to +the writing of “Shirley”; and when she herself passed away, four years +later, she had so turned those years to account that not only all she +did but all she loved had passed silently into the keeping of fame. +Mrs. Gaskell’s touching and delightful task was ready for her, and +Anne, no less than Charlotte and Emily, was sure of England’s +remembrance. + +MARY A. WARD. + + + + +AUTHOR’S PREFACE[2] +TO THE SECOND EDITION + + +While I acknowledge the success of the present work to have been +greater than I anticipated, and the praises it has elicited from a few +kind critics to have been greater than it deserved, I must also admit +that from some other quarters it has been censured with an asperity +which I was as little prepared to expect, and which my judgment, as +well as my feelings, assures me is more bitter than just. It is +scarcely the province of an author to refute the arguments of his +censors and vindicate his own productions; but I may be allowed to make +here a few observations with which I would have prefaced the first +edition, had I foreseen the necessity of such precautions against the +misapprehensions of those who would read it with a prejudiced mind or +be content to judge it by a hasty glance. + +My object in writing the following pages was not simply to amuse the +Reader; neither was it to gratify my own taste, nor yet to ingratiate +myself with the Press and the Public: I wished to tell the truth, for +truth always conveys its own moral to those who are able to receive it. +But as the priceless treasure too frequently hides at the bottom of a +well, it needs some courage to dive for it, especially as he that does +so will be likely to incur more scorn and obloquy for the mud and water +into which he has ventured to plunge, than thanks for the jewel he +procures; as, in like manner, she who undertakes the cleansing of a +careless bachelor’s apartment will be liable to more abuse for the dust +she raises than commendation for the clearance she effects. Let it not +be imagined, however, that I consider myself competent to reform the +errors and abuses of society, but only that I would fain contribute my +humble quota towards so good an aim; and if I can gain the public ear +at all, I would rather whisper a few wholesome truths therein than much +soft nonsense. + +As the story of “Agnes Grey” was accused of extravagant over-colouring +in those very parts that were carefully copied from the life, with a +most scrupulous avoidance of all exaggeration, so, in the present work, +I find myself censured for depicting _con amore_, with “a morbid love +of the coarse, if not of the brutal,” those scenes which, I will +venture to say, have not been more painful for the most fastidious of +my critics to read than they were for me to describe. I may have gone +too far; in which case I shall be careful not to trouble myself or my +readers in the same way again; but when we have to do with vice and +vicious characters, I maintain it is better to depict them as they +really are than as they would wish to appear. To represent a bad thing +in its least offensive light is, doubtless, the most agreeable course +for a writer of fiction to pursue; but is it the most honest, or the +safest? Is it better to reveal the snares and pitfalls of life to the +young and thoughtless traveller, or to cover them with branches and +flowers? Oh, reader! if there were less of this delicate concealment of +facts—this whispering, “Peace, peace,” when there is no peace, there +would be less of sin and misery to the young of both sexes who are left +to wring their bitter knowledge from experience. + +I would not be understood to suppose that the proceedings of the +unhappy scapegrace, with his few profligate companions I have here +introduced, are a specimen of the common practices of society—the case +is an extreme one, as I trusted none would fail to perceive; but I know +that such characters do exist, and if I have warned one rash youth from +following in their steps, or prevented one thoughtless girl from +falling into the very natural error of my heroine, the book has not +been written in vain. But, at the same time, if any honest reader shall +have derived more pain than pleasure from its perusal, and have closed +the last volume with a disagreeable impression on his mind, I humbly +crave his pardon, for such was far from my intention; and I will +endeavour to do better another time, for I love to give innocent +pleasure. Yet, be it understood, I shall not limit my ambition to +this—or even to producing “a perfect work of art”: time and talents so +spent, I should consider wasted and misapplied. Such humble talents as +God has given me I will endeavour to put to their greatest use; if I am +able to amuse, I will try to benefit too; and when I feel it my duty to +speak an unpalatable truth, with the help of God, I _will_ speak it, +though it be to the prejudice of my name and to the detriment of my +reader’s immediate pleasure as well as my own. + +One word more, and I have done. Respecting the author’s identity, I +would have it to be distinctly understood that Acton Bell is neither +Currer nor Ellis Bell, and therefore let not his faults be attributed +to them. As to whether the name be real or fictitious, it cannot +greatly signify to those who know him only by his works. As little, I +should think, can it matter whether the writer so designated is a man, +or a woman, as one or two of my critics profess to have discovered. I +take the imputation in good part, as a compliment to the just +delineation of my female characters; and though I am bound to attribute +much of the severity of my censors to this suspicion, I make no effort +to refute it, because, in my own mind, I am satisfied that if a book is +a good one, it is so whatever the sex of the author may be. All novels +are, or should be, written for both men and women to read, and I am at +a loss to conceive how a man should permit himself to write anything +that would be really disgraceful to a woman, or why a woman should be +censured for writing anything that would be proper and becoming for a +man. + +_July_ 22_nd_, 1848. + + + + + CHAPTER I + + +You must go back with me to the autumn of 1827. + +My father, as you know, was a sort of gentleman farmer in ——shire; and +I, by his express desire, succeeded him in the same quiet occupation, +not very willingly, for ambition urged me to higher aims, and +self-conceit assured me that, in disregarding its voice, I was burying +my talent in the earth, and hiding my light under a bushel. My mother +had done her utmost to persuade me that I was capable of great +achievements; but my father, who thought ambition was the surest road +to ruin, and change but another word for destruction, would listen to +no scheme for bettering either my own condition, or that of my fellow +mortals. He assured me it was all rubbish, and exhorted me, with his +dying breath, to continue in the good old way, to follow his steps, and +those of his father before him, and let my highest ambition be to walk +honestly through the world, looking neither to the right hand nor to +the left, and to transmit the paternal acres to my children in, at +least, as flourishing a condition as he left them to me. + +“Well!—an honest and industrious farmer is one of the most useful +members of society; and if I devote my talents to the cultivation of my +farm, and the improvement of agriculture in general, I shall thereby +benefit, not only my own immediate connections and dependants, but, in +some degree, mankind at large:—hence I shall not have lived in vain.” + +With such reflections as these I was endeavouring to console myself, as +I plodded home from the fields, one cold, damp, cloudy evening towards +the close of October. But the gleam of a bright red fire through the +parlour window had more effect in cheering my spirits, and rebuking my +thankless repinings, than all the sage reflections and good resolutions +I had forced my mind to frame;—for I was young then, remember—only +four-and-twenty—and had not acquired half the rule over my own spirit +that I now possess—trifling as that may be. + +However, that haven of bliss must not be entered till I had exchanged +my miry boots for a clean pair of shoes, and my rough surtout for a +respectable coat, and made myself generally presentable before decent +society; for my mother, with all her kindness, was vastly particular on +certain points. + +In ascending to my room I was met upon the stairs by a smart, pretty +girl of nineteen, with a tidy, dumpy figure, a round face, bright, +blooming cheeks, glossy, clustering curls, and little merry brown eyes. +I need not tell you this was my sister Rose. She is, I know, a comely +matron still, and, doubtless, no less lovely—in _your_ eyes—than on the +happy day you first beheld her. Nothing told me then that she, a few +years hence, would be the wife of one entirely unknown to me as yet, +but destined hereafter to become a closer friend than even herself, +more intimate than that unmannerly lad of seventeen, by whom I was +collared in the passage, on coming down, and well-nigh jerked off my +equilibrium, and who, in correction for his impudence, received a +resounding whack over the sconce, which, however, sustained no serious +injury from the infliction; as, besides being more than commonly thick, +it was protected by a redundant shock of short, reddish curls, that my +mother called auburn. + +On entering the parlour we found that honoured lady seated in her +arm-chair at the fireside, working away at her knitting, according to +her usual custom, when she had nothing else to do. She had swept the +hearth, and made a bright blazing fire for our reception; the servant +had just brought in the tea-tray; and Rose was producing the +sugar-basin and tea-caddy from the cupboard in the black oak +side-board, that shone like polished ebony, in the cheerful parlour +twilight. + +“Well! here they both are,” cried my mother, looking round upon us +without retarding the motion of her nimble fingers and glittering +needles. “Now shut the door, and come to the fire, while Rose gets the +tea ready; I’m sure you must be starved;—and tell me what you’ve been +about all day;—I like to know what my children have been about.” + +“I’ve been breaking in the grey colt—no easy business that—directing +the ploughing of the last wheat stubble—for the ploughboy has not the +sense to direct himself—and carrying out a plan for the extensive and +efficient draining of the low meadowlands.” + +“That’s my brave boy!—and Fergus, what have you been doing?” + +“Badger-baiting.” + +And here he proceeded to give a particular account of his sport, and +the respective traits of prowess evinced by the badger and the dogs; my +mother pretending to listen with deep attention, and watching his +animated countenance with a degree of maternal admiration I thought +highly disproportioned to its object. + +“It’s time you should be doing something else, Fergus,” said I, as soon +as a momentary pause in his narration allowed me to get in a word. + +“What _can_ I do?” replied he; “my mother won’t let me go to sea or +enter the army; and I’m determined to do nothing else—except make +myself such a nuisance to you all, that you will be thankful to get rid +of me on any terms.” + +Our parent soothingly stroked his stiff, short curls. He growled, and +tried to look sulky, and then we all took our seats at the table, in +obedience to the thrice-repeated summons of Rose. + +“Now take your tea,” said she; “and I’ll tell you what _I’ve_ been +doing. I’ve been to call on the Wilsons; and it’s a _thousand_ pities +you didn’t go with me, Gilbert, for Eliza Millward was there!” + +“Well! what of her?” + +“Oh, nothing!—I’m not going to tell you about her;—only that she’s a +nice, amusing little thing, when she is in a merry humour, and I +shouldn’t mind calling her—” + +“Hush, hush, my dear! your brother has no such idea!” whispered my +mother earnestly, holding up her finger. + +“Well,” resumed Rose; “I was going to tell you an important piece of +news I heard there—I have been bursting with it ever since. You know it +was reported a month ago, that somebody was going to take Wildfell +Hall—and—what do you think? It has actually been inhabited above a +week!—and we never knew!” + +“Impossible!” cried my mother. + +“Preposterous!!!” shrieked Fergus. + +“It has indeed!—and by a single lady!” + +“Good gracious, my dear! The place is in ruins!” + +“She has had two or three rooms made habitable; and there she lives, +all alone—except an old woman for a servant!” + +“Oh, dear! that spoils it—I’d hoped she was a witch,” observed Fergus, +while carving his inch-thick slice of bread and butter. “Nonsense, +Fergus! But isn’t it strange, mamma?” + +“Strange! I can hardly believe it.” + +“But you may believe it; for Jane Wilson has seen her. She went with +her mother, who, of course, when she heard of a stranger being in the +neighbourhood, would be on pins and needles till she had seen her and +got all she could out of her. She is called Mrs. Graham, and she is in +mourning—not widow’s weeds, but slightish mourning—and she is quite +young, they say,—not above five or six and twenty,—but _so_ reserved! +They tried all they could to find out who she was and where she came +from, and, all about her, but neither Mrs. Wilson, with her +pertinacious and impertinent home-thrusts, nor Miss Wilson, with her +skilful manœuvring, could manage to elicit a single satisfactory +answer, or even a casual remark, or chance expression calculated to +allay their curiosity, or throw the faintest ray of light upon her +history, circumstances, or connections. Moreover, she was barely civil +to them, and evidently better pleased to say “good-by,” than “how do +you do.” But Eliza Millward says her father intends to call upon her +soon, to offer some pastoral advice, which he fears she needs, as, +though she is known to have entered the neighbourhood early last week, +she did not make her appearance at church on Sunday; and she—Eliza, +that is—will beg to accompany him, and is sure _she_ can succeed in +wheedling something out of her—you know, Gilbert, _she_ can do +anything. And _we_ should call some time, mamma; it’s only proper, you +know.” + +“Of course, my dear. Poor thing! How lonely she must feel!” + +“And pray, be quick about it; and mind you bring me word how much sugar +she puts in her tea, and what sort of caps and aprons she wears, and +all about it; for I don’t know how I can live till I know,” said +Fergus, very gravely. + +But if he intended the speech to be hailed as a master-stroke of wit, +he signally failed, for nobody laughed. However, he was not much +disconcerted at that; for when he had taken a mouthful of bread and +butter and was about to swallow a gulp of tea, the humour of the thing +burst upon him with such irresistible force, that he was obliged to +jump up from the table, and rush snorting and choking from the room; +and a minute after, was heard screaming in fearful agony in the garden. + +As for me, I was hungry, and contented myself with silently demolishing +the tea, ham, and toast, while my mother and sister went on talking, +and continued to discuss the apparent or non-apparent circumstances, +and probable or improbable history of the mysterious lady; but I must +confess that, after my brother’s misadventure, I once or twice raised +the cup to my lips, and put it down again without daring to taste the +contents, lest I should injure my dignity by a similar explosion. + +The next day my mother and Rose hastened to pay their compliments to +the fair recluse; and came back but little wiser than they went; though +my mother declared she did not regret the journey, for if she had not +gained much good, she flattered herself she had imparted some, and that +was better: she had given some useful advice, which, she hoped, would +not be thrown away; for Mrs. Graham, though she said little to any +purpose, and appeared somewhat self-opinionated, seemed not incapable +of reflection,—though she did not know where she had been all her life, +poor thing, for she betrayed a lamentable ignorance on certain points, +and had not even the sense to be ashamed of it. + +“On what points, mother?” asked I. + +“On household matters, and all the little niceties of cookery, and such +things, that every lady ought to be familiar with, whether she be +required to make a practical use of her knowledge or not. I gave her +some useful pieces of information, however, and several excellent +receipts, the value of which she evidently could not appreciate, for +she begged I would not trouble myself, as she lived in such a plain, +quiet way, that she was sure she should never make use of them. ‘No +matter, my dear,’ said I; ‘it is what every respectable female ought to +know;—and besides, though you are alone now, you will not be always so; +you _have_ been married, and probably—I might say almost certainly—will +be again.’ ‘You are mistaken there, ma’am,’ said she, almost haughtily; +‘I am certain I never shall.’—But I told her _I_ knew better.” + +“Some romantic young widow, I suppose,” said I, “come there to end her +days in solitude, and mourn in secret for the dear departed—but it +won’t last long.” + +“No, I think not,” observed Rose; “for she didn’t seem _very_ +disconsolate after all; and she’s excessively pretty—handsome +rather—you must see her, Gilbert; you will call her a perfect beauty, +though you could hardly pretend to discover a resemblance between her +and Eliza Millward.” + +“Well, I can imagine many faces more beautiful than Eliza’s, though not +more charming. I allow she has small claims to perfection; but then, I +maintain that, if she were more perfect, she would be less +interesting.” + +“And so you prefer her faults to other people’s perfections?” + +“Just so—saving my mother’s presence.” + +“Oh, my dear Gilbert, what nonsense you talk!—I know you don’t mean it; +it’s quite out of the question,” said my mother, getting up, and +bustling out of the room, under pretence of household business, in +order to escape the contradiction that was trembling on my tongue. + +After that Rose favoured me with further particulars respecting Mrs. +Graham. Her appearance, manners, and dress, and the very furniture of +the room she inhabited, were all set before me, with rather more +clearness and precision than I cared to see them; but, as I was not a +very attentive listener, I could not repeat the description if I would. + +The next day was Saturday; and, on Sunday, everybody wondered whether +or not the fair unknown would profit by the vicar’s remonstrance, and +come to church. I confess I looked with some interest myself towards +the old family pew, appertaining to Wildfell Hall, where the faded +crimson cushions and lining had been unpressed and unrenewed so many +years, and the grim escutcheons, with their lugubrious borders of rusty +black cloth, frowned so sternly from the wall above. + +And there I beheld a tall, lady-like figure, clad in black. Her face +was towards me, and there was something in it which, once seen, invited +me to look again. Her hair was raven black, and disposed in long glossy +ringlets, a style of coiffure rather unusual in those days, but always +graceful and becoming; her complexion was clear and pale; her eyes I +could not see, for, being bent upon her prayer-book, they were +concealed by their drooping lids and long black lashes, but the brows +above were expressive and well defined; the forehead was lofty and +intellectual, the nose, a perfect aquiline and the features, in +general, unexceptionable—only there was a slight hollowness about the +cheeks and eyes, and the lips, though finely formed, were a little too +thin, a little too firmly compressed, and had something about them that +betokened, I thought, no very soft or amiable temper; and I said in my +heart—“I would rather admire you from this distance, fair lady, than be +the partner of your home.” + +Just then she happened to raise her eyes, and they met mine; I did not +choose to withdraw my gaze, and she turned again to her book, but with +a momentary, indefinable expression of quiet scorn, that was +inexpressibly provoking to me. + +“She thinks me an impudent puppy,” thought I. “Humph!—she shall change +her mind before long, if I think it worth while.” + +But then it flashed upon me that these were very improper thoughts for +a place of worship, and that my behaviour, on the present occasion, was +anything but what it ought to be. Previous, however, to directing my +mind to the service, I glanced round the church to see if any one had +been observing me;—but no,—all, who were not attending to their +prayer-books, were attending to the strange lady,—my good mother and +sister among the rest, and Mrs. Wilson and her daughter; and even Eliza +Millward was slily glancing from the corners of her eyes towards the +object of general attraction. Then she glanced at me, simpered a +little, and blushed, modestly looked at her prayer-book, and +endeavoured to compose her features. + +Here I was transgressing again; and this time I was made sensible of it +by a sudden dig in the ribs, from the elbow of my pert brother. For the +present, I could only resent the insult by pressing my foot upon his +toes, deferring further vengeance till we got out of church. + +Now, Halford, before I close this letter, I’ll tell you who Eliza +Millward was: she was the vicar’s younger daughter, and a very engaging +little creature, for whom I felt no small degree of partiality;—and she +knew it, though I had never come to any direct explanation, and had no +definite intention of so doing, for my mother, who maintained there was +no one good enough for me within twenty miles round, could not bear the +thoughts of my marrying that insignificant little thing, who, in +addition to her numerous other disqualifications, had not twenty pounds +to call her own. Eliza’s figure was at once slight and plump, her face +small, and nearly as round as my sister’s,—complexion, something +similar to hers, but more delicate and less decidedly blooming,—nose, +_retroussé_,—features, generally irregular; and, altogether, she was +rather charming than pretty. But her eyes—I must not forget those +remarkable features, for therein her chief attraction lay—in outward +aspect at least;—they were long and narrow in shape, the irids black, +or very dark brown, the expression various, and ever changing, but +always either preternaturally—I had almost said _diabolically_—wicked, +or irresistibly bewitching—often both. Her voice was gentle and +childish, her tread light and soft as that of a cat:—but her manners +more frequently resembled those of a pretty playful kitten, that is now +pert and roguish, now timid and demure, according to its own sweet +will. + +Her sister, Mary, was several years older, several inches taller, and +of a larger, coarser build—a plain, quiet, sensible girl, who had +patiently nursed their mother, through her last long, tedious illness, +and been the housekeeper, and family drudge, from thence to the present +time. She was trusted and valued by her father, loved and courted by +all dogs, cats, children, and poor people, and slighted and neglected +by everybody else. + +The Reverend Michael Millward himself was a tall, ponderous elderly +gentleman, who placed a shovel hat above his large, square, +massive-featured face, carried a stout walking-stick in his hand, and +incased his still powerful limbs in knee-breeches and gaiters,—or black +silk stockings on state occasions. He was a man of fixed principles, +strong prejudices, and regular habits, intolerant of dissent in any +shape, acting under a firm conviction that _his_ opinions were always +right, and whoever differed from them must be either most deplorably +ignorant, or wilfully blind. + +In childhood, I had always been accustomed to regard him with a feeling +of reverential awe—but lately, even now, surmounted, for, though he had +a fatherly kindness for the well-behaved, he was a strict +disciplinarian, and had often sternly reproved our juvenile failings +and peccadilloes; and moreover, in those days, whenever he called upon +our parents, we had to stand up before him, and say our catechism, or +repeat, “How doth the little busy bee,” or some other hymn, or—worse +than all—be questioned about his last text, and the heads of the +discourse, which we never could remember. Sometimes, the worthy +gentleman would reprove my mother for being over-indulgent to her sons, +with a reference to old Eli, or David and Absalom, which was +particularly galling to her feelings; and, very highly as she respected +him, and all his sayings, I once heard her exclaim, “I wish to goodness +he had a son himself! He wouldn’t be so ready with his advice to other +people then;—he’d see what it is to have a couple of boys to keep in +order.” + +He had a laudable care for his own bodily health—kept very early hours, +regularly took a walk before breakfast, was vastly particular about +warm and dry clothing, had never been known to preach a sermon without +previously swallowing a raw egg—albeit he was gifted with good lungs +and a powerful voice,—and was, generally, extremely particular about +what he ate and drank, though by no means abstemious, and having a mode +of dietary peculiar to himself,—being a great despiser of tea and such +slops, and a patron of malt liquors, bacon and eggs, ham, hung beef, +and other strong meats, which agreed well enough with his digestive +organs, and therefore were maintained by him to be good and wholesome +for everybody, and confidently recommended to the most delicate +convalescents or dyspeptics, who, if they failed to derive the promised +benefit from his prescriptions, were told it was because they had not +persevered, and if they complained of inconvenient results therefrom, +were assured it was all fancy. + +I will just touch upon two other persons whom I have mentioned, and +then bring this long letter to a close. These are Mrs. Wilson and her +daughter. The former was the widow of a substantial farmer, a +narrow-minded, tattling old gossip, whose character is not worth +describing. She had two sons, Robert, a rough countrified farmer, and +Richard, a retiring, studious young man, who was studying the classics +with the vicar’s assistance, preparing for college, with a view to +enter the church. + +Their sister Jane was a young lady of some talents, and more ambition. +She had, at her own desire, received a regular boarding-school +education, superior to what any member of the family had obtained +before. She had taken the polish well, acquired considerable elegance +of manners, quite lost her provincial accent, and could boast of more +accomplishments than the vicar’s daughters. She was considered a beauty +besides; but never for a moment could she number me amongst her +admirers. She was about six and twenty, rather tall and very slender, +her hair was neither chestnut nor auburn, but a most decided bright, +light red; her complexion was remarkably fair and brilliant, her head +small, neck long, chin well turned, but very short, lips thin and red, +eyes clear hazel, quick, and penetrating, but entirely destitute of +poetry or feeling. She had, or might have had, many suitors in her own +rank of life, but scornfully repulsed or rejected them all; for none +but a gentleman could please her refined taste, and none but a rich one +could satisfy her soaring ambition. One gentleman there was, from whom +she had lately received some rather pointed attentions, and upon whose +heart, name, and fortune, it was whispered, she had serious designs. +This was Mr. Lawrence, the young squire, whose family had formerly +occupied Wildfell Hall, but had deserted it, some fifteen years ago, +for a more modern and commodious mansion in the neighbouring parish. + +Now, Halford, I bid you adieu for the present. This is the first +instalment of my debt. If the coin suits you, tell me so, and I’ll send +you the rest at my leisure: if you would rather remain my creditor than +stuff your purse with such ungainly, heavy pieces,—tell me still, and +I’ll pardon your bad taste, and willingly keep the treasure to myself. + +Yours immutably, +GILBERT MARKHAM. + + + + + CHAPTER II + + +I perceive, with joy, my most valued friend, that the cloud of your +displeasure has passed away; the light of your countenance blesses me +once more, and you desire the continuation of my story: therefore, +without more ado, you shall have it. + +I think the day I last mentioned was a certain Sunday, the latest in +the October of 1827. On the following Tuesday I was out with my dog and +gun, in pursuit of such game as I could find within the territory of +Linden-Car; but finding none at all, I turned my arms against the hawks +and carrion crows, whose depredations, as I suspected, had deprived me +of better prey. To this end I left the more frequented regions, the +wooded valleys, the corn-fields, and the meadow-lands, and proceeded to +mount the steep acclivity of Wildfell, the wildest and the loftiest +eminence in our neighbourhood, where, as you ascend, the hedges, as +well as the trees, become scanty and stunted, the former, at length, +giving place to rough stone fences, partly greened over with ivy and +moss, the latter to larches and Scotch fir-trees, or isolated +blackthorns. The fields, being rough and stony, and wholly unfit for +the plough, were mostly devoted to the pasturing of sheep and cattle; +the soil was thin and poor: bits of grey rock here and there peeped out +from the grassy hillocks; bilberry-plants and heather—relics of more +savage wildness—grew under the walls; and in many of the enclosures, +ragweeds and rushes usurped supremacy over the scanty herbage; but +these were not _my_ property. + +Near the top of this hill, about two miles from Linden-Car, stood +Wildfell Hall, a superannuated mansion of the Elizabethan era, built of +dark grey stone, venerable and picturesque to look at, but doubtless, +cold and gloomy enough to inhabit, with its thick stone mullions and +little latticed panes, its time-eaten air-holes, and its too lonely, +too unsheltered situation,—only shielded from the war of wind and +weather by a group of Scotch firs, themselves half blighted with +storms, and looking as stern and gloomy as the Hall itself. Behind it +lay a few desolate fields, and then the brown heath-clad summit of the +hill; before it (enclosed by stone walls, and entered by an iron gate, +with large balls of grey granite—similar to those which decorated the +roof and gables—surmounting the gate-posts) was a garden,—once stocked +with such hard plants and flowers as could best brook the soil and +climate, and such trees and shrubs as could best endure the gardener’s +torturing shears, and most readily assume the shapes he chose to give +them,—now, having been left so many years untilled and untrimmed, +abandoned to the weeds and the grass, to the frost and the wind, the +rain and the drought, it presented a very singular appearance indeed. +The close green walls of privet, that had bordered the principal walk, +were two-thirds withered away, and the rest grown beyond all reasonable +bounds; the old boxwood swan, that sat beside the scraper, had lost its +neck and half its body: the castellated towers of laurel in the middle +of the garden, the gigantic warrior that stood on one side of the +gateway, and the lion that guarded the other, were sprouted into such +fantastic shapes as resembled nothing either in heaven or earth, or in +the waters under the earth; but, to my young imagination, they +presented all of them a goblinish appearance, that harmonised well with +the ghostly legions and dark traditions our old nurse had told us +respecting the haunted hall and its departed occupants. + +[Illustration] + +I had succeeded in killing a hawk and two crows when I came within +sight of the mansion; and then, relinquishing further depredations, I +sauntered on, to have a look at the old place, and see what changes had +been wrought in it by its new inhabitant. I did not like to go quite to +the front and stare in at the gate; but I paused beside the garden +wall, and looked, and saw no change—except in one wing, where the +broken windows and dilapidated roof had evidently been repaired, and +where a thin wreath of smoke was curling up from the stack of chimneys. + +While I thus stood, leaning on my gun, and looking up at the dark +gables, sunk in an idle reverie, weaving a tissue of wayward fancies, +in which old associations and the fair young hermit, now within those +walls, bore a nearly equal part, I heard a slight rustling and +scrambling just within the garden; and, glancing in the direction +whence the sound proceeded, I beheld a tiny hand elevated above the +wall: it clung to the topmost stone, and then another little hand was +raised to take a firmer hold, and then appeared a small white forehead, +surmounted with wreaths of light brown hair, with a pair of deep blue +eyes beneath, and the upper portion of a diminutive ivory nose. + +The eyes did not notice me, but sparkled with glee on beholding Sancho, +my beautiful black and white setter, that was coursing about the field +with its muzzle to the ground. The little creature raised its face and +called aloud to the dog. The good-natured animal paused, looked up, and +wagged his tail, but made no further advances. The child (a little boy, +apparently about five years old) scrambled up to the top of the wall, +and called again and again; but finding this of no avail, apparently +made up his mind, like Mahomet, to go to the mountain, since the +mountain would not come to him, and attempted to get over; but a +crabbed old cherry-tree, that grew hard by, caught him by the frock in +one of its crooked scraggy arms that stretched over the wall. In +attempting to disengage himself his foot slipped, and down he +tumbled—but not to the earth;—the tree still kept him suspended. There +was a silent struggle, and then a piercing shriek;—but, in an instant, +I had dropped my gun on the grass, and caught the little fellow in my +arms. + +I wiped his eyes with his frock, told him he was all right and called +Sancho to pacify him. He was just putting little hand on the dog’s neck +and beginning to smile through his tears, when I heard behind me a +click of the iron gate, and a rustle of female garments, and lo! Mrs. +Graham darted upon me—her neck uncovered, her black locks streaming in +the wind. + +“Give me the child!” she said, in a voice scarce louder than a whisper, +but with a tone of startling vehemence, and, seizing the boy, she +snatched him from me, as if some dire contamination were in my touch, +and then stood with one hand firmly clasping his, the other on his +shoulder, fixing upon me her large, luminous dark eyes—pale, +breathless, quivering with agitation. + +“I was not harming the child, madam,” said I, scarce knowing whether to +be most astonished or displeased; “he was tumbling off the wall there; +and I was so fortunate as to catch him, while he hung suspended +headlong from that tree, and prevent I know not what catastrophe.” + +“I beg your pardon, sir,” stammered she;—suddenly calming down,—the +light of reason seeming to break upon her beclouded spirit, and a faint +blush mantling on her cheek—“I did not know you;—and I thought—” + +She stooped to kiss the child, and fondly clasped her arm round his +neck. + +“You thought I was going to kidnap your son, I suppose?” + +She stroked his head with a half-embarrassed laugh, and replied,—“I did +not know he had attempted to climb the wall.—I have the pleasure of +addressing Mr. Markham, I believe?” she added, somewhat abruptly. + +I bowed, but ventured to ask how she knew me. + +“Your sister called here, a few days ago, with Mrs. Markham.” + +“Is the resemblance so strong then?” I asked, in some surprise, and not +so greatly flattered at the idea as I ought to have been. + +“There is a likeness about the eyes and complexion I think,” replied +she, somewhat dubiously surveying my face;—“and I think I saw you at +church on Sunday.” + +I smiled.—There was something either in that smile or the recollections +it awakened that was particularly displeasing to her, for she suddenly +assumed again that proud, chilly look that had so unspeakably roused my +aversion at church—a look of repellent scorn, so easily assumed, and so +entirely without the least distortion of a single feature, that, while +there, it seemed like the natural expression of the face, and was the +more provoking to me, because I could not think it affected. + +“Good-morning, Mr. Markham,” said she; and without another word or +glance, she withdrew, with her child, into the garden; and I returned +home, angry and dissatisfied—I could scarcely tell you why, and +therefore will not attempt it. + +I only stayed to put away my gun and powder-horn, and give some +requisite directions to one of the farming-men, and then repaired to +the vicarage, to solace my spirit and soothe my ruffled temper with the +company and conversation of Eliza Millward. + +I found her, as usual, busy with some piece of soft embroidery (the +mania for Berlin wools had not yet commenced), while her sister was +seated at the chimney-corner, with the cat on her knee, mending a heap +of stockings. + +“Mary—Mary! put them away!” Eliza was hastily saying, just as I entered +the room. + +“Not I, indeed!” was the phlegmatic reply; and my appearance prevented +further discussion. + +“You’re so unfortunate, Mr. Markham!” observed the younger sister, with +one of her arch, sidelong glances. “Papa’s just gone out into the +parish, and not likely to be back for an hour!” + +“Never mind; I can manage to spend a few minutes with his daughters, if +they’ll allow me,” said I, bringing a chair to the fire, and seating +myself therein, without waiting to be asked. + +“Well, if you’ll be very good and amusing, we shall not object.” + +“Let your permission be unconditional, pray; for I came not to give +pleasure, but to seek it,” I answered. + +However, I thought it but reasonable to make some slight exertion to +render my company agreeable; and what little effort I made, was +apparently pretty successful, for Miss Eliza was never in a better +humour. We seemed, indeed, to be mutually pleased with each other, and +managed to maintain between us a cheerful and animated though not very +profound conversation. It was little better than a _tête-à-tête_, for +Miss Millward never opened her lips, except occasionally to correct +some random assertion or exaggerated expression of her sister’s, and +once to ask her to pick up the ball of cotton that had rolled under the +table. I did this myself, however, as in duty bound. + +“Thank you, Mr. Markham,” said she, as I presented it to her. “I would +have picked it up myself; only I did not want to disturb the cat.” + +“Mary, dear, _that_ won’t excuse you in Mr. Markham’s eyes,” said +Eliza; “he hates cats, I daresay, as cordially as he does old +maids—like all other gentlemen. Don’t you, Mr. Markham?” + +“I believe it is natural for our unamiable sex to dislike the +creatures,” replied I; “for you ladies lavish so many caresses upon +them.” + +“Bless them—little darlings!” cried she, in a sudden burst of +enthusiasm, turning round and overwhelming her sister’s pet with a +shower of kisses. + +“Don’t, Eliza!” said Miss Millward, somewhat gruffly, as she +impatiently pushed her away. + +But it was time for me to be going: make what haste I would, I should +still be too late for tea; and my mother was the soul of order and +punctuality. + +My fair friend was evidently unwilling to bid me adieu. I tenderly +squeezed her little hand at parting; and she repaid me with one of her +softest smiles and most bewitching glances. I went home very happy, +with a heart brimful of complacency for myself, and overflowing with +love for Eliza. + + + + + CHAPTER III + + +Two days after, Mrs. Graham called at Linden-Car, contrary to the +expectation of Rose, who entertained an idea that the mysterious +occupant of Wildfell Hall would wholly disregard the common observances +of civilized life,—in which opinion she was supported by the Wilsons, +who testified that neither their call nor the Millwards’ had been +returned as yet. Now, however, the cause of that omission was +explained, though not entirely to the satisfaction of Rose. Mrs. Graham +had brought her child with her, and on my mother’s expressing surprise +that he could walk so far, she replied,—“It is a long walk for him; but +I must have either taken him with me, or relinquished the visit +altogether; for I never leave him alone; and I think, Mrs. Markham, I +must beg you to make my excuses to the Millwards and Mrs. Wilson, when +you see them, as I fear I cannot do myself the pleasure of calling upon +them till my little Arthur is able to accompany me.” + +“But you have a servant,” said Rose; “could you not leave him with +her?” + +“She has her own occupations to attend to; and besides, she is too old +to run after a child, and he is too mercurial to be tied to an elderly +woman.” + +“But you left him to come to church.” + +“Yes, once; but I would not have left him for any other purpose; and I +think, in future, I must contrive to bring him with me, or stay at +home.” + +“Is he so mischievous?” asked my mother, considerably shocked. + +“No,” replied the lady, sadly smiling, as she stroked the wavy locks of +her son, who was seated on a low stool at her feet; “but he is my only +treasure, and I am his only friend: so we don’t like to be separated.” + +“But, my dear, I call that doting,” said my plain-spoken parent. “You +should try to suppress such foolish fondness, as well to save your son +from ruin as yourself from ridicule.” + +“_Ruin!_ Mrs. Markham!” + +“Yes; it is spoiling the child. Even at _his_ age, he ought not to be +always tied to his mother’s apron-string; he should learn to be ashamed +of it.” + +“Mrs. Markham, I beg you will not say such things, in _his_ presence, +at least. I trust my son will _never_ be ashamed to love his mother!” +said Mrs. Graham, with a serious energy that startled the company. + +My mother attempted to appease her by an explanation; but she seemed to +think enough had been said on the subject, and abruptly turned the +conversation. + +“Just as I thought,” said I to myself: “the lady’s temper is none of +the mildest, notwithstanding her sweet, pale face and lofty brow, where +thought and suffering seem equally to have stamped their impress.” + +All this time I was seated at a table on the other side of the room, +apparently immersed in the perusal of a volume of the _Farmer’s +Magazine_, which I happened to have been reading at the moment of our +visitor’s arrival; and, not choosing to be over civil, I had merely +bowed as she entered, and continued my occupation as before. + +In a little while, however, I was sensible that some one was +approaching me, with a light, but slow and hesitating tread. It was +little Arthur, irresistibly attracted by my dog Sancho, that was lying +at my feet. On looking up I beheld him standing about two yards off, +with his clear blue eyes wistfully gazing on the dog, transfixed to the +spot, not by fear of the animal, but by a timid disinclination to +approach its master. A little encouragement, however, induced him to +come forward. The child, though shy, was not sullen. In a minute he was +kneeling on the carpet, with his arms round Sancho’s neck, and, in a +minute or two more, the little fellow was seated on my knee, surveying +with eager interest the various specimens of horses, cattle, pigs, and +model farms portrayed in the volume before me. I glanced at his mother +now and then to see how she relished the new-sprung intimacy; and I +saw, by the unquiet aspect of her eye, that for some reason or other +she was uneasy at the child’s position. + +“Arthur,” said she, at length, “come here. You are troublesome to Mr. +Markham: he wishes to read.” + +“By no means, Mrs. Graham; pray let him stay. I am as much amused as he +is,” pleaded I. But still, with hand and eye, she silently called him +to her side. + +“No, mamma,” said the child; “let me look at these pictures first; and +then I’ll come, and tell you all about them.” + +“We are going to have a small party on Monday, the fifth of November,” +said my mother; “and I hope you will not refuse to make one, Mrs. +Graham. You can bring your little boy with you, you know—I daresay we +shall be able to amuse him;—and then you can make your own apologies to +the Millwards and Wilsons—they will all be here, I expect.” + +“Thank you, I never go to parties.” + +“Oh! but this will be quite a family concern—early hours, and nobody +here but ourselves, and just the Millwards and Wilsons, most of whom +you already know, and Mr. Lawrence, your landlord, with whom you ought +to make acquaintance.” + +“I do know something of him—but you must excuse me this time; for the +evenings, now, are dark and damp, and Arthur, I fear, is too delicate +to risk exposure to their influence with impunity. We must defer the +enjoyment of your hospitality till the return of longer days and warmer +nights.” + +Rose, now, at a hint from my mother, produced a decanter of wine, with +accompaniments of glasses and cake, from the cupboard and the oak +sideboard, and the refreshment was duly presented to the guests. They +both partook of the cake, but obstinately refused the wine, in spite of +their hostess’s hospitable attempts to force it upon them. Arthur, +especially shrank from the ruby nectar as if in terror and disgust, and +was ready to cry when urged to take it. + +“Never mind, Arthur,” said his mamma; “Mrs. Markham thinks it will do +you good, as you were tired with your walk; but she will not oblige you +to take it!—I daresay you will do very well without. He detests the +very sight of wine,” she added, “and the smell of it almost makes him +sick. I have been accustomed to make him swallow a little wine or weak +spirits-and-water, by way of medicine, when he was sick, and, in fact, +I have done what I could to make him hate them.” + +Everybody laughed, except the young widow and her son. + +“Well, Mrs. Graham,” said my mother, wiping the tears of merriment from +her bright blue eyes—“well, you surprise me! I really gave you credit +for having more sense.—The poor child will be the veriest milksop that +ever was sopped! Only think what a man you will make of him, if you +persist in—” + +“I think it a very excellent plan,” interrupted Mrs. Graham, with +imperturbable gravity. “By that means I hope to save him from one +degrading vice at least. I wish I could render the incentives to every +other equally innoxious in his case.” + +“But by such means,” said I, “you will never render him virtuous.—What +is it that constitutes virtue, Mrs. Graham? Is it the circumstance of +being able and willing to resist temptation; or that of having no +temptations to resist?—Is he a strong man that overcomes great +obstacles and performs surprising achievements, though by dint of great +muscular exertion, and at the risk of some subsequent fatigue, or he +that sits in his chair all day, with nothing to do more laborious than +stirring the fire, and carrying his food to his mouth? If you would +have your son to walk honourably through the world, you must not +attempt to clear the stones from his path, but teach him to walk firmly +over them—not insist upon leading him by the hand, but let him learn to +go alone.” + +“I will lead him by the hand, Mr. Markham, till he has strength to go +alone; and I will clear as many stones from his path as I can, and +teach him to avoid the _rest_—or walk firmly over them, as you say;—for +when I have done my utmost, in the way of clearance, there will still +be plenty left to exercise all the agility, steadiness, and +circumspection he will ever have.—It is all very well to talk about +noble resistance, and trials of virtue; but for fifty—or five hundred +men that have yielded to temptation, show me one that has had virtue to +resist. And why should I take it for granted that my son will be one in +a thousand?—and not rather prepare for the worst, and suppose he will +be like his—like the rest of mankind, unless I take care to prevent +it?” + +“You are very complimentary to us all,” I observed. + +“I know nothing about _you_—I speak of those I do know—and when I see +the whole race of mankind (with a few rare exceptions) stumbling and +blundering along the path of life, sinking into every pitfall, and +breaking their shins over every impediment that lies in their way, +shall I not use all the means in my power to insure for him a smoother +and a safer passage?” + +“Yes, but the surest means will be to endeavour to fortify him +_against_ temptation, not to remove it out of his way.” + +“I will do both, Mr. Markham. God knows he will have temptations enough +to assail him, both from within and without, when I have done all I can +to render vice as uninviting to him, as it is abominable in its own +nature—I myself have had, indeed, but few incentives to what the world +calls vice, but yet I have experienced temptations and trials of +another kind, that have required, on many occasions, more watchfulness +and firmness to resist than I have hitherto been able to muster against +them. And this, I believe, is what most others would acknowledge who +are accustomed to reflection, and wishful to strive against their +natural corruptions.” + +“Yes,” said my mother, but half apprehending her drift; “but you would +not judge of a boy by yourself—and, my dear Mrs. Graham, let me warn +you in good time against the error—the fatal error, I may call it—of +taking that boy’s education upon yourself. Because you are clever in +some things and well informed, you may fancy yourself equal to the +task; but indeed you are not; and if you persist in the attempt, +believe me you will bitterly repent it when the mischief is done.” + +“I am to send him to school, I suppose, to learn to despise his +mother’s authority and affection!” said the lady, with rather a bitter +smile. + +“Oh, _no!_—But if you would have a boy to despise his mother, let her +keep him at home, and spend her life in petting him up, and slaving to +indulge his follies and caprices.” + +“I perfectly agree with you, Mrs. Markham; but nothing can be further +from my principles and practice than such criminal weakness as that.” + +“Well, but you will treat him like a girl—you’ll spoil his spirit, and +make a mere Miss Nancy of him—you will, indeed, Mrs. Graham, whatever +you may think. But I’ll get Mr. Millward to talk to you about +it:—_he’ll_ tell you the consequences;—he’ll set it before you as plain +as the day;—and tell you what you ought to do, and all about it;—and, I +don’t doubt, he’ll be able to convince you in a minute.” + +“No occasion to trouble the vicar,” said Mrs. Graham, glancing at me—I +suppose I was smiling at my mother’s unbounded confidence in that +worthy gentleman—“Mr. Markham here thinks his powers of conviction at +least equal to Mr. Millward’s. If I hear not him, neither should I be +convinced though one rose from the dead, he would tell you. Well, Mr. +Markham, you that maintain that a boy should not be shielded from evil, +but sent out to battle against it, alone and unassisted—not taught to +avoid the snares of life, but boldly to rush into them, or over them, +as he may—to seek danger, rather than shun it, and feed his virtue by +temptation,—would you—?” + +“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Graham—but you get on too fast. I have not yet +said that a boy should be taught to rush into the snares of life,—or +even wilfully to seek temptation for the sake of exercising his virtue +by overcoming it;—I only say that it is better to arm and strengthen +your hero, than to disarm and enfeeble the foe;—and if you were to rear +an oak sapling in a hothouse, tending it carefully night and day, and +shielding it from every breath of wind, you could not expect it to +become a hardy tree, like that which has grown up on the mountain-side, +exposed to all the action of the elements, and not even sheltered from +the shock of the tempest.” + +“Granted;—but would you use the same argument with regard to a girl?” + +“Certainly not.” + +“No; you would have her to be tenderly and delicately nurtured, like a +hot-house plant—taught to cling to others for direction and support, +and guarded, as much as possible, from the very knowledge of evil. But +will you be so good as to inform me why you make this distinction? Is +it that you think she _has_ no virtue?” + +“Assuredly not.” + +“Well, but you affirm that virtue is only elicited by temptation;—and +you think that a woman cannot be too little exposed to temptation, or +too little acquainted with vice, or anything connected therewith. It +_must_ be either that you think she is essentially so vicious, or so +feeble-minded, that she _cannot_ withstand temptation,—and though she +may be pure and innocent as long as she is kept in ignorance and +restraint, yet, being destitute of _real_ virtue, to teach her how to +sin is at once to make her a sinner, and the greater her knowledge, the +wider her liberty, the deeper will be her depravity,—whereas, in the +nobler sex, there is a natural tendency to goodness, guarded by a +superior fortitude, which, the more it is exercised by trials and +dangers, is only the further developed—” + +“Heaven forbid that I should think so!” I interrupted her at last. + +“Well, then, it must be that you think they are _both_ weak and prone +to err, and the slightest error, the merest shadow of pollution, will +ruin the one, while the character of the other will be strengthened and +embellished—his education properly finished by a little practical +acquaintance with forbidden things. Such experience, to him (to use a +trite simile), will be like the storm to the oak, which, though it may +scatter the leaves, and snap the smaller branches, serves but to rivet +the roots, and to harden and condense the fibres of the tree. You would +have us encourage our sons to prove all things by their own experience, +while our daughters must not even profit by the experience of others. +Now _I_ would have both so to benefit by the experience of others, and +the precepts of a higher authority, that they should know beforehand to +refuse the evil and choose the good, and require no experimental proofs +to teach them the evil of transgression. I would not send a poor girl +into the world, unarmed against her foes, and ignorant of the snares +that beset her path; nor would I watch and guard her, till, deprived of +self-respect and self-reliance, she lost the power or the will to watch +and guard herself;—and as for my son—if I thought he would grow up to +be what you call a man of the world—one that has ‘_seen life_,’ and +glories in his experience, even though he should so far profit by it as +to sober down, at length, into a useful and respected member of +society—I would rather that he died to-morrow!—rather a thousand +times!” she earnestly repeated, pressing her darling to her side and +kissing his forehead with intense affection. He had already left his +new companion, and been standing for some time beside his mother’s +knee, looking up into her face, and listening in silent wonder to her +incomprehensible discourse. + +“Well! you ladies must always have the last word, I suppose,” said I, +observing her rise, and begin to take leave of my mother. + +“You may have as many words as you please,—only I can’t stay to hear +them.” + +“No; that is the way: you hear just as much of an argument as you +please; and the rest may be spoken to the wind.” + +“If you are anxious to say anything more on the subject,” replied she, +as she shook hands with Rose, “you must bring your sister to see me +some fine day, and I’ll listen, as patiently as you could wish, to +whatever you please to say. I would rather be lectured by you than the +vicar, because I should have less remorse in telling you, at the end of +the discourse, that I preserve my own opinion precisely the same as at +the beginning—as would be the case, I am persuaded, with regard to +either logician.” + +“Yes, of course,” replied I, determined to be as provoking as herself; +“for when a lady does consent to listen to an argument against her own +opinions, she is always predetermined to withstand it—to listen only +with her bodily ears, keeping the mental organs resolutely closed +against the strongest reasoning.” + +“Good-morning, Mr. Markham,” said my fair antagonist, with a pitying +smile; and deigning no further rejoinder, she slightly bowed, and was +about to withdraw; but her son, with childish impertinence, arrested +her by exclaiming,—“Mamma, you have not shaken hands with Mr. Markham!” + +She laughingly turned round and held out her hand. I gave it a spiteful +squeeze, for I was annoyed at the continual injustice she had done me +from the very dawn of our acquaintance. Without knowing anything about +my real disposition and principles, she was evidently prejudiced +against me, and seemed bent upon showing me that her opinions +respecting me, on every particular, fell far below those I entertained +of myself. I was naturally touchy, or it would not have vexed me so +much. Perhaps, too, I was a little bit spoiled by my mother and sister, +and some other ladies of my acquaintance;—and yet I was by no means a +fop—of that I am fully convinced, whether _you_ are or not. + + + + + CHAPTER IV + + +Our party, on the 5th of November, passed off very well, in spite of +Mrs. Graham’s refusal to grace it with her presence. Indeed, it is +probable that, had she been there, there would have been less +cordiality, freedom, and frolic amongst us than there was without her. + +My mother, as usual, was cheerful and chatty, full of activity and +good-nature, and only faulty in being too anxious to make her guests +happy, thereby forcing several of them to do what their soul abhorred +in the way of eating or drinking, sitting opposite the blazing fire, or +talking when they would be silent. Nevertheless, they bore it very +well, being all in their holiday humours. + +Mr. Millward was mighty in important dogmas and sententious jokes, +pompous anecdotes and oracular discourses, dealt out for the +edification of the whole assembly in general, and of the admiring Mrs. +Markham, the polite Mr. Lawrence, the sedate Mary Millward, the quiet +Richard Wilson, and the matter-of-fact Robert in particular,—as being +the most attentive listeners. + +Mrs. Wilson was more brilliant than ever, with her budgets of fresh +news and old scandal, strung together with trivial questions and +remarks, and oft-repeated observations, uttered apparently for the sole +purpose of denying a moment’s rest to her inexhaustible organs of +speech. She had brought her knitting with her, and it seemed as if her +tongue had laid a wager with her fingers, to outdo them in swift and +ceaseless motion. + +Her daughter Jane was, of course, as graceful and elegant, as witty and +seductive, as she could possibly manage to be; for here were all the +ladies to outshine, and all the gentlemen to charm,—and Mr. Lawrence, +especially, to capture and subdue. Her little arts to effect his +subjugation were too subtle and impalpable to attract my observation; +but I thought there was a certain _refined_ affectation of superiority, +and an ungenial self-consciousness about her, that negatived all her +advantages; and after she was gone, Rose interpreted to me her various +looks, words, and actions with a mingled acuteness and asperity that +made me wonder, equally, at the lady’s artifice and my sister’s +penetration, and ask myself if she too had an eye to the squire—but +never mind, Halford; she had not. + +Richard Wilson, Jane’s younger brother, sat in a corner, apparently +good-tempered, but silent and shy, desirous to escape observation, but +willing enough to listen and observe: and, although somewhat out of his +element, he would have been happy enough in his own quiet way, if my +mother could only have let him alone; but in her mistaken kindness, she +would keep persecuting him with her attentions—pressing upon him all +manner of viands, under the notion that he was too bashful to help +himself, and obliging him to shout across the room his monosyllabic +replies to the numerous questions and observations by which she vainly +attempted to draw him into conversation. + +Rose informed me that he never would have favoured us with his company +but for the importunities of his sister Jane, who was most anxious to +show Mr. Lawrence that she had at least one brother more gentlemanly +and refined than Robert. That worthy individual she had been equally +solicitous to keep away; but he affirmed that he saw no reason why he +should not enjoy a crack with Markham and the old lady (my mother was +not old, really), and bonny Miss Rose and the parson, as well as the +best;—and he was in the right of it too. So he talked common-place with +my mother and Rose, and discussed parish affairs with the vicar, +farming matters with me, and politics with us both. + +Mary Millward was another mute,—not so much tormented with cruel +kindness as Dick Wilson, because she had a certain short, decided way +of answering and refusing, and was supposed to be rather sullen than +diffident. However that might be, she certainly did not give much +pleasure to the company;—nor did she appear to derive much from it. +Eliza told me she had only come because her father insisted upon it, +having taken it into his head that she devoted herself too exclusively +to her household duties, to the neglect of such relaxations and +innocent enjoyments as were proper to her age and sex. She seemed to me +to be good-humoured enough on the whole. Once or twice she was provoked +to laughter by the wit or the merriment of some favoured individual +amongst us; and then I observed she sought the eye of Richard Wilson, +who sat over against her. As he studied with her father, she had some +acquaintance with him, in spite of the retiring habits of both, and I +suppose there was a kind of fellow-feeling established between them. + +My Eliza was charming beyond description, coquettish without +affectation, and evidently more desirous to engage my attention than +that of all the room besides. Her delight in having me near her, seated +or standing by her side, whispering in her ear, or pressing her hand in +the dance, was plainly legible in her glowing face and heaving bosom, +however belied by saucy words and gestures. But I had better hold my +tongue: if I boast of these things now, I shall have to blush +hereafter. + +To proceed, then, with the various individuals of our party; Rose was +simple and natural as usual, and full of mirth and vivacity. + +Fergus was impertinent and absurd; but his impertinence and folly +served to make others laugh, if they did not raise himself in their +estimation. + +And finally (for I omit myself), Mr. Lawrence was gentlemanly and +inoffensive to all, and polite to the vicar and the ladies, especially +his hostess and her daughter, and Miss Wilson—misguided man; he had not +the taste to prefer Eliza Millward. Mr. Lawrence and I were on +tolerably intimate terms. Essentially of reserved habits, and but +seldom quitting the secluded place of his birth, where he had lived in +solitary state since the death of his father, he had neither the +opportunity nor the inclination for forming many acquaintances; and, of +all he had ever known, I (judging by the results) was the companion +most agreeable to his taste. I liked the man well enough, but he was +too cold, and shy, and self-contained, to obtain my cordial sympathies. +A spirit of candour and frankness, when wholly unaccompanied with +coarseness, he admired in others, but he could not acquire it himself. +His excessive reserve upon all his own concerns was, indeed, provoking +and chilly enough; but I forgave it, from a conviction that it +originated less in pride and want of confidence in his friends, than in +a certain morbid feeling of delicacy, and a peculiar diffidence, that +he was sensible of, but wanted energy to overcome. His heart was like a +sensitive plant, that opens for a moment in the sunshine, but curls up +and shrinks into itself at the slightest touch of the finger, or the +lightest breath of wind. And, upon the whole, our intimacy was rather a +mutual predilection than a deep and solid friendship, such as has since +arisen between myself and you, Halford, whom, in spite of your +occasional crustiness, I can liken to nothing so well as an old coat, +unimpeachable in texture, but easy and loose—that has conformed itself +to the shape of the wearer, and which he may use as he pleases, without +being bothered with the fear of spoiling it;—whereas Mr. Lawrence was +like a new garment, all very neat and trim to look at, but so tight in +the elbows, that you would fear to split the seams by the unrestricted +motion of your arms, and so smooth and fine in surface that you scruple +to expose it to a single drop of rain. + +Soon after the arrival of the guests, my mother mentioned Mrs. Graham, +regretted she was not there to meet them, and explained to the +Millwards and Wilsons the reasons she had given for neglecting to +return their calls, hoping they would excuse her, as she was sure she +did not mean to be uncivil, and would be glad to see them at any +time.—“But she is a very singular lady, Mr. Lawrence,” added she; “we +don’t know what to make of her—but I daresay you can tell us something +about her, for she is your tenant, you know,—and she said she knew you +a little.” + +All eyes were turned to Mr. Lawrence. I thought he looked unnecessarily +confused at being so appealed to. + +“I, Mrs. Markham!” said he; “you are mistaken—I don’t—that is—I have +seen her, certainly; but I am the last person you should apply to for +information respecting Mrs. Graham.” + +He then immediately turned to Rose, and asked her to favour the company +with a song, or a tune on the piano. + +“No,” said she, “you must ask Miss Wilson: she outshines us all in +singing, and music too.” + +Miss Wilson demurred. + +“_She’ll_ sing readily enough,” said Fergus, “if you’ll undertake to +stand by her, Mr. Lawrence, and turn over the leaves for her.” + +“I shall be most happy to do so, Miss Wilson; will you allow me?” + +She bridled her long neck and smiled, and suffered him to lead her to +the instrument, where she played and sang, in her very best style, one +piece after another; while he stood patiently by, leaning one hand on +the back of her chair, and turning over the leaves of her book with the +other. Perhaps he was as much charmed with her performance as she was. +It was all very fine in its way; but I cannot say that it moved me very +deeply. There was plenty of skill and execution, but precious little +feeling. + +But we had not done with Mrs. Graham yet. + +“I don’t take wine, Mrs. Markham,” said Mr. Millward, upon the +introduction of that beverage; “I’ll take a little of your home-brewed +ale. I always prefer your home-brewed to anything else.” + +Flattered at this compliment, my mother rang the bell, and a china jug +of our best ale was presently brought and set before the worthy +gentleman who so well knew how to appreciate its excellences. + +“Now THIS is the thing!” cried he, pouring out a glass of the same in a +long stream, skilfully directed from the jug to the tumbler, so as to +produce much foam without spilling a drop; and, having surveyed it for +a moment opposite the candle, he took a deep draught, and then smacked +his lips, drew a long breath, and refilled his glass, my mother looking +on with the greatest satisfaction. + +“There’s nothing like this, Mrs. Markham!” said he. “I always maintain +that there’s nothing to compare with your home-brewed ale.” + +“I’m sure I’m glad you like it, sir. I always look after the brewing +myself, as well as the cheese and the butter—I like to have things well +done, while we’re about it.” + +“_Quite right_, Mrs. Markham!” + +“But then, Mr. Millward, you don’t think it _wrong_ to take a little +wine now and then—or a little spirits either!” said my mother, as she +handed a smoking tumbler of gin-and-water to Mrs. Wilson, who affirmed +that wine sat heavy on her stomach, and whose son Robert was at that +moment helping himself to a pretty stiff glass of the same. + +“By no means!” replied the oracle, with a Jove-like nod; “these things +are all blessings and mercies, if we only knew how to make use of +them.” + +“But Mrs. Graham doesn’t think so. You shall just hear now what she +told us the other day—I _told_ her I’d tell you.” + +And my mother favoured the company with a particular account of that +lady’s mistaken ideas and conduct regarding the matter in hand, +concluding with, “Now, don’t you think it is wrong?” + +“Wrong!” repeated the vicar, with more than common solemnity—“criminal, +I should say—criminal! Not only is it making a fool of the boy, but it +is despising the gifts of Providence, and teaching him to trample them +under his feet.” + +He then entered more fully into the question, and explained at large +the folly and impiety of such a proceeding. My mother heard him with +profoundest reverence; and even Mrs. Wilson vouchsafed to rest her +tongue for a moment, and listen in silence, while she complacently +sipped her gin-and-water. Mr. Lawrence sat with his elbow on the table, +carelessly playing with his half-empty wine-glass, and covertly smiling +to himself. + +“But don’t you think, Mr. Millward,” suggested he, when at length that +gentleman paused in his discourse, “that when a child may be naturally +prone to intemperance—by the fault of its parents or ancestors, for +instance—some precautions are advisable?” (Now it was generally +believed that Mr. Lawrence’s father had shortened his days by +intemperance.) + +“Some precautions, it may be; but temperance, sir, is one thing, and +abstinence another.” + +“But I have heard that, with some persons, temperance—that is, +moderation—is almost impossible; and if abstinence be an evil (which +some have doubted), no one will deny that excess is a greater. Some +parents have entirely prohibited their children from tasting +intoxicating liquors; but a parent’s authority cannot last for ever; +children are naturally prone to hanker after forbidden things; and a +child, in such a case, would be likely to have a strong curiosity to +taste, and try the effect of what has been so lauded and enjoyed by +others, so strictly forbidden to himself—which curiosity would +generally be gratified on the first convenient opportunity; and the +restraint once broken, serious consequences might ensue. I don’t +pretend to be a judge of such matters, but it seems to me, that this +plan of Mrs. Graham’s, as you describe it, Mrs. Markham, extraordinary +as it may be, is not without its advantages; for here you see the child +is delivered at once from temptation; he has no secret curiosity, no +hankering desire; he is as well acquainted with the tempting liquors as +he ever wishes to be; and is thoroughly disgusted with them, without +having suffered from their effects.” + +“And is that right, sir? Have I not proven to you how wrong it is—how +contrary to Scripture and to reason, to teach a child to look with +contempt and disgust upon the blessings of Providence, instead of to +use them aright?” + +“You may consider laudanum a blessing of Providence, sir,” replied Mr. +Lawrence, smiling; “and yet, you will allow that most of us had better +abstain from it, even in moderation; but,” added he, “I would not +desire you to follow out my simile too closely—in witness whereof I +finish my glass.” + +“And take another, I hope, Mr. Lawrence,” said my mother, pushing the +bottle towards him. + +He politely declined, and pushing his chair a little away from the +table, leant back towards me—I was seated a trifle behind, on the sofa +beside Eliza Millward—and carelessly asked me if I knew Mrs. Graham. + +“I have met her once or twice,” I replied. + +“What do you think of her?” + +“I cannot say that I like her much. She is handsome—or rather I should +say distinguished and interesting—in her appearance, but by no means +amiable—a woman liable to take strong prejudices, I should fancy, and +stick to them through thick and thin, twisting everything into +conformity with her own preconceived opinions—too hard, too sharp, too +bitter for my taste.” + +He made no reply, but looked down and bit his lip, and shortly after +rose and sauntered up to Miss Wilson, as much repelled by me, I fancy, +as attracted by her. I scarcely noticed it at the time, but afterwards +I was led to recall this and other trifling facts, of a similar nature, +to my remembrance, when—but I must not anticipate. + +We wound up the evening with dancing—our worthy pastor thinking it no +scandal to be present on the occasion, though one of the village +musicians was engaged to direct our evolutions with his violin. But +Mary Millward obstinately refused to join us; and so did Richard +Wilson, though my mother earnestly entreated him to do so, and even +offered to be his partner. + +We managed very well without them, however. With a single set of +quadrilles, and several country dances, we carried it on to a pretty +late hour; and at length, having called upon our musician to strike up +a waltz, I was just about to whirl Eliza round in that delightful +dance, accompanied by Lawrence and Jane Wilson, and Fergus and Rose, +when Mr. Millward interposed with:—“No, no; I don’t allow that! Come, +it’s time to be going now.” + +“Oh, no, papa!” pleaded Eliza. + +“High time, my girl—high time! Moderation in all things, remember! +That’s the plan—‘Let your moderation be known unto all men!’” + +But in revenge I followed Eliza into the dimly-lighted passage, where, +under pretence of helping her on with her shawl, I fear I must plead +guilty to snatching a kiss behind her father’s back, while he was +enveloping his throat and chin in the folds of a mighty comforter. But +alas! in turning round, there was my mother close beside me. The +consequence was, that no sooner were the guests departed, than I was +doomed to a very serious remonstrance, which unpleasantly checked the +galloping course of my spirits, and made a disagreeable close to the +evening. + +“My dear Gilbert,” said she, “I wish you wouldn’t do so! You know how +deeply I have your advantage at heart, how I love you and prize you +above everything else in the world, and how much I long to see you well +settled in life—and how bitterly it would grieve me to see you married +to that girl—or any other in the neighbourhood. What you _see_ in her I +don’t know. It isn’t only the want of money that I think about—nothing +of the kind—but there’s neither beauty, nor cleverness, nor goodness, +nor anything else that’s desirable. If you knew your own value, as I +do, you wouldn’t dream of it. Do wait awhile and see! If you bind +yourself to her, you’ll repent it all your lifetime when you look round +and see how many better there are. Take my word for it, you will.” + +“Well, mother, do be quiet!—I hate to be lectured!—I’m not going to +marry yet, I tell you; but—dear me! mayn’t I enjoy myself at _all?_” + +“Yes, my dear boy, but not in that way. Indeed, you shouldn’t do such +things. You would be wronging the girl, if she were what she ought to +be; but I assure you she is as artful a little hussy as anybody need +wish to see; and you’ll get entangled in her snares before you know +where you are. And if you _do_ marry her, Gilbert, you’ll break my +heart—so there’s an end of it.” + +“Well, don’t cry about it, mother,” said I, for the tears were gushing +from her eyes; “there, let that kiss efface the one I gave Eliza; don’t +abuse her any more, and set your mind at rest; for I’ll promise +never—that is, I’ll promise to think twice before I take any important +step you seriously disapprove of.” + +So saying, I lighted my candle, and went to bed, considerably quenched +in spirit. + + + + + CHAPTER V + + +It was about the close of the month, that, yielding at length to the +urgent importunities of Rose, I accompanied her in a visit to Wildfell +Hall. To our surprise, we were ushered into a room where the first +object that met the eye was a painter’s easel, with a table beside it +covered with rolls of canvas, bottles of oil and varnish, palette, +brushes, paints, &c. Leaning against the wall were several sketches in +various stages of progression, and a few finished paintings—mostly of +landscapes and figures. + +“I must make you welcome to my studio,” said Mrs. Graham; “there is no +fire in the sitting-room to-day, and it is rather too cold to show you +into a place with an empty grate.” + +And disengaging a couple of chairs from the artistical lumber that +usurped them, she bid us be seated, and resumed her place beside the +easel—not facing it exactly, but now and then glancing at the picture +upon it while she conversed, and giving it an occasional touch with her +brush, as if she found it impossible to wean her attention entirely +from her occupation to fix it upon her guests. It was a view of +Wildfell Hall, as seen at early morning from the field below, rising in +dark relief against a sky of clear silvery blue, with a few red streaks +on the horizon, faithfully drawn and coloured, and very elegantly and +artistically handled. + +“I see your heart is in your work, Mrs. Graham,” observed I: “I must +beg you to go on with it; for if you suffer our presence to interrupt +you, we shall be constrained to regard ourselves as unwelcome +intruders.” + +“Oh, no!” replied she, throwing her brush on to the table, as if +startled into politeness. “I am not so beset with visitors but that I +can readily spare a few minutes to the few that do favour me with their +company.” + +“You have almost completed your painting,” said I, approaching to +observe it more closely, and surveying it with a greater degree of +admiration and delight than I cared to express. “A few more touches in +the foreground will finish it, I should think. But why have you called +it Fernley Manor, Cumberland, instead of Wildfell Hall, ——shire?” I +asked, alluding to the name she had traced in small characters at the +bottom of the canvas. + +But immediately I was sensible of having committed an act of +impertinence in so doing; for she coloured and hesitated; but after a +moment’s pause, with a kind of desperate frankness, she replied:— + +“Because I have friends—acquaintances at least—in the world, from whom +I desire my present abode to be concealed; and as they might see the +picture, and might possibly recognise the style in spite of the false +initials I have put in the corner, I take the precaution to give a +false name to the place also, in order to put them on a wrong scent, if +they should attempt to trace me out by it.” + +“Then you don’t intend to keep the picture?” said I, anxious to say +anything to change the subject. + +“No; I cannot afford to paint for my own amusement.” + +“Mamma sends all her pictures to London,” said Arthur; “and somebody +sells them for her there, and sends us the money.” + +In looking round upon the other pieces, I remarked a pretty sketch of +Lindenhope from the top of the hill; another view of the old hall +basking in the sunny haze of a quiet summer afternoon; and a simple but +striking little picture of a child brooding, with looks of silent but +deep and sorrowful regret, over a handful of withered flowers, with +glimpses of dark low hills and autumnal fields behind it, and a dull +beclouded sky above. + +“You see there is a sad dearth of subjects,” observed the fair artist. +“I took the old hall once on a moonlight night, and I suppose I must +take it again on a snowy winter’s day, and then again on a dark cloudy +evening; for I really have nothing else to paint. I have been told that +you have a fine view of the sea somewhere in the neighbourhood. Is it +true?—and is it within walking distance?” + +“Yes, if you don’t object to walking four miles—or nearly so—little +short of eight miles, there and back—and over a somewhat rough, +fatiguing road.” + +“In what direction does it lie?” + +I described the situation as well as I could, and was entering upon an +explanation of the various roads, lanes, and fields to be traversed in +order to reach it, the goings straight on, and turnings to the right +and the left, when she checked me with,— + +“Oh, stop! don’t tell me now: I shall forget every word of your +directions before I require them. I shall not think about going till +next spring; and then, perhaps, I may trouble you. At present we have +the winter before us, and—” + +She suddenly paused, with a suppressed exclamation, started up from her +seat, and saying, “Excuse me one moment,” hurried from the room, and +shut the door behind her. + +Curious to see what had startled her so, I looked towards the +window—for her eyes had been carelessly fixed upon it the moment +before—and just beheld the skirts of a man’s coat vanishing behind a +large holly-bush that stood between the window and the porch. + +“It’s mamma’s friend,” said Arthur. + +Rose and I looked at each other. + +“I don’t know what to make of her at all,” whispered Rose. + +The child looked at her in grave surprise. She straightway began to +talk to him on indifferent matters, while I amused myself with looking +at the pictures. There was one in an obscure corner that I had not +before observed. It was a little child, seated on the grass with its +lap full of flowers. The tiny features and large blue eyes, smiling +through a shock of light brown curls, shaken over the forehead as it +bent above its treasure, bore sufficient resemblance to those of the +young gentleman before me to proclaim it a portrait of Arthur Graham in +his early infancy. + +In taking this up to bring it to the light, I discovered another behind +it, with its face to the wall. I ventured to take that up too. It was +the portrait of a gentleman in the full prime of youthful +manhood—handsome enough, and not badly executed; but if done by the +same hand as the others, it was evidently some years before; for there +was far more careful minuteness of detail, and less of that freshness +of colouring and freedom of handling that delighted and surprised me in +them. Nevertheless, I surveyed it with considerable interest. There was +a certain individuality in the features and expression that stamped it, +at once, a successful likeness. The bright blue eyes regarded the +spectator with a kind of lurking drollery—you almost expected to see +them wink; the lips—a little too voluptuously full—seemed ready to +break into a smile; the warmly-tinted cheeks were embellished with a +luxuriant growth of reddish whiskers; while the bright chestnut hair, +clustering in abundant, wavy curls, trespassed too much upon the +forehead, and seemed to intimate that the owner thereof was prouder of +his beauty than his intellect—as, perhaps, he had reason to be; and yet +he looked no fool. + +I had not had the portrait in my hands two minutes before the fair +artist returned. + +“Only some one come about the pictures,” said she, in apology for her +abrupt departure: “I told him to wait.” + +“I fear it will be considered an act of impertinence,” I said “to +presume to look at a picture that the artist has turned to the wall; +but may I ask—” + +“It _is_ an act of very great impertinence, sir; and therefore I beg +you will ask nothing about it, for your curiosity will not be +gratified,” replied she, attempting to cover the tartness of her rebuke +with a smile; but I could see, by her flushed cheek and kindling eye, +that she was seriously annoyed. + +“I was only going to ask if you had painted it yourself,” said I, +sulkily resigning the picture into her hands; for without a grain of +ceremony she took it from me; and quickly restoring it to the dark +corner, with its face to the wall, placed the other against it as +before, and then turned to me and laughed. + +But I was in no humour for jesting. I carelessly turned to the window, +and stood looking out upon the desolate garden, leaving her to talk to +Rose for a minute or two; and then, telling my sister it was time to +go, shook hands with the little gentleman, coolly bowed to the lady, +and moved towards the door. But, having bid adieu to Rose, Mrs. Graham +presented her hand to me, saying, with a soft voice, and by no means a +disagreeable smile,—“Let not the sun go down upon your wrath, Mr. +Markham. I’m sorry I offended you by my abruptness.” + +When a lady condescends to apologise, there is no keeping one’s anger, +of course; so we parted good friends for once; and _this_ time I +squeezed her hand with a cordial, not a spiteful pressure. + + + + + CHAPTER VI + + +During the next four months I did not enter Mrs. Graham’s house, nor +she mine; but still the ladies continued to talk about her, and still +our acquaintance continued, though slowly, to advance. As for their +talk, I paid but little attention to that (when it related to the fair +hermit, I mean), and the only information I derived from it was, that +one fine frosty day she had ventured to take her little boy as far as +the vicarage, and that, unfortunately, nobody was at home but Miss +Millward; nevertheless, she had sat a long time, and, by all accounts, +they had found a good deal to say to each other, and parted with a +mutual desire to meet again. But Mary liked children, and fond mammas +like those who can duly appreciate their treasures. + +But sometimes I saw her myself, not only when she came to church, but +when she was out on the hills with her son, whether taking a long, +purpose-like walk, or—on special fine days—leisurely rambling over the +moor or the bleak pasture-lands, surrounding the old hall, herself with +a book in her hand, her son gambolling about her; and, on any of these +occasions, when I caught sight of her in my solitary walks or rides, or +while following my agricultural pursuits, I generally contrived to meet +or overtake her, for I rather liked to see Mrs. Graham, and to talk to +her, and I decidedly liked to talk to her little companion, whom, when +once the ice of his shyness was fairly broken, I found to be a very +amiable, intelligent, and entertaining little fellow; and we soon +became excellent friends—how much to the gratification of his mamma I +cannot undertake to say. I suspected at first that she was desirous of +throwing cold water on this growing intimacy—to quench, as it were, the +kindling flame of our friendship—but discovering, at length, in spite +of her prejudice against me, that I was perfectly harmless, and even +well-intentioned, and that, between myself and my dog, her son derived +a great deal of pleasure from the acquaintance that he would not +otherwise have known, she ceased to object, and even welcomed my coming +with a smile. + +As for Arthur, he would shout his welcome from afar, and run to meet me +fifty yards from his mother’s side. If I happened to be on horseback he +was sure to get a canter or a gallop; or, if there was one of the +draught horses within an available distance, he was treated to a steady +ride upon that, which served his turn almost as well; but his mother +would always follow and trudge beside him—not so much, I believe, to +ensure his safe conduct, as to see that I instilled no objectionable +notions into his infant mind, for she was ever on the watch, and never +would allow him to be taken out of her sight. What pleased her best of +all was to see him romping and racing with Sancho, while I walked by +her side—not, I fear, for love of my company (though I sometimes +deluded myself with that idea), so much as for the delight she took in +seeing her son thus happily engaged in the enjoyment of those active +sports so invigorating to his tender frame, yet so seldom exercised for +want of playmates suited to his years: and, perhaps, her pleasure was +sweetened not a little by the fact of my being with _her_ instead of +with _him_, and therefore incapable of doing him any injury directly or +indirectly, designedly or otherwise, small thanks to her for that same. + +But sometimes, I believe, she really had some little gratification in +conversing with me; and one bright February morning, during twenty +minutes’ stroll along the moor, she laid aside her usual asperity and +reserve, and fairly entered into conversation with me, discoursing with +so much eloquence and depth of thought and feeling on a subject happily +coinciding with my own ideas, and looking so beautiful withal, that I +went home enchanted; and on the way (morally) started to find myself +thinking that, after all, it would, perhaps, be better to spend one’s +days with such a woman than with Eliza Millward; and then I +(figuratively) blushed for my inconstancy. + +On entering the parlour I found Eliza there with Rose, and no one else. +The surprise was not altogether so agreeable as it ought to have been. +We chatted together a long time, but I found her rather frivolous, and +even a little insipid, compared with the more mature and earnest Mrs. +Graham. Alas, for human constancy! + +“However,” thought I, “I ought not to marry Eliza, since my mother so +strongly objects to it, and I ought not to delude the girl with the +idea that I intended to do so. Now, if this mood continue, I shall have +less difficulty in emancipating my affections from her soft yet +unrelenting sway; and, though Mrs. Graham might be equally +objectionable, I may be permitted, like the doctors, to cure a greater +evil by a less, for I shall not fall seriously in love with the young +widow, I think, nor she with me—that’s certain—but if I find a little +pleasure in her society I may surely be allowed to seek it; and if the +star of her divinity be bright enough to dim the lustre of Eliza’s, so +much the better, but I scarcely can think it.” + +And thereafter I seldom suffered a fine day to pass without paying a +visit to Wildfell about the time my new acquaintance usually left her +hermitage; but so frequently was I baulked in my expectations of +another interview, so changeable was she in her times of coming forth +and in her places of resort, so transient were the occasional glimpses +I was able to obtain, that I felt half inclined to think she took as +much pains to avoid my company as I to seek hers; but this was too +disagreeable a supposition to be entertained a moment after it could +conveniently be dismissed. + +One calm, clear afternoon, however, in March, as I was superintending +the rolling of the meadow-land, and the repairing of a hedge in the +valley, I saw Mrs. Graham down by the brook, with a sketch-book in her +hand, absorbed in the exercise of her favourite art, while Arthur was +putting on the time with constructing dams and breakwaters in the +shallow, stony stream. I was rather in want of amusement, and so rare +an opportunity was not to be neglected; so, leaving both meadow and +hedge, I quickly repaired to the spot, but not before Sancho, who, +immediately upon perceiving his young friend, scoured at full gallop +the intervening space, and pounced upon him with an impetuous mirth +that precipitated the child almost into the middle of the beck; but, +happily, the stones preserved him from any serious wetting, while their +smoothness prevented his being too much hurt to laugh at the untoward +event. + +Mrs. Graham was studying the distinctive characters of the different +varieties of trees in their winter nakedness, and copying, with a +spirited, though delicate touch, their various ramifications. She did +not talk much, but I stood and watched the progress of her pencil: it +was a pleasure to behold it so dexterously guided by those fair and +graceful fingers. But ere long their dexterity became impaired, they +began to hesitate, to tremble slightly, and make false strokes, and +then suddenly came to a pause, while their owner laughingly raised her +face to mine, and told me that her sketch did not profit by my +superintendence. + +“Then,” said I, “I’ll talk to Arthur till you’ve done.” + +“I should like to have a ride, Mr. Markham, if mamma will let me,” said +the child. + +“What on, my boy?” + +“I think there’s a horse in that field,” replied he, pointing to where +the strong black mare was pulling the roller. + +“No, no, Arthur; it’s too far,” objected his mother. + +But I promised to bring him safe back after a turn or two up and down +the meadow; and when she looked at his eager face she smiled and let +him go. It was the first time she had even allowed me to take him so +much as half a field’s length from her side. + +[Illustration] + +Enthroned upon his monstrous steed, and solemnly proceeding up and down +the wide, steep field, he looked the very incarnation of quiet, gleeful +satisfaction and delight. The rolling, however, was soon completed; but +when I dismounted the gallant horseman, and restored him to his mother, +she seemed rather displeased at my keeping him so long. She had shut up +her sketch-book, and been, probably, for some minutes impatiently +waiting his return. + +It was now high time to go home, she said, and would have bid me +good-evening, but I was not going to leave her yet: I accompanied her +half-way up the hill. She became more sociable, and I was beginning to +be very happy; but, on coming within sight of the grim old hall, she +stood still, and turned towards me while she spoke, as if expecting I +should go no further, that the conversation would end here, and I +should now take leave and depart—as, indeed, it was time to do, for +“the clear, cold eve” was fast “declining,” the sun had set, and the +gibbous moon was visibly brightening in the pale grey sky; but a +feeling almost of compassion riveted me to the spot. It seemed hard to +leave her to such a lonely, comfortless home. I looked up at it. Silent +and grim it frowned before us. A faint, red light was gleaming from the +lower windows of one wing, but all the other windows were in darkness, +and many exhibited their black, cavernous gulfs, entirely destitute of +glazing or framework. + +“Do you not find it a desolate place to live in?” said I, after a +moment of silent contemplation. + +“I do, sometimes,” replied she. “On winter evenings, when Arthur is in +bed, and I am sitting there alone, hearing the bleak wind moaning round +me and howling through the ruinous old chambers, no books or +occupations can repress the dismal thoughts and apprehensions that come +crowding in—but it is folly to give way to such weakness, I know. If +Rachel is satisfied with such a life, why should not I?—Indeed, I +cannot be too thankful for such an asylum, while it is left me.” + +The closing sentence was uttered in an under-tone, as if spoken rather +to herself than to me. She then bid me good-evening and withdrew. + +I had not proceeded many steps on my way homewards when I perceived Mr. +Lawrence, on his pretty grey pony, coming up the rugged lane that +crossed over the hill-top. I went a little out of my way to speak to +him; for we had not met for some time. + +“Was that Mrs. Graham you were speaking to just now?” said he, after +the first few words of greeting had passed between us. + +“Yes.” + +“Humph! I thought so.” He looked contemplatively at his horse’s mane, +as if he had some serious cause of dissatisfaction with it, or +something else. + +“Well! what then?” + +“Oh, nothing!” replied he. “Only I thought you disliked her,” he +quietly added, curling his classic lip with a slightly sarcastic smile. + +“Suppose I did; mayn’t a man change his mind on further acquaintance?” + +“Yes, of course,” returned he, nicely reducing an entanglement in the +pony’s redundant hoary mane. Then suddenly turning to me, and fixing +his shy, hazel eyes upon me with a steady penetrating gaze, he added, +“Then you _have_ changed your mind?” + +“I can’t say that I have exactly. No; I think I hold the same opinion +respecting her as before—but slightly ameliorated.” + +“Oh!” He looked round for something else to talk about; and glancing up +at the moon, made some remark upon the beauty of the evening, which I +did not answer, as being irrelevant to the subject. + +“Lawrence,” said I, calmly looking him in the face, “are you in love +with Mrs. Graham?” + +Instead of his being deeply offended at this, as I more than half +expected he would, the first start of surprise, at the audacious +question, was followed by a tittering laugh, as if he was highly amused +at the idea. + +“_I_ in love with her!” repeated he. “What makes you dream of such a +thing?” + +“From the interest you take in the progress of my acquaintance with the +lady, and the changes of my opinion concerning her, I thought you might +be jealous.” + +He laughed again. “Jealous! no. But I thought you were going to marry +Eliza Millward.” + +“You thought wrong, then; I am not going to marry either one or the +other—that I know of—” + +“Then I think you’d better let them alone.” + +“Are you going to marry Jane Wilson?” + +He coloured, and played with the mane again, but answered—“No, I think +not.” + +“Then you had better let her alone.” + +“She won’t let me alone,” he might have said; but he only looked silly +and said nothing for the space of half a minute, and then made another +attempt to turn the conversation; and this time I let it pass; for he +had borne enough: another word on the subject would have been like the +last atom that breaks the camel’s back. + +I was too late for tea; but my mother had kindly kept the teapot and +muffin warm upon the hobs, and, though she scolded me a little, readily +admitted my excuses; and when I complained of the flavour of the +overdrawn tea, she poured the remainder into the slop-basin, and bade +Rose put some fresh into the pot, and reboil the kettle, which offices +were performed with great commotion, and certain remarkable comments. + +“Well!—if it had been me now, I should have had no tea at all—if it had +been Fergus, even, he would have to put up with such as there was, and +been told to be thankful, for it was far too good for him; but _you_—we +can’t do too much for you. It’s always so—if there’s anything +particularly nice at table, mamma winks and nods at me to abstain from +it, and if I don’t attend to that, she whispers, ‘Don’t eat so much of +that, Rose; Gilbert will like it for his supper.’—_I’m_ nothing at all. +In the parlour, it’s ‘Come, Rose, put away your things, and let’s have +the room nice and tidy against they come in; and keep up a good fire; +Gilbert likes a cheerful fire.’ In the kitchen—‘Make that pie a large +one, Rose; I daresay the boys’ll be hungry; and don’t put so much +pepper in, they’ll not like it, I’m sure’—or, ‘Rose, don’t put so many +spices in the pudding, Gilbert likes it plain,’—or, ‘Mind you put +plenty of currants in the cake, Fergus liked plenty.’ If I say, ‘Well, +Mamma, _I_ don’t,’ I’m told I ought not to think of myself. ‘You know, +Rose, in all household matters, we have only two things to consider, +first, what’s proper to be done; and, secondly, what’s most agreeable +to the gentlemen of the house—anything will do for the ladies.’” + +“And very good doctrine too,” said my mother. “Gilbert thinks so, I’m +sure.” + +“Very convenient doctrine, for us, at all events,” said I; “but if you +would really study my pleasure, mother, you must consider your own +comfort and convenience a little more than you do—as for Rose, I have +no doubt she’ll take care of herself; and whenever she does make a +sacrifice or perform a remarkable act of devotedness, she’ll take good +care to let me know the extent of it. But for _you_, I might sink into +the grossest condition of self-indulgence and carelessness about the +wants of others, from the mere habit of being constantly cared for +myself, and having all my wants anticipated or immediately supplied, +while left in total ignorance of what is done for me,—if Rose did not +enlighten me now and then; and I should receive all your kindness as a +matter of course, and never know how much I owe you.” + +“Ah! and you never _will_ know, Gilbert, till you’re married. Then, +when you’ve got some trifling, self-conceited girl like Eliza Millward, +careless of everything but her own immediate pleasure and advantage, or +some misguided, obstinate woman, like Mrs. Graham, ignorant of her +principal duties, and clever only in what concerns her least to +know—then you’ll find the difference.” + +“It will do me good, mother; I was not sent into the world merely to +exercise the good capacities and good feelings of others—was I?—but to +exert my own towards them; and when I marry, I shall expect to find +more pleasure in making my wife happy and comfortable, than in being +made so by her: I would rather give than receive.” + +“Oh! that’s all nonsense, my dear. It’s mere boy’s talk that! You’ll +soon tire of petting and humouring your wife, be she ever so charming, +and _then_ comes the trial.” + +“Well, then, we must bear one another’s burdens.” + +“Then you must fall each into your proper place. You’ll do your +business, and she, if she’s worthy of you, will do hers; but it’s your +business to please yourself, and hers to please you. I’m sure your +poor, dear father was as good a husband as ever lived, and after the +first six months or so were over, I should as soon have expected him to +fly, as to put himself out of his way to pleasure me. He always said I +was a good wife, and did my duty; and he always did his—bless him!—he +was steady and punctual, seldom found fault without a reason, always +did justice to my good dinners, and hardly ever spoiled my cookery by +delay—and that’s as much as any woman can expect of any man.” + +Is it so, Halford? Is that the extent of _your_ domestic virtues; and +does your happy wife exact no more? + + + + + CHAPTER VII + + +Not many days after this, on a mild sunny morning—rather soft under +foot; for the last fall of snow was only just wasted away, leaving yet +a thin ridge, here and there, lingering on the fresh green grass +beneath the hedges; but beside them already, the young primroses were +peeping from among their moist, dark foliage, and the lark above was +singing of summer, and hope, and love, and every heavenly thing—I was +out on the hill-side, enjoying these delights, and looking after the +well-being of my young lambs and their mothers, when, on glancing round +me, I beheld three persons ascending from the vale below. They were +Eliza Millward, Fergus, and Rose; so I crossed the field to meet them; +and, being told they were going to Wildfell Hall, I declared myself +willing to go with them, and offering my arm to Eliza, who readily +accepted it in lieu of my brother’s, told the latter he might go back, +for I would accompany the ladies. + +“I beg _your_ pardon!” exclaimed he. “It’s the ladies that are +accompanying me, not I them. You had all had a peep at this wonderful +stranger but me, and I could endure my wretched ignorance no +longer—come what would, I must be satisfied; so I begged Rose to go +with me to the Hall, and introduce me to her at once. She swore she +would not, unless Miss Eliza would go too; so I ran to the vicarage and +fetched her; and we’ve come hooked all the way, as fond as a pair of +lovers—and now you’ve taken her from me; and you want to deprive me of +my walk and my visit besides. Go back to your fields and your cattle, +you lubberly fellow; you’re not fit to associate with ladies and +gentlemen like us, that have nothing to do but to run snooking about to +our neighbours’ houses, peeping into their private corners, and +scenting out their secrets, and picking holes in their coats, when we +don’t find them ready made to our hands—you don’t understand such +refined sources of enjoyment.” + +“Can’t you both go?” suggested Eliza, disregarding the latter half of +the speech. + +“Yes, both, to be sure!” cried Rose; “the more the merrier—and I’m sure +we shall want all the cheerfulness we can carry with us to that great, +dark, gloomy room, with its narrow latticed windows, and its dismal old +furniture—unless she shows us into her studio again.” + +So we went all in a body; and the meagre old maid-servant, that opened +the door, ushered us into an apartment such as Rose had described to me +as the scene of her first introduction to Mrs. Graham, a tolerably +spacious and lofty room, but obscurely lighted by the old-fashioned +windows, the ceiling, panels, and chimney-piece of grim black oak—the +latter elaborately but not very tastefully carved,—with tables and +chairs to match, an old bookcase on one side of the fire-place, stocked +with a motley assemblage of books, and an elderly cabinet piano on the +other. + +The lady was seated in a stiff, high-backed arm-chair, with a small +round table, containing a desk and a work-basket on one side of her, +and her little boy on the other, who stood leaning his elbow on her +knee, and reading to her, with wonderful fluency, from a small volume +that lay in her lap; while she rested her hand on his shoulder, and +abstractedly played with the long, wavy curls that fell on his ivory +neck. They struck me as forming a pleasing contrast to all the +surrounding objects; but of course their position was immediately +changed on our entrance. I could only observe the picture during the +few brief seconds that Rachel held the door for our admittance. + +I do not think Mrs. Graham was particularly delighted to see us: there +was something indescribably chilly in her quiet, calm civility; but I +did not talk much to her. Seating myself near the window, a little back +from the circle, I called Arthur to me, and he and I and Sancho amused +ourselves very pleasantly together, while the two young ladies baited +his mother with small talk, and Fergus sat opposite with his legs +crossed and his hands in his breeches-pockets, leaning back in his +chair, and staring now up at the ceiling, now straight forward at his +hostess (in a manner that made me strongly inclined to kick him out of +the room), now whistling sotto voce to himself a snatch of a favourite +air, now interrupting the conversation, or filling up a pause (as the +case might be) with some most impertinent question or remark. At one +time it was,—“It, amazes me, Mrs. Graham, how you could choose such a +dilapidated, rickety old place as this to live in. If you couldn’t +afford to occupy the whole house, and have it mended up, why couldn’t +you take a neat little cottage?” + +“Perhaps I was too proud, Mr. Fergus,” replied she, smiling; “perhaps I +took a particular fancy for this romantic, old-fashioned place—but, +indeed, it has many advantages over a cottage—in the first place, you +see, the rooms are larger and more airy; in the second place, the +unoccupied apartments, which I don’t pay for, may serve as +lumber-rooms, if I have anything to put in them; and they are very +useful for my little boy to run about in on rainy days when he can’t go +out; and then there is the garden for him to play in, and for me to +work in. You see I have effected some little improvement already,” +continued she, turning to the window. “There is a bed of young +vegetables in that corner, and here are some snowdrops and primroses +already in bloom—and there, too, is a yellow crocus just opening in the +sunshine.” + +“But then how can you bear such a situation—your nearest neighbours two +miles distant, and nobody looking in or passing by? Rose would go stark +mad in such a place. She can’t put on life unless she sees half a dozen +fresh gowns and bonnets a day—not to speak of the faces within; but you +might sit watching at these windows all day long, and never see so much +as an old woman carrying her eggs to market.” + +“I am not sure the loneliness of the place was not one of its chief +recommendations. I take no pleasure in watching people pass the +windows; and I like to be quiet.” + +“Oh! as good as to say you wish we would all of us mind our own +business, and let you alone.” + +“No, I dislike an extensive acquaintance; but if I have a few friends, +of course I am glad to see them occasionally. No one can be happy in +eternal solitude. Therefore, Mr. Fergus, if you choose to enter my +house as a friend, I will make you welcome; if not, I must confess, I +would rather you kept away.” She then turned and addressed some +observation to Rose or Eliza. + +“And, Mrs. Graham,” said he again, five minutes after, “we were +disputing, as we came along, a question that you can readily decide for +us, as it mainly regarded yourself—and, indeed, we often hold +discussions about you; for some of us have nothing better to do than to +talk about our neighbours’ concerns, and we, the indigenous plants of +the soil, have known each other so long, and talked each other over so +often, that we are quite sick of that game; so that a stranger coming +amongst us makes an invaluable addition to our exhausted sources of +amusement. Well, the question, or questions, you are requested to +solve—” + +“Hold your tongue, Fergus!” cried Rose, in a fever of apprehension and +wrath. + +“I won’t, I tell you. The questions you are requested to solve are +these:—First, concerning your birth, extraction, and previous +residence. Some will have it that you are a foreigner, and some an +Englishwoman; some a native of the north country, and some of the +south; some say—” + +“Well, Mr. Fergus, I’ll tell you. I’m an Englishwoman—and I don’t see +why any one should doubt it—and I was born in the country, neither in +the extreme north nor south of our happy isle; and in the country I +have chiefly passed my life, and now I hope you are satisfied; for I am +not disposed to answer any more questions at present.” + +“Except this—” + +“No, not one more!” laughed she, and, instantly quitting her seat, she +sought refuge at the window by which I was seated, and, in very +desperation, to escape my brother’s persecutions, endeavoured to draw +me into conversation. + +“Mr. Markham,” said she, her rapid utterance and heightened colour too +plainly evincing her disquietude, “have you forgotten the fine sea-view +we were speaking of some time ago? I think I must trouble you, now, to +tell me the nearest way to it; for if this beautiful weather continue, +I shall, perhaps, be able to walk there, and take my sketch; I have +exhausted every other subject for painting; and I long to see it.” + +I was about to comply with her request, but Rose would not suffer me to +proceed. + +“Oh, don’t tell her, Gilbert!” cried she; “she shall go with us. It’s +—— Bay you are thinking about, I suppose, Mrs. Graham? It is a very +long walk, too far for you, and out of the question for Arthur. But we +were thinking about making a picnic to see it some fine day; and, if +you will wait till the settled fine weather comes, I’m sure we shall +all be delighted to have you amongst us.” + +Poor Mrs. Graham looked dismayed, and attempted to make excuses, but +Rose, either compassionating her lonely life, or anxious to cultivate +her acquaintance, was determined to have her; and every objection was +overruled. She was told it would only be a small party, and all +friends, and that the best view of all was from —— Cliffs, full five +miles distant. + +“Just a nice walk for the gentlemen,” continued Rose; “but the ladies +will drive and walk by turns; for we shall have our pony-carriage, +which will be plenty large enough to contain little Arthur and three +ladies, together with your sketching apparatus, and our provisions.” + +So the proposal was finally acceded to; and, after some further +discussion respecting the time and manner of the projected excursion, +we rose, and took our leave. + +But this was only March: a cold, wet April, and two weeks of May passed +over before we could venture forth on our expedition with the +reasonable hope of obtaining that pleasure we sought in pleasant +prospects, cheerful society, fresh air, good cheer and exercise, +without the alloy of bad roads, cold winds, or threatening clouds. +Then, on a glorious morning, we gathered our forces and set forth. The +company consisted of Mrs. and Master Graham, Mary and Eliza Millward, +Jane and Richard Wilson, and Rose, Fergus, and Gilbert Markham. + +Mr. Lawrence had been invited to join us, but, for some reason best +known to himself, had refused to give us his company. I had solicited +the favour myself. When I did so, he hesitated, and asked who were +going. Upon my naming Miss Wilson among the rest, he seemed half +inclined to go, but when I mentioned Mrs. Graham, thinking it might be +a further inducement, it appeared to have a contrary effect, and he +declined it altogether, and, to confess the truth, the decision was not +displeasing to me, though I could scarcely tell you why. + +It was about midday when we reached the place of our destination. Mrs. +Graham walked all the way to the cliffs; and little Arthur walked the +greater part of it too; for he was now much more hardy and active than +when he first entered the neighbourhood, and he did not like being in +the carriage with strangers, while all his four friends, mamma, and +Sancho, and Mr. Markham, and Miss Millward, were on foot, journeying +far behind, or passing through distant fields and lanes. + +I have a very pleasant recollection of that walk, along the hard, +white, sunny road, shaded here and there with bright green trees, and +adorned with flowery banks and blossoming hedges of delicious +fragrance; or through pleasant fields and lanes, all glorious in the +sweet flowers and brilliant verdure of delightful May. It was true, +Eliza was not beside me; but she was with her friends in the +pony-carriage, as happy, I trusted, as I was; and even when we +pedestrians, having forsaken the highway for a short cut across the +fields, beheld the little carriage far away, disappearing amid the +green, embowering trees, I did not hate those trees for snatching the +dear little bonnet and shawl from my sight, nor did I feel that all +those intervening objects lay between my happiness and me; for, to +confess the truth, I was too happy in the company of Mrs. Graham to +regret the absence of Eliza Millward. + +The former, it is true, was most provokingly unsociable at +first—seemingly bent upon talking to no one but Mary Millward and +Arthur. She and Mary journeyed along together, generally with the child +between them;—but where the road permitted, I always walked on the +other side of her, Richard Wilson taking the other side of Miss +Millward, and Fergus roving here and there according to his fancy; and, +after a while, she became more friendly, and at length I succeeded in +securing her attention almost entirely to myself—and then I was happy +indeed; for whenever she did condescend to converse, I liked to listen. +Where her opinions and sentiments tallied with mine, it was her extreme +good sense, her exquisite taste and feeling, that delighted me; where +they differed, it was still her uncompromising boldness in the avowal +or defence of that difference, her earnestness and keenness, that +piqued my fancy: and even when she angered me by her unkind words or +looks, and her uncharitable conclusions respecting me, it only made me +the more dissatisfied with myself for having so unfavourably impressed +her, and the more desirous to vindicate my character and disposition in +her eyes, and, if possible, to win her esteem. + +At length our walk was ended. The increasing height and boldness of the +hills had for some time intercepted the prospect; but, on gaining the +summit of a steep acclivity, and looking downward, an opening lay +before us—and the blue sea burst upon our sight!—deep violet blue—not +deadly calm, but covered with glinting breakers—diminutive white specks +twinkling on its bosom, and scarcely to be distinguished, by the +keenest vision, from the little seamews that sported above, their white +wings glittering in the sunshine: only one or two vessels were visible, +and those were far away. + +I looked at my companion to see what she thought of this glorious +scene. She said nothing: but she stood still, and fixed her eyes upon +it with a gaze that assured me she was not disappointed. She had very +fine eyes, by-the-by—I don’t know whether I have told you before, but +they were full of soul, large, clear, and nearly black—not brown, but +very dark grey. A cool, reviving breeze blew from the sea—soft, pure, +salubrious: it waved her drooping ringlets, and imparted a livelier +colour to her usually too pallid lip and cheek. She felt its +exhilarating influence, and so did I—I felt it tingling through my +frame, but dared not give way to it while she remained so quiet. There +was an aspect of subdued exhilaration in her face, that kindled into +almost a smile of exalted, glad intelligence as her eye met mine. Never +had she looked so lovely: never had my heart so warmly cleaved to her +as now. Had we been left two minutes longer standing there alone, I +cannot answer for the consequences. Happily for my discretion, perhaps +for my enjoyment during the remainder of the day, we were speedily +summoned to the repast—a very respectable collation, which Rose, +assisted by Miss Wilson and Eliza, who, having shared her seat in the +carriage, had arrived with her a little before the rest, had set out +upon an elevated platform overlooking the sea, and sheltered from the +hot sun by a shelving rock and overhanging trees. + +Mrs. Graham seated herself at a distance from me. Eliza was my nearest +neighbour. She exerted herself to be agreeable, in her gentle, +unobtrusive way, and was, no doubt, as fascinating and charming as +ever, if I could only have felt it. But soon my heart began to warm +towards her once again; and we were all very merry and happy +together—as far as I could see—throughout the protracted social meal. + +When that was over, Rose summoned Fergus to help her to gather up the +fragments, and the knives, dishes, &c., and restore them to the +baskets; and Mrs. Graham took her camp-stool and drawing materials; and +having begged Miss Millward to take charge of her precious son, and +strictly enjoined him not to wander from his new guardian’s side, she +left us and proceeded along the steep, stony hill, to a loftier, more +precipitous eminence at some distance, whence a still finer prospect +was to be had, where she preferred taking her sketch, though some of +the ladies told her it was a frightful place, and advised her not to +attempt it. + +When she was gone, I felt as if there was to be no more fun—though it +is difficult to say what she had contributed to the hilarity of the +party. No jests, and little laughter, had escaped her lips; but her +smile had animated my mirth; a keen observation or a cheerful word from +her had insensibly sharpened my wits, and thrown an interest over all +that was done and said by the rest. Even my conversation with Eliza had +been enlivened by her presence, though I knew it not; and now that she +was gone, Eliza’s playful nonsense ceased to amuse me—nay, grew +wearisome to my soul, and I grew weary of amusing her: I felt myself +drawn by an irresistible attraction to that distant point where the +fair artist sat and plied her solitary task—and not long did I attempt +to resist it: while my little neighbour was exchanging a few words with +Miss Wilson, I rose and cannily slipped away. A few rapid strides, and +a little active clambering, soon brought me to the place where she was +seated—a narrow ledge of rock at the very verge of the cliff, which +descended with a steep, precipitous slant, quite down to the rocky +shore. + +She did not hear me coming: the falling of my shadow across her paper +gave her an electric start; and she looked hastily round—any other lady +of my acquaintance would have screamed under such a sudden alarm. + +“Oh! I didn’t know it was you.—Why did you startle me so?” said she, +somewhat testily. “I hate anybody to come upon me so unexpectedly.” + +“Why, what did you take me for?” said I: “if I had known you were so +nervous, I would have been more cautious; but—” + +“Well, never mind. What did you come for? are they all coming?” + +“No; this little ledge could scarcely contain them all.” + +“I’m glad, for I’m tired of talking.” + +“Well, then, I won’t talk. I’ll only sit and watch your drawing.” + +“Oh, but you know I don’t like that.” + +“Then I’ll content myself with admiring this magnificent prospect.” + +She made no objection to this; and, for some time, sketched away in +silence. But I could not help stealing a glance, now and then, from the +splendid view at our feet to the elegant white hand that held the +pencil, and the graceful neck and glossy raven curls that drooped over +the paper. + +“Now,” thought I, “if I had but a pencil and a morsel of paper, I could +make a lovelier sketch than hers, admitting I had the power to +delineate faithfully what is before me.” + +But, though this satisfaction was denied me, I was very well content to +sit beside her there, and say nothing. + +“Are you there still, Mr. Markham?” said she at length, looking round +upon me—for I was seated a little behind on a mossy projection of the +cliff.—“Why don’t you go and amuse yourself with your friends?” + +“Because I am tired of them, like you; and I shall have enough of them +to-morrow—or at any time hence; but you I may not have the pleasure of +seeing again for I know not how long.” + +“What was Arthur doing when you came away?” + +“He was with Miss Millward, where you left him—all right, but hoping +mamma would not be long away. You didn’t intrust him to me, by-the-by,” +I grumbled, “though I had the honour of a much longer acquaintance; but +Miss Millward has the art of conciliating and amusing children,” I +carelessly added, “if she is good for nothing else.” + +“Miss Millward has many estimable qualities, which such as you cannot +be expected to perceive or appreciate. Will you tell Arthur that I +shall come in a few minutes?” + +“If that be the case, I will wait, with your permission, till those few +minutes are past; and then I can assist you to descend this difficult +path.” + +“Thank you—I always manage best, on such occasions, without +assistance.” + +“But, at least, I can carry your stool and sketch-book.” + +She did not deny me this favour; but I was rather offended at her +evident desire to be rid of me, and was beginning to repent of my +pertinacity, when she somewhat appeased me by consulting my taste and +judgment about some doubtful matter in her drawing. My opinion, +happily, met her approbation, and the improvement I suggested was +adopted without hesitation. + +“I have often wished in vain,” said she, “for another’s judgment to +appeal to when I could scarcely trust the direction of my own eye and +head, they having been so long occupied with the contemplation of a +single object as to become almost incapable of forming a proper idea +respecting it.” + +“That,” replied I, “is only one of many evils to which a solitary life +exposes us.” + +“True,” said she; and again we relapsed into silence. + +About two minutes after, however, she declared her sketch completed, +and closed the book. + +On returning to the scene of our repast we found all the company had +deserted it, with the exception of three—Mary Millward, Richard Wilson, +and Arthur Graham. The younger gentleman lay fast asleep with his head +pillowed on the lady’s lap; the other was seated beside her with a +pocket edition of some classic author in his hand. He never went +anywhere without such a companion wherewith to improve his leisure +moments: all time seemed lost that was not devoted to study, or +exacted, by his physical nature, for the bare support of life. Even now +he could not abandon himself to the enjoyment of that pure air and +balmy sunshine—that splendid prospect, and those soothing sounds, the +music of the waves and of the soft wind in the sheltering trees above +him—not even with a lady by his side (though not a very charming one, I +will allow)—he must pull out his book, and make the most of his time +while digesting his temperate meal, and reposing his weary limbs, +unused to so much exercise. + +Perhaps, however, he spared a moment to exchange a word or a glance +with his companion now and then—at any rate, she did not appear at all +resentful of his conduct; for her homely features wore an expression of +unusual cheerfulness and serenity, and she was studying his pale, +thoughtful face with great complacency when we arrived. + +The journey homeward was by no means so agreeable to me as the former +part of the day: for now Mrs. Graham was in the carriage, and Eliza +Millward was the companion of my walk. She had observed my preference +for the young widow, and evidently felt herself neglected. She did not +manifest her chagrin by keen reproaches, bitter sarcasms, or pouting +sullen silence—any or all of these I could easily have endured, or +lightly laughed away; but she showed it by a kind of gentle melancholy, +a mild, reproachful sadness that cut me to the heart. I tried to cheer +her up, and apparently succeeded in some degree, before the walk was +over; but in the very act my conscience reproved me, knowing, as I did, +that, sooner or later, the tie must be broken, and this was only +nourishing false hopes and putting off the evil day. + +When the pony-carriage had approached as near Wildfell Hall as the road +would permit—unless, indeed, it proceeded up the long rough lane, which +Mrs. Graham would not allow—the young widow and her son alighted, +relinquishing the driver’s seat to Rose; and I persuaded Eliza to take +the latter’s place. Having put her comfortably in, bid her take care of +the evening air, and wished her a kind good-night, I felt considerably +relieved, and hastened to offer my services to Mrs. Graham to carry her +apparatus up the fields, but she had already hung her camp-stool on her +arm and taken her sketch-book in her hand, and insisted upon bidding me +adieu then and there, with the rest of the company. But this time she +declined my proffered aid in so kind and friendly a manner that I +almost forgave her. + + + + + CHAPTER VIII + + +Six weeks had passed away. It was a splendid morning about the close of +June. Most of the hay was cut, but the last week had been very +unfavourable; and now that fine weather was come at last, being +determined to make the most of it, I had gathered all hands together +into the hay-field, and was working away myself, in the midst of them, +in my shirt-sleeves, with a light, shady straw hat on my head, catching +up armfuls of moist, reeking grass, and shaking it out to the four +winds of heaven, at the head of a goodly file of servants and +hirelings—intending so to labour, from morning till night, with as much +zeal and assiduity as I could look for from any of them, as well to +prosper the work by my own exertion as to animate the workers by my +example—when lo! my resolutions were overthrown in a moment, by the +simple fact of my brother’s running up to me and putting into my hand a +small parcel, just arrived from London, which I had been for some time +expecting. I tore off the cover, and disclosed an elegant and portable +edition of “Marmion.” + +“I guess I know who that’s for,” said Fergus, who stood looking on +while I complacently examined the volume. “That’s for Miss Eliza, now.” + +He pronounced this with a tone and look so prodigiously knowing, that I +was glad to contradict him. + +“You’re wrong, my lad,” said I; and, taking up my coat, I deposited the +book in one of its pockets, and then put it on (_i.e._ the coat). “Now +come here, you idle dog, and make yourself useful for once,” I +continued. “Pull off your coat, and take my place in the field till I +come back.” + +“Till you come back?—and where are you going, pray?” + +“No matter—_where_—the _when_ is all that concerns you;—and I shall be +back by dinner, at least.” + +“Oh—oh! and I’m to labour away till then, am I?—and to keep all these +fellows hard at it besides? Well, well! I’ll submit—for once in a +way.—Come, my lads, you must look sharp: _I_’m come to help you +now:—and woe be to that man, or woman either, that pauses for a moment +amongst you—whether to stare about him, to scratch his head, or blow +his nose—no pretext will serve—nothing but work, work, work in the +sweat of your face,” &c., &c. + +Leaving him thus haranguing the people, more to their amusement than +edification, I returned to the house, and, having made some alteration +in my toilet, hastened away to Wildfell Hall, with the book in my +pocket; for it was destined for the shelves of Mrs. Graham. + +“What! then had she and you got on so well together as to come to the +giving and receiving of presents?”—Not precisely, old buck; this was my +first experiment in that line; and I was very anxious to see the result +of it. + +We had met several times since the —— Bay excursion, and I had found +she was not averse to my company, provided I confined my conversation +to the discussion of abstract matters, or topics of common +interest;—the moment I touched upon the sentimental or the +complimentary, or made the slightest approach to tenderness in word or +look, I was not only punished by an immediate change in her manner at +the time, but doomed to find her more cold and distant, if not entirely +inaccessible, when next I sought her company. This circumstance did not +greatly disconcert me, however, because I attributed it, not so much to +any dislike of my person, as to some absolute resolution against a +second marriage formed prior to the time of our acquaintance, whether +from excess of affection for her late husband, or because she had had +enough of him and the matrimonial state together. At first, indeed, she +had seemed to take a pleasure in mortifying my vanity and crushing my +presumption—relentlessly nipping off bud by bud as they ventured to +appear; and then, I confess, I was deeply wounded, though, at the same +time, stimulated to seek revenge;—but latterly finding, beyond a doubt, +that I was not that empty-headed coxcomb she had first supposed me, she +had repulsed my modest advances in quite a different spirit. It was a +kind of serious, almost sorrowful displeasure, which I soon learnt +carefully to avoid awakening. + +“Let me first establish my position as a friend,” thought I—“the patron +and playfellow of her son, the sober, solid, plain-dealing friend of +herself, and then, when I have made myself fairly necessary to her +comfort and enjoyment in life (as I believe I can), we’ll see what next +may be effected.” + +So we talked about painting, poetry, and music, theology, geology, and +philosophy: once or twice I lent her a book, and once she lent me one +in return: I met her in her walks as often as I could; I came to her +house as often as I dared. My first pretext for invading the sanctum +was to bring Arthur a little waddling puppy of which Sancho was the +father, and which delighted the child beyond expression, and, +consequently, could not fail to please his mamma. My second was to +bring him a book, which, knowing his mother’s particularity, I had +carefully selected, and which I submitted for her approbation before +presenting it to him. Then, I brought her some plants for her garden, +in my sister’s name—having previously persuaded Rose to send them. Each +of these times I inquired after the picture she was painting from the +sketch taken on the cliff, and was admitted into the studio, and asked +my opinion or advice respecting its progress. + +My last visit had been to return the book she had lent me; and then it +was that, in casually discussing the poetry of Sir Walter Scott, she +had expressed a wish to see “Marmion,” and I had conceived the +presumptuous idea of making her a present of it, and, on my return +home, instantly sent for the smart little volume I had this morning +received. But an apology for invading the hermitage was still +necessary; so I had furnished myself with a blue morocco collar for +Arthur’s little dog; and that being given and received, with much more +joy and gratitude, on the part of the receiver, than the worth of the +gift or the selfish motive of the giver deserved, I ventured to ask +Mrs. Graham for one more look at the picture, if it was still there. + +“Oh, yes! come in,” said she (for I had met them in the garden). “It is +finished and framed, all ready for sending away; but give me your last +opinion, and if you can suggest any further improvement, it shall +be—duly considered, at least.” + +The picture was strikingly beautiful; it was the very scene itself, +transferred as if by magic to the canvas; but I expressed my +approbation in guarded terms, and few words, for fear of displeasing +her. She, however, attentively watched my looks, and her artist’s pride +was gratified, no doubt, to read my heartfelt admiration in my eyes. +But, while I gazed, I thought upon the book, and wondered how it was to +be presented. My heart failed me; but I determined not to be such a +fool as to come away without having made the attempt. It was useless +waiting for an opportunity, and useless trying to concoct a speech for +the occasion. The more plainly and naturally the thing was done, the +better, I thought; so I just looked out of the window to screw up my +courage, and then pulled out the book, turned round, and put it into +her hand, with this short explanation: + +“You were wishing to see “Marmion,” Mrs. Graham; and here it is, if you +will be so kind as to take it.” + +A momentary blush suffused her face—perhaps, a blush of sympathetic +shame for such an awkward style of presentation: she gravely examined +the volume on both sides; then silently turned over the leaves, +knitting her brows the while, in serious cogitation; then closed the +book, and turning from it to me, quietly asked the price of it—I felt +the hot blood rush to my face. + +“I’m sorry to offend you, Mr. Markham,” said she, “but unless I pay for +the book, I cannot take it.” And she laid it on the table. + +“Why cannot you?” + +“Because,”—she paused, and looked at the carpet. + +“Why cannot you?” I repeated, with a degree of irascibility that roused +her to lift her eyes and look me steadily in the face. + +“Because I don’t like to put myself under obligations that I can never +repay—I _am_ obliged to you already for your kindness to my son; but +his grateful affection and your own good feelings must reward you for +that.” + +“Nonsense!” ejaculated I. + +She turned her eyes on me again, with a look of quiet, grave surprise, +that had the effect of a rebuke, whether intended for such or not. + +“Then you won’t take the book?” I asked, more mildly than I had yet +spoken. + +“I will gladly take it, if you will let me pay for it.” I told her the +exact price, and the cost of the carriage besides, in as calm a tone as +I could command—for, in fact, I was ready to weep with disappointment +and vexation. + +She produced her purse, and coolly counted out the money, but hesitated +to put it into my hand. Attentively regarding me, in a tone of soothing +softness, she observed,—“You think yourself insulted, Mr Markham—I wish +I could make you understand that—that I—” + +“I do understand you, perfectly,” I said. “You think that if you were +to accept that trifle from me now, I should presume upon it hereafter; +but you are mistaken:—if you will only oblige me by taking it, believe +me, I shall build no hopes upon it, and consider this no precedent for +future favours:—and it is nonsense to talk about putting yourself under +obligations to me when you must know that in such a case the obligation +is entirely on my side,—the favour on yours.” + +“Well, then, I’ll take you at your word,” she answered, with a most +angelic smile, returning the odious money to her purse—“but +_remember!_” + +“I will remember—what I have said;—but do not you punish my presumption +by withdrawing your friendship entirely from me,—or expect me to atone +for it by being _more_ distant than before,” said I, extending my hand +to take leave, for I was too much excited to remain. + +“Well, then! let us be as we were,” replied she, frankly placing her +hand in mine; and while I held it there, I had much difficulty to +refrain from pressing it to my lips;—but that would be suicidal +madness: I had been bold enough already, and this premature offering +had well-nigh given the death-blow to my hopes. + +It was with an agitated, burning heart and brain that I hurried +homewards, regardless of that scorching noonday sun—forgetful of +everything but her I had just left—regretting nothing but her +impenetrability, and my own precipitancy and want of tact—fearing +nothing but her hateful resolution, and my inability to overcome +it—hoping nothing—but halt,—I will not bore you with my conflicting +hopes and fears—my serious cogitations and resolves. + + + + + CHAPTER IX + + +Though my affections might now be said to be fairly weaned from Eliza +Millward, I did not yet entirely relinquish my visits to the vicarage, +because I wanted, as it were, to let her down easy; without raising +much sorrow, or incurring much resentment,—or making myself the talk of +the parish; and besides, if I had wholly kept away, the vicar, who +looked upon my visits as paid chiefly, if not entirely, to himself, +would have felt himself decidedly affronted by the neglect. But when I +called there the day after my interview with Mrs. Graham, he happened +to be from home—a circumstance by no means so agreeable to me now as it +had been on former occasions. Miss Millward was there, it is true, but +she, of course, would be little better than a nonentity. However, I +resolved to make my visit a short one, and to talk to Eliza in a +brotherly, friendly sort of way, such as our long acquaintance might +warrant me in assuming, and which, I thought, could neither give +offence nor serve to encourage false hopes. + +It was never my custom to talk about Mrs. Graham either to her or any +one else; but I had not been seated three minutes before she brought +that lady on to the carpet herself in a rather remarkable manner. + +“Oh, Mr. Markham!” said she, with a shocked expression and voice +subdued almost to a whisper, “what do you think of these shocking +reports about Mrs. Graham?—can you encourage us to disbelieve them?” + +“What reports?” + +“Ah, now! _you_ know!” she slily smiled and shook her head. + +“I know nothing about them. What in the world do you mean, Eliza?” + +“Oh, don’t ask _me!—I_ can’t explain it.” She took up the cambric +handkerchief which she had been beautifying with a deep lace border, +and began to be very busy. + +“What is it, Miss Millward? what does she mean?” said I, appealing to +her sister, who seemed to be absorbed in the hemming of a large, coarse +sheet. + +“I don’t know,” replied she. “Some idle slander somebody has been +inventing, I suppose. I never heard it till Eliza told me the other +day,—but if all the parish dinned it in my ears, I shouldn’t believe a +word of it—I know Mrs. Graham too well!” + +“Quite right, Miss Millward!—and so do I—whatever it may be.” + +“Well,” observed Eliza, with a gentle sigh, “it’s well to have such a +comfortable assurance regarding the worth of those we love. I only wish +you may not find your confidence misplaced.” + +And she raised her face, and gave me such a look of sorrowful +tenderness as might have melted my heart, but within those eyes there +lurked a something that I did not like; and I wondered how I ever could +have admired them—her sister’s honest face and small grey optics +appeared far more agreeable. But I was out of temper with Eliza at that +moment for her insinuations against Mrs. Graham, which were false, I +was certain, whether she knew it or not. + +I said nothing more on the subject, however, at the time, and but +little on any other; for, finding I could not well recover my +equanimity, I presently rose and took leave, excusing myself under the +plea of business at the farm; and to the farm I went, not troubling my +mind one whit about the possible truth of these mysterious reports, but +only wondering what they were, by whom originated, and on what +foundations raised, and how they could the most effectually be silenced +or disproved. + +A few days after this we had another of our quiet little parties, to +which the usual company of friends and neighbours had been invited, and +Mrs. Graham among the number. She could not now absent herself under +the plea of dark evenings or inclement weather, and, greatly to my +relief, she came. Without her I should have found the whole affair an +intolerable bore; but the moment of her arrival brought new life to the +house, and though I might not neglect the other guests for her, or +expect to engross much of her attention and conversation to myself +alone, I anticipated an evening of no common enjoyment. + +Mr. Lawrence came too. He did not arrive till some time after the rest +were assembled. I was curious to see how he would comport himself to +Mrs. Graham. A slight bow was all that passed between them on his +entrance; and having politely greeted the other members of the company, +he seated himself quite aloof from the young widow, between my mother +and Rose. + +“Did you ever see such art?” whispered Eliza, who was my nearest +neighbour. “Would you not say they were perfect strangers?” + +“Almost; but what then?” + +“What then; why, you can’t pretend to be ignorant?” + +“Ignorant of _what?_” demanded I, so sharply that she started and +replied,— + +“Oh, hush! don’t speak so loud.” + +“Well, tell me then,” I answered in a lower tone, “what is it you mean? +I hate enigmas.” + +“Well, you know, I don’t vouch for the truth of it—indeed, far from +it—but haven’t you heard—?” + +“I’ve heard _nothing_, except from you.” + +“You must be wilfully deaf then, for anyone will tell you that; but I +shall only anger you by repeating it, I see, so I had better hold my +tongue.” + +She closed her lips and folded her hands before her, with an air of +injured meekness. + +“If you had wished not to anger me, you should have held your tongue +from the beginning, or else spoken out plainly and honestly all you had +to say.” + +She turned aside her face, pulled out her handkerchief, rose, and went +to the window, where she stood for some time, evidently dissolved in +tears. I was astounded, provoked, ashamed—not so much of my harshness +as for her childish weakness. However, no one seemed to notice her, and +shortly after we were summoned to the tea-table: in those parts it was +customary to sit to the table at tea-time on all occasions, and make a +meal of it, for we dined early. On taking my seat, I had Rose on one +side of me and an empty chair on the other. + +“May I sit by you?” said a soft voice at my elbow. + +“If you like,” was the reply; and Eliza slipped into the vacant chair; +then, looking up in my face with a half-sad, half-playful smile, she +whispered,—“You’re so stern, Gilbert.” + +I handed down her tea with a slightly contemptuous smile, and said +nothing, for I had nothing to say. + +“What have I done to offend you?” said she, more plaintively. “I wish I +knew.” + +“Come, take your tea, Eliza, and don’t be foolish,” responded I, +handing her the sugar and cream. + +Just then there arose a slight commotion on the other side of me, +occasioned by Miss Wilson’s coming to negotiate an exchange of seats +with Rose. + +“Will you be so good as to exchange places with me, Miss Markham?” said +she; “for I don’t like to sit by Mrs. Graham. If your mamma thinks +proper to invite such persons to her house, she cannot object to her +daughter’s keeping company with them.” + +This latter clause was added in a sort of soliloquy when Rose was gone; +but I was not polite enough to let it pass. + +“Will you be so good as to tell me what you mean, Miss Wilson?” said I. + +The question startled her a little, but not much. + +“Why, Mr. Markham,” replied she, coolly, having quickly recovered her +self-possession, “it surprises me rather that Mrs. Markham should +invite such a person as Mrs. Graham to her house; but, perhaps, she is +not aware that the lady’s character is considered scarcely +respectable.” + +“She is not, nor am I; and therefore you would oblige me by explaining +your meaning a little further.” + +“This is scarcely the time or the place for such explanations; but I +think you can hardly be so ignorant as you pretend—you must know her as +well as I do.” + +“I think I do, perhaps a little better; and therefore, if you will +inform me what you have heard or imagined against her, I shall, +perhaps, be able to set you right.” + +“Can you tell me, then, who was her husband, or if she ever had any?” + +Indignation kept me silent. At such a time and place I could not trust +myself to answer. + +“Have you never observed,” said Eliza, “what a striking likeness there +is between that child of hers and—” + +“And whom?” demanded Miss Wilson, with an air of cold, but keen +severity. + +Eliza was startled; the timidly spoken suggestion had been intended for +my ear alone. + +“Oh, I beg your pardon!” pleaded she; “I may be mistaken—perhaps I +_was_ mistaken.” But she accompanied the words with a sly glance of +derision directed to me from the corner of her disingenuous eye. + +“There’s no need to ask _my_ pardon,” replied her friend, “but I see no +one here that at all resembles that child, except his mother, and when +you hear ill-natured reports, Miss Eliza, I will thank you, that is, I +think you will do well, to refrain from repeating them. I presume the +person you allude to is Mr. Lawrence; but I think I can assure you that +your suspicions, in that respect, are utterly misplaced; and if he has +any particular connection with the lady at all (which no one has a +right to assert), at least he has (what cannot be said of some others) +sufficient sense of propriety to withhold him from acknowledging +anything more than a bowing acquaintance in the presence of respectable +persons; he was evidently both surprised and annoyed to find her here.” + +“Go it!” cried Fergus, who sat on the other side of Eliza, and was the +only individual who shared that side of the table with us. “Go it like +bricks! mind you don’t leave her one stone upon another.” + +Miss Wilson drew herself up with a look of freezing scorn, but said +nothing. Eliza would have replied, but I interrupted her by saying as +calmly as I could, though in a tone which betrayed, no doubt, some +little of what I felt within,—“We have had enough of this subject; if +we can only speak to slander our betters, let us hold our tongues.” + +“I think you’d better,” observed Fergus, “and so does our good parson; +he has been addressing the company in his richest vein all the while, +and eyeing you, from time to time, with looks of stern distaste, while +you sat there, irreverently whispering and muttering together; and once +he paused in the middle of a story or a sermon, I don’t know which, and +fixed his eyes upon you, Gilbert, as much as to say, ‘When Mr. Markham +has done flirting with those two ladies I will proceed.’” + +What more was said at the tea-table I cannot tell, nor how I found +patience to sit till the meal was over. I remember, however, that I +swallowed with difficulty the remainder of the tea that was in my cup, +and ate nothing; and that the first thing I did was to stare at Arthur +Graham, who sat beside his mother on the opposite side of the table, +and the second to stare at Mr. Lawrence, who sat below; and, first, it +struck me that there _was_ a likeness; but, on further contemplation, I +concluded it was only in imagination. + +Both, it is true, had more delicate features and smaller bones than +commonly fall to the lot of individuals of the rougher sex, and +Lawrence’s complexion was pale and clear, and Arthur’s delicately fair; +but Arthur’s tiny, somewhat snubby nose could never become so long and +straight as Mr. Lawrence’s; and the outline of his face, though not +full enough to be round, and too finely converging to the small, +dimpled chin to be square, could never be drawn out to the long oval of +the other’s, while the child’s hair was evidently of a lighter, warmer +tint than the elder gentleman’s had ever been, and his large, clear +blue eyes, though prematurely serious at times, were utterly dissimilar +to the shy hazel eyes of Mr. Lawrence, whence the sensitive soul looked +so distrustfully forth, as ever ready to retire within, from the +offences of a too rude, too uncongenial world. Wretch that I was to +harbour that detestable idea for a moment! Did I not know Mrs. Graham? +Had I not seen her, conversed with her time after time? Was I not +certain that she, in intellect, in purity and elevation of soul, was +immeasurably superior to any of her detractors; that she was, in fact, +the noblest, the most adorable, of her sex I had ever beheld, or even +imagined to exist? Yes, and I would say with Mary Millward (sensible +girl as she was), that if all the parish, ay, or all the world, should +din these horrible lies in my ears, I would not believe them, for I +knew her better than they. + +Meantime, my brain was on fire with indignation, and my heart seemed +ready to burst from its prison with conflicting passions. I regarded my +two fair neighbours with a feeling of abhorrence and loathing I +scarcely endeavoured to conceal. I was rallied from several quarters +for my abstraction and ungallant neglect of the ladies; but I cared +little for that: all I cared about, besides that one grand subject of +my thoughts, was to see the cups travel up to the tea-tray, and not +come down again. I thought Mr. Millward never _would_ cease telling us +that he was no tea-drinker, and that it was highly injurious to keep +loading the stomach with slops to the exclusion of more wholesome +sustenance, and so give himself time to finish his fourth cup. + +At length it was over; and I rose and left the table and the guests +without a word of apology—I could endure their company no longer. I +rushed out to cool my brain in the balmy evening air, and to compose my +mind or indulge my passionate thoughts in the solitude of the garden. + +To avoid being seen from the windows I went down a quiet little avenue +that skirted one side of the inclosure, at the bottom of which was a +seat embowered in roses and honeysuckles. Here I sat down to think over +the virtues and wrongs of the lady of Wildfell Hall; but I had not been +so occupied two minutes, before voices and laughter, and glimpses of +moving objects through the trees, informed me that the whole company +had turned out to take an airing in the garden too. However, I nestled +up in a corner of the bower, and hoped to retain possession of it, +secure alike from observation and intrusion. But no—confound it—there +was some one coming down the avenue! Why couldn’t they enjoy the +flowers and sunshine of the open garden, and leave that sunless nook to +me, and the gnats and midges? + +But, peeping through my fragrant screen of the interwoven branches to +discover who the intruders were (for a murmur of voices told me it was +more than one), my vexation instantly subsided, and far other feelings +agitated my still unquiet soul; for there was Mrs. Graham, slowly +moving down the walk with Arthur by her side, and no one else. Why were +they alone? Had the poison of detracting tongues already spread through +all; and had they all turned their backs upon her? I now recollected +having seen Mrs. Wilson, in the early part of the evening, edging her +chair close up to my mother, and bending forward, evidently in the +delivery of some important confidential intelligence; and from the +incessant wagging of her head, the frequent distortions of her wrinkled +physiognomy, and the winking and malicious twinkle of her little ugly +eyes, I judged it was some spicy piece of scandal that engaged her +powers; and from the cautious privacy of the communication I supposed +some person then present was the luckless object of her calumnies: and +from all these tokens, together with my mother’s looks and gestures of +mingled horror and incredulity, I now concluded that object to have +been Mrs. Graham. I did not emerge from my place of concealment till +she had nearly reached the bottom of the walk, lest my appearance +should drive her away; and when I did step forward she stood still and +seemed inclined to turn back as it was. + +“Oh, don’t let us disturb you, Mr. Markham!” said she. “We came here to +seek retirement ourselves, not to intrude on your seclusion.” + +“I am no hermit, Mrs. Graham—though I own it looks rather like it to +absent myself in this uncourteous fashion from my guests.” + +“I feared you were unwell,” said she, with a look of real concern. + +“I was rather, but it’s over now. Do sit here a little and rest, and +tell me how you like this arbour,” said I, and, lifting Arthur by the +shoulders, I planted him in the middle of the seat by way of securing +his mamma, who, acknowledging it to be a tempting place of refuge, +threw herself back in one corner, while I took possession of the other. + +But that word refuge disturbed me. Had their unkindness then really +driven her to seek for peace in solitude? + +“Why have they left you alone?” I asked. + +“It is I who have left them,” was the smiling rejoinder. “I was wearied +to death with small talk—nothing wears me out like that. I cannot +imagine how they _can_ go on as they do.” + +I could not help smiling at the serious depth of her wonderment. + +“Is it that they think it a _duty_ to be continually talking,” pursued +she: “and so never pause to think, but fill up with aimless trifles and +vain repetitions when subjects of real interest fail to present +themselves, or do they really take a pleasure in such discourse?” + +“Very likely they do,” said I; “their shallow minds can hold no great +ideas, and their light heads are carried away by trivialities that +would not move a better-furnished skull; and their only alternative to +such discourse is to plunge over head and ears into the slough of +scandal—which is their chief delight.” + +“Not all of them, surely?” cried the lady, astonished at the bitterness +of my remark. + +“No, certainly; I exonerate my sister from such degraded tastes, and my +mother too, if you included _her_ in your animadversions.” + +“I meant no animadversions against any one, and certainly intended no +disrespectful allusions to your mother. I have known some sensible +persons great adepts in that style of conversation when circumstances +impelled them to it; but it is a gift I cannot boast the possession of. +I kept up my attention on this occasion as long as I could, but when my +powers were exhausted I stole away to seek a few minutes’ repose in +this quiet walk. I hate talking where there is no exchange of ideas or +sentiments, and no good given or received.” + +“Well,” said I, “if ever I trouble you with my loquacity, tell me so at +once, and I promise not to be offended; for I possess the faculty of +enjoying the company of those I—of my friends as well in silence as in +conversation.” + +“I don’t quite believe you; but if it were so you would exactly suit me +for a companion.” + +“I am all you wish, then, in other respects?” + +“No, I don’t mean that. How beautiful those little clusters of foliage +look, where the sun comes through behind them!” said she, on purpose to +change the subject. + +And they did look beautiful, where at intervals the level rays of the +sun penetrating the thickness of trees and shrubs on the opposite side +of the path before us, relieved their dusky verdure by displaying +patches of semi-transparent leaves of resplendent golden green. + +“I almost wish I were not a painter,” observed my companion. + +“Why so? one would think at such a time you would most exult in your +privilege of being able to imitate the various brilliant and delightful +touches of nature.” + +“No; for instead of delivering myself up to the full enjoyment of them +as others do, I am always troubling my head about how I could produce +the same effect upon canvas; and as that can never be done, it is mere +vanity and vexation of spirit.” + +“Perhaps you cannot do it to satisfy yourself, but you may and do +succeed in delighting others with the result of your endeavours.” + +“Well, after all, I should not complain: perhaps few people gain their +livelihood with so much pleasure in their toil as I do. Here is some +one coming.” + +She seemed vexed at the interruption. + +“It is only Mr. Lawrence and Miss Wilson,” said I, “coming to enjoy a +quiet stroll. They will not disturb us.” + +I could not quite decipher the expression of her face; but I was +satisfied there was no jealousy therein. What business had I to look +for it? + +“What sort of a person is Miss Wilson?” she asked. + +“She is elegant and accomplished above the generality of her birth and +station; and some say she is ladylike and agreeable.” + +“I thought her somewhat frigid and rather supercilious in her manner +to-day.” + +“Very likely she might be so to you. She has possibly taken a prejudice +against you, for I think she regards you in the light of a rival.” + +“Me! Impossible, Mr. Markham!” said she, evidently astonished and +annoyed. + +“Well, I know nothing about it,” returned I, rather doggedly; for I +thought her annoyance was chiefly against myself. + +The pair had now approached within a few paces of us. Our arbour was +set snugly back in a corner, before which the avenue at its termination +turned off into the more airy walk along the bottom of the garden. As +they approached this, I saw, by the aspect of Jane Wilson, that she was +directing her companion’s attention to us; and, as well by her cold, +sarcastic smile as by the few isolated words of her discourse that +reached me, I knew full well that she was impressing him with the idea, +that we were strongly attached to each other. I noticed that he +coloured up to the temples, gave us one furtive glance in passing, and +walked on, looking grave, but seemingly offering no reply to her +remarks. + +It was true, then, that he _had_ some designs upon Mrs. Graham; and, +were they honourable, he would not be so anxious to conceal them. _She_ +was blameless, of course, but he was detestable beyond all count. + +While these thoughts flashed through my mind, my companion abruptly +rose, and calling her son, said they would now go in quest of the +company, and departed up the avenue. Doubtless she had heard or guessed +something of Miss Wilson’s remarks, and therefore it was natural enough +she should choose to continue the _tête-à-tête_ no longer, especially +as at that moment my cheeks were burning with indignation against my +former friend, the token of which she might mistake for a blush of +stupid embarrassment. For this I owed Miss Wilson yet another grudge; +and still the more I thought upon her conduct the more I hated her. + +It was late in the evening before I joined the company. I found Mrs. +Graham already equipped for departure, and taking leave of the rest, +who were now returned to the house. I offered, nay, begged to accompany +her home. Mr. Lawrence was standing by at the time conversing with some +one else. He did not look at us, but, on hearing my earnest request, he +paused in the middle of a sentence to listen for her reply, and went +on, with a look of quiet satisfaction, the moment he found it was to be +a denial. + +A denial it was, decided, though not unkind. She could not be persuaded +to think there was danger for herself or her child in traversing those +lonely lanes and fields without attendance. It was daylight still, and +she should meet no one; or if she did, the people were quiet and +harmless she was well assured. In fact, she would not hear of any one’s +putting himself out of the way to accompany her, though Fergus +vouchsafed to offer his services in case they should be more acceptable +than mine, and my mother begged she might send one of the farming-men +to escort her. + +When she was gone the rest was all a blank or worse. Lawrence attempted +to draw me into conversation, but I snubbed him and went to another +part of the room. Shortly after the party broke up and he himself took +leave. When he came to me I was blind to his extended hand, and deaf to +his good-night till he repeated it a second time; and then, to get rid +of him, I muttered an inarticulate reply, accompanied by a sulky nod. + +“What is the matter, Markham?” whispered he. + +I replied by a wrathful and contemptuous stare. + +“Are you angry because Mrs. Graham would not let you go home with her?” +he asked, with a faint smile that nearly exasperated me beyond control. + +But, swallowing down all fiercer answers, I merely demanded,—“What +business is it of yours?” + +“Why, none,” replied he with provoking quietness; “only,”—and he raised +his eyes to my face, and spoke with unusual solemnity,—“only let me +tell you, Markham, that if you have any designs in that quarter, they +will certainly fail; and it grieves me to see you cherishing false +hopes, and wasting your strength in useless efforts, for—” + +“Hypocrite!” I exclaimed; and he held his breath, and looked very +blank, turned white about the gills, and went away without another +word. + +I had wounded him to the quick; and I was glad of it. + + + + + CHAPTER X + + +When all were gone, I learnt that the vile slander had indeed been +circulated throughout the company, in the very presence of the victim. +Rose, however, vowed she did not and would not believe it, and my +mother made the same declaration, though not, I fear, with the same +amount of real, unwavering incredulity. It seemed to dwell continually +on her mind, and she kept irritating me from time to time by such +expressions as—“Dear, dear, who would have thought it!—Well! I always +thought there was something odd about her.—You see what it is for women +to affect to be different to other people.” And once it was,— + +“I misdoubted that appearance of mystery from the very first—I +_thought_ there would no good come of it; but this is a sad, sad +business, to be sure!” + +“Why, mother, you said you didn’t believe these tales,” said Fergus. + +“No more I do, my dear; but then, you know, there must be some +foundation.” + +“The foundation is in the wickedness and falsehood of the world,” said +I, “and in the fact that Mr. Lawrence has been seen to go that way once +or twice of an evening—and the village gossips say he goes to pay his +addresses to the strange lady, and the scandal-mongers have greedily +seized the rumour, to make it the basis of their own infernal +structure.” + +“Well, but, Gilbert, there must be something in her _manner_ to +countenance such reports.” + +“Did _you_ see anything in her manner?” + +“No, certainly; but then, you know, I always said there was something +strange about her.” + +I believe it was on that very evening that I ventured on another +invasion of Wildfell Hall. From the time of our party, which was +upwards of a week ago, I had been making daily efforts to meet its +mistress in her walks; and always disappointed (she must have managed +it so on purpose), had nightly kept revolving in my mind some pretext +for another call. At length I concluded that the separation could be +endured no longer (by this time, you will see, I was pretty far gone); +and, taking from the book-case an old volume that I thought she might +be interested in, though, from its unsightly and somewhat dilapidated +condition, I had not yet ventured to offer it for perusal, I hastened +away,—but not without sundry misgivings as to how she would receive me, +or how I could summon courage to present myself with so slight an +excuse. But, perhaps, I might see her in the field or the garden, and +then there would be no great difficulty: it was the formal knocking at +the door, with the prospect of being gravely ushered in by Rachel, to +the presence of a surprised, uncordial mistress, that so greatly +disturbed me. + +My wish, however, was not gratified. Mrs. Graham herself was not to be +seen; but there was Arthur playing with his frolicsome little dog in +the garden. I looked over the gate and called him to me. He wanted me +to come in; but I told him I could not without his mother’s leave. + +“I’ll go and ask her,” said the child. + +“No, no, Arthur, you mustn’t do that; but if she’s not engaged, just +ask her to come here a minute. Tell her I want to speak to her.” + +He ran to perform my bidding, and quickly returned with his mother. How +lovely she looked with her dark ringlets streaming in the light summer +breeze, her fair cheek slightly flushed, and her countenance radiant +with smiles. Dear Arthur! what did I not owe to you for this and every +other happy meeting? Through him I was at once delivered from all +formality, and terror, and constraint. In love affairs, there is no +mediator like a merry, simple-hearted child—ever ready to cement +divided hearts, to span the unfriendly gulf of custom, to melt the ice +of cold reserve, and overthrow the separating walls of dread formality +and pride. + +“Well, Mr. Markham, what is it?” said the young mother, accosting me +with a pleasant smile. + +“I want you to look at this book, and, if you please, to take it, and +peruse it at your leisure. I make no apology for calling you out on +such a lovely evening, though it _be_ for a matter of no greater +importance.” + +“Tell him to come in, mamma,” said Arthur. + +“Would you like to come in?” asked the lady. + +“Yes; I should like to see your improvements in the garden.” + +“And how your sister’s roots have prospered in my charge,” added she, +as she opened the gate. + +And we sauntered through the garden, and talked of the flowers, the +trees, and the book, and then of other things. The evening was kind and +genial, and so was my companion. By degrees I waxed more warm and +tender than, perhaps, I had ever been before; but still I said nothing +tangible, and she attempted no repulse, until, in passing a moss +rose-tree that I had brought her some weeks since, in my sister’s name, +she plucked a beautiful half-open bud and bade me give it to Rose. + +“May I not keep it myself?” I asked. + +“No; but here is another for you.” + +Instead of taking it quietly, I likewise took the hand that offered it, +and looked into her face. She let me hold it for a moment, and I saw a +flash of ecstatic brilliance in her eye, a glow of glad excitement on +her face—I thought my hour of victory was come—but instantly a painful +recollection seemed to flash upon her; a cloud of anguish darkened her +brow, a marble paleness blanched her cheek and lip; there seemed a +moment of inward conflict, and, with a sudden effort, she withdrew her +hand, and retreated a step or two back. + +“Now, Mr. Markham,” said she, with a kind of desperate calmness, “I +must tell you plainly that I cannot do with this. I like your company, +because I am alone here, and your conversation pleases me more than +that of any other person; but if you cannot be content to regard me as +a friend—a plain, cold, motherly, or sisterly friend—I must beg you to +leave me now, and let me alone hereafter: in fact, we must be strangers +for the future.” + +“I will, then—be your friend, or brother, or anything you wish, if you +will only let me continue to see you; but tell me why I cannot be +anything more?” + +There was a perplexed and thoughtful pause. + +“Is it in consequence of some rash vow?” + +“It is something of the kind,” she answered. “Some day I may tell you, +but at present you had better leave me; and never, Gilbert, put me to +the painful necessity of repeating what I have just now said to you,” +she earnestly added, giving me her hand in serious kindness. How sweet, +how musical my own name sounded in her mouth! + +“I will not,” I replied. “But you pardon _this_ offence?” + +“On condition that you never repeat it.” + +“And may I come to see you now and then?” + +“Perhaps—occasionally; provided you never abuse the privilege.” + +“I make no empty promises, but you shall see.” + +“The moment you do our intimacy is at an end, that’s all.” + +“And will you always call me Gilbert? It sounds more sisterly, and it +will serve to remind me of our contract.” + +She smiled, and once more bid me go; and at length I judged it prudent +to obey, and she re-entered the house and I went down the hill. But as +I went the tramp of horses’ hoofs fell on my ear, and broke the +stillness of the dewy evening; and, looking towards the lane, I saw a +solitary equestrian coming up. Inclining to dusk as it was, I knew him +at a glance: it was Mr. Lawrence on his grey pony. I flew across the +field, leaped the stone fence, and then walked down the lane to meet +him. On seeing me, he suddenly drew in his little steed, and seemed +inclined to turn back, but on second thought apparently judged it +better to continue his course as before. He accosted me with a slight +bow, and, edging close to the wall, endeavoured to pass on; but I was +not so minded. Seizing his horse by the bridle, I exclaimed,—“Now, +Lawrence, I will have this mystery explained! Tell me where you are +going, and what you mean to do—at once, and distinctly!” + +“Will you take your hand off the bridle?” said he, quietly—“you’re +hurting my pony’s mouth.” + +“You and your pony be—” + +“What makes you so coarse and brutal, Markham? I’m quite ashamed of +you.” + +“You answer my questions—before you leave this spot! I _will_ know what +you mean by this perfidious duplicity!” + +“I shall answer no questions till you let go the bridle,—if you stand +till morning.” + +“Now then,” said I, unclosing my hand, but still standing before him. + +“Ask me some other time, when you can speak like a gentleman,” returned +he, and he made an effort to pass me again; but I quickly re-captured +the pony, scarce less astonished than its master at such uncivil usage. + +“Really, Mr. Markham, this is _too_ much!” said the latter. “Can I not +go to see my tenant on matters of business, without being assaulted in +this manner by—?” + +“This is no time for business, sir!—I’ll tell you, now, what I think of +your conduct.” + +“You’d better defer your opinion to a more convenient season,” +interrupted he in a low tone—“here’s the vicar.” And, in truth, the +vicar was just behind me, plodding homeward from some remote corner of +his parish. I immediately released the squire; and he went on his way, +saluting Mr. Millward as he passed. + +“What! quarrelling, Markham?” cried the latter, addressing himself to +me,—“and about that young widow, I doubt?” he added, reproachfully +shaking his head. “But let me tell you, young man” (here he put his +face into mine with an important, confidential air), “she’s not worth +it!” and he confirmed the assertion by a solemn nod. + +“MR. MILLWARD,” I exclaimed, in a tone of wrathful menace that made the +reverend gentleman look round—aghast—astounded at such unwonted +insolence, and stare me in the face, with a look that plainly said, +“What, this to me!” But I was too indignant to apologise, or to speak +another word to him: I turned away, and hastened homewards, descending +with rapid strides the steep, rough lane, and leaving him to follow as +he pleased. + + + + + CHAPTER XI + + +You must suppose about three weeks passed over. Mrs. Graham and I were +now established friends—or brother and sister, as we rather chose to +consider ourselves. She called me Gilbert, by my express desire, and I +called her Helen, for I had seen that name written in her books. I +seldom attempted to see her above twice a week; and still I made our +meetings appear the result of accident as often as I could—for I found +it necessary to be extremely careful—and, altogether, I behaved with +such exceeding propriety that she never had occasion to reprove me +once. Yet I could not but perceive that she was at times unhappy and +dissatisfied with herself or her position, and truly I myself was not +quite contented with the latter: this assumption of brotherly +nonchalance was very hard to sustain, and I often felt myself a most +confounded hypocrite with it all; I saw too, or rather I felt, that, in +spite of herself, “I was not indifferent to her,” as the novel heroes +modestly express it, and while I thankfully enjoyed my present good +fortune, I could not fail to wish and hope for something better in +future; but, of course, I kept such dreams entirely to myself. + +“Where are you going, Gilbert?” said Rose, one evening, shortly after +tea, when I had been busy with the farm all day. + +“To take a walk,” was the reply. + +“Do you always brush your hat so carefully, and do your hair so nicely, +and put on such smart new gloves when you take a walk?” + +“Not always.” + +“You’re going to Wildfell Hall, aren’t you?” + +“What makes you think so?” + +“Because you look as if you were—but I wish you wouldn’t go so often.” + +“Nonsense, child! I don’t go once in six weeks—what do you mean?” + +“Well, but if I were you, I wouldn’t have so much to do with Mrs. +Graham.” + +“Why, Rose, are you, too, giving in to the prevailing opinion?” + +“No,” returned she, hesitatingly—“but I’ve heard so much about her +lately, both at the Wilsons’ and the vicarage;—and besides, mamma says, +if she were a proper person she would not be living there by +herself—and don’t you remember last winter, Gilbert, all that about the +false name to the picture; and how she explained it—saying she had +friends or acquaintances from whom she wished her present residence to +be concealed, and that she was afraid of their tracing her out;—and +then, how suddenly she started up and left the room when that person +came—whom she took good care not to let us catch a glimpse of, and who +Arthur, with such an air of mystery, told us was his mamma’s friend?” + +“Yes, Rose, I remember it all; and I can forgive your uncharitable +conclusions; for, perhaps, if I did not know her myself, I should put +all these things together, and believe the same as you do; but thank +God, I do know her; and I should be unworthy the name of a man, if I +could believe anything that was said against her, unless I heard it +from her own lips.—I should as soon believe such things of you, Rose.” + +“Oh, Gilbert!” + +“Well, do you think I _could_ believe anything of the kind,—whatever +the Wilsons and Millwards dared to whisper?” + +“I should hope _not_ indeed!” + +“And why not?—Because I know you—Well, and I know her just as well.” + +“Oh, no! you know nothing of her former life; and last year, at this +time, you did not know that such a person existed.” + +“No matter. There is such a thing as looking through a person’s eyes +into the heart, and learning more of the height, and breadth, and depth +of another’s soul in one hour than it might take you a lifetime to +discover, if he or she were not disposed to reveal it, or if you had +not the sense to understand it.” + +“Then you _are_ going to see her this evening?” + +“To be sure I am!” + +“But what would mamma say, Gilbert!” + +“Mamma needn’t know.” + +“But she must know some time, if you go on.” + +“Go on!—there’s no going on in the matter. Mrs. Graham and I are two +friends—and will be; and no man breathing shall hinder it,—or has a +right to interfere between us.” + +“But if you knew how they talk you would be more careful, for her sake +as well as for your own. Jane Wilson thinks your visits to the old hall +but another proof of her depravity—” + +“Confound Jane Wilson!” + +“And Eliza Millward is quite grieved about you.” + +“I hope she is.” + +“But I wouldn’t, if I were you.” + +“Wouldn’t what?—How do they know that I go there?” + +“There’s nothing hid from them: they spy out everything.” + +“Oh, I never thought of this!—And so they dare to turn my friendship +into food for further scandal against her!—That proves the falsehood of +their other lies, at all events, if any proof were wanting.—Mind you +contradict them, Rose, whenever you can.” + +“But they don’t speak openly to me about such things: it is only by +hints and innuendoes, and by what I hear others say, that I knew what +they think.” + +“Well, then, I won’t go to-day, as it’s getting latish. But oh, deuce +take their cursed, envenomed tongues!” I muttered, in the bitterness of +my soul. + +And just at that moment the vicar entered the room: we had been too +much absorbed in our conversation to observe his knock. After his +customary cheerful and fatherly greeting of Rose, who was rather a +favourite with the old gentleman, he turned somewhat sternly to me:— + +“Well, sir!” said he, “you’re quite a stranger. It is—let—me—see,” he +continued, slowly, as he deposited his ponderous bulk in the arm-chair +that Rose officiously brought towards him; “it is just—six-weeks—by my +reckoning, since you darkened—my—door!” He spoke it with emphasis, and +struck his stick on the floor. + +“Is it, sir?” said I. + +“Ay! It is so!” He added an affirmatory nod, and continued to gaze upon +me with a kind of irate solemnity, holding his substantial stick +between his knees, with his hands clasped upon its head. + +“I have been busy,” I said, for an apology was evidently demanded. + +“Busy!” repeated he, derisively. + +“Yes, you know I’ve been getting in my hay; and now the harvest is +beginning.” + +“Humph!” + +Just then my mother came in, and created a diversion in my favour by +her loquacious and animated welcome of the reverend guest. She +regretted deeply that he had not come a little earlier, in time for +tea, but offered to have some immediately prepared, if he would do her +the favour to partake of it. + +“Not any for me, I thank you,” replied he; “I shall be at home in a few +minutes.” + +“Oh, but do stay and take a little! it will be ready in five minutes.” + +But he rejected the offer with a majestic wave of the hand. + +“I’ll tell you what I’ll take, Mrs. Markham,” said he: “I’ll take a +glass of your excellent ale.” + +“With pleasure!” cried my mother, proceeding with alacrity to pull the +bell and order the favoured beverage. + +“I thought,” continued he, “I’d just look in upon you as I passed, and +taste your home-brewed ale. I’ve been to call on Mrs. Graham.” + +“Have you, indeed?” + +He nodded gravely, and added with awful emphasis—“I thought it +incumbent upon me to do so.” + +“Really!” ejaculated my mother. + +“Why so, Mr. Millward?” asked I. + +He looked at me with some severity, and turning again to my mother, +repeated,—“I thought it incumbent upon me!” and struck his stick on the +floor again. My mother sat opposite, an awe-struck but admiring +auditor. + +“‘Mrs. Graham,’ said I,” he continued, shaking his head as he spoke, +“‘these are terrible reports!’ ‘What, sir?’ says she, affecting to be +ignorant of my meaning. ‘It is my—duty—as—your pastor,’ said I, ‘to +tell you both everything that I myself see reprehensible in your +conduct, and all I have reason to suspect, and what others tell me +concerning you.’—So I told her!” + +“You did, sir?” cried I, starting from my seat and striking my fist on +the table. He merely glanced towards me, and continued—addressing his +hostess:— + +“It was a painful duty, Mrs. Markham—but I told her!” + +“And how did she take it?” asked my mother. + +“Hardened, I fear—hardened!” he replied, with a despondent shake of the +head; “and, at the same time, there was a strong display of +unchastened, misdirected passions. She turned white in the face, and +drew her breath through her teeth in a savage sort of way;—but she +offered no extenuation or defence; and with a kind of shameless +calmness—shocking indeed to witness in one so young—as good as told me +that my remonstrance was unavailing, and my pastoral advice quite +thrown away upon her—nay, that my very _presence was_ displeasing while +I spoke such things. And I withdrew at length, too plainly seeing that +nothing could be done—and sadly grieved to find her case so hopeless. +But I am fully determined, Mrs. Markham, that _my_ +daughters—shall—not—consort with her. Do you adopt the same resolution +with regard to yours!—As for your sons—as for _you_, young man,” he +continued, sternly turning to me— + +“As for ME, sir,” I began, but checked by some impediment in my +utterance, and finding that my whole frame trembled with fury, I said +no more, but took the wiser part of snatching up my hat and bolting +from the room, slamming the door behind me, with a bang that shook the +house to its foundations, and made my mother scream, and gave a +momentary relief to my excited feelings. + +The next minute saw me hurrying with rapid strides in the direction of +Wildfell Hall—to what intent or purpose I could scarcely tell, but I +must be moving somewhere, and no other goal would do—I must see her +too, and speak to her—that was certain; but what to say, or how to act, +I had no definite idea. Such stormy thoughts—so many different +resolutions crowded in upon me, that my mind was little better than a +chaos of conflicting passions. + + + + + CHAPTER XII + + +In little more than twenty minutes the journey was accomplished. I +paused at the gate to wipe my streaming forehead, and recover my breath +and some degree of composure. Already the rapid walking had somewhat +mitigated my excitement; and with a firm and steady tread I paced the +garden-walk. In passing the inhabited wing of the building, I caught a +sight of Mrs. Graham, through the open window, slowly pacing up and +down her lonely room. + +She seemed agitated and even dismayed at my arrival, as if she thought +I too was coming to accuse her. I had entered her presence intending to +condole with her upon the wickedness of the world, and help her to +abuse the vicar and his vile informants, but now I felt positively +ashamed to mention the subject, and determined not to refer to it, +unless she led the way. + +“I am come at an unseasonable hour,” said I, assuming a cheerfulness I +did not feel, in order to reassure her; “but I won’t stay many +minutes.” + +She smiled upon me, faintly it is true, but most kindly—I had almost +said thankfully, as her apprehensions were removed. + +“How dismal you are, Helen! Why have you no fire?” I said, looking +round on the gloomy apartment. + +“It is summer yet,” she replied. + +“But _we always_ have a fire in the evenings, if we can bear it; and +you especially require one in this cold house and dreary room.” + +“You should have come a little sooner, and I would have had one lighted +for you: but it is not worth while now—you won’t stay many minutes, you +say, and Arthur is gone to bed.” + +“But I have a fancy for a fire, nevertheless. Will you order one, if I +ring?” + +“Why, Gilbert, you don’t _look_ cold!” said she, smilingly regarding my +face, which no doubt seemed warm enough. + +“No,” replied I, “but I want to see you comfortable before I go.” + +“Me comfortable!” repeated she, with a bitter laugh, as if there were +something amusingly absurd in the idea. “It suits me better as it is,” +she added, in a tone of mournful resignation. + +But determined to have my own way, I pulled the bell. + +“There now, Helen!” I said, as the approaching steps of Rachel were +heard in answer to the summons. There was nothing for it but to turn +round and desire the maid to light the fire. + +I owe Rachel a grudge to this day for the look she cast upon me ere she +departed on her mission, the sour, suspicious, inquisitorial look that +plainly demanded, “What are _you_ here for, I wonder?” Her mistress did +not fail to notice it, and a shade of uneasiness darkened her brow. + +“You must not stay long, Gilbert,” said she, when the door was closed +upon us. + +“I’m not going to,” said I, somewhat testily, though without a grain of +anger in my heart against any one but the meddling old woman. “But, +Helen, I’ve something to say to you before I go.” + +“What is it?” + +“No, not now—I don’t know yet precisely what it is, or how to say it,” +replied I, with more truth than wisdom; and then, fearing lest she +should turn me out of the house, I began talking about indifferent +matters in order to gain time. Meanwhile Rachel came in to kindle the +fire, which was soon effected by thrusting a red-hot poker between the +bars of the grate, where the fuel was already disposed for ignition. +She honoured me with another of her hard, inhospitable looks in +departing, but, little moved thereby, I went on talking; and setting a +chair for Mrs. Graham on one side of the hearth, and one for myself on +the other, I ventured to sit down, though half suspecting she would +rather see me go. + +In a little while we both relapsed into silence, and continued for +several minutes gazing abstractedly into the fire—she intent upon her +own sad thoughts, and I reflecting how delightful it would be to be +seated thus beside her with no other presence to restrain our +intercourse—not even that of Arthur, our mutual friend, without whom we +had never met before—if only I could venture to speak my mind, and +disburden my full heart of the feelings that had so long oppressed it, +and which it now struggled to retain, with an effort that it seemed +impossible to continue much longer,—and revolving the pros and cons for +opening my heart to her there and then, and imploring a return of +affection, the permission to regard her thenceforth as my own, and the +right and the power to defend her from the calumnies of malicious +tongues. On the one hand, I felt a new-born confidence in my powers of +persuasion—a strong conviction that my own fervour of spirit would +grant me eloquence—that my very determination—the absolute necessity +for succeeding, that I felt must win me what I sought; while, on the +other, I feared to lose the ground I had already gained with so much +toil and skill, and destroy all future hope by one rash effort, when +time and patience might have won success. It was like setting my life +upon the cast of a die; and yet I was ready to resolve upon the +attempt. At any rate, I would entreat the explanation she had half +promised to give me before; I would demand the reason of this hateful +barrier, this mysterious impediment to my happiness, and, as I trusted, +to her own. + +But while I considered in what manner I could best frame my request, my +companion, wakened from her reverie with a scarcely audible sigh, and +looking towards the window, where the blood-red harvest moon, just +rising over one of the grim, fantastic evergreens, was shining in upon +us, said,—“Gilbert, it is getting late.” + +“I see,” said I. “You want me to go, I suppose?” + +“I think you ought. If my kind neighbours get to know of this visit—as +no doubt they will—they will not turn it much to my advantage.” It was +with what the vicar would doubtless have called a savage sort of smile +that she said this. + +“Let them turn it as they will,” said I. “What are their thoughts to +you or me, so long as we are satisfied with ourselves—and each other. +Let them go to the deuce with their vile constructions and their lying +inventions!” + +This outburst brought a flush of colour to her face. + +“You have heard, then, what they say of me?” + +“I heard some detestable falsehoods; but none but fools would credit +them for a moment, Helen, so don’t let them trouble you.” + +“I did not think Mr. Millward a fool, and he believes it all; but +however little you may value the opinions of those about you—however +little you may esteem them as individuals, it is not pleasant to be +looked upon as a liar and a hypocrite, to be thought to practise what +you abhor, and to encourage the vices you would discountenance, to find +your good intentions frustrated, and your hands crippled by your +supposed unworthiness, and to bring disgrace on the principles you +profess.” + +“True; and if I, by my thoughtlessness and selfish disregard to +appearances, have at all assisted to expose you to these evils, let me +entreat you not only to pardon me, but to enable me to make reparation; +authorise me to clear your name from every imputation: give me the +right to identify your honour with my own, and to defend your +reputation as more precious than my life!” + +“Are you hero enough to unite yourself to one whom you know to be +suspected and despised by all around you, and identify your interests +and your honour with hers? Think! it is a serious thing.” + +“I should be proud to do it, Helen!—most happy—delighted beyond +expression!—and if that be all the obstacle to our union, it is +demolished, and you must—you shall be mine!” + +And starting from my seat in a frenzy of ardour, I seized her hand and +would have pressed it to my lips, but she as suddenly caught it away, +exclaiming in the bitterness of intense affliction,—“No, no, it is not +all!” + +“What is it, then? You promised I should know some time, and—” + +“You shall know some time—but not now—my head aches terribly,” she +said, pressing her hand to her forehead, “and I must have some +repose—and surely I have had misery enough to-day!” she added, almost +wildly. + +“But it could not harm you to tell it,” I persisted: “it would ease +your mind; and I should then know how to comfort you.” + +She shook her head despondingly. “If you knew all, you, too, would +blame me—perhaps even more than I deserve—though I have cruelly wronged +you,” she added in a low murmur, as if she mused aloud. + +“_You_, Helen? Impossible?” + +“Yes, not willingly; for I did not know the strength and depth of your +attachment. I thought—at least I endeavoured to think your regard for +me was as cold and fraternal as you professed it to be.” + +“Or as yours?” + +“Or as mine—ought to have been—of such a light and selfish, superficial +nature, that—” + +“_There_, indeed, you wronged me.” + +[Illustration] + +“I know I did; and, sometimes, I suspected it then; but I thought, upon +the whole, there could be no great harm in leaving your fancies and +your hopes to dream themselves to nothing—or flutter away to some more +fitting object, while your friendly sympathies remained with me; but if +I had known the depth of your regard, the generous, disinterested +affection you seem to feel—” + +“_Seem_, Helen?” + +“That you _do_ feel, then, I would have acted differently.” + +“How? You _could_ not have given me less encouragement, or treated me +with greater severity than you did! And if you think you have wronged +me by giving me your friendship, and occasionally admitting me to the +enjoyment of your company and conversation, when all hopes of closer +intimacy were vain—as indeed you always gave me to understand—if you +think you have wronged me by this, you are mistaken; for such favours, +in themselves alone, are not only delightful to my heart, but +purifying, exalting, ennobling to my soul; and I would rather have your +friendship than the love of any other woman in the world!” + +Little comforted by this, she clasped her hands upon her knee, and +glancing upward, seemed, in silent anguish, to implore divine +assistance; then, turning to me, she calmly said,—“To-morrow, if you +meet me on the moor about mid-day, I will tell you all you seek to +know; and perhaps you will then see the necessity of discontinuing our +intimacy—if, indeed, you do not willingly resign me as one no longer +worthy of regard.” + +“I can safely answer no to that: you cannot have such grave confessions +to make—you must be trying my faith, Helen.” + +“No, no, no,” she earnestly repeated—“I wish it were so! Thank heaven!” +she added, “I have no great crime to confess; but I have more than you +will like to hear, or, perhaps, can readily excuse,—and more than I can +tell you now; so let me entreat you to leave me!” + +“I will; but answer me this one question first;—do you love me?” + +“I will not answer it!” + +“Then I will conclude you do; and so good-night.” + +She turned from me to hide the emotion she could not quite control; but +I took her hand and fervently kissed it. + +“Gilbert, _do_ leave me!” she cried, in a tone of such thrilling +anguish that I felt it would be cruel to disobey. + +But I gave one look back before I closed the door, and saw her leaning +forward on the table, with her hands pressed against her eyes, sobbing +convulsively; yet I withdrew in silence. I felt that to obtrude my +consolations on her then would only serve to aggravate her sufferings. + +To tell you all the questionings and conjectures—the fears, and hopes, +and wild emotions that jostled and chased each other through my mind as +I descended the hill, would almost fill a volume in itself. But before +I was half-way down, a sentiment of strong sympathy for her I had left +behind me had displaced all other feelings, and seemed imperatively to +draw me back: I began to think, “Why am I hurrying so fast in this +direction? Can I find comfort or consolation—peace, certainty, +contentment, all—or anything that I want at home? and can I leave all +perturbation, sorrow, and anxiety behind me there?” + +And I turned round to look at the old Hall. There was little besides +the chimneys visible above my contracted horizon. I walked back to get +a better view of it. When it rose in sight, I stood still a moment to +look, and then continued moving towards the gloomy object of +attraction. Something called me nearer—nearer still—and why not, pray? +Might I not find more benefit in the contemplation of that venerable +pile with the full moon in the cloudless heaven shining so calmly above +it—with that warm yellow lustre peculiar to an August night—and the +mistress of my soul within, than in returning to my home, where all +comparatively was light, and life, and cheerfulness, and therefore +inimical to me in my present frame of mind,—and the more so that its +inmates all were more or less imbued with that detestable belief, the +very _thought_ of which made my blood boil in my veins—and how could I +endure to hear it openly declared, or cautiously insinuated—which was +worse?—I had had trouble enough already, with some babbling fiend that +would keep whispering in my ear, “It may be true,” till I had shouted +aloud, “It is false! I defy you to make me suppose it!” + +I could see the red firelight dimly gleaming from her parlour window. I +went up to the garden wall, and stood leaning over it, with my eyes +fixed upon the lattice, wondering what she was doing, thinking, or +suffering now, and wishing I could speak to her but one word, or even +catch one glimpse of her, before I went. + +I had not thus looked, and wished, and wondered long, before I vaulted +over the barrier, unable to resist the temptation of taking one glance +through the window, just to see if she were more composed than when we +parted;—and if I found her still in deep distress, perhaps I might +venture attempt a word of comfort—to utter one of the many things I +should have said before, instead of aggravating her sufferings by my +stupid impetuosity. I looked. Her chair was vacant: so was the room. +But at that moment some one opened the outer door, and a voice—_her_ +voice—said,—“Come out—I want to see the moon, and breathe the evening +air: they will do me good—if anything will.” + +Here, then, were she and Rachel coming to take a walk in the garden. I +wished myself safe back over the wall. I stood, however, in the shadow +of the tall holly-bush, which, standing between the window and the +porch, at present screened me from observation, but did not prevent me +from seeing two figures come forth into the moonlight: Mrs. Graham +followed by another—_not_ Rachel, but a young man, slender and rather +tall. O heavens, how my temples throbbed! Intense anxiety darkened my +sight; but I thought—yes, and the voice confirmed it—it was Mr. +Lawrence! + +“You should not let it worry you so much, Helen,” said he; “I will be +more cautious in future; and in time—” + +I did not hear the rest of the sentence; for he walked close beside her +and spoke so gently that I could not catch the words. My heart was +splitting with hatred; but I listened intently for her reply. I heard +it plainly enough. + +“But I must leave this place, Frederick,” she said—“I never can be +happy here,—nor anywhere else, indeed,” she added, with a mirthless +laugh,—“but I cannot rest here.” + +“But where could you find a better place?” replied he, “so secluded—so +near me, if you think anything of that.” + +“Yes,” interrupted she, “it is all I could wish, if they could only +have left me alone.” + +“But wherever you go, Helen, there will be the same sources of +annoyance. I cannot consent to lose you: I must go with you, or come to +you; and there are meddling fools elsewhere, as well as here.” + +While thus conversing they had sauntered slowly past me, down the walk, +and I heard no more of their discourse; but I saw him put his arm round +her waist, while she lovingly rested her hand on his shoulder;—and +then, a tremulous darkness obscured my sight, my heart sickened and my +head burned like fire: I half rushed, half staggered from the spot, +where horror had kept me rooted, and leaped or tumbled over the wall—I +hardly know which—but I know that, afterwards, like a passionate child, +I dashed myself on the ground and lay there in a paroxysm of anger and +despair—how long, I cannot undertake to say; but it must have been a +considerable time; for when, having partially relieved myself by a +torment of tears, and looked up at the moon, shining so calmly and +carelessly on, as little influenced by my misery as I was by its +peaceful radiance, and earnestly prayed for death or forgetfulness, I +had risen and journeyed homewards—little regarding the way, but carried +instinctively by my feet to the door, I found it bolted against me, and +every one in bed except my mother, who hastened to answer my impatient +knocking, and received me with a shower of questions and rebukes. + +“Oh, Gilbert! how _could_ you do so? Where _have_ you been? Do come in +and take your supper. I’ve got it all ready, though you don’t deserve +it, for keeping me in such a fright, after the strange manner you left +the house this evening. Mr. Millward was quite—Bless the boy! how ill +he looks. Oh, gracious! what is the matter?” + +“Nothing, nothing—give me a candle.” + +“But won’t you take some supper?” + +“No; I want to go to bed,” said I, taking a candle and lighting it at +the one she held in her hand. + +“Oh, Gilbert, how you tremble!” exclaimed my anxious parent. “How white +you look! Do tell me what it is? Has anything happened?” + +“It’s nothing,” cried I, ready to stamp with vexation because the +candle would not light. Then, suppressing my irritation, I added, “I’ve +been walking too fast, that’s all. Good-night,” and marched off to bed, +regardless of the “Walking too fast! where have you been?” that was +called after me from below. + +My mother followed me to the very door of my room with her questionings +and advice concerning my health and my conduct; but I implored her to +let me alone till morning; and she withdrew, and at length I had the +satisfaction to hear her close her own door. There was no sleep for me, +however, that night as I thought; and instead of attempting to solicit +it, I employed myself in rapidly pacing the chamber, having first +removed my boots, lest my mother should hear me. But the boards +creaked, and she was watchful. I had not walked above a quarter of an +hour before she was at the door again. + +“Gilbert, why are you not in bed—you said you wanted to go?” + +“Confound it! I’m going,” said I. + +“But why are you so long about it? You must have something on your +mind—” + +“For heaven’s sake, let me alone, and get to bed yourself.” + +“Can it be that Mrs. Graham that distresses you so?” + +“No, no, I tell you—it’s nothing.” + +“I wish to goodness it mayn’t,” murmured she, with a sigh, as she +returned to her own apartment, while I threw myself on the bed, feeling +most undutifully disaffected towards her for having deprived me of what +seemed the only shadow of a consolation that remained, and chained me +to that wretched couch of thorns. + +Never did I endure so long, so miserable a night as that. And yet it +was not wholly sleepless. Towards morning my distracting thoughts began +to lose all pretensions to coherency, and shape themselves into +confused and feverish dreams, and, at length, there followed an +interval of unconscious slumber. But then the dawn of bitter +recollection that succeeded—the waking to find life a blank, and worse +than a blank, teeming with torment and misery—not a mere barren +wilderness, but full of thorns and briers—to find myself deceived, +duped, hopeless, my affections trampled upon, my angel not an angel, +and my friend a fiend incarnate—it was worse than if I had not slept at +all. + +It was a dull, gloomy morning; the weather had changed like my +prospects, and the rain was pattering against the window. I rose, +nevertheless, and went out; not to look after the farm, though that +would serve as my excuse, but to cool my brain, and regain, if +possible, a sufficient degree of composure to meet the family at the +morning meal without exciting inconvenient remarks. If I got a wetting, +that, in conjunction with a pretended over-exertion before breakfast, +might excuse my sudden loss of appetite; and if a cold ensued, the +severer the better—it would help to account for the sullen moods and +moping melancholy likely to cloud my brow for long enough. + + + + + CHAPTER XIII + + +“My dear Gilbert, I wish you _would_ try to be a little more amiable,” +said my mother one morning after some display of unjustifiable +ill-humour on my part. “You say there is nothing the matter with you, +and nothing has happened to grieve you, and yet I never _saw_ anyone so +altered as you within these last few days. You haven’t a good word for +anybody—friends and strangers, equals and inferiors—it’s all the same. +I do wish you’d try to check it.” + +“Check what?” + +“Why, your strange temper. You don’t know _how_ it spoils you. I’m sure +a finer disposition than yours by nature could not be, if you’d let it +have fair play: so you’ve no excuse _that_ way.” + +While she thus remonstrated, I took up a book, and laying it open on +the table before me, pretended to be deeply absorbed in its perusal, +for I was equally unable to justify myself and unwilling to acknowledge +my errors; and I wished to have nothing to say on the matter. But my +excellent parent went on lecturing, and then came to coaxing, and began +to stroke my hair; and I was getting to feel quite a good boy, but my +mischievous brother, who was idling about the room, revived my +corruption by suddenly calling out,— + +“Don’t touch him, mother! he’ll bite! He’s a very tiger in human form. +_I’ve_ given him up for my part—fairly disowned him—cast him off, root +and branch. It’s as much as my life is worth to come within six yards +of him. The other day he nearly fractured my skull for singing a +pretty, inoffensive love-song, on purpose to amuse him.” + +“Oh, Gilbert! how could you?” exclaimed my mother. + +“I told you to hold your noise first, you know, Fergus,” said I. + +“Yes, but when I assured you it was no trouble and went on with the +next verse, thinking you might like it better, you clutched me by the +shoulder and dashed me away, right against the wall there, with such +force that I thought I had bitten my tongue in two, and expected to see +the place plastered with my brains; and when I put my hand to my head, +and found my skull not broken, I thought it was a miracle, and no +mistake. But, poor fellow!” added he, with a sentimental sigh—“his +heart’s broken—that’s the truth of it—and his head’s—” + +“Will you be silent NOW?” cried I, starting up, and eyeing the fellow +so fiercely that my mother, thinking I meant to inflict some grievous +bodily injury, laid her hand on my arm, and besought me to let him +alone, and he walked leisurely out, with his hands in his pockets, +singing provokingly—“Shall I, because a woman’s fair,” &c. + +“I’m not going to defile my fingers with him,” said I, in answer to the +maternal intercession. “I wouldn’t touch him with the tongs.” + +I now recollected that I had business with Robert Wilson, concerning +the purchase of a certain field adjoining my farm—a business I had been +putting off from day to day; for I had no interest in anything now; and +besides, I was misanthropically inclined, and, moreover, had a +particular objection to meeting Jane Wilson or her mother; for though I +had too good reason, now, to credit their reports concerning Mrs. +Graham, I did not _like_ them a bit the better for it—or Eliza Millward +either—and the thought of meeting them was the more repugnant to me +that I could not, now, defy their seeming calumnies and triumph in my +own convictions as before. But to-day I determined to make an effort to +return to my duty. Though I found no pleasure in it, it would be less +irksome than idleness—at all events it would be more profitable. If +life promised no enjoyment within my vocation, at least it offered no +allurements out of it; and henceforth I would put my shoulder to the +wheel and toil away, like any poor drudge of a cart-horse that was +fairly broken in to its labour, and plod through life, not wholly +useless if not agreeable, and uncomplaining if not contented with my +lot. + +Thus resolving, with a kind of sullen resignation, if such a term may +be allowed, I wended my way to Ryecote Farm, scarcely expecting to find +its owner within at this time of day, but hoping to learn in what part +of the premises he was most likely to be found. + +Absent he was, but expected home in a few minutes; and I was desired to +step into the parlour and wait. Mrs. Wilson was busy in the kitchen, +but the room was not empty; and I scarcely checked an involuntary +recoil as I entered it; for there sat Miss Wilson chattering with Eliza +Millward. However, I determined to be cool and civil. Eliza seemed to +have made the same resolution on her part. We had not met since the +evening of the tea-party; but there was no visible emotion either of +pleasure or pain, no attempt at pathos, no display of injured pride: +she was cool in temper, civil in demeanour. There was even an ease and +cheerfulness about her air and manner that I made no pretension to; but +there was a depth of malice in her too expressive eye that plainly told +me I was not forgiven; for, though she no longer hoped to win me to +herself, she still hated her rival, and evidently delighted to wreak +her spite on me. On the other hand, Miss Wilson was as affable and +courteous as heart could wish, and though I was in no very conversable +humour myself, the two ladies between them managed to keep up a pretty +continuous fire of small talk. But Eliza took advantage of the first +convenient pause to ask if I had lately seen Mrs. Graham, in a tone of +merely casual inquiry, but with a sidelong glance—intended to be +playfully mischievous—really, brimful and running over with malice. + +“Not lately,” I replied, in a careless tone, but sternly repelling her +odious glances with my eyes; for I was vexed to feel the colour +mounting to my forehead, despite my strenuous efforts to appear +unmoved. + +“What! are you beginning to tire already? I thought so noble a creature +would have power to attach you for a year at least!” + +“I would rather not speak of her now.” + +“Ah! then you are convinced, at last, of your mistake—you have at +length discovered that your divinity is not quite the immaculate—” + +“I desired you not to speak of her, Miss Eliza.” + +“Oh, I beg your pardon! I perceive Cupid’s arrows have been too sharp +for you: the wounds, being more than skin-deep, are not yet healed, and +bleed afresh at every mention of the loved one’s name.” + +“Say, rather,” interposed Miss Wilson, “that Mr. Markham feels that +name is unworthy to be mentioned in the presence of right-minded +females. I wonder, Eliza, you should think of referring to that +unfortunate person—you might know the mention of her would be anything +but agreeable to any one here present.” + +How could this be borne? I rose and was about to clap my hat upon my +head and burst away, in wrathful indignation from the house; but +recollecting—just in time to save my dignity—the folly of such a +proceeding, and how it would only give my fair tormentors a merry laugh +at my expense, for the sake of one I acknowledged in my own heart to be +unworthy of the slightest sacrifice—though the ghost of my former +reverence and love so hung about me still, that I could not bear to +hear her name aspersed by others—I merely walked to the window, and +having spent a few seconds in vengibly biting my lips and sternly +repressing the passionate heavings of my chest, I observed to Miss +Wilson, that I could see nothing of her brother, and added that, as my +time was precious, it would perhaps be better to call again to-morrow, +at some time when I should be sure to find him at home. + +“Oh, no!” said she; “if you wait a minute, he will be sure to come; for +he has business at L——” (that was our market-town), “and will require a +little refreshment before he goes.” + +I submitted accordingly, with the best grace I could; and, happily, I +had not long to wait. Mr. Wilson soon arrived, and, indisposed for +business as I was at that moment, and little as I cared for the field +or its owner, I forced my attention to the matter in hand, with very +creditable determination, and quickly concluded the bargain—perhaps +more to the thrifty farmer’s satisfaction than he cared to acknowledge. +Then, leaving him to the discussion of his substantial “refreshment,” I +gladly quitted the house, and went to look after my reapers. + +Leaving them busy at work on the side of the valley, I ascended the +hill, intending to visit a corn-field in the more elevated regions, and +see when it would be ripe for the sickle. But I did _not_ visit it that +day; for, as I approached, I beheld, at no great distance, Mrs. Graham +and her son coming down in the opposite direction. They saw me; and +Arthur already was running to meet me; but I immediately turned back +and walked steadily homeward; for I had fully determined never to +encounter his mother again; and regardless of the shrill voice in my +ear, calling upon me to “wait a moment,” I pursued the even tenor of my +way; and he soon relinquished the pursuit as hopeless, or was called +away by his mother. At all events, when I looked back, five minutes +after, not a trace of either was to be seen. + +This incident agitated and disturbed me most unaccountably—unless you +would account for it by saying that Cupid’s arrows not only had been +too sharp for me, but they were barbed and deeply rooted, and I had not +yet been able to wrench them from my heart. However that be, I was +rendered doubly miserable for the remainder of the day. + + + + + CHAPTER XIV + + +Next morning, I bethought me, I, too, had business at L——; so I mounted +my horse, and set forth on the expedition soon after breakfast. It was +a dull, drizzly day; but that was no matter: it was all the more +suitable to my frame of mind. It was likely to be a lonely journey; for +it was no market-day, and the road I traversed was little frequented at +any other time; but that suited me all the better too. + +As I trotted along, however, chewing the cud of—_bitter_ fancies, I +heard another horse at no great distance behind me; but I never +conjectured who the rider might be, or troubled my head about him, +till, on slackening my pace to ascend a gentle acclivity, or rather, +suffering my horse to slacken his pace into a lazy walk—for, rapt in my +own reflections, I was letting it jog on as leisurely as it thought +proper—I lost ground, and my fellow-traveller overtook me. He accosted +me by name, for it was no stranger—it was Mr. Lawrence! Instinctively +the fingers of my whip-hand tingled, and grasped their charge with +convulsive energy; but I restrained the impulse, and answering his +salutation with a nod, attempted to push on; but he pushed on beside +me, and began to talk about the weather and the crops. I gave the +briefest possible answers to his queries and observations, and fell +back. He fell back too, and asked if my horse was lame. I replied with +a _look_, at which he placidly smiled. + +I was as much astonished as exasperated at this singular pertinacity +and imperturbable assurance on his part. I had thought the +circumstances of our last meeting would have left such an impression on +his mind as to render him cold and distant ever after: instead of that, +he appeared not only to have forgotten all former offences, but to be +impenetrable to all present incivilities. Formerly, the slightest hint, +or mere fancied coldness in tone or glance, had sufficed to repulse +him: now, positive rudeness could not drive him away. Had he heard of +my disappointment; and was he come to witness the result, and triumph +in my despair? I grasped my whip with more determined energy than +before—but still forbore to raise it, and rode on in silence, waiting +for some more tangible cause of offence, before I opened the floodgates +of my soul and poured out the dammed-up fury that was foaming and +swelling within. + +“Markham,” said he, in his usual quiet tone, “why do you quarrel with +your friends, because you have been disappointed in one quarter? You +have found your hopes defeated; but how am _I_ to blame for it? I +warned you beforehand, you know, but you would not—” + +He said no more; for, impelled by some fiend at my elbow, I had seized +my whip by the small end, and—swift and sudden as a flash of +lightning—brought the other down upon his head. It was not without a +feeling of savage satisfaction that I beheld the instant, deadly pallor +that overspread his face, and the few red drops that trickled down his +forehead, while he reeled a moment in his saddle, and then fell +backward to the ground. The pony, surprised to be so strangely relieved +of its burden, started and capered, and kicked a little, and then made +use of its freedom to go and crop the grass of the hedge-bank: while +its master lay as still and silent as a corpse. Had I killed him?—an +icy hand seemed to grasp my heart and check its pulsation, as I bent +over him, gazing with breathless intensity upon the ghastly, upturned +face. But no; he moved his eyelids and uttered a slight groan. I +breathed again—he was only stunned by the fall. It served him right—it +would teach him better manners in future. Should I help him to his +horse? No. For any other combination of offences I would; but his were +too unpardonable. He might mount it himself, if he liked—in a while: +already he was beginning to stir and look about him—and there it was +for him, quietly browsing on the road-side. + +So with a muttered execration I left the fellow to his fate, and +clapping spurs to my own horse, galloped away, excited by a combination +of feelings it would not be easy to analyse; and perhaps, if I did so, +the result would not be very creditable to my disposition; for I am not +sure that a species of exultation in what I had done was not one +principal concomitant. + +Shortly, however, the effervescence began to abate, and not many +minutes elapsed before I had turned and gone back to look after the +fate of my victim. It was no generous impulse—no kind relentings that +led me to this—nor even the fear of what might be the consequences to +myself, if I finished my assault upon the squire by leaving him thus +neglected, and exposed to further injury; it was, simply, the voice of +conscience; and I took great credit to myself for attending so promptly +to its dictates—and judging the merit of the deed by the sacrifice it +cost, I was not far wrong. + +Mr. Lawrence and his pony had both altered their positions in some +degree. The pony had wandered eight or ten yards further away; and he +had managed, somehow, to remove himself from the middle of the road: I +found him seated in a recumbent position on the bank,—looking very +white and sickly still, and holding his cambric handkerchief (now more +red than white) to his head. It must have been a powerful blow; but +half the credit—or the blame of it (which you please) must be +attributed to the whip, which was garnished with a massive horse’s head +of plated metal. The grass, being sodden with rain, afforded the young +gentleman a rather inhospitable couch; his clothes were considerably +bemired; and his hat was rolling in the mud on the other side of the +road. But his thoughts seemed chiefly bent upon his pony, on which he +was wistfully gazing—half in helpless anxiety, and half in hopeless +abandonment to his fate. + +I dismounted, however, and having fastened my own animal to the nearest +tree, first picked up his hat, intending to clap it on his head; but +either he considered his head unfit for a hat, or the hat, in its +present condition, unfit for his head; for shrinking away the one, he +took the other from my hand, and scornfully cast it aside. + +“It’s good enough for _you_,” I muttered. + +My next good office was to catch his pony and bring it to him, which +was soon accomplished; for the beast was quiet enough in the main, and +only winced and flirted a trifle till I got hold of the bridle—but +then, I must see him in the saddle. + +“Here, you fellow—scoundrel—dog—give me your hand, and I’ll help you to +mount.” + +No; he turned from me in disgust. I attempted to take him by the arm. +He shrank away as if there had been contamination in my touch. + +“What, you won’t! Well! you may sit there till doomsday, for what I +care. But I suppose you don’t want to lose all the blood in your +body—I’ll just condescend to bind that up for you.” + +“Let me alone, if you please.” + +“Humph; with all my heart. You may go to the d—l, if you choose—and say +I sent you.” + +But before I abandoned him to his fate I flung his pony’s bridle over a +stake in the hedge, and threw him my handkerchief, as his own was now +saturated with blood. He took it and cast it back to me in abhorrence +and contempt, with all the strength he could muster. It wanted but this +to fill the measure of his offences. With execrations not loud but deep +I left him to live or die as he could, well satisfied that I had done +_my_ duty in attempting to save him—but forgetting how I had erred in +bringing him into such a condition, and how insultingly my +after-services had been offered—and sullenly prepared to meet the +consequences if he should choose to say I had attempted to murder +him—which I thought not unlikely, as it seemed probable he was actuated +by such spiteful motives in so perseveringly refusing my assistance. + +Having remounted my horse, I just looked back to see how he was getting +on, before I rode away. He had risen from the ground, and grasping his +pony’s mane, was attempting to resume his seat in the saddle; but +scarcely had he put his foot in the stirrup, when a sickness or +dizziness seemed to overpower him: he leant forward a moment, with his +head drooped on the animal’s back, and then made one more effort, which +proving ineffectual, he sank back on the bank, where I left him, +reposing his head on the oozy turf, and to all appearance, as calmly +reclining as if he had been taking his rest on his sofa at home. + +I ought to have helped him in spite of himself—to have bound up the +wound he was unable to staunch, and insisted upon getting him on his +horse and seeing him safe home; but, besides my bitter indignation +against himself, there was the question what to say to his servants—and +what to my own family. Either I should have to acknowledge the deed, +which would set me down as a madman, unless I acknowledged the motive +too—and that seemed impossible—or I must get up a lie, which seemed +equally out of the question—especially as Mr. Lawrence would probably +reveal the whole truth, and thereby bring me to tenfold disgrace—unless +I were villain enough, presuming on the absence of witnesses, to +persist in my own version of the case, and make him out a still greater +scoundrel than he was. No; he had only received a cut above the temple, +and perhaps a few bruises from the fall, or the hoofs of his own pony: +that could not kill him if he lay there half the day; and, if he could +not help himself, surely some one would be coming by: it would be +impossible that a whole day should pass and no one traverse the road +but ourselves. As for what he might choose to say hereafter, I would +take my chance about it: if he told lies, I would contradict him; if he +told the truth, I would bear it as best I could. I was not _obliged_ to +enter into explanations further than I thought proper. Perhaps he might +choose to be silent on the subject, for fear of raising inquiries as to +the cause of the quarrel, and drawing the public attention to his +connection with Mrs. Graham, which, whether for her sake or his own, he +seemed so very desirous to conceal. + +Thus reasoning, I trotted away to the town, where I duly transacted my +business, and performed various little commissions for my mother and +Rose, with very laudable exactitude, considering the different +circumstances of the case. In returning home, I was troubled with +sundry misgivings about the unfortunate Lawrence. The question, What if +I should find him lying still on the damp earth, fairly dying of cold +and exhaustion—or already stark and chill? thrust itself most +unpleasantly upon my mind, and the appalling possibility pictured +itself with painful vividness to my imagination as I approached the +spot where I had left him. But no, thank heaven, both man and horse +were gone, and nothing was left to witness against me but two +objects—unpleasant enough in themselves to be sure, and presenting a +very ugly, not to say murderous appearance—in one place, the hat +saturated with rain and coated with mud, indented and broken above the +brim by that villainous whip-handle; in another, the crimson +handkerchief, soaking in a deeply tinctured pool of water—for much rain +had fallen in the interim. + +Bad news flies fast: it was hardly four o’clock when I got home, but my +mother gravely accosted me with—“Oh, Gilbert!—_Such_ an accident! Rose +has been shopping in the village, and she’s heard that Mr. Lawrence has +been thrown from his horse and brought home dying!” + +This shocked me a trifle, as you may suppose; but I was comforted to +hear that he had frightfully fractured his skull and broken a leg; for, +assured of the falsehood of this, I trusted the rest of the story was +equally exaggerated; and when I heard my mother and sister so feelingly +deploring his condition, I had considerable difficulty in preventing +myself from telling them the real extent of the injuries, as far as I +knew them. + +“You must go and see him to-morrow,” said my mother. + +“Or to-day,” suggested Rose: “there’s plenty of time; and you can have +the pony, as your horse is tired. Won’t you, Gilbert—as soon as you’ve +had something to eat?” + +“No, no—how can we tell that it isn’t all a false report? It’s highly +im-” + +“Oh, I’m sure it isn’t; for the village is all alive about it; and I +saw two people that had seen others that had seen the man that found +him. That sounds far-fetched; but it isn’t so when you think of it.” + +“Well, but Lawrence is a good rider; it is not likely he would fall +from his horse at all; and if he did, it is highly improbable he would +break his bones in that way. It must be a gross exaggeration at least.” + +“No; but the horse kicked him—or something.” + +“What, his quiet little pony?” + +“How do you know it was that?” + +“He seldom rides any other.” + +“At any rate,” said my mother, “you will call to-morrow. Whether it be +true or false, exaggerated or otherwise, we shall like to know how he +is.” + +“Fergus may go.” + +“Why not you?” + +“He has more time. I am busy just now.” + +“Oh! but, Gilbert, how can you be so composed about it? You won’t mind +business for an hour or two in a case of this sort, when your friend is +at the point of death.” + +“He is _not_, I tell you.” + +“For anything you know, he _may_ be: you can’t tell till you have seen +him. At all events, he must have met with some terrible accident, and +you ought to see him: he’ll take it very unkind if you don’t.” + +“Confound it! I can’t. He and I have not been on good terms of late.” + +“Oh, my _dear_ boy! Surely, surely you are not so unforgiving as to +carry your little differences to such a length as—” + +“Little differences, indeed!” I muttered. + +“Well, but only remember the occasion. Think how—” + +“Well, well, don’t bother me now—I’ll see about it,” I replied. + +And my seeing about it was to send Fergus next morning, with my +mother’s compliments, to make the requisite inquiries; for, of course, +my going was out of the question—or sending a message either. He +brought back intelligence that the young squire was laid up with the +complicated evils of a broken head and certain contusions (occasioned +by a fall—of which he did not trouble himself to relate the +particulars—and the subsequent misconduct of his horse), and a severe +cold, the consequence of lying on the wet ground in the rain; but there +were no broken bones, and no immediate prospects of dissolution. + +It was evident, then, that for Mrs. Graham’s sake it was not his +intention to criminate me. + + + + + CHAPTER XV + + +That day was rainy like its predecessor; but towards evening it began +to clear up a little, and the next morning was fair and promising. I +was out on the hill with the reapers. A light wind swept over the corn, +and all nature laughed in the sunshine. The lark was rejoicing among +the silvery floating clouds. The late rain had so sweetly freshened and +cleared the air, and washed the sky, and left such glittering gems on +branch and blade, that not even the farmers could have the heart to +blame it. But no ray of sunshine could reach my heart, no breeze could +freshen it; nothing could fill the void my faith, and hope, and joy in +Helen Graham had left, or drive away the keen regrets and bitter dregs +of lingering love that still oppressed it. + +While I stood with folded arms abstractedly gazing on the undulating +swell of the corn, not yet disturbed by the reapers, something gently +pulled my skirts, and a small voice, no longer welcome to my ears, +aroused me with the startling words,—“Mr. Markham, mamma wants you.” + +“Wants _me_, Arthur?” + +“Yes. Why do you look so queer?” said he, half laughing, half +frightened at the unexpected aspect of my face in suddenly turning +towards him,—“and why have you kept so long away? Come! Won’t you +come?” + +“I’m busy just now,” I replied, scarce knowing what to answer. + +He looked up in childish bewilderment; but before I could speak again +the lady herself was at my side. + +“Gilbert, I _must_ speak with you!” said she, in a tone of suppressed +vehemence. + +I looked at her pale cheek and glittering eye, but answered nothing. + +“Only for a moment,” pleaded she. “Just step aside into this other +field.” She glanced at the reapers, some of whom were directing looks +of impertinent curiosity towards her. “I won’t keep you a minute.” + +I accompanied her through the gap. + +“Arthur, darling, run and gather those bluebells,” said she, pointing +to some that were gleaming at some distance under the hedge along which +we walked. The child hesitated, as if unwilling to quit my side. “Go, +love!” repeated she more urgently, and in a tone which, though not +unkind, demanded prompt obedience, and obtained it. + +“Well, Mrs. Graham?” said I, calmly and coldly; for, though I saw she +was miserable, and pitied her, I felt glad to have it in my power to +torment her. + +She fixed her eyes upon me with a look that pierced me to the heart; +and yet it made me smile. + +“I don’t ask the reason of this change, Gilbert,” said she, with bitter +calmness: “I know it too well; but though I could see myself suspected +and condemned by every one else, and bear it with calmness, I cannot +endure it from you.—Why did you not come to hear my explanation on the +day I appointed to give it?” + +“Because I happened, in the interim, to learn all you would have told +me—and a trifle more, I imagine.” + +“Impossible, for I would have told you all!” cried she, +passionately—“but I won’t now, for I see you are not worthy of it!” + +And her pale lips quivered with agitation. + +“Why not, may I ask?” + +She repelled my mocking smile with a glance of scornful indignation. + +“Because you never understood me, or you would not soon have listened +to my traducers—my confidence would be misplaced in you—you are not the +man I thought you. Go! I won’t care _what_ you think of me.” + +She turned away, and I went; for I thought that would torment her as +much as anything; and I believe I was right; for, looking back a minute +after, I saw her turn half round, as if hoping or expecting to find me +still beside her; and then she stood still, and cast one look behind. +It was a look less expressive of anger than of bitter anguish and +despair; but I immediately assumed an aspect of indifference, and +affected to be gazing carelessly around me, and I suppose she went on; +for after lingering awhile to see if she would come back or call, I +ventured one more glance, and saw her a good way off, moving rapidly up +the field, with little Arthur running by her side and apparently +talking as he went; but she kept her face averted from him, as if to +hide some uncontrollable emotion. And I returned to my business. + +But I soon began to regret my precipitancy in leaving her so soon. It +was evident she loved me—probably she was tired of Mr. Lawrence, and +wished to exchange him for me; and if I had loved and reverenced her +less to begin with, the preference might have gratified and amused me; +but now the contrast between her outward seeming and her inward mind, +as I supposed,—between my former and my present opinion of her, was so +harrowing—so distressing to my feelings, that it swallowed up every +lighter consideration. + +But still I was curious to know what sort of an explanation she would +have given me—or would give now, if I pressed her for it—how much she +would confess, and how she would endeavour to excuse herself. I longed +to know what to despise, and what to admire in her; how much to pity, +and how much to hate;—and, what was more, I _would_ know. I would see +her once more, and fairly satisfy myself in what light to regard her, +before we parted. Lost to me she was, for ever, of course; but still I +could not bear to think that we had parted, for the last time, with so +much unkindness and misery on both sides. That last look of hers had +sunk into my heart; I could not forget it. But what a fool I was! Had +she not deceived me, injured me—blighted my happiness for life? “Well, +I’ll see her, however,” was my concluding resolve, “but not to-day: +to-day and to-night she may think upon her sins, and be as miserable as +she will: to-morrow I will see her once again, and know something more +about her. The interview may be serviceable to her, or it may not. At +any rate, it will give a breath of excitement to the life she has +doomed to stagnation, and may calm with certainty some agitating +thoughts.” + +I did go on the morrow, but not till towards evening, after the +business of the day was concluded, that is, between six and seven; and +the westering sun was gleaming redly on the old Hall, and flaming in +the latticed windows, as I reached it, imparting to the place a +cheerfulness not its own. I need not dilate upon the feelings with +which I approached the shrine of my former divinity—that spot teeming +with a thousand delightful recollections and glorious dreams—all +darkened now by one disastrous truth. + +Rachel admitted me into the parlour, and went to call her mistress, for +she was not there: but there was her desk left open on the little round +table beside the high-backed chair, with a book laid upon it. Her +limited but choice collection of books was almost as familiar to me as +my own; but this volume I had not seen before. I took it up. It was Sir +Humphry Davy’s “Last Days of a Philosopher,” and on the first leaf was +written, “Frederick Lawrence.” I closed the book, but kept it in my +hand, and stood facing the door, with my back to the fire-place, calmly +waiting her arrival; for I did not doubt she would come. And soon I +heard her step in the hall. My heart was beginning to throb, but I +checked it with an internal rebuke, and maintained my +composure—outwardly at least. She entered, calm, pale, collected. + +“To what am I indebted for this favour, Mr. Markham?” said she, with +such severe but quiet dignity as almost disconcerted me; but I answered +with a smile, and impudently enough,— + +“Well, I am come to hear your explanation.” + +“I told you I would not give it,” said she. “I said you were unworthy +of my confidence.” + +“Oh, very well,” replied I, moving to the door. + +“Stay a moment,” said she. “This is the last time I shall see you: +don’t go just yet.” + +I remained, awaiting her further commands. + +“Tell me,” resumed she, “on what grounds you believe these things +against me; who told you; and what did they say?” + +I paused a moment. She met my eye as unflinchingly as if her bosom had +been steeled with conscious innocence. She was resolved to know the +worst, and determined to dare it too. “I can crush that bold spirit,” +thought I. But while I secretly exulted in my power, I felt disposed to +dally with my victim like a cat. Showing her the book that I still +held, in my hand, and pointing to the name on the fly-leaf, but fixing +my eye upon her face, I asked,—“Do you know that gentleman?” + +“Of course I do,” replied she; and a sudden flush suffused her +features—whether of shame or anger I could not tell: it rather +resembled the latter. “What next, sir?” + +“How long is it since you saw him?” + +“Who gave you the right to catechize me on this or any other subject?” + +“Oh, no one!—it’s quite at your option whether to answer or not. And +now, let me ask—have you heard what has lately befallen this friend of +yours?—because, if you have not—” + +“I will not be insulted, Mr. Markham!” cried she, almost infuriated at +my manner. “So you had better leave the house at once, if you came only +for that.” + +“I did not come to insult you: I came to hear your explanation.” + +“And I tell you I won’t give it!” retorted she, pacing the room in a +state of strong excitement, with her hands clasped tightly together, +breathing short, and flashing fires of indignation from her eyes. “I +will not condescend to explain myself to one that can make a jest of +such horrible suspicions, and be so easily led to entertain them.” + +“I do not make a jest of them, Mrs. Graham,” returned I, dropping at +once my tone of taunting sarcasm. “I heartily wish I could find them a +jesting matter. And as to being easily led to suspect, God only knows +what a blind, incredulous fool I have hitherto been, perseveringly +shutting my eyes and stopping my ears against everything that +threatened to shake my confidence in you, till proof itself confounded +my infatuation!” + +“What proof, sir?” + +“Well, I’ll tell you. You remember that evening when I was here last?” + +“I do.” + +“Even then you dropped some hints that might have opened the eyes of a +wiser man; but they had no such effect upon me: I went on trusting and +believing, hoping against hope, and adoring where I could not +comprehend. It so happened, however, that after I left you I turned +back—drawn by pure depth of sympathy and ardour of affection—not daring +to intrude my presence openly upon you, but unable to resist the +temptation of catching one glimpse through the window, just to see how +you were: for I had left you apparently in great affliction, and I +partly blamed my own want of forbearance and discretion as the cause of +it. If I did wrong, love alone was my incentive, and the punishment was +severe enough; for it was just as I had reached that tree, that you +came out into the garden with your friend. Not choosing to show myself, +under the circumstances, I stood still, in the shadow, till you had +both passed by.” + +“And how much of our conversation did you hear?” + +“I heard quite enough, Helen. And it was well for me that I did hear +it; for nothing less could have cured my infatuation. I always said and +thought, that I would never believe a word against you, unless I heard +it from your own lips. All the hints and affirmations of others I +treated as malignant, baseless slanders; your own self-accusations I +believed to be overstrained; and all that seemed unaccountable in your +position I trusted that you could account for if you chose.” + +Mrs. Graham had discontinued her walk. She leant against one end of the +chimney-piece, opposite that near which I was standing, with her chin +resting on her closed hand, her eyes—no longer burning with anger, but +gleaming with restless excitement—sometimes glancing at me while I +spoke, then coursing the opposite wall, or fixed upon the carpet. + +“You should have come to me after all,” said she, “and heard what I had +to say in my own justification. It was ungenerous and wrong to withdraw +yourself so secretly and suddenly, immediately after such ardent +protestations of attachment, without ever assigning a reason for the +change. You should have told me all—no matter _how_ bitterly. It would +have been better than this silence.” + +“To what end should I have done so? You could not have enlightened me +further, on the subject which alone concerned me; nor could you have +made me discredit the evidence of my senses. I desired our intimacy to +be discontinued at once, as you yourself had acknowledged would +probably be the case if I knew all; but I did not wish to upbraid +you,—though (as you also acknowledged) you had deeply wronged me. Yes, +you have done me an injury you can never repair—or any other either—you +have blighted the freshness and promise of youth, and made my life a +wilderness! I might live a hundred years, but I could never recover +from the effects of this withering blow—and never forget it! +Hereafter—You smile, Mrs. Graham,” said I, suddenly stopping short, +checked in my passionate declamation by unutterable feelings to behold +her actually _smiling_ at the picture of the ruin she had wrought. + +“Did I?” replied she, looking seriously up; “I was not aware of it. If +I did, it was not for pleasure at the thoughts of the harm I had done +you. Heaven knows I have had torment enough at the bare possibility of +that; it was for joy to find that you had some depth of soul and +feeling after all, and to hope that I had not been utterly mistaken in +your worth. But smiles and tears are so alike with me, they are neither +of them confined to any particular feelings: I often cry when I am +happy, and smile when I am sad.” + +She looked at me again, and seemed to expect a reply; but I continued +silent. + +“Would you be _very_ glad,” resumed she, “to find that you were +mistaken in your conclusions?” + +“How can you ask it, Helen?” + +“I don’t say I can clear myself altogether,” said she, speaking low and +fast, while her heart beat visibly and her bosom heaved with +excitement,—“but would you be glad to discover I was better than you +think me?” + +“Anything that could in the least degree tend to restore my former +opinion of you, to excuse the regard I still feel for you, and +alleviate the pangs of unutterable regret that accompany it, would be +only too gladly, too eagerly received!” Her cheeks burned, and her +whole frame trembled, now, with excess of agitation. She did not speak, +but flew to her desk, and snatching thence what seemed a thick album or +manuscript volume, hastily tore away a few leaves from the end, and +thrust the rest into my hand, saying, “You needn’t read it all; but +take it home with you,” and hurried from the room. But when I had left +the house, and was proceeding down the walk, she opened the window and +called me back. It was only to say,—“Bring it back when you have read +it; and don’t breathe a word of what it tells you to any living being. +I trust to your honour.” + +Before I could answer she had closed the casement and turned away. I +saw her cast herself back in the old oak chair, and cover her face with +her hands. Her feelings had been wrought to a pitch that rendered it +necessary to seek relief in tears. + +Panting with eagerness, and struggling to suppress my hopes, I hurried +home, and rushed up-stairs to my room, having first provided myself +with a candle, though it was scarcely twilight yet—then, shut and +bolted the door, determined to tolerate no interruption; and sitting +down before the table, opened out my prize and delivered myself up to +its perusal—first hastily turning over the leaves and snatching a +sentence here and there, and then setting myself steadily to read it +through. + +I have it now before me; and though you could not, of course, peruse it +with half the interest that I did, I know you would not be satisfied +with an abbreviation of its contents, and you shall have the whole, +save, perhaps, a few passages here and there of merely temporary +interest to the writer, or such as would serve to encumber the story +rather than elucidate it. It begins somewhat abruptly, thus—but we will +reserve its commencement for another chapter. + + + + + CHAPTER XVI + + +June 1st, 1821.—We have just returned to Staningley—that is, we +returned some days ago, and I am not yet settled, and feel as if I +never should be. We left town sooner than was intended, in consequence +of my uncle’s indisposition;—I wonder what would have been the result +if we had stayed the full time. I am quite ashamed of my new-sprung +distaste for country life. All my former occupations seem so tedious +and dull, my former amusements so insipid and unprofitable. I cannot +enjoy my music, because there is no one to hear it. I cannot enjoy my +walks, because there is no one to meet. I cannot enjoy my books, +because they have not power to arrest my attention: my head is so +haunted with the recollections of the last few weeks, that I cannot +attend to them. My drawing suits me best, for I can draw and think at +the same time; and if my productions cannot now be seen by any one but +myself, and those who do not care about them, they, possibly, may be, +hereafter. But, then, there is one face I am always trying to paint or +to sketch, and always without success; and that vexes me. As for the +owner of that face, I cannot get him out of my mind—and, indeed, I +never try. I wonder whether he ever thinks of me; and I wonder whether +I shall ever see him again. And then might follow a train of other +wonderments—questions for time and fate to answer—concluding +with—Supposing all the rest be answered in the affirmative, I wonder +whether I shall ever repent it? as my aunt would tell me I should, if +she knew what I was thinking about. + +How distinctly I remember our conversation that evening before our +departure for town, when we were sitting together over the fire, my +uncle having gone to bed with a slight attack of the gout. + +“Helen,” said she, after a thoughtful silence, “do you ever think about +marriage?” + +“Yes, aunt, often.” + +“And do you ever contemplate the possibility of being married yourself, +or engaged, before the season is over?” + +“Sometimes; but I don’t think it at all likely that I _ever_ shall.” + +“Why so?” + +“Because, I imagine, there must be only a very, very few men in the +world that I should like to marry; and of those few, it is ten to one I +may never be acquainted with one; or if I should, it is twenty to one +he may not happen to be single, or to take a fancy to me.” + +“That is no argument at all. It may be very true—and I hope is true, +that there are very few men whom you would choose to marry, of +yourself. It is not, indeed, to be supposed that you would _wish_ to +marry _any_ one till you were asked: a girl’s affections should never +be won unsought. But when they _are_ sought—when the citadel of the +heart is fairly besieged—it is apt to surrender sooner than the owner +is aware of, and often against her better judgment, and in opposition +to all her preconceived ideas of what she could have loved, unless she +be extremely careful and discreet. Now, I want to warn you, Helen, of +these things, and to exhort you to be watchful and circumspect from the +very commencement of your career, and not to suffer your heart to be +stolen from you by the first foolish or unprincipled person that covets +the possession of it.—You know, my dear, you are only just eighteen; +there is plenty of time before you, and neither your uncle nor I are in +any hurry to get you off our hands, and I may venture to say, there +will be no lack of suitors; for you can boast a good family, a pretty +considerable fortune and expectations, and, I may as well tell you +likewise—for, if I don’t, others will—that you have a fair share of +beauty besides—and I hope you may never have cause to regret it!” + +“I hope not, aunt; but why should you fear it?” + +“Because, my dear, beauty is that quality which, next to money, is +generally the most attractive to the worst kinds of men; and, +therefore, it is likely to entail a great deal of trouble on the +possessor.” + +“Have _you_ been troubled in that way, aunt?” + +“No, Helen,” said she, with reproachful gravity, “but I know many that +have; and some, through carelessness, have been the wretched victims of +deceit; and some, through weakness, have fallen into snares and +temptations terrible to relate.” + +“Well, I shall be neither careless nor weak.” + +“Remember Peter, Helen! Don’t boast, but _watch_. Keep a guard over +your eyes and ears as the inlets of your heart, and over your lips as +the outlet, lest they betray you in a moment of unwariness. Receive, +coldly and dispassionately, every attention, till you have ascertained +and duly considered the worth of the aspirant; and let your affections +be consequent upon approbation alone. First study; then approve; then +love. Let your eyes be blind to all external attractions, your ears +deaf to all the fascinations of flattery and light discourse.—These are +nothing—and worse than nothing—snares and wiles of the tempter, to lure +the thoughtless to their own destruction. Principle is the first thing, +after all; and next to that, good sense, respectability, and moderate +wealth. If you should marry the handsomest, and most accomplished and +superficially agreeable man in the world, you little know the misery +that would overwhelm you if, after all, you should find him to be a +worthless reprobate, or even an impracticable fool.” + +“But what are all the poor fools and reprobates to do, aunt? If +everybody followed your advice, the world would soon come to an end.” + +“Never fear, my dear! the male fools and reprobates will never want for +partners, while there are so many of the other sex to match them; but +do _you_ follow my advice. And this is no subject for jesting, Helen—I +am sorry to see you treat the matter in that light way. Believe me, +_matrimony is a serious thing_.” And she spoke it _so_ seriously, that +one might have fancied she had known it to her cost; but I asked no +more impertinent questions, and merely answered,— + +“I know it is; and I know there is truth and sense in what you say; but +you need not fear me, for I not only should think it _wrong_ to marry a +man that was deficient in sense or in principle, but I should never be +_tempted_ to do it; for I could not like him, if he were ever so +handsome, and ever so charming, in other respects; I should hate +him—despise him—pity him—anything but love him. My affections not only +_ought_ to be founded on approbation, but they will and must be so: +for, without approving, I cannot love. It is needless to say, I ought +to be able to respect and honour the man I marry, as _well_ as love +him, for I cannot love him without. So set your mind at rest.” + +“I hope it may be so,” answered she. + +“I _know_ it _is_ so,” persisted I. + +“You have not been tried yet, Helen—we can but hope,” said she in her +cold, cautious way. + +“I was vexed at her incredulity; but I am not sure her doubts were +entirely without sagacity; I fear I have found it much easier to +remember her advice than to profit by it;—indeed, I have sometimes been +led to question the soundness of her doctrines on those subjects. Her +counsels may be good, as far as they go—in the main points at +least;—but there are some things she has overlooked in her +calculations. I wonder if _she_ was ever in love. + +I commenced my career—or my first campaign, as my uncle calls +it—kindling with bright hopes and fancies—chiefly raised by this +conversation—and full of confidence in my own discretion. At first, I +was delighted with the novelty and excitement of our London life; but +soon I began to weary of its mingled turbulence and constraint, and +sigh for the freshness and freedom of home. My new acquaintances, both +male and female, disappointed my expectations, and vexed and depressed +me by turns; for I soon grew tired of studying their peculiarities, and +laughing at their foibles—particularly as I was obliged to keep my +criticisms to myself, for my aunt would not hear them—and they—the +ladies especially—appeared so provokingly mindless, and heartless, and +artificial. The gentlemen seemed better, but, perhaps, it was because I +knew them less—perhaps, because they flattered me; but I did not fall +in love with any of them; and, if their attentions pleased me one +moment, they provoked me the next, because they put me out of humour +with myself, by revealing my vanity and making me fear I was becoming +like some of the ladies I so heartily despised. + +There was one elderly gentleman that annoyed me very much; a rich old +friend of my uncle’s, who, I believe, thought I could not do better +than marry him; but, besides being old, he was ugly and +disagreeable,—and wicked, I am sure, though my aunt scolded me for +saying so; but she allowed he was no saint. And there was another, less +hateful, but still _more_ tiresome, because she favoured him, and was +always thrusting him upon me, and sounding his praises in my ears—Mr. +Boarham by name, Bore’em, as I prefer spelling it, for a terrible bore +he was: I shudder still at the remembrance of his voice—drone, drone, +drone, in my ear—while he sat beside me, prosing away by the half-hour +together, and beguiling himself with the notion that he was improving +my mind by useful information, or impressing his dogmas upon me and +reforming my errors of judgment, or perhaps that he was talking down to +my level, and amusing me with entertaining discourse. Yet he was a +decent man enough in the main, I daresay; and if he had kept his +distance, I never would have hated him. As it was, it was almost +impossible to help it, for he not only bothered me with the infliction +of his own presence, but he kept me from the enjoyment of more +agreeable society. + +One night, however, at a ball, he had been more than usually +tormenting, and my patience was quite exhausted. It appeared as if the +whole evening was fated to be insupportable: I had just had one dance +with an empty-headed coxcomb, and then Mr. Boarham had come upon me and +seemed determined to cling to me for the rest of the night. He never +danced himself, and there he sat, poking his head in my face, and +impressing all beholders with the idea that he was a confirmed, +acknowledged lover; my aunt looking complacently on all the time, and +wishing him God-speed. In vain I attempted to drive him away by giving +a loose to my exasperated feelings, even to positive rudeness: nothing +could convince him that his presence was disagreeable. Sullen silence +was taken for rapt attention, and gave him greater room to talk; sharp +answers were received as smart sallies of girlish vivacity, that only +required an indulgent rebuke; and flat contradictions were but as oil +to the flames, calling forth new strains of argument to support his +dogmas, and bringing down upon me endless floods of reasoning to +overwhelm me with conviction. + +But there was one present who seemed to have a better appreciation of +my frame of mind. A gentleman stood by, who had been watching our +conference for some time, evidently much amused at my companion’s +remorseless pertinacity and my manifest annoyance, and laughing to +himself at the asperity and uncompromising spirit of my replies. At +length, however, he withdrew, and went to the lady of the house, +apparently for the purpose of asking an introduction to me, for, +shortly after, they both came up, and she introduced him as Mr. +Huntingdon, the son of a late friend of my uncle’s. He asked me to +dance. I gladly consented, of course; and he was my companion during +the remainder of my stay, which was not long, for my aunt, as usual, +insisted upon an early departure. + +I was sorry to go, for I had found my new acquaintance a very lively +and entertaining companion. There was a certain graceful ease and +freedom about all he said and did, that gave a sense of repose and +expansion to the mind, after so much constraint and formality as I had +been doomed to suffer. There might be, it is true, a little too much +careless boldness in his manner and address, but I was in so good a +humour, and so grateful for my late deliverance from Mr. Boarham, that +it did not anger me. + +“Well, Helen, how do you like Mr. Boarham now?” said my aunt, as we +took our seats in the carriage and drove away. + +“Worse than ever,” I replied. + +She looked displeased, but said no more on that subject. + +“Who was the gentleman you danced with last,” resumed she, after a +pause—“that was so officious in helping you on with your shawl?” + +“He was not officious at all, aunt: he never _attempted_ to help me, +till he saw Mr. Boarham coming to do so; and then he stepped laughingly +forward and said, ‘Come, I’ll preserve you from that infliction.’” + +“Who was it, I ask?” said she, with frigid gravity. + +“It was Mr. Huntingdon, the son of uncle’s old friend.” + +“I have heard your uncle speak of young Mr. Huntingdon. I’ve heard him +say, ‘He’s a fine lad, that young Huntingdon, but a bit wildish, I +fancy.’ So I’d have you beware.” + +“What does ‘a bit wildish’ mean?” I inquired. + +“It means destitute of principle, and prone to every vice that is +common to youth.” + +“But I’ve heard uncle say he was a sad wild fellow himself, when he was +young.” + +She sternly shook her head. + +“He was jesting then, I suppose,” said I, “and here he was speaking at +random—at least, I cannot believe there is any harm in those laughing +blue eyes.” + +“False reasoning, Helen!” said she, with a sigh. + +“Well, we ought to be charitable, you know, aunt—besides, I don’t think +it _is_ false: I am an excellent physiognomist, and I always judge of +people’s characters by their looks—not by whether they are handsome or +ugly, but by the general cast of the countenance. For instance, I +should know by your countenance that you were not of a cheerful, +sanguine disposition; and I should know by Mr. Wilmot’s, that he was a +worthless old reprobate; and by Mr. Boarham’s, that he was not an +agreeable companion; and by Mr. Huntingdon’s, that he was neither a +fool nor a knave, though, possibly, neither a sage nor a saint—but that +is no matter to me, as I am not likely to meet him again—unless as an +occasional partner in the ball-room.” + +It was not so, however, for I met him again next morning. He came to +call upon my uncle, apologising for not having done so before, by +saying he was only lately returned from the Continent, and had not +heard, till the previous night, of my uncle’s arrival in town; and +after that I often met him; sometimes in public, sometimes at home; for +he was very assiduous in paying his respects to his old friend, who did +not, however, consider himself greatly obliged by the attention. + +“I wonder what the deuce the lad means by coming so often,” he would +say,—“can _you_ tell, Helen?—Hey? He wants none o’ my company, nor I +his—that’s certain.” + +“I wish you’d tell him so, then,” said my aunt. + +“Why, what for? If I don’t want him, somebody does, mayhap” (winking at +me). “Besides, he’s a pretty tidy fortune, Peggy, you know—not such a +catch as Wilmot; but then Helen won’t hear of that match: for, somehow, +these old chaps don’t go down with the girls—with _all_ their money, +and their experience to boot. I’ll bet anything she’d rather have this +young fellow without a penny, than Wilmot with his house full of gold. +Wouldn’t you, Nell?” + +“Yes, uncle; but that’s not saying much for Mr. Huntingdon; for I’d +rather be an old maid and a pauper than Mrs. Wilmot.” + +“And Mrs. Huntingdon? What would you rather be than Mrs. +Huntingdon—eh?” + +“I’ll tell you when I’ve considered the matter.” + +“Ah! it needs consideration, then? But come, now—would you rather be an +old maid—let alone the pauper?” + +“I can’t tell till I’m asked.” + +And I left the room immediately, to escape further examination. But +five minutes after, in looking from my window, I beheld Mr. Boarham +coming up to the door. I waited nearly half-an-hour in uncomfortable +suspense, expecting every minute to be called, and vainly longing to +hear him go. Then footsteps were heard on the stairs, and my aunt +entered the room with a solemn countenance, and closed the door behind +her. + +“Here is Mr. Boarham, Helen,” said she. “He wishes to see you.” + +“Oh, aunt!—Can’t you tell him I’m indisposed?—I’m sure I am—to see +_him_.” + +“Nonsense, my dear! this is no trifling matter. He is come on a very +important errand—to ask your hand in marriage of your uncle and me.” + +“I hope my uncle and you told him it was not in your power to give it. +What right had he to ask _any_ one before me?” + +“Helen!” + +“What did my uncle say?” + +“He said he would not interfere in the matter; if you liked to accept +Mr. Boarham’s obliging offer, you—” + +“Did he say obliging offer?” + +“No; he said if you liked to take him you might; and if not, you might +please yourself.” + +“He said right; and what did you say?” + +“It is no matter what I said. What will _you_ say?—that is the +question. He is now waiting to ask you himself; but consider well +before you go; and if you intend to refuse him, give me your reasons.” + +“I _shall_ refuse him, of course; but you must tell me how, for I want +to be civil and yet decided—and when I’ve got rid of him, I’ll give you +my reasons afterwards.” + +“But stay, Helen; sit down a little and compose yourself. Mr. Boarham +is in no particular hurry, for he has little doubt of your acceptance; +and I want to speak with you. Tell me, my dear, what are your +objections to him? Do you deny that he is an upright, honourable man?” + +“No.” + +“Do you deny that he is sensible, sober, respectable?” + +“No; he may be all this, but—” + +“_But_ Helen! How many such men do you expect to meet with in the +world? Upright, honourable, sensible, sober, respectable! Is _this_ +such an every-day character that you should reject the possessor of +such noble qualities without a moment’s hesitation? Yes, _noble_ I may +call them; for think of the full meaning of each, and how many +inestimable virtues they include (and I might add many more to the +list), and consider that all this is laid at your feet. It is in your +power to secure this inestimable blessing for life—a worthy and +excellent husband, who loves you tenderly, but not too fondly so as to +blind him to your faults, and will be your guide throughout life’s +pilgrimage, and your partner in eternal bliss. Think how—” + +“But I hate him, aunt,” said I, interrupting this unusual flow of +eloquence. + +“Hate him, Helen! Is this a Christian spirit?—_you hate him?_ and he so +good a man!” + +“I don’t hate him as a man, but as a husband. As a man, I love him so +much that I wish him a better wife than I—one as good as himself, or +better—if you think that possible—provided she could like him; but I +never could, and therefore—” + +“But why not? What objection do you find?” + +“Firstly, he is at least forty years old—considerably more, I should +think—and I am but eighteen; secondly, he is narrow-minded and bigoted +in the extreme; thirdly, his tastes and feelings are wholly dissimilar +to mine; fourthly, his looks, voice, and manner are particularly +displeasing to me; and, finally, I have an aversion to his whole person +that I never can surmount.” + +“Then you ought to surmount it. And please to compare him for a moment +with Mr. Huntingdon, and, good looks apart (which contribute nothing to +the merit of the man, or to the happiness of married life, and which +you have so often professed to hold in light esteem), tell me which is +the better man.” + +“I have no doubt Mr. Huntingdon is a much better man than you think +him; but we are not talking about him now, but about Mr. Boarham; and +as I would rather grow, live, and die in single blessedness—than be his +wife, it is but right that I should tell him so at once, and put him +out of suspense—so let me go.” + +“But don’t give him a flat denial; he has no idea of such a thing, and +it would offend him greatly: say you have no thoughts of matrimony at +present—” + +“But I _have_ thoughts of it.” + +“Or that you desire a further acquaintance.” + +“But I don’t desire a further acquaintance—quite the contrary.” + +And without waiting for further admonitions I left the room and went to +seek Mr. Boarham. He was walking up and down the drawing-room, humming +snatches of tunes and nibbling the end of his cane. + +“My dear young lady,” said he, bowing and smirking with great +complacency, “I have your kind guardian’s permission—” + +“I know, sir,” said I, wishing to shorten the scene as much as +possible, “and I am greatly obliged for your preference, but must beg +to decline the honour you wish to confer, for I think we were not made +for each other, as you yourself would shortly discover if the +experiment were tried.” + +My aunt was right. It was quite evident he had had little doubt of my +acceptance, and no idea of a positive denial. He was amazed, astounded +at such an answer, but too incredulous to be much offended; and after a +little humming and hawing, he returned to the attack. + +“I know, my dear, that there exists a considerable disparity between us +in years, in temperament, and perhaps some other things; but let me +assure you, I shall not be severe to mark the faults and foibles of a +young and ardent nature such as yours, and while I acknowledge them to +myself, and even rebuke them with all a father’s care, believe me, no +youthful lover could be more tenderly indulgent towards the object of +his affections than I to you; and, on the other hand, let me hope that +my more experienced years and graver habits of reflection will be no +disparagement in your eyes, as I shall endeavour to make them all +conducive to your happiness. Come, now! What do you say? Let us have no +young lady’s affectations and caprices, but speak out at once.” + +“I will, but only to repeat what I said before, that I am certain we +were not made for each other.” + +“You really think so?” + +“I do.” + +“But you don’t know me—you wish for a further acquaintance—a longer +time to—” + +“No, I don’t. I know you as well as I ever shall, and better than you +know me, or you would never dream of uniting yourself to one so +incongruous—so utterly unsuitable to you in every way.” + +“But, my dear young lady, I don’t look for perfection; I can excuse—” + +“Thank you, Mr. Boarham, but I won’t trespass upon your goodness. You +may save your indulgence and consideration for some more worthy object, +that won’t tax them so heavily.” + +“But let me beg you to consult your aunt; that excellent lady, I am +sure, will—” + +“I have consulted her; and I know her wishes coincide with yours; but +in such important matters, I take the liberty of judging for myself; +and no persuasion can alter my inclinations, or induce me to believe +that such a step would be conducive to my happiness or yours—and I +wonder that a man of your experience and discretion should think of +choosing such a wife.” + +“Ah, well!” said he, “I have sometimes wondered at that myself. I have +sometimes said to myself, ‘Now Boarham, what is this you’re after? Take +care, man—look before you leap! This is a sweet, bewitching creature, +but remember, the brightest attractions to the lover too often prove +the husband’s greatest torments!’ I assure you my choice has not been +made without much reasoning and reflection. The seeming imprudence of +the match has cost me many an anxious thought by day, and many a +sleepless hour by night; but at length I satisfied myself that it was +not, in very deed, imprudent. I saw my sweet girl was not without her +faults, but of these her youth, I trusted, was not one, but rather an +earnest of virtues yet unblown—a strong ground of presumption that her +little defects of temper and errors of judgment, opinion, or manner +were not irremediable, but might easily be removed or mitigated by the +patient efforts of a watchful and judicious adviser, and where I failed +to enlighten and control, I thought I might safely undertake to pardon, +for the sake of her many excellences. Therefore, my dearest girl, since +_I_ am satisfied, why should _you_ object—on my account, at least?” + +“But to tell you the truth, Mr. Boarham, it is on my own account I +principally object; so let us—drop the subject,” I would have said, +“for it is worse than useless to pursue it any further,” but he +pertinaciously interrupted me with,—“But why so? I would love you, +cherish you, protect you,” &c., &c. + +I shall not trouble myself to put down all that passed between us. +Suffice it to say, that I found him very troublesome, and very hard to +convince that I really meant what I said, and really _was_ so obstinate +and blind to my own interests, that there was no shadow of a chance +that either he or my aunt would ever be able to overcome my objections. +Indeed, I am not sure that I succeeded after all; though wearied with +his so pertinaciously returning to the same point and repeating the +same arguments over and over again, forcing me to reiterate the same +replies, I at length turned short and sharp upon him, and my last words +were,—“I tell you plainly, that it cannot be. No consideration can +induce me to marry against my inclinations. I respect you—at least, I +would respect you, if you would behave like a sensible man—but I cannot +love you, and never could—and the more you talk the further you repel +me; so pray don’t say any more about it.” + +Whereupon he wished me a good-morning, and withdrew, disconcerted and +offended, no doubt; but surely it was not my fault. + + + + + CHAPTER XVII + + +The next day I accompanied my uncle and aunt to a dinner-party at Mr. +Wilmot’s. He had two ladies staying with him: his niece Annabella, a +fine dashing girl, or rather young woman,—of some five-and-twenty, too +great a flirt to be married, according to her own assertion, but +greatly admired by the gentlemen, who universally pronounced her a +splendid woman; and her gentle cousin, Milicent Hargrave, who had taken +a violent fancy to me, mistaking me for something vastly better than I +was. And I, in return, was very fond of her. I should entirely exclude +poor Milicent in my general animadversions against the ladies of my +acquaintance. But it was not on her account, or her cousin’s, that I +have mentioned the party: it was for the sake of another of Mr. +Wilmot’s guests, to wit Mr. Huntingdon. I have good reason to remember +his presence there, for this was the last time I saw him. + +He did not sit near me at dinner; for it was his fate to hand in a +capacious old dowager, and mine to be handed in by Mr. Grimsby, a +friend of his, but a man I very greatly disliked: there was a sinister +cast in his countenance, and a mixture of lurking ferocity and fulsome +insincerity in his demeanour, that I could not away with. What a +tiresome custom that is, by-the-by—one among the many sources of +factitious annoyance of this ultra-civilised life. If the gentlemen +_must_ lead the ladies into the dining-room, why cannot they take those +they like best? + +I am not sure, however, that Mr. Huntingdon would have taken me, if he +_had_ been at liberty to make his own selection. It is quite possible +he might have chosen Miss Wilmot; for she seemed bent upon engrossing +his attention to herself, and he seemed nothing loth to pay the homage +she demanded. I thought so, at least, when I saw how they talked and +laughed, and glanced across the table, to the neglect and evident +umbrage of their respective neighbours—and afterwards, as the gentlemen +joined us in the drawing-room, when she, immediately upon his entrance, +loudly called upon him to be the arbiter of a dispute between herself +and another lady, and he answered the summons with alacrity, and +decided the question without a moment’s hesitation in her +favour—though, to my thinking, she was obviously in the wrong—and then +stood chatting familiarly with her and a group of other ladies; while I +sat with Milicent Hargrave at the opposite end of the room, looking +over the latter’s drawings, and aiding her with my critical +observations and advice, at her particular desire. But in spite of my +efforts to remain composed, my attention wandered from the drawings to +the merry group, and against my better judgment my wrath rose, and +doubtless my countenance lowered; for Milicent, observing that I must +be tired of her daubs and scratches, begged I would join the company +now, and defer the examination of the remainder to another opportunity. +But while I was assuring her that I had no wish to join them, and was +not tired, Mr. Huntingdon himself came up to the little round table at +which we sat. + +“Are these yours?” said he, carelessly taking up one of the drawings. + +“No, they are Miss Hargrave’s.” + +“Oh! well, let’s have a look at them.” + +And, regardless of Miss Hargrave’s protestations that they were not +worth looking at, he drew a chair to my side, and receiving the +drawings, one by one from my hand, successively scanned them over, and +threw them on the table, but said not a word about them, though he was +talking all the time. I don’t know what Milicent Hargrave thought of +such conduct, but _I_ found his conversation extremely interesting; +though, as I afterwards discovered, when I came to analyse it, it was +chiefly confined to quizzing the different members of the company +present; and albeit he made some clever remarks, and some excessively +droll ones, I do not think the whole would appear anything very +particular, if written here, without the adventitious aids of look, and +tone, and gesture, and that ineffable but indefinite charm, which cast +a halo over all he did and said, and which would have made it a delight +to look in his face, and hear the music of his voice, if he had been +talking positive nonsense—and which, moreover, made me feel so bitter +against my aunt when she put a stop to this enjoyment, by coming +composedly forward, under pretence of wishing to see the drawings, that +she cared and knew nothing about, and while making believe to examine +them, addressing herself to Mr. Huntingdon, with one of her coldest and +most repellent aspects, and beginning a series of the most common-place +and formidably formal questions and observations, on purpose to wrest +his attention from me—on purpose to vex me, as I thought: and having +now looked through the portfolio, I left them to their _tête-à-tête_, +and seated myself on a sofa, quite apart from the company—never +thinking how strange such conduct would appear, but merely to indulge, +at first, the vexation of the moment, and subsequently to enjoy my +private thoughts. + +But I was not left long alone, for Mr. Wilmot, of all men the least +welcome, took advantage of my isolated position to come and plant +himself beside me. I had flattered myself that I had so effectually +repulsed his advances on all former occasions, that I had nothing more +to apprehend from his unfortunate predilection; but it seems I was +mistaken: so great was his confidence, either in his wealth or his +remaining powers of attraction, and so firm his conviction of feminine +weakness, that he thought himself warranted to return to the siege, +which he did with renovated ardour, enkindled by the quantity of wine +he had drunk—a circumstance that rendered him infinitely the more +disgusting; but greatly as I abhorred him at that moment, I did not +like to treat him with rudeness, as I was now his guest, and had just +been enjoying his hospitality; and I was no hand at a polite but +determined rejection, nor would it have greatly availed me if I had, +for he was too coarse-minded to take any repulse that was not as plain +and positive as his own effrontery. The consequence was, that he waxed +more fulsomely tender, and more repulsively warm, and I was driven to +the very verge of desperation, and about to say I know not what, when I +felt my hand, that hung over the arm of the sofa, suddenly taken by +another and gently but fervently pressed. Instinctively, I guessed who +it was, and, on looking up, was less surprised than delighted to see +Mr. Huntingdon smiling upon me. It was like turning from some +purgatorial fiend to an angel of light, come to announce that the +season of torment was past. + +“Helen,” said he (he frequently called me Helen, and I never resented +the freedom), “I want you to look at this picture. Mr. Wilmot will +excuse you a moment, I’m sure.” + +I rose with alacrity. He drew my arm within his, and led me across the +room to a splendid painting of Vandyke’s that I had noticed before, but +not sufficiently examined. After a moment of silent contemplation, I +was beginning to comment on its beauties and peculiarities, when, +playfully pressing the hand he still retained within his arm, he +interrupted me with,—“Never mind the picture: it was not for that I +brought you here; it was to get you away from that scoundrelly old +profligate yonder, who is looking as if he would like to challenge me +for the affront.” + +“I am very much obliged to you,” said I. “This is twice you have +delivered me from such unpleasant companionship.” + +“Don’t be too thankful,” he answered: “it is not all kindness to you; +it is partly from a feeling of spite to your tormentors that makes me +delighted to do the old fellows a bad turn, though I don’t think I have +any great reason to dread them as rivals. Have I, Helen?” + +“You know I detest them both.” + +“And me?” + +“I have no reason to detest _you_.” + +“But what are your sentiments towards me? Helen—Speak! How do you +regard me?” + +And again he pressed my hand; but I feared there was more of conscious +power than tenderness in his demeanour, and I felt he had no right to +extort a confession of attachment from me when he had made no +correspondent avowal himself, and knew not what to answer. At last I +said,— + +“How do _you_ regard _me?_” + +“Sweet angel, I adore you! I—” + +“Helen, I want you a moment,” said the distinct, low voice of my aunt, +close beside us. And I left him, muttering maledictions against his +evil angel. + +“Well, aunt, what is it? What do you want?” said I, following her to +the embrasure of the window. + +“I want you to join the company, when you are fit to be seen,” returned +she, severely regarding me; “but please to stay here a little, till +that shocking colour is somewhat abated, and your eyes have recovered +something of their natural expression. I should be ashamed for anyone +to see you in your present state.” + +Of course, such a remark had no effect in reducing the “shocking +colour”; on the contrary, I felt my face glow with redoubled fires +kindled by a complication of emotions, of which indignant, swelling +anger was the chief. I offered no reply, however, but pushed aside the +curtain and looked into the night—or rather into the lamp-lit square. + +“Was Mr. Huntingdon proposing to you, Helen?” inquired my too watchful +relative. + +“No.” + +“What was he saying then? I heard something very like it.” + +“I don’t know what he would have said, if you hadn’t interrupted him.” + +“And would you have accepted him, Helen, if he had proposed?” + +“Of course not—without consulting uncle and you.” + +“Oh! I’m glad, my dear, you have so much prudence left. Well, now,” she +added, after a moment’s pause, “you have made yourself conspicuous +enough for one evening. The ladies are directing inquiring glances +towards us at this moment, I see: I shall join them. Do you come too, +when you are sufficiently composed to appear as usual.” + +“I am so now.” + +“Speak gently then, and don’t look so malicious,” said my calm, but +provoking aunt. “We shall return home shortly, and then,” she added +with solemn significance, “I have much to say to you.” + +So I went home prepared for a formidable lecture. Little was said by +either party in the carriage during our short transit homewards; but +when I had entered my room and thrown myself into an easy-chair, to +reflect on the events of the day, my aunt followed me thither, and +having dismissed Rachel, who was carefully stowing away my ornaments, +closed the door; and placing a chair beside me, or rather at right +angles with mine, sat down. With due deference I offered her my more +commodious seat. She declined it, and thus opened the conference: “Do +you remember, Helen, our conversation the night but one before we left +Staningley?” + +“Yes, aunt.” + +“And do you remember how I warned you against letting your heart be +stolen from you by those unworthy of its possession, and fixing your +affections where approbation did not go before, and where reason and +judgment withheld their sanction?” + +“Yes; but _my_ reason—” + +“Pardon me—and do you remember assuring me that there was no occasion +for uneasiness on your account; for you should never be _tempted_ to +marry a man who was deficient in sense or principle, however handsome +or charming in other respects he might be, for you could not love him; +you should hate—despise—pity—anything but love him—were not those your +words?” + +“Yes; but—” + +“And did you not say that your affection _must_ be founded on +approbation; and that, unless you could approve and honour and respect, +you could not love?” + +“Yes; but I do approve, and honour, and respect—” + +“How so, my dear? Is Mr. Huntingdon a good man?” + +“He is a much better man than you think him.” + +“That is nothing to the purpose. Is he a _good_ man?” + +“Yes—in some respects. He has a good disposition.” + +“Is he a man of _principle?_” + +“Perhaps not, exactly; but it is only for want of thought. If he had +some one to advise him, and remind him of what is right—” + +“He would soon learn, you think—and you yourself would willingly +undertake to be his teacher? But, my dear, he is, I believe, full ten +years older than you—how is it that you are so beforehand in moral +acquirements?” + +“Thanks to you, aunt, I have been well brought up, and had good +examples always before me, which he, most likely, has not; and, +besides, he is of a sanguine temperament, and a gay, thoughtless +temper, and I am naturally inclined to reflection.” + +“Well, now you have made him out to be deficient in both sense and +principle, by your own confession—” + +“Then, my sense and my principle are at his service.” + +“That sounds presumptuous, Helen. Do you think you have enough for +both; and do you imagine your merry, thoughtless profligate would allow +himself to be guided by a young girl like you?” + +“No; I should not wish to guide him; but I think I might have influence +sufficient to save him from some errors, and I should think my life +well spent in the effort to preserve so noble a nature from +destruction. He always listens attentively now when I speak seriously +to him (and I often venture to reprove his random way of talking), and +sometimes he says that if he had me always by his side he should never +do or say a wicked thing, and that a little daily talk with me would +make him quite a saint. It may he partly jest and partly flattery, but +still—” + +“But still you think it may be truth?” + +“If I do think there is any mixture of truth in it, it is not from +confidence in my own powers, but in _his_ natural goodness. And you +have no right to call him a profligate, aunt; he is nothing of the +kind.” + +“Who told you so, my dear? What was that story about his intrigue with +a married lady—Lady who was it?—Miss Wilmot herself was telling you the +other day?” + +“It was false—false!” I cried. “I don’t believe a word of it.” + +“You think, then, that he is a virtuous, well-conducted young man?” + +“I know nothing positive respecting his character. I only know that I +have heard nothing definite against it—nothing that could be proved, at +least; and till people can prove their slanderous accusations, I will +not believe them. And I know this, that if he has committed errors, +they are only such as are common to youth, and such as nobody thinks +anything about; for I see that everybody likes him, and all the mammas +smile upon him, and their daughters—and Miss Wilmot herself—are only +too glad to attract his attention.” + +“Helen, the world _may_ look upon such offences as venial; a few +unprincipled mothers may be anxious to catch a young man of fortune +without reference _may_ his character; and thoughtless girls _may_ be +glad to win the smiles of so handsome a gentleman, without seeking to +penetrate beyond the surface; but _you_, I trusted, were better +informed than to see with their eyes, and judge with their perverted +judgment. I did not think _you_ would call these venial errors!” + +“Nor do I, aunt; but if I hate the sins, I love the sinner, and would +do much for his salvation, even supposing your suspicions to be mainly +true, which I do not and will not believe.” + +“Well, my dear, ask your uncle what sort of company he keeps, and if he +is not banded with a set of loose, profligate young men, whom he calls +his friends, his jolly companions, and whose chief delight is to wallow +in vice, and vie with each other who can run fastest and furthest down +the headlong road to the place prepared for the devil and his angels.” + +“Then I will save him from them.” + +“Oh, Helen, Helen! you little know the misery of uniting your fortunes +to such a man!” + +“I have such confidence in him, aunt, notwithstanding all you say, that +I would willingly risk my happiness for the chance of securing his. I +will leave better men to those who only consider their own advantage. +If he has done amiss, I shall consider my life well spent in saving him +from the consequences of his early errors, and striving to recall him +to the path of virtue. God grant me success!” + +Here the conversation ended, for at this juncture my uncle’s voice was +heard from his chamber, loudly calling upon my aunt to come to bed. He +was in a bad humour that night; for his gout was worse. It had been +gradually increasing upon him ever since we came to town; and my aunt +took advantage of the circumstance next morning to persuade him to +return to the country immediately, without waiting for the close of the +season. His physician supported and enforced her arguments; and +contrary to her usual habits, she so hurried the preparations for +removal (as much for my sake as my uncle’s, I think), that in a very +few days we departed; and I saw no more of Mr. Huntingdon. My aunt +flatters herself I shall soon forget him—perhaps she thinks I have +forgotten him already, for I never mention his name; and she may +continue to think so, till we meet again—if ever that should be. I +wonder if it will? + + + + + CHAPTER XVIII + + +August 25th.—I am now quite settled down to my usual routine of steady +occupations and quiet amusements—tolerably contented and cheerful, but +still looking forward to spring with the hope of returning to town, not +for its gaieties and dissipations, but for the chance of meeting Mr. +Huntingdon once again; for still he is always in my thoughts and in my +dreams. In all my employments, whatever I do, or see, or hear, has an +ultimate reference to him; whatever skill or knowledge I acquire is +some day to be turned to his advantage or amusement; whatever new +beauties in nature or art I discover are to be depicted to meet his +eye, or stored in my memory to be told him at some future period. This, +at least, is the hope that I cherish, the fancy that lights me on my +lonely way. It may be only an ignis fatuus, after all, but it can do no +harm to follow it with my eyes and rejoice in its lustre, as long as it +does not lure me from the path I ought to keep; and I think it will +not, for I have thought deeply on my aunt’s advice, and I see clearly, +now, the folly of throwing myself away on one that is unworthy of all +the love I have to give, and incapable of responding to the best and +deepest feelings of my inmost heart—_so_ clearly, that even if I should +see him again, and if he should remember me and love me still (which, +alas! is too little probable, considering how he is situated, and by +whom surrounded), and if he should ask me to marry him—I am determined +not to consent until I know for certain whether my aunt’s opinion of +him or mine is nearest the truth; for if mine is altogether wrong, it +is not he that I love; it is a creature of my own imagination. But I +think it is not wrong—no, no—there is a secret something—an inward +instinct that assures me I am right. There is essential goodness in +him;—and what delight to unfold it! If he has wandered, what bliss to +recall him! If he is now exposed to the baneful influence of corrupting +and wicked companions, what glory to deliver him from them! Oh! if I +could but believe that Heaven has designed me for this! + +* * * * * + + +To-day is the first of September; but my uncle has ordered the +gamekeeper to spare the partridges till the gentlemen come. “What +gentlemen?” I asked when I heard it. A small party he had invited to +shoot. His friend Mr. Wilmot was one, and my aunt’s friend, Mr. +Boarham, another. This struck me as terrible news at the moment; but +all regret and apprehension vanished like a dream when I heard that Mr. +Huntingdon was actually to be a third! My aunt is greatly against his +coming, of course: she earnestly endeavoured to dissuade my uncle from +asking him; but he, laughing at her objections, told her it was no use +talking, for the mischief was already done: he had invited Huntingdon +and his friend Lord Lowborough before we left London, and nothing now +remained but to fix the day for their coming. So he is safe, and I am +sure of seeing him. I cannot express my joy. I find it very difficult +to conceal it from my aunt; but I don’t wish to trouble her with my +feelings till I know whether I ought to indulge them or not. If I find +it my absolute duty to suppress them, they shall trouble no one but +myself; and if I can really feel myself justified in indulging this +attachment, I can dare anything, even the anger and grief of my best +friend, for its object—surely, I shall soon know. But they are not +coming till about the middle of the month. + +We are to have two lady visitors also: Mr. Wilmot is to bring his niece +and her cousin Milicent. I suppose my aunt thinks the latter will +benefit me by her society, and the salutary example of her gentle +deportment and lowly and tractable spirit; and the former I suspect she +intends as a species of counter-attraction to win Mr. Huntingdon’s +attention from me. I don’t thank her for this; but I shall be glad of +Milicent’s company: she is a sweet, good girl, and I wish I were like +her—_more_ like her, at least, than I am. + +* * * * * + + +19th.—They are come. They came the day before yesterday. The gentlemen +are all gone out to shoot, and the ladies are with my aunt, at work in +the drawing-room. I have retired to the library, for I am very unhappy, +and I want to be alone. Books cannot divert me; so having opened my +desk, I will try what may be done by detailing the cause of my +uneasiness. This paper will serve instead of a confidential friend into +whose ear I might pour forth the overflowings of my heart. It will not +sympathise with my distresses, but then it will not laugh at them, and, +if I keep it close, it cannot tell again; so it is, perhaps, the best +friend I could have for the purpose. + +First, let me speak of his arrival—how I sat at my window, and watched +for nearly two hours, before his carriage entered the park-gates—for +they all came before him,—and how deeply I was disappointed at every +arrival, because it was not his. First came Mr. Wilmot and the ladies. +When Milicent had got into her room, I quitted my post a few minutes to +look in upon her and have a little private conversation, for she was +now my intimate friend, several long epistles having passed between us +since our parting. On returning to my window, I beheld another carriage +at the door. Was it his? No; it was Mr. Boarham’s plain dark chariot; +and there stood he upon the steps, carefully superintending the +dislodging of his various boxes and packages. What a collection! One +would have thought he projected a visit of six months at least. A +considerable time after, came Lord Lowborough in his barouche. Is he +one of the profligate friends, I wonder? I should think not; for no one +could call _him_ a jolly companion, I’m sure,—and, besides, he appears +too sober and gentlemanly in his demeanour to merit such suspicions. He +is a tall, thin, gloomy-looking man, apparently between thirty and +forty, and of a somewhat sickly, careworn aspect. + +At last, Mr. Huntingdon’s light phaeton came bowling merrily up the +lawn. I had but a transient glimpse of him: for the moment it stopped, +he sprang out over the side on to the portico steps, and disappeared +into the house. + +I now submitted to be dressed for dinner—a duty which Rachel had been +urging upon me for the last twenty minutes; and when that important +business was completed, I repaired to the drawing-room, where I found +Mr. and Miss Wilmot and Milicent Hargrave already assembled. Shortly +after, Lord Lowborough entered, and then Mr. Boarham, who seemed quite +willing to forget and forgive my former conduct, and to hope that a +little conciliation and steady perseverance on his part might yet +succeed in bringing me to reason. While I stood at the window, +conversing with Milicent, he came up to me, and was beginning to talk +in nearly his usual strain, when Mr. Huntingdon entered the room. + +“How will he greet me, I wonder?” said my bounding heart; and, instead +of advancing to meet him, I turned to the window to hide or subdue my +emotion. But having saluted his host and hostess, and the rest of the +company, he came to me, ardently squeezed my hand, and murmured he was +glad to see me once again. At that moment dinner was announced: my aunt +desired him to take Miss Hargrave into the dining-room, and odious Mr. +Wilmot, with unspeakable grimaces, offered his arm to me; and I was +condemned to sit between himself and Mr. Boarham. But afterwards, when +we were all again assembled in the drawing-room, I was indemnified for +so much suffering by a few delightful minutes of conversation with Mr. +Huntingdon. + +In the course of the evening, Miss Wilmot was called upon to sing and +play for the amusement of the company, and I to exhibit my drawings, +and, though he likes music, and she is an accomplished musician, I +think I am right in affirming, that he paid more attention to my +drawings than to her music. + +So far so good;—but hearing him pronounce, sotto voce, but with +peculiar emphasis, concerning one of the pieces, “THIS is better than +all!”—I looked up, curious to see which it was, and, to my horror, +beheld him complacently gazing at the _back_ of the picture:—it was his +own face that I had sketched there and forgotten to rub out! To make +matters worse, in the agony of the moment, I attempted to snatch it +from his hand; but he prevented me, and exclaiming, “No—by George, I’ll +keep it!” placed it against his waistcoat and buttoned his coat upon it +with a delighted chuckle. + +Then, drawing a candle close to his elbow, he gathered all the drawings +to himself, as well what he had seen as the others, and muttering, “I +must look at _both_ sides now,” he eagerly commenced an examination, +which I watched, at first, with tolerable composure, in the confidence +that his vanity would not be gratified by any further discoveries; for, +though I must plead guilty to having disfigured the backs of several +with abortive attempts to delineate that too fascinating physiognomy, I +was sure that, with that one unfortunate exception, I had carefully +obliterated all such witnesses of my infatuation. But the pencil +frequently leaves an impression upon cardboard that no amount of +rubbing can efface. Such, it seems, was the case with most of these; +and, I confess, I trembled when I saw him holding them so close to the +candle, and poring so intently over the seeming blanks; but still, I +trusted, he would not be able to make out these dim traces to his own +satisfaction. I was mistaken, however. Having ended his scrutiny, he +quietly remarked,—“I perceive the backs of young ladies’ drawings, like +the postscripts of their letters, are the most important and +interesting part of the concern.” + +Then, leaning back in his chair, he reflected a few minutes in silence, +complacently smiling to himself, and while I was concocting some +cutting speech wherewith to check his gratification, he rose, and +passing over to where Annabella Wilmot sat vehemently coquetting with +Lord Lowborough, seated himself on the sofa beside her, and attached +himself to her for the rest of the evening. + +“So then,” thought I, “he despises me, because he knows I love him.” + +And the reflection made me so miserable I knew not what to do. Milicent +came and began to admire my drawings, and make remarks upon them; but I +could not talk to her—I could talk to no one, and, upon the +introduction of tea, I took advantage of the open door and the slight +diversion caused by its entrance to slip out—for I was sure I could not +take any—and take refuge in the library. My aunt sent Thomas in quest +of me, to ask if I were not coming to tea; but I bade him say I should +not take any to-night, and, happily, she was too much occupied with her +guests to make any further inquiries at the time. + +As most of the company had travelled far that day, they retired early +to rest; and having heard them all, as I thought, go up-stairs, I +ventured out, to get my candlestick from the drawing-room sideboard. +But Mr. Huntingdon had lingered behind the rest. He was just at the +foot of the stairs when I opened the door, and hearing my step in the +hall—though I could hardly hear it myself—he instantly turned back. + +“Helen, is that you?” said he. “Why did you run away from us?” + +“Good-night, Mr. Huntingdon,” said I, coldly, not choosing to answer +the question. And I turned away to enter the drawing-room. + +“But you’ll shake hands, won’t you?” said he, placing himself in the +doorway before me. And he seized my hand and held it, much against my +will. + +“Let me go, Mr. Huntingdon,” said I. “I want to get a candle.” + +“The candle will keep,” returned he. + +I made a desperate effort to free my hand from his grasp. + +“Why are you in such a hurry to leave me, Helen?” he said, with a smile +of the most provoking self-sufficiency. “You don’t hate me, you +_know_.” + +“Yes, I do—at this moment.” + +“Not you. It is Annabella Wilmot you hate, not me.” + +“I have nothing to do with Annabella Wilmot,” said I, burning with +indignation. + +“But _I_ have, you know,” returned he, with peculiar emphasis. + +“That is nothing to me, sir,” I retorted. + +“_Is_ it nothing to you, Helen? Will you swear it? Will you?” + +“No I won’t, Mr. Huntingdon! and I _will_ go,” cried I, not knowing +whether to laugh, or to cry, or to break out into a tempest of fury. + +“Go, then, you vixen!” he said; but the instant he released my hand he +had the audacity to put his arm round my neck, and kiss me. + +Trembling with anger and agitation, and I don’t know what besides, I +broke away, and got my candle, and rushed up-stairs to my room. He +would not have done so but for that hateful picture. And there he had +it still in his possession, an eternal monument to his pride and my +humiliation. + +It was but little sleep I got that night, and in the morning I rose +perplexed and troubled with the thoughts of meeting him at breakfast. I +knew not how it was to be done. An assumption of dignified, cold +indifference would hardly do, after what he knew of my devotion—to his +face, at least. Yet something must be done to check his presumption—I +would not submit to be tyrannised over by those bright, laughing eyes. +And, accordingly, I received his cheerful morning salutation as calmly +and coldly as my aunt could have wished, and defeated with brief +answers his one or two attempts to draw me into conversation, while I +comported myself with unusual cheerfulness and complaisance towards +every other member of the party, especially Annabella Wilmot, and even +her uncle and Mr. Boarham were treated with an extra amount of civility +on the occasion, not from any motives of coquetry, but just to show him +that my particular coolness and reserve arose from no general +ill-humour or depression of spirits. + +He was not, however, to be repelled by such acting as this. He did not +talk much to me, but when he did speak it was with a degree of freedom +and openness, and _kindliness_ too, that plainly seemed to intimate he +knew his words were music to my ears; and when his looks met mine it +was with a smile—presumptuous, it might be—but oh! so sweet, so bright, +so genial, that I could not possibly retain my anger; every vestige of +displeasure soon melted away beneath it like morning clouds before the +summer sun. + +Soon after breakfast all the gentlemen save one, with boyish eagerness, +set out on their expedition against the hapless partridges; my uncle +and Mr. Wilmot on their shooting ponies, Mr. Huntingdon and Lord +Lowborough on their legs: the one exception being Mr. Boarham, who, in +consideration of the rain that had fallen during the night, thought it +prudent to remain behind a little and join them in a while when the sun +had dried the grass. And he favoured us all with a long and minute +disquisition upon the evils and dangers attendant upon damp feet, +delivered with the most imperturbable gravity, amid the jeers and +laughter of Mr. Huntingdon and my uncle, who, leaving the prudent +sportsman to entertain the ladies with his medical discussions, sallied +forth with their guns, bending their steps to the stables first, to +have a look at the horses and let out the dogs. + +Not desirous of sharing Mr. Boarham’s company for the whole of the +morning, I betook myself to the library, and there brought forth my +easel and began to paint. The easel and the painting apparatus would +serve as an excuse for abandoning the drawing-room if my aunt should +come to complain of the desertion, and besides I wanted to finish the +picture. It was one I had taken great pains with, and I intended it to +be my masterpiece, though it was somewhat presumptuous in the design. +By the bright azure of the sky, and by the warm and brilliant lights +and deep long shadows, I had endeavoured to convey the idea of a sunny +morning. I had ventured to give more of the bright verdure of spring or +early summer to the grass and foliage than is commonly attempted in +painting. The scene represented was an open glade in a wood. A group of +dark Scotch firs was introduced in the middle distance to relieve the +prevailing freshness of the rest; but in the foreground was part of the +gnarled trunk and of the spreading boughs of a large forest-tree, whose +foliage was of a brilliant golden green—not golden from autumnal +mellowness, but from the sunshine and the very immaturity of the scarce +expanded leaves. Upon this bough, that stood out in bold relief against +the sombre firs, were seated an amorous pair of turtle doves, whose +soft sad-coloured plumage afforded a contrast of another nature; and +beneath it a young girl was kneeling on the daisy-spangled turf, with +head thrown back and masses of fair hair falling on her shoulders, her +hands clasped, lips parted, and eyes intently gazing upward in pleased +yet earnest contemplation of those feathered lovers—too deeply absorbed +in each other to notice her. + +I had scarcely settled to my work, which, however, wanted but a few +touches to the finishing, when the sportsmen passed the window on their +return from the stables. It was partly open, and Mr. Huntingdon must +have seen me as he went by, for in half a minute he came back, and +setting his gun against the wall, threw up the sash and sprang in, and +set himself before my picture. + +“Very pretty, i’faith,” said he, after attentively regarding it for a +few seconds; “and a very fitting study for a young lady. Spring just +opening into summer—morning just approaching noon—girlhood just +ripening into womanhood, and hope just verging on fruition. She’s a +sweet creature! but why didn’t you make her black hair?” + +“I thought light hair would suit her better. You see I have made her +blue-eyed and plump, and fair and rosy.” + +“Upon my word—a very Hebe! I should fall in love with her if I hadn’t +the artist before me. Sweet innocent! she’s thinking there will come a +time when she will be wooed and won like that pretty hen-dove by as +fond and fervent a lover; and she’s thinking how pleasant it will be, +and how tender and faithful he will find her.” + +“And perhaps,” suggested I, “how tender and faithful she shall find +him.” + +“Perhaps, for there is no limit to the wild extravagance of Hope’s +imaginings at such an age.” + +“Do you call _that_, then, one of her wild, extravagant delusions?” + +“No; my heart tells me it is not. I might have thought so once, but +now, I say, give me the girl I love, and I will swear eternal constancy +to her and her alone, through summer and winter, through youth and age, +and life and death! if age and death _must_ come.” + +He spoke this in such serious earnest that my heart bounded with +delight; but the minute after he changed his tone, and asked, with a +significant smile, if I had “any more portraits.” + +“No,” replied I, reddening with confusion and wrath. + +But my portfolio was on the table: he took it up, and coolly sat down +to examine its contents. + +“Mr. Huntingdon, those are my unfinished sketches,” cried I, “and I +never let any one see them.” + +And I placed my hand on the portfolio to wrest it from him, but he +maintained his hold, assuring me that he “liked unfinished sketches of +all things.” + +“But I hate them to be seen,” returned I. “I can’t let you have it, +indeed!” + +“Let me have its bowels then,” said he; and just as I wrenched the +portfolio from his hand, he deftly abstracted the greater part of its +contents, and after turning them over a moment he cried out,—“Bless my +stars, here’s another;” and slipped a small oval of ivory paper into +his waistcoat pocket—a complete miniature portrait that I had sketched +with such tolerable success as to be induced to colour it with great +pains and care. But I was determined he should not keep it. + +“Mr. Huntingdon,” cried I, “I _insist_ upon having that back! It is +mine, and you have no _right_ to take it. Give it me directly—I’ll +never forgive you if you don’t!” + +But the more vehemently I insisted, the more he aggravated my distress +by his insulting, gleeful laugh. At length, however, he restored it to +me, saying,—“Well, well, since you value it so much, I’ll not deprive +you of it.” + +To show him how I valued it, I tore it in two and threw it into the +fire. He was not prepared for this. His merriment suddenly ceasing, he +stared in mute amazement at the consuming treasure; and then, with a +careless “Humph! I’ll go and shoot now,” he turned on his heel and +vacated the apartment by the window as he came, and setting on his hat +with an air, took up his gun and walked away, whistling as he went—and +leaving me not too much agitated to finish my picture, for I was glad, +at the moment, that I had vexed him. + +When I returned to the drawing-room, I found Mr. Boarham had ventured +to follow his comrades to the field; and shortly after lunch, to which +they did not think of returning, I volunteered to accompany the ladies +in a walk, and show Annabella and Milicent the beauties of the country. +We took a long ramble, and re-entered the park just as the sportsmen +were returning from their expedition. Toil-spent and travel-stained, +the main body of them crossed over the grass to avoid us, but Mr. +Huntingdon, all spattered and splashed as he was, and stained with the +blood of his prey—to the no small offence of my aunt’s strict sense of +propriety—came out of his way to meet us, with cheerful smiles and +words for all but me, and placing himself between Annabella Wilmot and +myself, walked up the road and began to relate the various exploits and +disasters of the day, in a manner that would have convulsed me with +laughter if I had been on good terms with him; but he addressed himself +entirely to Annabella, and I, of course, left all the laughter and all +the badinage to her, and affecting the utmost indifference to whatever +passed between them, walked along a few paces apart, and looking every +way but theirs, while my aunt and Milicent went before, linked arm in +arm and gravely discoursing together. At length Mr. Huntingdon turned +to me, and addressing me in a confidential whisper, said,—“Helen, why +did you burn my picture?” + +“Because I wished to destroy it,” I answered, with an asperity it is +useless now to lament. + +“Oh, very good!” was the reply; “if _you_ don’t value me, I must turn +to somebody that will.” + +I thought it was partly in jest—a half-playful mixture of mock +resignation and pretended indifference: but immediately he resumed his +place beside Miss Wilmot, and from that hour to this—during all that +evening, and all the next day, and the next, and the next, and all this +morning (the 22nd), he has never given me one kind word or one pleasant +look—never spoken to me, but from pure necessity—never glanced towards +me but with a cold, unfriendly look I thought him quite incapable of +assuming. + +My aunt observes the change, and though she has not inquired the cause +or made any remark to me on the subject, I see it gives her pleasure. +Miss Wilmot observes it, too, and triumphantly ascribes it to her own +superior charms and blandishments; but I am truly miserable—more so +than I like to acknowledge to myself. Pride refuses to aid me. It has +brought me into the scrape, and will not help me out of it. + +He meant no harm—it was only his joyous, playful spirit; and I, by my +acrimonious resentment—so serious, so disproportioned to the +offence—have so wounded his feelings, so deeply offended him, that I +fear he will never forgive me—and all for a mere jest! He thinks I +dislike him, and he must continue to think so. I must lose him for +ever, and Annabella may win him, and triumph as she will. + +But it is not my loss nor her triumph that I deplore so greatly as the +wreck of my fond hopes for his advantage, and her unworthiness of his +affection, and the injury he will do himself by trusting his happiness +to her. _She_ does not love him: she thinks only of herself. She cannot +appreciate the good that is in him: she will neither see it, nor value +it, nor cherish it. She will neither deplore his faults nor attempt +their amendment, but rather aggravate them by her own. And I doubt +whether she will not deceive him after all. I see she is playing double +between him and Lord Lowborough, and while she amuses herself with the +lively Huntingdon, she tries her utmost to enslave his moody friend; +and should she succeed in bringing both to her feet, the fascinating +commoner will have but little chance against the lordly peer. If he +observes her artful by-play, it gives him no uneasiness, but rather +adds new zest to his diversion by opposing a stimulating check to his +otherwise too easy conquest. + +Messrs. Wilmot and Boarham have severally taken occasion by his neglect +of me to renew their advances; and if I were like Annabella and some +others I should take advantage of their perseverance to endeavour to +pique him into a revival of affection; but, justice and honesty apart, +I could not _bear_ to do it. I am annoyed enough by their present +persecutions without encouraging them further; and even if I did it +would have precious little effect upon him. He sees me suffering under +the condescending attentions and prosaic discourses of the one, and the +repulsive obtrusions of the other, without so much as a shadow of +commiseration for me, or resentment against my tormentors. He never +could have loved me, or he would not have resigned me so willingly, and +he would not go on talking to everybody else so cheerfully as he +does—laughing and jesting with Lord Lowborough and my uncle, teasing +Milicent Hargrave, and flirting with Annabella Wilmot—as if nothing +were on his mind. Oh! why can’t I hate him? I must be infatuated, or I +should scorn to regret him as I do. But I must rally all the powers I +have remaining, and try to tear him from my heart. There goes the +dinner-bell, and here comes my aunt to scold me for sitting here at my +desk all day, instead of staying with the company: wish the company +were—gone. + + + + + CHAPTER XIX + + +Twenty-Second: Night.—What have I done? and what will be the end of it? +I cannot calmly reflect upon it; I cannot sleep. I must have recourse +to my diary again; I will commit it to paper to-night, and see what I +shall think of it to-morrow. + +I went down to dinner resolving to be cheerful and well-conducted, and +kept my resolution very creditably, considering how my head ached and +how internally wretched I felt. I don’t know what is come over me of +late; my very energies, both mental and physical, must be strangely +impaired, or I should not have acted so weakly in many respects as I +have done; but I have not been well this last day or two. I suppose it +is with sleeping and eating so little, and thinking so much, and being +so continually out of humour. But to return. I was exerting myself to +sing and play for the amusement, and at the request, of my aunt and +Milicent, before the gentlemen came into the drawing-room (Miss Wilmot +never likes to waste her musical efforts on ladies’ ears alone). +Milicent had asked for a little Scotch song, and I was just in the +middle of it when they entered. The first thing Mr. Huntingdon did was +to walk up to Annabella. + +“Now, Miss Wilmot, won’t _you_ give us some music to-night?” said he. +“Do now! I know you will, when I tell you that I have been hungering +and thirsting all day for the sound of your voice. Come! the piano’s +vacant.” + +It was, for I had quitted it immediately upon hearing his petition. Had +I been endowed with a proper degree of self-possession, I should have +turned to the lady myself, and cheerfully joined my entreaties to his, +whereby I should have disappointed his expectations, if the affront had +been purposely given, or made him sensible of the wrong, if it had only +arisen from thoughtlessness; but I felt it too deeply to do anything +but rise from the music-stool, and throw myself back on the sofa, +suppressing with difficulty the audible expression of the bitterness I +felt within. I knew Annabella’s musical talents were superior to mine, +but that was no reason why I should be treated as a perfect nonentity. +The time and the manner of his asking her appeared like a gratuitous +insult to me; and I could have wept with pure vexation. + +Meantime, she exultingly seated herself at the piano, and favoured him +with two of his favourite songs, in such superior style that even I +soon lost my anger in admiration, and listened with a sort of gloomy +pleasure to the skilful modulations of her full-toned and powerful +voice, so judiciously aided by her rounded and spirited touch; and +while my ears drank in the sound, my eyes rested on the face of her +principal auditor, and derived an equal or superior delight from the +contemplation of his speaking countenance, as he stood beside her—that +eye and brow lighted up with keen enthusiasm, and that sweet smile +passing and appearing like gleams of sunshine on an April day. No +wonder he should hunger and thirst to hear her sing. I now forgave him +from my heart his reckless slight of me, and I felt ashamed at my +pettish resentment of such a trifle—ashamed too of those bitter envious +pangs that gnawed my inmost heart, in spite of all this admiration and +delight. + +“There now,” said she, playfully running her fingers over the keys when +she had concluded the second song. “What shall I give you next?” + +But in saying this she looked back at Lord Lowborough, who was standing +a little behind, leaning against the back of a chair, an attentive +listener, too, experiencing, to judge by his countenance, much the same +feelings of mingled pleasure and sadness as I did. But the look she +gave him plainly said, “Do you choose for me now: I have done enough +for him, and will gladly exert myself to gratify you;” and thus +encouraged, his lordship came forward, and turning over the music, +presently set before her a little song that I had noticed before, and +read more than once, with an interest arising from the circumstance of +my connecting it in my mind with the reigning tyrant of my thoughts. +And now, with my nerves already excited and half unstrung, I could not +hear those words so sweetly warbled forth without some symptoms of +emotion I was not able to suppress. Tears rose unbidden to my eyes, and +I buried my face in the sofa-pillow that they might flow unseen while I +listened. The air was simple, sweet, and sad. It is still running in my +head, and so are the words:— + +Farewell to thee! but not farewell + To all my fondest thoughts of thee: +Within my heart they still shall dwell; + And they shall cheer and comfort me. + +O beautiful, and full of grace! + If thou hadst never met mine eye, +I had not dreamed a living face + Could fancied charms so far outvie. + +If I may ne’er behold again + That form and face so dear to me, +Nor hear thy voice, still would I fain + Preserve, for aye, their memory. + +That voice, the magic of whose tone + Can wake an echo in my breast, +Creating feelings that, alone, + Can make my tranced spirit blest. + +That laughing eye, whose sunny beam + My memory would not cherish less;— +And oh, that smile! I whose joyous gleam + No mortal languish can express. + +Adieu! but let me cherish, still, + The hope with which I cannot part. +Contempt may wound, and coldness chill, + But still it lingers in my heart. + +And who can tell but Heaven, at last, + May answer all my thousand prayers, +And bid the future pay the past + With joy for anguish, smiles for tears. + + +When it ceased, I longed for nothing so much as to be out of the room. +The sofa was not far from the door, but I did not dare to raise my +head, for I knew Mr. Huntingdon was standing near me, and I knew by the +sound of his voice, as he spoke in answer to some remark of Lord +Lowborough’s, that his face was turned towards me. Perhaps a +half-suppressed sob had caught his ear, and caused him to look +round—heaven forbid! But with a violent effort, I checked all further +signs of weakness, dried my tears, and, when I thought he had turned +away again, rose, and instantly left the apartment, taking refuge in my +favourite resort, the library. + +There was no light there but the faint red glow of the neglected +fire;—but I did not want a light; I only wanted to indulge my thoughts, +unnoticed and undisturbed; and sitting down on a low stool before the +easy-chair, I sunk my head upon its cushioned seat, and thought, and +thought, until the tears gushed out again, and I wept like any child. +Presently, however, the door was gently opened and someone entered the +room. I trusted it was only a servant, and did not stir. The door was +closed again—but I was not alone; a hand gently touched my shoulder, +and a voice said, softly,—“Helen, what is the matter?” + +I could not answer at the moment. + +“You must, and shall tell me,” was added, more vehemently, and the +speaker threw himself on his knees beside me on the rug, and forcibly +possessed himself of my hand; but I hastily caught it away, and +replied,—“It is nothing to you, Mr. Huntingdon.” + +“Are you sure it is nothing to me?” he returned; “can you swear that +you were not thinking of me while you wept?” This was unendurable. I +made an effort to rise, but he was kneeling on my dress. + +“Tell me,” continued he—“I want to know,—because if you were, I have +something to say to you,—and if not, I’ll go.” + +“Go then!” I cried; but, fearing he would obey too well, and never come +again, I hastily added—“Or say what you have to say, and have done with +it!” + +“But which?” said he—“for I shall only say it if you really were +thinking of me. So tell me, Helen.” + +“You’re excessively impertinent, Mr. Huntingdon!” + +“Not at all—too pertinent, you mean. So you won’t tell me?—Well, I’ll +spare your woman’s pride, and, construing your silence into ‘Yes,’ I’ll +take it for granted that I was the subject of your thoughts, and the +cause of your affliction—” + +“Indeed, sir—” + +“If you deny it, I won’t tell you my secret,” threatened he; and I did +not interrupt him again, or even attempt to repulse him: though he had +taken my hand once more, and half embraced me with his other arm, I was +scarcely conscious of it at the time. + +“It is this,” resumed he: “that Annabella Wilmot, in comparison with +you, is like a flaunting peony compared with a sweet, wild rosebud +gemmed with dew—and I love you to distraction!—Now, tell me if that +intelligence gives you any pleasure. Silence again? That means yes. +Then let me add, that I cannot live without you, and if you answer No +to this last question, you will drive me mad.—Will you bestow yourself +upon me?—you will!” he cried, nearly squeezing me to death in his arms. + +“No, no!” I exclaimed, struggling to free myself from him—“you must ask +my uncle and aunt.” + +“They won’t refuse me, if you don’t.” + +“I’m not so sure of that—my aunt dislikes you.” + +“But _you_ don’t, Helen—say you love me, and I’ll go.” + +“I wish you _would_ go!” I replied. + +“I will, this instant,—if you’ll only say you love me.” + +“You know I do,” I answered. And again he caught me in his arms, and +smothered me with kisses. + +At that moment my aunt opened wide the door, and stood before us, +candle in hand, in shocked and horrified amazement, gazing alternately +at Mr. Huntingdon and me—for we had both started up, and now stood wide +enough asunder. But _his_ confusion was only for a moment. Rallying in +an instant, with the most enviable assurance, he began,—“I beg ten +thousand pardons, Mrs. Maxwell! Don’t be too severe upon me. I’ve been +asking your sweet niece to take me for better, for worse; and she, like +a good girl, informs me she cannot think of it without her uncle’s and +aunt’s consent. So let me implore you not to condemn me to eternal +wretchedness: if _you_ favour my cause, I am safe; for Mr. Maxwell, I +am certain, can refuse you nothing.” + +“We will talk of this to-morrow, sir,” said my aunt, coldly. “It is a +subject that demands mature and serious deliberation. At present, you +had better return to the drawing-room.” + +“But meantime,” pleaded he, “let me commend my cause to your most +indulgent—” + +“No indulgence for you, Mr. Huntingdon, must come between me and the +consideration of my niece’s happiness.” + +“Ah, true! I know she is an angel, and I am a presumptuous dog to dream +of possessing such a treasure; but, nevertheless, I would sooner die +than relinquish her in favour of the best man that ever went to +heaven—and as for her happiness, I would sacrifice my body and soul—” + +“Body and _soul_, Mr. Huntingdon—sacrifice your _soul?_” + +“Well, I would lay down life—” + +“You would not be required to lay it down.” + +“I would spend it, then—devote my life—and all its powers to the +promotion and preservation—” + +“Another time, sir, we will talk of this—and I should have felt +disposed to judge more favourably of your pretensions, if you too had +chosen another time and place, and let me add—another _manner_ for your +declaration.” + +“Why, you see, Mrs. Maxwell,” he began— + +“Pardon me, sir,” said she, with dignity—“The company are inquiring for +you in the other room.” And she turned to me. + +“Then _you_ must plead for me, Helen,” said he, and at length withdrew. + +“You had better retire to your room, Helen,” said my aunt, gravely. “I +will discuss this matter with you, too, to-morrow.” + +“Don’t be angry, aunt,” said I. + +“My dear, I am not angry,” she replied: “I am _surprised_. If it is +true that you told him you could not accept his offer without our +consent—” + +“It _is_ true,” interrupted I. + +“Then how could you permit—?” + +“I couldn’t help it, aunt,” I cried, bursting into tears. They were not +altogether the tears of sorrow, or of fear for her displeasure, but +rather the outbreak of the general tumultuous excitement of my +feelings. But my good aunt was touched at my agitation. In a softer +tone, she repeated her recommendation to retire, and, gently kissing my +forehead, bade me good-night, and put her candle in my hand; and I +went; but my brain worked so, I could not think of sleeping. I feel +calmer now that I have written all this; and I will go to bed, and try +to win tired nature’s sweet restorer. + + + + + CHAPTER XX + + +September 24th.—In the morning I rose, light and cheerful—nay, +intensely happy. The hovering cloud cast over me by my aunt’s views, +and by the fear of not obtaining her consent, was lost in the bright +effulgence of my own hopes, and the too delightful consciousness of +requited love. It was a splendid morning; and I went out to enjoy it, +in a quiet ramble, in company with my own blissful thoughts. The dew +was on the grass, and ten thousand gossamers were waving in the breeze; +the happy red-breast was pouring out its little soul in song, and my +heart overflowed with silent hymns of gratitude and praise to heaven. + +But I had not wandered far before my solitude was interrupted by the +only person that could have disturbed my musings, at that moment, +without being looked upon as an unwelcome intruder: Mr. Huntingdon came +suddenly upon me. So unexpected was the apparition, that I might have +thought it the creation of an over-excited imagination, had the sense +of sight alone borne witness to his presence; but immediately I felt +his strong arm round my waist and his warm kiss on my cheek, while his +keen and gleeful salutation, “My own Helen!” was ringing in my ear. + +“Not yours yet!” said I, hastily swerving aside from this too +presumptuous greeting. “Remember my guardians. You will not easily +obtain my aunt’s consent. Don’t you see she is prejudiced against you?” + +“I do, dearest; and you must tell me why, that I may best know how to +combat her objections. I suppose she thinks I am a prodigal,” pursued +he, observing that I was unwilling to reply, “and concludes that I +shall have but little worldly goods wherewith to endow my better half? +If so, you must tell her that my property is mostly entailed, and I +cannot get rid of it. There may be a few mortgages on the rest—a few +trifling debts and incumbrances here and there, but nothing to speak +of; and though I acknowledge I am not so rich as I might be—or have +been—still, I think, we could manage pretty comfortably on what’s left. +My father, you know, was something of a miser, and in his latter days +especially saw no pleasure in life but to amass riches; and so it is no +wonder that his son should make it his chief delight to spend them, +which was accordingly the case, until my acquaintance with you, dear +Helen, taught me other views and nobler aims. And the very idea of +having you to care for under my roof would force me to moderate my +expenses and live like a Christian—not to speak of all the prudence and +virtue you would instil into my mind by your wise counsels and sweet, +attractive goodness.” + +“But it is not that,” said I; “it is not money my aunt thinks about. +She knows better than to value worldly wealth above its price.” + +“What is it, then?” + +“She wishes me to—to marry none but a really good man.” + +“What, a man of ‘decided piety’?—ahem!—Well, come, I’ll manage that +too! It’s Sunday to-day, isn’t it? I’ll go to church morning, +afternoon, and evening, and comport myself in such a godly sort that +she shall regard me with admiration and sisterly love, as a brand +plucked from the burning. I’ll come home sighing like a furnace, and +full of the savour and unction of dear Mr. Blatant’s discourse—” + +“Mr. Leighton,” said I, dryly. + +“Is Mr. Leighton a ‘sweet preacher,’ Helen—a ‘dear, delightful, +heavenly-minded man’?” + +“He is a _good_ man, Mr. Huntingdon. I wish I could say half as much +for you.” + +“Oh, I forgot, you are a saint, too. I crave your pardon, dearest—but +don’t call me Mr. Huntingdon; my name is Arthur.” + +“I’ll call you nothing—for I’ll have nothing at all to do with you if +you talk in that way any more. If you really mean to deceive my aunt as +you say, you are very wicked; and if not, you are very wrong to jest on +such a subject.” + +“I stand corrected,” said he, concluding his laugh with a sorrowful +sigh. “Now,” resumed he, after a momentary pause, “let us talk about +something else. And come nearer to me, Helen, and take my arm; and then +I’ll let you alone. I can’t be quiet while I see you walking there.” + +I complied; but said we must soon return to the house. + +“No one will be down to breakfast yet, for long enough,” he answered. +“You spoke of your guardians just now, Helen, but is not your father +still living?” + +“Yes, but I always look upon my uncle and aunt as my guardians, for +they are so in deed, though not in name. My father has entirely given +me up to their care. I have never seen him since dear mamma died, when +I was a very little girl, and my aunt, at her request, offered to take +charge of me, and took me away to Staningley, where I have remained +ever since; and I don’t think he would object to anything for me that +she thought proper to sanction.” + +“But would he sanction anything to which she thought proper to object?” + +“No, I don’t think he cares enough about me.” + +“He is very much to blame—but he doesn’t know what an angel he has for +his daughter—which is all the better for me, as, if he did, he would +not be willing to part with such a treasure.” + +“And Mr. Huntingdon,” said I, “I suppose you _know_ I am not an +heiress?” + +He protested he had never given it a thought, and begged I would not +disturb his present enjoyment by the mention of such uninteresting +subjects. I was glad of this proof of disinterested affection; for +Annabella Wilmot is the probable heiress to all her uncle’s wealth, in +addition to her late father’s property, which she has already in +possession. + +I now insisted upon retracing our steps to the house; but we walked +slowly, and went on talking as we proceeded. I need not repeat all we +said: let me rather refer to what passed between my aunt and me, after +breakfast, when Mr. Huntingdon called my uncle aside, no doubt to make +his proposals, and she beckoned me into another room, where she once +more commenced a solemn remonstrance, which, however, entirely failed +to convince me that her view of the case was preferable to my own. + +“You judge him uncharitably, aunt, I know,” said I. “His very friends +are not half so bad as you represent them. There is Walter Hargrave, +Milicent’s brother, for one: he is but a little lower than the angels, +if half she says of him is true. She is continually talking to me about +him, and lauding his many virtues to the skies.” + +“You will form a very inadequate estimate of a man’s character,” +replied she, “if you judge by what a fond sister says of him. The worst +of them generally know how to hide their misdeeds from their sisters’ +eyes, and their mother’s, too.” + +“And there is Lord Lowborough,” continued I, “quite a decent man.” + +“Who told you so? Lord Lowborough is a _desperate_ man. He has +dissipated his fortune in gambling and other things, and is now seeking +an heiress to retrieve it. I told Miss Wilmot so; but you’re all alike: +she haughtily answered she was very much obliged to me, but she +believed _she_ knew when a man was seeking her for her fortune, and +when for herself; she flattered herself she had had experience enough +in those matters to be justified in trusting to her own judgment—and as +for his lordship’s lack of fortune, she cared nothing about that, as +she hoped her own would suffice for both; and as for his wildness, she +supposed he was no worse than others—besides, he was reformed now. Yes, +they can all play the hypocrite when they want to take in a fond, +misguided woman!” + +“Well, I think he’s about as good as she is,” said I. “But when Mr. +Huntingdon is married, he won’t have many opportunities of consorting +with his bachelor friends;—and the worse they are, the more I long to +deliver him from them.” + +“To be sure, my dear; and the worse _he_ is, I suppose, the more you +long to deliver him from himself.” + +“Yes, provided he is not incorrigible—that is, the more I long to +deliver him from his faults—to give him an opportunity of shaking off +the adventitious evil got from contact with others worse than himself, +and shining out in the unclouded light of his own genuine goodness—to +do my utmost to help his better self against his worse, and make him +what he would have been if he had not, from the beginning, had a bad, +selfish, miserly father, who, to gratify his own sordid passions, +restricted him in the most innocent enjoyments of childhood and youth, +and so disgusted him with every kind of restraint;—and a foolish mother +who indulged him to the top of his bent, deceiving her husband for him, +and doing her utmost to encourage those germs of folly and vice it was +her duty to suppress,—and then, such a set of companions as you +represent his friends to be—” + +“Poor man!” said she, sarcastically, “his kind have greatly wronged +him!” + +“They have!” cried I—“and they shall wrong him no more—his wife shall +undo what his mother did!” + +“Well,” said she, after a short pause, “I must say, Helen, I thought +better of your judgment than this—and your taste too. How you can love +such a man I cannot tell, or what pleasure you can find in his company; +for ‘what fellowship hath light with darkness; or he that believeth +with an infidel?’” + +“He is not an infidel;—and I am not light, and he is not darkness; his +worst and only vice is thoughtlessness.” + +“And thoughtlessness,” pursued my aunt, “may lead to every crime, and +will but poorly excuse our errors in the sight of God. Mr. Huntingdon, +I suppose, is not without the common faculties of men: he is not so +light-headed as to be irresponsible: his Maker has endowed him with +reason and conscience as well as the rest of us; the Scriptures are +open to him as well as to others;—and ‘if he hear not them, neither +will he hear though one rose from the dead.’ And remember, Helen,” +continued she, solemnly, “‘the wicked shall be turned into hell, and +they that _forget_ God!’” And suppose, even, that he should continue to +love you, and you him, and that you should pass through life together +with tolerable comfort—how will it be in the end, when you see +yourselves parted for ever; you, perhaps, taken into eternal bliss, and +he cast into the lake that burneth with unquenchable fire—there for +ever to—” + +“Not for ever,” I exclaimed, “‘only till he has paid the uttermost +farthing;’ for ‘if any man’s work abide not the fire, he shall suffer +loss, yet himself shall be saved, but so as by fire;’ and He that ‘is +able to subdue all things to Himself will have all men to be saved,’ +and ‘will, in the fulness of time, gather together in one all things in +Christ Jesus, who tasted death for every man, and in whom God will +reconcile all things to Himself, whether they be things in earth or +things in heaven.’” + +“Oh, Helen! where did you learn all this?” + +“In the Bible, aunt. I have searched it through, and found nearly +thirty passages, all tending to support the same theory.” + +“And is _that_ the use you make of your Bible? And did you find no +passages tending to prove the danger and the falsity of such a belief?” + +“No: I found, indeed, some passages that, taken by themselves, might +seem to contradict that opinion; but they will all bear a different +construction to that which is commonly given, and in most the only +difficulty is in the word which we translate ‘everlasting’ or +‘eternal.’ I don’t know the Greek, but I believe it strictly means for +ages, and might signify either endless or long-enduring. And as for the +danger of the belief, I would not publish it abroad if I thought any +poor wretch would be likely to presume upon it to his own destruction, +but it is a glorious thought to cherish in one’s own heart, and I would +not part with it for all the world can give!” + +Here our conference ended, for it was now high time to prepare for +church. Every one attended the morning service, except my uncle, who +hardly ever goes, and Mr. Wilmot, who stayed at home with him to enjoy +a quiet game of cribbage. In the afternoon Miss Wilmot and Lord +Lowborough likewise excused themselves from attending; but Mr. +Huntingdon vouchsafed to accompany us again. Whether it was to +ingratiate himself with my aunt I cannot tell, but, if so, he certainly +should have behaved better. I must confess, I did not like his conduct +during service at all. Holding his prayer-book upside down, or open at +any place but the right, he did nothing but stare about him, unless he +happened to catch my aunt’s eye or mine, and then he would drop his own +on his book, with a puritanical air of mock solemnity that would have +been ludicrous, if it had not been too provoking. Once, during the +sermon, after attentively regarding Mr. Leighton for a few minutes, he +suddenly produced his gold pencil-case and snatched up a Bible. +Perceiving that I observed the movement, he whispered that he was going +to make a note of the sermon; but instead of that, as I sat next him, I +could not help seeing that he was making a caricature of the preacher, +giving to the respectable, pious, elderly gentleman, the air and aspect +of a most absurd old hypocrite. And yet, upon his return, he talked to +my aunt about the sermon with a degree of modest, serious +discrimination that tempted me to believe he had really attended to and +profited by the discourse. + +Just before dinner my uncle called me into the library for the +discussion of a very important matter, which was dismissed in few +words. + +“Now, Nell,” said he, “this young Huntingdon has been asking for you: +what must I say about it? Your aunt would answer ‘no’—but what say +you?” + +“I say yes, uncle,” replied I, without a moment’s hesitation; for I had +thoroughly made up my mind on the subject. + +“Very good!” cried he. “Now that’s a good honest answer—wonderful for a +girl!—Well, I’ll write to your father to-morrow. He’s sure to give his +consent; so you may look on the matter as settled. You’d have done a +deal better if you’d taken Wilmot, I can tell you; but that you won’t +believe. At your time of life, it’s love that rules the roast: at mine, +it’s solid, serviceable gold. I suppose now, you’d never dream of +looking into the state of your husband’s finances, or troubling your +head about settlements, or anything of that sort?” + +“I don’t think I should.” + +“Well, be thankful, then, that you’ve wiser heads to think for you. I +haven’t had time, yet, to examine thoroughly into this young rascal’s +affairs, but I see that a great part of his father’s fine property has +been squandered away;—but still, I think, there’s a pretty fair share +of it left, and a little careful nursing may make a handsome thing of +it yet; and then we must persuade your father to give you a decent +fortune, as he has only one besides yourself to care for;—and, if you +behave well, who knows but what I may be induced to remember you in my +will!” continued he, putting his fingers to his nose, with a knowing +wink. + +“Thanks, uncle, for that and all your kindness,” replied I. + +“Well, and I questioned this young spark on the matter of settlements,” +continued he; “and he seemed disposed to be generous enough on that +point—” + +“I knew he would!” said I. “But pray don’t trouble your head—or his, or +mine about that; for all I have will be his, and all he has will be +mine; and what more could either of us require?” And I was about to +make my exit, but he called me back. + +“Stop, stop!” cried he; “we haven’t mentioned the time yet. When must +it be? Your aunt would put it off till the Lord knows when, but he is +anxious to be bound as soon as may be: he won’t hear of waiting beyond +next month; and you, I guess, will be of the same mind, so—” + +“Not at all, uncle; on the contrary, I should like to wait till after +Christmas, at least.” + +“Oh! pooh, pooh! never tell me that tale—I know better,” cried he; and +he persisted in his incredulity. Nevertheless, it is quite true. I am +in no hurry at all. How can I be, when I think of the momentous change +that awaits me, and of all I have to leave? It is happiness enough to +know that we _are_ to be united; and that he really loves me, and I may +love _him_ as devotedly, and think of him as often as I please. +However, I insisted upon consulting my aunt about the _time_ of the +wedding, for I determined her counsels should not be utterly +disregarded; and no conclusions on that particular are come to yet. + + + + + CHAPTER XXI + + +October 1st.—All is settled now. My father has given his consent, and +the time is fixed for Christmas, by a sort of compromise between the +respective advocates for hurry and delay. Milicent Hargrave is to be +one bridesmaid and Annabella Wilmot the other—not that I am +particularly fond of the latter, but she is an intimate of the family, +and I have not another friend. + +When I told Milicent of my engagement, she rather provoked me by her +manner of taking it. After staring a moment in mute surprise, she +said,— + +“Well, Helen, I suppose I ought to congratulate you—and I _am_ glad to +see you so happy; but I did not think you would take him; and I can’t +help feeling surprised that you should like him so much.” + +“Why so?” + +“Because you are so superior to him in every way, and there’s something +so bold and reckless about him—so, I don’t know how—but I always feel a +wish to get out of his way when I see him approach.” + +“You are timid, Milicent; but that’s no fault of his.” + +“And then his look,” continued she. “People say he’s handsome, and of +course he is; but _I_ don’t _like_ that kind of beauty, and I wonder +that you should.” + +“Why so, pray?” + +“Well, you know, I think there’s nothing noble or lofty in his +appearance.” + +“In fact, you wonder that I can like any one so unlike the stilted +heroes of romance. Well, give me my flesh and blood lover, and I’ll +leave all the Sir Herberts and Valentines to you—if you can find them.” + +“I don’t want them,” said she. “I’ll be satisfied with flesh and blood +too—only the spirit must shine through and predominate. But don’t you +think Mr. Huntingdon’s face is too red?” + +“No!” cried I, indignantly. “It is not red at all. There is just a +pleasant glow, a healthy freshness in his complexion—the warm, pinky +tint of the whole harmonising with the deeper colour of the cheeks, +exactly as it ought to do. I hate a man to be red and white, like a +painted doll, or all sickly white, or smoky black, or cadaverous +yellow.” + +“Well, tastes differ—but _I_ like pale or dark,” replied she. “But, to +tell you the truth, Helen, I had been deluding myself with the hope +that you would one day be my sister. I expected Walter would be +introduced to you next season; and I thought you would like him, and +was certain he would like you; and I flattered myself I should thus +have the felicity of seeing the two persons I like best in the +world—except mamma—united in one. He mayn’t be exactly what you would +call handsome, but he’s far more distinguished-looking, and nicer and +better than Mr. Huntingdon;—and I’m sure you would say so, if you knew +him.” + +“Impossible, Milicent! You think so, because you’re his sister; and, on +that account, I’ll forgive you; but nobody else should so disparage +Arthur Huntingdon to me with impunity.” + +Miss Wilmot expressed her feelings on the subject almost as openly. + +“And so, Helen,” said she, coming up to me with a smile of no amiable +import, “you are to be Mrs. Huntingdon, I suppose?” + +“Yes,” replied I. “Don’t you envy me?” + +“Oh, _dear_, no!” she exclaimed. “I shall probably be Lady Lowborough +some day, and then you know, dear, I shall be in a capacity to inquire, +‘Don’t you envy _me?_’” + +“Henceforth I shall envy no one,” returned I. + +“Indeed! Are you so happy then?” said she, thoughtfully; and something +very like a cloud of disappointment shadowed her face. “And does he +love you—I mean, does he idolise you as much as you do him?” she added, +fixing her eyes upon me with ill-disguised anxiety for the reply. + +“I don’t want to be idolised,” I answered; “but I am well assured that +he _loves_ me more than anybody else in the world—as I do him.” + +“Exactly,” said she, with a nod. “I wish—” she paused. + +“What do you wish?” asked I, annoyed at the vindictive expression of +her countenance. + +“I wish,” returned, she, with a short laugh, “that all the attractive +points and desirable qualifications of the two gentlemen were united in +one—that Lord Lowborough had Huntingdon’s handsome face and good +temper, and all his wit, and mirth and charm, or else that Huntingdon +had Lowborough’s pedigree, and title, and delightful old family seat, +and I had him; and you might have the other and welcome.” + +“Thank you, dear Annabella: I am better satisfied with things as they +are, for my own part; and for you, I wish you were as well content with +your intended as I am with mine,” said I; and it was true enough; for, +though vexed at first at her unamiable spirit, her frankness touched +me, and the contrast between our situations was such, that I could well +afford to pity her and wish her well. + +Mr. Huntingdon’s acquaintances appear to be no better pleased with our +approaching union than mine. This morning’s post brought him letters +from several of his friends, during the perusal of which, at the +breakfast-table, he excited the attention of the company by the +singular variety of his grimaces. But he crushed them all into his +pocket, with a private laugh, and said nothing till the meal was +concluded. Then, while the company were hanging over the fire or +loitering through the room, previous to settling to their various +morning avocations, he came and leant over the back of my chair, with +his face in contact with my curls, and commencing with a quiet little +kiss, poured forth the following complaints into my ear:— + +“Helen, you witch, do you know that you’ve entailed upon me the curses +of all my friends? I wrote to them the other day, to tell them of my +happy prospects, and now, instead of a bundle of congratulations, I’ve +got a pocketful of bitter execrations and reproaches. There’s not one +kind wish for me, or one good word for you, among them all. They say +there’ll be no more fun now, no more merry days and glorious nights—and +all my fault—I am the first to break up the jovial band, and others, in +pure despair, will follow my example. I was the very life and prop of +the community, they do me the honour to say, and I have shamefully +betrayed my trust—” + +“You may join them again, if you like,” said I, somewhat piqued at the +sorrowful tone of his discourse. “I should be sorry to stand between +any man—or body of men, and so much happiness; and perhaps I can manage +to do without you, as well as your poor deserted friends.” + +“Bless you, no,” murmured he. “It’s ‘all for love or the world well +lost,’ with me. Let them go to—where they belong, to speak politely. +But if you saw how they abuse me, Helen, you would love me all the more +for having ventured so much for your sake.” + +He pulled out his crumpled letters. I thought he was going to show them +to me, and told him I did not wish to see them. + +“I’m not going to show them to you, love,” said he. “They’re hardly fit +for a lady’s eyes—the most part of them. But look here. This is +Grimsby’s scrawl—only three lines, the sulky dog! He doesn’t say much, +to be sure, but his very silence implies more than all the others’ +words, and the less he says, the more he thinks—and this is Hargrave’s +missive. He is particularly grieved at me, because, forsooth he had +fallen in love with you from his sister’s reports, and meant to have +married you himself, as soon as he had sown his wild oats.” + +“I’m vastly obliged to him,” observed I. + +“And so am I,” said he. “And look at this. This is Hattersley’s—every +page stuffed full of railing accusations, bitter curses, and lamentable +complaints, ending up with swearing that he’ll get married himself in +revenge: he’ll throw himself away on the first old maid that chooses to +set her cap at him,—as if _I_ cared what he did with himself.” + +“Well,” said I, “if you do give up your intimacy with these men, I +don’t think you will have much cause to regret the loss of their +society; for it’s my belief they never did you much good.” + +“Maybe not; but we’d a merry time of it, too, though mingled with +sorrow and pain, as Lowborough knows to his cost—Ha, ha!” and while he +was laughing at the recollection of Lowborough’s troubles, my uncle +came and slapped him on the shoulder. + +“Come, my lad!” said he. “Are you too busy making love to my niece to +make war with the pheasants?—First of October, remember! Sun shines +out—rain ceased—even Boarham’s not afraid to venture in his waterproof +boots; and Wilmot and I are going to beat you all. I declare, we old +’uns are the keenest sportsmen of the lot!” + +“I’ll show you what I can do to-day, however,” said my companion. “I’ll +murder your birds by wholesale, just for keeping me away from better +company than either you or them.” + +And so saying he departed; and I saw no more of him till dinner. It +seemed a weary time; I wonder what I shall do without him. + +It is very true that the three elder gentlemen have proved themselves +much keener sportsmen than the two younger ones; for both Lord +Lowborough and Arthur Huntingdon have of late almost daily neglected +the shooting excursions to accompany us in our various rides and +rambles. But these merry times are fast drawing to a close. In less +than a fortnight the party break up, much to my sorrow, for every day I +enjoy it more and more—now that Messrs. Boarham and Wilmot have ceased +to tease me, and my aunt has ceased to lecture me, and I have ceased to +be jealous of Annabella—and even to dislike her—and now that Mr. +Huntingdon is become _my_ Arthur, and I may enjoy his society without +restraint. What _shall_ I do without him, I repeat? + + + + + CHAPTER XXII + + +October 5th.—My cup of sweets is not unmingled: it is dashed with a +bitterness that I cannot hide from myself, disguise it as I will. I may +try to persuade myself that the sweetness overpowers it; I may call it +a pleasant aromatic flavour; but say what I will, it is still there, +and I cannot but taste it. I cannot shut my eyes to Arthur’s faults; +and the more I love him the more they trouble me. His very heart, that +I trusted so, is, I fear, less warm and generous than I thought it. At +least, he gave me a specimen of his character to-day that seemed to +merit a harder name than thoughtlessness. He and Lord Lowborough were +accompanying Annabella and me in a long, delightful ride; he was riding +by my side, as usual, and Annabella and Lord Lowborough were a little +before us, the latter bending towards his companion as if in tender and +confidential discourse. + +“Those two will get the start of us, Helen, if we don’t look sharp,” +observed Huntingdon. “They’ll make a match of it, as sure as can be. +That Lowborough’s fairly besotted. But he’ll find himself in a fix when +he’s got her, I doubt.” + +“And she’ll find _her_self in a fix when she’s got _him_,” said I, “if +what I’ve heard of him is true.” + +“Not a bit of it. She knows what she’s about; but he, poor fool, +deludes himself with the notion that she’ll make him a good wife, and +because she has amused him with some rodomontade about despising rank +and wealth in matters of love and marriage, he flatters himself that +she’s devotedly attached to him; that she will not refuse him for his +poverty, and does not court him for his rank, but loves him for himself +alone.” + +“But is not _he_ courting _her_ for her fortune?” + +“No, not he. That was the first attraction, certainly; but now he has +quite lost sight of it: it never enters his calculations, except merely +as an essential without which, for the lady’s own sake, he could not +think of marrying her. No; he’s fairly in love. He thought he never +could be again, but he’s in for it once more. He was to have been +married before, some two or three years ago; but he lost his bride by +losing his fortune. He got into a bad way among us in London: he had an +unfortunate taste for gambling; and surely the fellow was born under an +unlucky star, for he always lost thrice where he gained once. That’s a +mode of self-torment I never was much addicted to. When I spend my +money I like to enjoy the full value of it: I see no fun in wasting it +on thieves and blacklegs; and as for _gaining_ money, hitherto I have +always had sufficient; it’s time enough to be clutching for more, I +think, when you begin to see the end of what you have. But I have +sometimes frequented the gaming-houses just to watch the on-goings of +those mad votaries of chance—a very interesting study, I assure you, +Helen, and sometimes very diverting: I’ve had many a laugh at the +boobies and bedlamites. Lowborough was quite infatuated—not willingly, +but of necessity,—he was always resolving to give it up, and always +breaking his resolutions. Every venture was the “just once more:” if he +gained a little, he hoped to gain a little more next time, and if he +lost, it would not do to leave off at that juncture; he must go on till +he had retrieved that last misfortune, at least: bad luck could not +last for ever; and every lucky hit was looked upon as the dawn of +better times, till experience proved the contrary. At length he grew +desperate, and we were daily on the look-out for a case of +_felo-de-se_—no great matter, some of us whispered, as his existence +had ceased to be an acquisition to our club. At last, however, he came +to a check. He made a large stake, which he determined should be the +last, whether he lost or won. He had often so determined before, to be +sure, and as often broken his determination; and so it was this time. +He lost; and while his antagonist smilingly swept away the stakes, he +turned chalky white, drew back in silence, and wiped his forehead. I +was present at the time; and while he stood with folded arms and eyes +fixed on the ground, I knew well enough what was passing in his mind. + +“‘Is it to be the last, Lowborough?’ said I, stepping up to him. + +“‘The last but ONE,’ he answered, with a grim smile; and then, rushing +back to the table, he struck his hand upon it, and, raising his voice +high above all the confusion of jingling coins and muttered oaths and +curses in the room, he swore a deep and solemn oath that, come what +would, THIS trial _should_ be the last, and imprecated unspeakable +curses on his head if ever he should shuffle a card or rattle a +dice-box again. He then doubled his former stake, and challenged any +one present to play against him. Grimsby instantly presented himself. +Lowborough glared fiercely at him, for Grimsby was almost as celebrated +for his luck as _he_ was for his ill-fortune. However, they fell to +work. But Grimsby had much skill and little scruple, and whether he +took advantage of the other’s trembling, blinded eagerness to deal +unfairly by him, I cannot undertake to say; but Lowborough lost again, +and fell dead sick. + +“‘You’d better try once more,’ said Grimsby, leaning across the table. +And then he winked at me. + +“‘I’ve nothing to try with,’ said the poor devil, with a ghastly smile. + +“‘Oh, Huntingdon will lend you what you want,’ said the other. + +“‘No; you heard my oath,’ answered Lowborough, turning away in quiet +despair. And I took him by the arm and led him out. + +“‘Is it to be the last, Lowborough?’ I asked, when I got him into the +street. + +“‘The last,’ he answered, somewhat against my expectation. And I took +him home—that is, to our club—for he was as submissive as a child—and +plied him with brandy-and-water till he began to look rather +brighter—rather more alive, at least. + +“‘Huntingdon, I’m ruined!’ said he, taking the third glass from my +hand—he had drunk the others in dead silence. + +“‘Not you,’ said I. ‘You’ll find a man can live without his money as +merrily as a tortoise without its head, or a wasp without its body.’ + +“‘But I’m in debt,’ said he—‘deep in debt. And I can never, _never_ get +out of it.’ + +“‘Well, what of that? Many a better man than you has lived and died in +debt; and they can’t put you in prison, you know, because you’re a +peer.’ And I handed him his fourth tumbler. + +“‘But I hate to be in debt!’ he shouted. ‘I wasn’t born for it, and I +cannot _bear_ it.’ + +“‘What can’t be cured must be endured,’ said I, beginning to mix the +fifth. + +“‘And then, I’ve lost my Caroline.’ And he began to snivel then, for +the brandy had softened his heart. + +“‘No matter,’ I answered, ‘there are more Carolines in the world than +one.’ + +“‘There’s only one for me,’ he replied, with a dolorous sigh. ‘And if +there were fifty more, who’s to get them, I wonder, without money?’ + +“‘Oh, somebody will take you for your title; and then you’ve your +family estate yet; that’s entailed, you know.’ + +“‘I wish to God I could sell it to pay my debts,’ he muttered. + +“‘And then,’ said Grimsby, who had just come in, ‘you can _try again_, +you know. I _would_ have more than one chance, if I were you. I’d never +stop here.’ + +“‘I _won’t_, I tell you!’ shouted he. And he started up, and left the +room—walking rather unsteadily, for the liquor had got into his head. +He was not so much used to it then, but after that he took to it kindly +to solace his cares. + +“He kept his oath about gambling (not a little to the surprise of us +all), though Grimsby did his utmost to tempt him to break it, but now +he had got hold of another habit that bothered him nearly as much, for +he soon discovered that the demon of drink was as black as the demon of +play, and nearly as hard to get rid of—especially as his kind friends +did all they could to second the promptings of his own insatiable +cravings.” + +“Then, they were demons themselves,” cried I, unable to contain my +indignation. “And you, Mr. Huntingdon, it seems, were the first to +tempt him.” + +“Well, what could we do?” replied he, deprecatingly.—“We meant it in +kindness—we couldn’t bear to see the poor fellow so miserable:—and +besides, he was such a damper upon us, sitting there silent and glum, +when he was under the threefold influence—of the loss of his +sweetheart, the loss of his fortune, and the reaction of the lost +night’s debauch; whereas, when he had something in him, if he was not +merry himself, he was an unfailing source of merriment to us. Even +Grimsby could chuckle over his odd sayings: they delighted him far more +than my merry jests, or Hattersley’s riotous mirth. But one evening, +when we were sitting over our wine, after one of our club dinners, and +all had been hearty together,—Lowborough giving us mad toasts, and +hearing our wild songs, and bearing a hand in the applause, if he did +not help us to sing them himself,—he suddenly relapsed into silence, +sinking his head on his hand, and never lifting his glass to his +lips;—but this was nothing new; so we let him alone, and went on with +our jollification, till, suddenly raising his head, he interrupted us +in the middle of a roar of laughter by exclaiming,— + +“Gentlemen, where is all this to end?—Will you just tell me _that_ +now?—Where is it all to end?” He rose. + +“‘A speech, a speech!’ shouted we. ‘Hear, hear! Lowborough’s going to +give us a speech!’ + +“He waited calmly till the thunders of applause and jingling of glasses +had ceased, and then proceeded,—‘It’s only this, gentlemen,—that I +think we’d better go no further. We’d better stop while we can.’ + +“‘Just so!’ cried Hattersley— + +‘Stop poor sinner, stop and think + Before you farther go, +No longer sport upon the brink + Of everlasting woe.’ + + +“‘Exactly!’ replied his lordship, with the utmost gravity. ‘And if +_you_ choose to visit the bottomless pit, I won’t go with you—we must +part company, for I swear I’ll not move another step towards it!—What’s +this?’ he said, taking up his glass of wine. + +“‘Taste it,’ suggested I. + +“‘This is hell broth!’ he exclaimed. ‘I renounce it for ever!’ And he +threw it out into the middle of the table. + +“‘Fill again!’ said I, handing him the bottle—‘and let us drink to your +renunciation.’ + +“‘It’s rank poison,’ said he, grasping the bottle by the neck, ‘and I +forswear it! I’ve given up gambling, and I’ll give up this too.’ He was +on the point of deliberately pouring the whole contents of the bottle +on to the table, but Hargrave wrested it from him. ‘On you be the +curse, then!’ said he. And, backing from the room, he shouted, +‘Farewell, ye tempters!’ and vanished amid shouts of laughter and +applause. + +“We expected him back among us the next day; but, to our surprise, the +place remained vacant: we saw nothing of him for a whole week; and we +really began to think he was going to keep his word. At last, one +evening, when we were most of us assembled together again, he entered, +silent and grim as a ghost, and would have quietly slipped into his +usual seat at my elbow, but we all rose to welcome him, and several +voices were raised to ask what he would have, and several hands were +busy with bottle and glass to serve him; but I knew a smoking tumbler +of brandy-and-water would comfort him best, and had nearly prepared it, +when he peevishly pushed it away, saying,— + +“‘Do let me alone, Huntingdon! Do be quiet, all of you! I’m not come to +join you: I’m only come to be with you awhile, because I can’t bear my +own thoughts.’ And he folded his arms, and leant back in his chair; so +we let him be. But I left the glass by him; and, after awhile, Grimsby +directed my attention towards it, by a significant wink; and, on +turning my head, I saw it was drained to the bottom. He made me a sign +to replenish, and quietly pushed up the bottle. I willingly complied; +but Lowborough detected the pantomime, and, nettled at the intelligent +grins that were passing between us, snatched the glass from my hand, +dashed the contents of it in Grimsby’s face, threw the empty tumbler at +me, and then bolted from the room.” + +“I hope he broke your head,” said I. + +“No, love,” replied he, laughing immoderately at the recollection of +the whole affair; “he would have done so,—and perhaps, spoilt my face, +too, but, providentially, this forest of curls” (taking off his hat, +and showing his luxuriant chestnut locks) “saved my skull, and +prevented the glass from breaking, till it reached the table.” + +“After that,” he continued, “Lowborough kept aloof from us a week or +two longer. I used to meet him occasionally in the town; and then, as I +was too good-natured to resent his unmannerly conduct, and he bore no +malice against me,—he was never unwilling to talk to me; on the +contrary, he would cling to me, and follow me anywhere but to the club, +and the gaming-houses, and such-like dangerous places of resort—he was +so weary of his own moping, melancholy mind. At last, I got him to come +in with me to the club, on condition that I would not tempt him to +drink; and, for some time, he continued to look in upon us pretty +regularly of an evening,—still abstaining, with wonderful perseverance, +from the ‘rank poison’ he had so bravely forsworn. But some of our +members protested against this conduct. They did not like to have him +sitting there like a skeleton at a feast, instead of contributing his +quota to the general amusement, casting a cloud over all, and watching, +with greedy eyes, every drop they carried to their lips—they vowed it +was not fair; and some of them maintained that he should either be +compelled to do as others did, or expelled from the society; and swore +that, next time he showed himself, they would tell him as much, and, if +he did not take the warning, proceed to active measures. However, I +befriended him on this occasion, and recommended them to let him be for +a while, intimating that, with a little patience on our parts, he would +soon come round again. But, to be sure, it _was_ rather provoking; for, +though he refused to drink like an honest Christian, it was well known +to me that he kept a private bottle of laudanum about him, which he was +continually soaking at—or rather, holding off and on with, abstaining +one day and exceeding the next—just like the spirits. + +“One night, however, during one of our orgies—one of our high +festivals, I mean—he glided in, like the ghost in ‘Macbeth,’ and seated +himself, as usual, a little back from the table, in the chair we always +placed for ‘the spectre,’ whether it chose to fill it or not. I saw by +his face that he was suffering from the effects of an overdose of his +insidious comforter; but nobody spoke to him, and he spoke to nobody. A +few sidelong glances, and a whispered observation, that ‘the ghost was +come,’ was all the notice he drew by his appearance, and we went on +with our merry carousals as before, till he startled us all by suddenly +drawing in his chair, and leaning forward with his elbows on the table, +and exclaiming with portentous solemnity,— + +‘Well! it puzzles me what you can find to be so merry about. What _you_ +see in life I don’t know—_I_ see only the blackness of darkness, and a +fearful looking for of judgment and fiery indignation!’ + +“All the company simultaneously pushed up their glasses to him, and I +set them before him in a semicircle, and, tenderly patting him on the +back, bid him drink, and he would soon see as bright a prospect as any +of us; but he pushed them back, muttering,— + +“‘Take them away! I won’t taste it, I tell you. I won’t—I won’t!’ So I +handed them down again to the owners; but I saw that he followed them +with a glare of hungry regret as they departed. Then he clasped his +hands before his eyes to shut out the sight, and two minutes after +lifted his head again, and said, in a hoarse but vehement whisper,— + +“‘And yet I must! Huntingdon, get me a glass!’ + +“‘Take the bottle, man!’ said I, thrusting the brandy-bottle into his +hand—but stop, I’m telling too much,” muttered the narrator, startled +at the look I turned upon him. “But no matter,” he recklessly added, +and thus continued his relation: “In his desperate eagerness, he seized +the bottle and sucked away, till he suddenly dropped from his chair, +disappearing under the table amid a tempest of applause. The +consequence of this imprudence was something like an apoplectic fit, +followed by a rather severe brain fever—” + +“And what did you think of _yourself_, sir?” said I, quickly. + +“Of course, I was very penitent,” he replied. “I went to see him once +or twice—nay, twice or thrice—or by’r lady, some four times—and when he +got better, I tenderly brought him back to the fold.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“I mean, I restored him to the bosom of the club, and compassionating +the feebleness of his health and extreme lowness of his spirits, I +recommended him to ‘take a little wine for his stomach’s sake,’ and, +when he was sufficiently re-established, to embrace the media-via, +ni-jamais-ni-toujours plan—not to kill himself like a fool, and not to +abstain like a ninny—in a word, to enjoy himself like a rational +creature, and do as I did; for, don’t think, Helen, that I’m a tippler; +I’m nothing at all of the kind, and never was, and never shall be. I +value my comfort far too much. I see that a man cannot give himself up +to drinking without being miserable one-half his days and mad the +other; besides, I like to enjoy my life at all sides and ends, which +cannot be done by one that suffers himself to be the slave of a single +propensity—and, moreover, drinking spoils one’s good looks,” he +concluded, with a most conceited smile that ought to have provoked me +more than it did. + +“And did Lord Lowborough profit by your advice?” I asked. + +“Why, yes, in a manner. For a while he managed very well; indeed, he +was a model of moderation and prudence—something too much so for the +tastes of our wild community; but, somehow, Lowborough had not the gift +of moderation: if he stumbled a little to one side, he must go down +before he could right himself: if he overshot the mark one night, the +effects of it rendered him so miserable the next day that he must +repeat the offence to mend it; and so on from day to day, till his +clamorous conscience brought him to a stand. And then, in his sober +moments, he so bothered his friends with his remorse, and his terrors +and woes, that they were obliged, in self-defence, to get him to drown +his sorrows in wine, or any more potent beverage that came to hand; and +when his first scruples of conscience were overcome, he would need no +more persuading, he would often grow desperate, and be as great a +blackguard as any of them could desire—but only to lament his own +unutterable wickedness and degradation the more when the fit was over. + +“At last, one day when he and I were alone together, after pondering +awhile in one of his gloomy, abstracted moods, with his arms folded and +his head sunk on his breast, he suddenly woke up, and vehemently +grasping my arm, said,— + +“‘Huntingdon, this won’t do! I’m resolved to have done with it.’ + +“‘What, are you going to shoot yourself?’ said I. + +“‘No; I’m going to reform.’ + +“‘Oh, _that’s_ nothing new! You’ve been going to reform these twelve +months and more.’ + +“‘Yes, but you wouldn’t let me; and I was such a fool I couldn’t live +without you. But now I see what it is that keeps me back, and what’s +wanted to save me; and I’d compass sea and land to get it—only I’m +afraid there’s no chance.’ And he sighed as if his heart would break. + +“‘What is it, Lowborough?’ said I, thinking he was fairly cracked at +last. + +“‘A wife,’ he answered; ‘for I can’t live alone, because my own mind +distracts me, and I can’t live with you, because you take the devil’s +part against me.’ + +“‘Who—I?’ + +“‘Yes—all of you do—and you more than any of them, you know. But if I +could get a wife, with fortune enough to pay off my debts and set me +straight in the world—’ + +“‘To be sure,’ said I. + +“‘And sweetness and goodness enough,’ he continued, ‘to make home +tolerable, and to reconcile me to myself, I think I should do yet. I +shall never be in love again, that’s certain; but perhaps that would be +no great matter, it would enable me to choose with my eyes open—and I +should make a good husband in spite of it; but could any one be in love +with _me?_—that’s the question. With _your_ good looks and powers of +fascination’ (he was pleased to say), ‘I might hope; but as it is, +Huntingdon, do you think _any_body would take me—ruined and wretched as +I am?’ + +“‘Yes, certainly.’ + +“‘Who?’ + +“‘Why, any neglected old maid, fast sinking in despair, would be +delighted to—’ + +“‘No, no,’ said he—‘it must be somebody that I can love.’ + +“‘Why, you just said you never could be in love again!’ + +“‘Well, love is not the word—but somebody that I can like. I’ll search +all England through, at all events!’ he cried, with a sudden burst of +hope, or desperation. ‘Succeed or fail, it will be better than rushing +headlong to destruction at that d—d club: so farewell to it and you. +Whenever I meet you on honest ground or under a Christian roof, I shall +be glad to see you; but never more shall you entice me to that _devil’s +den!_’ + +“This was shameful language, but I shook hands with him, and we parted. +He kept his word; and from that time forward he has been a pattern of +propriety, as far as I can tell; but till lately I have not had very +much to do with him. He occasionally sought my company, but as +frequently shrunk from it, fearing lest I should wile him back to +destruction, and I found his not very entertaining, especially as he +sometimes attempted to awaken my conscience and draw me from the +perdition he considered himself to have escaped; but when I did happen +to meet him, I seldom failed to ask after the progress of his +matrimonial efforts and researches, and, in general, he could give me +but a poor account. The mothers were repelled by his empty coffers and +his reputation for gambling, and the daughters by his cloudy brow and +melancholy temper—besides, he didn’t understand them; he wanted the +spirit and assurance to carry his point. + +“I left him at it when I went to the continent; and on my return, at +the year’s end, I found him still a disconsolate bachelor—though, +certainly, looking somewhat less like an unblest exile from the tomb +than before. The young ladies had ceased to be afraid of him, and were +beginning to think him quite interesting; but the mammas were still +unrelenting. It was about this time, Helen, that my good angel brought +me into conjunction with you; and then I had eyes and ears for nobody +else. But, meantime, Lowborough became acquainted with our charming +friend, Miss Wilmot—through the intervention of _his_ good angel, no +doubt he would tell you, though he did not dare to fix his hopes on one +so courted and admired, till after they were brought into closer +contact here at Staningley, and she, in the absence of her other +admirers, indubitably courted his notice and held out every +encouragement to his timid advances. Then, indeed, he began to hope for +a dawn of brighter days; and if, for a while, I darkened his prospects +by standing between him and his sun—and so nearly plunged him again +into the abyss of despair—it only intensified his ardour and +strengthened his hopes when I chose to abandon the field in the pursuit +of a brighter treasure. In a word, as I told you, he is fairly +besotted. At first, he could dimly perceive her faults, and they gave +him considerable uneasiness; but now his passion and her art together +have blinded him to everything but her perfections and his amazing good +fortune. Last night he came to me brimful of his new-found felicity: + +“‘Huntingdon, I am not a castaway!’ said he, seizing my hand and +squeezing it like a vice. ‘There is happiness in store for me yet—even +in this life—she loves me!’ + +“‘Indeed!’ said I. ‘Has she told you so?’ + +“‘No, but I can no longer doubt it. Do you not see how pointedly kind +and affectionate she is? And she knows the utmost extent of my poverty, +and cares nothing about it! She knows all the folly and all the +wickedness of my former life, and is not afraid to trust me—and my rank +and title are no allurements to her; for them she utterly disregards. +She is the most generous, high-minded being that can be conceived of. +She will save me, body and soul, from destruction. Already, she has +ennobled me in my own estimation, and made me three times better, +wiser, greater than I was. Oh! if I had but known her before, how much +degradation and misery I should have been spared! But what have I done +to deserve so magnificent a creature?’ + +“And the cream of the jest,” continued Mr. Huntingdon, laughing, “is, +that the artful minx loves nothing about him but his title and +pedigree, and ‘that delightful old family seat.’” + +“How do you know?” said I. + +“She told me so herself; she said, ‘As for the man himself, I +thoroughly despise him; but then, I suppose, it is time to be making my +choice, and if I waited for some one capable of eliciting my esteem and +affection, I should have to pass my life in single blessedness, for I +detest you all!’ Ha, ha! I suspect she was wrong there; but, however, +it is evident she has no love for _him_, poor fellow.” + +“Then you ought to tell him so.” + +“What! and spoil all her plans and prospects, poor girl? No, no: that +would be a breach of confidence, wouldn’t it, Helen? Ha, ha! Besides, +it would break his heart.” And he laughed again. + +“Well, Mr. Huntingdon, I don’t know what you see so amazingly diverting +in the matter; I see nothing to laugh at.” + +“I’m laughing at _you_, just now, love,” said he, redoubling his +machinations. + +And leaving him to enjoy his merriment alone, I touched Ruby with the +whip, and cantered on to rejoin our companions; for we had been walking +our horses all this time, and were consequently a long way behind. +Arthur was soon at my side again; but not disposed to talk to him, I +broke into a gallop. He did the same; and we did not slacken our pace +till we came up with Miss Wilmot and Lord Lowborough, which was within +half a mile of the park-gates. I avoided all further conversation with +him till we came to the end of our ride, when I meant to jump off my +horse and vanish into the house, before he could offer his assistance; +but while I was disengaging my habit from the crutch, he lifted me off, +and held me by both hands, asserting that he would not let me go till I +had forgiven him. + +“I have nothing to forgive,” said I. “You have not injured _me_.” + +“No, darling—God forbid that I should! but you are angry because it was +to me that Annabella confessed her lack of esteem for her lover.” + +“No, Arthur, it is not _that_ that displeases me: it is the whole +system of your conduct towards your friend, and if you wish me to +forget it, go now, and tell him what sort of a woman it is that he +adores so madly, and on whom he has hung his hopes of future +happiness.” + +“I tell you, Helen, it would break his heart—it would be the death of +him—besides being a scandalous trick to poor Annabella. There is no +help for him now; he is past praying for. Besides, she may keep up the +deception to the end of the chapter; and then he will be just as happy +in the illusion as if it were reality; or perhaps he will only discover +his mistake when he has ceased to love her; and if not, it is much +better that the truth should dawn gradually upon him. So now, my angel, +I hope I have made out a clear case, and fully convinced you that I +cannot make the atonement you require. What other requisition have you +to make? Speak, and I will gladly obey.” + +“I have none but this,” said I, as gravely as before: “that, in future, +you will never make a jest of the sufferings of others, and always use +your influence with your friends for their own advantage against their +evil propensities, instead of seconding their evil propensities against +themselves.” + +“I will do my utmost,” said he, “to remember and perform the +injunctions of my angel monitress;” and after kissing both my gloved +hands, he let me go. + +When I entered my room, I was surprised to see Annabella Wilmot +standing before my toilet-table, composedly surveying her features in +the glass, with one hand flirting her gold-mounted whip, and the other +holding up her long habit. + +“She certainly _is_ a magnificent creature!” thought I, as I beheld +that tall, finely developed figure, and the reflection of the handsome +face in the mirror before me, with the glossy dark hair, slightly and +not ungracefully disordered by the breezy ride, the rich brown +complexion glowing with exercise, and the black eyes sparkling with +unwonted brilliance. On perceiving me, she turned round, exclaiming, +with a laugh that savoured more of malice than of mirth,— + +“Why, Helen! what _have_ you been doing so long? I came to tell you my +good fortune,” she continued, regardless of Rachel’s presence. “Lord +Lowborough has proposed, and I have been graciously pleased to accept +him. Don’t you envy me, dear?” + +“No, love,” said I—“or him either,” I mentally added. “And do you like +him, Annabella?” + +“Like him! yes, to be sure—over head and ears in love!” + +“Well, I hope you’ll make him a good wife.” + +“Thank you, my dear! And what besides do you hope?” + +“I hope you will both love each other, and both be happy.” + +“Thanks; and I hope you will make a _very_ good wife to Mr. +Huntingdon!” said she, with a queenly bow, and retired. + +“Oh, Miss! how could you say so to her!” cried Rachel. + +“Say what?” replied I. + +“Why, that you hoped she would make him a good wife. I never heard such +a thing!” + +“Because I do hope it, or rather, I wish it; she’s almost past hope.” + +“Well,” said she, “I’m sure I hope he’ll make _her_ a good husband. +They tell queer things about him downstairs. They were saying—” + +“I know, Rachel. I’ve heard all about him; but he’s reformed now. And +they have no business to tell tales about their masters.” + +“No, mum—or else, they _have_ said some things about Mr. Huntingdon +too.” + +“I won’t hear them, Rachel; they tell lies.” + +“Yes, mum,” said she, quietly, as she went on arranging my hair. + +“Do _you_ believe them, Rachel?” I asked, after a short pause. + +“No, Miss, not all. You know when a lot of servants gets together they +like to talk about their betters; and some, for a bit of swagger, likes +to make it appear as though they knew more than they do, and to throw +out hints and things just to astonish the others. But I think, if I was +you, Miss Helen, I’d look _very_ well before I leaped. I do believe a +young lady can’t be too careful who she marries.” + +“Of course not,” said I; “but be quick, will you, Rachel? I want to be +dressed.” + +And, indeed, I was anxious to be rid of the good woman, for I was in +such a melancholy frame I could hardly keep the tears out of my eyes +while she dressed me. It was not for Lord Lowborough—it was not for +Annabella—it was not for myself—it was for Arthur Huntingdon that they +rose. + +* * * * * + + +13th.—They are gone, and he is gone. We are to be parted for more than +two months, above ten weeks! a long, long time to live and not to see +him. But he has promised to write often, and made me promise to write +still oftener, because he will be busy settling his affairs, and I +shall have nothing better to do. Well, I think I shall always have +plenty to say. But oh! for the time when we shall be always together, +and can exchange our thoughts without the intervention of these cold +go-betweens, pen, ink, and paper! + +* * * * * + + +22nd.—I have had several letters from Arthur already. They are not +long, but passing sweet, and just like himself, full of ardent +affection, and playful lively humour; but there is always a _but_ in +this imperfect world, and I do wish he would _sometimes_ be serious. I +cannot get him to write or speak in real, solid earnest. I don’t much +mind it now, but if it be always so, what shall I do with the serious +part of myself? + + + + + CHAPTER XXIII + + +Feb. 18, 1822.—Early this morning Arthur mounted his hunter and set off +in high glee to meet the —— hounds. He will be away all day, and so I +will amuse myself with my neglected diary, if I can give that name to +such an irregular composition. It is exactly four months since I opened +it last. + +I am married now, and settled down as Mrs. Huntingdon of Grassdale +Manor. I have had eight weeks’ experience of matrimony. And do I regret +the step I have taken? No, though I must confess, in my secret heart, +that Arthur is not what I thought him at first, and if I had known him +in the beginning as thoroughly as I do now, I probably never should +have loved him, and if I loved him first, and then made the discovery, +I fear I should have thought it my duty not to have married him. To be +sure I might have known him, for every one was willing enough to tell +me about him, and he himself was no accomplished hypocrite, but I was +wilfully blind; and now, instead of regretting that I did not discern +his full character before I was indissolubly bound to him, I am _glad_, +for it has saved me a great deal of battling with my conscience, and a +great deal of consequent trouble and pain; and, whatever I _ought_ to +have done, my duty now is plainly to love him and to cleave to him, and +this just tallies with my inclination. + +He is very fond of me, almost _too_ fond. I could do with less +caressing and more rationality. I should like to be less of a pet and +more of a friend, if I might choose; but I won’t complain of that: I am +only afraid his affection loses in depth where it gains in ardour. I +sometimes liken it to a fire of dry twigs and branches compared with +one of solid coal, very bright and hot; but if it should burn itself +out and leave nothing but ashes behind, what shall I do? But it won’t, +it _shan_’t, I am determined; and surely I have power to keep it alive. +So let me dismiss _that_ thought at once. But Arthur is selfish; I am +constrained to acknowledge that; and, indeed, the admission gives me +less pain than might be expected, for, since _I_ love him so much, I +can easily forgive him for loving himself: he likes to be pleased, and +it is my delight to please him; and when I regret this tendency of his, +it is for his own sake, not for mine. + +The first instance he gave was on the occasion of our bridal tour. He +wanted to hurry it over, for all the continental scenes were already +familiar to him: many had lost their interest in his eyes, and others +had never had anything to lose. The consequence was, that after a +flying transit through part of France and part of Italy, I came back +nearly as ignorant as I went, having made no acquaintance with persons +and manners, and very little with things, my head swarming with a +motley confusion of objects and scenes; some, it is true, leaving a +deeper and more pleasing impression than others, but these embittered +by the recollection that my emotions had not been shared by my +companion, but that, on the contrary, when I had expressed a particular +interest in anything that I saw or desired to see, it had been +displeasing to him, inasmuch as it proved that I could take delight in +anything disconnected with himself. + +[Illustration] + +As for Paris, we only just touched at that, and he would not give me +time to see one-tenth of the beauties and interesting objects of Rome. +He wanted to get me home, he said, to have me all to himself, and to +see me safely installed as the mistress of Grassdale Manor, just as +single-minded, as naïve, and piquante as I was; and as if I had been +some frail butterfly, he expressed himself fearful of rubbing the +silver off my wings by bringing me into contact with society, +especially that of Paris and Rome; and, more-over, he did not scruple +to tell me that there were ladies in both places that would tear his +eyes out if they happened to meet him with me. + +Of course I was vexed at all this; but still it was less the +disappointment to myself that annoyed me, than the disappointment _in +him_, and the trouble I was at to frame excuses to my friends for +having seen and observed so little, without imputing one particle of +blame to my companion. But when we got home—to my new, delightful +home—I was so happy and he was so kind that I freely forgave him all; +and I was beginning to think my lot _too_ happy, and my husband +actually too good for me, if not too good for this world, when, on the +second Sunday after our arrival, he shocked and horrified me by another +instance of his unreasonable exaction. We were walking home from the +morning service, for it was a fine frosty day, and as we are so near +the church, I had requested the carriage should not be used. + +“Helen,” said he, with unusual gravity, “I am not quite satisfied with +you.” + +I desired to know what was wrong. + +“But will you promise to reform if I tell you?” + +“Yes, if I can, and without offending a higher authority.” + +“Ah! there it is, you see: you don’t love me with all your heart.” + +“I don’t understand you, Arthur (at least I hope I don’t): pray tell me +what I have done or said amiss.” + +“It is nothing you have done or said; it is something that you _are:_ +you are too religious. Now I like a woman to be religious, and I think +your piety one of your greatest charms; but then, like all other good +things, it may be carried too far. To my thinking, a woman’s religion +ought not to lessen her devotion to her earthly lord. She should have +enough to purify and etherealise her soul, but not enough to refine +away her heart, and raise her above all human sympathies.” + +“And am _I_ above all human sympathies?” said I. + +“No, darling; but you are making more progress towards that saintly +condition than I like; for all these two hours I have been thinking of +you and wanting to catch your eye, and you were so absorbed in your +devotions that you had not even a glance to spare for me—I declare it +is enough to make one jealous of one’s Maker—which is very wrong, you +know; so don’t excite such wicked passions again, for my soul’s sake.” + +“I will give my whole heart and soul to my Maker if I can,” I answered, +“and not one atom more of it to you than He allows. What are _you_, +sir, that you should set yourself up as a god, and presume to dispute +possession of my heart with Him to whom I owe all I have and all I am, +every blessing I ever did or ever can enjoy—and yourself among the +rest—if you _are_ a blessing, which I am half inclined to doubt.” + +“Don’t be so hard upon me, Helen; and don’t pinch my arm so: you are +squeezing your fingers into the bone.” + +“Arthur,” continued I, relaxing my hold of his arm, “you don’t love me +half as much as I do you; and yet, if you loved me far less than you +do, I would not complain, provided you loved your Maker more. I should +_rejoice_ to see you at any time so deeply absorbed in your devotions +that you had not a single thought to spare for me. But, indeed, I +should lose nothing by the change, for the more you loved your God the +more deep and pure and true would be your love to me.” + +At this he only laughed and kissed my hand, calling me a sweet +enthusiast. Then taking off his hat, he added: “But look here, +Helen—what can a man do with such a head as this?” + +The head looked right enough, but when he placed my hand on the top of +it, it sunk in a bed of curls, rather alarmingly low, especially in the +middle. + +“You see I was not made to be a saint,” said he, laughing, “If God +meant me to be religious, why didn’t He give me a proper organ of +veneration?” + +“You are like the servant,” I replied, “who, instead of employing his +one talent in his master’s service, restored it to him unimproved, +alleging, as an excuse, that he knew him ‘to be a hard man, reaping +where he had not sown, and gathering where he had not strawed.’ Of him +to whom less is given, less will be required, but our utmost exertions +are required of us all. You are not without the capacity of veneration, +and faith and hope, and conscience and reason, and every other +requisite to a Christian’s character, if you choose to employ them; but +all our talents increase in the using, and every faculty, both good and +bad, strengthens by exercise: therefore, if you choose to use the bad, +or those which tend to evil, till they become your masters, and neglect +the good till they dwindle away, you have only yourself to blame. But +you _have_ talents, Arthur—natural endowments both of heart and mind +and temper, such as many a better Christian would be glad to possess, +if you would only employ them in God’s service. I should never expect +to see you a devotee, but it is quite possible to be a good Christian +without ceasing to be a happy, merry-hearted man.” + +“You speak like an oracle, Helen, and all you say is indisputably true; +but listen here: I am hungry, and I see before me a good substantial +dinner; I am told that if I abstain from this to-day I shall have a +sumptuous feast to-morrow, consisting of all manner of dainties and +delicacies. Now, in the first place, I should be loth to wait till +to-morrow when I have the means of appeasing my hunger already before +me: in the second place, the solid viands of to-day are more to my +taste than the dainties that are promised me; in the third place, I +don’t _see_ to-morrow’s banquet, and how can I tell that it is not all +a fable, got up by the greasy-faced fellow that is advising me to +abstain in order that he may have all the good victuals to himself? in +the fourth place, this table must be spread for somebody, and, as +Solomon says, ‘Who can eat, or who else can hasten hereunto more than +I?’ and finally, with your leave, I’ll sit down and satisfy my cravings +of to-day, and leave to-morrow to shift for itself—who knows but what I +may secure both this and that?” + +“But you are not required to abstain from the substantial dinner of +to-day: you are only advised to partake of these coarser viands in such +moderation as not to incapacitate you from enjoying the choicer banquet +of to-morrow. If, regardless of that counsel, you choose to make a +beast of yourself now, and over-eat and over-drink yourself till you +turn the good victuals into poison, who is to blame if, hereafter, +while you are suffering the torments of yesterday’s gluttony and +drunkenness, you see more temperate men sitting down to enjoy +themselves at that splendid entertainment which you are unable to +taste?” + +“Most true, my patron saint; but again, our friend Solomon says, ‘There +is nothing better for a man than to eat and to drink, and to be +merry.’” + +“And again,” returned I, “he says, ‘Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth; +and walk in the ways of thine heart, and in the sight of thine eyes: +but know thou, that for all these things God will bring thee into +judgment.’” + +“Well, but, Helen, I’m sure I’ve been very good these last few weeks. +What have you seen amiss in me, and what would you have me to do?” + +“Nothing more than you do, Arthur: your actions are all right so far; +but I would have your thoughts changed; I would have you to fortify +yourself against temptation, and not to call evil good, and good evil; +I should wish you to think more deeply, to look further, and aim higher +than you do.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXIV + + +March 25th.—Arthur is getting tired—not of me, I trust, but of the +idle, quiet life he leads—and no wonder, for he has so few sources of +amusement: he never reads anything but newspapers and sporting +magazines; and when he sees me occupied with a book, he won’t let me +rest till I close it. In fine weather he generally manages to get +through the time pretty well, but on rainy days, of which we have had a +good many of late, it is quite painful to witness his ennui. I do all I +can to amuse him, but it is impossible to get him to feel interested in +what I most like to talk about, while, on the other hand, he likes to +talk about things that cannot interest me—or even that annoy me—and +these please him—the most of all: for his favourite amusement is to sit +or loll beside me on the sofa, and tell me stories of his former +amours, always turning upon the ruin of some confiding girl or the +cozening of some unsuspecting husband; and when I express my horror and +indignation, he lays it all to the charge of jealousy, and laughs till +the tears run down his cheeks. I used to fly into passions or melt into +tears at first, but seeing that his delight increased in proportion to +my anger and agitation, I have since endeavoured to suppress my +feelings and receive his revelations in the silence of calm contempt; +but still he reads the inward struggle in my face, and misconstrues my +bitterness of soul for his unworthiness into the pangs of wounded +jealousy; and when he has sufficiently diverted himself with that, or +fears my displeasure will become too serious for his comfort, he tries +to kiss and soothe me into smiles again—never were his caresses so +little welcome as then! This is _double_ selfishness, displayed to me +and to the victims of his former love. There are times when, with a +momentary pang—a flash of wild dismay, I ask myself, “Helen, what have +you done?” But I rebuke the inward questioner, and repel the obtrusive +thoughts that crowd upon me; for were he ten times as sensual and +impenetrable to good and lofty thoughts, I well know I have no right to +complain. And I don’t and won’t complain. I do and will love him still; +and I do not and will not regret that I have linked my fate with his. + +April 4th.—We have had a downright quarrel. The particulars are as +follows: Arthur had told me, at different intervals, the whole story of +his intrigue with Lady F——, which I would not believe before. It was +some consolation, however, to find that in this instance the lady had +been more to blame than he, for he was very young at the time, and she +had decidedly made the first advances, if what he said was true. I +hated her for it, for it seemed as if she had chiefly contributed to +his corruption; and when he was beginning to talk about her the other +day, I begged he would not mention her, for I detested the very sound +of her name. + +“Not because you loved her, Arthur, mind, but because she injured you +and deceived her husband, and was altogether a very abominable woman, +whom you ought to be ashamed to mention.” + +But he defended her by saying that she had a doting old husband, whom +it was impossible to love. + +“Then why did she marry him?” said I. + +“For his money,” was the reply. + +“Then that was another crime, and her solemn promise to love and honour +him was another, that only increased the enormity of the last.” + +“You are too severe upon the poor lady,” laughed he. “But never mind, +Helen, I don’t care for her now; and I never loved any of them half as +much as I do you, so you needn’t fear to be forsaken like them.” + +“If you had told me these things before, Arthur, I never should have +given you the chance.” + +“_Wouldn’t_ you, my darling?” + +“Most certainly not!” + +He laughed incredulously. + +“I wish I could convince you of it now!” cried I, starting up from +beside him: and for the first time in my life, and I hope the last, I +wished I had not married him. + +“Helen,” said he, more gravely, “do you know that if I believed you now +I should be very angry? but thank heaven I don’t. Though you stand +there with your white face and flashing eyes, looking at me like a very +tigress, I know the heart within you perhaps a trifle better than you +know it yourself.” + +Without another word I left the room and locked myself up in my own +chamber. In about half an hour he came to the door, and first he tried +the handle, then he knocked. + +“Won’t you let me in, Helen?” said he. “No; you have displeased me,” I +replied, “and I don’t want to see your face or hear your voice again +till the morning.” + +He paused a moment as if dumfounded or uncertain how to answer such a +speech, and then turned and walked away. This was only an hour after +dinner: I knew he would find it very dull to sit alone all the evening; +and this considerably softened my resentment, though it did not make me +relent. I was determined to show him that my heart was not his slave, +and I could live without him if I chose; and I sat down and wrote a +long letter to my aunt, of course telling her nothing of all this. Soon +after ten o’clock I heard him come up again, but he passed my door and +went straight to his own dressing-room, where he shut himself in for +the night. + +I was rather anxious to see how he would meet me in the morning, and +not a little disappointed to behold him enter the breakfast-room with a +careless smile. + +“Are you cross still, Helen?” said he, approaching as if to salute me. +I coldly turned to the table, and began to pour out the coffee, +observing that he was rather late. + +He uttered a low whistle and sauntered away to the window, where he +stood for some minutes looking out upon the pleasing prospect of sullen +grey clouds, streaming rain, soaking lawn, and dripping leafless trees, +and muttering execrations on the weather, and then sat down to +breakfast. While taking his coffee he muttered it was “d—d cold.” + +“You should not have left it so long,” said I. + +He made no answer, and the meal was concluded in silence. It was a +relief to both when the letter-bag was brought in. It contained upon +examination a newspaper and one or two letters for him, and a couple of +letters for me, which he tossed across the table without a remark. One +was from my brother, the other from Milicent Hargrave, who is now in +London with her mother. His, I think, were business letters, and +apparently not much to his mind, for he crushed them into his pocket +with some muttered expletives that I should have reproved him for at +any other time. The paper he set before him, and pretended to be deeply +absorbed in its contents during the remainder of breakfast, and a +considerable time after. + +The reading and answering of my letters, and the direction of household +concerns, afforded me ample employment for the morning: after lunch I +got my drawing, and from dinner till bed-time I read. Meanwhile, poor +Arthur was sadly at a loss for something to amuse him or to occupy his +time. He wanted to appear as busy and as unconcerned as I did. Had the +weather at all permitted, he would doubtless have ordered his horse and +set off to some distant region, no matter where, immediately after +breakfast, and not returned till night: had there been a lady anywhere +within reach, of any age between fifteen and forty-five, he would have +sought revenge and found employment in getting up, or trying to get up, +a desperate flirtation with her; but being, to my private satisfaction, +entirely cut off from both these sources of diversion, his sufferings +were truly deplorable. When he had done yawning over his paper and +scribbling short answers to his shorter letters, he spent the remainder +of the morning and the whole of the afternoon in fidgeting about from +room to room, watching the clouds, cursing the rain, alternately +petting and teasing and abusing his dogs, sometimes lounging on the +sofa with a book that he could not force himself to read, and very +often fixedly gazing at me when he thought I did not perceive it, with +the vain hope of detecting some traces of tears, or some tokens of +remorseful anguish in my face. But I managed to preserve an undisturbed +though grave serenity throughout the day. I was not really angry: I +felt for him all the time, and longed to be reconciled; but I +determined he should make the first advances, or at least show some +signs of an humble and contrite spirit first; for, if I began, it would +only minister to his self-conceit, increase his arrogance, and quite +destroy the lesson I wanted to give him. + +He made a long stay in the dining-room after dinner, and, I fear, took +an unusual quantity of wine, but not enough to loosen his tongue: for +when he came in and found me quietly occupied with my book, too busy to +lift my head on his entrance, he merely murmured an expression of +suppressed disapprobation, and, shutting the door with a bang, went and +stretched himself at full length on the sofa, and composed himself to +sleep. But his favourite cocker, Dash, that had been lying at my feet, +took the liberty of jumping upon him and beginning to lick his face. He +struck it off with a smart blow, and the poor dog squeaked and ran +cowering back to me. When he woke up, about half an hour after, he +called it to him again, but Dash only looked sheepish and wagged the +tip of his tail. He called again more sharply, but Dash only clung the +closer to me, and licked my hand, as if imploring protection. Enraged +at this, his master snatched up a heavy book and hurled it at his head. +The poor dog set up a piteous outcry, and ran to the door. I let him +out, and then quietly took up the book. + +“Give that book to me,” said Arthur, in no very courteous tone. I gave +it to him. + +“Why did you let the dog out?” he asked; “you knew I wanted him.” + +“By what token?” I replied; “by your throwing the book at him? but +perhaps it was intended for me?” + +“No; but I see you’ve got a taste of it,” said he, looking at my hand, +that had also been struck, and was rather severely grazed. + +I returned to my reading, and he endeavoured to occupy himself in the +same manner; but in a little while, after several portentous yawns, he +pronounced _his_ book to be “cursed trash,” and threw it on the table. +Then followed eight or ten minutes of silence, during the greater part +of which, I believe, he was staring at me. At last his patience was +tired out. + +“What _is_ that book, Helen?” he exclaimed. + +I told him. + +“Is it interesting?” + +“Yes, very.” + +I went on reading, or pretending to read, at least—I cannot say there +was much communication between my eyes and my brain; for, while the +former ran over the pages, the latter was earnestly wondering when +Arthur would speak next, and what he would say, and what I should +answer. But he did not speak again till I rose to make the tea, and +then it was only to say he should not take any. He continued lounging +on the sofa, and alternately closing his eyes and looking at his watch +and at me, till bed-time, when I rose, and took my candle and retired. + +“Helen!” cried he, the moment I had left the room. I turned back, and +stood awaiting his commands. + +“What do you want, Arthur?” I said at length. + +“Nothing,” replied he. “Go!” + +I went, but hearing him mutter something as I was closing the door, I +turned again. It sounded very like “confounded slut,” but I was quite +willing it should be something else. + +“Were you speaking, Arthur?” I asked. + +“No,” was the answer, and I shut the door and departed. I saw nothing +more of him till the following morning at breakfast, when he came down +a full hour after the usual time. + +“You’re very late,” was my morning’s salutation. + +“You needn’t have waited for me,” was his; and he walked up to the +window again. It was just such weather as yesterday. + +“Oh, this confounded rain!” he muttered. But, after studiously +regarding it for a minute or two, a bright idea, seemed to strike him, +for he suddenly exclaimed, “But I know what I’ll do!” and then returned +and took his seat at the table. The letter-bag was already there, +waiting to be opened. He unlocked it and examined the contents, but +said nothing about them. + +“Is there anything for me?” I asked. + +“No.” + +He opened the newspaper and began to read. + +“You’d better take your coffee,” suggested I; “it will be cold again.” + +“You may go,” said he, “if you’ve done; I don’t want you.” + +I rose and withdrew to the next room, wondering if we were to have +another such miserable day as yesterday, and wishing intensely for an +end of these mutually inflicted torments. Shortly after I heard him +ring the bell and give some orders about his wardrobe that sounded as +if he meditated a long journey. He then sent for the coachman, and I +heard something about the carriage and the horses, and London, and +seven o’clock to-morrow morning, that startled and disturbed me not a +little. + +“I must not let him go to London, whatever comes of it,” said I to +myself; “he will run into all kinds of mischief, and I shall be the +cause of it. But the question is, How am I to alter his purpose? Well, +I will wait awhile, and see if he mentions it.” + +I waited most anxiously, from hour to hour; but not a word was spoken, +on that or any other subject, to me. He whistled and talked to his +dogs, and wandered from room to room, much the same as on the previous +day. At last I began to think I must introduce the subject myself, and +was pondering how to bring it about, when John unwittingly came to my +relief with the following message from the coachman: + +“Please, sir, Richard says one of the horses has got a very bad cold, +and he thinks, sir, if you could make it convenient to go the day after +to-morrow, instead of to-morrow, he could physic it to-day, so as—” + +“Confound his impudence!” interjected the master. + +“Please, sir, he says it would be a deal better if you could,” +persisted John, “for he hopes there’ll be a change in the weather +shortly, and he says it’s not _likely_, when a horse is so bad with a +cold, and physicked and all—” + +“Devil take the horse!” cried the gentleman. “Well, tell him I’ll think +about it,” he added, after a moment’s reflection. He cast a searching +glance at me, as the servant withdrew, expecting to see some token of +deep astonishment and alarm; but, being previously prepared, I +preserved an aspect of stoical indifference. His countenance fell as he +met my steady gaze, and he turned away in very obvious disappointment, +and walked up to the fire-place, where he stood in an attitude of +undisguised dejection, leaning against the chimney-piece with his +forehead sunk upon his arm. + +“Where do you want to go, Arthur?” said I. + +“To London,” replied he, gravely. + +“What for?” I asked. + +“Because I cannot be happy here.” + +“Why not?” + +“Because my wife doesn’t love me.” + +“She would love you with all her heart, if you deserved it.” + +“What must I do to deserve it?” + +This seemed humble and earnest enough; and I was so much affected, +between sorrow and joy, that I was obliged to pause a few seconds +before I could steady my voice to reply. + +“If she gives you her heart,” said I, “you must take it, thankfully, +and use it well, and not pull it in pieces, and laugh in her face, +because she cannot snatch it away.” + +He now turned round, and stood facing me, with his back to the fire. +“Come, then, Helen, are you going to be a good girl?” said he. + +This sounded rather too arrogant, and the smile that accompanied it did +not please me. I therefore hesitated to reply. Perhaps my former answer +had implied too much: he had heard my voice falter, and might have seen +me brush away a tear. + +“Are you going to forgive me, Helen?” he resumed, more humbly. + +“Are _you_ penitent?” I replied, stepping up to him and smiling in his +face. + +“Heart-broken!” he answered, with a rueful countenance, yet with a +merry smile just lurking within his eyes and about the corners of his +mouth; but this could not repulse me, and I flew into his arms. He +fervently embraced me, and though I shed a torrent of tears, I think I +never was happier in my life than at that moment. + +“Then you won’t go to London, Arthur?” I said, when the first transport +of tears and kisses had subsided. + +“No, love,—unless you will go with me.” + +“I will, gladly,” I answered, “if you think the change will amuse you, +and if you will put off the journey till next week.” + +He readily consented, but said there was no need of much preparation, +as he should not be for staying long, for he did not wish me to be +Londonized, and to lose my country freshness and originality by too +much intercourse with the ladies of the world. I thought this folly; +but I did not wish to contradict him now: I merely said that I was of +very domestic habits, as he well knew, and had no particular wish to +mingle with the world. + +So we are to go to London on Monday, the day after to-morrow. It is now +four days since the termination of our quarrel, and I am sure it has +done us both good: it has made me like Arthur a great deal better, and +made him behave a great deal better to me. He has never once attempted +to annoy me since, by the most distant allusion to Lady F——, or any of +those disagreeable reminiscences of his former life. I wish I could +blot them from my memory, or else get him to regard such matters in the +same light as I do. Well! it is something, however, to have made him +see that they are not fit subjects for a conjugal jest. He may see +further some time. I will put no limits to my hopes; and, in spite of +my aunt’s forebodings and my own unspoken fears, I trust we shall be +happy yet. + + + + + CHAPTER XXV + + +On the eighth of April we went to London, on the eighth of May I +returned, in obedience to Arthur’s wish; very much against my own, +because I left him behind. If he had come with me, I should have been +very glad to get home again, for he led me such a round of restless +dissipation while there, that, in that short space of time, I was quite +tired out. He seemed bent upon displaying me to his friends and +acquaintances in particular, and the public in general, on every +possible occasion, and to the greatest possible advantage. It was +something to feel that he considered me a worthy object of pride; but I +paid dear for the gratification: for, in the first place, to please him +I had to violate my cherished predilections, my almost rooted +principles in favour of a plain, dark, sober style of dress—I must +sparkle in costly jewels and deck myself out like a painted butterfly, +just as I had, long since, determined I would never do—and this was no +trifling sacrifice; in the second place, I was continually straining to +satisfy his sanguine expectations and do honour to his choice by my +general conduct and deportment, and fearing to disappoint him by some +awkward misdemeanour, or some trait of inexperienced ignorance about +the customs of society, especially when I acted the part of hostess, +which I was not unfrequently called upon to do; and, in the third +place, as I intimated before, I was wearied of the throng and bustle, +the restless hurry and ceaseless change of a life so alien to all my +previous habits. At last, he suddenly discovered that the London air +did not agree with me, and I was languishing for my country home, and +must immediately return to Grassdale. + +I laughingly assured him that the case was not so urgent as he appeared +to think it, but I was quite willing to go home if he was. He replied +that he should be obliged to remain a week or two longer, as he had +business that required his presence. + +[Illustration] + +“Then I will stay with you,” said I. + +“But I can’t do with you, Helen,” was his answer: “as long as you stay +I shall attend to you and neglect my business.” + +“But I won’t let you,” I returned; “now that I know you have business +to attend to, I shall insist upon your attending to it, and letting me +alone; and, to tell the truth, I shall be glad of a little rest. I can +take my rides and walks in the Park as usual; and your business cannot +occupy all your time: I shall see you at meal-times, and in the +evenings at least, and that will be better than being leagues away and +never seeing you at all.” + +“But, my love, I cannot let you stay. How can I settle my affairs when +I know that you are here, neglected—?” + +“I shall not feel myself neglected: while you are doing your duty, +Arthur, I shall never complain of neglect. If you had told me before, +that you had anything to do, it would have been half done before this; +and now you must make up for lost time by redoubled exertions. Tell me +what it is; and I will be your taskmaster, instead of being a +hindrance.” + +“No, no,” persisted the impracticable creature; “you _must_ go home, +Helen; I must have the satisfaction of knowing that you are safe and +well, though far away. Your bright eyes are faded, and that tender, +delicate bloom has quite deserted your cheek.” + +“That is only with too much gaiety and fatigue.” + +“It is not, I tell you; it is the London air: you are pining for the +fresh breezes of your country home, and you shall feel them before you +are two days older. And remember your situation, dearest Helen; on your +health, you know, depends the health, if not the life, of our future +hope.” + +“Then you really wish to get rid of me?” + +“Positively, I do; and I will take you down myself to Grassdale, and +then return. I shall not be absent above a week or fortnight at most.” + +“But if I must go, I will go alone: if you must stay, it is needless to +waste your time in the journey there and back.” + +But he did not like the idea of sending me alone. + +“Why, what helpless creature do you take me for,” I replied, “that you +cannot trust me to go a hundred miles in our own carriage, with our own +footman and a maid to attend me? If you come with me I shall assuredly +keep you. But tell me, Arthur, what _is_ this tiresome business; and +why did you never mention it before?” + +“It is only a little business with my lawyer,” said he; and he told me +something about a piece of property he wanted to sell, in order to pay +off a part of the incumbrances on his estate; but either the account +was a little confused, or I was rather dull of comprehension, for I +could not clearly understand how that should keep him in town a +fortnight after me. Still less can I now comprehend how it should keep +him a month, for it is nearly that time since I left him, and no signs +of his return as yet. In every letter he promises to be with me in a +few days, and every time deceives me, or deceives himself. His excuses +are vague and insufficient. I cannot doubt that he has got among his +former companions again. Oh, why did I leave him! I wish—I do intensely +wish he would return! + +June 29th.—No Arthur yet; and for many days I have been looking and +longing in vain for a letter. His letters, when they come, are kind, if +fair words and endearing epithets can give them a claim to the +title—but very short, and full of trivial excuses and promises that I +cannot trust; and yet how anxiously I look forward to them! how eagerly +I open and devour one of those little, hastily-scribbled returns for +the three or four long letters, hitherto unanswered, he has had from +me! + +Oh, it is cruel to leave me so long alone! He knows I have no one but +Rachel to speak to, for we have no neighbours here, except the +Hargraves, whose residence I can dimly descry from these upper windows +embosomed among those low, woody hills beyond the Dale. I was glad when +I learnt that Milicent was so near us; and her company would be a +soothing solace to me now; but she is still in town with her mother; +there is no one at the Grove but little Esther and her French +governess, for Walter is always away. I saw that paragon of manly +perfections in London: he seemed scarcely to merit the eulogiums of his +mother and sister, though he certainly appeared more conversable and +agreeable than Lord Lowborough, more candid and high-minded than Mr. +Grimsby, and more polished and gentlemanly than Mr. Hattersley, +Arthur’s only other friend whom he judged fit to introduce to me.—Oh, +Arthur, why won’t you come? why won’t you write to me at least? You +talked about my health: how can you expect me to gather bloom and +vigour here, pining in solitude and restless anxiety from day to +day?—It would serve you right to come back and find my good looks +entirely wasted away. I would beg my uncle and aunt, or my brother, to +come and see me, but I do not like to complain of my loneliness to +them, and indeed loneliness is the least of my sufferings. But what is +he doing—what is it that keeps him away? It is this ever-recurring +question, and the horrible suggestions it raises, that distract me. + +July 3rd.—My last bitter letter has wrung from him an answer at last, +and a rather longer one than usual; but still I don’t know what to make +of it. He playfully abuses me for the gall and vinegar of my latest +effusion, tells me I can have no conception of the multitudinous +engagements that keep him away, but avers that, in spite of them all, +he will assuredly be with me before the close of next week; though it +is impossible for a man so circumstanced as he is to fix the precise +day of his return: meantime he exhorts me to the exercise of patience, +“that first of woman’s virtues,” and desires me to remember the saying, +“Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” and comfort myself with the +assurance that the longer he stays away the better he shall love me +when he returns; and till he does return, he begs I will continue to +write to him constantly, for, though he is sometimes too idle and often +too busy to answer my letters as they come, he likes to receive them +daily; and if I fulfil my threat of punishing his seeming neglect by +ceasing to write, he shall be so angry that he will do his utmost to +forget me. He adds this piece of intelligence respecting poor Milicent +Hargrave: + +“Your little friend Milicent is likely, before long, to follow your +example, and take upon her the yoke of matrimony in conjunction with a +friend of mine. Hattersley, you know, has not yet fulfilled his direful +threat of throwing his precious person away on the first old maid that +chose to evince a tenderness for him; but he still preserves a resolute +determination to see himself a married man before the year is out. +‘Only,’ said he to me, ‘I must have somebody that will let me have my +own way in everything—not like _your_ wife, Huntingdon: she is a +charming creature, but she looks as if she had a will of her own, and +could play the vixen upon occasion’ (I thought ‘you’re right there, +man,’ but I didn’t say so). ‘I must have some good, quiet soul that +will let me just do what I like and go where I like, keep at home or +stay away, without a word of reproach or complaint; for I can’t do with +being bothered.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘I know somebody that will suit you to +a tee, if you don’t care for money, and that’s Hargrave’s sister, +Milicent.’ He desired to be introduced to her forthwith, for he said he +had plenty of the needful himself, or should have when his old governor +chose to quit the stage. So you see, Helen, I have managed pretty well, +both for your friend and mine.” + +Poor Milicent! But I cannot imagine she will ever be led to accept such +a suitor—one so repugnant to all her ideas of a man to be honoured and +loved. + +5th.—Alas! I was mistaken. I have got a long letter from her this +morning, telling me she is already engaged, and expects to be married +before the close of the month. + +“I hardly know what to say about it,” she writes, “or what to think. To +tell you the truth, Helen, I don’t like the thoughts of it at all. If I +_am_ to be Mr. Hattersley’s wife, I must try to love him; and I do try +with all my might; but I have made very little progress yet; and the +worst symptom of the case is, that the further he is from me the better +I like him: he frightens me with his abrupt manners and strange +hectoring ways, and I dread the thoughts of marrying him. ‘Then why +have you accepted him?’ you will ask; and I didn’t know I had accepted +him; but mamma tells me I have, and he seems to think so too. I +certainly didn’t mean to do so; but I did not like to give him a flat +refusal, for fear mamma should be grieved and angry (for I knew she +wished me to marry him), and I wanted to talk to her first about it: so +I gave him what _I_ thought was an evasive, half negative answer; but +she says it was as good as an acceptance, and he would think me very +capricious if I were to attempt to draw back—and indeed I was so +confused and frightened at the moment, I can hardly tell what I said. +And next time I saw him, he accosted me in all confidence as his +affianced bride, and immediately began to settle matters with mamma. I +had not courage to contradict them then, and how can I do it now? I +cannot; they would think me mad. Besides, mamma is so delighted with +the idea of the match; she thinks she has managed so well for me; and I +cannot bear to disappoint her. I do object sometimes, and tell her what +I feel, but you don’t know _how_ she talks. Mr. Hattersley, you know, +is the son of a rich banker, and as Esther and I have no fortunes, and +Walter very little, our dear mamma is very anxious to see us all well +married, that is, united to rich partners. It is not _my_ idea of being +well married, but she means it all for the best. She says when I am +safe off her hands it will be such a relief to her mind; and she +assures me it will be a good thing for the family as well as for me. +Even Walter is pleased at the prospect, and when I confessed my +reluctance to him, he said it was all childish nonsense. Do _you_ think +it nonsense, Helen? I should not care if I could see any prospect of +being able to love and admire him, but I can’t. There is nothing about +him to hang one’s esteem and affection upon; he is so diametrically +opposite to what I imagined my husband should be. Do write to me, and +say all you can to encourage me. Don’t attempt to dissuade me, for my +fate is fixed: preparations for the important event are already going +on around me; and don’t say a word against Mr. Hattersley, for I want +to think well of him; and though I have spoken against him myself, it +is for the last time: hereafter, I shall never permit myself to utter a +word in his dispraise, however he may seem to deserve it; and whoever +ventures to speak slightingly of the man I have promised to love, to +honour, and obey, must expect my serious displeasure. After all, I +think he is quite as good as Mr. Huntingdon, if not better; and yet you +love _him_, and seem to be happy and contented; and perhaps I may +manage as well. You must tell me, if you can, that Mr. Hattersley is +better than he seems—that he is upright, honourable, and +open-hearted—in fact, a perfect diamond in the rough. He may be all +this, but I don’t know him. I know only the exterior, and what, I +trust, is the worst part of him.” + +She concludes with “Good-by, dear Helen. I am waiting anxiously for +your advice—but mind you let it be all on the right side.” + +Alas! poor Milicent, what encouragement can I give you? or what +advice—except that it is better to make a bold stand now, though at the +expense of disappointing and angering both mother and brother and +lover, than to devote your whole life, hereafter, to misery and vain +regret? + +Saturday, 13th.—The week is over, and he is not come. All the sweet +summer is passing away without one breath of pleasure to me or benefit +to him. And I had all along been looking forward to this season with +the fond, delusive hope that we should enjoy it so sweetly together; +and that, with God’s help and my exertions, it would be the means of +elevating his mind, and refining his taste to a due appreciation of the +salutary and pure delights of nature, and peace, and holy love. But +now—at evening, when I see the round red sun sink quietly down behind +those woody hills, leaving them sleeping in a warm, red, golden haze, I +only think another lovely day is lost to him and me; and at morning, +when roused by the flutter and chirp of the sparrows, and the gleeful +twitter of the swallows—all intent upon feeding their young, and full +of life and joy in their own little frames—I open the window to inhale +the balmy, soul-reviving air, and look out upon the lovely landscape, +laughing in dew and sunshine—I too often shame that glorious scene with +tears of thankless misery, because _he_ cannot feel its freshening +influence; and when I wander in the ancient woods, and meet the little +wild flowers smiling in my path, or sit in the shadow of our noble +ash-trees by the water-side, with their branches gently swaying in the +light summer breeze that murmurs through their feathery foliage—my ears +full of that low music mingled with the dreamy hum of insects, my eyes +abstractedly gazing on the glassy surface of the little lake before me, +with the trees that crowd about its bank, some gracefully bending to +kiss its waters, some rearing their stately heads high above, but +stretching their wide arms over its margin, all faithfully mirrored +far, far down in its glassy depth—though sometimes the images are +partially broken by the sport of aquatic insects, and sometimes, for a +moment, the whole is shivered into trembling fragments by a transient +breeze that sweeps the surface too roughly—still I have no pleasure; +for the greater the happiness that nature sets before me, the more I +lament that _he_ is not here to taste it: the greater the bliss we +might enjoy together, the more I feel our present wretchedness apart +(yes, ours; he must be wretched, though he may not know it); and the +more my senses are pleased, the more my heart is oppressed; for he +keeps it with him confined amid the dust and smoke of London—perhaps +shut up within the walls of his own abominable club. + +But most of all, at night, when I enter my lonely chamber, and look out +upon the summer moon, “sweet regent of the sky,” floating above me in +the “black blue vault of heaven,” shedding a flood of silver radiance +over park, and wood, and water, so pure, so peaceful, so divine—and +think, Where is he now?—what is he doing at this moment? wholly +unconscious of this heavenly scene—perhaps revelling with his boon +companions, perhaps—God help me, it is too—_too_ much! + +23rd.—Thank heaven, he is come at last! But how altered! flushed and +feverish, listless and languid, his beauty strangely diminished, his +vigour and vivacity quite departed. I have not upbraided him by word or +look; I have not even asked him what he has been doing. I have not the +heart to do it, for I think he is ashamed of himself—he must be so +indeed, and such inquiries could not fail to be painful to both. My +forbearance pleases him—touches him even, I am inclined to think. He +says he is glad to be home again, and God knows how glad I am to get +him back, even as he is. He lies on the sofa, nearly all day long; and +I play and sing to him for hours together. I write his letters for him, +and get him everything he wants; and sometimes I read to him, and +sometimes I talk, and sometimes only sit by him and soothe him with +silent caresses. I know he does not deserve it; and I fear I am +spoiling him; but this once, I will forgive him, freely and entirely. I +will shame him into virtue if I can, and I will never let him leave me +again. + +He is pleased with my attentions—it may be, grateful for them. He likes +to have me near him: and though he is peevish and testy with his +servants and his dogs, he is gentle and kind to me. What he would be, +if I did not so watchfully anticipate his wants, and so carefully +avoid, or immediately desist from doing anything that has a tendency to +irritate or disturb him, with however little reason, I cannot tell. How +intensely I wish he were worthy of all this care! Last night, as I sat +beside him, with his head in my lap, passing my fingers through his +beautiful curls, this thought made my eyes overflow with sorrowful +tears—as it often does; but this time, a tear fell on his face and made +him look up. He smiled, but not insultingly. + +“Dear Helen!” he said—“why do you cry? you know that I love you” (and +he pressed my hand to his feverish lips), “and what more could you +desire?” + +“Only, Arthur, that you would love _yourself_ as truly and as +faithfully as you are loved by me.” + +“That would be hard, indeed!” he replied, tenderly squeezing my hand. + +August 24th.—Arthur is himself again, as lusty and reckless, as light +of heart and head as ever, and as restless and hard to amuse as a +spoilt child, and almost as full of mischief too, especially when wet +weather keeps him within doors. I wish he had something to do, some +useful trade, or profession, or employment—anything to occupy his head +or his hands for a few hours a day, and give him something besides his +own pleasure to think about. If he would play the country gentleman and +attend to the farm—but that he knows nothing about, and won’t give his +mind to consider,—or if he would take up with some literary study, or +learn to draw or to play—as he is so fond of music, I often try to +persuade him to learn the piano, but he is far too idle for such an +undertaking: he has no more idea of exerting himself to overcome +obstacles than he has of restraining his natural appetites; and these +two things are the ruin of him. I lay them both to the charge of his +harsh yet careless father, and his madly indulgent mother.—If ever I am +a mother I will zealously strive against this _crime_ of +over-indulgence. I can hardly give it a milder name when I think of the +evils it brings. + +Happily, it will soon be the shooting season, and then, if the weather +permit, he will find occupation enough in the pursuit and destruction +of the partridges and pheasants: we have no grouse, or he might have +been similarly occupied at this moment, instead of lying under the +acacia-tree pulling poor Dash’s ears. But he says it is dull work +shooting alone; he must have a friend or two to help him. + +“Let them be tolerably decent then, Arthur,” said I. The word “friend” +in his mouth makes me shudder: I know it was some of his “friends” that +induced him to stay behind me in London, and kept him away so long: +indeed, from what he has unguardedly told me, or hinted from time to +time, I cannot doubt that he frequently showed them my letters, to let +them see how fondly his wife watched over his interests, and how keenly +she regretted his absence; and that they induced him to remain week +after week, and to plunge into all manner of excesses, to avoid being +laughed at for a wife-ridden fool, and, perhaps, to show how far he +could venture to go without danger of shaking the fond creature’s +devoted attachment. It is a hateful idea, but I cannot believe it is a +false one. + +“Well,” replied he, “I thought of Lord Lowborough for one; but there is +no possibility of getting him without his better half, our mutual +friend, Annabella; so we must ask them both. You’re not afraid of her, +are you, Helen?” he asked, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. + +“Of course not,” I answered: “why should I? And who besides?” + +“Hargrave for one. He will be glad to come, though his own place is so +near, for he has little enough land of his own to shoot over, and we +can extend our depredations into it, if we like; and he is thoroughly +respectable, you know, Helen—quite a lady’s man: and I think, Grimsby +for another: he’s a decent, quiet fellow enough. You’ll not object to +Grimsby?” + +“I hate him: but, however, if you wish it, I’ll try to endure his +presence for a while.” + +“All a prejudice, Helen, a mere woman’s antipathy.” + +“No; I have solid grounds for my dislike. And is that all?” + +“Why, yes, I think so. Hattersley will be too busy billing and cooing, +with his bride to have much time to spare for guns and dogs at +present,” he replied. And that reminds me, that I have had several +letters from Milicent since her marriage, and that she either is, or +pretends to be, quite reconciled to her lot. She professes to have +discovered numberless virtues and perfections in her husband, some of +which, I fear, less partial eyes would fail to distinguish, though they +sought them carefully with tears; and now that she is accustomed to his +loud voice, and abrupt, uncourteous manners, she affirms she finds no +difficulty in loving him as a wife should do, and begs I will burn that +letter wherein she spoke so unadvisedly against him. So that I trust +she may yet be happy; but, if she is, it will be entirely the reward of +her own goodness of heart; for had she chosen to consider herself the +victim of fate, or of her mother’s worldly wisdom, she might have been +thoroughly miserable; and if, for duty’s sake, she had not made every +effort to love her husband, she would, doubtless, have hated him to the +end of her days. + + + + + CHAPTER XXVI + + +Sept. 23rd.—Our guests arrived about three weeks ago. Lord and Lady +Lowborough have now been married above eight months; and I will do the +lady the credit to say that her husband is quite an altered man; his +looks, his spirits, and his temper, are all perceptibly changed for the +better since I last saw him. But there is room for improvement still. +He is not always cheerful, nor always contented, and she often +complains of his ill-humour, which, however, of all persons, _she_ +ought to be the last to accuse him of, as he never displays it against +her, except for such conduct as would provoke a saint. He adores her +still, and would go to the world’s end to please her. She knows her +power, and she uses it too; but well knowing that to wheedle and coax +is safer than to command, she judiciously tempers her despotism with +flattery and blandishments enough to make him deem himself a favoured +and a happy man. + +But she has a way of tormenting him, in which I am a fellow-sufferer, +or might be, if I chose to regard myself as such. This is by openly, +but not too glaringly, coquetting with Mr. Huntingdon, who is quite +willing to be her partner in the game; but I don’t care for it, +because, with him, I know there is nothing but personal vanity, and a +mischievous desire to excite my jealousy, and, perhaps, to torment his +friend; and she, no doubt, is actuated by much the same motives; only, +there is more of malice and less of playfulness in _her_ manœuvres. It +is obviously, therefore, my interest to disappoint them both, as far as +I am concerned, by preserving a cheerful, undisturbed serenity +throughout; and, accordingly, I endeavour to show the fullest +confidence in my husband, and the greatest indifference to the arts of +my attractive guest. I have never reproached the former but once, and +that was for laughing at Lord Lowborough’s depressed and anxious +countenance one evening, when they had both been particularly +provoking; and then, indeed, I said a good deal on the subject, and +rebuked him sternly enough; but he only laughed, and said,—“You can +feel for him, Helen, can’t you?” + +“I can feel for anyone that is unjustly treated,” I replied, “and I can +feel for those that injure them too.” + +“Why, Helen, you are as jealous as he is!” cried he, laughing still +more; and I found it impossible to convince him of his mistake. So, +from that time, I have carefully refrained from any notice of the +subject whatever, and left Lord Lowborough to take care of himself. He +either has not the sense or the power to follow my example, though he +does try to conceal his uneasiness as well as he can; but still, it +will appear in his face, and his ill-humour will peep out at intervals, +though not in the expression of open resentment—they never go far +enough for that. But I confess I do feel jealous at times, most +painfully, bitterly so; when she sings and plays to him, and he hangs +over the instrument, and dwells upon her voice with no affected +interest; for then I know he is really delighted, and I have no power +to awaken similar fervour. I can amuse and please him with my simple +songs, but not delight him thus. + +28th.—Yesterday, we all went to the Grove, Mr. Hargrave’s +much-neglected home. His mother frequently asks us over, that she may +have the pleasure of her dear Walter’s company; and this time she had +invited us to a dinner-party, and got together as many of the country +gentry as were within reach to meet us. The entertainment was very well +got up; but I could not help thinking about the cost of it all the +time. I don’t like Mrs. Hargrave; she is a hard, pretentious, +worldly-minded woman. She has money enough to live very comfortably, if +she only knew how to use it judiciously, and had taught her son to do +the same; but she is ever straining to keep up appearances, with that +despicable pride that shuns the semblance of poverty as of a shameful +crime. She grinds her dependents, pinches her servants, and deprives +even her daughters and herself of the real comforts of life, because +she will not consent to yield the palm in outward show to those who +have three times her wealth; and, above all, because she is determined +her cherished son shall be enabled to “hold up his head with the +highest gentlemen in the land.” This same son, I imagine, is a man of +expensive habits, no reckless spendthrift and no abandoned sensualist, +but one who likes to have “everything handsome about him,” and to go to +a certain length in youthful indulgences, not so much to gratify his +own tastes as to maintain his reputation as a man of fashion in the +world, and a respectable fellow among his own lawless companions; while +he is too selfish to consider how many comforts might be obtained for +his fond mother and sisters with the money he thus wastes upon himself: +as long as they can contrive to make a respectable appearance once a +year, when they come to town, he gives himself little concern about +their private stintings and struggles at home. This is a harsh judgment +to form of “dear, noble-minded, generous-hearted Walter,” but I fear it +is too just. + +Mrs. Hargrave’s anxiety to make good matches for her daughters is +partly the cause, and partly the result, of these errors: by making a +figure in the world, and showing them off to advantage, she hopes to +obtain better chances for them; and by thus living beyond her +legitimate means, and lavishing so much on their brother, she renders +them portionless, and makes them burdens on her hands. Poor Milicent, I +fear, has already fallen a sacrifice to the manœuvrings of this +mistaken mother, who congratulates herself on having so satisfactorily +discharged her maternal duty, and hopes to do as well for Esther. But +Esther is a child as yet, a little merry romp of fourteen: as +honest-hearted, and as guileless and simple as her sister, but with a +fearless spirit of her own, that I fancy her mother will find some +difficulty in bending to her purposes. + + + + + CHAPTER XXVII + + +October 9th.—It was on the night of the 4th, a little after tea, that +Annabella had been singing and playing, with Arthur as usual at her +side: she had ended her song, but still she sat at the instrument; and +he stood leaning on the back of her chair, conversing in scarcely +audible tones, with his face in very close proximity with hers. I +looked at Lord Lowborough. He was at the other end of the room, talking +with Messrs. Hargrave and Grimsby; but I saw him dart towards his lady +and his host a quick, impatient glance, expressive of intense +disquietude, at which Grimsby smiled. Determined to interrupt the +_tête-à-tête_, I rose, and, selecting a piece of music from the music +stand, stepped up to the piano, intending to ask the lady to play it; +but I stood transfixed and speechless on seeing her seated there, +listening, with what seemed an exultant smile on her flushed face to +his soft murmurings, with her hand quietly surrendered to his clasp. +The blood rushed first to my heart, and then to my head; for there was +more than this: almost at the moment of my approach, he cast a hurried +glance over his shoulder towards the other occupants of the room, and +then ardently pressed the unresisting hand to his lips. On raising his +eyes, he beheld me, and dropped them again, confounded and dismayed. +She saw me too, and confronted me with a look of hard defiance. I laid +the music on the piano, and retired. I felt ill; but I did not leave +the room: happily, it was getting late, and could not be long before +the company dispersed. + +I went to the fire, and leant my head against the chimney-piece. In a +minute or two, some one asked me if I felt unwell. I did not answer; +indeed, at the time, I knew not what was said; but I mechanically +looked up, and saw Mr. Hargrave standing beside me on the rug. + +“Shall I get you a glass of wine?” said he. + +“No, thank you,” I replied; and, turning from him, I looked round. Lady +Lowborough was beside her husband, bending over him as he sat, with her +hand on his shoulder, softly talking and smiling in his face; and +Arthur was at the table, turning over a book of engravings. I seated +myself in the nearest chair; and Mr. Hargrave, finding his services +were not desired, judiciously withdrew. Shortly after, the company +broke up, and, as the guests were retiring to their rooms, Arthur +approached me, smiling with the utmost assurance. + +“Are you _very_ angry, Helen?” murmured he. + +“This is no jest, Arthur,” said I, seriously, but as calmly as I +could—“unless you think it a jest to lose my affection for ever.” + +“What! so bitter?” he exclaimed, laughingly, clasping my hand between +both his; but I snatched it away, in indignation—almost in disgust, for +he was obviously affected with wine. + +“Then I must go down on my knees,” said he; and kneeling before me, +with clasped hands, uplifted in mock humiliation, he continued +imploringly—“Forgive me, Helen—dear Helen, forgive me, and I’ll _never_ +do it again!” and, burying his face in his handkerchief, he affected to +sob aloud. + +Leaving him thus employed, I took my candle, and, slipping quietly from +the room, hastened up-stairs as fast as I could. But he soon discovered +that I had left him, and, rushing up after me, caught me in his arms, +just as I had entered the chamber, and was about to shut the door in +his face. + +“No, no, by heaven, you sha’n’t escape me so!” he cried. Then, alarmed +at my agitation, he begged me not to put myself in such a passion, +telling me I was white in the face, and should kill myself if I did so. + +“Let me go, then,” I murmured; and immediately he released me—and it +was well he did, for I was really in a passion. I sank into the +easy-chair and endeavoured to compose myself, for I wanted to speak to +him calmly. He stood beside me, but did not venture to touch me or to +speak for a few seconds; then, approaching a little nearer, he dropped +on one knee—not in mock humility, but to bring himself nearer my level, +and leaning his hand on the arm of the chair, he began in a low voice: +“It is all nonsense, Helen—a jest, a mere nothing—not worth a thought. +Will you _never_ learn,” he continued more boldly, “that you have +nothing to fear from me? that I love you wholly and entirely?—or if,” +he added with a lurking smile, “I ever give a thought to another, you +may well spare it, for those fancies are here and gone like a flash of +lightning, while my love for you burns on steadily, and for ever, like +the sun. You little exorbitant tyrant, will not _that_—” + +“Be quiet a moment, will you, Arthur?” said I, “and listen to me—and +don’t think I’m in a jealous fury: I am perfectly calm. Feel my hand.” +And I gravely extended it towards him—but closed it upon his with an +energy that seemed to disprove the assertion, and made him smile. “You +needn’t smile, sir,” said I, still tightening my grasp, and looking +steadfastly on him till he almost quailed before me. “You may think it +all very fine, Mr. Huntingdon, to amuse yourself with rousing my +jealousy; but take care you don’t rouse my hate instead. And when you +have once extinguished my love, you will find it no easy matter to +kindle it again.” + +“Well, Helen, I won’t repeat the offence. But I meant nothing by it, I +assure you. I had taken too much wine, and I was scarcely myself at the +time.” + +“You often take too much; and that is another practice I detest.” He +looked up astonished at my warmth. “Yes,” I continued; “I never +mentioned it before, because I was ashamed to do so; but now I’ll tell +you that it distresses me, and may disgust me, if you go on and suffer +the habit to grow upon you, as it will if you don’t check it in time. +But the whole system of your conduct to Lady Lowborough is not +referable to wine; and this night you knew perfectly well what you were +doing.” + +“Well, I’m sorry for it,” replied he, with more of sulkiness than +contrition: “what more would you have?” + +“You are sorry that I saw you, no doubt,” I answered coldly. + +“If you had not seen me,” he muttered, fixing his eyes on the carpet, +“it would have done no harm.” + +My heart felt ready to burst; but I resolutely swallowed back my +emotion, and answered calmly, + +“You think not?” + +“No,” replied he, boldly. “After all, what have I done? It’s +nothing—except as you choose to make it a subject of accusation and +distress.” + +“What would Lord Lowborough, your _friend_, think, if he knew all? or +what would you yourself think, if he or any other had acted the same +part to me, throughout, as you have to Annabella?” + +“I would blow his brains out.” + +“Well, then, Arthur, how can you call it nothing—an offence for which +you would think yourself justified in blowing another man’s brains out? +Is it nothing to trifle with your friend’s feelings and mine—to +endeavour to steal a woman’s affections from her husband—what he values +more than his gold, and therefore what it is more dishonest to take? +Are the marriage vows a jest; and is it nothing to make it your sport +to break them, and to tempt another to do the same? Can I love a man +that does such things, and coolly maintains it is nothing?” + +“You are breaking your marriage vows yourself,” said he, indignantly +rising and pacing to and fro. “You promised to honour and obey me, and +now you attempt to hector over me, and threaten and accuse me, and call +me worse than a highwayman. If it were not for your situation, Helen, I +would not submit to it so tamely. I won’t be dictated to by a woman, +though she be my wife.” + +“What will you do then? Will you go on till I hate you, and then accuse +me of breaking my vows?” + +He was silent a moment, and then replied: “You never will hate me.” +Returning and resuming his former position at my feet, he repeated more +vehemently—“You cannot hate me as long as I love you.” + +“But how can I believe that you love me, if you continue to act in this +way? Just imagine yourself in my place: would _you_ think I loved +_you_, if _I_ did so? Would you believe my protestations, and honour +and trust me under such circumstances?” + +“The cases are different,” he replied. “It is a woman’s nature to be +constant—to love one and one only, blindly, tenderly, and for +ever—bless them, dear creatures! and you above them all; but you must +have some commiseration for us, Helen; you must give us a little more +licence, for, as Shakespeare has it— + +However we do praise ourselves, +Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, +More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won +Than women’s are.” + + +“Do you mean by that, that your fancies are lost to me, and won by Lady +Lowborough?” + +“No! heaven is my witness that I think her mere dust and ashes in +comparison with you, and shall continue to think so, unless you drive +me from you by too much severity. She is a daughter of earth; you are +an angel of heaven; only be not too austere in your divinity, and +remember that I am a poor, fallible mortal. Come now, Helen; won’t you +forgive me?” he said, gently taking my hand, and looking up with an +innocent smile. + +“If I do, you will repeat the offence.” + +“I swear by—” + +“Don’t swear; I’ll believe your word as well as your oath. I wish I +could have confidence in either.” + +“Try me, then, Helen: only trust and pardon me this once, and you shall +see! Come, I am in hell’s torments till you speak the word.” + +I did not speak it, but I put my hand on his shoulder and kissed his +forehead, and then burst into tears. He embraced me tenderly; and we +have been good friends ever since. He has been decently temperate at +table, and well-conducted towards Lady Lowborough. The first day he +held himself aloof from her, as far as he could without any flagrant +breach of hospitality: since that he has been friendly and civil, but +nothing more—in my presence, at least, nor, I think, at any other time; +for she seems haughty and displeased, and Lord Lowborough is manifestly +more cheerful, and more cordial towards his host than before. But I +shall be glad when they are gone, for I have so little love for +Annabella that it is quite a task to be civil to her, and as she is the +only woman here besides myself, we are necessarily thrown so much +together. Next time Mrs. Hargrave calls I shall hail her advent as +quite a relief. I have a good mind to ask Arthur’s leave to invite the +old lady to stay with us till our guests depart. I think I will. She +will take it as a kind attention, and, though I have little relish for +her society, she will be truly welcome as a third to stand between Lady +Lowborough and me. + +The first time the latter and I were alone together, after that unhappy +evening, was an hour or two after breakfast on the following day, when +the gentlemen were gone out, after the usual time spent in the writing +of letters, the reading of newspapers, and desultory conversation. We +sat silent for two or three minutes. She was busy with her work, and I +was running over the columns of a paper from which I had extracted all +the pith some twenty minutes before. It was a moment of painful +embarrassment to me, and I thought it must be infinitely more so to +her; but it seems I was mistaken. She was the first to speak; and, +smiling with the coolest assurance, she began,— + +“Your husband was merry last night, Helen: is he often so?” + +My blood boiled in my face; but it was better she should seem to +attribute his conduct to this than to anything else. + +“No,” replied I, “and never will be so again, I trust.” + +“You gave him a curtain lecture, did you?” + +“No! but I told him I disliked such conduct, and he promised me not to +repeat it.” + +“I _thought_ he looked rather subdued this morning,” she continued; +“and you, Helen? you’ve been weeping, I see—that’s our grand resource, +you know. But doesn’t it make your eyes smart? and do you always find +it to answer?” + +“I never cry for effect; nor can I conceive how any one can.” + +“Well, I don’t know: I never had occasion to try it; but I think if +Lowborough were to commit such improprieties, I’d make _him_ cry. I +don’t wonder at your being angry, for I’m sure I’d give my husband a +lesson he would not soon forget for a lighter offence than that. But +then he never _will_ do anything of the kind; for I keep him in too +good order for that.” + +“Are you sure you don’t arrogate too much of the credit to yourself. +Lord Lowborough was quite as remarkable for his abstemiousness for some +time before you married him, as he is now, I have heard.” + +“Oh, about the _wine_ you mean—yes, he’s safe enough for that. And as +to looking askance to another woman, he’s safe enough for that too, +while I live, for he worships the very ground I tread on.” + +“Indeed! and are you sure you deserve it?” + +“Why, as to that, I can’t say: you know we’re all fallible creatures, +Helen; we none of us deserve to be worshipped. But are _you_ sure your +darling Huntingdon deserves all the love you give to _him?_” + +I knew not what to answer to this. I was burning with anger; but I +suppressed all outward manifestations of it, and only bit my lip and +pretended to arrange my work. + +“At any rate,” resumed she, pursuing her advantage, “you can console +yourself with the assurance that _you_ are worthy of all the love he +gives to you.” + +“You flatter me,” said I; “but, at least, I can try to be worthy of +it.” And then I turned the conversation. + + + + + CHAPTER XXVIII + + +December 25th.—Last Christmas I was a bride, with a heart overflowing +with present bliss, and full of ardent hopes for the future, though not +unmingled with foreboding fears. Now I am a wife: my bliss is sobered, +but not destroyed; my hopes diminished, but not departed; my fears +increased, but not yet thoroughly confirmed; and, thank heaven, I am a +mother too. God has sent me a soul to educate for heaven, and give me a +new and calmer bliss, and stronger hopes to comfort me. + +Dec. 25th, 1823.—Another year is gone. My little Arthur lives and +thrives. He is healthy, but not robust, full of gentle playfulness and +vivacity, already affectionate, and susceptible of passions and +emotions it will be long ere he can find words to express. He has won +his father’s heart at last; and now my constant terror is, lest he +should be ruined by that father’s thoughtless indulgence. But I must +beware of my own weakness too, for I never knew till now how strong are +a parent’s temptations to spoil an only child. + +I have need of consolation in my son, for (to this silent paper I may +confess it) I have but little in my husband. I love him still; and he +loves me, in his own way—but oh, how different from the love I could +have given, and once had hoped to receive! How little real sympathy +there exists between us; how many of my thoughts and feelings are +gloomily cloistered within my own mind; how much of my higher and +better self is indeed unmarried—doomed either to harden and sour in the +sunless shade of solitude, or to quite degenerate and fall away for +lack of nutriment in this unwholesome soil! But, I repeat, I have no +right to complain; only let me state the truth—some of the truth, at +least,—and see hereafter if any darker truths will blot these pages. We +have now been full two years united; the “romance” of our attachment +must be worn away. Surely I have now got down to the lowest gradation +in Arthur’s affection, and discovered all the evils of his nature: if +there be any further change, it must be for the better, as we become +still more accustomed to each other; surely we shall find no lower +depth than this. And, if so, I can bear it well—as well, at least, as I +have borne it hitherto. + +Arthur is not what is commonly called a _bad_ man: he has many good +qualities; but he is a man without self-restraint or lofty aspirations, +a lover of pleasure, given up to animal enjoyments: he is not a bad +husband, but his notions of matrimonial duties and comforts are not my +notions. Judging from appearances, his idea of a wife is a thing to +love one devotedly, and to stay at home to wait upon her husband, and +amuse him and minister to his comfort in every possible way, while he +chooses to stay with her; and, when he is absent, to attend to his +interests, domestic or otherwise, and patiently wait his return, no +matter how he may be occupied in the meantime. + +Early in spring he announced his intention of going to London: his +affairs there demanded his attendance, he said, and he could refuse it +no longer. He expressed his regret at having to leave me, but hoped I +would amuse myself with the baby till he returned. + +“But why leave me?” I said. “I can go with you: I can be ready at any +time.” + +“You would not take that child to town?” + +“Yes; why not?” + +The thing was absurd: the air of the town would be certain to disagree +with him, and with me as a nurse; the late hours and London habits +would not suit me under such circumstances; and altogether he assured +me that it would be excessively troublesome, injurious, and unsafe. I +over-ruled his objections as well as I could, for I trembled at the +thoughts of his going alone, and would sacrifice almost anything for +myself, much even for my child, to prevent it; but at length he told +me, plainly, and somewhat testily, that he could not do with me: he was +worn out with the baby’s restless nights, and must have some repose. I +proposed separate apartments; but it would not do. + +“The truth is, Arthur,” I said at last, “you are weary of my company, +and determined not to have me with you. You might as well have said so +at once.” + +He denied it; but I immediately left the room, and flew to the nursery, +to hide my feelings, if I could not soothe them, there. + +I was too much hurt to express any further dissatisfaction with his +plans, or at all to refer to the subject again, except for the +necessary arrangements concerning his departure and the conduct of +affairs during his absence, till the day before he went, when I +earnestly exhorted him to take care of himself and keep out of the way +of temptation. He laughed at my anxiety, but assured me there was no +cause for it, and promised to attend to my advice. + +“I suppose it is no use asking you to fix a day for your return?” said +I. + +“Why, no; I hardly can, under the circumstances; but be assured, love, +I shall not be long away.” + +“I don’t wish to keep you a prisoner at home,” I replied; “I should not +grumble at your staying whole months away—if you can be happy so long +without me—provided I knew you were safe; but I don’t like the idea of +your being there among your friends, as you call them.” + +“Pooh, pooh, you silly girl! Do you think I can’t take care of myself?” + +“You didn’t last time. But THIS time, Arthur,” I added, earnestly, +“show me that you can, and teach me that I need not fear to trust you!” + +He promised fair, but in such a manner as we seek to soothe a child. +And did he keep his promise? No; and henceforth _I can never trust his +word_. Bitter, bitter confession! Tears blind me while I write. It was +early in March that he went, and he did not return till July. This time +he did not trouble himself to make excuses as before, and his letters +were less frequent, and shorter and less affectionate, especially after +the first few weeks: they came slower and slower, and more terse and +careless every time. But still, when _I_ omitted writing, he complained +of my neglect. When I wrote sternly and coldly, as I confess I +frequently did at the last, he blamed my harshness, and said it was +enough to scare him from his home: when I tried mild persuasion, he was +a little more gentle in his replies, and promised to return; but I had +learnt, at last, to disregard his promises. + + + + + CHAPTER XXIX + + +Those were four miserable months, alternating between intense anxiety, +despair, and indignation, pity for him and pity for myself. And yet, +through all, I was not wholly comfortless: I had my darling, sinless, +inoffensive little one to console me; but even this consolation was +embittered by the constantly-recurring thought, “How shall I teach him +hereafter to respect his father, and yet to avoid his example?” + +But I remembered that I had brought all these afflictions, in a manner +wilfully, upon myself; and I determined to bear them without a murmur. +At the same time I resolved not to give myself up to misery for the +transgressions of another, and endeavoured to divert myself as much as +I could; and besides the companionship of my child, and my dear, +faithful Rachel, who evidently guessed my sorrows and felt for them, +though she was too discreet to allude to them, I had my books and +pencil, my domestic affairs, and the welfare and comfort of Arthur’s +poor tenants and labourers to attend to: and I sometimes sought and +obtained amusement in the company of my young friend Esther Hargrave: +occasionally I rode over to see her, and once or twice I had her to +spend the day with me at the Manor. Mrs. Hargrave did not visit London +that season: having no daughter to marry, she thought it as well to +stay at home and economise; and, for a wonder, Walter came down to join +her in the beginning of June, and stayed till near the close of August. + +The first time I saw him was on a sweet, warm evening, when I was +sauntering in the park with little Arthur and Rachel, who is head-nurse +and lady’s-maid in one—for, with my secluded life and tolerably active +habits, I require but little attendance, and as she had nursed me and +coveted to nurse my child, and was moreover so very trustworthy, I +preferred committing the important charge to her, with a young +nursery-maid under her directions, to engaging any one else: besides, +it saves money; and since I have made acquaintance with Arthur’s +affairs, I have learnt to regard that as no trifling recommendation; +for, by my own desire, nearly the whole of the income of my fortune is +devoted, for years to come, to the paying off of his debts, and the +money he contrives to squander away in London is incomprehensible. But +to return to Mr. Hargrave. I was standing with Rachel beside the water, +amusing the laughing baby in her arms with a twig of willow laden with +golden catkins, when, greatly to my surprise, he entered the park, +mounted on his costly black hunter, and crossed over the grass to meet +me. He saluted me with a very fine compliment, delicately worded, and +modestly delivered withal, which he had doubtless concocted as he rode +along. He told me he had brought a message from his mother, who, as he +was riding that way, had desired him to call at the Manor and beg the +pleasure of my company to a friendly family dinner to-morrow. + +“There is no one to meet but ourselves,” said he; “but Esther is very +anxious to see you; and my mother fears you will feel solitary in this +great house so much alone, and wishes she could persuade you to give +her the pleasure of your company more frequently, and make yourself at +home in our more humble dwelling, till Mr. Huntingdon’s return shall +render this a little more conducive to your comfort.” + +“She is very kind,” I answered, “but I am not alone, you see;—and those +whose time is fully occupied seldom complain of solitude.” + +“Will you not come to-morrow, then? She will be sadly disappointed if +you refuse.” + +I did not relish being thus compassionated for my loneliness; but, +however, I promised to come. + +“What a sweet evening this is!” observed he, looking round upon the +sunny park, with its imposing swell and slope, its placid water, and +majestic clumps of trees. “And what a paradise you live in!” + +“It is a lovely evening,” answered I; and I sighed to think how little +I had felt its loveliness, and how little of a paradise sweet Grassdale +was to me—how still less to the voluntary exile from its scenes. +Whether Mr. Hargrave divined my thoughts, I cannot tell, but, with a +half-hesitating, sympathising seriousness of tone and manner, he asked +if I had lately heard from Mr. Huntingdon. + +“Not lately,” I replied. + +“I thought not,” he muttered, as if to himself, looking thoughtfully on +the ground. + +“Are you not lately returned from London?” I asked. + +“Only yesterday.” + +“And did you see him there?” + +“Yes—I saw him.” + +“Was he well?” + +“Yes—that is,” said he, with increasing hesitation and an appearance of +suppressed indignation, “he was as well as—as he deserved to be, but +under circumstances I should have deemed incredible for a man so +favoured as he is.” He here looked up and pointed the sentence with a +serious bow to me. I suppose my face was crimson. + +“Pardon me, Mrs. Huntingdon,” he continued, “but I cannot suppress my +indignation when I behold such infatuated blindness and perversion of +taste;—but, perhaps, you are not aware—” He paused. + +“I am aware of nothing, sir—except that he delays his coming longer +than I expected; and if, at present, he prefers the society of his +friends to that of his wife, and the dissipations of the town to the +quiet of country life, I suppose I have those friends to thank for it. +_Their_ tastes and occupations are similar to his, and I don’t see why +his conduct should awaken either their indignation or surprise.” + +“You wrong me cruelly,” answered he. “I have shared but little of Mr. +Huntingdon’s society for the last few weeks; and as for his tastes and +occupations, they are quite beyond me—lonely wanderer as I am. Where I +have but sipped and tasted, he drains the cup to the dregs; and if ever +for a moment I have sought to drown the voice of reflection in madness +and folly, or if I have wasted too much of my time and talents among +reckless and dissipated companions, God knows I would gladly renounce +them entirely and for ever, if I had but _half_ the blessings that man +so thanklessly casts behind his back—but _half_ the inducements to +virtue and domestic, orderly habits that he despises—but _such_ a home, +and _such_ a partner to share it! It is infamous!” he muttered, between +his teeth. “And don’t think, Mrs. Huntingdon,” he added aloud, “that I +could be guilty of inciting him to persevere in his present pursuits: +on the contrary, I have remonstrated with him again and again; I have +frequently expressed my surprise at his conduct, and reminded him of +his duties and his privileges—but to no purpose; he only—” + +“Enough, Mr. Hargrave; you ought to be aware that whatever my husband’s +faults may be, it can only aggravate the evil for me to hear them from +a stranger’s lips.” + +“_Am_ I then a stranger?” said he in a sorrowful tone. “I am your +nearest neighbour, your son’s godfather, and your husband’s friend; may +I not be yours also?” + +“Intimate acquaintance must precede real friendship; I know but little +of you, Mr. Hargrave, except from report.” + +“Have you then forgotten the six or seven weeks I spent under your roof +last autumn? _I_ have not forgotten them. And I know enough of _you_, +Mrs. Huntingdon, to think that your husband is the most enviable man in +the world, and I should be the next if you would deem me worthy of your +friendship.” + +“If you knew more of me, you would not think it, or if you did you +would not say it, and expect me to be flattered by the compliment.” + +I stepped backward as I spoke. He saw that I wished the conversation to +end; and immediately taking the hint, he gravely bowed, wished me +good-evening, and turned his horse towards the road. He appeared +grieved and hurt at my unkind reception of his sympathising overtures. +I was not sure that I had done right in speaking so harshly to him; +but, at the time, I had felt irritated—almost insulted by his conduct; +it seemed as if he was presuming upon the absence and neglect of my +husband, and insinuating even more than the truth against him. + +Rachel had moved on, during our conversation, to some yards’ distance. +He rode up to her, and asked to see the child. He took it carefully +into his arms, looked upon it with an almost paternal smile, and I +heard him say, as I approached,— + +“And this, too, he has forsaken!” + +He then tenderly kissed it, and restored it to the gratified nurse. + +“Are you fond of children, Mr. Hargrave?” said I, a little softened +towards him. + +“Not in general,” he replied, “but that is such a _sweet_ child, and so +like its mother,” he added in a lower tone. + +“You are mistaken there; it is its father it resembles.” + +“Am I not right, nurse?” said he, appealing to Rachel. + +“I think, sir, there’s a bit of both,” she replied. + +He departed; and Rachel pronounced him a very nice gentleman. I had +still my doubts on the subject. + +In the course of the following six weeks I met him several times, but +always, save once, in company with his mother, or his sister, or both. +When I called on them, he always happened to be at home, and, when they +called on me, it was always he that drove them over in the phaeton. His +mother, evidently, was quite delighted with his dutiful attentions and +newly-acquired domestic habits. + +The time that I met him alone was on a bright, but not oppressively hot +day, in the beginning of July: I had taken little Arthur into the wood +that skirts the park, and there seated him on the moss-cushioned roots +of an old oak; and, having gathered a handful of bluebells and +wild-roses, I was kneeling before him, and presenting them, one by one, +to the grasp of his tiny fingers; enjoying the heavenly beauty of the +flowers, through the medium of his smiling eyes: forgetting, for the +moment, all my cares, laughing at his gleeful laughter, and delighting +myself with his delight,—when a shadow suddenly eclipsed the little +space of sunshine on the grass before us; and looking up, I beheld +Walter Hargrave standing and gazing upon us. + +“Excuse me, Mrs. Huntingdon,” said he, “but I was spell-bound; I had +neither the power to come forward and interrupt you, nor to withdraw +from the contemplation of such a scene. How vigorous my little godson +grows! and how merry he is this morning!” He approached the child, and +stooped to take his hand; but, on seeing that his caresses were likely +to produce tears and lamentations, instead of a reciprocation of +friendly demonstrations, he prudently drew back. + +“What a pleasure and comfort that little creature must be to you, Mrs. +Huntingdon!” he observed, with a touch of sadness in his intonation, as +he admiringly contemplated the infant. + +“It is,” replied I; and then I asked after his mother and sister. + +He politely answered my inquiries, and then returned again to the +subject I wished to avoid; though with a degree of timidity that +witnessed his fear to offend. + +“You have not heard from Huntingdon lately?” he said. + +“Not this week,” I replied. Not these three weeks, I might have said. + +“I had a letter from him this morning. I wish it were such a one as I +could show to his lady.” He half drew from his waistcoat-pocket a +letter with Arthur’s still beloved hand on the address, scowled at it, +and put it back again, adding—“But he tells me he is about to return +next week.” + +“He tells _me_ so every time he writes.” + +“Indeed! well, it is like him. But to me he always avowed it his +intention to stay till the present month.” + +It struck me like a blow, this proof of premeditated transgression and +systematic disregard of truth. + +“It is only of a piece with the rest of his conduct,” observed Mr. +Hargrave, thoughtfully regarding me, and reading, I suppose, my +feelings in my face. + +“Then he is really coming next week?” said I, after a pause. + +“You may rely upon it, if the assurance can give you any pleasure. And +is it _possible_, Mrs. Huntingdon, that you can rejoice at his return?” +he exclaimed, attentively perusing my features again. + +“Of course, Mr. Hargrave; is he not my husband?” + +“Oh, Huntingdon; you know not _what_ you slight!” he passionately +murmured. + +I took up my baby, and, wishing him good-morning, departed, to indulge +my thoughts unscrutinized, within the sanctum of my home. + +And _was_ I glad? Yes, delighted; though I was angered by Arthur’s +conduct, and though I felt that he had wronged me, and was determined +he should feel it too. + + + + + CHAPTER XXX + + +On the following morning I received a few lines from him myself, +confirming Hargrave’s intimations respecting his approaching return. +And he did come next week, but in a condition of body and mind even +worse than before. I did not, however, intend to pass over his +derelictions this time without a remark; I found it would not do. But +the first day he was weary with his journey, and I was glad to get him +back: I would not upbraid him then; I would wait till to-morrow. Next +morning he was weary still: I would wait a little longer. But at +dinner, when, after breakfasting at twelve o’clock on a bottle of +soda-water and a cup of strong coffee, and lunching at two on another +bottle of soda-water mingled with brandy, he was finding fault with +everything on the table, and declaring we must change our cook, I +thought the time was come. + +“It is the same cook as we had before you went, Arthur,” said I. “You +were generally pretty well satisfied with her then.” + +“You must have been letting her get into slovenly habits, then, while I +was away. It is enough to poison one, eating such a disgusting mess!” +And he pettishly pushed away his plate, and leant back despairingly in +his chair. + +“I think it is you that are changed, not she,” said I, but with the +utmost gentleness, for I did not wish to irritate him. + +“It may be so,” he replied carelessly, as he seized a tumbler of wine +and water, adding, when he had tossed it off, “for I have an infernal +fire in my veins, that all the waters of the ocean cannot quench!” + +“What kindled it?” I was about to ask, but at that moment the butler +entered and began to take away the things. + +“Be quick, Benson; do have done with that infernal clatter!” cried his +master. “And _don’t_ bring the cheese, unless you want to make me sick +outright!” + +Benson, in some surprise, removed the cheese, and did his best to +effect a quiet and speedy clearance of the rest; but, unfortunately, +there was a rumple in the carpet, caused by the hasty pushing back of +his master’s chair, at which he tripped and stumbled, causing a rather +alarming concussion with the trayful of crockery in his hands, but no +positive damage, save the fall and breaking of a sauce tureen; but, to +my unspeakable shame and dismay, Arthur turned furiously around upon +him, and swore at him with savage coarseness. The poor man turned pale, +and visibly trembled as he stooped to pick up the fragments. + +“He couldn’t help it, Arthur,” said I; “the carpet caught his foot, and +there’s no great harm done. Never mind the pieces now, Benson; you can +clear them away afterwards.” + +Glad to be released, Benson expeditiously set out the dessert and +withdrew. + +“What _could_ you mean, Helen, by taking the servant’s part against +me,” said Arthur, as soon as the door was closed, “when you knew I was +distracted?” + +“I did not know you were distracted, Arthur: and the poor man was quite +frightened and hurt at your sudden explosion.” + +“Poor man, indeed! and do you think I could stop to consider the +feelings of an insensate brute like that, when my own nerves were +racked and torn to pieces by his confounded blunders?” + +“I never heard you complain of your nerves before.” + +“And why shouldn’t I have nerves as well as you?” + +“Oh, I don’t dispute your claim to their possession, but _I_ never +complain of mine.” + +“No, how should you, when you never do anything to try them?” + +“Then why do you try yours, Arthur?” + +“Do you think I have nothing to do but to stay at home and take care of +myself like a woman?” + +“Is it impossible, then, to take care of yourself like a man when you +go abroad? You told me that you could, and would too; and you +promised—” + +“Come, come, Helen, don’t begin with that nonsense now; I can’t bear +it.” + +“Can’t bear what?—to be reminded of the promises you have broken?” + +“Helen, you are cruel. If you knew how my heart throbbed, and how every +nerve thrilled through me while you spoke, you would spare me. You can +pity a dolt of a servant for breaking a dish; but you have no +compassion for _me_ when my head is split in two and all on fire with +this consuming fever.” + +He leant his head on his hand, and sighed. I went to him and put my +hand on his forehead. It was burning indeed. + +“Then come with me into the drawing-room, Arthur; and don’t take any +more wine: you have taken several glasses since dinner, and eaten next +to nothing all the day. How can _that_ make you better?” + +With some coaxing and persuasion, I got him to leave the table. When +the baby was brought I tried to amuse him with that; but poor little +Arthur was cutting his teeth, and his father could not bear his +complaints: sentence of immediate banishment was passed upon him on the +first indication of fretfulness; and because, in the course of the +evening, I went to share his exile for a little while, I was +reproached, on my return, for preferring my child to my husband. I +found the latter reclining on the sofa just as I had left him. + +“Well!” exclaimed the injured man, in a tone of pseudo-resignation. “I +thought I wouldn’t send for you; I thought I’d just see how long it +would please you to leave me alone.” + +“I have not been very long, have I, Arthur? I have not been an hour, +I’m sure.” + +“Oh, of course, an hour is nothing to you, so pleasantly employed; but +to _me_—” + +“It has not been pleasantly employed,” interrupted I. “I have been +nursing our poor little baby, who is very far from well, and I could +not leave him till I got him to sleep.” + +“Oh, to be sure, you’re overflowing with kindness and pity for +everything but me.” + +“And why should I pity _you?_ What is the matter with you?” + +“Well! that passes everything! After all the wear and tear that I’ve +had, when I come home sick and weary, longing for comfort, and +expecting to find attention and kindness, at least from my wife, she +calmly asks what is the matter with me!” + +“There is _nothing_ the matter with you,” returned I, “except what you +have wilfully brought upon yourself, against my earnest exhortation and +entreaty.” + +“Now, Helen,” said he emphatically, half rising from his recumbent +posture, “if you bother me with another word, I’ll ring the bell and +order six bottles of wine, and, by heaven, I’ll drink them dry before I +stir from this place!” + +I said no more, but sat down before the table and drew a book towards +me. + +“Do let me have quietness at least!” continued he, “if you deny me +every other comfort;” and sinking back into his former position, with +an impatient expiration between a sigh and a groan, he languidly closed +his eyes, as if to sleep. + +What the book was that lay open on the table before me, I cannot tell, +for I never looked at it. With an elbow on each side of it, and my +hands clasped before my eyes, I delivered myself up to silent weeping. +But Arthur was not asleep: at the first slight sob, he raised his head +and looked round, impatiently exclaiming, “What are you crying for, +Helen? What the deuce is the matter _now?_” + +“I’m crying for you, Arthur,” I replied, speedily drying my tears; and +starting up, I threw myself on my knees before him, and clasping his +nerveless hand between my own, continued: “Don’t you know that you are +a part of myself? And do you think you can injure and degrade yourself, +and I not feel it?” + +“_Degrade_ myself, Helen?” + +“Yes, degrade! What have you been doing all this time?” + +“You’d better not ask,” said he, with a faint smile. + +“And you had better not tell; but you cannot deny that you _have_ +degraded yourself miserably. You have shamefully wronged yourself, body +and soul, and me too; and I can’t endure it quietly, and I won’t!” + +“Well, don’t squeeze my hand so frantically, and don’t agitate me so, +for heaven’s sake! Oh, Hattersley! you were right: this woman will be +the death of me, with her keen feelings and her interesting force of +character. There, there, do spare me a little.” + +“Arthur, you _must_ repent!” cried I, in a frenzy of desperation, +throwing my arms around him and burying my face in his bosom. “You +_shall_ say you are sorry for what you have done!” + +“Well, well, I am.” + +“You are not! you’ll do it again.” + +“I shall never live to do it again if you treat me so savagely,” +replied he, pushing me from him. “You’ve nearly squeezed the breath out +of my body.” He pressed his hand to his heart, and looked really +agitated and ill. + +“Now get me a glass of wine,” said he, “to remedy what you’ve done, you +she tiger! I’m almost ready to faint.” + +I flew to get the required remedy. It seemed to revive him +considerably. + +“What a shame it is,” said I, as I took the empty glass from his hand, +“for a strong young man like you to reduce yourself to such a state!” + +“If you knew all, my girl, you’d say rather, ‘What a wonder it is you +can bear it so well as you do!’ I’ve lived more in these four months, +Helen, than you have in the whole course of your existence, or will to +the end of your days, if they numbered a hundred years; so I must +expect to pay for it in some shape.” + +“You will have to pay a higher price than you anticipate, if you don’t +take care: there will be the total loss of your own health, and of my +affection too, if _that_ is of any value to you.” + +“What! you’re at that game of threatening me with the loss of your +affection again, are you? I think it couldn’t have been very genuine +stuff to begin with, if it’s so easily demolished. If you don’t mind, +my pretty tyrant, you’ll make me regret my choice in good earnest, and +envy my friend Hattersley his meek little wife: she’s quite a pattern +to her sex, Helen. He had her with him in London all the season, and +she was no trouble at all. He might amuse himself just as he pleased, +in regular bachelor style, and she never complained of neglect; he +might come home at any hour of the night or morning, or not come home +at all; be sullen, sober, or glorious drunk; and play the fool or the +madman to his own heart’s desire, without any fear or botheration. She +never gives him a word of reproach or complaint, do what he will. He +says there’s not such a jewel in all England, and swears he wouldn’t +take a kingdom for her.” + +“But he makes her life a curse to her.” + +“Not he! She has no will but his, and is always contented and happy as +long as he is enjoying himself.” + +“In that case she is as great a fool as he is; but it is not so. I have +several letters from her, expressing the greatest anxiety about his +proceedings, and complaining that you incite him to commit those +extravagances—one especially, in which she implores me to use my +influence with you to get you away from London, and affirms that her +husband never did such things before you came, and would certainly +discontinue them as soon as you departed and left him to the guidance +of his own good sense.” + +“The detestable little traitor! Give me the letter, and he shall see it +as sure as I’m a living man.” + +“No, he shall not see it without her consent; but if he did, there is +nothing there to anger him, nor in any of the others. She never speaks +a word against him: it is only anxiety _for_ him that she expresses. +She only alludes to his conduct in the most delicate terms, and makes +every excuse for him that she can possibly think of; and as for her own +misery, I rather _feel_ it than _see_ it expressed in her letters.” + +“But she abuses _me;_ and no doubt you helped her.” + +“No; I told her she over-rated my influence with you, that I would +gladly draw you away from the temptations of the town if I could, but +had little hope of success, and that I thought she was wrong in +supposing that you enticed Mr. Hattersley or any one else into error. I +had myself held the _contrary_ opinion at one time, but I now believed +that you mutually corrupted each other; and, perhaps, if she used a +little gentle but serious remonstrance with her husband, it might be of +some service; as, though he was more rough-hewn than mine, I believed +he was of a less impenetrable material.” + +“And so _that_ is the way you go on—heartening each other up to mutiny, +and abusing each other’s partners, and throwing out implications +against your own, to the mutual gratification of both!” + +“According to your own account,” said I, “my evil counsel has had but +little effect upon _her_. And as to abuse and aspersions, we are both +of us far too deeply ashamed of the errors and vices of our other +halves, to make them the common subject of our correspondence. Friends +as we are, we would willingly keep your failings to ourselves—even +_from_ ourselves if we could, unless by knowing them we could deliver +you from them.” + +“Well, well! don’t worry me about them: you’ll never effect any good by +that. Have patience with me, and bear with my languor and crossness a +little while, till I get this cursed low fever out of my veins, and +then you’ll find me cheerful and kind as ever. Why can’t you be gentle +and good, as you were last time?—I’m sure I was very grateful for it.” + +“And what good did your gratitude do? I deluded myself with the idea +that you were ashamed of your transgressions, and hoped you would never +repeat them again; but now you have left me nothing to hope!” + +“My case is quite desperate, is it? A very blessed consideration, if it +will only secure me from the pain and worry of my dear anxious wife’s +efforts to convert me, and her from the toil and trouble of such +exertions, and her sweet face and silver accents from the ruinous +effects of the same. A burst of passion is a fine rousing thing upon +occasion, Helen, and a flood of tears is marvellously affecting, but, +when indulged too often, they are both deuced plaguy things for +spoiling one’s beauty and tiring out one’s friends.” + +Thenceforth I restrained my tears and passions as much as I could. I +spared him my exhortations and fruitless efforts at conversion too, for +I saw it was all in vain: God might awaken that heart, supine and +stupefied with self-indulgence, and remove the film of sensual darkness +from his eyes, but I could not. His injustice and ill-humour towards +his inferiors, who could not defend themselves, I still resented and +withstood; but when I alone was their object, as was frequently the +case, I endured it with calm forbearance, except at times, when my +temper, worn out by repeated annoyances, or stung to distraction by +some new instance of irrationality, gave way in spite of myself, and +exposed me to the imputations of fierceness, cruelty, and impatience. I +attended carefully to his wants and amusements, but not, I own, with +the same devoted fondness as before, because I could not feel it; +besides, I had now another claimant on my time and care—my ailing +infant, for whose sake I frequently braved and suffered the reproaches +and complaints of his unreasonably exacting father. + +But Arthur is not naturally a peevish or irritable man; so far from it, +that there was something almost ludicrous in the incongruity of this +adventitious fretfulness and nervous irritability, rather calculated to +excite laughter than anger, if it were not for the intensely painful +considerations attendant upon those symptoms of a disordered frame, and +his temper gradually improved as his bodily health was restored, which +was much sooner than would have been the case but for my strenuous +exertions; for there was still one thing about him that I did not give +up in despair, and one effort for his preservation that I would not +remit. His appetite for the stimulus of wine had increased upon him, as +I had too well foreseen. It was now something more to him than an +accessory to social enjoyment: it was an important source of enjoyment +in itself. In this time of weakness and depression he would have made +it his medicine and support, his comforter, his recreation, and his +friend, and thereby sunk deeper and deeper, and bound himself down for +ever in the bathos whereinto he had fallen. But I determined this +should never be, as long as I had any influence left; and though I +could not prevent him from taking more than was good for him, still, by +incessant perseverance, by kindness, and firmness, and vigilance, by +coaxing, and daring, and determination, I succeeded in preserving him +from absolute bondage to that detestable propensity, so insidious in +its advances, so inexorable in its tyranny, so disastrous in its +effects. + +And here I must not forget that I am not a little indebted to his +friend Mr. Hargrave. About that time he frequently called at Grassdale, +and often dined with us, on which occasions I fear Arthur would +willingly have cast prudence and decorum to the winds, and made “a +night of it,” as often as his friend would have consented to join him +in that exalted pastime; and if the latter had chosen to comply, he +might, in a night or two, have ruined the labour of weeks, and +overthrown with a touch the frail bulwark it had cost me such trouble +and toil to construct. I was so fearful of this at first, that I +humbled myself to intimate to him, in private, my apprehensions of +Arthur’s proneness to these excesses, and to express a hope that he +would not encourage it. He was pleased with this mark of confidence, +and certainly did not betray it. On that and every subsequent occasion +his presence served rather as a check upon his host, than an incitement +to further acts of intemperance; and he always succeeded in bringing +him from the dining-room in good time, and in tolerably good condition; +for if Arthur disregarded such intimations as “Well, I must not detain +you from your lady,” or “We must not forget that Mrs. Huntingdon is +alone,” he would insist upon leaving the table himself, to join me, and +his host, however unwillingly, was obliged to follow. + +Hence I learned to welcome Mr. Hargrave as a real friend to the family, +a harmless companion for Arthur, to cheer his spirits and preserve him +from the tedium of absolute idleness and a total isolation from all +society but mine, and a useful ally to me. I could not but feel +grateful to him under such circumstances; and I did not scruple to +acknowledge my obligation on the first convenient opportunity; yet, as +I did so, my heart whispered all was not right, and brought a glow to +my face, which he heightened by his steady, serious gaze, while, by his +manner of receiving those acknowledgments, he more than doubled my +misgivings. His high delight at being able to serve me was chastened by +sympathy for me and commiseration for himself—about, I know not what, +for I would not stay to inquire, or suffer him to unburden his sorrows +to me. His sighs and intimations of suppressed affliction seemed to +come from a full heart; but either he must contrive to retain them +within it, or breathe them forth in other ears than mine: there was +enough of confidence between us already. It seemed wrong that there +should exist a secret understanding between my husband’s friend and me, +unknown to him, of which he was the object. But my after-thought was, +“If it is wrong, surely Arthur’s is the fault, not mine.” + +And indeed I know not whether, at the time, it was not for _him_ rather +than myself that I blushed; for, since he and I are one, I so identify +myself with him, that I feel his degradation, his failings, and +transgressions as my own: I blush for him, I fear for him; I repent for +him, weep, pray, and feel for him as for myself; but I cannot act for +him; and hence I must be, and I am, debased, contaminated by the union, +both in my own eyes and in the actual truth. I am so determined to love +him, so intensely anxious to excuse his errors, that I am continually +dwelling upon them, and labouring to extenuate the loosest of his +principles and the worst of his practices, till I am familiarised with +vice, and almost a partaker in his sins. Things that formerly shocked +and disgusted me, now seem only natural. I know them to be wrong, +because reason and God’s word declare them to be so; but I am gradually +losing that instinctive horror and repulsion which were given me by +nature, or instilled into me by the precepts and example of my aunt. +Perhaps then I was too severe in my judgments, for I abhorred the +sinner as well as the sin; now I flatter myself I am more charitable +and considerate; but am I not becoming more indifferent and insensate +too? Fool that I was, to dream that I had strength and purity enough to +save myself and him! Such vain presumption would be rightly served, if +I should perish with him in the gulf from which I sought to save him! +Yet, God preserve me from it, and him too! Yes, poor Arthur, I will +still hope and pray for you; and though I write as if you were some +abandoned wretch, past hope and past reprieve, it is only my anxious +fears, my strong desires that make me do so; one who loved you less +would be less bitter, less dissatisfied. + +His conduct has, of late, been what the world calls irreproachable; but +then I know his heart is still unchanged; and I know that spring is +approaching, and deeply dread the consequences. + +As he began to recover the tone and vigour of his exhausted frame, and +with it something of his former impatience of retirement and repose, I +suggested a short residence by the sea-side, for his recreation and +further restoration, and for the benefit of our little one as well. But +no: watering-places were so intolerably dull; besides, he had been +invited by one of his friends to spend a month or two in Scotland for +the better recreation of grouse-shooting and deer-stalking, and had +promised to go. + +“Then you will leave me again, Arthur?” said I. + +“Yes, dearest, but only to love you the better when I come back, and +make up for all past offences and short-comings; and you needn’t fear +me this time: there are no temptations on the mountains. And during my +absence you may pay a visit to Staningley, if you like: your uncle and +aunt have long been wanting us to go there, you know; but somehow +there’s such a repulsion between the good lady and me, that I never +could bring myself up to the scratch.” + +About the third week in August, Arthur set out for Scotland, and Mr. +Hargrave accompanied him thither, to my private satisfaction. Shortly +after, I, with little Arthur and Rachel, went to Staningley, my dear +old home, which, as well as my dear old friends its inhabitants, I saw +again with mingled feelings of pleasure and pain so intimately blended +that I could scarcely distinguish the one from the other, or tell to +which to attribute the various tears, and smiles, and sighs awakened by +those old familiar scenes, and tones, and faces. + +Arthur did not come home till several weeks after my return to +Grassdale; but I did not feel so anxious about him now; to think of him +engaged in active sports among the wild hills of Scotland, was very +different from knowing him to be immersed amid the corruptions and +temptations of London. His letters now; though neither long nor +loverlike, were more regular than ever they had been before; and when +he did return, to my great joy, instead of being worse than when he +went, he was more cheerful and vigorous, and better in every respect. +Since that time I have had little cause to complain. He still has an +unfortunate predilection for the pleasures of the table, against which +I have to struggle and watch; but he has begun to notice his boy, and +that is an increasing source of amusement to him within-doors, while +his fox-hunting and coursing are a sufficient occupation for him +without, when the ground is not hardened by frost; so that he is not +wholly dependent on me for entertainment. But it is now January; spring +is approaching; and, I repeat, I dread the consequences of its arrival. +That sweet season, I once so joyously welcomed as the time of hope and +gladness, awakens now far other anticipations by its return. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXI + + +March 20th, 1824. The dreaded time is come, and Arthur is gone, as I +expected. This time he announced it his intention to make but a short +stay in London, and pass over to the Continent, where he should +probably stay a few weeks; but I shall not expect him till after the +lapse of many weeks: I now know that, with him, days signify weeks, and +weeks months. + +July 30th.—He returned about three weeks ago, rather better in health, +certainly, than before, but still worse in temper. And yet, perhaps, I +am wrong: it is _I_ that am less patient and forbearing. I am tired out +with his injustice, his selfishness and hopeless _depravity_. I wish a +milder word would do; I am no angel, and my corruption rises against +it. My poor father died last week: Arthur was vexed to hear of it, +because he saw that I was shocked and grieved, and he feared the +circumstance would mar his comfort. When I spoke of ordering my +mourning, he exclaimed,— + +“Oh, I hate black! But, however, I suppose you must wear it awhile, for +form’s sake; but I hope, Helen, you won’t think it your bounden duty to +compose your face and manners into conformity with your funereal garb. +Why should you sigh and groan, and I be made uncomfortable, because an +old gentleman in ——shire, a perfect stranger to us both, has thought +proper to drink himself to death? There, now, I declare you’re crying! +Well, it must be affectation.” + +He would not hear of my attending the funeral, or going for a day or +two, to cheer poor Frederick’s solitude. It was quite unnecessary, he +said, and I was unreasonable to wish it. What was my father to me? I +had never seen him but once since I was a baby, and I well knew he had +never cared a stiver about me; and my brother, too, was little better +than a stranger. “Besides, dear Helen,” said he, embracing me with +flattering fondness, “I cannot spare you for a single day.” + +“Then how have you managed without me these _many_ days?” said I. + +“Ah! then I was knocking about the world, now I am at home, and home +without you, my household deity, would be intolerable.” + +“Yes, as long as I am necessary to your comfort; but you did not say so +before, when you urged me to leave you, in order that you might get +away from your home without me,” retorted I; but before the words were +well out of my mouth, I regretted having uttered them. It seemed so +heavy a charge: if false, too gross an insult; if true, too humiliating +a fact to be thus openly cast in his teeth. But I might have spared +myself that momentary pang of self-reproach. The accusation awoke +neither shame nor indignation in him: he attempted neither denial nor +excuse, but only answered with a long, low, chuckling laugh, as if he +viewed the whole transaction as a clever, merry jest from beginning to +end. Surely that man will make me dislike him at last! + +Sine as ye brew, my maiden fair, +Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill. + + +Yes; and I _will_ drink it to the very dregs: and none but myself shall +know how bitter I find it! + +August 20th.—We are shaken down again to about our usual position. +Arthur has returned to nearly his former condition and habits; and I +have found it my wisest plan to shut my eyes against the past and +future, as far as _he_ at least is concerned, and live only for the +present: to love him when I can; to smile (if possible) when he smiles, +be cheerful when he is cheerful, and pleased when he is agreeable; and +when he is not, to try to make him so; and if that won’t answer, to +bear with him, to excuse him, and forgive him as well as I can, and +restrain my own evil passions from aggravating his; and yet, while I +thus yield and minister to his more harmless propensities to +self-indulgence, to do all in my power to save him from the worse. + +But we shall not be long alone together. I shall shortly be called upon +to entertain the same select body of friends as we had the autumn +before last, with the addition of Mr. Hattersley and, at my special +request, his wife and child. I long to see Milicent, and her little +girl too. The latter is now above a year old; she will be a charming +playmate for my little Arthur. + +September 30th.—Our guests have been here a week or two; but I have had +no leisure to pass any comments upon them till now. I cannot get over +my dislike to Lady Lowborough. It is not founded on mere personal +pique; it is the woman herself that I dislike, because I so thoroughly +disapprove of her. I always avoid her company as much as I can without +violating the laws of hospitality; but when we do speak or converse +together, it is with the utmost civility, even apparent cordiality on +her part; but preserve me from such cordiality! It is like handling +brier-roses and may-blossoms, bright enough to the eye, and outwardly +soft to the touch, but you know there are thorns beneath, and every now +and then you feel them too; and perhaps resent the injury by crushing +them in till you have destroyed their power, though somewhat to the +detriment of your own fingers. + +Of late, however, I have seen nothing in her conduct towards Arthur to +anger or alarm me. During the first few days I thought she seemed very +solicitous to win his admiration. Her efforts were not unnoticed by +him: I frequently saw him smiling to himself at her artful manœuvres: +but, to his praise be it spoken, her shafts fell powerless by his side. +Her most bewitching smiles, her haughtiest frowns were ever received +with the same immutable, careless good-humour; till, finding he was +indeed impenetrable, she suddenly remitted her efforts, and became, to +all appearance, as perfectly indifferent as himself. Nor have I since +witnessed any symptom of pique on his part, or renewed attempts at +conquest upon hers. + +This is as it should be; but Arthur never will let me be satisfied with +him. I have never, for a single hour since I married him, known what it +is to realise that sweet idea, “In quietness and confidence shall be +your rest.” Those two detestable men, Grimsby and Hattersley, have +destroyed all my labour against his love of wine. They encourage him +daily to overstep the bounds of moderation, and not unfrequently to +disgrace himself by positive excess. I shall not soon forget the second +night after their arrival. Just as I had retired from the dining-room +with the ladies, before the door was closed upon us, Arthur +exclaimed,—“Now then, my lads, what say you to a regular +jollification?” + +Milicent glanced at me with a half-reproachful look, as if _I_ could +hinder it; but her countenance changed when she heard Hattersley’s +voice, shouting through door and wall,— + +“_I’m_ your man! Send for more wine: here isn’t _half_ enough!” + +We had scarcely entered the drawing-room before we were joined by Lord +Lowborough. + +“What _can_ induce you to come so soon?” exclaimed his lady, with a +most ungracious air of dissatisfaction. + +“You know I never drink, Annabella,” replied he seriously. + +“Well, but you might stay with them a little: it looks so silly to be +always dangling after the women; I wonder you can!” + +He reproached her with a look of mingled bitterness and surprise, and, +sinking into a chair, suppressed a heavy sigh, bit his pale lips, and +fixed his eyes upon the floor. + +“You did right to leave them, Lord Lowborough,” said I. “I trust you +will always continue to honour us so early with your company. And if +Annabella knew the value of true wisdom, and the misery of folly +and—and intemperance, she would not talk such nonsense—even in jest.” + +He raised his eyes while I spoke, and gravely turned them upon me, with +a half-surprised, half-abstracted look, and then bent them on his wife. + +“At least,” said she, “I know the value of a warm heart and a bold, +manly spirit.” + +“Well, Annabella,” said he, in a deep and hollow tone, “since my +presence is disagreeable to you, I will relieve you of it.” + +“Are you going back to them, then?” said she, carelessly. + +“No,” exclaimed he, with harsh and startling emphasis. “I will not go +back to them! And I will never stay with them one moment longer than I +think right, for you or any other tempter! But you needn’t mind that; I +shall never trouble you again by intruding my company upon you so +unseasonably.” + +He left the room: I heard the hall-door open and shut, and immediately +after, on putting aside the curtain, I saw him pacing down the park, in +the comfortless gloom of the damp, cloudy twilight. + +“It would serve you right, Annabella,” said I, at length, “if Lord +Lowborough were to return to his old habits, which had so nearly +effected his ruin, and which it cost him such an effort to break: you +would then see cause to repent such conduct as this.” + +“Not at all, my dear! I should not mind if his lordship were to see fit +to intoxicate himself every day: I should only the sooner be rid of +him.” + +“Oh, Annabella!” cried Milicent. “How can you say such wicked things! +It would, indeed, be a just punishment, as far as you are concerned, if +Providence should take you at your word, and make you feel what others +feel, that—” She paused as a sudden burst of loud talking and laughter +reached us from the dining-room, in which the voice of Hattersley was +pre-eminently conspicuous, even to my unpractised ear. + +“What _you_ feel at this moment, I suppose?” said Lady Lowborough, with +a malicious smile, fixing her eyes upon her cousin’s distressed +countenance. + +The latter offered no reply, but averted her face and brushed away a +tear. At that moment the door opened and admitted Mr. Hargrave, just a +little flushed, his dark eyes sparkling with unwonted vivacity. + +“Oh, I’m so glad you’re come, Walter?” cried his sister. “But I wish +you could have got Ralph to come too.” + +“Utterly impossible, dear Milicent,” replied he, gaily. “I had much ado +to get away myself. Ralph attempted to keep me by violence; Huntingdon +threatened me with the eternal loss of his friendship; and Grimsby, +worse than all, endeavoured to make me ashamed of my virtue, by such +galling sarcasms and innuendoes as he knew would wound me the most. So +you see, ladies, you ought to make me welcome when I have braved and +suffered so much for the favour of your sweet society.” He smilingly +turned to me and bowed as he finished the sentence. + +“Isn’t he _handsome_ now, Helen!” whispered Milicent, her sisterly +pride overcoming, for the moment, all other considerations. + +“He would be,” I returned, “if that brilliance of eye, and lip, and +cheek were natural to him; but look again, a few hours hence.” + +Here the gentleman took a seat near me at the table, and petitioned for +a cup of coffee. + +“I consider this an apt illustration of heaven taken by storm,” said +he, as I handed one to him. “I am in paradise, now; but I have fought +my way through flood and fire to win it. Ralph Hattersley’s last +resource was to set his back against the door, and swear I should find +no passage but through his body (a pretty substantial one too). +Happily, however, that was not the only door, and I effected my escape +by the side entrance through the butler’s pantry, to the infinite +amazement of Benson, who was cleaning the plate.” + +Mr. Hargrave laughed, and so did his cousin; but his sister and I +remained silent and grave. + +“Pardon my levity, Mrs. Huntingdon,” murmured he, more seriously, as he +raised his eyes to my face. “You are not used to these things: you +suffer them to affect your delicate mind too sensibly. But I thought of +you in the midst of those lawless roysterers; and I endeavoured to +persuade Mr. Huntingdon to think of you too; but to no purpose: I fear +he is fully determined to enjoy himself this night; and it will be no +use keeping the coffee waiting for him or his companions; it will be +much if they join us at tea. Meantime, I earnestly wish I could banish +the thoughts of them from your mind—and my own too, for I hate to think +of them—yes—even of my dear friend Huntingdon, when I consider the +power he possesses over the happiness of one so immeasurably superior +to himself, and the use he makes of it—I positively _detest_ the man!” + +“You had better not say so to me, then,” said I; “for, bad as he is, he +is part of myself, and you cannot abuse him without offending me.” + +“Pardon me, then, for I would sooner die than offend you. But let us +say no more of him for the present, if you please.” + +At last they came; but not till after ten, when tea, which had been +delayed for more than half an hour, was nearly over. Much as I had +longed for their coming, my heart failed me at the riotous uproar of +their approach; and Milicent turned pale, and almost started from her +seat, as Mr. Hattersley burst into the room with a clamorous volley of +oaths in his mouth, which Hargrave endeavoured to check by entreating +him to remember the ladies. + +“Ah! you do well to remind me of the ladies, you dastardly deserter,” +cried he, shaking his formidable fist at his brother-in-law. “If it +were not for them, you well know, I’d demolish you in the twinkling of +an eye, and give your body to the fowls of heaven and the lilies of the +fields!” Then, planting a chair by Lady Lowborough’s side, he stationed +himself in it, and began to talk to her with a mixture of absurdity and +impudence that seemed rather to amuse than to offend her; though she +affected to resent his insolence, and to keep him at bay with sallies +of smart and spirited repartee. + +Meantime Mr. Grimsby seated himself by me, in the chair vacated by +Hargrave as they entered, and gravely stated that he would thank me for +a cup of tea: and Arthur placed himself beside poor Milicent, +confidentially pushing his head into her face, and drawing in closer to +her as she shrank away from him. He was not so noisy as Hattersley, but +his face was exceedingly flushed: he laughed incessantly, and while I +blushed for all I saw and heard of him, I was glad that he chose to +talk to his companion in so low a tone that no one could hear what he +said but herself. + +“What fools they are!” drawled Mr. Grimsby, who had been talking away, +at my elbow, with sententious gravity all the time; but I had been too +much absorbed in contemplating the deplorable state of the other +two—especially Arthur—to attend to him. + +“Did you ever hear such nonsense as they talk, Mrs. Huntingdon?” he +continued. “I’m quite ashamed of them for my part: they can’t take so +much as a bottle between them without its getting into their heads—” + +“You are pouring the cream into your saucer, Mr. Grimsby.” + +“Ah! yes, I see, but we’re almost in darkness here. Hargrave, snuff +those candles, will you?” + +“They’re wax; they don’t require snuffing,” said I. + +“‘The light of the body is the eye,’” observed Hargrave, with a +sarcastic smile. “‘If thine eye be _single_, thy whole body shall be +full of light.’” + +Grimsby repulsed him with a solemn wave of the hand, and then turning +to me, continued, with the same drawling tones and strange uncertainty +of utterance and heavy gravity of aspect as before: “But as I was +saying, Mrs. Huntingdon, they have no head at all: they can’t take half +a bottle without being affected some way; whereas I—well, I’ve taken +three times as much as they have to-night, and you see I’m perfectly +steady. Now that may strike you as very singular, but I think I can +explain it: you see _their_ brains—I mention no names, but you’ll +understand to whom I allude—_their_ brains are light to begin with, and +the fumes of the fermented liquor render them lighter still, and +produce an entire light-headedness, or giddiness, resulting in +intoxication; whereas my brains, being composed of more solid +materials, will absorb a considerable quantity of this alcoholic vapour +without the production of any sensible result—” + +“I think you will find a sensible result produced on that tea,” +interrupted Mr. Hargrave, “by the quantity of sugar you have put into +it. Instead of your usual complement of one lump, you have put in six.” + +“Have I so?” replied the philosopher, diving with his spoon into the +cup, and bringing up several half-dissolved pieces in confirmation of +the assertion. “Hum! I perceive. Thus, Madam, you see the evil of +absence of mind—of thinking too much while engaged in the common +concerns of life. Now, if I had had my wits about me, like ordinary +men, instead of within me like a philosopher, I should not have spoiled +this cup of tea, and been constrained to trouble you for another.” + +“That is the sugar-basin, Mr. Grimsby. Now you have spoiled the sugar +too; and I’ll thank you to ring for some more, for here is Lord +Lowborough at last; and I hope his lordship will condescend to sit down +with us, such as we are, and allow me to give him some tea.” + +His lordship gravely bowed in answer to my appeal, but said nothing. +Meantime, Hargrave volunteered to ring for the sugar, while Grimsby +lamented his mistake, and attempted to prove that it was owing to the +shadow of the urn and the badness of the lights. + +Lord Lowborough had entered a minute or two before, unobserved by +anyone but me, and had been standing before the door, grimly surveying +the company. He now stepped up to Annabella, who sat with her back +towards him, with Hattersley still beside her, though not now attending +to her, being occupied in vociferously abusing and bullying his host. + +“Well, Annabella,” said her husband, as he leant over the back of her +chair, “which of these three ‘bold, manly spirits’ would you have me to +resemble?” + +“By heaven and earth, you shall resemble us all!” cried Hattersley, +starting up and rudely seizing him by the arm. “Hallo, Huntingdon!” he +shouted—“_I’ve_ got him! Come, man, and help me! And d—n me, if I don’t +make him drunk before I let him go! He shall make up for all past +delinquencies as sure as I’m a living soul!” + +There followed a disgraceful contest: Lord Lowborough, in desperate +earnest, and pale with anger, silently struggling to release himself +from the powerful madman that was striving to drag him from the room. I +attempted to urge Arthur to interfere in behalf of his outraged guest, +but he could do nothing but laugh. + +“Huntingdon, you fool, come and help me, can’t you!” cried Hattersley, +himself somewhat weakened by his excesses. + +“I’m wishing you God-speed, Hattersley,” cried Arthur, “and aiding you +with my prayers: I can’t do anything else if my life depended on it! +I’m quite used up. Oh—oh!” and leaning back in his seat, he clapped his +hands on his sides and groaned aloud. + +“Annabella, give me a candle!” said Lowborough, whose antagonist had +now got him round the waist and was endeavouring to root him from the +door-post, to which he madly clung with all the energy of desperation. + +“_I_ shall take no part in your rude sports!” replied the lady coldly +drawing back. “I wonder you can expect it.” + +But I snatched up a candle and brought it to him. He took it and held +the flame to Hattersley’s hands, till, roaring like a wild beast, the +latter unclasped them and let him go. He vanished, I suppose to his own +apartment, for nothing more was seen of him till the morning. Swearing +and cursing like a maniac, Hattersley threw himself on to the ottoman +beside the window. The door being now free, Milicent attempted to make +her escape from the scene of her husband’s disgrace; but he called her +back, and insisted upon her coming to him. + +“What do you want, Ralph?” murmured she, reluctantly approaching him. + +“I want to know what’s the matter with you,” said he, pulling her on to +his knee like a child. “What are you crying for, Milicent?—Tell me!” + +“I’m not crying.” + +“You are,” persisted he, rudely pulling her hands from her face. “How +dare you tell such a lie!” + +“I’m not crying now,” pleaded she. + +“But you have been, and just this minute too; and I _will_ know what +for. Come, now, you _shall_ tell me!” + +“Do let me alone, Ralph! Remember, we are not at home.” + +“No matter: you _shall_ answer my question!” exclaimed her tormentor; +and he attempted to extort the confession by shaking her, and +remorselessly crushing her slight arms in the gripe of his powerful +fingers. + +“Don’t let him treat your sister in that way,” said I to Mr. Hargrave. + +“Come now, Hattersley, I can’t allow that,” said that gentleman, +stepping up to the ill-assorted couple. “Let my sister alone, if you +please.” + +And he made an effort to unclasp the ruffian’s fingers from her arm, +but was suddenly driven backward, and nearly laid upon the floor by a +violent blow on the chest, accompanied with the admonition, “Take that +for your insolence! and learn to interfere between me and mine again.” + +“If you were not drunk, I’d have satisfaction for that!” gasped +Hargrave, white and breathless as much from passion as from the +immediate effects of the blow. + +“Go to the devil!” responded his brother-in-law. “Now, Milicent, tell +me what you were crying for.” + +“I’ll tell you some other time,” murmured she, “when we are alone.” + +“Tell me now!” said he, with another shake and a squeeze that made her +draw in her breath and bite her lip to suppress a cry of pain. + +“_I’ll_ tell you, Mr. Hattersley,” said I. “She was crying from pure +shame and humiliation for you; because she could not bear to see you +conduct yourself so disgracefully.” + +“Confound you, Madam!” muttered he, with a stare of stupid amazement at +my “impudence.” “It was _not_ that—was it, Milicent?” + +She was silent. + +“Come, speak up, child!” + +“I can’t tell now,” sobbed she. + +“But you can say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ as well as ‘I can’t tell.’—Come!” + +“Yes,” she whispered, hanging her head, and blushing at the awful +acknowledgment. + +“Curse you for an impertinent hussy, then!” cried he, throwing her from +him with such violence that she fell on her side; but she was up again +before either I or her brother could come to her assistance, and made +the best of her way out of the room, and, I suppose, up-stairs, without +loss of time. + +The next object of assault was Arthur, who sat opposite, and had, no +doubt, richly enjoyed the whole scene. + +“Now, Huntingdon,” exclaimed his irascible friend, “I WILL NOT have you +sitting there and laughing like an idiot!” + +“Oh, Hattersley,” cried he, wiping his swimming eyes—“you’ll be the +death of me.” + +“Yes, I will, but not as you suppose: I’ll have the heart out of your +body, man, if you irritate me with any more of that imbecile +laughter!—What! are you at it yet?—There! see if that’ll settle you!” +cried Hattersley, snatching up a footstool and hurting it at the head +of his host; but he as well as missed his aim, and the latter still sat +collapsed and quaking with feeble laughter, with tears running down his +face: a deplorable spectacle indeed. + +Hattersley tried cursing and swearing, but it would not do: he then +took a number of books from the table beside him, and threw them, one +by one, at the object of his wrath; but Arthur only laughed the more; +and, finally, Hattersley rushed upon him in a frenzy and seizing him by +the shoulders, gave him a violent shaking, under which he laughed and +shrieked alarmingly. But I saw no more: I thought I had witnessed +enough of my husband’s degradation; and leaving Annabella and the rest +to follow when they pleased, I withdrew, but not to bed. Dismissing +Rachel to her rest, I walked up and down my room, in an agony of misery +for what had been done, and suspense, not knowing what might further +happen, or how or when that unhappy creature would come up to bed. + +At last he came, slowly and stumblingly ascending the stairs, supported +by Grimsby and Hattersley, who neither of them walked quite steadily +themselves, but were both laughing and joking at him, and making noise +enough for all the servants to hear. He himself was no longer laughing +now, but sick and stupid. I will write no more about _that_. + +Such disgraceful scenes (or nearly such) have been repeated more than +once. I don’t say much to Arthur about it, for, if I did, it would do +more harm than good; but I let him know that I intensely dislike such +exhibitions; and each time he has promised they should never again be +repeated. But I fear he is losing the little self-command and +self-respect he once possessed: formerly, he would have been ashamed to +act thus—at least, before any other witnesses than his boon companions, +or such as they. His friend Hargrave, with a prudence and +self-government that I envy for _him_, never disgraces himself by +taking more than sufficient to render him a little “elevated,” and is +always the first to leave the table after Lord Lowborough, who, wiser +still, perseveres in vacating the dining-room immediately after us: but +never once, since Annabella offended him so deeply, has he entered the +drawing-room before the rest; always spending the interim in the +library, which I take care to have lighted for his accommodation; or, +on fine moonlight nights, in roaming about the grounds. But I think she +regrets her misconduct, for she has never repeated it since, and of +late she has comported herself with wonderful propriety towards him, +treating him with more uniform kindness and consideration than ever I +have observed her to do before. I date the time of this improvement +from the period when she ceased to hope and strive for Arthur’s +admiration. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXII + + +October 5th.—Esther Hargrave is getting a fine girl. She is not out of +the school-room yet, but her mother frequently brings her over to call +in the mornings when the gentlemen are out, and sometimes she spends an +hour or two in company with her sister and me, and the children; and +when we go to the Grove, I always contrive to see her, and talk more to +her than to any one else, for I am very much attached to my little +friend, and so is she to me. I wonder what she can see to like in me +though, for I am no longer the happy, lively girl I used to be; but she +has no other society, save that of her uncongenial mother, and her +governess (as artificial and conventional a person as that prudent +mother could procure to rectify the pupil’s natural qualities), and, +now and then, her subdued, quiet sister. I often wonder what will be +_her_ lot in life, and so does she; but _her_ speculations on the +future are full of buoyant hope; so were mine once. I shudder to think +of her being awakened, like me, to a sense of their delusive vanity. It +seems as if I should feel her disappointment, even more deeply than my +own. I feel almost as if I were born for such a fate, but _she_ is so +joyous and fresh, so light of heart and free of spirit, and so +guileless and unsuspecting too. Oh, it would be cruel to make her feel +as I feel now, and know what I have known! + +Her sister trembles for her too. Yesterday morning, one of October’s +brightest, loveliest days, Milicent and I were in the garden enjoying a +brief half-hour together with our children, while Annabella was lying +on the drawing-room sofa, deep in the last new novel. We had been +romping with the little creatures, almost as merry and wild as +themselves, and now paused in the shade of the tall copper beech, to +recover breath and rectify our hair, disordered by the rough play and +the frolicsome breeze, while they toddled together along the broad, +sunny walk; my Arthur supporting the feebler steps of her little Helen, +and sagaciously pointing out to her the brightest beauties of the +border as they passed, with semi-articulate prattle, that did as well +for her as any other mode of discourse. From laughing at the pretty +sight, we began to talk of the children’s future life; and that made us +thoughtful. We both relapsed into silent musing as we slowly proceeded +up the walk; and I suppose Milicent, by a train of associations, was +led to think of her sister. + +“Helen,” said she, “you often see Esther, don’t you?” + +“Not very often.” + +“But you have more frequent opportunities of meeting her than I have; +and she loves you, I know, and reverences you too: there is nobody’s +opinion she thinks so much of; and she says you have more sense than +mamma.” + +“That is because she is self-willed, and my opinions more generally +coincide with her own than your mamma’s. But what then, Milicent?” + +“Well, since you have so much influence with her, I wish you would +seriously impress it upon her, never, on any account, or for anybody’s +persuasion, to marry for the sake of money, or rank, or establishment, +or any earthly thing, but true affection and well-grounded esteem.” + +“There is no necessity for that,” said I, “for we have had some +discourse on that subject already, and I assure you her ideas of love +and matrimony are as romantic as any one could desire.” + +“But romantic notions will not do: I want her to have true notions.” + +“Very right: but in my judgment, what the world stigmatises as +romantic, is often more nearly allied to the truth than is commonly +supposed; for, if the generous ideas of youth are too often +over-clouded by the sordid views of after-life, that scarcely proves +them to be false.” + +“Well, but if you think her ideas are what they ought to be, strengthen +them, will you? and confirm them, as far as you can; for _I_ had +romantic notions once, and—I don’t mean to say that I regret my lot, +for I am quite sure I don’t, but—” + +“I understand you,” said I; “you are contented for yourself, but you +would not have your sister to suffer the same as you.” + +“No—or worse. She might have far worse to suffer than I, for _I am_ +really contented, Helen, though you mayn’t think it: I speak the solemn +truth in saying that I would not exchange my husband for any man on +earth, if I might do it by the plucking of this leaf.” + +“Well, I believe you: now that you have him, you would not exchange him +for another; but then you would gladly exchange some of his qualities +for those of better men.” + +“Yes: just as I would gladly exchange some of my own qualities for +those of better women; for neither he nor I are perfect, and I desire +his improvement as earnestly as my own. And he will improve, don’t you +think so, Helen? he’s only six-and-twenty yet.” + +“He may,” I answered, + +“He will, he WILL!” repeated she. + +“Excuse the faintness of my acquiescence, Milicent, I would not +discourage your hopes for the world, but mine have been so often +disappointed, that I am become as cold and doubtful in my expectations +as the flattest of octogenarians.” + +“And yet you do hope, still, even for Mr. Huntingdon?” + +“I do, I confess, ‘even’ for _him;_ for it seems as if life and hope +must cease together. And is he so _much_ worse, Milicent, than Mr. +Hattersley?” + +“Well, to give you my candid opinion, I think there is no comparison +between them. But you mustn’t be offended, Helen, for you know I always +speak my mind, and you may speak yours too. I sha’n’t care.” + +“I am not offended, love; and my opinion is, that if there _be_ a +comparison made between the two, the difference, for the most part, is +certainly in Hattersley’s favour.” + +Milicent’s own heart told her how much it cost me to make this +acknowledgment; and, with a childlike impulse, she expressed her +sympathy by suddenly kissing my cheek, without a word of reply, and +then turning quickly away, caught up her baby, and hid her face in its +frock. How odd it is that we so often weep for each other’s distresses, +when we shed not a tear for our own! Her heart had been full enough of +her own sorrows, but it overflowed at the idea of mine; and I, too, +shed tears at the sight of her sympathetic emotion, though I had not +wept for myself for many a week. + +[Illustration] + +It was one rainy day last week; most of the company were killing time +in the billiard-room, but Milicent and I were with little Arthur and +Helen in the library, and between our books, our children, and each +other, we expected to make out a very agreeable morning. We had not +been thus secluded above two hours, however, when Mr. Hattersley came +in, attracted, I suppose, by the voice of his child, as he was crossing +the hall, for he is prodigiously fond of her, and she of him. + +He was redolent of the stables, where he had been regaling himself with +the company of his fellow-creatures the horses ever since breakfast. +But that was no matter to my little namesake; as soon as the colossal +person of her father darkened the door, she uttered a shrill scream of +delight, and, quitting her mother’s side, ran crowing towards him, +balancing her course with outstretched arms, and embracing his knee, +threw back her head and laughed in his face. He might well look +smilingly down upon those small, fair features, radiant with innocent +mirth, those clear blue shining eyes, and that soft flaxen hair cast +back upon the little ivory neck and shoulders. Did he not think how +unworthy he was of such a possession? I fear no such idea crossed his +mind. He caught her up, and there followed some minutes of very rough +play, during which it is difficult to say whether the father or the +daughter laughed and shouted the loudest. At length, however, the +boisterous pastime terminated, suddenly, as might be expected: the +little one was hurt, and began to cry; and the ungentle play-fellow +tossed it into its mother’s lap, bidding her “make all straight.” As +happy to return to that gentle comforter as it had been to leave her, +the child nestled in her arms, and hushed its cries in a moment; and +sinking its little weary head on her bosom, soon dropped asleep. + +Meantime Mr. Hattersley strode up to the fire, and interposing his +height and breadth between us and it, stood with arms akimbo, expanding +his chest, and gazing round him as if the house and all its +appurtenances and contents were his own undisputed possessions. + +“Deuced bad weather this!” he began. “There’ll be no shooting to-day, I +guess.” Then, suddenly lifting up his voice, he regaled us with a few +bars of a rollicking song, which abruptly ceasing, he finished the tune +with a whistle, and then continued:—“I say, Mrs. Huntingdon, what a +fine stud your husband has! not large, but good. I’ve been looking at +them a bit this morning; and upon my word, Black Boss, and Grey Tom, +and that young Nimrod are the finest animals I’ve seen for many a day!” +Then followed a particular discussion of their various merits, +succeeded by a sketch of the great things _he_ intended to do in the +horse-jockey line, when his old governor thought proper to quit the +stage. “Not that I wish him to close his accounts,” added he: “the old +Trojan is welcome to keep his books open as long as he pleases for me.” + +“I hope so, _indeed_, Mr. Hattersley.” + +“Oh, yes! It’s only my way of talking. The event must come some time, +and so I look to the bright side of it: that’s the right plan—isn’t it, +Mrs. H.? What are you two doing here? By-the-by, where’s Lady +Lowborough?” + +“In the billiard-room.” + +“What a splendid creature she _is!_” continued he, fixing his eyes on +his wife, who changed colour, and looked more and more disconcerted as +he proceeded. “What a noble figure she has; and what magnificent black +eyes; and what a fine spirit of her own; and what a tongue of her own, +too, when she likes to use it. I perfectly adore her! But never mind, +Milicent: I wouldn’t have her for my wife, not if she’d a kingdom for +her dowry! I’m better satisfied with the one I have. Now _then!_ what +do you look so sulky for? don’t you believe me?” + +“Yes, I believe you,” murmured she, in a tone of half sad, half sullen +resignation, as she turned away to stroke the hair of her sleeping +infant, that she had laid on the sofa beside her. + +“Well, _then_, what makes you so cross? Come here, Milly, and tell me +why you can’t be satisfied with my assurance.” + +She went, and putting her little hand within his arm, looked up in his +face, and said softly,— + +“What does it amount to, Ralph? Only to this, that though you admire +Annabella so much, and for qualities that I don’t possess, you would +still rather have me than her for your wife, which merely proves that +you don’t think it necessary to love your wife; you are satisfied if +she can keep your house, and take care of your child. But I’m not +cross; I’m only sorry; for,” added she, in a low, tremulous accent, +withdrawing her hand from his arm, and bending her looks on the rug, +“if you don’t love me, you don’t, and it can’t be helped.” + +“Very true; but who told you I didn’t? Did I say I loved Annabella?” + +“You said you adored her.” + +“True, but adoration isn’t love. I adore Annabella, but I don’t love +her; and I love thee, Milicent, but I don’t adore thee.” In proof of +his affection, he clutched a handful of her light brown ringlets, and +appeared to twist them unmercifully. + +“Do you really, Ralph?” murmured she, with a faint smile beaming +through her tears, just putting up her hand to his, in token that he +pulled _rather_ too hard. + +“To be sure I do,” responded he: “only you bother me rather, +sometimes.” + +“_I_ bother you!” cried she, in very natural surprise. + +“Yes, _you_—but only by your exceeding goodness. When a boy has been +eating raisins and sugar-plums all day, he longs for a squeeze of sour +orange by way of a change. And did you never, Milly, observe the sands +on the sea-shore; how nice and smooth they look, and how soft and easy +they feel to the foot? But if you plod along, for half an hour, over +this soft, easy carpet—giving way at every step, yielding the more the +harder you press,—you’ll find it rather wearisome work, and be glad +enough to come to a bit of good, firm rock, that won’t budge an inch +whether you stand, walk, or stamp upon it; and, though it be hard as +the nether millstone, you’ll find it the easier footing after all.” + +“I know what you mean, Ralph,” said she, nervously playing with her +watchguard and tracing the figure on the rug with the point of her tiny +foot—“I know what you mean: but I thought you always liked to be +yielded to, and I can’t alter now.” + +“I do like it,” replied he, bringing her to him by another tug at her +hair. “You mustn’t mind my talk, Milly. A man must have something to +grumble about; and if he can’t complain that his wife harries him to +death with her perversity and ill-humour, he must complain that she +wears him out with her kindness and gentleness.” + +“But why complain at all, unless because you are tired and +dissatisfied?” + +“To excuse my own failings, to be sure. Do you think I’ll bear all the +burden of my sins on my own shoulders, as long as there’s another ready +to help me, with none of her own to carry?” + +“There is no such one on earth,” said she seriously; and then, taking +his hand from her head, she kissed it with an air of genuine devotion, +and tripped away to the door. + +“What now?” said he. “Where are you going?” + +“To tidy my hair,” she answered, smiling through her disordered locks; +“you’ve made it all come down.” + +“Off with you then!—An excellent little woman,” he remarked when she +was gone, “but a thought too soft—she almost melts in one’s hands. I +positively think I ill-use her sometimes, when I’ve taken too much—but +I can’t help it, for she never complains, either at the time or after. +I suppose she doesn’t mind it.” + +“I can enlighten you on that subject, Mr. Hattersley,” said I: “she +_does_ mind it; and some other things she minds still more, which yet +you may never hear her complain of.” + +“How do you know?—does she complain to you?” demanded he, with a sudden +spark of fury ready to burst into a flame if I should answer ‘yes.’ + +“No,” I replied; “but I have known her longer and studied her more +closely than you have done.—And I can tell you, Mr. Hattersley, that +Milicent loves you more than you deserve, and that you have it in your +power to make her very happy, instead of which you are her evil genius, +and, I will venture to say, there is not a single day passes in which +you do not inflict upon her some pang that you might spare her if you +would.” + +“Well—it’s not _my_ fault,” said he, gazing carelessly up at the +ceiling and plunging his hands into his pockets: “if my ongoings don’t +suit her, she should tell me so.” + +“Is she not exactly the wife you wanted? Did you not tell Mr. +Huntingdon you must have one that would submit to anything without a +murmur, and never blame you, whatever you did?” + +“True, but we shouldn’t always have what we want: it spoils the best of +us, doesn’t it? How can I help playing the deuce when I see it’s all +one to her whether I behave like a Christian or like a scoundrel, such +as nature made me? and how can I help teasing her when she’s so +invitingly meek and mim, when she lies down like a spaniel at my feet +and never so much as squeaks to tell me that’s enough?” + +“If you are a tyrant by nature, the temptation is strong, I allow; but +no generous mind delights to oppress the weak, but rather to cherish +and protect.” + +“I _don’t_ oppress her; but it’s so confounded flat to be always +cherishing and protecting; and then, how can I tell that I _am_ +oppressing her when she ‘melts away and makes no sign’? I sometimes +think she has no feeling at all; and then I go on till she cries, and +that satisfies me.” + +“Then you _do_ delight to oppress her?” + +“I don’t, I tell you! only when I’m in a bad humour, or a particularly +good one, and want to afflict for the pleasure of comforting; or when +she looks flat and wants shaking up a bit. And sometimes she provokes +me by crying for nothing, and won’t tell me what it’s for; and then, I +allow, it enrages me past bearing, especially when I’m not my own man.” + +“As is no doubt generally the case on such occasions,” said I. “But in +future, Mr. Hattersley, when you see her looking flat, or crying for +‘nothing’ (as you call it), ascribe it all to yourself: be assured it +is something you have done amiss, or your general misconduct, that +distresses her.” + +“I don’t believe it. If it were, she should tell me so: I don’t like +that way of moping and fretting in silence, and saying nothing: it’s +not honest. How can she expect me to mend my ways at that rate?” + +“Perhaps she gives you credit for having more sense than you possess, +and deludes herself with the hope that you will one day see your own +errors and repair them, if left to your own reflection.” + +“None of your sneers, Mrs. Huntingdon. I _have_ the sense to see that +I’m not always quite correct, but sometimes I think that’s no great +matter, as long as I injure nobody but myself—” + +“It _is_ a great matter,” interrupted I, “both to yourself (as you will +hereafter find to your cost) and to all connected with you, most +especially your wife. But, indeed, it is nonsense to talk about +injuring no one but yourself: it is impossible to injure yourself, +especially by such acts as we allude to, without injuring hundreds, if +not thousands, besides, in a greater or less, degree, either by the +evil you do or the good you leave undone.” + +“And as I was saying,” continued he, “or would have said if you hadn’t +taken me up so short, I sometimes think I should do better if I were +joined to one that would always remind me when I was wrong, and give me +a motive for doing good and eschewing evil, by decidedly showing her +approval of the one and disapproval of the other.” + +“If you had no higher motive than the approval of your fellow-mortal, +it would do you little good.” + +“Well, but if I had a mate that would not always be yielding, and +always equally kind, but that would have the spirit to stand at bay now +and then, and honestly tell me her mind at all times, such a one as +yourself for instance. Now, if I went on with you as I do with her when +I’m in London, you’d make the house too hot to hold me at times, I’ll +be sworn.” + +“You mistake me: I’m no termagant.” + +“Well, all the better for that, for I can’t stand contradiction, in a +general way, and I’m as fond of my own will as another; only I think +too much of it doesn’t answer for any man.” + +“Well, I would never contradict you without a cause, but certainly I +would always let you know what I thought of your conduct; and if you +oppressed me, in body, mind, or estate, you should at least have no +reason to suppose ‘I didn’t mind it.’” + +“I know that, my lady; and I think if my little wife were to follow the +same plan, it would be better for us both.” + +“I’ll tell her.” + +“No, no, let her be; there’s much to be said on both sides, and, now I +think upon it, Huntingdon often regrets that you are not more like her, +scoundrelly dog that he is, and you see, after all, you can’t reform +_him:_ he’s _ten_ times worse than I. He’s afraid of you, to be sure; +that is, he’s always on his best behaviour in your presence—but—” + +“I wonder what his worst behaviour is like, then?” I could not forbear +observing. + +“Why, to tell you the truth, it’s very bad indeed—isn’t it, Hargrave?” +said he, addressing that gentleman, who had entered the room +unperceived by me, for I was now standing near the fire, with my back +to the door. “Isn’t Huntingdon,” he continued, “as great a reprobate as +ever was d—d?” + +“His lady will not hear him censured with impunity,” replied Mr. +Hargrave, coming forward; “but I must say, I thank God I am not such +another.” + +“Perhaps it would become you better,” said I, “to look at what you are, +and say, ‘God be merciful to me a sinner.’” + +“You are severe,” returned he, bowing slightly and drawing himself up +with a proud yet injured air. Hattersley laughed, and clapped him on +the shoulder. Moving from under his hand with a gesture of insulted +dignity, Mr. Hargrave took himself away to the other end of the rug. + +“Isn’t it a shame, Mrs. Huntingdon?” cried his brother-in-law; “I +struck Walter Hargrave when I was drunk, the second night after we +came, and he’s turned a cold shoulder on me ever since; though I asked +his pardon the very morning after it was done!” + +“Your manner of asking it,” returned the other, “and the clearness with +which you remembered the whole transaction, showed you were not too +drunk to be fully conscious of what you were about, and quite +responsible for the deed.” + +“You wanted to interfere between me and my wife,” grumbled Hattersley, +“and that is enough to provoke any man.” + +“You justify it, then?” said his opponent, darting upon him a most +vindictive glance. + +“No, I tell you I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t been under +excitement; and if you choose to bear malice for it after all the +handsome things I’ve said, do so and be d—d!” + +“I _would_ refrain from such language in a _lady’s_ presence, at +least,” said Mr. Hargrave, hiding his anger under a mask of disgust. + +“What have I said?” returned Hattersley: “nothing but heaven’s truth. +He will be damned, won’t he, Mrs. Huntingdon, if he doesn’t forgive his +brother’s trespasses?” + +“You ought to forgive him, Mr. Hargrave, since he asks you,” said I. + +“Do you say so? Then I will!” And, smiling almost frankly, he stepped +forward and offered his hand. It was immediately clasped in that of his +relative, and the reconciliation was apparently cordial on both sides. + +“The affront,” continued Hargrave, turning to me, “owed half its +bitterness to the fact of its being offered in your presence; and since +you bid me forgive it, I will, and forget it too.” + +“I guess the best return I can make will be to take myself off,” +muttered Hattersley, with a broad grin. His companion smiled, and he +left the room. This put me on my guard. Mr. Hargrave turned seriously +to me, and earnestly began,— + +“Dear Mrs. Huntingdon, how I have longed for, yet dreaded, this hour! +Do not be alarmed,” he added, for my face was crimson with anger: “I am +not about to offend you with any useless entreaties or complaints. I am +not going to presume to trouble you with the mention of my own feelings +or your perfections, but I have something to reveal to you which you +ought to know, and which, yet, it pains me inexpressibly—” + +“Then don’t trouble yourself to reveal it!” + +“But it is of importance—” + +“If so I shall hear it soon enough, especially if it is bad news, as +you seem to consider it. At present I am going to take the children to +the nursery.” + +“But can’t you ring and send them?” + +“No; I want the exercise of a run to the top of the house. Come, +Arthur.” + +“But you will return?” + +“Not yet; don’t wait.” + +“Then when may I see you again?” + +“At lunch,” said I, departing with little Helen in one arm and leading +Arthur by the hand. + +He turned away, muttering some sentence of impatient censure or +complaint, in which “heartless” was the only distinguishable word. + +“What nonsense is this, Mr. Hargrave?” said I, pausing in the doorway. +“What do you mean?” + +“Oh, nothing; I did not intend you should hear my soliloquy. But the +fact is, Mrs. Huntingdon, I have a disclosure to make, painful for me +to offer as for you to hear; and I want you to give me a few minutes of +your attention in private at any time and place you like to appoint. It +is from no selfish motive that I ask it, and not for any cause that +could alarm your superhuman purity: therefore you need not kill me with +that look of cold and pitiless disdain. I know too well the feelings +with which the bearers of bad tidings are commonly regarded not to—” + +“What _is_ this wonderful piece of intelligence?” said I, impatiently +interrupting him. “If it is anything of real importance, speak it in +three words before I go.” + +“In three words I cannot. Send those children away and stay with me.” + +“No; keep your bad tidings to yourself. I know it is something I don’t +want to hear, and something you would displease me by telling.” + +“You have divined too truly, I fear; but still, since I know it, I feel +it my duty to disclose it to you.” + +“Oh, spare us both the infliction, and I will exonerate you from the +duty. You have offered to tell; I have refused to hear: my ignorance +will not be charged on you.” + +“Be it so: you shall not hear it from me. But if the blow fall too +suddenly upon you when it comes, remember I wished to soften it!” + +I left him. I was determined his words should not alarm me. What could +_he_, of all men, have to reveal that was of importance for _me_ to +hear? It was no doubt some exaggerated tale about my unfortunate +husband that he wished to make the most of to serve his own bad +purposes. + +6th.—He has not alluded to this momentous mystery since, and I have +seen no reason to repent of my unwillingness to hear it. The threatened +blow has not been struck yet, and I do not greatly fear it. At present +I am pleased with Arthur: he has not positively disgraced himself for +upwards of a fortnight, and all this last week has been so very +moderate in his indulgence at table that I can perceive a marked +difference in his general temper and appearance. Dare I hope this will +continue? + + + + + CHAPTER XXXIII + + +Seventh.—Yes, I _will_ hope! To-night I heard Grimsby and Hattersley +grumbling together about the inhospitality of their host. They did not +know I was near, for I happened to be standing behind the curtain in +the bow of the window, watching the moon rising over the clump of tall +dark elm-trees below the lawn, and wondering why Arthur was so +sentimental as to stand without, leaning against the outer pillar of +the portico, apparently watching it too. + +“So, I suppose we’ve seen the last of our merry carousals in this +house,” said Mr. Hattersley; “I _thought_ his good-fellowship wouldn’t +last long. But,” added he, laughing, “I didn’t expect it would meet its +end this way. I rather thought our pretty hostess would be setting up +her porcupine quills, and threatening to turn us out of the house if we +didn’t mind our manners.” + +“You didn’t foresee _this_, then?” answered Grimsby, with a guttural +chuckle. “But he’ll change again when he’s sick of her. If we come here +a year or two hence, we shall have all our own way, you’ll see.” + +“I don’t know,” replied the other: “she’s not the style of woman you +soon tire of. But be that as it may, it’s devilish provoking now that +we can’t be jolly, because he chooses to be on his good behaviour.” + +“It’s all these cursed women!” muttered Grimsby: “they’re the very bane +of the world! They bring trouble and discomfort wherever they come, +with their false, fair faces and their deceitful tongues.” + +At this juncture I issued from my retreat, and smiling on Mr. Grimsby +as I passed, left the room and went out in search of Arthur. Having +seen him bend his course towards the shrubbery, I followed him thither, +and found him just entering the shadowy walk. I was so light of heart, +so overflowing with affection, that I sprang upon him and clasped him +in my arms. This startling conduct had a singular effect upon him: +first, he murmured, “Bless you, darling!” and returned my close embrace +with a fervour like old times, and _then_ he started, and, in a tone of +absolute terror, exclaimed, + +“Helen! what the devil is this?” and I saw, by the faint light gleaming +through the overshadowing tree, that he was positively pale with the +shock. + +How strange that the instinctive impulse of affection should come +first, and then the shock of the surprise! It shows, at least, that the +affection is genuine: he is not sick of me yet. + +“I startled you, Arthur,” said I, laughing in my glee. “How nervous you +are!” + +“What the deuce did you do it for?” cried he, quite testily, +extricating himself from my arms, and wiping his forehead with his +handkerchief. “Go back, Helen—go back directly! You’ll get your death +of cold!” + +“I won’t, till I’ve told you what I came for. They are blaming you, +Arthur, for your temperance and sobriety, and I’m come to thank you for +it. They say it is all ‘these cursed women,’ and that we are the bane +of the world; but don’t let them laugh or grumble you out of your good +resolutions, or your affection for me.” + +He laughed. I squeezed him in my arms again, and cried in tearful +earnest, “Do, do persevere! and I’ll love you better than ever I did +before!” + +“Well, well, I will!” said he, hastily kissing me. “There, now, go. You +mad creature, how _could_ you come out in your light evening dress this +chill autumn night?” + +“It is a glorious night,” said I. + +“It is a night that will give you your death, in another minute. Run +away, do!” + +“Do you see my death among those trees, Arthur?” said I, for he was +gazing intently at the shrubs, as if he saw it coming, and I was +reluctant to leave him, in my new-found happiness and revival of hope +and love. But he grew angry at my delay, so I kissed him and ran back +to the house. + +I was in such a good humour that night: Milicent told me I was the life +of the party, and whispered she had never seen me so brilliant. +Certainly, I talked enough for twenty, and smiled upon them all. +Grimsby, Hattersley, Hargrave, Lady Lowborough, all shared my sisterly +kindness. Grimsby stared and wondered; Hattersley laughed and jested +(in spite of the little wine he had been suffered to imbibe), but still +behaved as well as he knew how. Hargrave and Annabella, from different +motives and in different ways, emulated me, and doubtless both +surpassed me, the former in his discursive versatility and eloquence, +the latter in boldness and animation at least. Milicent, delighted to +see her husband, her brother, and her over-estimated friend acquitting +themselves so well, was lively and gay too, in her quiet way. Even Lord +Lowborough caught the general contagion: his dark greenish eyes were +lighted up beneath their moody brows; his sombre countenance was +beautified by smiles; all traces of gloom and proud or cold reserve had +vanished for the time; and he astonished us all, not only by his +general cheerfulness and animation, but by the positive flashes of true +force and brilliance he emitted from time to time. Arthur did not talk +much, but he laughed, and listened to the rest, and was in perfect +good-humour, though not excited by wine. So that, altogether, we made a +very merry, innocent, and entertaining party. + +9th.—Yesterday, when Rachel came to dress me for dinner, I saw that she +had been crying. I wanted to know the cause of it, but she seemed +reluctant to tell. Was she unwell? No. Had she heard bad news from her +friends? No. Had any of the servants vexed her? + +“Oh, no, ma’am!” she answered; “it’s not for myself.” + +“What then, Rachel? Have you been reading novels?” + +“Bless you, no!” said she, with a sorrowful shake of the head; and then +she sighed and continued: “But to tell you the truth, ma’am, I don’t +like master’s ways of going on.” + +“What do you mean, Rachel? He’s going on very properly at present.” + +“Well, ma’am, if you think so, it’s right.” + +And she went on dressing my hair, in a hurried way, quite unlike her +usual calm, collected manner, murmuring, half to herself, she was sure +it was beautiful hair: she “could like to see ’em match it.” When it +was done, she fondly stroked it, and gently patted my head. + +“Is that affectionate ebullition intended for my hair, or myself, +nurse?” said I, laughingly turning round upon her; but a tear was even +now in her eye. + +“What _do_ you mean, Rachel?” I exclaimed. + +“Well, ma’am, I don’t know; but if—” + +“If what?” + +“Well, if I was you, I wouldn’t have that Lady Lowborough in the house +another minute—not another _minute_ I wouldn’t! + +I was thunderstruck; but before I could recover from the shock +sufficiently to demand an explanation, Milicent entered my room, as she +frequently does when she is dressed before me; and she stayed with me +till it was time to go down. She must have found me a very unsociable +companion this time, for Rachel’s last words rang in my ears. But still +I hoped, I trusted they had no foundation but in some idle rumour of +the servants from what they had seen in Lady Lowborough’s manner last +month; or perhaps from something that had passed between their master +and her during her former visit. At dinner I narrowly observed both her +and Arthur, and saw nothing extraordinary in the conduct of either, +nothing calculated to excite suspicion, except in distrustful minds, +which mine was not, and therefore I would not suspect. + +Almost immediately after dinner Annabella went out with her husband to +share his moonlight ramble, for it was a splendid evening like the +last. Mr. Hargrave entered the drawing-room a little before the others, +and challenged me to a game of chess. He did it without any of that sad +but proud humility he usually assumes in addressing me, unless he is +excited with wine. I looked at his face to see if that was the case +now. His eye met mine keenly, but steadily: there was something about +him I did not understand, but he seemed sober enough. Not choosing to +engage with him, I referred him to Milicent. + +“She plays badly,” said he, “I want to match my skill with yours. Come +now! you can’t pretend you are reluctant to lay down your work. I know +you never take it up except to pass an idle hour, when there is nothing +better you can do.” + +“But chess-players are so unsociable,” I objected; “they are no company +for any but themselves.” + +“There is no one here but Milicent, and she—” + +“Oh, I shall be delighted to watch you!” cried our mutual friend. “Two +_such_ players—it will be quite a treat! I wonder which will conquer.” + +I consented. + +“Now, Mrs. Huntingdon,” said Hargrave, as he arranged the men on the +board, speaking distinctly, and with a peculiar emphasis, as if he had +a double meaning to all his words, “you are a good player, but I am a +better: we shall have a long game, and you will give me some trouble; +but I can be as patient as you, and in the end I shall certainly win.” +He fixed his eyes upon me with a glance I did not like, keen, crafty, +bold, and almost impudent;—already half triumphant in his anticipated +success. + +“I hope not, Mr. Hargrave!” returned I, with vehemence that must have +startled Milicent at least; but _he_ only smiled and murmured, “Time +will show.” + +We set to work: he sufficiently interested in the game, but calm and +fearless in the consciousness of superior skill: I, intensely eager to +disappoint his expectations, for I considered this the type of a more +serious contest, as I imagined he did, and I felt an almost +superstitious dread of being beaten: at all events, I could ill endure +that present success should add one tittle to his conscious power (his +insolent self-confidence I ought to say), or encourage for a moment his +dream of future conquest. His play was cautious and deep, but I +struggled hard against him. For some time the combat was doubtful: at +length, to my joy, the victory seemed inclining to my side: I had taken +several of his best pieces, and manifestly baffled his projects. He put +his hand to his brow and paused, in evident perplexity. I rejoiced in +my advantage, but dared not glory in it yet. At length, he lifted his +head, and quietly making his move, looked at me and said, calmly, “Now +you think you will win, don’t you?” + +“I hope so,” replied I, taking his pawn that he had pushed into the way +of my bishop with so careless an air that I thought it was an +oversight, but was not generous enough, under the circumstances, to +direct his attention to it, and too heedless, at the moment, to foresee +the after-consequences of my move. “It is those bishops that trouble +me,” said he; “but the bold knight can overleap the reverend +gentlemen,” taking my last bishop with his knight; “and now, those +sacred persons once removed, I shall carry all before me.” + +“Oh, Walter, how you talk!” cried Milicent; “she has far more pieces +than you still.” + +“I intend to give you some trouble yet,” said I; “and perhaps, sir, you +will find yourself checkmated before you are aware. Look to your +queen.” + +The combat deepened. The game was a long one, and I _did_ give him some +trouble: but he was a better player than I. + +“What keen gamesters you are!” said Mr. Hattersley, who had now +entered, and been watching us for some time. “Why, Mrs. Huntingdon, +your hand trembles as if you had staked your all upon it! and, Walter, +you dog, you look as deep and cool as if you were certain of success, +and as keen and cruel as if you would drain her heart’s blood! But if I +were you, I wouldn’t beat her, for very fear: she’ll hate you if you +do—she will, by heaven! I see it in her eye.” + +“Hold your tongue, will you?” said I: his talk distracted me, for I was +driven to extremities. A few more moves, and I was inextricably +entangled in the snare of my antagonist. + +“Check,” cried he: I sought in agony some means of escape. “Mate!” he +added, quietly, but with evident delight. He had suspended the +utterance of that last fatal syllable the better to enjoy my dismay. I +was foolishly disconcerted by the event. Hattersley laughed; Milicent +was troubled to see me so disturbed. Hargrave placed his hand on mine +that rested on the table, and squeezing it with a firm but gentle +pressure, murmured, “Beaten, beaten!” and gazed into my face with a +look where exultation was blended with an expression of ardour and +tenderness yet more insulting. + +“_No, never_, Mr. Hargrave!” exclaimed I, quickly withdrawing my hand. + +“Do you deny?” replied he, smilingly pointing to the board. “No, no,” I +answered, recollecting how strange my conduct must appear: “you have +beaten me in that game.” + +“Will you try another, then?” + +“No.” + +“You acknowledge my superiority?” + +“Yes, as a chess-player.” + +I rose to resume my work. + +“Where is Annabella?” said Hargrave, gravely, after glancing round the +room. + +“Gone out with Lord Lowborough,” answered I, for he looked at me for a +reply. + +“And not yet returned!” he said, seriously. + +“I suppose not.” + +“Where is Huntingdon?” looking round again. + +“Gone out with Grimsby, as you know,” said Hattersley, suppressing a +laugh, which broke forth as he concluded the sentence. Why did he +laugh? Why did Hargrave connect them thus together? Was it true, then? +And was this the dreadful secret he had wished to reveal to me? I must +know, and that quickly. I instantly rose and left the room to go in +search of Rachel and demand an explanation of her words; but Mr. +Hargrave followed me into the anteroom, and before I could open its +outer door, gently laid his hand upon the lock. “May I tell you +something, Mrs. Huntingdon?” said he, in a subdued tone, with serious, +downcast eyes. + +“If it be anything worth hearing,” replied I, struggling to be +composed, for I trembled in every limb. + +He quietly pushed a chair towards me. I merely leant my hand upon it, +and bid him go on. + +“Do not be alarmed,” said he: “what I wish to say is nothing in itself; +and I will leave you to draw your own inferences from it. You say that +Annabella is not yet returned?” + +“Yes, yes—go on!” said I, impatiently; for I feared my forced calmness +would leave me before the end of his disclosure, whatever it might be. + +“And you hear,” continued he, “that Huntingdon is gone out with +Grimsby?” + +“Well?” + +“I heard the latter say to your husband—or the man who calls himself +so—” + +“Go on, sir!” + +He bowed submissively, and continued: “I heard him say,—‘I shall manage +it, you’ll see! They’re gone down by the water; I shall meet them +there, and tell him I want a bit of talk with him about some things +that we needn’t trouble the lady with; and she’ll say she can be +walking back to the house; and then I shall apologise, you know, and +all that, and tip her a wink to take the way of the shrubbery. I’ll +keep him talking there, about those matters I mentioned, and anything +else I can think of, as long as I can, and then bring him round the +other way, stopping to look at the trees, the fields, and anything else +I can find to discourse of.’” Mr. Hargrave paused, and looked at me. + +Without a word of comment or further questioning, I rose, and darted +from the room and out of the house. The torment of suspense was not to +be endured: I would not suspect my husband falsely, on this man’s +accusation, and I would not trust him unworthily—I must know the truth +at once. I flew to the shrubbery. Scarcely had I reached it, when a +sound of voices arrested my breathless speed. + +“We have lingered too long; he will be back,” said Lady Lowborough’s +voice. + +“Surely not, dearest!” was _his_ reply; “but you can run across the +lawn, and get in as quietly as you can; I’ll follow in a while.” + +My knees trembled under me; my brain swam round. I was ready to faint. +She must not see me thus. I shrunk among the bushes, and leant against +the trunk of a tree to let her pass. + +“Ah, Huntingdon!” said she reproachfully, pausing where I had stood +with him the night before—“it was here you kissed that woman!” she +looked back into the leafy shade. Advancing thence, he answered, with a +careless laugh,— + +“Well, dearest, I couldn’t help it. You know I must keep straight with +her as long as I can. Haven’t I seen you kiss your dolt of a husband +scores of times?—and do _I_ ever complain?” + +“But tell me, don’t you love her still—a _little?_” said she, placing +her hand on his arm, looking earnestly in his face—for I could see +them, plainly, the moon shining full upon them from between the +branches of the tree that sheltered me. + +“Not _one bit_, by all that’s sacred!” he replied, kissing her glowing +cheek. + +“Good heavens, I _must_ be gone!” cried she, suddenly breaking from +him, and away she flew. + +There he stood before me; but I had not strength to confront him now: +my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth; I was well-nigh sinking to +the earth, and I almost wondered he did not hear the beating of my +heart above the low sighing of the wind and the fitful rustle of the +falling leaves. My senses seemed to fail me, but still I saw his +shadowy form pass before me, and through the rushing sound in my ears I +distinctly heard him say, as he stood looking up the lawn,—“There goes +the fool! Run, Annabella, run! There—in with you! Ah,—he didn’t see! +That’s right, Grimsby, keep him back!” And even his low laugh reached +me as he walked away. + +“God help me now!” I murmured, sinking on my knees among the damp weeds +and brushwood that surrounded me, and looking up at the moonlit sky, +through the scant foliage above. It seemed all dim and quivering now to +my darkened sight. My burning, bursting heart strove to pour forth its +agony to God, but could not frame its anguish into prayer; until a gust +of wind swept over me, which, while it scattered the dead leaves, like +blighted hopes, around, cooled my forehead, and seemed a little to +revive my sinking frame. Then, while I lifted up my soul in speechless, +earnest supplication, some heavenly influence seemed to strengthen me +within: I breathed more freely; my vision cleared; I saw distinctly the +pure moon shining on, and the light clouds skimming the clear, dark +sky; and then I saw the eternal stars twinkling down upon me; I knew +their God was mine, and He was strong to save and swift to hear. “I +will never leave thee, nor forsake thee,” seemed whispered from above +their myriad orbs. No, no; I felt He would not leave me comfortless: in +spite of earth and hell I should have strength for all my trials, and +win a glorious rest at last! + +Refreshed, invigorated, if not composed, I rose and returned to the +house. Much of my new-born strength and courage forsook me, I confess, +as I entered it, and shut out the fresh wind and the glorious sky: +everything I saw and heard seemed to sicken my heart—the hall, the +lamp, the staircase, the doors of the different apartments, the social +sound of talk and laughter from the drawing-room. How could I bear my +future life! In this house, among those people—oh, how could I endure +to live! John just then entered the hall, and seeing me, told me he had +been sent in search of me, adding that he had taken in the tea, and +master wished to know if I were coming. + +“Ask Mrs. Hattersley to be so kind as to make the tea, John,” said I. +“Say I am not well to-night, and wish to be excused.” + +I retired into the large, empty dining-room, where all was silence and +darkness, but for the soft sighing of the wind without, and the faint +gleam of moonlight that pierced the blinds and curtains; and there I +walked rapidly up and down, thinking of my bitter thoughts alone. How +different was this from the evening of yesterday! _That_, it seems, was +the last expiring flash of my life’s happiness. Poor, blinded fool that +I was to be so happy! I could now see the reason of Arthur’s strange +reception of me in the shrubbery; the burst of kindness was for his +paramour, the start of horror for his wife. Now, too, I could better +understand the conversation between Hattersley and Grimsby; it was +doubtless of his love for _her_ they spoke, not for me. + +I heard the drawing-room door open: a light quick step came out of the +ante-room, crossed the hall, and ascended the stairs. It was Milicent, +poor Milicent, gone to see how I was—no one else cared for me; but +_she_ still was kind. I shed no tears before, but now they came, fast +and free. Thus she did me good, without approaching me. Disappointed in +her search, I heard her come down, more slowly than she had ascended. +Would she come in there, and find me out? No, she turned in the +opposite direction and re-entered the drawing-room. I was glad, for I +knew not how to meet her, or what to say. I wanted no confidante in my +distress. I deserved none, and I wanted none. I had taken the burden +upon myself; let me bear it alone. + +As the usual hour of retirement approached I dried my eyes, and tried +to clear my voice and calm my mind. I must see Arthur to-night, and +speak to him; but I would do it calmly: there should be no +scene—nothing to complain or to boast of to his companions—nothing to +laugh at with his lady-love. When the company were retiring to their +chambers I gently opened the door, and just as he passed, beckoned him +in. + +“What’s to do with _you_, Helen?” said he. “Why couldn’t you come to +make tea for us? and what the deuce are you here for, in the dark? What +ails you, young woman: you look like a ghost!” he continued, surveying +me by the light of his candle. + +“No matter,” I answered, “to you; you have no longer any regard for me +it appears; and I have no longer any for you.” + +“Hal-lo! what the devil is this?” he muttered. + +“I would leave you to-morrow,” continued I, “and never again come under +this roof, but for my child”—I paused a moment to steady, my voice. + +“What in the devil’s name _is_ this, Helen?” cried he. “What can you be +driving at?” + +“You know perfectly well. Let us waste no time in useless explanation, +but tell me, will you—?” + +He vehemently swore he knew nothing about it, and insisted upon hearing +what poisonous old woman had been blackening his name, and what +infamous lies I had been fool enough to believe. + +“Spare yourself the trouble of forswearing yourself and racking your +brains to stifle truth with falsehood,” I coldly replied. “I have +trusted to the testimony of no third person. I was in the shrubbery +this evening, and I saw and heard for myself.” + +This was enough. He uttered a suppressed exclamation of consternation +and dismay, and muttering, “I _shall_ catch it now!” set down his +candle on the nearest chair, and rearing his back against the wall, +stood confronting me with folded arms. + +“Well, what then?” said he, with the calm insolence of mingled +shamelessness and desperation. + +“Only this,” returned I; “will you let me take our child and what +remains of my fortune, and go?” + +“Go where?” + +“Anywhere, where he will be safe from your contaminating influence, and +I shall be delivered from your presence, and you from mine.” + +“No.” + +“Will you let me have the child then, without the money?” + +“No, nor yourself without the child. Do you think I’m going to be made +the talk of the country for your fastidious caprices?” + +“Then I must stay here, to be hated and despised. But henceforth we are +husband and wife only in the name.” + +“Very good.” + +“I am your child’s mother, and _your_ housekeeper, nothing more. So you +need not trouble yourself any longer to feign the love you cannot feel: +I will exact no more heartless caresses from you, nor offer nor endure +them either. I will not be mocked with the empty husk of conjugal +endearments, when you have given the substance to another!” + +“Very good, if _you_ please. We shall see who will tire first, my +lady.” + +“If I tire, it will be of living in the world with you: not of living +without your mockery of love. When _you_ tire of your sinful ways, and +show yourself truly repentant, I will forgive you, and, perhaps, try to +love you again, though that will be hard indeed.” + +“Humph! and meantime you will go and talk me over to Mrs. Hargrave, and +write long letters to aunt Maxwell to complain of the wicked wretch you +have married?” + +“I shall complain to no one. Hitherto I have struggled hard to hide +your vices from every eye, and invest you with virtues you never +possessed; but now you must look to yourself.” + +I left him muttering bad language to himself, and went up-stairs. + +“You are poorly, ma’am,” said Rachel, surveying me with deep anxiety. + +“It is too true, Rachel,” said I, answering her sad looks rather than +her words. + +“I knew it, or I wouldn’t have mentioned such a thing.” + +“But don’t _you_ trouble yourself about it,” said I, kissing her pale, +time-wasted cheek. “I can bear it better than you imagine.” + +“Yes, you were always for ‘bearing.’ But if I was you I wouldn’t bear +it; I’d give way to it, and cry right hard! and I’d talk too, I just +_would_—I’d let him know what it was to—” + +“I have talked,” said I; “I’ve said enough.” + +“Then I’d cry,” persisted she. “I wouldn’t look so white and so calm, +and burst my heart with keeping it in.” + +“I _have_ cried,” said I, smiling, in spite of my misery; “and I _am_ +calm now, really: so don’t discompose me again, nurse: let us say no +more about it, and _don’t_ mention it to the servants. There, you may +go now. Good-night; and don’t disturb your rest for me: I shall sleep +well—if I can.” + +Notwithstanding this resolution, I found my bed so intolerable that, +before two o’clock, I rose, and lighting my candle by the rushlight +that was still burning, I got my desk and sat down in my dressing-gown +to recount the events of the past evening. It was better to be so +occupied than to be lying in bed torturing my brain with recollections +of the far past and anticipations of the dreadful future. I have found +relief in describing the very circumstances that have destroyed my +peace, as well as the little trivial details attendant upon their +discovery. No sleep I could have got this night would have done so much +towards composing my mind, and preparing me to meet the trials of the +day. I fancy so, at least; and yet, when I cease writing, I find my +head aches terribly; and when I look into the glass, I am startled at +my haggard, worn appearance. + +Rachel has been to dress me, and says I have had a sad night of it, she +can see. Milicent has just looked in to ask me how I was. I told her I +was better, but to excuse my appearance admitted I had had a restless +night. I wish this day were over! I shudder at the thoughts of going +down to breakfast. How shall I encounter them all? Yet let me remember +it is not _I_ that am guilty: _I_ have no cause to fear; and if _they_ +scorn me as a victim of their guilt, I can pity their folly and despise +their scorn. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXIV + + +Evening.—Breakfast passed well over: I was calm and cool throughout. I +answered composedly all inquiries respecting my health; and whatever +was unusual in my look or manner was generally attributed to the +trifling indisposition that had occasioned my early retirement last +night. But how am I to get over the ten or twelve days that must yet +elapse before they go? Yet why so long for their departure? When they +_are_ gone, how shall I get through the months or years of my future +life in company with that man—my greatest enemy? for none could injure +me as he has done. Oh! when I think how fondly, how foolishly I have +loved him, how madly I have trusted him, how constantly I have +laboured, and studied, and prayed, and struggled for his advantage; and +how cruelly he has trampled on my love, betrayed my trust, scorned my +prayers and tears, and efforts for his preservation, crushed my hopes, +destroyed my youth’s best feelings, and doomed me to a life of hopeless +misery, as far as man can do it, it is not enough to say that I no +longer love my husband—I HATE him! The word stares me in the face like +a guilty confession, but it is true: I hate him—I hate him! But God +have mercy on his miserable soul! and make him see and feel his guilt—I +ask no other vengeance! If he could but fully know and truly feel my +wrongs I should be well avenged, and I could freely pardon all; but he +is so lost, so hardened in his heartless depravity, that in this life I +believe he never will. But it is useless dwelling on this theme: let me +seek once more to dissipate reflection in the minor details of passing +events. + +Mr. Hargrave has annoyed me all day long with his serious, +sympathising, and (as _he_ thinks) unobtrusive politeness. If it were +more obtrusive it would trouble me less, for then I could snub him; +but, as it is, he contrives to appear so really kind and thoughtful +that I cannot do so without rudeness and seeming ingratitude. I +sometimes think I ought to give him credit for the good feeling he +simulates so well; and then again, I think it is my _duty_ to suspect +him under the peculiar circumstances in which I am placed. His kindness +may not all be feigned; but still, let not the purest impulse of +gratitude to him induce me to forget myself: let me remember the game +of chess, the expressions he used on the occasion, and those +indescribable looks of his, that so justly roused my indignation, and I +think I shall be safe enough. I have done well to record them so +minutely. + +I think he wishes to find an opportunity of speaking to me alone: he +has seemed to be on the watch all day; but I have taken care to +disappoint him—not that I fear anything he could say, but I have +trouble enough without the addition of his insulting consolations, +condolences, or whatever else he might attempt; and, for Milicent’s +sake, I do not wish to quarrel with him. He excused himself from going +out to shoot with the other gentlemen in the morning, under the pretext +of having letters to write; and instead of retiring for that purpose +into the library, he sent for his desk into the morning-room, where I +was seated with Milicent and Lady Lowborough. They had betaken +themselves to their work; I, less to divert my mind than to deprecate +conversation, had provided myself with a book. Milicent saw that I +wished to be quiet, and accordingly let me alone. Annabella, doubtless, +saw it too: but that was no reason why she should restrain her tongue, +or curb her cheerful spirits: _she_ accordingly chatted away, +addressing herself almost exclusively to me, and with the utmost +assurance and familiarity, growing the more animated and friendly the +colder and briefer my answers became. Mr. Hargrave saw that I could ill +endure it, and, looking up from his desk, he answered her questions and +observations for me, as far as he could, and attempted to transfer her +social attentions from me to himself; but it would not do. Perhaps she +thought I had a headache, and could not bear to talk; at any rate, she +saw that her loquacious vivacity annoyed me, as I could tell by the +malicious pertinacity with which she persisted. But I checked it +effectually by putting into her hand the book I had been trying to +read, on the fly-leaf of which I had hastily scribbled,— + +“I am too well acquainted with your character and conduct to feel any +real friendship for you, and as I am without your talent for +dissimulation, I cannot assume the appearance of it. I must, therefore, +beg that hereafter all familiar intercourse may cease between us; and +if I still continue to treat you with civility, as if you were a woman +worthy of consideration and respect, understand that it is out of +regard for your cousin Milicent’s feelings, not for yours.” + +Upon perusing this she turned scarlet, and bit her lip. Covertly +tearing away the leaf, she crumpled it up and put it in the fire, and +then employed herself in turning over the pages of the book, and, +really or apparently, perusing its contents. In a little while Milicent +announced it her intention to repair to the nursery, and asked if I +would accompany her. + +“Annabella will excuse us,” said she; “she’s busy reading.” + +“No, I won’t,” cried Annabella, suddenly looking up, and throwing her +book on the table; “I want to speak to Helen a minute. You may go, +Milicent, and she’ll follow in a while.” (Milicent went.) “Will you +oblige me, Helen?” continued she. + +Her impudence astounded me; but I complied, and followed her into the +library. She closed the door, and walked up to the fire. + +“Who told you this?” said she. + +“No one: I am not incapable of seeing for myself.” + +“Ah, you are suspicious!” cried she, smiling, with a gleam of hope. +Hitherto there had been a kind of desperation in her hardihood; now she +was evidently relieved. + +“If I _were_ suspicious,” I replied, “I should have discovered your +infamy long before. No, Lady Lowborough, I do not found my charge upon +suspicion.” + +“On what _do_ you found it, then?” said she, throwing herself into an +arm-chair, and stretching out her feet to the fender, with an obvious +effort to appear composed. + +“I enjoy a moonlight ramble as well as you,” I answered, steadily +fixing my eyes upon her; “and the shrubbery happens to be one of my +favourite resorts.” + +She coloured again excessively, and remained silent, pressing her +finger against her teeth, and gazing into the fire. I watched her a few +moments with a feeling of malevolent gratification; then, moving +towards the door, I calmly asked if she had anything more to say. + +“Yes, yes!” cried she eagerly, starting up from her reclining posture. +“I want to know if you will tell Lord Lowborough?” + +“Suppose I do?” + +“Well, if you are disposed to publish the matter, _I_ cannot dissuade +you, of course—but there will be terrible work if you do—and if you +don’t, I shall think you the most generous of mortal beings—and if +there is anything in the world I can do for you—anything short of—” she +hesitated. + +“Short of renouncing your guilty connection with my husband, I suppose +you mean?” said I. + +She paused, in evident disconcertion and perplexity, mingled with anger +she dared not show. + +“I cannot renounce what is dearer than life,” she muttered, in a low, +hurried tone. Then, suddenly raising her head and fixing her gleaming +eyes upon me, she continued earnestly: “But, Helen—or Mrs. Huntingdon, +or whatever you would have me call you—_will_ you tell him? If you are +generous, here is a fitting opportunity for the exercise of your +magnanimity: if you are proud, here am I—your rival—ready to +acknowledge myself your debtor for an act of the most noble +forbearance.” + +“I shall not tell him.” + +“You will not!” cried she, delightedly. “Accept my sincere thanks, +then!” + +She sprang up, and offered me her hand. I drew back. + +“Give me no thanks; it is not for _your_ sake that I refrain. Neither +is it an act of any forbearance: I have no wish to publish your shame. +I should be sorry to distress your husband with the knowledge of it.” + +“And Milicent? will you tell her?” + +“No: on the contrary, I shall do my utmost to conceal it from her. I +would not for much that she should know the infamy and disgrace of her +relation!” + +“You use hard words, Mrs. Huntingdon, but I can pardon you.” + +“And now, Lady Lowborough,” continued I, “let me counsel you to leave +this house as soon as _possible_. You must be aware that your +continuance here is excessively disagreeable to me—not for Mr. +Huntingdon’s sake,” said I, observing the dawn of a malicious smile of +triumph on her face—“you are welcome to him, if you like him, as far as +_I_ am concerned—but because it is painful to be always disguising my +true sentiments respecting you, and straining to keep up an appearance +of civility and respect towards one for whom I have not the most +distant shadow of esteem; and because, if you stay, your conduct cannot +possibly remain concealed much longer from the only two persons in the +house who do not know it already. And, for your husband’s sake, +Annabella, and even for your own, I wish—I earnestly advise and +_entreat_ you to break off this unlawful connection at once, and return +to your duty while you may, before the dreadful consequences—” + +“Yes, yes, of course,” said she, interrupting me with a gesture of +impatience. “But I cannot go, Helen, before the time appointed for our +departure. What possible pretext could I frame for such a thing? +Whether I proposed going back alone—which Lowborough would not hear +of—or taking him with me, the very circumstance itself would be certain +to excite suspicion—and when our visit is so _nearly_ at an end +too—little more than a week—surely you can endure my presence _so_ +long! I will not annoy you with any more of my friendly impertinences.” + +“Well, I have nothing more to say to you.” + +“Have you mentioned this affair to Huntingdon?” asked she, as I was +leaving the room. + +“How dare you mention his name to me!” was the only answer I gave. + +No words have passed between us since, but such as outward decency or +pure necessity demanded. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXV + + +Nineteenth.—In proportion as Lady Lowborough finds she has nothing to +fear from me, and as the time of departure draws nigh, the more +audacious and insolent she becomes. She does not scruple to speak to my +husband with affectionate familiarity in my presence, when no one else +is by, and is particularly fond of displaying her interest in his +health and welfare, or in anything that concerns him, as if for the +purpose of contrasting her kind solicitude with my cold indifference. +And he rewards her by such smiles and glances, such whispered words, or +boldly-spoken insinuations, indicative of his sense of her goodness and +my neglect, as make the blood rush into my face, in spite of myself—for +I would be utterly regardless of it all—deaf and blind to everything +that passes between them, since the more I show myself sensible of +their wickedness the more she triumphs in her victory, and the more he +flatters himself that I love him devotedly still, in spite of my +pretended indifference. On such occasions I have sometimes been +startled by a subtle, fiendish suggestion inciting me to show him the +contrary by a seeming encouragement of Hargrave’s advances; but such +ideas are banished in a moment with horror and self-abasement; and then +I hate him tenfold more than ever for having brought me to this!—God +pardon me for it and all my sinful thoughts! Instead of being humbled +and purified by my afflictions, I feel that they are turning my nature +into gall. This must be my fault as much as theirs that wrong me. No +true Christian could cherish such bitter feelings as I do against him +and her, especially the latter: him, I still feel that I could +pardon—freely, gladly—on the slightest token of repentance; but +_she_—words cannot utter my abhorrence. Reason forbids, but passion +urges strongly; and I must pray and struggle long ere I subdue it. + +It is well that she is leaving to-morrow, for I could not well endure +her presence for another day. This morning she rose earlier than usual. +I found her in the room alone, when I went down to breakfast. + +“Oh, Helen! is it you?” said she, turning as I entered. + +I gave an involuntary start back on seeing her, at which she uttered a +short laugh, observing, “I think we are _both_ disappointed.” + +I came forward and busied myself with the breakfast things. + +“This is the last day I shall burden your hospitality,” said she, as +she seated herself at the table. “Ah, here comes one that will not +rejoice at it!” she murmured, half to herself, as Arthur entered the +room. + +He shook hands with her and wished her good-morning: then, looking +lovingly in her face, and still retaining her hand in his, murmured +pathetically, “The last—last day!” + +“Yes,” said she with some asperity; “and I rose early to make the best +of it—I have been here alone this half-hour, and _you_—you lazy +creature—” + +“Well, I thought I was early too,” said he; “but,” dropping his voice +almost to a whisper, “you see we are not alone.” + +“We never are,” returned she. But they were almost as good as alone, +for I was now standing at the window, watching the clouds, and +struggling to suppress my wrath. + +Some more words passed between them, which, happily, I did not +overhear; but Annabella had the audacity to come and place herself +beside me, and even to put her hand upon my shoulder and say softly, +“You need not grudge him to me, Helen, for I love him more than ever +you could do.” + +This put me beside myself. I took her hand and violently dashed it from +me, with an expression of abhorrence and indignation that could not be +suppressed. Startled, almost appalled, by this sudden outbreak, she +recoiled in silence. I would have given way to my fury and said more, +but Arthur’s low laugh recalled me to myself. I checked the +half-uttered invective, and scornfully turned away, regretting that I +had given him so much amusement. He was still laughing when Mr. +Hargrave made his appearance. How much of the scene he had witnessed I +do not know, for the door was ajar when he entered. He greeted his host +and his cousin both coldly, and me with a glance intended to express +the deepest sympathy mingled with high admiration and esteem. + +“How much allegiance do you owe to that man?” he asked below his +breath, as he stood beside me at the window, affecting to be making +observations on the weather. + +“None,” I answered. And immediately returning to the table, I employed +myself in making the tea. He followed, and would have entered into some +kind of conversation with me, but the other guests were now beginning +to assemble, and I took no more notice of him, except to give him his +coffee. + +After breakfast, determined to pass as little of the day as possible in +company with Lady Lowborough, I quietly stole away from the company and +retired to the library. Mr. Hargrave followed me thither, under +pretence of coming for a book; and first, turning to the shelves, he +selected a volume, and then quietly, but by no means timidly, +approaching me, he stood beside me, resting his hand on the back of my +chair, and said softly, “And so you consider yourself free at last?” + +“Yes,” said I, without moving, or raising my eyes from my book, “free +to do anything but offend God and my conscience.” + +There was a momentary pause. + +“Very right,” said he, “provided your conscience be not too morbidly +tender, and your ideas of God not too erroneously severe; but can you +suppose it would offend that benevolent Being to make the happiness of +one who would die for yours?—to raise a devoted heart from purgatorial +torments to a state of heavenly bliss, when you could do it without the +slightest injury to yourself or any other?” + +This was spoken in a low, earnest, melting tone, as he bent over me. I +now raised my head; and steadily confronting his gaze, I answered +calmly, “Mr. Hargrave, do you mean to insult me?” + +He was not prepared for this. He paused a moment to recover the shock; +then, drawing himself up and removing his hand from my chair, he +answered, with proud sadness,—“That was not my intention.” + +I just glanced towards the door, with a slight movement of the head, +and then returned to my book. He immediately withdrew. This was better +than if I had answered with more words, and in the passionate spirit to +which my first impulse would have prompted. What a good thing it is to +be able to command one’s temper! I must labour to cultivate this +inestimable quality: God only knows how often I shall need it in this +rough, dark road that lies before me. + +In the course of the morning I drove over to the Grove with the two +ladies, to give Milicent an opportunity for bidding farewell to her +mother and sister. They persuaded her to stay with them the rest of the +day, Mrs. Hargrave promising to bring her back in the evening and +remain till the party broke up on the morrow. Consequently, Lady +Lowborough and I had the pleasure of returning _tête-à-tête_ in the +carriage together. For the first mile or two we kept silence, I looking +out of my window, and she leaning back in her corner. But I was not +going to restrict myself to any particular position for her; when I was +tired of leaning forward, with the cold, raw wind in my face, and +surveying the russet hedges and the damp, tangled grass of their banks, +I gave it up and leant back too. With her usual impudence, my companion +then made some attempts to get up a conversation; but the monosyllables +“yes,” or “no” or “humph,” were the utmost her several remarks could +elicit from me. At last, on her asking my opinion upon some immaterial +point of discussion, I answered,— + +“Why do you wish to talk to me, Lady Lowborough? You must know what I +think of you.” + +“Well, if you _will_ be so bitter against me,” replied she, “I can’t +help it; but _I’m_ not going to sulk for anybody.” Our short drive was +now at an end. As soon as the carriage door was opened, she sprang out, +and went down the park to meet the gentlemen, who were just returning +from the woods. Of course I did not follow. + +But I had not done with her impudence yet: after dinner, I retired to +the drawing-room, as usual, and she accompanied me, but I had the two +children with me, and I gave them my whole attention, and determined to +keep them till the gentlemen came, or till Milicent arrived with her +mother. Little Helen, however, was soon tired of playing, and insisted +upon going to sleep; and while I sat on the sofa with her on my knee, +and Arthur seated beside me, gently playing with her soft, flaxen hair, +Lady Lowborough composedly came and placed herself on the other side. + +“To-morrow, Mrs. Huntingdon,” said she, “you will be delivered from my +presence, which, no doubt, you will be very glad of—it is natural you +should; but do you know I have rendered you a great service? Shall I +tell you what it is?” + +“I shall be glad to hear of any service you have rendered me,” said I, +determined to be calm, for I knew by the tone of her voice she wanted +to provoke me. + +“Well,” resumed she, “have you not observed the salutary change in Mr. +Huntingdon? Don’t you see what a sober, temperate man he is become? You +saw with regret the sad habits he was contracting, I know: and I know +you did your utmost to deliver him from them, but without success, +until I came to your assistance. I told him in few words that I could +not bear to see him degrade himself so, and that I should cease to—no +matter what I told him, but you see the reformation I have wrought; and +you ought to thank me for it.” + +I rose and rang for the nurse. + +“But I desire no thanks,” she continued; “all the return I ask is, that +you will take care of him when I am gone, and not, by harshness and +neglect, drive him back to his old courses.” + +I was almost sick with passion, but Rachel was now at the door. I +pointed to the children, for I could not trust myself to speak: she +took them away, and I followed. + +“Will you, Helen?” continued the speaker. + +I gave her a look that blighted the malicious smile on her face, or +checked it, at least for a moment, and departed. In the ante-room I met +Mr. Hargrave. He saw I was in no humour to be spoken to, and suffered +me to pass without a word; but when, after a few minutes’ seclusion in +the library, I had regained my composure, and was returning to join +Mrs. Hargrave and Milicent, whom I had just heard come downstairs and +go into the drawing-room, I found him there still lingering in the +dimly-lighted apartment, and evidently waiting for me. + +“Mrs. Huntingdon,” said he as I passed, “will you allow me one word?” + +“What is it then? be quick, if you please.” + +“I offended you this morning; and I cannot live under your +displeasure.” + +“Then go, and sin no more,” replied I, turning away. + +“No, no!” said he, hastily, setting himself before me. “Pardon me, but +I must have your forgiveness. I leave you to-morrow, and I may not have +an opportunity of speaking to you again. I was wrong to forget myself +and you, as I did; but let me implore you to forget and forgive my rash +presumption, and think of me as if those words had never been spoken; +for, believe me, I regret them deeply, and the loss of your esteem is +too severe a penalty: I cannot bear it.” + +“Forgetfulness is not to be purchased with a wish; and I cannot bestow +my esteem on all who desire it, unless they deserve it too.” + +“I shall think my life well spent in labouring to deserve it, if you +will but pardon this offence—will you?” + +“Yes.” + +“Yes! but that is coldly spoken. Give me your hand and I’ll believe +you. You won’t? Then, Mrs. Huntingdon, you do _not_ forgive me!” + +“Yes; here it is, and my forgiveness with it: only, _sin no more_.” + +He pressed my cold hand with sentimental fervour, but said nothing, and +stood aside to let me pass into the room, where all the company were +now assembled. Mr. Grimsby was seated near the door: on seeing me +enter, almost immediately followed by Hargrave, he leered at me with a +glance of intolerable significance, as I passed. I looked him in the +face, till he sullenly turned away, if not _ashamed_, at least +_confounded_ for the moment. Meantime Hattersley had seized Hargrave by +the arm, and was whispering something in his ear—some coarse joke, no +doubt, for the latter neither laughed nor spoke in answer, but, turning +from him with a slight curl of the lip, disengaged himself and went to +his mother, who was telling Lord Lowborough how many reasons she had to +be proud of her son. + +Thank heaven, they are all going to-morrow. + + + + + CHAPTER XXXVI + + +December 20th, 1824.—This is the third anniversary of our felicitous +union. It is now two months since our guests left us to the enjoyment +of each other’s society; and I have had nine weeks’ experience of this +new phase of conjugal life—two persons living together, as master and +mistress of the house, and father and mother of a winsome, merry little +child, with the mutual understanding that there is no love, friendship, +or sympathy between them. As far as in me lies, I endeavour to live +peaceably with him: I treat him with unimpeachable civility, give up my +convenience to his, wherever it may reasonably be done, and consult him +in a business-like way on household affairs, deferring to his pleasure +and judgment, even when I know the latter to be inferior to my own. + +As for him, for the first week or two, he was peevish and low, +fretting, I suppose, over his dear Annabella’s departure, and +particularly ill-tempered to me: everything I did was wrong; I was +cold-hearted, hard, insensate; my sour, pale face was perfectly +repulsive; my voice made him shudder; he knew not how he could live +through the winter with me; I should kill him by inches. Again I +proposed a separation, but it would not do: he was not going to be the +talk of all the old gossips in the neighbourhood: he would not have it +said that he was such a brute his wife could not live with him. No; he +must contrive to bear with me. + +“I must contrive to bear with _you_, you mean,” said I; “for so long as +I discharge my functions of steward and house-keeper, so +conscientiously and well, without pay and without thanks, you cannot +afford to part with me. I shall therefore remit these duties when my +bondage becomes intolerable.” This threat, I thought, would serve to +keep him in check, if anything would. + +I believe he was much disappointed that I did not feel his offensive +sayings more acutely, for when he had said anything particularly well +calculated to hurt my feelings, he would stare me searchingly in the +face, and then grumble against my “marble heart” or my “brutal +insensibility.” If I had bitterly wept and deplored his lost affection, +he would, perhaps, have condescended to pity me, and taken me into +favour for a while, just to comfort his solitude and console him for +the absence of his beloved Annabella, until he could meet her again, or +some more fitting substitute. Thank heaven, I am not so weak as that! I +was infatuated once with a foolish, besotted affection, that clung to +him in spite of his unworthiness, but it is fairly gone now—wholly +crushed and withered away; and he has none but himself and his vices to +thank for it. + +At first (in compliance with his sweet lady’s injunctions, I suppose), +he abstained wonderfully well from seeking to solace his cares in wine; +but at length he began to relax his virtuous efforts, and now and then +exceeded a little, and still continues to do so; nay, sometimes, not a +little. When he is under the exciting influence of these excesses, he +sometimes fires up and attempts to play the brute; and then I take +little pains to suppress my scorn and disgust. When he is under the +_depressing_ influence of the after-consequences, he bemoans his +sufferings and his errors, and charges them both upon me; he knows such +indulgence injures his health, and does him more harm than good; but he +says I drive him to it by my unnatural, unwomanly conduct; it will be +the ruin of him in the end, but it is all my fault; and _then_ I am +roused to defend myself, sometimes with bitter recrimination. This is a +kind of injustice I cannot patiently endure. Have I not laboured long +and hard to save him from this very vice? Would I not labour still to +deliver him from it if I could? but could I do so by fawning upon him +and caressing him when I know that he scorns me? Is it _my_ fault that +I have lost my influence with him, or that he has forfeited every claim +to my regard? And should I seek a reconciliation with him, when I feel +that I abhor him, and that he despises me? and while he continues still +to correspond with Lady Lowborough, as I know he does? No, never, +never, never! he may drink himself dead, but it is NOT my fault! + +Yet I do my part to save him still: I give him to understand that +drinking makes his eyes dull, and his face red and bloated; and that it +tends to render him imbecile in body and mind; and if Annabella were to +see him as often as I do, she would speedily be disenchanted; and that +she certainly will withdraw her favour from him, if he continues such +courses. Such a mode of admonition wins only coarse abuse for me—and, +indeed, I almost feel as if I deserved it, for I hate to use such +arguments; but they sink into his stupefied heart, and make him pause, +and ponder, and abstain, more than anything else I could say. + +At present I am enjoying a temporary relief from his presence: he is +gone with Hargrave to join a distant hunt, and will probably not be +back before to-morrow evening. How differently I used to feel his +absence! + +Mr. Hargrave is still at the Grove. He and Arthur frequently meet to +pursue their rural sports together: he often calls upon us here, and +Arthur not unfrequently rides over to him. I do not think either of +these soi-disant friends is overflowing with love for the other; but +such intercourse serves to get the time on, and I am very willing it +should continue, as it saves me some hours of discomfort in Arthur’s +society, and gives him some better employment than the sottish +indulgence of his sensual appetites. The only objection I have to Mr. +Hargrave’s being in the neighbourhood, is that the fear of meeting him +at the Grove prevents me from seeing his sister so often as I otherwise +should; for, of late, he has conducted himself towards me with such +unerring propriety, that I have almost forgotten his former conduct. I +suppose he is striving to “win my esteem.” If he continue to act in +this way, he _may_ win it; but what then? The moment he attempts to +demand anything more, he will lose it again. + +February 10th.—It is a hard, embittering thing to have one’s kind +feelings and good intentions cast back in one’s teeth. I was beginning +to relent towards my wretched partner; to pity his forlorn, comfortless +condition, unalleviated as it is by the consolations of intellectual +resources and the answer of a good conscience towards God; and to think +I ought to sacrifice my pride, and renew my efforts once again to make +his home agreeable and lead him back to the path of virtue; not by +false professions of love, and not by pretended remorse, but by +mitigating my habitual coldness of manner, and commuting my frigid +civility into kindness wherever an opportunity occurred; and not only +was I beginning to think so, but I had already begun to act upon the +thought—and what was the result? No answering spark of kindness, no +awakening penitence, but an unappeasable ill-humour, and a spirit of +tyrannous exaction that increased with indulgence, and a lurking gleam +of self-complacent triumph at every detection of relenting softness in +my manner, that congealed me to marble again as often as it recurred; +and this morning he finished the business:—I think the petrifaction is +so completely effected at last that nothing can melt me again. Among +his letters was one which he perused with symptoms of unusual +gratification, and then threw it across the table to me, with the +admonition,— + +“There! read that, and take a lesson by it!” + +It was in the free, dashing hand of Lady Lowborough. I glanced at the +first page; it seemed full of extravagant protestations of affection; +impetuous longings for a speedy reunion—and impious defiance of God’s +mandates, and railings against His providence for having cast their lot +asunder, and doomed them both to the hateful bondage of alliance with +those they could not love. He gave a slight titter on seeing me change +colour. I folded up the letter, rose, and returned it to him, with no +remark, but— + +“Thank you, I _will_ take a lesson by it!” + +My little Arthur was standing between his knees, delightedly playing +with the bright, ruby ring on his finger. Urged by a sudden, imperative +impulse to deliver my son from that contaminating influence, I caught +him up in my arms and carried him with me out of the room. Not liking +this abrupt removal, the child began to pout and cry. This was a new +stab to my already tortured heart. I would not let him go; but, taking +him with me into the library, I shut the door, and, kneeling on the +floor beside him, I embraced him, kissed him, wept over with him with +passionate fondness. Rather frightened than consoled by this, he turned +struggling from me, and cried out aloud for his papa. I released him +from my arms, and never were more bitter tears than those that now +concealed him from my blinded, burning eyes. Hearing his cries, the +father came to the room. I instantly turned away, lest he should see +and misconstrue my emotion. He swore at me, and took the now pacified +child away. + +It is hard that my little darling should love him more than me; and +that, when the well-being and culture of my son is all I have to live +for, I should see my influence destroyed by one whose selfish affection +is more injurious than the coldest indifference or the harshest tyranny +could be. If I, for his good, deny him some trifling indulgence, he +goes to his father, and the latter, in spite of his selfish indolence, +will even give himself some trouble to meet the child’s desires: if I +attempt to curb his will, or look gravely on him for some act of +childish disobedience, he knows his other parent will smile and take +his part against me. Thus, not only have I the father’s spirit in the +son to contend against, the germs of his evil tendencies to search out +and eradicate, and his corrupting intercourse and example in after-life +to counteract, but already _he_ counteracts my arduous labour for the +child’s advantage, destroys my influence over his tender mind, and robs +me of his very love; I had no earthly hope but this, and he seems to +take a diabolical delight in tearing it away. + +But it is wrong to despair; I will remember the counsel of the inspired +writer to him “that feareth the Lord and obeyeth the voice of his +servant, that _sitteth in darkness and hath no light;_ let him trust in +the name of the Lord, and stay upon his God!” + + + + + CHAPTER XXXVII + + +December 20th, 1825.—Another year is past; and I am weary of this life. +And yet I cannot wish to leave it: whatever afflictions assail me here, +I cannot wish to go and leave my darling in this dark and wicked world +alone, without a friend to guide him through its weary mazes, to warn +him of its thousand snares, and guard him from the perils that beset +him on every hand. I am not well fitted to be his only companion, I +know; but there is no other to supply my place. I am too grave to +minister to his amusements and enter into his infantile sports as a +nurse or a mother ought to do, and often his bursts of gleeful +merriment trouble and alarm me; I see in them his father’s spirit and +temperament, and I tremble for the consequences; and too often damp the +innocent mirth I ought to share. That father, on the contrary, has no +weight of sadness on his mind; is troubled with no fears, no scruples +concerning his son’s future welfare; and at evenings especially, the +times when the child sees him the most and the oftenest, he is always +particularly jocund and open-hearted: ready to laugh and to jest with +anything or anybody but me, and I am particularly silent and sad: +therefore, of course, the child dotes upon his seemingly joyous +amusing, ever-indulgent papa, and will at any time gladly exchange my +company for his. This disturbs me greatly; not so much for the sake of +my son’s affection (though I do prize that highly, and though I feel it +is my right, and know I have done much to earn it) as for that +influence over him which, for his own advantage, I would strive to +purchase and retain, and which for very spite his father delights to +rob me of, and, from motives of mere idle egotism, is pleased to win to +himself; making no use of it but to torment me and ruin the child. My +only consolation is, that he spends comparatively little of his time at +home, and, during the months he passes in London or elsewhere, I have a +chance of recovering the ground I had lost, and overcoming with good +the evil he has wrought by his wilful mismanagement. But then it is a +bitter trial to behold him, on his return, doing his utmost to subvert +my labours and transform my innocent, affectionate, tractable darling +into a selfish, disobedient, and mischievous boy; thereby preparing the +soil for those vices he has so successfully cultivated in his own +perverted nature. + +Happily, there were none of Arthur’s “friends” invited to Grassdale +last autumn: he took himself off to visit some of them instead. I wish +he would always do so, and I wish his friends were numerous and loving +enough to keep him amongst them all the year round. Mr. Hargrave, +considerably to my annoyance, did not go with him; but I think I have +done with that gentleman at last. + +For seven or eight months he behaved so remarkably well, and managed so +skilfully too, that I was almost completely off my guard, and was +really beginning to look upon him as a friend, and even to treat him as +such, with certain prudent restrictions (which I deemed scarcely +necessary); when, presuming upon my unsuspecting kindness, he thought +he might venture to overstep the bounds of decent moderation and +propriety that had so long restrained him. It was on a pleasant evening +at the close of May: I was wandering in the park, and he, on seeing me +there as he rode past, made bold to enter and approach me, dismounting +and leaving his horse at the gate. This was the first time he had +ventured to come within its inclosure since I had been left alone, +without the sanction of his mother’s or sister’s company, or at least +the excuse of a message from them. But he managed to appear so calm and +easy, so respectful and self-possessed in his friendliness, that, +though a little surprised, I was neither alarmed nor offended at the +unusual liberty, and he walked with me under the ash-trees and by the +water-side, and talked, with considerable animation, good taste, and +intelligence, on many subjects, before I began to think about getting +rid of him. Then, after a pause, during which we both stood gazing on +the calm, blue water—I revolving in my mind the best means of politely +dismissing my companion, he, no doubt, pondering other matters equally +alien to the sweet sights and sounds that alone were present to his +senses,—he suddenly electrified me by beginning, in a peculiar tone, +low, soft, but perfectly distinct, to pour forth the most unequivocal +expressions of earnest and passionate love; pleading his cause with all +the bold yet artful eloquence he could summon to his aid. But I cut +short his appeal, and repulsed him so determinately, so decidedly, and +with such a mixture of scornful indignation, tempered with cool, +dispassionate sorrow and pity for his benighted mind, that he withdrew, +astonished, mortified, and discomforted; and, a few days after, I heard +that he had departed for London. He returned, however, in eight or nine +weeks, and did not entirely keep aloof from me, but comported himself +in so remarkable a manner that his quick-sighted sister could not fail +to notice the change. + +“What have you done to Walter, Mrs. Huntingdon?” said she one morning, +when I had called at the Grove, and he had just left the room after +exchanging a few words of the coldest civility. “He has been so +extremely ceremonious and stately of late, I can’t imagine what it is +all about, unless you have desperately offended him. Tell me what it +is, that I may be your mediator, and make you friends again.” + +“I have done nothing willingly to offend him,” said I. “If he is +offended, he can best tell you himself what it is about.” + +“I’ll ask him,” cried the giddy girl, springing up and putting her head +out of the window: “he’s only in the garden—Walter!” + +“No, no, Esther! you will seriously displease me if you do; and I shall +leave you immediately, and not come again for months—perhaps years.” + +“Did you call, Esther?” said her brother, approaching the window from +without. + +“Yes; I wanted to ask you—” + +“Good-morning, Esther,” said I, taking her hand and giving it a severe +squeeze. + +“To ask you,” continued she, “to get me a rose for Mrs. Huntingdon.” He +departed. “Mrs. Huntingdon,” she exclaimed, turning to me and still +holding me fast by the hand, “I’m quite shocked at you—you’re just as +angry, and distant, and cold as he is: and I’m determined you shall be +as good friends as ever before you go.” + +“Esther, how can you be so rude!” cried Mrs. Hargrave, who was seated +gravely knitting in her easy-chair. “Surely, you never _will_ learn to +conduct yourself like a lady!” + +“Well, mamma, you said yourself—” But the young lady was silenced by +the uplifted finger of her mamma, accompanied with a very stern shake +of the head. + +“Isn’t she cross?” whispered she to me; but, before I could add my +share of reproof, Mr. Hargrave reappeared at the window with a +beautiful moss-rose in his hand. + +“Here, Esther, I’ve brought you the rose,” said he, extending it +towards her. + +“Give it her yourself, you blockhead!” cried she, recoiling with a +spring from between us. + +“Mrs. Huntingdon would rather receive it from you,” replied he, in a +very serious tone, but lowering his voice that his mother might not +hear. His sister took the rose and gave it to me. + +“My brother’s compliments, Mrs. Huntingdon, and he hopes you and he +will come to a better understanding by-and-by. Will that do, Walter?” +added the saucy girl, turning to him and putting her arm round his +neck, as he stood leaning upon the sill of the window—“or should I have +said that you are sorry you were so touchy? or that you hope she will +pardon your offence?” + +“You silly girl! you don’t know what you are talking about,” replied he +gravely. + +“Indeed I don’t: for I’m quite in the dark!” + +“Now, Esther,” interposed Mrs. Hargrave, who, if equally benighted on +the subject of our estrangement, saw at least that her daughter was +behaving very improperly, “I must insist upon your leaving the room!” + +“Pray don’t, Mrs. Hargrave, for I’m going to leave it myself,” said I, +and immediately made my adieux. + +About a week after Mr. Hargrave brought his sister to see me. He +conducted himself, at first, with his usual cold, distant, +half-stately, half-melancholy, altogether injured air; but Esther made +no remark upon it this time: she had evidently been schooled into +better manners. She talked to me, and laughed and romped with little +Arthur, her loved and loving playmate. He, somewhat to my discomfort, +enticed her from the room to have a run in the hall, and thence into +the garden. I got up to stir the fire. Mr. Hargrave asked if I felt +cold, and shut the door—a very unseasonable piece of officiousness, for +I had meditated following the noisy playfellows if they did not +speedily return. He then took the liberty of walking up to the fire +himself, and asking me if I were aware that Mr. Huntingdon was now at +the seat of Lord Lowborough, and likely to continue there some time. + +“No; but it’s no matter,” I answered carelessly; and if my cheek glowed +like fire, it was rather at the question than the information it +conveyed. + +“You don’t object to it?” he said. + +“Not at all, if Lord Lowborough likes his company.” + +“You have no love left for him, then?” + +“Not the least.” + +“I knew that—I knew you were too high-minded and pure in your own +nature to continue to regard one so utterly false and polluted with any +feelings but those of indignation and scornful abhorrence!” + +“Is he not your friend?” said I, turning my eyes from the fire to his +face, with perhaps a slight touch of those feelings he assigned to +another. + +“He _was_,” replied he, with the same calm gravity as before; “but do +not wrong me by supposing that I could continue my friendship and +esteem to a man who could so infamously, so impiously forsake and +injure one so transcendently—well, I won’t speak of it. But tell me, do +you never think of revenge?” + +“Revenge! No—what good would that do?—it would make him no better, and +me no happier.” + +“I don’t know how to talk to you, Mrs. Huntingdon,” said he, smiling; +“you are only half a woman—your nature must be half human, half +angelic. Such goodness overawes me; I don’t know what to make of it.” + +“Then, sir, I fear you must be very much worse than you should be, if +I, a mere ordinary mortal, am, by your own confession, so vastly your +superior; and since there exists so little sympathy between us, I think +we had better each look out for some more congenial companion.” And +forthwith moving to the window, I began to look out for my little son +and his gay young friend. + +“No, _I_ am the ordinary mortal, I maintain,” replied Mr. Hargrave. “I +will not allow myself to be worse than my fellows; but _you_, Madam—I +equally maintain there is nobody like you. But are you happy?” he asked +in a serious tone. + +“As happy as some others, I suppose.” + +“Are you as happy as you desire to be?” + +“No one is so blest as that comes to on this side of eternity.” + +“One thing I know,” returned he, with a deep sad sigh; “you are +immeasurably happier than I am.” + +“I am very sorry for you, then,” I could not help replying. + +“Are you, _indeed?_ No, for if you were you would be glad to relieve +me.” + +“And so I should if I could do so without injuring myself or any +other.” + +“And can you suppose that I should wish you to injure yourself? No: on +the contrary, it is your own happiness I long for more than mine. You +are miserable now, Mrs. Huntingdon,” continued he, looking me boldly in +the face. “You do not complain, but I see—and feel—and know that you +are miserable—and must remain so as long as you keep those walls of +impenetrable ice about your still warm and palpitating heart; and I am +miserable, too. Deign to smile on me and I am happy: trust me, and you +shall be happy also, for if you _are_ a woman I can make you so—and I +_will_ do it in spite of yourself!” he muttered between his teeth; “and +as for others, the question is between ourselves alone: you cannot +injure your husband, you know, and no one else has any concern in the +matter.” + +“I have a son, Mr. Hargrave, and you have a mother,” said I, retiring +from the window, whither he had followed me. + +“They need not know,” he began; but before anything more could be said +on either side, Esther and Arthur re-entered the room. The former +glanced at Walter’s flushed, excited countenance, and then at mine—a +little flushed and excited too, I daresay, though from far different +causes. She must have thought we had been quarrelling desperately, and +was evidently perplexed and disturbed at the circumstance; but she was +too polite or too much afraid of her brother’s anger to refer to it. +She seated herself on the sofa, and putting back her bright, golden +ringlets, that were scattered in wild profusion over her face, she +immediately began to talk about the garden and her little playfellow, +and continued to chatter away in her usual strain till her brother +summoned her to depart. + +“If I have spoken too warmly, forgive me,” he murmured on taking his +leave, “or I shall never forgive myself.” Esther smiled and glanced at +me: I merely bowed, and her countenance fell. She thought it a poor +return for Walter’s generous concession, and was disappointed in her +friend. Poor child, she little knows the world she lives in! + +Mr. Hargrave had not an opportunity of meeting me again in private for +several weeks after this; but when he did meet me there was less of +pride and more of touching melancholy in his manner than before. Oh, +_how_ he annoyed me! I was obliged at last almost entirely to remit my +visits to the Grove, at the expense of deeply offending Mrs. Hargrave +and seriously afflicting poor Esther, who really values my society for +want of better, and who ought not to suffer for the fault of her +brother. But that indefatigable foe was not yet vanquished: he seemed +to be always on the watch. I frequently saw him riding lingeringly past +the premises, looking searchingly round him as he went—or, if _I_ did +not, Rachel did. That sharp-sighted woman soon guessed how matters +stood between us, and descrying the enemy’s movements from her +elevation at the nursery-window, she would give me a quiet intimation +if she saw me preparing for a walk when she had reason to believe he +was about, or to think it likely that he would meet or overtake me in +the way I meant to traverse. I would then defer my ramble, or confine +myself for that day to the park and gardens, or, if the proposed +excursion was a matter of importance, such as a visit to the sick or +afflicted, I would take Rachel with me, and then I was never molested. + +But one mild, sunshiny day, early in November, I had ventured forth +alone to visit the village school and a few of the poor tenants, and on +my return I was alarmed at the clatter of a horse’s feet behind me, +approaching at a rapid, steady trot. There was no stile or gap at hand +by which I could escape into the fields, so I walked quietly on, saying +to myself, “It may not be he after all; and if it is, and if he _do_ +annoy me, it shall be for the last time, I am determined, if there be +power in words and looks against cool impudence and mawkish +sentimentality so inexhaustible as his.” + +The horse soon overtook me, and was reined up close beside me. It _was_ +Mr. Hargrave. He greeted me with a smile intended to be soft and +melancholy, but his triumphant satisfaction at having caught me at last +so shone through that it was quite a failure. After briefly answering +his salutation and inquiring after the ladies at the Grove, I turned +away and walked on; but he followed and kept his horse at my side: it +was evident he intended to be my companion all the way. + +“Well! I don’t much care. If you want another rebuff, take it—and +welcome,” was my inward remark. “Now, sir, what next?” + +This question, though unspoken, was not long unanswered; after a few +passing observations upon indifferent subjects, he began in solemn +tones the following appeal to my humanity:— + +“It will be four years next April since I first saw you, Mrs. +Huntingdon—_you_ may have forgotten the circumstance, but _I_ never +can. I admired you then most deeply, but I dared not love you. In the +following autumn I saw so much of your perfections that I could not +fail to love you, though I dared not show it. For upwards of three +years I have endured a perfect martyrdom. From the anguish of +suppressed emotions, intense and fruitless longings, silent sorrow, +crushed hopes, and trampled affections, I have suffered more than I can +tell, or you imagine—and you were the cause of it, and not altogether +the innocent cause. My youth is wasting away; my prospects are +darkened; my life is a desolate blank; I have no rest day or night: I +am become a burden to myself and others, and you might save me by a +word—a glance, and will not do it—is this right?” + +“In the first place, _I_ don’t believe _you_,” answered I; “in the +second, if you will be such a fool, I can’t hinder it.” + +“If you affect,” replied he, earnestly, “to regard as folly the best, +the strongest, the most godlike impulses of our nature, I don’t believe +you. I know you are not the heartless, icy being you pretend to be—you +had a heart once, and gave it to your husband. When you found him +utterly unworthy of the treasure, you reclaimed it; and you will not +_pretend_ that you loved that sensual, earthly-minded profligate so +deeply, so devotedly, that you can never love another? I know that +there are feelings in your nature that have never yet been called +forth; I know, too, that in your present neglected lonely state you are +and _must_ be miserable. You have it in your power to raise two human +beings from a state of actual suffering to such unspeakable beatitude +as only generous, noble, self-forgetting love can give (for you _can_ +love me if you will); you may tell me that you scorn and detest me, +but, since you have set me the example of plain speaking, I will answer +that _I do not believe you!_ But you will not do it! you choose rather +to leave us miserable; and you coolly tell me it is the will of God +that we should remain so. _You_ may call this religion, but _I_ call it +wild fanaticism!” + +“There is another life both for you and for me,” said I. “If it be the +will of God that we should sow in tears now, it is only that we may +reap in joy hereafter. It is His will that we should not injure others +by the gratification of our own earthly passions; and you have a +mother, and sisters, and friends who would be seriously injured by your +disgrace; and I, too, have friends, whose peace of mind shall never be +sacrificed to my enjoyment, or yours either, with my consent; and if I +were alone in the world, I have still my God and my religion, and I +would sooner die than disgrace my calling and break my faith with +heaven to obtain a few brief years of false and fleeting +happiness—happiness sure to end in misery even here—for myself or any +other!” + +“There need be no disgrace, no misery or sacrifice in any quarter,” +persisted he. “I do not ask you to leave your home or defy the world’s +opinion.” But I need not repeat all his arguments. I refuted them to +the best of my power; but that power was provokingly small, at the +moment, for I was too much flurried with indignation—and even +shame—that he should thus dare to address me, to retain sufficient +command of thought and language to enable me adequately to contend +against his powerful sophistries. Finding, however, that he could not +be silenced by reason, and even covertly exulted in his seeming +advantage, and ventured to deride those assertions I had not the +coolness to prove, I changed my course and tried another plan. + +“Do you really love me?” said I, seriously, pausing and looking him +calmly in the face. + +“Do I love you!” cried he. + +“_Truly?_” I demanded. + +His countenance brightened; he thought his triumph was at hand. He +commenced a passionate protestation of the truth and fervour of his +attachment, which I cut short by another question:— + +“But is it not a selfish love? Have you enough disinterested affection +to enable you to sacrifice your own pleasure to mine?” + +“I would give my life to serve you.” + +“I don’t want your life; but have you enough real sympathy for my +afflictions to induce you to make an effort to relieve them, at the +risk of a little discomfort to yourself?” + +“Try me, and see.” + +“If you have, _never mention this subject again_. You cannot recur to +it in any way without doubling the weight of those sufferings you so +feelingly deplore. I have nothing left me but the solace of a good +conscience and a hopeful trust in heaven, and you labour continually to +rob me of these. If you persist, I must regard you as my deadliest +foe.” + +“But hear me a moment—” + +“No, sir! You said you would give your life to serve me; I only ask +your _silence_ on one particular point. I have spoken plainly; and what +I say I mean. If you torment me in this way any more, I must conclude +that your protestations are entirely false, and that you hate me in +your heart as fervently as you profess to love me!” + +He bit his lip, and bent his eyes upon the ground in silence for a +while. + +“Then I must leave you,” said he at length, looking steadily upon me, +as if with the last hope of detecting some token of irrepressible +anguish or dismay awakened by those solemn words. “I must leave you. I +cannot live here, and be for ever silent on the all-absorbing subject +of my thoughts and wishes.” + +“Formerly, I believe, you spent but little of your time at home,” I +answered; “it will do you no harm to absent yourself again, for a +while—if that be really necessary.” + +“If that be really _possible_,” he muttered; “and can you bid me go so +coolly? Do you really wish it?” + +“Most certainly I do. If you cannot see me without tormenting me as you +have lately done, I would gladly say farewell and never see you more.” + +He made no answer, but, bending from his horse, held out his hand +towards me. I looked up at his face, and saw therein such a look of +genuine agony of soul, that, whether bitter disappointment, or wounded +pride, or lingering love, or burning wrath were uppermost, I could not +hesitate to put my hand in his as frankly as if I bade a friend +farewell. He grasped it very hard, and immediately put spurs to his +horse and galloped away. Very soon after, I learned that he was gone to +Paris, where he still is; and the longer he stays there the better for +me. + +I thank God for this deliverance! + + + + + CHAPTER XXXVIII + + +December 20th, 1826.—The fifth anniversary of my wedding-day, and, I +trust, the last I shall spend under this roof. My resolution is formed, +my plan concocted, and already partly put in execution. My conscience +does not blame me, but while the purpose ripens let me beguile a few of +these long winter evenings in stating the case for my own satisfaction: +a dreary amusement enough, but having the air of a useful occupation, +and being pursued as a task, it will suit me better than a lighter one. + +In September, quiet Grassdale was again alive with a party of ladies +and gentlemen (so called), consisting of the same individuals as those +invited the year before last, with the addition of two or three others, +among whom were Mrs. Hargrave and her younger daughter. The gentlemen +and Lady Lowborough were invited for the pleasure and convenience of +the host; the other ladies, I suppose, for the sake of appearances, and +to keep me in check, and make me discreet and civil in my demeanour. +But the ladies stayed only three weeks; the gentlemen, with two +exceptions, above two months: for their hospitable entertainer was loth +to part with them and be left alone with his bright intellect, his +stainless conscience, and his loved and loving wife. + +On the day of Lady Lowborough’s arrival, I followed her into her +chamber, and plainly told her that, if I found reason to believe that +she still continued her criminal connection with Mr. Huntingdon, I +should think it my absolute duty to inform her husband of the +circumstance—or awaken his suspicions at least—however painful it might +be, or however dreadful the consequences. She was startled at first by +the declaration, so unexpected, and so determinately yet calmly +delivered; but rallying in a moment, she coolly replied that, if I saw +anything at all reprehensible or suspicious in her conduct, she would +freely give me leave to tell his lordship all about it. Willing to be +satisfied with this, I left her; and certainly I saw nothing +thenceforth particularly reprehensible or suspicious in her demeanour +towards her host; but then I had the other guests to attend to, and I +did not watch them narrowly—for, to confess the truth, I _feared_ to +see anything between them. I no longer regarded it as any concern of +mine, and if it was my duty to enlighten Lord Lowborough, it was a +painful duty, and I dreaded to be called to perform it. + +But my fears were brought to an end in a manner I had not anticipated. +One evening, about a fortnight after the visitors’ arrival, I had +retired into the library to snatch a few minutes’ respite from forced +cheerfulness and wearisome discourse, for after so long a period of +seclusion, dreary indeed as I had often found it, I could not always +bear to be doing violence to my feelings, and goading my powers to +talk, and smile and listen, and play the attentive hostess, or even the +cheerful friend: I had just ensconced myself within the bow of the +window, and was looking out upon the west, where the darkening hills +rose sharply defined against the clear amber light of evening, that +gradually blended and faded away into the pure, pale blue of the upper +sky, where one bright star was shining through, as if to promise—“When +that dying light is gone, the world will not be left in darkness, and +they who trust in God, whose minds are unbeclouded by the mists of +unbelief and sin, are never wholly comfortless,”—when I heard a hurried +step approaching, and Lord Lowborough entered. This room was still his +favourite resort. He flung the door to with unusual violence, and cast +his hat aside regardless where it fell. What could be the matter with +him? His face was ghastly pale; his eyes were fixed upon the ground; +his teeth clenched: his forehead glistened with the dews of agony. It +was plain he knew his wrongs at last! + +Unconscious of my presence, he began to pace the room in a state of +fearful agitation, violently wringing his hands and uttering low groans +or incoherent ejaculations. I made a movement to let him know that he +was not alone; but he was too preoccupied to notice it. Perhaps, while +his back was towards me, I might cross the room and slip away +unobserved. I rose to make the attempt, but then he perceived me. He +started and stood still a moment; then wiped his streaming forehead, +and, advancing towards me, with a kind of unnatural composure, said in +a deep, almost sepulchral tone,—“Mrs. Huntingdon, I must leave you +to-morrow.” + +“To-morrow!” I repeated. “I do not ask the cause.” + +“You know it then, and you can be so calm!” said he, surveying me with +profound astonishment, not unmingled with a kind of resentful +bitterness, as it appeared to me. + +“I have so long been aware of—” I paused in time, and added, “of my +husband’s character, that nothing shocks me.” + +“But _this_—how long have you been aware of this?” demanded he, laying +his clenched hand on the table beside him, and looking me keenly and +fixedly in the face. + +I felt like a criminal. + +“Not long,” I answered. + +“You knew it!” cried he, with bitter vehemence—“and you did not tell +me! You helped to deceive me!” + +“My lord, I did _not_ help to deceive you.” + +“Then why did you not tell me?” + +“Because I knew it would be painful to you. I hoped she would return to +her duty, and then there would be no need to harrow your feelings with +such—” + +“O God! how long has this been going on? How long has it been, Mrs. +Huntingdon?—Tell me—I MUST know!” exclaimed, with intense and fearful +eagerness. + +“Two years, I believe.” + +“Great heaven! and she has duped me all this time!” He turned away with +a suppressed groan of agony, and paced the room again in a paroxysm of +renewed agitation. My heart smote me; but I would try to console him, +though I knew not how to attempt it. + +“She is a wicked woman,” I said. “She has basely deceived and betrayed +you. She is as little worthy of your regret as she was of your +affection. Let her injure you no further; abstract yourself from her, +and stand alone.” + +“And you, Madam,” said he sternly, arresting himself, and turning round +upon me, “you have injured me too by this ungenerous concealment!” + +There was a sudden revulsion in my feelings. Something rose within me, +and urged me to resent this harsh return for my heartfelt sympathy, and +defend myself with answering severity. Happily, I did not yield to the +impulse. I saw his anguish as, suddenly smiting his forehead, he turned +abruptly to the window, and, looking upward at the placid sky, murmured +passionately, “O God, that I might die!”—and felt that to add one drop +of bitterness to that already overflowing cup would be ungenerous +indeed. And yet I fear there was more coldness than gentleness in the +quiet tone of my reply:—“I might offer many excuses that some would +admit to be valid, but I will not attempt to enumerate them—” + +“I know them,” said he hastily: “you would say that it was no business +of yours: that I ought to have taken care of myself; that if my own +blindness has led me into this pit of hell, I have no right to blame +another for giving me credit for a larger amount of sagacity than I +possessed—” + +“I confess I was wrong,” continued I, without regarding this bitter +interruption; “but whether want of courage or mistaken kindness was the +cause of my error, I think you blame me too severely. I told Lady +Lowborough two weeks ago, the very hour she came, that I should +certainly think it my duty to inform you if she continued to deceive +you: she gave me full liberty to do so if I should see anything +reprehensible or suspicious in her conduct; I have seen nothing; and I +trusted she had altered her course.” + +He continued gazing from the window while I spoke, and did not answer, +but, stung by the recollections my words awakened, stamped his foot +upon the floor, ground his teeth, and corrugated his brow, like one +under the influence of acute physical pain. + +“It was wrong, it was wrong!” he muttered at length. “Nothing can +excuse it; nothing can atone for it,—for nothing can recall those years +of cursed credulity; nothing obliterate them!—nothing, nothing!” he +repeated in a whisper, whose despairing bitterness precluded all +resentment. + +“When I put the case to myself, I own it _was_ wrong,” I answered; “but +I can only now regret that I did not see it in this light before, and +that, as you say, nothing can recall the past.” + +Something in my voice or in the spirit of this answer seemed to alter +his mood. Turning towards me, and attentively surveying my face by the +dim light, he said, in a milder tone than he had yet employed,—“You, +too, have suffered, I suppose.” + +“I suffered much, at first.” + +“When was that?” + +“Two years ago; and two years hence you will be as calm as I am now, +and far, far happier, I trust, for you are a man, and free to act as +you please.” + +Something like a smile, but a _very_ bitter one, crossed his face for a +moment. + +“You have not been happy, lately?” he said, with a kind of effort to +regain composure, and a determination to waive the further discussion +of his own calamity. + +“Happy?” I repeated, almost provoked at such a question. “Could I be +so, with such a husband?” + +“I have noticed a change in your appearance since the first years of +your marriage,” pursued he: “I observed it to—to that infernal demon,” +he muttered between his teeth; “and he said it was your own sour temper +that was eating away your bloom: it was making you old and ugly before +your time, and had already made his fireside as comfortless as a +convent cell. You smile, Mrs. Huntingdon; nothing moves you. I wish my +nature were as calm as yours.” + +“My nature was not originally calm,” said I. “I have learned to appear +so by dint of hard lessons and many repeated efforts.” + +At this juncture Mr. Hattersley burst into the room. + +“Hallo, Lowborough!” he began—“Oh! I beg your pardon,” he exclaimed on +seeing me. “I didn’t know it was a _tête-à-tête_. Cheer up, man,” he +continued, giving Lord Lowborough a thump on the back, which caused the +latter to recoil from him with looks of ineffable disgust and +irritation. “Come, I want to speak with you a bit.” + +“Speak, then.” + +“But I’m not sure it would be quite agreeable to the lady what I have +to say.” + +“Then it would not be agreeable to me,” said his lordship, turning to +leave the room. + +“Yes, it would,” cried the other, following him into the hall. “If +you’ve the heart of a man, it would be the very ticket for you. It’s +just this, my lad,” he continued, rather lowering his voice, but not +enough to prevent me from hearing every word he said, though the +half-closed door stood between us. “I think you’re an ill-used man—nay, +now, don’t flare up; I don’t want to offend you: it’s only my rough way +of talking. I must speak right out, you _know_, or else not at all; and +I’m come—stop now! let me explain—I’m come to offer you my services, +for though Huntingdon is my friend, he’s a devilish scamp, as we all +know, and I’ll be _your_ friend for the nonce. I know what it is you +want, to make matters straight: it’s just to exchange a shot with him, +and then you’ll feel yourself all right again; and if an accident +happens—why, that’ll be all right too, I daresay, to a desperate fellow +like you. Come now, give me your hand, and don’t look so black upon it. +Name time and place, and I’ll manage the rest.” + +“That,” answered the more low, deliberate voice of Lord Lowborough, “is +just the remedy my own heart, or the devil within it, suggested—to meet +him, and _not to sever without blood_. Whether I or he should fall, or +both, it would be an _inexpressible_ relief to me, if—” + +“Just so! Well then,—” + +“No!” exclaimed his lordship, with deep, determined emphasis. “Though I +hate him from my heart, and should rejoice at any calamity that could +befall him, I’ll leave him to God; and though I abhor my own life, I’ll +leave that, too, to Him that gave it.” + +“But you see, in this case,” pleaded Hattersley— + +“I’ll not hear you!” exclaimed his companion, hastily turning away. +“Not another word! I’ve enough to do against the fiend within me.” + +“Then you’re a white-livered fool, and I wash my hands of you,” +grumbled the tempter, as he swung himself round and departed. + +“Right, right, Lord Lowborough,” cried I, darting out and clasping his +burning hand, as he was moving away to the stairs. “I begin to think +the world is not worthy of you!” Not understanding this sudden +ebullition, he turned upon me with a stare of gloomy, bewildered +amazement, that made me ashamed of the impulse to which I had yielded; +but soon a more humanised expression dawned upon his countenance, and +before I could withdraw my hand, he pressed it kindly, while a gleam of +genuine feeling flashed from his eyes as he murmured, “God help us +both!” + +“Amen!” responded I; and we parted. + +I returned to the drawing-room, where, doubtless, my presence would be +expected by most, desired by one or two. In the ante-room was Mr. +Hattersley, railing against Lord Lowborough’s poltroonery before a +select audience, viz. Mr. Huntingdon, who was lounging against the +table, exulting in his own treacherous villainy, and laughing his +victim to scorn, and Mr. Grimsby, standing by, quietly rubbing his +hands and chuckling with fiendish satisfaction. + +In the drawing-room I found Lady Lowborough, evidently in no very +enviable state of mind, and struggling hard to conceal her discomposure +by an overstrained affectation of unusual cheerfulness and vivacity, +very uncalled-for under the circumstances, for she had herself given +the company to understand that her husband had received unpleasant +intelligence from home, which necessitated his immediate departure, and +that he had suffered it so to bother his mind that it had brought on a +bilious headache, owing to which, and the preparations he judged +necessary to hasten his departure, she believed they would not have the +pleasure of seeing him to-night. However, she asserted, it was only a +business concern, and so she did not intend it should trouble _her._ +She was just saying this as I entered, and she darted upon me such a +glance of hardihood and defiance as at once astonished and revolted me. + +“But I _am_ troubled,” continued she, “and vexed too, for I think it my +duty to accompany his lordship, and of course I am very sorry to part +with all my kind friends so unexpectedly and so soon.” + +“And yet, Annabella,” said Esther, who was sitting beside her, “I never +saw you in better spirits in my life.” + +“Precisely so, my love: because I wish to make the best of your +society, since it appears this is to be the last night I am to enjoy it +till heaven knows when; and I wish to leave a good impression on you +all,”—she glanced round, and seeing her aunt’s eye fixed upon her, +rather too scrutinizingly, as she probably thought, she started up and +continued: “To which end I’ll give you a song—shall I, aunt? shall I, +Mrs. Huntingdon? shall I ladies and gentlemen all? Very well. I’ll do +my best to amuse you.” + +She and Lord Lowborough occupied the apartments next to mine. I know +not how _she_ passed the night, but I lay awake the greater part of it +listening to his heavy step pacing monotonously up and down his +dressing-room, which was nearest my chamber. Once I heard him pause and +throw something out of the window with a passionate ejaculation; and in +the morning, after they were gone, a keen-bladed clasp-knife was found +on the grass-plot below; a razor, likewise, was snapped in two and +thrust deep into the cinders of the grate, but partially corroded by +the decaying embers. So strong had been the temptation to end his +miserable life, so determined his resolution to resist it. + +My heart bled for him as I lay listening to that ceaseless tread. +Hitherto I had thought too much of myself, too little of him: now I +forgot my own afflictions, and thought only of his; of the ardent +affection so miserably wasted, the fond faith so cruelly betrayed, +the—no, I will not attempt to enumerate his wrongs—but I hated his wife +and my husband more intensely than ever, and not for my sake, but for +his. + +They departed early in the morning, before any one else was down, +except myself, and just as I was leaving my room Lord Lowborough was +descending to take his place in the carriage, where his lady was +already ensconced; and Arthur (or Mr. Huntingdon, as I prefer calling +him, for the other is my child’s name) had the gratuitous insolence to +come out in his dressing-gown to bid his “friend” good-by. + +“What, going already, Lowborough!” said he. “Well, good-morning.” He +smilingly offered his hand. + +I think the other would have knocked him down, had he not instinctively +started back before that bony fist quivering with rage and clenched +till the knuckles gleamed white and glistening through the skin. +Looking upon him with a countenance livid with furious hate, Lord +Lowborough muttered between his closed teeth a deadly execration he +would not have uttered had he been calm enough to choose his words, and +departed. + +“I call that an unchristian spirit now,” said the villain. “But I’d +never give up an old friend for the sake of a wife. You may have mine +if you like, and I call that handsome; I can do no more than offer +restitution, can I?” + +But Lowborough had gained the bottom of the stairs, and was now +crossing the hall; and Mr. Huntingdon, leaning over the banisters, +called out, “Give my love to Annabella! and I wish you both a happy +journey,” and withdrew, laughing, to his chamber. + +He subsequently expressed himself rather glad she was gone. “She was so +deuced imperious and exacting,” said he. “Now I shall be my own man +again, and feel rather more at my ease.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXXIX + + +My greatest source of uneasiness, in this time of trial, was my son, +whom his father and his father’s friends delighted to encourage in all +the embryo vices a little child can show, and to instruct in all the +evil habits he could acquire—in a word, to “make a man of him” was one +of their staple amusements; and I need say no more to justify my alarm +on his account, and my determination to deliver him at any hazard from +the hands of such instructors. I first attempted to keep him always +with me, or in the nursery, and gave Rachel particular injunctions +never to let him come down to dessert as long as these “gentlemen” +stayed; but it was no use: these orders were immediately countermanded +and overruled by his father; he was not going to have the little fellow +moped to death between an old nurse and a cursed fool of a mother. So +the little fellow came down every evening in spite of his cross mamma, +and learned to tipple wine like papa, to swear like Mr. Hattersley, and +to have his own way like a man, and sent mamma to the devil when she +tried to prevent him. To see such things done with the roguish naïveté +of that pretty little child, and hear such things spoken by that small +infantile voice, was as peculiarly piquant and irresistibly droll to +them as it was inexpressibly distressing and painful to me; and when he +had set the table in a roar he would look round delightedly upon them +all, and add his shrill laugh to theirs. But if that beaming blue eye +rested on me, its light would vanish for a moment, and he would say, in +some concern, “Mamma, why don’t _you_ laugh? Make her laugh, papa—she +never will.” + +Hence was I obliged to stay among these human brutes, watching an +opportunity to get my child away from them instead of leaving them +immediately after the removal of the cloth, as I should always +otherwise have done. He was never willing to go, and I frequently had +to carry him away by force, for which he thought me very cruel and +unjust; and sometimes his father would insist upon my letting him +remain; and then I would leave him to his kind friends, and retire to +indulge my bitterness and despair alone, or to rack my brains for a +remedy to this great evil. + +But here again I must do Mr. Hargrave the justice to acknowledge that I +never saw _him_ laugh at the child’s misdemeanours, nor heard him utter +a word of encouragement to his aspirations after manly accomplishments. +But when anything very extraordinary was said or done by the infant +profligate, I noticed, at times, a peculiar expression in his face that +I could neither interpret nor define: a slight twitching about the +muscles of the mouth; a sudden flash in the eye, as he darted a sudden +glance at the child and then at me: and then I could fancy there arose +a gleam of hard, keen, sombre satisfaction in his countenance at the +look of impotent wrath and anguish he was too certain to behold in +mine. But on one occasion, when Arthur had been behaving particularly +ill, and Mr. Huntingdon and his guests had been particularly provoking +and insulting to me in their encouragement of him, and I particularly +anxious to get him out of the room, and on the very point of demeaning +myself by a burst of uncontrollable passion—Mr. Hargrave suddenly rose +from his seat with an aspect of stern determination, lifted the child +from his father’s knee, where he was sitting half-tipsy, cocking his +head and laughing at me, and execrating me with words he little knew +the meaning of, handed him out of the room, and, setting him down in +the hall, held the door open for me, gravely bowed as I withdrew, and +closed it after me. I heard high words exchanged between him and his +already half-inebriated host as I departed, leading away my bewildered +and disconcerted boy. + +But this should not continue: my child must not be abandoned to this +corruption: better far that he should live in poverty and obscurity, +with a fugitive mother, than in luxury and affluence with such a +father. These guests might not be with us long, but they would return +again: and he, the most injurious of the whole, his child’s worst +enemy, would still remain. I could endure it for myself, but for my son +it must be borne no longer: the world’s opinion and the feelings of my +friends must be alike unheeded here, at least—alike unable to deter me +from my duty. But where should I find an asylum, and how obtain +subsistence for us both? Oh, I would take my precious charge at early +dawn, take the coach to M——, flee to the port of ——, cross the +Atlantic, and seek a quiet, humble home in New England, where I would +support myself and him by the labour of my hands. The palette and the +easel, my darling playmates once, must be my sober toil-fellows now. +But was I sufficiently skilful as an artist to obtain my livelihood in +a strange land, without friends and without recommendation? No; I must +wait a little; I must labour hard to improve my talent, and to produce +something worth while as a specimen of my powers, something to speak +favourably for me, whether as an actual painter or a teacher. Brilliant +success, of course, I did not look for, but some degree of security +from positive failure was indispensable: I must not take my son to +starve. And then I must have money for the journey, the passage, and +some little to support us in our retreat in case I should be +unsuccessful at first: and not too little either: for who could tell +how long I might have to struggle with the indifference or neglect of +others, or my own inexperience or inability to suit their tastes? + +What should I do then? Apply to my brother and explain my circumstances +and my resolves to him? No, no: even if I told him _all_ my grievances, +which I should be very reluctant to do, he would be certain to +disapprove of the step: it would seem like madness to him, as it would +to my uncle and aunt, or to Milicent. No; I must have patience and +gather a hoard of my own. Rachel should be my only confidante—I thought +I could persuade her into the scheme; and she should help me, first, to +find out a picture-dealer in some distant town; then, through her +means, I would privately sell what pictures I had on hand that would do +for such a purpose, and some of those I should thereafter paint. +Besides this, I would contrive to dispose of my jewels, not the family +jewels, but the few I brought with me from home, and those my uncle +gave me on my marriage. A few months’ arduous toil might well be borne +by me with such an end in view; and in the interim my son could not be +much more injured than he was already. + +Having formed this resolution, I immediately set to work to accomplish +it, I might possibly have been induced to wax cool upon it afterwards, +or perhaps to keep weighing the pros and cons in my mind till the +latter overbalanced the former, and I was driven to relinquish the +project altogether, or delay the execution of it to an indefinite +period, had not something occurred to confirm me in that determination, +to which I still adhere, which I still think I did well to form, and +shall do better to execute. + +Since Lord Lowborough’s departure I had regarded the library as +entirely my own, a secure retreat at all hours of the day. None of our +gentlemen had the smallest pretensions to a literary taste, except Mr. +Hargrave; and he, at present, was quite contented with the newspapers +and periodicals of the day. And if, by any chance, he should look in +here, I felt assured he would soon depart on seeing me, for, instead of +becoming less cool and distant towards me, he had become decidedly more +so since the departure of his mother and sisters, which was just what I +wished. Here, then, I set up my easel, and here I worked at my canvas +from daylight till dusk, with very little intermission, saving when +pure necessity, or my duties to little Arthur, called me away: for I +still thought proper to devote some portion of every day exclusively to +his instruction and amusement. But, contrary to my expectation, on the +third morning, while I was thus employed, Mr. Hargrave _did_ look in, +and did _not_ immediately withdraw on seeing me. He apologized for his +intrusion, and said he was only come for a book; but when he had got +it, he condescended to cast a glance over my picture. Being a man of +taste, he had something to say on this subject as well as another, and +having modestly commented on it, without much encouragement from me, he +proceeded to expatiate on the art in general. Receiving no +encouragement in that either, he dropped it, but did not depart. + +“You don’t give us much of your company, Mrs. Huntingdon,” observed he, +after a brief pause, during which I went on coolly mixing and tempering +my colours; “and I cannot wonder at it, for you must be heartily sick +of us all. I myself am so thoroughly ashamed of my companions, and so +weary of their irrational conversation and pursuits—now that there is +no one to humanize them and keep them in check, since you have justly +abandoned us to our own devices—that I think I shall presently withdraw +from amongst them, probably within this week; and I cannot suppose you +will regret my departure.” + +He paused. I did not answer. + +“Probably,” he added, with a smile, “your only regret on the subject +will be that I do not take all my companions along with me. I flatter +myself, at times, that though among them I am not of them; but it is +natural that you should be glad to get rid of me. I may regret this, +but I cannot blame you for it.” + +“I shall not rejoice at _your_ departure, for you _can_ conduct +yourself like a gentleman,” said I, thinking it but right to make some +acknowledgment for his good behaviour; “but I must confess I shall +rejoice to bid adieu to the rest, inhospitable as it may appear.” + +“No one can blame you for such an avowal,” replied he gravely: “not +even the gentlemen themselves, I imagine. I’ll just tell you,” he +continued, as if actuated by a sudden resolution, “what was said last +night in the dining-room, after you left us: perhaps you will not mind +it, as you’re so _very_ philosophical on certain points,” he added with +a slight sneer. “They were talking about Lord Lowborough and his +delectable lady, the cause of whose sudden departure is no secret +amongst them; and her character is so well known to them all, that, +nearly related to me as she is, I could not attempt to defend it. Curse +me!” he muttered, _par parenthése_, “if I don’t have vengeance for +this! If the villain must disgrace the family, must he blazon it abroad +to every low-bred knave of his acquaintance? I beg your pardon, Mrs. +Huntingdon. Well, they were talking of these things, and some of them +remarked that, as she was separated from her husband, he might see her +again when he pleased.” + +“‘Thank you,’ said he; ‘I’ve had enough of her for the present: I’ll +not trouble to see her, unless she comes to me.’ + +“‘Then what do you mean to do, Huntingdon, when we’re gone?’ said Ralph +Hattersley. ‘Do you mean to turn from the error of your ways, and be a +good husband, a good father, and so forth; as I do, when I get shut of +you and all these rollicking devils you call your friends? I think it’s +time; and your wife is fifty times too good for you, you _know_—’ + +“And he added some praise of you, which you would not thank me for +repeating, nor him for uttering; proclaiming it aloud, as he did, +without delicacy or discrimination, in an audience where it seemed +profanation to utter your name: himself utterly incapable of +understanding or appreciating your real excellences. Huntingdon, +meanwhile, sat quietly drinking his wine,—or looking smilingly into his +glass and offering no interruption or reply, till Hattersley shouted +out,—‘Do you hear me, man?’ + +“‘Yes, go on,’ said he. + +“‘Nay, I’ve done,’ replied the other: ‘I only want to know if you +intend to take my advice.’ + +“‘What advice?’ + +“‘To turn over a new leaf, you double-dyed scoundrel,’ shouted Ralph, +‘and beg your wife’s pardon, and be a good boy for the future.’ + +“‘My wife! what wife? I have no wife,’ replied Huntingdon, looking +innocently up from his glass, ‘or if I have, look you, gentlemen: I +value her so highly that any one among you, that can fancy her, may +have her and welcome: you may, by Jove, and my blessing into the +bargain!’ + +“I—hem—someone asked if he really meant what he said; upon which he +solemnly swore he did, and no mistake. What do you think of that, Mrs. +Huntingdon?” asked Mr. Hargrave, after a short pause, during which I +had felt he was keenly examining my half-averted face. + +“I say,” replied I, calmly, “that what he prizes so lightly will not be +long in his possession.” + +“You cannot mean that you will break your heart and die for the +detestable conduct of an infamous villain like that!” + +“By no means: my heart is too thoroughly dried to be broken in a hurry, +and I mean to live as long as I can.” + +“Will you leave him then?” + +“Yes.” + +“When: and how?” asked he, eagerly. + +“_When_ I am ready, and _how_ I can manage it most effectually.” + +“But your child?” + +“My child goes with me.” + +“He will not allow it.” + +“I shall not ask him.” + +“Ah, then, it is a secret flight you meditate! but with whom, Mrs. +Huntingdon?” + +“With my son: and possibly, his nurse.” + +“Alone—and unprotected! But where can you go? what can you do? He will +follow you and bring you back.” + +“I have laid my plans too well for that. Let me once get clear of +Grassdale, and I shall consider myself safe.” + +Mr. Hargrave advanced one step towards me, looked me in the face, and +drew in his breath to speak; but that look, that heightened colour, +that sudden sparkle of the eye, made my blood rise in wrath: I abruptly +turned away, and, snatching up my brush, began to dash away at my +canvas with rather too much energy for the good of the picture. + +“Mrs. Huntingdon,” said he with bitter solemnity, “you are cruel—cruel +to me—cruel to yourself.” + +“Mr. Hargrave, remember your promise.” + +“I _must_ speak: my heart will burst if I don’t! I have been silent +long enough, and you _must_ hear me!” cried he, boldly intercepting my +retreat to the door. “You tell me you owe no allegiance to your +husband; he openly declares himself weary of you, and calmly gives you +up to anybody that will take you; you are about to leave him; no one +will believe that you go alone; all the world will say, ‘She has left +him at last, and who can wonder at it? Few can blame her, fewer still +can pity him; but who is the companion of her flight?’ Thus you will +have no credit for your virtue (if you call it such): even your best +friends will not believe in it; because it is monstrous, and not to be +credited but by those who suffer, from the effects of it, such cruel +torments that they know it to be indeed reality. But what can you do in +the cold, rough world alone? you, a young and inexperienced woman, +delicately nurtured, and utterly—” + +“In a word, you would advise me to stay where I am,” interrupted I. +“Well, I’ll see about it.” + +“By _all means_, leave him!” cried he earnestly; “but NOT alone! Helen! +let _me_ protect you!” + +“Never! while heaven spares my reason,” replied I, snatching away the +hand he had presumed to seize and press between his own. But he was in +for it now; he had fairly broken the barrier: he was completely roused, +and determined to hazard all for victory. + +“I must not be denied!” exclaimed he, vehemently; and seizing both my +hands, he held them very tight, but dropped upon his knee, and looked +up in my face with a half-imploring, half-imperious gaze. “You have no +reason now: you are flying in the face of heaven’s decrees. God has +designed me to be your comfort and protector—I feel it, I know it as +certainly as if a voice from heaven declared, ‘Ye twain shall be one +flesh’—and you spurn me from you—” + +“Let me go, Mr. Hargrave!” said I, sternly. But he only tightened his +grasp. + +“Let me go!” I repeated, quivering with indignation. + +His face was almost opposite the window as he knelt. With a slight +start, I saw him glance towards it; and then a gleam of malicious +triumph lit up his countenance. Looking over my shoulder, I beheld a +shadow just retiring round the corner. + +“That is Grimsby,” said he deliberately. “He will report what he has +seen to Huntingdon and all the rest, with such embellishments as he +thinks proper. He has no love for you, Mrs. Huntingdon—no reverence for +your sex, no belief in virtue, no admiration for its image. He will +give such a version of this story as will leave no doubt at all about +your character, in the minds of those who hear it. Your fair fame is +gone; and nothing that I or you can say can ever retrieve it. But give +me the power to protect you, and show me the villain that dares to +insult!” + +“No one has ever dared to insult me as you are doing now!” said I, at +length releasing my hands, and recoiling from him. + +“I do not insult you,” cried he: “I worship you. You are my angel, my +divinity! I lay my powers at your feet, and you must and shall accept +them!” he exclaimed, impetuously starting to his feet. “I _will_ be +your consoler and defender! and if your conscience upbraid you for it, +say I overcame you, and you could not choose but yield!” + +I never saw a man go terribly excited. He precipitated himself towards +me. I snatched up my palette-knife and held it against him. This +startled him: he stood and gazed at me in astonishment; I daresay I +looked as fierce and resolute as he. I moved to the bell, and put my +hand upon the cord. This tamed him still more. With a +half-authoritative, half-deprecating wave of the hand, he sought to +deter me from ringing. + +“Stand off, then!” said I; he stepped back. “And listen to me. I don’t +like you,” I continued, as deliberately and emphatically as I could, to +give the greater efficacy to my words; “and if I were divorced from my +husband, or if he were dead, I would not marry you. There now! I hope +you’re satisfied.” + +His face grew blanched with anger. + +“I _am_ satisfied,” he replied, with bitter emphasis, “that you are the +most cold-hearted, unnatural, ungrateful woman I ever yet beheld!” + +“Ungrateful, sir?” + +“Ungrateful.” + +“No, Mr. Hargrave, I am not. For all the good you ever did me, or ever +wished to do, I most sincerely thank you: for all the evil you have +done me, and all you would have done, I pray God to pardon you, and +make you of a better mind.” + +Here the door was thrown open, and Messrs. Huntingdon and Hattersley +appeared without. The latter remained in the hall, busy with his ramrod +and his gun; the former walked in, and stood with his back to the fire, +surveying Mr. Hargrave and me, particularly the former, with a smile of +insupportable meaning, accompanied as it was by the impudence of his +brazen brow, and the sly, malicious, twinkle of his eye. + +“Well, sir?” said Hargrave, interrogatively, and with the air of one +prepared to stand on the defensive. + +“Well, sir,” returned his host. + +“We want to know if you are at liberty to join us in a go at the +pheasants, Walter,” interposed Hattersley from without. “Come! there +shall be nothing shot besides, except a puss or two; _I’ll_ vouch for +that.” + +Walter did not answer, but walked to the window to collect his +faculties. Arthur uttered a low whistle, and followed him with his +eyes. A slight flush of anger rose to Hargrave’s cheek; but in a moment +he turned calmly round, and said carelessly: + +“I came here to bid farewell to Mrs. Huntingdon, and tell her I must go +to-morrow.” + +“Humph! You’re mighty sudden in your resolution. What takes you off so +soon, may I ask?” + +“Business,” returned he, repelling the other’s incredulous sneer with a +glance of scornful defiance. + +“Very good,” was the reply; and Hargrave walked away. Thereupon Mr. +Huntingdon, gathering his coat-laps under his arms, and setting his +shoulder against the mantel-piece, turned to me, and, addressing me in +a low voice, scarcely above his breath, poured forth a volley of the +vilest and grossest abuse it was possible for the imagination to +conceive or the tongue to utter. I did not attempt to interrupt him; +but my spirit kindled within me, and when he had done, I replied, “If +your accusation were true, Mr. Huntingdon, how _dare you_ blame me?” + +“She’s hit it, by Jove!” cried Hattersley, rearing his gun against the +wall; and, stepping into the room, he took his precious friend by the +arm, and attempted to drag him away. “Come, my lad,” he muttered; “true +or false, _you’ve_ no right to blame her, you _know_, nor him either; +after what you said last night. So come along.” + +There was something implied here that I could not endure. + +“Dare you suspect me, Mr. Hattersley?” said I, almost beside myself +with fury. + +“Nay, nay, I suspect nobody. It’s all right, it’s all right. So come +along, Huntingdon, you blackguard.” + +“She can’t deny it!” cried the gentleman thus addressed, grinning in +mingled rage and triumph. “She can’t deny it if her life depended on +it!” and muttering some more abusive language, he walked into the hall, +and took up his hat and gun from the table. + +“I scorn to justify myself to you!” said I. “But you,” turning to +Hattersley, “if you presume to have any doubts on the subject, ask Mr. +Hargrave.” + +At this they simultaneously burst into a rude laugh that made my whole +frame tingle to the fingers’ ends. + +“Where is he? I’ll ask him myself!” said I, advancing towards them. + +Suppressing a new burst of merriment, Hattersley pointed to the outer +door. It was half open. His brother-in-law was standing on the front +without. + +“Mr. Hargrave, will you please to step this way?” said I. + +He turned and looked at me in grave surprise. + +“Step this way, if you please!” I repeated, in so determined a manner +that he could not, or did not choose to resist its authority. Somewhat +reluctantly he ascended the steps and advanced a pace or two into the +hall. + +“And tell those gentlemen,” I continued—“these men, whether or not I +yielded to your solicitations.” + +“I don’t understand you, Mrs. Huntingdon.” + +“You _do_ understand me, sir; and I charge you, upon your honour as a +gentleman (if you have any), to answer truly. Did I, or did I not?” + +“No,” muttered he, turning away. + +“Speak up, sir; they can’t hear you. Did I grant your request? + +“You did not.” + +“No, I’ll be sworn she didn’t,” said Hattersley, “or he’d never look so +black.” + +“I’m willing to grant you the satisfaction of a gentleman, Huntingdon,” +said Mr. Hargrave, calmly addressing his host, but with a bitter sneer +upon his countenance. + +“Go to the deuce!” replied the latter, with an impatient jerk of the +head. Hargrave withdrew with a look of cold disdain, saying,—“You know +where to find me, should you feel disposed to send a friend.” + +Muttered oaths and curses were all the answer this intimation obtained. + +“Now, Huntingdon, you see!” said Hattersley. “Clear as the day.” + +“I don’t care _what_ he sees,” said I, “or what he imagines; but you, +Mr. Hattersley, when you hear my name belied and slandered, will you +defend it?” + +“I will.” + +I instantly departed and shut myself into the library. What could +possess me to make such a request of such a man I cannot tell; but +drowning men catch at straws: they had driven me desperate between +them; I hardly knew what I said. There was no other to preserve my name +from being blackened and aspersed among this nest of boon companions, +and through them, perhaps, into the world; and beside my abandoned +wretch of a husband, the base, malignant Grimsby, and the false villain +Hargrave, this boorish ruffian, coarse and brutal as he was, shone like +a glow-worm in the dark, among its fellow worms. + +What a scene was this! Could I ever have imagined that I should be +doomed to bear such insults under my own roof—to hear such things +spoken in my presence; nay, spoken _to_ me and _of_ me; and by those +who arrogated to themselves the name of gentlemen? And could I have +imagined that I should have been able to endure it as calmly, and to +repel their insults as firmly and as boldly as I had done? A hardness +such as this is taught by rough experience and despair alone. + +Such thoughts as these chased one another through my mind, as I paced +to and fro the room, and longed—oh, _how_ I longed—to take my child and +leave them now, without an hour’s delay! But it could not be; there was +work before me: hard work, that must be done. + +“Then let me do it,” said I, “and lose not a moment in vain repinings +and idle chafings against my fate, and those who influence it.” + +And conquering my agitation with a powerful effort, I immediately +resumed my task, and laboured hard all day. + +Mr. Hargrave did depart on the morrow; and I have never seen him since. +The others stayed on for two or three weeks longer; but I kept aloof +from them as much as possible, and still continued my labour, and have +continued it, with almost unabated ardour, to the present day. I soon +acquainted Rachel with my design, confiding all my motives and +intentions to her ear, and, much to my agreeable surprise, found little +difficulty in persuading her to enter into my views. She is a sober, +cautious woman, but she so hates her master, and so loves her mistress +and her nursling, that after several ejaculations, a few faint +objections, and many tears and lamentations that I should be brought to +such a pass, she applauded my resolution and consented to aid me with +all her might: on one condition only: that she might share my exile: +otherwise, she was utterly inexorable, regarding it as perfect madness +for me and Arthur to go alone. With touching generosity, she modestly +offered to aid me with her little hoard of savings, hoping I would +“excuse her for the liberty, but really, if I would do her the favour +to accept it as a loan, she would be very happy.” Of course I could not +think of such a thing; but now, thank heaven, I have gathered a little +hoard of my own, and my preparations are so far advanced that I am +looking forward to a speedy emancipation. Only let the stormy severity +of this winter weather be somewhat abated, and then, some morning, Mr. +Huntingdon will come down to a solitary breakfast-table, and perhaps be +clamouring through the house for his invisible wife and child, when +they are some fifty miles on their way to the Western world, or it may +be more: for we shall leave him hours before the dawn, and it is not +probable he will discover the loss of both until the day is far +advanced. + +I am fully alive to the evils that may and must result upon the step I +am about to take; but I never waver in my resolution, because I never +forget my son. It was only this morning, while I pursued my usual +employment, he was sitting at my feet, quietly playing with the shreds +of canvas I had thrown upon the carpet; but his mind was otherwise +occupied, for, in a while, he looked up wistfully in my face, and +gravely asked,—“Mamma, why are you wicked?” + +“Who told you I was wicked, love?” + +“Rachel.” + +“No, Arthur, Rachel never said so, I am certain.” + +“Well, then, it was papa,” replied he, thoughtfully. Then, after a +reflective pause, he added, “At least, I’ll tell you how it was I got +to know: when I’m with papa, if I say mamma wants me, or mamma says I’m +not to do something that he tells me to do, he always says, ‘Mamma be +damned,’ and Rachel says it’s only wicked people that are damned. So, +mamma, that’s why I think you must be wicked: and I wish you wouldn’t.” + +“My dear child, I am not. Those are bad words, and wicked people often +say them of others better than themselves. Those words cannot make +people be damned, nor show that they deserve it. God will judge us by +our own thoughts and deeds, not by what others say about us. And when +you hear such words spoken, Arthur, remember never to repeat them: it +is wicked to say such things of others, not to have them said against +you.” + +“Then it’s papa that’s wicked,” said he, ruefully. + +“Papa is wrong to say such things, and you will be very wrong to +imitate him now that you know better.” + +“What _is_ imitate?” + +“To do as he does.” + +“Does _he_ know better?” + +“Perhaps he does; but that is nothing to you.” + +“If he doesn’t, you ought to tell him, mamma.” + +“I _have_ told him.” + +The little moralist paused and pondered. I tried in vain to divert his +mind from the subject. + +“I’m sorry papa’s wicked,” said he mournfully, at length, “for I don’t +want him to go to hell.” And so saying he burst into tears. + +I consoled him with the hope that perhaps his papa would alter and +become good before he died—; but is it not time to deliver him from +such a parent? + + + + + CHAPTER XL + + +January 10th, 1827.—While writing the above, yesterday evening, I sat +in the drawing-room. Mr. Huntingdon was present, but, as I thought, +asleep on the sofa behind me. He had risen, however, unknown to me, +and, actuated by some base spirit of curiosity, been looking over my +shoulder for I know not how long; for when I had laid aside my pen, and +was about to close the book, he suddenly placed his hand upon it, and +saying,—“With your leave, my dear, I’ll have a look at this,” forcibly +wrested it from me, and, drawing a chair to the table, composedly sat +down to examine it: turning back leaf after leaf to find an explanation +of what he had read. Unluckily for me, he was more sober that night +than he usually is at such an hour. + +Of course I did not leave him to pursue this occupation in quiet: I +made several attempts to snatch the book from his hands, but he held it +too firmly for that; I upbraided him in bitterness and scorn for his +mean and dishonourable conduct, but that had no effect upon him; and, +finally, I extinguished both the candles, but he only wheeled round to +the fire, and raising a blaze sufficient for his purposes, calmly +continued the investigation. I had serious thoughts of getting a +pitcher of water and extinguishing that light too; but it was evident +his curiosity was too keenly excited to be quenched by that, and the +more I manifested my anxiety to baffle his scrutiny, the greater would +be his determination to persist in it, besides it was too late. + +“It seems very interesting, love,” said he, lifting his head and +turning to where I stood, wringing my hands in silent rage and anguish; +“but it’s rather long; I’ll look at it some other time; and meanwhile +I’ll trouble you for your keys, my dear.” + +“What keys?” + +“The keys of your cabinet, desk, drawers, and whatever else you +possess,” said he, rising and holding out his hand. + +“I’ve not got them,” I replied. The key of my desk, in fact, was at +that moment in the lock, and the others were attached to it. + +“Then you must send for them,” said he; “and if that old devil, Rachel, +doesn’t immediately deliver them up, she tramps bag and baggage +tomorrow.” + +“She doesn’t know where they are,” I answered, quietly placing my hand +upon them, and taking them from the desk, as I thought, unobserved. +“_I_ know, but I shall not give them up without a reason.” + +“And _I_ know, too,” said he, suddenly seizing my closed hand and +rudely abstracting them from it. He then took up one of the candles and +relighted it by thrusting it into the fire. + +“Now, then,” sneered he, “we must have a confiscation of property. But, +first, let us take a peep into the studio.” + +And putting the keys into his pocket, he walked into the library. I +followed, whether with the dim idea of preventing mischief, or only to +know the worst, I can hardly tell. My painting materials were laid +together on the corner table, ready for to-morrow’s use, and only +covered with a cloth. He soon spied them out, and putting down the +candle, deliberately proceeded to cast them into the fire: palette, +paints, bladders, pencils, brushes, varnish: I saw them all consumed: +the palette-knives snapped in two, the oil and turpentine sent hissing +and roaring up the chimney. He then rang the bell. + +“Benson, take those things away,” said he, pointing to the easel, +canvas, and stretcher; “and tell the housemaid she may kindle the fire +with them: your mistress won’t want them any more.” + +Benson paused aghast and looked at me. + +“Take them away, Benson,” said I; and his master muttered an oath. + +“And this and all, sir?” said the astonished servant, referring to the +half-finished picture. + +“That and all,” replied the master; and the things were cleared away. + +Mr. Huntingdon then went up-stairs. I did not attempt to follow him, +but remained seated in the arm-chair, speechless, tearless, and almost +motionless, till he returned about half-an-hour after, and walking up +to me, held the candle in my face and peered into my eyes with looks +and laughter too insulting to be borne. With a sudden stroke of my hand +I dashed the candle to the floor. + +“Hal-lo!” muttered he, starting back; “she’s the very devil for spite. +Did _ever_ any mortal see such eyes?—they shine in the dark like a +cat’s. _Oh_, you’re a sweet one!” So saying, he gathered up the candle +and the candlestick. The former being broken as well as extinguished, +he rang for another. + +“Benson, your mistress has broken the candle; bring another.” + +“You expose yourself finely,” observed I, as the man departed. + +“I didn’t say _I’d_ broken it, did I?” returned he. He then threw my +keys into my lap, saying,—“There! you’ll find nothing gone but your +money, and the jewels, and a few little trifles I thought it advisable +to take into my own possession, lest your mercantile spirit should be +tempted to turn them into gold. I’ve left you a few sovereigns in your +purse, which I expect to last you through the month; at all events, +when you want more you will be so good as to give me an account of how +that’s spent. I shall put you upon a small monthly allowance, in +future, for your own private expenses; and you needn’t trouble yourself +any more about my concerns; I shall look out for a steward, my dear—I +won’t expose you to the temptation. And as for the household matters, +Mrs. Greaves must be very particular in keeping her accounts; we must +go upon an entirely new plan—” + +“What great discovery have you made now, Mr. Huntingdon? Have I +attempted to defraud you?” + +“Not in money matters, exactly, it seems; but it’s best to keep out of +the way of temptation.” + +Here Benson entered with the candles, and there followed a brief +interval of silence; I sitting still in my chair, and he standing with +his back to the fire, silently triumphing in my despair. + +“And so,” said he at length, “you thought to disgrace me, did you, by +running away and turning artist, and supporting yourself by the labour +of your hands, forsooth? And you thought to rob me of my son, too, and +bring him up to be a dirty Yankee tradesman, or a low, beggarly +painter?” + +“Yes, to obviate his becoming such a gentleman as his father.” + +“It’s well you couldn’t keep your own secret—ha, ha! It’s well these +women must be blabbing. If they haven’t a friend to talk to, they must +whisper their secrets to the fishes, or write them on the sand, or +something; and it’s well, too, I wasn’t over full to-night, now I think +of it, or I might have snoozed away and never dreamt of looking what my +sweet lady was about; or I might have lacked the sense or the power to +carry my point like a man, as I have done.” + +Leaving him to his self-congratulations, I rose to secure my +manuscript, for I now remembered it had been left upon the drawing-room +table, and I determined, if possible, to save myself the humiliation of +seeing it in his hands again. I could not bear the idea of his amusing +himself over my secret thoughts and recollections; though, to be sure, +he would find little good of himself therein indited, except in the +former part; and oh, I would sooner burn it all than he should read +what I had written when I was such a fool as to love him! + +“And by-the-by,” cried he, as I was leaving the room, “you’d better +tell that d—d old sneak of a nurse to keep out of my way for a day or +two; I’d pay her her wages and send her packing to-morrow, but I know +she’d do more mischief out of the house than in it.” + +And as I departed, he went on cursing and abusing my faithful friend +and servant with epithets I will not defile this paper with repeating. +I went to her as soon as I had put away my book, and told her how our +project was defeated. She was as much distressed and horrified as I +was—and more so than I was that night, for I was partly stunned by the +blow, and partly excited and supported against it by the bitterness of +my wrath. But in the morning, when I woke without that cheering hope +that had been my secret comfort and support so long, and all this day, +when I have wandered about restless and objectless, shunning my +husband, shrinking even from my child, knowing that I am unfit to be +his teacher or companion, hoping nothing for his future life, and +fervently wishing he had never been born,—I felt the full extent of my +calamity, and I feel it now. I know that day after day such feelings +will return upon me. I am a slave—a prisoner—but that is nothing; if it +were myself alone I would not complain, but I am forbidden to rescue my +son from ruin, and what was once my only consolation is become the +crowning source of my despair. + +Have I no faith in God? I try to look to Him and raise my heart to +heaven, but it will cleave to the dust. I can only say, “He hath hedged +me about, that I cannot get out: He hath made my chain heavy. He hath +filled me with bitterness—He hath made me drunken with wormwood.” I +forget to add, “But though He cause grief, yet will He have compassion +according to the multitude of His mercies. For He doth not afflict +willingly nor grieve the children of men.” I ought to think of this; +and if there be nothing but sorrow for me in this world, what is the +longest life of misery to a whole eternity of peace? And for my little +Arthur—has he no friend but me? Who was it said, “It is not the will of +your Father which is in heaven that one of these little ones should +perish?” + + + + + CHAPTER XLI + + +March 20th.—Having now got rid of Mr. Huntingdon for a season, my +spirits begin to revive. He left me early in February; and the moment +he was gone, I breathed again, and felt my vital energy return; not +with the hope of escape—he has taken care to leave me no visible chance +of that—but with a determination to make the best of existing +circumstances. Here was Arthur left to me at last; and rousing from my +despondent apathy, I exerted all my powers to eradicate the weeds that +had been fostered in his infant mind, and sow again the good seed they +had rendered unproductive. Thank heaven, it is not a barren or a stony +soil; if weeds spring fast there, so do better plants. His +apprehensions are more quick, his heart more overflowing with affection +than ever his father’s could have been, and it is no hopeless task to +bend him to obedience and win him to love and know his own true friend, +as long as there is no one to counteract my efforts. + +I had much trouble at first in breaking him of those evil habits his +father had taught him to acquire, but already that difficulty is nearly +vanquished now: bad language seldom defiles his mouth, and I have +succeeded in giving him an absolute disgust for all intoxicating +liquors, which I hope not even his father or his father’s friends will +be able to overcome. He was inordinately fond of them for so young a +creature, and, remembering my unfortunate father as well as his, I +dreaded the consequences of such a taste. But if I had stinted him, in +his usual quantity of wine, or forbidden him to taste it altogether, +that would only have increased his partiality for it, and made him +regard it as a greater treat than ever. I therefore gave him quite as +much as his father was accustomed to allow him; as much, indeed, as he +desired to have—but into every glass I surreptitiously introduced a +small quantity of tartar-emetic, just enough to produce inevitable +nausea and depression without positive sickness. Finding such +disagreeable consequences invariably to result from this indulgence, he +soon grew weary of it, but the more he shrank from the daily treat the +more I pressed it upon him, till his reluctance was strengthened to +perfect abhorrence. When he was thoroughly disgusted with every kind of +wine, I allowed him, at his own request, to try brandy-and-water, and +then gin-and-water, for the little toper was familiar with them all, +and I was determined that all should be equally hateful to him. This I +have now effected; and since he declares that the taste, the smell, the +sight of any one of them is sufficient to make him sick, I have given +up teasing him about them, except now and then as objects of terror in +cases of misbehaviour. “Arthur, if you’re not a good boy I shall give +you a glass of wine,” or “Now, Arthur, if you say that again you shall +have some brandy-and-water,” is as good as any other threat; and once +or twice, when he was sick, I have obliged the poor child to swallow a +little wine-and-water _without_ the tartar-emetic, by way of medicine; +and this practice I intend to continue for some time to come; not that +I think it of any real service in a physical sense, but because I am +determined to enlist all the powers of association in my service; I +wish this aversion to be so deeply grounded in his nature that nothing +in after-life may be able to overcome it. + +Thus, I flatter myself, I shall secure him from this one vice; and for +the rest, if on his father’s return I find reason to apprehend that my +good lessons will be all destroyed—if Mr. Huntingdon commence again the +game of teaching the child to hate and despise his mother, and emulate +his father’s wickedness—I will yet deliver my son from his hands. I +have devised another scheme that might be resorted to in such a case; +and if I could but obtain my brother’s consent and assistance, I should +not doubt of its success. The old hall where he and I were born, and +where our mother died, is not now inhabited, nor yet quite sunk into +decay, as I believe. Now, if I could persuade him to have one or two +rooms made habitable, and to let them to me as a stranger, I might live +there, with my child, under an assumed name, and still support myself +by my favourite art. He should lend me the money to begin with, and I +would pay him back, and live in lowly independence and strict +seclusion, for the house stands in a lonely place, and the +neighbourhood is thinly inhabited, and he himself should negotiate the +sale of my pictures for me. I have arranged the whole plan in my head: +and all I want is to persuade Frederick to be of the same mind as +myself. He is coming to see me soon, and then I will make the proposal +to him, having first enlightened him upon my circumstances sufficiently +to excuse the project. + +Already, I believe, he knows much more of my situation than I have told +him. I can tell this by the air of tender sadness pervading his +letters; and by the fact of his so seldom mentioning my husband, and +generally evincing a kind of covert bitterness when he does refer to +him; as well as by the circumstance of his never coming to see me when +Mr. Huntingdon is at home. But he has never openly expressed any +disapprobation of him or sympathy for me; he has never asked any +questions, or said anything to invite my confidence. Had he done so, I +should probably have had but few concealments from him. Perhaps he +feels hurt at my reserve. He is a strange being; I wish we knew each +other better. He used to spend a month at Staningley every year, before +I was married; but, since our father’s death, I have only seen him +once, when he came for a few days while Mr. Huntingdon was away. He +shall stay many days this time, and there shall be more candour and +cordiality between us than ever there was before, since our early +childhood. My heart clings to him more than ever; and my soul is sick +of solitude. + +April 16th.—He is come and gone. He would not stay above a fortnight. +The time passed quickly, but very, very happily, and it has done me +good. I must have a bad disposition, for my misfortunes have soured and +embittered me exceedingly: I was beginning insensibly to cherish very +unamiable feelings against my fellow-mortals, the male part of them +especially; but it is a comfort to see there is at least one among them +worthy to be trusted and esteemed; and doubtless there are more, though +I have never known them, unless I except poor Lord Lowborough, and he +was bad enough in his day. But what would Frederick have been, if he +had lived in the world, and mingled from his childhood with such men as +these of my acquaintance? and what _will_ Arthur be, with all his +natural sweetness of disposition, if I do not save him from that world +and those companions? I mentioned my fears to Frederick, and introduced +the subject of my plan of rescue on the evening after his arrival, when +I presented my little son to his uncle. + +“He is like you, Frederick,” said I, “in some of his moods: I sometimes +think he resembles you more than his father; and I am glad of it.” + +“You flatter me, Helen,” replied he, stroking the child’s soft, wavy +locks. + +“No, you will think it no compliment when I tell you I would rather +have him to resemble _Benson_ than his father.” + +He slightly elevated his eyebrows, but said nothing. + +“Do you know what sort of man Mr. Huntingdon is?” said I. + +“I think I have an idea.” + +“Have you so clear an idea that you can hear, without surprise or +disapproval, that I meditate escaping with that child to some secret +asylum, where we can live in peace, and never see him again?” + +“Is it really so?” + +“If you have not,” continued I, “I’ll tell you something more about +him”; and I gave a sketch of his general conduct, and a more particular +account of his behaviour with regard to his child, and explained my +apprehensions on the latter’s account, and my determination to deliver +him from his father’s influence. + +Frederick was exceedingly indignant against Mr. Huntingdon, and very +much grieved for me; but still he looked upon my project as wild and +impracticable. He deemed my fears for Arthur disproportioned to the +circumstances, and opposed so many objections to my plan, and devised +so many milder methods for ameliorating my condition, that I was +obliged to enter into further details to convince him that my husband +was utterly incorrigible, and that nothing could persuade him to give +up his son, whatever became of me, he being as fully determined the +child should not leave him, as I was not to leave the child; and that, +in fact, nothing would answer but this, unless I fled the country, as I +had intended before. To obviate that, he at length consented to have +one wing of the old hall put into a habitable condition, as a place of +refuge against a time of need; but hoped I would not take advantage of +it unless circumstances should render it really necessary, which I was +ready enough to promise: for though, for my own sake, such a hermitage +appears like paradise itself, compared with my present situation, yet +for my friends’ sakes, for Milicent and Esther, my sisters in heart and +affection, for the poor tenants of Grassdale, and, above all, for my +aunt, I will stay if I possibly can. + +July 29th.—Mrs. Hargrave and her daughter are come back from London. +Esther is full of her first season in town; but she is still +heart-whole and unengaged. Her mother sought out an excellent match for +her, and even brought the gentleman to lay his heart and fortune at her +feet; but Esther had the audacity to refuse the noble gifts. He was a +man of good family and large possessions, but the naughty girl +maintained he was old as Adam, ugly as sin, and hateful as—one who +shall be nameless. + +“But, indeed, I had a hard time of it,” said she: “mamma was very +greatly disappointed at the failure of her darling project, and very, +very angry at my obstinate resistance to her will, and is so still; but +I can’t help it. And Walter, too, is so seriously displeased at my +perversity and absurd caprice, as he calls it, that I fear he will +never forgive me—I did not think he _could_ be so unkind as he has +lately shown himself. But Milicent begged me not to yield, and I’m +sure, Mrs. Huntingdon, if you had seen the man they wanted to palm upon +me, you would have advised me not to take him too.” + +“I should have done so whether I had seen him or not,” said I; “it is +enough that you dislike him.” + +“I knew you would say so; though mamma affirmed you would be quite +shocked at my undutiful conduct. You can’t imagine how she lectures me: +I am disobedient and ungrateful; I am thwarting her wishes, wronging my +brother, and making myself a burden on her hands. I sometimes fear +she’ll overcome me after all. I have a strong will, but so has she, and +when she says such bitter things, it provokes me to such a pass that I +feel inclined to do as she bids me, and then break my heart and say, +‘There, mamma, it’s all your fault!’” + +“Pray don’t!” said I. “Obedience from such a motive would be positive +wickedness, and certain to bring the punishment it deserves. Stand +firm, and your mamma will soon relinquish her persecution; and the +gentleman himself will cease to pester you with his addresses if he +finds them steadily rejected.” + +“Oh, no! mamma will weary all about her before she tires herself with +her exertions; and as for Mr. Oldfield, she has given him to understand +that I have refused his offer, not from any dislike of his person, but +merely because I am giddy and young, and cannot at present reconcile +myself to the thoughts of marriage under any circumstances: but by next +season, she has no doubt, I shall have more sense, and hopes my girlish +fancies will be worn away. So she has brought me home, to school me +into a proper sense of my duty, against the time comes round again. +Indeed, I believe she will not put herself to the expense of taking me +up to London again, unless I surrender: she cannot afford to take me to +town for pleasure and nonsense, she says, and it is not _every_ rich +gentleman that will consent to take me without a fortune, whatever +exalted ideas I may have of my own attractions.” + +“Well, Esther, I pity you; but still, I repeat, stand firm. You might +as well sell yourself to slavery at once, as marry a man you dislike. +If your mother and brother are unkind to you, you may leave them, but +remember you are bound to your husband for life.” + +“But I cannot leave them unless I get married, and I cannot get married +if nobody sees me. I saw one or two gentlemen in London that I might +have liked, but they were younger sons, and mamma would not let me get +to know them—one especially, who I believe rather liked me—but she +threw every possible obstacle in the way of our better acquaintance. +Wasn’t it provoking?” + +“I have no doubt you would feel it so, but it is possible that if you +married him, you might have more reason to regret it hereafter than if +you married Mr. Oldfield. When I tell you not to marry _without_ love, +I do not advise you to marry for love alone: there are many, many other +things to be considered. Keep both heart and hand in your own +possession, till you see good reason to part with them; and if such an +occasion should never present itself, comfort your mind with this +reflection, that though in single life your joys may not be very many, +your sorrows, at least, will not be more than you can bear. Marriage +_may_ change your circumstances for the better, but, in my private +opinion, it is far more likely to produce a contrary result.” + +“So thinks Milicent; but allow me to say _I_ think otherwise. If I +thought myself doomed to old-maidenhood, I should cease to value my +life. The thoughts of living on, year after year, at the Grove—a +hanger-on upon mamma and Walter, a mere cumberer of the ground (now +that I know in what light they would regard it), is perfectly +intolerable; I would rather run away with the butler.” + +“Your circumstances are peculiar, I allow; but have patience, love; do +nothing rashly. Remember you are not yet nineteen, and many years are +yet to pass before any one can set you down as an old maid: you cannot +tell what Providence may have in store for you. And meantime, remember +you have a _right_ to the protection and support of your mother and +brother, however they may seem to grudge it.” + +“You are so grave, Mrs. Huntingdon,” said Esther, after a pause. “When +Milicent uttered the same discouraging sentiments concerning marriage, +I asked if she was happy: she said she was; but I only half believed +her; and now I must put the same question to you.” + +“It is a very impertinent question,” laughed I, “from a young girl to a +married woman so many years her senior, and I shall not answer it.” + +“Pardon me, dear _madam_,” said she, laughingly throwing herself into +my arms, and kissing me with playful affection; but I felt a tear on my +neck, as she dropped her head on my bosom and continued, with an odd +mixture of sadness and levity, timidity and audacity,—“I know you are +not so happy as I mean to be, for you spend half your life alone at +Grassdale, while Mr. Huntingdon goes about enjoying himself where and +how he pleases. I shall expect _my_ husband to have no pleasures but +what he shares with me; and if his greatest pleasure of all is not the +enjoyment of my company, why, it will be the worse for him, that’s +all.” + +“If such are your expectations of matrimony, Esther, you must, indeed, +be careful whom you marry—or rather, you must avoid it altogether.” + + + + + CHAPTER XLII + + +September 1st.—No Mr. Huntingdon yet. Perhaps he will stay among his +friends till Christmas; and then, next spring, he will be off again. If +he continue this plan, I shall be able to stay at Grassdale well +enough—that is, I _shall_ be able to stay, and that is enough; even an +occasional bevy of friends at the shooting season may be borne, if +Arthur get so firmly attached to me, so well established in good sense +and principles before they come that I shall be able, by reason and +affection, to keep him pure from their contaminations. Vain hope, I +fear! but still, till such a time of trial comes I will forbear to +think of my quiet asylum in the beloved old hall. + +Mr. and Mrs. Hattersley have been staying at the Grove a fortnight: and +as Mr. Hargrave is still absent, and the weather was remarkably fine, I +never passed a day without seeing my two friends, Milicent and Esther, +either there or here. On one occasion, when Mr. Hattersley had driven +them over to Grassdale in the phaeton, with little Helen and Ralph, and +we were all enjoying ourselves in the garden—I had a few minutes’ +conversation with that gentleman, while the ladies were amusing +themselves with the children. + +“Do you want to hear anything of your husband, Mrs. Huntingdon?” said +he. + +“No, unless you can tell me when to expect him home.” + +“I can’t.—You don’t want him, do you?” said he, with a broad grin. + +“No.” + +“Well, I think you’re better without him, sure enough—for my part, I’m +downright weary of him. I told him I’d leave him if he didn’t mend his +manners, and he wouldn’t; so I left him. You see, I’m a better man than +you think me; and, what’s more, I have serious thoughts of washing my +hands of him entirely, and the whole set of ’em, and comporting myself +from this day forward with all decency and sobriety, as a Christian and +the father of a family should do. What do you think of that?” + +“It is a resolution you ought to have formed long ago.” + +“Well, I’m not thirty yet; it isn’t too late, is it?” + +“No; it is never too late to reform, as long as you have the sense to +desire it, and the strength to execute your purpose.” + +“Well, to tell you the truth, I’ve thought of it often and often +before; but he’s such devilish good company, is Huntingdon, after all. +You can’t imagine what a jovial good fellow he is when he’s not fairly +drunk, only just primed or half-seas-over. We all have a bit of a +liking for him at the bottom of our hearts, though we can’t respect +him.” + +“But should you wish yourself to be like him?” + +“No, I’d rather be like myself, bad as I am.” + +“You can’t continue as bad as you are without getting worse and more +brutalised every day, and therefore more like him.” + +I could not help smiling at the comical, half-angry, half-confounded +look he put on at this rather unusual mode of address. + +“Never mind my plain speaking,” said I; “it is from the best of +motives. But tell me, should you wish your sons to be like Mr. +Huntingdon—or even like yourself?” + +“Hang it! no.” + +“Should you wish your daughter to despise you—or, at least, to feel no +vestige of respect for you, and no affection but what is mingled with +the bitterest regret?” + +“Oh, no! I couldn’t stand that.” + +“And, finally, should you wish your wife to be ready to sink into the +earth when she hears you mentioned; and to loathe the very sound of +your voice, and shudder at your approach?” + +“She never will; she likes me all the same, whatever I do.” + +“Impossible, Mr. Hattersley! you mistake her quiet submission for +affection.” + +“Fire and fury—” + +“Now don’t burst into a tempest at that. I don’t mean to say she does +not love you—she does, I know, a great deal better than you deserve; +but I am quite sure, that if you behave better, she will love you more, +and if you behave worse, she will love you less and less, till all is +lost in fear, aversion, and bitterness of soul, if not in secret hatred +and contempt. But, dropping the subject of affection, should you wish +to be the tyrant of her life—to take away all the sunshine from her +existence, and make her thoroughly miserable?” + +“Of course not; and I don’t, and I’m not going to.” + +“You have done more towards it than you suppose.” + +“Pooh, pooh! she’s not the susceptible, anxious, worriting creature you +imagine: she’s a little meek, peaceable, affectionate body; apt to be +rather sulky at times, but quiet and cool in the main, and ready to +take things as they come.” + +“Think of what she was five years ago, when you married her, and what +she is now.” + +“I know she was a little plump lassie then, with a pretty pink and +white face: now she’s a poor little bit of a creature, fading and +melting away like a snow-wreath. But hang it!—that’s not my fault.” + +“What is the cause of it then? Not years, for she’s only +five-and-twenty.” + +“It’s her own delicate health, and confound it, madam! what would you +make of me?—and the children, to be sure, that worry her to death +between them.” + +“No, Mr. Hattersley, the children give her more pleasure than pain: +they are fine, well-dispositioned children—” + +“I know they are—bless them!” + +“Then why lay the blame on them?—I’ll tell you what it is: it’s silent +fretting and constant anxiety on your account, mingled, I suspect, with +something of bodily fear on her own. When you behave well, she can only +rejoice with trembling; she has no security, no confidence in your +judgment or principles; but is continually dreading the close of such +short-lived felicity; when you behave ill, her causes of terror and +misery are more than any one can tell but herself. In patient endurance +of evil, she forgets it is our duty to admonish our neighbours of their +transgressions. Since you _will_ mistake her silence for indifference, +come with me, and I’ll show you one or two of her letters—no breach of +confidence, I hope, since you are her other half.” + +He followed me into the library. I sought out and put into his hands +two of Milicent’s letters: one dated from London, and written during +one of his wildest seasons of reckless dissipation; the other in the +country, during a lucid interval. The former was full of trouble and +anguish; not accusing _him_, but deeply regretting his connection with +his profligate companions, abusing Mr. Grimsby and others, insinuating +bitter things against Mr. Huntingdon, and most ingeniously throwing the +blame of her husband’s misconduct on to other men’s shoulders. The +latter was full of hope and joy, yet with a trembling consciousness +that this happiness would not last; praising his goodness to the skies, +but with an evident, though but half-expressed wish, that it were based +on a surer foundation than the natural impulses of the heart, and a +half-prophetic dread of the fall of that house so founded on the +sand,—which fall had shortly after taken place, as Hattersley must have +been conscious while he read. + +Almost at the commencement of the first letter I had the unexpected +pleasure of seeing him blush; but he immediately turned his back to me, +and finished the perusal at the window. At the second, I saw him, once +or twice, raise his hand, and hurriedly pass it across his face. Could +it be to dash away a tear? When he had done, there was an interval +spent in clearing his throat and staring out of the window, and then, +after whistling a few bars of a favourite air, he turned round, gave me +back the letters, and silently shook me by the hand. + +“I’ve been a cursed rascal, God knows,” said he, as he gave it a hearty +squeeze, “but you see if I don’t make amends for it—d—n me if I don’t!” + +“Don’t curse yourself, Mr. Hattersley; if God had heard half your +invocations of that kind, you would have been in hell long before +now—and you _cannot_ make amends for the past by doing your duty for +the future, inasmuch as your duty is only what you _owe_ to your Maker, +and you cannot do _more_ than fulfil it: another must make amends for +your past delinquencies. If you intend to reform, invoke God’s +blessing, His mercy, and His aid; not His curse.” + +“God help me, then—for I’m sure I need it. Where’s Milicent?” + +“She’s there, just coming in with her sister.” + +He stepped out at the glass door, and went to meet them. I followed at +a little distance. Somewhat to his wife’s astonishment, he lifted her +off from the ground, and saluted her with a hearty kiss and a strong +embrace; then placing his two hands on her shoulders, he gave her, I +suppose, a sketch of the great things he meant to do, for she suddenly +threw her arms round him, and burst into tears, exclaiming,—“Do, do, +Ralph—we shall be so happy! How very, very good you are!” + +“Nay, not I,” said he, turning her round, and pushing her towards me. +“Thank _her;_ it’s her doing.” + +Milicent flew to thank me, overflowing with gratitude. I disclaimed all +title to it, telling her her husband was predisposed to amendment +before I added my mite of exhortation and encouragement, and that I had +only done what she might, and ought to have done herself. + +“Oh, no!” cried she; “I couldn’t have influenced him, I’m sure, by +anything that I could have said. I should only have bothered him by my +clumsy efforts at persuasion, if I had made the attempt.” + +“You never tried me, Milly,” said he. + +Shortly after they took their leave. They are now gone on a visit to +Hattersley’s father. After that they will repair to their country home. +I hope his good resolutions will not fall through, and poor Milicent +will not be again disappointed. Her last letter was full of present +bliss, and pleasing anticipations for the future; but no particular +temptation has yet occurred to put his virtue to the test. Henceforth, +however, she will doubtless be somewhat less timid and reserved, and he +more kind and thoughtful.—Surely, then, her hopes are not unfounded; +and I have one bright spot, at least, whereon to rest my thoughts. + + + + + CHAPTER XLIII + + +October 10th.—Mr. Huntingdon returned about three weeks ago. His +appearance, his demeanour and conversation, and my feelings with regard +to him, I shall not trouble myself to describe. The day after his +arrival, however, he surprised me by the announcement of an intention +to procure a governess for little Arthur: I told him it was quite +unnecessary, not to say ridiculous, at the present season: I thought I +was fully competent to the task of teaching him myself—for some years +to come, at least: the child’s education was the only pleasure and +business of my life; and since he had deprived me of every other +occupation, he might surely leave me that. + +He said I was not fit to teach children, or to be with them: I had +already reduced the boy to little better than an automaton; I had +broken his fine spirit with my rigid severity; and I should freeze all +the sunshine out of his heart, and make him as gloomy an ascetic as +myself, if I had the handling of him much longer. And poor Rachel, too, +came in for her share of abuse, as usual; he cannot endure Rachel, +because he knows she has a proper appreciation of him. + +I calmly defended our several qualifications as nurse and governess, +and still resisted the proposed addition to our family; but he cut me +short by saying it was no use bothering about the matter, for he had +engaged a governess already, and she was coming next week; so that all +I had to do was to get things ready for her reception. This was a +rather startling piece of intelligence. I ventured to inquire her name +and address, by whom she had been recommended, or how he had been led +to make choice of her. + +“She is a very estimable, pious young person,” said he; “you needn’t be +afraid. Her name is Myers, I believe; and she was recommended to me by +a respectable old dowager: a lady of high repute in the religious +world. I have not seen her myself, and therefore cannot give you a +particular account of her person and conversation, and so forth; but, +if the old lady’s eulogies are correct, you will find her to possess +all desirable qualifications for her position: an inordinate love of +children among the rest.” + +All this was gravely and quietly spoken, but there was a laughing demon +in his half-averted eye that boded no good, I imagined. However, I +thought of my asylum in ——shire, and made no further objections. + +When Miss Myers arrived, I was not prepared to give her a very cordial +reception. Her appearance was not particularly calculated to produce a +favourable impression at first sight, nor did her manners and +subsequent conduct, in any degree, remove the prejudice I had already +conceived against her. Her attainments were limited, her intellect +noways above mediocrity. She had a fine voice, and could sing like a +nightingale, and accompany herself sufficiently well on the piano; but +these were her only accomplishments. There was a look of guile and +subtlety in her face, a sound of it in her voice. She seemed afraid of +me, and would start if I suddenly approached her. In her behaviour she +was respectful and complaisant, even to servility: she attempted to +flatter and fawn upon me at first, but I soon checked that. Her +fondness for her little pupil was overstrained, and I was obliged to +remonstrate with her on the subject of over-indulgence and injudicious +praise; but she could not gain his heart. Her piety consisted in an +occasional heaving of sighs, and uplifting of eyes to the ceiling, and +the utterance of a few cant phrases. She told me she was a clergyman’s +daughter, and had been left an orphan from her childhood, but had had +the good fortune to obtain a situation in a very pious family; and then +she spoke so gratefully of the kindness she had experienced from its +different members, that I reproached myself for my uncharitable +thoughts and unfriendly conduct, and relented for a time, but not for +long: my causes of dislike were too rational, my suspicions too well +founded for that; and I knew it was my duty to watch and scrutinize +till those suspicions were either satisfactorily removed or confirmed. + +I asked the name and residence of the kind and pious family. She +mentioned a common name, and an unknown and distant place of abode, but +told me they were now on the Continent, and their present address was +unknown to her. I never saw her speak much to Mr. Huntingdon; but he +would frequently look into the school-room to see how little Arthur got +on with his new companion, when I was not there. In the evening, she +sat with us in the drawing-room, and would sing and play to amuse him +or us, as she pretended, and was very attentive to his wants, and +watchful to anticipate them, though she only talked to me; indeed, he +was seldom in a condition to be talked to. Had she been other than she +was, I should have felt her presence a great relief to come between us +thus, except, indeed, that I should have been thoroughly ashamed for +any decent person to see him as he often was. + +I did not mention my suspicions to Rachel; but she, having sojourned +for half a century in this land of sin and sorrow, has learned to be +suspicious herself. She told me from the first she was “down of that +new governess,” and I soon found she watched her quite as narrowly as I +did; and I was glad of it, for I longed to know the truth: the +atmosphere of Grassdale seemed to stifle me, and I could only live by +thinking of Wildfell Hall. + +At last, one morning, she entered my chamber with such intelligence +that my resolution was taken before she had ceased to speak. While she +dressed me I explained to her my intentions and what assistance I +should require from her, and told her which of my things she was to +pack up, and what she was to leave behind for herself, as I had no +other means of recompensing her for this sudden dismissal after her +long and faithful service: a circumstance I most deeply regretted, but +could not avoid. + +“And what will you do, Rachel?” said I; “will you go home, or seek +another place?” + +“I have no home, ma’am, but with you,” she replied; “and if I leave you +I’ll never go into place again as long as I live.” + +“But I can’t afford to live like a lady now,” returned I: “I must be my +own maid and my child’s nurse.” + +“What _signifies!_” replied she, in some excitement. “You’ll want +somebody to clean and wash, and cook, won’t you? I can do all that; and +never mind the wages: I’ve my bits o’ savings yet, and if you wouldn’t +take me I should have to find my own board and lodging out of ’em +somewhere, or else work among strangers: and it’s what I’m not used to: +so you can please yourself, ma’am.” Her voice quavered as she spoke, +and the tears stood in her eyes. + +“I should like it above all things, Rachel, and I’d give you such wages +as I could afford: such as I should give to any servant-of-all-work I +might employ: but don’t you see I should be dragging you down with me +when you have done nothing to deserve it?” + +“Oh, fiddle!” ejaculated she. + +“And, besides, my future way of living will be so widely different to +the past: so different to all you have been accustomed to—” + +“Do you think, ma’am, I can’t bear what my missis can? surely I’m not +so proud and so dainty as that comes to; and my little master, too, God +bless him!” + +“But I’m young, Rachel; I sha’n’t mind it; and Arthur is young too: it +will be nothing to him.” + +“Nor me either: I’m not so old but what I can stand hard fare and hard +work, if it’s only to help and comfort them as I’ve loved like my own +bairns: for all I’m too old to bide the thoughts o’ leaving ’em in +trouble and danger, and going amongst strangers myself.” + +“Then you sha’n’t, Rachel!” cried I, embracing my faithful friend. +“We’ll all go together, and you shall see how the new life suits you.” + +“Bless you, honey!” cried she, affectionately returning my embrace. +“Only let us get shut of this wicked house, and we’ll do right enough, +you’ll see.” + +“So think I,” was my answer; and so that point was settled. + +By that morning’s post I despatched a few hasty lines to Frederick, +beseeching him to prepare my asylum for my immediate reception: for I +should probably come to claim it within a day after the receipt of that +note: and telling him, in few words, the cause of my sudden resolution. +I then wrote three letters of adieu: the first to Esther Hargrave, in +which I told her that I found it impossible to stay any longer at +Grassdale, or to leave my son under his father’s protection; and, as it +was of the last importance that our future abode should be unknown to +him and his acquaintance, I should disclose it to no one but my +brother, through the medium of whom I hoped still to correspond with my +friends. I then gave her his address, exhorted her to write frequently, +reiterated some of my former admonitions regarding her own concerns, +and bade her a fond farewell. + +The second was to Milicent; much to the same effect, but a little more +confidential, as befitted our longer intimacy, and her greater +experience and better acquaintance with my circumstances. + +The third was to my aunt: a much more difficult and painful +undertaking, and therefore I had left it to the last; but I must give +her some explanation of that extraordinary step I had taken: and that +quickly, for she and my uncle would no doubt hear of it within a day or +two after my disappearance, as it was probable that Mr. Huntingdon +would speedily apply to them to know what was become of me. At last, +however, I told her I was sensible of my error: I did not complain of +its punishment, and I was sorry to trouble my friends with its +consequences; but in duty to my son I must submit no longer; it was +absolutely necessary that he should be delivered from his father’s +corrupting influence. I should not disclose my place of refuge even to +her, in order that she and my uncle might be able, with truth, to deny +all knowledge concerning it; but any communications addressed to me +under cover to my brother would be certain to reach me. I hoped she and +my uncle would pardon the step I had taken, for if they knew all, I was +sure they would not blame me; and I trusted they would not afflict +themselves on my account, for if I could only reach my retreat in +safety and keep it unmolested, I should be very happy, but for the +thoughts of them; and should be quite contented to spend my life in +obscurity, devoting myself to the training up of my child, and teaching +him to avoid the errors of both his parents. + +These things were done yesterday: I have given two whole days to the +preparation for our departure, that Frederick may have more time to +prepare the rooms, and Rachel to pack up the things: for the latter +task must be done with the utmost caution and secrecy, and there is no +one but me to assist her. I can help to get the articles together, but +I do not understand the art of stowing them into the boxes, so as to +take up the smallest possible space; and there are her own things to +do, as well as mine and Arthur’s. I can ill afford to leave anything +behind, since I have no money, except a few guineas in my purse; and +besides, as Rachel observed, whatever I left would most likely become +the property of Miss Myers, and I should not relish that. + +But what trouble I have had throughout these two days, struggling to +appear calm and collected, to meet him and her as usual, when I was +obliged to meet them, and forcing myself to leave my little Arthur in +her hands for hours together! But I trust these trials are over now: I +have laid him in my bed for better security, and never more, I trust, +shall his innocent lips be defiled by their contaminating kisses, or +his young ears polluted by their words. But shall we escape in safety? +Oh, that the morning were come, and we were on our way at least! This +evening, when I had given Rachel all the assistance I could, and had +nothing left me but to wait, and wish and tremble, I became so greatly +agitated that I knew not what to do. I went down to dinner, but I could +not force myself to eat. Mr. Huntingdon remarked the circumstance. + +“What’s to do with you _now?_” said he, when the removal of the second +course gave him time to look about him. + +“I am not well,” I replied: “I think I must lie down a little; you +won’t miss me much?” + +“Not the least: if you leave your chair, it’ll do just as well—better, +a trifle,” he muttered, as I left the room, “for I can fancy somebody +else fills it.” + +“Somebody else _may_ fill it to-morrow,” I thought, but did not say. +“There! I’ve seen the last of _you_, I hope,” I muttered, as I closed +the door upon him. + +Rachel urged me to seek repose at once, to recruit my strength for +to-morrow’s journey, as we must be gone before the dawn; but in my +present state of nervous excitement that was entirely out of the +question. It was equally out of the question to sit, or wander about my +room, counting the hours and the minutes between me and the appointed +time of action, straining my ears and trembling at every sound, lest +someone should discover and betray us after all. I took up a book and +tried to read: my eyes wandered over the pages, but it was impossible +to bind my thoughts to their contents. Why not have recourse to the old +expedient, and add this last event to my chronicle? I opened its pages +once more, and wrote the above account—with difficulty, at first, but +gradually my mind became more calm and steady. Thus several hours have +passed away: the time is drawing near; and now my eyes feel heavy and +my frame exhausted. I will commend my cause to God, and then lie down +and gain an hour or two of sleep; and _then!_— + +Little Arthur sleeps soundly. All the house is still: there can be no +one watching. The boxes were all corded by Benson, and quietly conveyed +down the back stairs after dusk, and sent away in a cart to the M—— +coach-office. The name upon the cards was Mrs. Graham, which +appellation I mean henceforth to adopt. My mother’s maiden name was +Graham, and therefore I fancy I have some claim to it, and prefer it to +any other, except my own, which I dare not resume. + + + + + CHAPTER XLIV + + +October 24th.—Thank Heaven, I am free and safe at last. Early we rose, +swiftly and quietly dressed, slowly and stealthily descended to the +hall, where Benson stood ready with a light, to open the door and +fasten it after us. We were obliged to let one man into our secret on +account of the boxes, &c. All the servants were but too well acquainted +with their master’s conduct, and either Benson or John would have been +willing to serve me; but as the former was more staid and elderly, and +a crony of Rachel’s besides, I of course directed her to make choice of +him as her assistant and confidant on the occasion, as far as necessity +demanded, I only hope he may not be brought into trouble thereby, and +only wish I could reward him for the perilous service he was so ready +to undertake. I slipped two guineas into his hand, by way of +remembrance, as he stood in the doorway, holding the candle to light +our departure, with a tear in his honest grey eye, and a host of good +wishes depicted on his solemn countenance. Alas! I could offer no more: +I had barely sufficient remaining for the probable expenses of the +journey. + +What trembling joy it was when the little wicket closed behind us, as +we issued from the park! Then, for one moment, I paused, to inhale one +draught of that cool, bracing air, and venture one look back upon the +house. All was dark and still: no light glimmered in the windows, no +wreath of smoke obscured the stars that sparkled above it in the frosty +sky. As I bade farewell for ever to that place, the scene of so much +guilt and misery, I felt glad that I had not left it before, for now +there was no doubt about the propriety of such a step—no shadow of +remorse for him I left behind. There was nothing to disturb my joy but +the fear of detection; and every step removed us further from the +chance of that. + +We had left Grassdale many miles behind us before the round red sun +arose to welcome our deliverance; and if any inhabitant of its vicinity +had chanced to see us then, as we bowled along on the top of the coach, +I scarcely think they would have suspected our identity. As I intend to +be taken for a widow, I thought it advisable to enter my new abode in +mourning: I was, therefore, attired in a plain black silk dress and +mantle, a black veil (which I kept carefully over my face for the first +twenty or thirty miles of the journey), and a black silk bonnet, which +I had been constrained to borrow of Rachel, for want of such an article +myself. It was not in the newest fashion, of course; but none the worse +for that, under present circumstances. Arthur was clad in his plainest +clothes, and wrapped in a coarse woollen shawl; and Rachel was muffled +in a grey cloak and hood that had seen better days, and gave her more +the appearance of an ordinary though decent old woman, than of a +lady’s-maid. + +Oh, what delight it was to be thus seated aloft, rumbling along the +broad, sunshiny road, with the fresh morning breeze in my face, +surrounded by an unknown country, all smiling—cheerfully, gloriously +smiling in the yellow lustre of those early beams; with my darling +child in my arms, almost as happy as myself, and my faithful friend +beside me: a prison and despair behind me, receding further, further +back at every clatter of the horses’ feet; and liberty and hope before! +I could hardly refrain from praising God aloud for my deliverance, or +astonishing my fellow-passengers by some surprising outburst of +hilarity. + +But the journey was a very long one, and we were all weary enough +before the close of it. It was far into the night when we reached the +town of L——, and still we were seven miles from our journey’s end; and +there was no more coaching, nor any conveyance to be had, except a +common cart, and that with the greatest difficulty, for half the town +was in bed. And a dreary ride we had of it, that last stage of the +journey, cold and weary as we were; sitting on our boxes, with nothing +to cling to, nothing to lean against, slowly dragged and cruelly shaken +over the rough, hilly roads. But Arthur was asleep in Rachel’s lap, and +between us we managed pretty well to shield him from the cold night +air. + +At last we began to ascend a terribly steep and stony lane, which, in +spite of the darkness, Rachel said she remembered well: she had often +walked there with me in her arms, and little thought to come again so +many years after, under such circumstances as the present. Arthur being +now awakened by the jolting and the stoppages, we all got out and +walked. We had not far to go; but what if Frederick should not have +received my letter? or if he should not have had time to prepare the +rooms for our reception, and we should find them all dark, damp, and +comfortless, destitute of food, fire, and furniture, after all our +toil? + +At length the grim, dark pile appeared before us. The lane conducted us +round by the back way. We entered the desolate court, and in breathless +anxiety surveyed the ruinous mass. Was it all blackness and desolation? +No; one faint red glimmer cheered us from a window where the lattice +was in good repair. The door was fastened, but after due knocking and +waiting, and some parleying with a voice from an upper window, we were +admitted by an old woman who had been commissioned to air and keep the +house till our arrival, into a tolerably snug little apartment, +formerly the scullery of the mansion, which Frederick had now fitted up +as a kitchen. Here she procured us a light, roused the fire to a +cheerful blaze, and soon prepared a simple repast for our refreshment; +while we disencumbered ourselves of our travelling-gear, and took a +hasty survey of our new abode. Besides the kitchen, there were two +bedrooms, a good-sized parlour, and another smaller one, which I +destined for my studio, all well aired and seemingly in good repair, +but only partly furnished with a few old articles, chiefly of ponderous +black oak, the veritable ones that had been there before, and which had +been kept as antiquarian relics in my brother’s present residence, and +now, in all haste, transported back again. + +The old woman brought my supper and Arthur’s into the parlour, and told +me, with all due formality, that “the master desired his compliments to +Mrs. Graham, and he had prepared the rooms as well as he could upon so +short a notice; but he would do himself the pleasure of calling upon +her to-morrow, to receive her further commands.” + +I was glad to ascend the stern-looking stone staircase, and lie down in +the gloomy, old-fashioned bed, beside my little Arthur. He was asleep +in a minute; but, weary as I was, my excited feelings and restless +cogitations kept me awake till dawn began to struggle with the +darkness; but sleep was sweet and refreshing when it came, and the +waking was delightful beyond expression. It was little Arthur that +roused me, with his gentle kisses. He was here, then, safely clasped in +my arms, and many leagues away from his unworthy father! Broad daylight +illumined the apartment, for the sun was high in heaven, though +obscured by rolling masses of autumnal vapour. + +The scene, indeed, was not remarkably cheerful in itself, either within +or without. The large bare room, with its grim old furniture, the +narrow, latticed windows, revealing the dull, grey sky above and the +desolate wilderness below, where the dark stone walls and iron gate, +the rank growth of grass and weeds, and the hardy evergreens of +preternatural forms, alone remained to tell that there had been once a +garden,—and the bleak and barren fields beyond might have struck me as +gloomy enough at another time; but now, each separate object seemed to +echo back my own exhilarating sense of hope and freedom: indefinite +dreams of the far past and bright anticipations of the future seemed to +greet me at every turn. I should rejoice with more security, to be +sure, had the broad sea rolled between my present and my former homes; +but surely in this lonely spot I might remain unknown; and then I had +my brother here to cheer my solitude with his occasional visits. + +He came that morning; and I have had several interviews with him since; +but he is obliged to be very cautious when and how he comes; not even +his servants or his best friends must know of his visits to +Wildfell—except on such occasions as a landlord might be expected to +call upon a stranger tenant—lest suspicion should be excited against +me, whether of the truth or of some slanderous falsehood. + +I have now been here nearly a fortnight, and, but for one disturbing +care, the haunting dread of discovery, I am comfortably settled in my +new home: Frederick has supplied me with all requisite furniture and +painting materials: Rachel has sold most of my clothes for me, in a +distant town, and procured me a wardrobe more suitable to my present +position: I have a second-hand piano, and a tolerably well-stocked +bookcase in my parlour; and my other room has assumed quite a +professional, business-like appearance already. I am working hard to +repay my brother for all his expenses on my account; not that there is +the slightest necessity for anything of the kind, but it pleases me to +do so: I shall have so much more pleasure in my labour, my earnings, my +frugal fare, and household economy, when I know that I am paying my way +honestly, and that what little I possess is legitimately all my own; +and that no one suffers for my folly—in a pecuniary way at least. I +shall make him take the last penny I owe him, if I can possibly effect +it without offending him too deeply. I have a few pictures already +done, for I told Rachel to pack up all I had; and she executed her +commission but too well—for among the rest, she put up a portrait of +Mr. Huntingdon that I had painted in the first year of my marriage. It +struck me with dismay, at the moment, when I took it from the box and +beheld those eyes fixed upon me in their mocking mirth, as if exulting +still in his power to control my fate, and deriding my efforts to +escape. + +How widely different had been my feelings in painting that portrait to +what they now were in looking upon it! How I had studied and toiled to +produce something, as I thought, worthy of the original! what mingled +pleasure and dissatisfaction I had had in the result of my +labours!—pleasure for the likeness I had caught; dissatisfaction, +because I had not made it handsome enough. Now, I see no beauty in +it—nothing pleasing in any part of its expression; and yet it is far +handsomer and far more agreeable—far less repulsive I should rather +say—than he is now: for these six years have wrought almost as great a +change upon himself as on my feelings regarding him. The frame, +however, is handsome enough; it will serve for another painting. The +picture itself I have not destroyed, as I had first intended; I have +put it aside; not, I think, from any lurking tenderness for the memory +of past affection, nor yet to remind me of my former folly, but chiefly +that I may compare my son’s features and countenance with this, as he +grows up, and thus be enabled to judge how much or how little he +resembles his father—if I may be allowed to keep him with me still, and +never to behold that father’s face again—a blessing I hardly dare +reckon upon. + +It seems Mr. Huntingdon is making every exertion to discover the place +of my retreat. He has been in person to Staningley, seeking redress for +his grievances—expecting to hear of his victims, if not to find them +there—and has told so many lies, and with such unblushing coolness, +that my uncle more than half believes him, and strongly advocates my +going back to him and being friends again. But my aunt knows better: +she is too cool and cautious, and too well acquainted with both my +husband’s character and my own to be imposed upon by any specious +falsehoods the former could invent. But he does not _want_ me back; he +wants my child; and gives my friends to understand that if I prefer +living apart from him, he will indulge the whim and let me do so +unmolested, and even settle a reasonable allowance on me, provided I +will immediately deliver up his son. But heaven help me! I am not going +to sell my child for gold, though it were to save both him and me from +starving: it would be better that he should die with me than that he +should live with his father. + +Frederick showed me a letter he had received from that gentleman, full +of cool impudence such as would astonish any one who did not know him, +but such as, I am convinced, none would know better how to answer than +my brother. He gave me no account of his reply, except to tell me that +he had not acknowledged his acquaintance with my place of refuge, but +rather left it to be inferred that it was quite unknown to him, by +saying it was useless to apply to him, or any other of my relations, +for information on the subject, as it appeared I had been driven to +such extremity that I had concealed my retreat even from my best +friends; but that if he _had_ known it, or should at any time be made +aware of it, most certainly Mr. Huntingdon would be the last person to +whom he should communicate the intelligence; and that he need not +trouble himself to bargain for the child, for he (Frederick) fancied he +knew enough of his sister to enable him to declare, that wherever she +might be, or however situated, no consideration would induce her to +deliver him up. + +30th.—Alas! my kind neighbours will not let me alone. By some means +they have ferreted me out, and I have had to sustain visits from three +different families, all more or less bent upon discovering who and what +I am, whence I came, and why I have chosen such a home as this. Their +society is unnecessary to me, to say the least, and their curiosity +annoys and alarms me: if I gratify it, it may lead to the ruin of my +son, and if I am too mysterious it will only excite their suspicions, +invite conjecture, and rouse them to greater exertions—and perhaps be +the means of spreading my fame from parish to parish, till it reach the +ears of some one who will carry it to the Lord of Grassdale Manor. + +I shall be expected to return their calls, but if, upon inquiry, I find +that any of them live too far away for Arthur to accompany me, they +must expect in vain for a while, for I cannot bear to leave him, unless +it be to go to church, and I have not attempted _that_ yet: for—it may +be foolish weakness, but I am under such constant dread of his being +snatched away, that I am never easy when he is not by my side; and I +fear these nervous terrors would so entirely disturb my devotions, that +I should obtain no benefit from the attendance. I mean, however, to +make the experiment next Sunday, and oblige myself to leave him in +charge of Rachel for a few hours. It will be a hard task, but surely no +imprudence; and the vicar has been to scold me for my neglect of the +ordinances of religion. I had no sufficient excuse to offer, and I +promised, if all were well, he should see me in my pew next Sunday; for +I do not wish to be set down as an infidel; and, besides, I know I +should derive great comfort and benefit from an occasional attendance +at public worship, if I could only have faith and fortitude to compose +my thoughts in conformity with the solemn occasion, and forbid them to +be for ever dwelling on my absent child, and on the dreadful +possibility of finding him gone when I return; and surely God in His +mercy will preserve me from so severe a trial: for my child’s own sake, +if not for mine, He will not suffer him to be torn away. + +November 3rd.—I have made some further acquaintance with my neighbours. +The fine gentleman and beau of the parish and its vicinity (in his own +estimation, at least) is a young . . . . + +* * * * * + + +Here it ended. The rest was torn away. How cruel, just when she was +going to mention me! for I could not doubt it _was_ your humble servant +she was about to mention, though not very favourably, of course. I +could tell that, as well by those few words as by the recollection of +her whole aspect and demeanour towards me in the commencement of our +acquaintance. Well! I could readily forgive her prejudice against me, +and her hard thoughts of our sex in general, when I saw to what +brilliant specimens her experience had been limited. + +Respecting me, however, she had long since seen her error, and perhaps +fallen into another in the opposite extreme: for if, at first, her +opinion of me had been lower than I deserved, I was convinced that now +my deserts were lower than her opinion; and if the former part of this +continuation had been torn away to avoid wounding my feelings, perhaps +the latter portion had been removed for fear of ministering too much to +my self-conceit. At any rate, I would have given much to have seen it +all—to have witnessed the gradual change, and watched the progress of +her esteem and friendship for me, and whatever warmer feeling she might +have; to have seen how much of love there was in her regard, and how it +had grown upon her in spite of her virtuous resolutions and strenuous +exertions to—but no, I had no right to see it: all this was too sacred +for any eyes but her own, and she had done well to keep it from me. + + + + + CHAPTER XLV + + +Well, Halford, what do you think of all this? and while you read it, +did you ever picture to yourself what my feelings would probably be +during its perusal? Most likely not; but I am not going to descant upon +them now: I will only make this acknowledgment, little honourable as it +may be to human nature, and especially to myself,—that the former half +of the narrative was, to me, more painful than the latter, not that I +was at all insensible to Mrs. Huntingdon’s wrongs or unmoved by her +sufferings, but, I must confess, I felt a kind of selfish gratification +in watching her husband’s gradual decline in her good graces, and +seeing how completely he extinguished all her affection at last. The +effect of the whole, however, in spite of all my sympathy for her, and +my fury against him, was to relieve my mind of an intolerable burden, +and fill my heart with joy, as if some friend had roused me from a +dreadful nightmare. + +It was now near eight o’clock in the morning, for my candle had expired +in the midst of my perusal, leaving me no alternative but to get +another, at the expense of alarming the house, or to go to bed, and +wait the return of daylight. On my mother’s account, I chose the +latter; but how _willingly_ I sought my pillow, and how much sleep it +brought me, I leave you to imagine. + +At the first appearance of dawn, I rose, and brought the manuscript to +the window, but it was impossible to read it yet. I devoted half an +hour to dressing, and then returned to it again. Now, with a little +difficulty, I could manage; and with intense and eager interest, I +devoured the remainder of its contents. When it was ended, and my +transient regret at its abrupt conclusion was over, I opened the window +and put out my head to catch the cooling breeze, and imbibe deep +draughts of the pure morning air. A splendid morning it was; the +half-frozen dew lay thick on the grass, the swallows were twittering +round me, the rooks cawing, and cows lowing in the distance; and early +frost and summer sunshine mingled their sweetness in the air. But I did +not think of that: a confusion of countless thoughts and varied +emotions crowded upon me while I gazed abstractedly on the lovely face +of nature. Soon, however, this chaos of thoughts and passions cleared +away, giving place to two distinct emotions: joy unspeakable that my +adored Helen was all I wished to think her—that through the noisome +vapours of the world’s aspersions and my own fancied convictions, her +character shone bright, and clear, and stainless as that sun I could +not bear to look on; and shame and deep remorse for my own conduct. + +Immediately after breakfast I hurried over to Wildfell Hall. Rachel had +risen many degrees in my estimation since yesterday. I was ready to +greet her quite as an old friend; but every kindly impulse was checked +by the look of cold distrust she cast upon me on opening the door. The +old virgin had constituted herself the guardian of her lady’s honour, I +suppose, and doubtless she saw in me another Mr. Hargrave, only the +more dangerous in being more esteemed and trusted by her mistress. + +“Missis can’t see any one to-day, sir—she’s poorly,” said she, in +answer to my inquiry for Mrs. Graham. + +“But I must see her, Rachel,” said I, placing my hand on the door to +prevent its being shut against me. + +“Indeed, sir, you can’t,” replied she, settling her countenance in +still more iron frigidity than before. + +“Be so good as to announce me.” + +“It’s no manner of use, Mr. Markham; she’s poorly, I tell you.” + +Just in time to prevent me from committing the impropriety of taking +the citadel by storm, and pushing forward unannounced, an inner door +opened, and little Arthur appeared with his frolicsome playfellow, the +dog. He seized my hand between both his, and smilingly drew me forward. + +“Mamma says you’re to come in, Mr. Markham,” said he, “and I am to go +out and play with Rover.” + +Rachel retired with a sigh, and I stepped into the parlour and shut the +door. There, before the fire-place, stood the tall, graceful figure, +wasted with many sorrows. I cast the manuscript on the table, and +looked in her face. Anxious and pale, it was turned towards me; her +clear, dark eyes were fixed on mine with a gaze so intensely earnest +that they bound me like a spell. + +“Have you looked it over?” she murmured. The spell was broken. + +“I’ve read it through,” said I, advancing into the room,—“and I want to +know if you’ll forgive me—if you _can_ forgive me?” + +She did not answer, but her eyes glistened, and a faint red mantled on +her lip and cheek. As I approached, she abruptly turned away, and went +to the window. It was not in anger, I was well assured, but only to +conceal or control her emotion. I therefore ventured to follow and +stand beside her there,—but not to speak. She gave me her hand, without +turning her head, and murmured in a voice she strove in vain to +steady,— + +“Can _you_ forgive _me?_” + +It might be deemed a breach of trust, I thought, to convey that lily +hand to my lips, so I only gently pressed it between my own, and +smilingly replied,—“I hardly can. You should have told me this before. +It shows a want of confidence—” + +“Oh, no,” cried she, eagerly interrupting me; “it was not that. It was +no want of confidence in you; but if I had told you anything of my +history, I must have told you all, in order to excuse my conduct; and I +might well shrink from such a disclosure, till necessity obliged me to +make it. But you forgive me?—I have done very, very wrong, I know; but, +as usual, I have reaped the bitter fruits of my own error,—and must +reap them to the end.” + +Bitter, indeed, was the tone of anguish, repressed by resolute +firmness, in which this was spoken. Now, I raised her hand to my lips, +and fervently kissed it again and again; for tears prevented any other +reply. She suffered these wild caresses without resistance or +resentment; then, suddenly turning from me, she paced twice or thrice +through the room. I knew by the contraction of her brow, the tight +compression of her lips, and wringing of her hands, that meantime a +violent conflict between reason and passion was silently passing +within. At length she paused before the empty fire-place, and turning +to me, said calmly—if that might be called calmness which was so +evidently the result of a violent effort,— + +“Now, Gilbert, you must leave me—not this moment, but soon—and you must +_never come again_.” + +“Never again, Helen? just when I love you more than ever.” + +“For that very reason, if it be so, we should not meet again. I thought +_this_ interview was necessary—at least, I persuaded myself it was +so—that we might severally ask and receive each other’s pardon for the +past; but there can be no excuse for another. I shall leave this place, +as soon as I have means to seek another asylum; but our intercourse +must end here.” + +“End here!” echoed I; and approaching the high, carved chimney-piece, I +leant my hand against its heavy mouldings, and dropped my forehead upon +it in silent, sullen despondency. + +“You must not come again,” continued she. There was a slight tremor in +her voice, but I thought her whole manner was provokingly composed, +considering the dreadful sentence she pronounced. “You must know why I +tell you so,” she resumed; “and you must see that it is better to part +at once:—if it be hard to say adieu for ever, you ought to help me.” +She paused. I did not answer. “Will you promise not to come?—if you +won’t, and if you do come here again, you will drive me away before I +know where to find another place of refuge—or how to seek it.” + +“Helen,” said I, turning impatiently towards her, “I cannot discuss the +matter of eternal separation calmly and dispassionately as you can do. +It is no question of mere expedience with _me;_ it is a question of +life and death!” + +She was silent. Her pale lips quivered, and her fingers trembled with +agitation, as she nervously entwined them in the hair-chain to which +was appended her small gold watch—the only thing of value she had +permitted herself to keep. I had said an unjust and cruel thing; but I +must needs follow it up with something worse. + +“But, Helen!” I began in a soft, low tone, not daring to raise my eyes +to her face, “that man is not your husband: in the sight of heaven he +has forfeited all claim to—” She seized my arm with a grasp of +startling energy. + +“_Gilbert, don’t!_” she cried, in a tone that would have pierced a +heart of adamant. “For God’s sake, don’t _you_ attempt these arguments! +No _fiend_ could torture me like this!” + +“I won’t, I won’t!” said I, gently laying my hand on hers; almost as +much alarmed at her vehemence as ashamed of my own misconduct. + +“Instead of acting like a true friend,” continued she, breaking from +me, and throwing herself into the old arm-chair, “and helping me with +all your might—or rather taking your own part in the struggle of right +against passion—you leave all the burden to me;—and not satisfied with +that, you do your utmost to fight against me—when you know that!—” she +paused, and hid her face in her handkerchief. + +“Forgive me, Helen!” pleaded I. “I will never utter another word on the +subject. But may we not still meet as friends?” + +“It will not do,” she replied, mournfully shaking her head; and then +she raised her eyes to mine, with a mildly reproachful look that seemed +to say, “You must know that as well as I.” + +“Then what _must_ we do?” cried I, passionately. But immediately I +added in a quieter tone—“I’ll do whatever you desire; only _don’t_ say +that this meeting is to be our last.” + +“And why not? Don’t you know that every time we meet the thoughts of +the final parting will become more painful? Don’t you _feel_ that every +interview makes us dearer to each other than the last?” + +The utterance of this last question was hurried and low, and the +downcast eyes and burning blush too plainly showed that _she_, at +least, had felt it. It was scarcely prudent to make such an admission, +or to add—as she presently did—“I have power to bid you go, now: +another time it might be different,”—but I was not base enough to +attempt to take advantage of her candour. + +“But we may write,” I timidly suggested. “You will not deny me that +consolation?” + +“We can hear of each other through my brother.” + +“Your brother!” A pang of remorse and shame shot through me. She had +not heard of the injury he had sustained at my hands; and I had not the +courage to tell her. “Your brother will not help us,” I said: “he would +have all communion between us to be entirely at an end.” + +“And he would be right, I suppose. As a friend of both, he would wish +us both well; and every friend would tell us it was our interest, as +well as our duty, to forget each other, though we might not see it +ourselves. But don’t be afraid, Gilbert,” she added, smiling sadly at +my manifest discomposure; “there is little chance of my forgetting you. +But I did not mean that Frederick should be the means of transmitting +messages between us—only that each might know, through him, of the +other’s welfare;—and more than this ought not to be: for you are young, +Gilbert, and you ought to marry—and will some time, though you may +think it impossible now: and though I hardly can say I wish you to +forget me, I know it is right that you should, both for your own +happiness, and that of your future wife;—and therefore I must and will +wish it,” she added resolutely. + +“And you are young too, Helen,” I boldly replied; “and when that +profligate scoundrel has run through his career, you will give your +hand to me—I’ll wait till then.” + +But she would not leave me this support. Independently of the moral +evil of basing our hopes upon the death of another, who, if unfit for +this world, was at least no less so for the next, and whose +amelioration would thus become our bane and his greatest transgression +our greatest benefit,—she maintained it to be madness: many men of Mr. +Huntingdon’s habits had lived to a ripe though miserable old age. “And +if I,” said she, “am young in years, I am old in sorrow; but even if +trouble should fail to kill me before vice destroys him, think, if he +reached but fifty years or so, would you wait twenty or fifteen—in +vague uncertainty and suspense—through all the prime of youth and +manhood—and marry at last a woman faded and worn as I shall be—without +ever having seen me from this day to that?—You would not,” she +continued, interrupting my earnest protestations of unfailing +constancy,—“or if you would, you should not. Trust me, Gilbert; in this +matter I know better than you. You think me cold and stony-hearted, and +you may, but—” + +“I don’t, Helen.” + +“Well, never mind: you might if you would: but I have not spent my +solitude in utter idleness, and I am not speaking now from the impulse +of the moment, as you do. I have thought of all these matters again and +again; I have argued these questions with myself, and pondered well our +past, and present, and future career; and, believe me, I have come to +the right conclusion at last. Trust my words rather than your own +feelings now, and in a few years you will see that I was right—though +at present I hardly can see it myself,” she murmured with a sigh as she +rested her head on her hand. “And don’t argue against me any more: all +you can say has been already said by my own heart and refuted by my +reason. It was hard enough to combat those suggestions as they were +whispered within me; in your mouth they are ten times worse, and if you +knew how much they pain me you would cease at once, I know. If you knew +my present feelings, you would even try to relieve them at the expense +of your own.” + +“I will go—in a minute, if _that_ can relieve you—and NEVER return!” +said I, with bitter emphasis. “But, if we may never meet, and never +hope to meet again, is it a crime to exchange our thoughts by letter? +May not kindred spirits meet, and mingle in communion, whatever be the +fate and circumstances of their earthly tenements?” + +“They may, they may!” cried she, with a momentary burst of glad +enthusiasm. “I thought of that too, Gilbert, but I feared to mention +it, because I feared you would not understand my views upon the +subject. I fear it even now—I fear any kind friend would tell us we are +_both_ deluding ourselves with the idea of keeping up a spiritual +intercourse without hope or prospect of anything further—without +fostering vain regrets and hurtful aspirations, and feeding thoughts +that should be sternly and pitilessly left to perish of inanition.” + +“Never mind our kind friends: if they can part our bodies, it is +enough; in God’s name, let them not sunder our souls!” cried I, in +terror lest she should deem it her duty to deny us this last remaining +consolation. + +“But no letters can pass between us here,” said she, “without giving +fresh food for scandal; and when I departed, I had intended that my new +abode should be unknown to you as to the rest of the world; not that I +should doubt your word if you promised not to visit me, but I thought +you would be more tranquil in your own mind if you knew you could not +do it, and likely to find less difficulty in abstracting yourself from +me if you could not picture my situation to your mind. But listen,” +said she, smilingly putting up her finger to check my impatient reply: +“in six months you shall hear from Frederick precisely where I am; and +if you still retain your wish to write to me, and think you can +maintain a correspondence all thought, all spirit—such as disembodied +souls or unimpassioned friends, at least, might hold,—write, and I will +answer you.” + +“Six months!” + +“Yes, to give your present ardour time to cool, and try the truth and +constancy of your soul’s love for mine. And now, enough has been said +between us. Why can’t we part at once?” exclaimed she, almost wildly, +after a moment’s pause, as she suddenly rose from her chair, with her +hands resolutely clasped together. I thought it was my duty to go +without delay; and I approached and half extended my hand as if to take +leave—she grasped it in silence. But this thought of final separation +was too intolerable: it seemed to squeeze the blood out of my heart; +and my feet were glued to the floor. + +“And must we never meet again?” I murmured, in the anguish of my soul. + +“We shall meet in heaven. Let us think of that,” said she in a tone of +desperate calmness; but her eyes glittered wildly, and her face was +deadly pale. + +“But not as we are now,” I could not help replying. “It gives me little +consolation to think I shall next behold you as a disembodied spirit, +or an altered being, with a frame perfect and glorious, but not like +this!—and a heart, perhaps, entirely estranged from me.” + +“No, Gilbert, there is perfect love in heaven!” + +“_So_ perfect, I suppose, that it soars above distinctions, and you +will have no closer sympathy with me than with any one of the ten +thousand thousand angels and the innumerable multitude of happy spirits +round us.” + +“Whatever I am, you will be the same, and, therefore, cannot possibly +regret it; and whatever that change may be we know it must be for the +better.” + +“But if I am to be so changed that I shall cease to adore you with my +whole heart and soul, and love you beyond every other creature, I shall +not be myself; and though, if ever I win heaven at all, I must, I know, +be infinitely better and happier than I am now, my earthly nature +cannot rejoice in the anticipation of such beatitude, from which itself +and its chief joy must be excluded.” + +“Is your love _all_ earthly, then?” + +“No, but I am supposing we shall have no more intimate communion with +each other than with the rest.” + +“If so, it will be because we love them more, and not each other less. +Increase of love brings increase of happiness, when it is mutual, and +pure as that will be.” + +“But can _you_, Helen, contemplate with delight this prospect of losing +me in a sea of glory?” + +“I own I cannot; but we know not that it will be so;—and I do know that +to regret the exchange of earthly pleasures for the joys of heaven, is +as if the grovelling caterpillar should lament that it must one day +quit the nibbled leaf to soar aloft and flutter through the air, roving +at will from flower to flower, sipping sweet honey from their cups, or +basking in their sunny petals. If these little creatures knew how great +a change awaited them, no doubt they would regret it; but would not all +such sorrow be misplaced? And if that illustration will not move you, +here is another:—We are children now; we feel as children, and we +understand as children; and when we are told that men and women do not +play with toys, and that our companions will one day weary of the +trivial sports and occupations that interest them and us so deeply now, +we cannot help being saddened at the thoughts of such an alteration, +because we cannot conceive that as we grow up our own minds will become +so enlarged and elevated that we ourselves shall then regard as +trifling those objects and pursuits we now so fondly cherish, and that, +though our companions will no longer join us in those childish +pastimes, they will drink with us at other fountains of delight, and +mingle their souls with ours in higher aims and nobler occupations +beyond our present comprehension, but not less deeply relished or less +truly good for that, while yet both we and they remain essentially the +same individuals as before. But, Gilbert, can you really derive no +consolation from the thought that we may meet together where there is +no more pain and sorrow, no more striving against sin, and struggling +of the spirit against the flesh; where both will behold the same +glorious truths, and drink exalted and supreme felicity from the same +fountain of light and goodness—that Being whom both will worship with +the same intensity of holy ardour—and where pure and happy creatures +both will love with the same divine affection? If you cannot, never +write to me!” + +“Helen, I can! if faith would never fail.” + +“Now, then,” exclaimed she, “while this hope is strong within us—” + +“We will part,” I cried. “You shall not have the pain of another effort +to dismiss me. I will go at once; but—” + +I did not put my request in words: she understood it instinctively, and +_this_ time she yielded too—or rather, there was nothing so deliberate +as requesting or yielding in the matter: there was a sudden impulse +that neither could resist. One moment I stood and looked into her face, +the next I held her to my heart, and we seemed to grow together in a +close embrace from which no physical or mental force could rend us. A +whispered “God bless you!” and “Go—go!” was all she said; but while she +spoke she held me so fast that, without violence, I could not have +obeyed her. At length, however, by some heroic effort, we tore +ourselves apart, and I rushed from the house. + +I have a confused remembrance of seeing little Arthur running up the +garden-walk to meet me, and of bolting over the wall to avoid him—and +subsequently running down the steep fields, clearing the stone fences +and hedges as they came in my way, till I got completely out of sight +of the old hall and down to the bottom of the hill; and then of long +hours spent in bitter tears and lamentations, and melancholy musings in +the lonely valley, with the eternal music in my ears, of the west wind +rushing through the overshadowing trees, and the brook babbling and +gurgling along its stony bed; my eyes, for the most part, vacantly +fixed on the deep, chequered shades restlessly playing over the bright +sunny grass at my feet, where now and then a withered leaf or two would +come dancing to share the revelry; but my heart was away up the hill in +that dark room where she was weeping desolate and alone—she whom I was +not to comfort, not to see again, till years or suffering had overcome +us both, and torn our spirits from their perishing abodes of clay. + +There was little business done that day, you may be sure. The farm was +abandoned to the labourers, and the labourers were left to their own +devices. But one duty must be attended to; I had not forgotten my +assault upon Frederick Lawrence; and I must see him to apologise for +the unhappy deed. I would fain have put it off till the morrow; but +what if he should denounce me to his sister in the meantime? No, no! I +must ask his pardon to-day, and entreat him to be lenient in his +accusation, if the revelation must be made. I deferred it, however, +till the evening, when my spirits were more composed, and when—oh, +wonderful perversity of human nature!—some faint germs of indefinite +hopes were beginning to rise in my mind; not that I intended to cherish +them, after all that had been said on the subject, but there they must +lie for a while, uncrushed though not encouraged, till I had learnt to +live without them. + +Arrived at Woodford, the young squire’s abode, I found no little +difficulty in obtaining admission to his presence. The servant that +opened the door told me his master was very ill, and seemed to think it +doubtful whether he would be able to see me. I was not going to be +baulked, however. I waited calmly in the hall to be announced, but +inwardly determined to take no denial. The message was such as I +expected—a polite intimation that Mr. Lawrence could see no one; he was +feverish, and must not be disturbed. + +“I shall not disturb him long,” said I; “but I must see him for a +moment: it is on business of importance that I wish to speak to him.” + +“I’ll tell him, sir,” said the man. And I advanced further into the +hall and followed him nearly to the door of the apartment where his +master was—for it seemed he was not in bed. The answer returned was +that Mr. Lawrence hoped I would be so good as to leave a message or a +note with the servant, as he could attend to no business at present. + +“He may as well see me as you,” said I; and, stepping past the +astonished footman, I boldly rapped at the door, entered, and closed it +behind me. The room was spacious and handsomely furnished—very +comfortably, too, for a bachelor. A clear, red fire was burning in the +polished grate: a superannuated greyhound, given up to idleness and +good living, lay basking before it on the thick, soft rug, on one +corner of which, beside the sofa, sat a smart young springer, looking +wistfully up in its master’s face—perhaps asking permission to share +his couch, or, it might be, only soliciting a caress from his hand or a +kind word from his lips. The invalid himself looked very interesting as +he lay reclining there, in his elegant dressing-gown, with a silk +handkerchief bound across his temples. His usually pale face was +flushed and feverish; his eyes were half closed, until he became +sensible of my presence—and then he opened them wide enough: one hand +was thrown listlessly over the back of the sofa, and held a small +volume, with which, apparently, he had been vainly attempting to +beguile the weary hours. He dropped it, however, in his start of +indignant surprise as I advanced into the room and stood before him on +the rug. He raised himself on his pillows, and gazed upon me with equal +degrees of nervous horror, anger, and amazement depicted on his +countenance. + +“Mr. Markham, I scarcely expected this!” he said; and the blood left +his cheek as he spoke. + +“I know you didn’t,” answered I; “but be quiet a minute, and I’ll tell +you what I came for.” Unthinkingly, I advanced a step or two nearer. He +winced at my approach, with an expression of aversion and instinctive +physical fear anything but conciliatory to my feelings. I stepped back, +however. + +“Make your story a short one,” said he, putting his hand on the small +silver bell that stood on the table beside him, “or I shall be obliged +to call for assistance. I am in no state to bear your brutalities now, +or your presence either.” And in truth the moisture started from his +pores and stood on his pale forehead like dew. + +Such a reception was hardly calculated to diminish the difficulties of +my unenviable task. It must be performed however, in some fashion; and +so I plunged into it at once, and floundered through it as I could. + +“The truth is, Lawrence,” said I, “I have not acted quite correctly +towards you of late—especially on this last occasion; and I’m come +to—in short, to express my regret for what has been done, and to beg +your pardon. If you don’t choose to grant it,” I added hastily, not +liking the aspect of his face, “it’s no matter; only _I’ve_ done _my_ +duty—that’s all.” + +“It’s easily done,” replied he, with a faint smile bordering on a +sneer: “to abuse your friend and knock him on the head without any +assignable cause, and then tell him the deed was not quite correct, but +it’s no matter whether he pardons it or not.” + +“I forgot to tell you that it was in consequence of a +mistake,”—muttered I. “I should have made a very handsome apology, but +you provoked me so confoundedly with your—. Well, I suppose it’s my +fault. The fact is, I didn’t know that you were Mrs. Graham’s brother, +and I saw and heard some things respecting your conduct towards her +which were calculated to awaken unpleasant suspicions, that, allow me +to say, a little candour and confidence on your part might have +removed; and, at last, I chanced to overhear a part of a conversation +between you and her that made me think I had a right to hate you.” + +“And how came you to know that I was her brother?” asked he, in some +anxiety. + +“She told me herself. She told me all. _She_ knew I might be trusted. +But you needn’t disturb yourself about _that_, Mr. Lawrence, for I’ve +seen the last of her!” + +“The last! Is she gone, then?” + +“No; but she has bid adieu to me, and I have promised never to go near +that house again while she inhabits it.” I could have groaned aloud at +the bitter thoughts awakened by this turn in the discourse. But I only +clenched my hands and stamped my foot upon the rug. My companion, +however, was evidently relieved. + +“You have done right,” he said, in a tone of unqualified approbation, +while his face brightened into almost a sunny expression. “And as for +the mistake, I am sorry for both our sakes that it should have +occurred. Perhaps you can forgive my want of candour, and remember, as +some partial mitigation of the offence, how little encouragement to +friendly confidence you have given me of late.” + +“Yes, yes—I remember it all: nobody can blame me more than I blame +myself in my own heart; at any rate, nobody can regret more sincerely +than I do the result of my _brutality_, as you rightly term it.” + +“Never mind that,” said he, faintly smiling; “let us forget all +unpleasant words on both sides, as well as deeds, and consign to +oblivion everything that we have cause to regret. Have you any +objection to take my hand, or you’d rather not?” It trembled through +weakness as he held it out, and dropped before I had time to catch it +and give it a hearty squeeze, which he had not the strength to return. + +“How dry and burning your hand is, Lawrence,” said I. “You are really +ill, and I have made you worse by all this talk.” + +“Oh, it is nothing; only a cold got by the rain.” + +“My doing, too.” + +“Never mind that. But tell me, did you mention this affair to my +sister?” + +“To confess the truth, I had not the courage to do so; but when you +tell her, will you just say that I deeply regret it, and—?” + +“Oh, never fear! I shall say nothing against you, as long as you keep +your good resolution of remaining aloof from her. She has not heard of +my illness, then, that you are aware of?” + +“I think not.” + +“I’m glad of that, for I have been all this time tormenting myself with +the fear that somebody would tell her I was dying, or desperately ill, +and she would be either distressing herself on account of her inability +to hear from me or do me any good, or perhaps committing the madness of +coming to see me. I must contrive to let her know something about it, +if I can,” continued he, reflectively, “or she will be hearing some +such story. Many would be glad to tell her such news, just to see how +she would take it; and then she might expose herself to fresh scandal.” + +“I wish I had told her,” said I. “If it were not for my promise, I +would tell her now.” + +“By no means! I am not dreaming of that;—but if I were to write a short +note, now, not mentioning you, Markham, but just giving a slight +account of my illness, by way of excuse for my not coming to see her, +and to put her on her guard against any exaggerated reports she may +hear,—and address it in a disguised hand—would you do me the favour to +slip it into the post-office as you pass? for I dare not trust any of +the servants in such a case.” + +Most willingly I consented, and immediately brought him his desk. There +was little need to disguise his hand, for the poor fellow seemed to +have considerable difficulty in writing at all, so as to be legible. +When the note was done, I thought it time to retire, and took leave, +after asking if there was anything in the world I could do for him, +little or great, in the way of alleviating his sufferings, and +repairing the injury I had done. + +“No,” said he; “you have already done much towards it; you have done +more for me than the most skilful physician could do: for you have +relieved my mind of two great burdens—anxiety on my sister’s account, +and deep regret upon your own: for I do believe these two sources of +torment have had more effect in working me up into a fever than +anything else; and I am persuaded I shall soon recover now. There is +one more thing you can do for me, and that is, come and see me now and +then—for you see I am very lonely here, and I promise your entrance +shall not be disputed again.” + +I engaged to do so, and departed with a cordial pressure of the hand. I +posted the letter on my way home, most manfully resisting the +temptation of dropping in a word from myself at the same time. + + + + + CHAPTER XLVI + + +I felt strongly tempted, at times, to enlighten my mother and sister on +the real character and circumstances of the persecuted tenant of +Wildfell Hall, and at first I greatly regretted having omitted to ask +that lady’s permission to do so; but, on due reflection, I considered +that if it were known to them, it could not long remain a secret to the +Millwards and Wilsons, and such was my present appreciation of Eliza +Millward’s disposition, that, if once she got a clue to the story, I +should fear she would soon find means to enlighten Mr. Huntingdon upon +the place of his wife’s retreat. I would therefore wait patiently till +these weary six months were over, and then, when the fugitive had found +another home, and I was permitted to write to her, I would beg to be +allowed to clear her name from these vile calumnies: at present I must +content myself with simply asserting that I knew them to be false, and +would prove it some day, to the shame of those who slandered her. I +don’t think anybody believed me, but everybody soon learned to avoid +insinuating a word against her, or even mentioning her name in my +presence. They thought I was so madly infatuated by the seductions of +that unhappy lady that I was determined to support her in the very face +of reason; and meantime I grow insupportably morose and misanthropical +from the idea that every one I met was harbouring unworthy thoughts of +the supposed Mrs. Graham, and would express them if he dared. My poor +mother was quite distressed about me; but I couldn’t help it—at least I +thought I could not, though sometimes I felt a pang of remorse for my +undutiful conduct to her, and made an effort to amend, attended with +some partial success; and indeed I was generally more humanised in my +demeanour to her than to any one else, Mr. Lawrence excepted. Rose and +Fergus usually shunned my presence; and it was well they did, for I was +not fit company for them, nor they for me, under the present +circumstances. + +Mrs. Huntingdon did not leave Wildfell Hall till above two months after +our farewell interview. During that time she never appeared at church, +and I never went near the house: I only knew she was still there by her +brother’s brief answers to my many and varied inquiries respecting her. +I was a very constant and attentive visitor to him throughout the whole +period of his illness and convalescence; not only from the interest I +took in his recovery, and my desire to cheer him up and make the utmost +possible amends for my former “brutality,” but from my growing +attachment to himself, and the increasing pleasure I found in his +society—partly from his increased cordiality to me, but chiefly on +account of his close connection, both in blood and in affection, with +my adored Helen. I loved him for it better than I liked to express: and +I took a secret delight in pressing those slender white fingers, so +marvellously like her own, considering he was not a woman, and in +watching the passing changes in his fair, pale features, and observing +the intonations of his voice, detecting resemblances which I wondered +had never struck me before. He provoked me at times, indeed, by his +evident reluctance to talk to me about his sister, though I did not +question the friendliness of his motives in wishing to discourage my +remembrance of her. + +His recovery was not quite so rapid as he had expected it to be; he was +not able to mount his pony till a fortnight after the date of our +reconciliation; and the first use he made of his returning strength was +to ride over by night to Wildfell Hall, to see his sister. It was a +hazardous enterprise both for him and for her, but he thought it +necessary to consult with her on the subject of her projected +departure, if not to calm her apprehensions respecting his health, and +the worst result was a slight relapse of his illness, for no one knew +of the visit but the inmates of the old Hall, except myself; and I +believe it had not been his intention to mention it to me, for when I +came to see him the next day, and observed he was not so well as he +ought to have been, he merely said he had caught cold by being out too +late in the evening. + +“You’ll _never_ be able to see your sister, if you don’t take care of +yourself,” said I, a little provoked at the circumstance on her +account, instead of commiserating him. + +“I’ve seen her already,” said he, quietly. + +“You’ve seen her!” cried I, in astonishment. + +“Yes.” And then he told me what considerations had impelled him to make +the venture, and with what precautions he had made it. + +“And how was she?” I eagerly asked. + +“As usual,” was the brief though sad reply. + +“As usual—that is, far from happy and far from strong.” + +“She is not positively ill,” returned he; “and she will recover her +spirits in a while, I have no doubt—but so many trials have been almost +too much for her. How threatening those clouds look,” continued he, +turning towards the window. “We shall have thunder-showers before +night, I imagine, and they are just in the midst of stacking my corn. +Have you got yours all in yet?” + +“No. And, Lawrence, did she—did your sister mention me?” + +“She asked if I had seen you lately.” + +“And what else did she say?” + +“I cannot tell you all she said,” replied he, with a slight smile; “for +we talked a good deal, though my stay was but short; but our +conversation was chiefly on the subject of her intended departure, +which I begged her to delay till I was better able to assist her in her +search after another home.” + +“But did she say no more about me?” + +“She did not say much about you, Markham. I should not have encouraged +her to do so, had she been inclined; but happily she was not: she only +asked a few questions concerning you, and seemed satisfied with my +brief answers, wherein she showed herself wiser than her friend; and I +may tell you, too, that she seemed to be far more anxious lest you +should think too much of her, than lest you should forget her.” + +“She was right.” + +“But I fear _your_ anxiety is quite the other way respecting her.” + +“No, it is not: I wish her to be happy; but I don’t wish her to forget +me altogether. She knows it is impossible that I should forget _her;_ +and she is right to wish me not to remember her too well. I should not +desire her to regret me _too_ deeply; but I can scarcely imagine she +will make herself very unhappy about me, because I know I am not worthy +of it, except in my appreciation of her.” + +“You are neither of you worthy of a broken heart,—nor of all the sighs, +and tears, and sorrowful thoughts that have been, and I fear will be, +wasted upon you both; but, at present, each has a more exalted opinion +of the other than, I fear, he or she deserves; and my sister’s feelings +are naturally full as keen as yours, and I believe _more_ constant; but +she has the good sense and fortitude to strive against them in this +particular; and I trust she will not rest till she has entirely weaned +her thoughts—” he hesitated. + +“From me,” said I. + +“And I wish you would make the like exertions,” continued he. + +“Did she _tell_ you that that was her intention?” + +“No; the question was not broached between us: there was no necessity +for it, for I had no doubt that such was her determination.” + +“To forget me?” + +“Yes, Markham! Why not?” + +“Oh, well!” was my only audible reply; but I internally answered,—“No, +Lawrence, you’re wrong there: she is _not_ determined to forget me. It +would be _wrong_ to forget one so deeply and fondly devoted to her, who +can so thoroughly appreciate her excellencies, and sympathise with all +her thoughts, as I can do, and it would be wrong in me to forget so +excellent and divine a piece of God’s creation as she, when I have once +so truly loved and known her.” But I said no more to him on that +subject. I instantly started a new topic of conversation, and soon took +leave of my companion, with a feeling of less cordiality towards him +than usual. Perhaps I had no right to be annoyed at him, but I was so +nevertheless. + +In little more than a week after this I met him returning from a visit +to the Wilsons’; and I now resolved to do _him_ a good turn, though at +the expense of his feelings, and perhaps at the risk of incurring that +displeasure which is so commonly the reward of those who give +disagreeable information, or tender their advice unasked. In this, +believe me, I was actuated by no motives of revenge for the occasional +annoyances I had lately sustained from him,—nor yet by any feeling of +malevolent enmity towards Miss Wilson, but purely by the fact that I +could not endure that such a woman should be Mrs. Huntingdon’s sister, +and that, as well for his own sake as for hers, I could not bear to +think of his being deceived into a union with one so unworthy of him, +and so utterly unfitted to be the partner of his quiet home, and the +companion of his life. He had had uncomfortable suspicions on that head +himself, I imagined; but such was his inexperience, and such were the +lady’s powers of attraction, and her skill in bringing them to bear +upon his young imagination, that they had not disturbed him long; and I +believe the only effectual causes of the vacillating indecision that +had preserved him hitherto from making an actual declaration of love, +was the consideration of her connections, and especially of her mother, +whom he could not abide. Had they lived at a distance, he might have +surmounted the objection, but within two or three miles of Woodford it +was really no light matter. + +“You’ve been to call on the Wilsons, Lawrence,” said I, as I walked +beside his pony. + +“Yes,” replied he, slightly averting his face: “I thought it but civil +to take the first opportunity of returning their kind attentions, since +they have been so very particular and constant in their inquiries +throughout the whole course of my illness.” + +“It’s all Miss Wilson’s doing.” + +“And if it is,” returned he, with a very perceptible blush, “is that +any reason why I should not make a suitable acknowledgment?” + +“It is a reason why you should not make the acknowledgment she looks +for.” + +“Let us drop that subject if you please,” said he, in evident +displeasure. + +“No, Lawrence, with your leave we’ll continue it a while longer; and +I’ll tell you something, now we’re about it, which you may believe or +not as you choose—only please to remember that it is not my custom to +speak falsely, and that in this case I can have no motive for +misrepresenting the truth—” + +“Well, Markham, what now?” + +“_Miss Wilson hates your sister._ It may be natural enough that, in her +ignorance of the relationship, she should feel some degree of enmity +against her, but no good or amiable woman would be capable of evincing +that bitter, cold-blooded, designing malice towards a fancied rival +that I have observed in her.” + +“Markham!” + +“Yes—and it is my belief that Eliza Millward and she, if not the very +originators of the slanderous reports that have been propagated, were +designedly the encouragers and chief disseminators of them. She was not +desirous to mix up _your_ name in the matter, of course, but her +delight was, and still is, to blacken your sister’s character to the +utmost of her power, without risking too greatly the exposure of her +own malevolence!” + +“I cannot believe it,” interrupted my companion, his face burning with +indignation. + +“Well, as I cannot prove it, I must content myself with asserting that +it is so to the best of my belief; but as you would not willingly marry +Miss Wilson if it _were_ so, you will do well to be cautious, till you +have proved it to be otherwise.” + +“I never told you, Markham, that I _intended_ to marry Miss Wilson,” +said he, proudly. + +“No, but whether you do or not, she intends to marry you.” + +“Did she tell you so?” + +“No, but—” + +“Then you have no right to make such an assertion respecting her.” He +slightly quickened his pony’s pace, but I laid my hand on its mane, +determined he should not leave me yet. + +“Wait a moment, Lawrence, and let me explain myself; and don’t be so +very—I don’t know what to call it—_inaccessible_ as you are.—I know +what you think of Jane Wilson; and I believe I know how far you are +mistaken in your opinion: you think she is singularly charming, +elegant, sensible, and refined: you are not aware that she is selfish, +cold-hearted, ambitious, artful, shallow-minded—” + +“Enough, Markham—enough!” + +“No; let me finish:—you don’t know that, if you married her, your home +would be rayless and comfortless; and it would break your heart at last +to find yourself united to one so wholly incapable of sharing your +tastes, feelings, and ideas—so utterly destitute of sensibility, good +feeling, and true nobility of soul.” + +“Have you done?” asked my companion quietly. + +“Yes;—I know you hate me for my impertinence, but I don’t care if it +only conduces to preserve you from that fatal mistake.” + +“Well!” returned he, with a rather wintry smile—“I’m glad you have +overcome or forgotten your own afflictions so far as to be able to +study so deeply the affairs of others, and trouble your head so +unnecessarily about the fancied or possible calamities of their future +life.” + +We parted—somewhat coldly again: but still we did not cease to be +friends; and my well-meant warning, though it might have been more +judiciously delivered, as well as more thankfully received, was not +wholly unproductive of the desired effect: his visit to the Wilsons was +not repeated, and though, in our subsequent interviews, he never +mentioned her name to me, nor I to him,—I have reason to believe he +pondered my words in his mind, eagerly though covertly sought +information respecting the fair lady from other quarters, secretly +compared my character of her with what he had himself observed and what +he heard from others, and finally came to the conclusion that, all +things considered, she had much better remain Miss Wilson of Ryecote +Farm than be transmuted into Mrs. Lawrence of Woodford Hall. I believe, +too, that he soon learned to contemplate with secret amazement his +former predilection, and to congratulate himself on the lucky escape he +had made; but he never confessed it to me, or hinted one word of +acknowledgment for the part I had had in his deliverance, but this was +not surprising to any one that knew him as I did. + +As for Jane Wilson, she, of course, was disappointed and embittered by +the sudden cold neglect and ultimate desertion of her former admirer. +Had I done wrong to blight her cherished hopes? I think not; and +certainly my conscience has never accused me, from that day to this, of +any evil design in the matter. + + + + + CHAPTER XLVII + + +One morning, about the beginning of November, while I was inditing some +business letters, shortly after breakfast, Eliza Millward came to call +upon my sister. Rose had neither the discrimination nor the virulence +to regard the little demon as I did, and they still preserved their +former intimacy. At the moment of her arrival, however, there was no +one in the room but Fergus and myself, my mother and sister being both +of them absent, “on household cares intent”; but _I_ was not going to +lay myself out for her amusement, whoever else might so incline: I +merely honoured her with a careless salutation and a few words of +course, and then went on with my writing, leaving my brother to be more +polite if he chose. But she wanted to tease me. + +“What a pleasure it is to find you at home, Mr. Markham!” said she, +with a disingenuously malicious smile. “I so seldom see you now, for +you never come to the vicarage. Papa, is quite offended, I can tell +you,” she added playfully, looking into my face with an impertinent +laugh, as she seated herself, half beside and half before my desk, off +the corner of the table. + +“I have had a good deal to do of late,” said I, without looking up from +my letter. + +“Have you, indeed! Somebody said you had been strangely neglecting your +business these last few months.” + +“Somebody said wrong, for, these last two months especially, I have +been particularly plodding and diligent.” + +“Ah! well, there’s nothing like active employment, I suppose, to +console the afflicted;—and, excuse me, Mr. Markham, but you look so +very far from well, and have been, by all accounts, so moody and +thoughtful of late,—I could almost think you have some secret care +preying on your spirits. _Formerly_,” said she timidly, “I could have +ventured to ask you what it was, and what I could do to comfort you: I +dare not do it now.” + +“You’re very kind, Miss Eliza. When I think you can do anything to +comfort me, I’ll make bold to tell you.” + +“Pray do!—I suppose I mayn’t guess what it is that troubles you?” + +“There’s no necessity, for I’ll tell you plainly. The thing that +troubles me the most at present is a young lady sitting at my elbow, +and preventing me from finishing my letter, and, thereafter, repairing +to my daily business.” + +Before she could reply to this ungallant speech, Rose entered the room; +and Miss Eliza rising to greet her, they both seated themselves near +the fire, where that idle lad Fergus was standing, leaning his shoulder +against the corner of the chimney-piece, with his legs crossed and his +hands in his breeches-pockets. + +“Now, Rose, I’ll tell you a piece of news—I hope you have not heard it +before: for good, bad, or indifferent, one always likes to be the first +to tell. It’s about that sad Mrs. Graham—” + +“Hush-sh-sh!” whispered Fergus, in a tone of solemn import. “‘We never +mention her; her name is never heard.’” And glancing up, I caught him +with his eye askance on me, and his finger pointed to his forehead; +then, winking at the young lady with a doleful shake of the head, he +whispered—“A monomania—but don’t mention it—all right but that.” + +“I should be sorry to injure any one’s feelings,” returned she, +speaking below her breath. “Another time, perhaps.” + +“Speak out, Miss Eliza!” said I, not deigning to notice the other’s +buffooneries: “you needn’t fear to say anything in my presence.” + +“Well,” answered she, “perhaps you know already that Mrs. Graham’s +husband is not really dead, and that she had run away from him?” I +started, and felt my face glow; but I bent it over my letter, and went +on folding it up as she proceeded. “But perhaps you did _not_ know that +she is now gone back to him again, and that a perfect reconciliation +has taken place between them? Only think,” she continued, turning to +the confounded Rose, “what a fool the man must be!” + +“And who gave you this piece of intelligence, Miss Eliza?” said I, +interrupting my sister’s exclamations. + +“I had it from a very authentic source.” + +“From whom, may I ask?” + +“From one of the servants at Woodford.” + +“Oh! I was not aware that you were on such intimate terms with Mr. +Lawrence’s household.” + +“It was not from the man himself that I heard it, but he told it in +confidence to our maid Sarah, and Sarah told it to me.” + +“In confidence, I suppose? And you tell it in confidence to us? But _I_ +can tell _you_ that it is but a lame story after all, and scarcely +one-half of it true.” + +While I spoke I completed the sealing and direction of my letters, with +a somewhat unsteady hand, in spite of all my efforts to retain +composure, and in spite of my firm conviction that the story _was_ a +lame one—that the supposed Mrs. Graham, most certainly, had not +_voluntarily_ gone back to her husband, or dreamt of a reconciliation. +Most likely she was gone away, and the tale-bearing servant, not +knowing what was become of her, had _conjectured_ that such was the +case, and our fair visitor had detailed it as a certainty, delighted +with such an opportunity of tormenting me. But it was possible—barely +possible—that some one might have betrayed her, and she had been taken +away by force. Determined to know the worst, I hastily pocketed my two +letters, and muttered something about being too late for the post, left +the room, rushed into the yard, and vociferously called for my horse. +No one being there, I dragged him out of the stable myself, strapped +the saddle on to his back and the bridle on to his head, mounted, and +speedily galloped away to Woodford. I found its owner pensively +strolling in the grounds. + +“Is your sister gone?” were my first words as I grasped his hand, +instead of the usual inquiry after his health. + +“Yes, she’s gone,” was his answer, so calmly spoken that my terror was +at once removed. + +“I suppose I mayn’t know where she is?” said I, as I dismounted, and +relinquished my horse to the gardener, who, being the only servant +within call, had been summoned by his master, from his employment of +raking up the dead leaves on the lawn, to take him to the stables. + +My companion gravely took my arm, and leading me away to the garden, +thus answered my question,—“She is at Grassdale Manor, in ——shire.” + +“Where?” cried I, with a convulsive start. + +“At Grassdale Manor.” + +“How was it?” I gasped. “Who betrayed her?” + +“She went of her own accord.” + +“Impossible, Lawrence! She _could_ not be so frantic!” exclaimed I, +vehemently grasping his arm, as if to force him to unsay those hateful +words. + +“She did,” persisted he in the same grave, collected manner as before; +“and not without reason,” he continued, gently disengaging himself from +my grasp. “Mr. Huntingdon is ill.” + +“And so she went to nurse him?” + +“Yes.” + +“Fool!” I could not help exclaiming, and Lawrence looked up with a +rather reproachful glance. “Is he dying, then?” + +“I think not, Markham.” + +“And how many more nurses has he? How many ladies are there besides to +take care of him?” + +“None; he was alone, or she would not have gone.” + +“Oh, confound it! This is intolerable!” + +“What is? That he should be alone?” + +I attempted no reply, for I was not sure that this circumstance did not +partly conduce to my distraction. I therefore continued to pace the +walk in silent anguish, with my hand pressed to my forehead; then +suddenly pausing and turning to my companion, I impatiently exclaimed, +“Why did she take this infatuated step? What fiend persuaded her to +it?” + +“Nothing persuaded her but her own sense of duty.” + +“Humbug!” + +“I was half inclined to say so myself, Markham, at first. I assure you +it was not by my advice that she went, for I detest that man as +fervently as you can do,—except, indeed, that his reformation would +give me much greater pleasure than his death; but all I did was to +inform her of the circumstance of his illness (the consequence of a +fall from his horse in hunting), and to tell her that that unhappy +person, Miss Myers, had left him some time ago.” + +“It was ill done! Now, when he finds the convenience of her presence, +he will make all manner of lying speeches and false, fair promises for +the future, and she will believe him, and then her condition will be +ten times worse and ten times more irremediable than before.” + +“There does not appear to be much ground for such apprehensions at +present,” said he, producing a letter from his pocket. “From the +account I received this morning, I should say—” + +It was _her_ writing! By an irresistible impulse I held out my hand, +and the words, “Let me see it,” involuntarily passed my lips. He was +evidently reluctant to grant the request, but while he hesitated I +snatched it from his hand. Recollecting myself, however, the minute +after, I offered to restore it. + +“Here, take it,” said I, “if you don’t want me to read it.” + +“No,” replied he, “you may read it if you like.” + +I read it, and so may you. + +Grassdale, Nov. 4th. + + +DEAR FREDERICK,—I know you will be anxious to hear from me, and I will +tell you all I can. Mr. Huntingdon is very ill, but not dying, or in +any immediate danger; and he is rather better at present than he was +when I came. I found the house in sad confusion: Mrs. Greaves, Benson, +every decent servant had left, and those that were come to supply their +places were a negligent, disorderly set, to say no worse—I must change +them again, if I stay. A professional nurse, a grim, hard old woman, +had been hired to attend the wretched invalid. He suffers much, and has +no fortitude to bear him through. The immediate injuries he sustained +from the accident, however, were not very severe, and would, as the +doctor says, have been but trifling to a man of temperate habits, but +with _him_ it is very different. On the night of my arrival, when I +first entered his room, he was lying in a kind of half delirium. He did +not notice me till I spoke, and then he mistook me for another. + +“Is it you, Alice, come again?” he murmured. “What did you leave me +for?” + +“It is I, Arthur—it is Helen, your wife,” I replied. + +“My wife!” said he, with a start. “For heaven’s sake, don’t mention +her—I have none. Devil take her,” he cried, a moment after, “and you, +too! What did you do it for?” + +I said no more; but observing that he kept gazing towards the foot of +the bed, I went and sat there, placing the light so as to shine full +upon me, for I thought he might be dying, and I wanted him to know me. +For a long time he lay silently looking upon me, first with a vacant +stare, then with a fixed gaze of strange growing intensity. At last he +startled me by suddenly raising himself on his elbow and demanding in a +horrified whisper, with his eyes still fixed upon me, “Who is it?” + +“It is Helen Huntingdon,” said I, quietly rising at the same time, and +removing to a less conspicuous position. + +“I must be going mad,” cried he, “or something—delirious, perhaps; but +leave me, whoever you are. I can’t bear that white face, and those +eyes. For God’s sake go, and send me somebody else that doesn’t look +like that!” + +I went at once, and sent the hired nurse; but next morning I ventured +to enter his chamber again, and, taking the nurse’s place by his +bedside, I watched him and waited on him for several hours, showing +myself as little as possible, and only speaking when necessary, and +then not above my breath. At first he addressed me as the nurse, but, +on my crossing the room to draw up the window-blinds, in obedience to +his directions, he said, “No, it isn’t nurse; it’s Alice. Stay with me, +do! That old hag will be the death of me.” + +“I mean to stay with you,” said I. And after that he would call me +Alice, or some other name almost equally repugnant to my feelings. I +forced myself to endure it for a while, fearing a contradiction might +disturb him too much; but when, having asked for a glass of water, +while I held it to his lips, he murmured, “Thanks, dearest!” I could +not help distinctly observing, “You would not say so if you knew me,” +intending to follow that up with another declaration of my identity; +but he merely muttered an incoherent reply, so I dropped it again, till +some time after, when, as I was bathing his forehead and temples with +vinegar and water to relieve the heat and pain in his head, he +observed, after looking earnestly upon me for some minutes, “I have +such strange fancies—I can’t get rid of them, and they won’t let me +rest; and the most singular and pertinacious of them all is your face +and voice—they seem just like hers. I could swear at this moment that +she was by my side.” + +“She is,” said I. + +“That seems comfortable,” continued he, without noticing my words; “and +while you do it, the other fancies fade away—but _this_ only +strengthens.—Go on—go on, till it vanishes, too. I can’t stand such a +mania as this; it would kill me!” + +“It never will vanish,” said I, distinctly, “for it is the truth!” + +“The truth!” he cried, starting, as if an asp had stung him. “You don’t +mean to say that you are really she?” + +“I do; but you needn’t shrink away from me, as if I were your greatest +enemy: I am come to take care of you, and do what none of _them_ would +do.” + +“For God’s sake, don’t torment me now!” cried he in pitiable agitation; +and then he began to mutter bitter curses against me, or the evil +fortune that had brought me there; while I put down the sponge and +basin, and resumed my seat at the bed-side. + +“Where are they?” said he: “have they all left me—servants and all?” + +“There are servants within call if you want them; but you had better +lie down now and be quiet: none of them could or would attend you as +carefully as I shall do.” + +“I can’t understand it at all,” said he, in bewildered perplexity. “Was +it a dream that—” and he covered his eyes with his hands, as if trying +to unravel the mystery. + +“No, Arthur, it was not a dream, that your conduct was such as to +oblige me to leave you; but I heard that you were ill and alone, and I +am come back to nurse you. You need not fear to trust me: tell me all +your wants, and I will try to satisfy them. There is no one else to +care for you; and I shall not upbraid you now.” + +“Oh! I see,” said he, with a bitter smile; “it’s an act of Christian +charity, whereby you hope to gain a higher seat in heaven for yourself, +and scoop a deeper pit in hell for me.” + +“No; I came to offer you that comfort and assistance your situation +required; and if I could benefit your soul as well as your body, and +awaken some sense of contrition and—” + +“Oh, yes; if you could overwhelm me with remorse and confusion of face, +now’s the time. What have you done with my son?” + +“He is well, and you may see him some time, if you will compose +yourself, but not now.” + +“Where is he?” + +“He is safe.” + +“Is he here?” + +“Wherever he is, you will not see him till you have promised to leave +him entirely under my care and protection, and to let me take him away +whenever and wherever I please, if I should hereafter judge it +necessary to remove him again. But we will talk of that to-morrow: you +must be quiet now.” + +“No, let me see him now, I promise, if it _must_ be so.” + +“No—” + +“I swear it, as God is in Heaven! Now, then, let me see him.” + +“But I cannot trust your oaths and promises: I must have a written +agreement, and you must sign it in presence of a witness: but not +to-day—to-morrow.” + +“No, to-day; now,” persisted he: and he was in such a state of feverish +excitement, and so bent upon the immediate gratification of his wish, +that I thought it better to grant it at once, as I saw he would not +rest till I did. But I was determined my son’s interest should not be +forgotten; and having clearly written out the promise I wished Mr. +Huntingdon to give upon a slip of paper, I deliberately read it over to +him, and made him sign it in the presence of Rachel. He begged I would +not insist upon this: it was a useless exposure of my want of faith in +his word to the servant. I told him I was sorry, but since he had +forfeited my confidence, he must take the consequence. He next pleaded +inability to hold the pen. “Then we must wait until you can hold it,” +said I. Upon which he said he would try; but then he could not see to +write. I placed my finger where the signature was to be, and told him +he might write his name in the dark, if he only knew where to put it. +But he had not power to form the letters. “In that case, you must be +too ill to see the child,” said I; and finding me inexorable, he at +length managed to ratify the agreement; and I bade Rachel send the boy. + +All this may strike you as harsh, but I felt I must not lose my present +advantage, and my son’s future welfare should not be sacrificed to any +mistaken tenderness for this man’s feelings. Little Arthur had not +forgotten his father, but thirteen months of absence, during which he +had seldom been permitted to hear a word about him, or hardly to +whisper his name, had rendered him somewhat shy; and when he was +ushered into the darkened room where the sick man lay, so altered from +his former self, with fiercely flushed face and wildly-gleaming eyes—he +instinctively clung to me, and stood looking on his father with a +countenance expressive of far more awe than pleasure. + +“Come here, Arthur,” said the latter, extending his hand towards him. +The child went, and timidly touched that burning hand, but almost +started in alarm, when his father suddenly clutched his arm and drew +him nearer to his side. + +“Do you know me?” asked Mr. Huntingdon, intently perusing his features. + +“Yes.” + +“Who am I?” + +“Papa.” + +“Are you glad to see me?” + +“Yes.” + +“You’re _not!_” replied the disappointed parent, relaxing his hold, and +darting a vindictive glance at me. + +Arthur, thus released, crept back to me and put his hand in mine. His +father swore I had made the child hate him, and abused and cursed me +bitterly. The instant he began I sent our son out of the room; and when +he paused to breathe, I calmly assured him that he was entirely +mistaken; I had never once attempted to prejudice his child against +him. + +“I did indeed desire him to _forget_ you,” I said, “and especially to +forget the lessons you taught him; and for that cause, and to lessen +the danger of discovery, I own I have generally discouraged his +inclination to talk about you; but no one can blame me for that, I +think.” + +The invalid only replied by groaning aloud, and rolling his head on a +pillow in a paroxysm of impatience. + +“I am in hell, already!” cried he. “This cursed thirst is burning my +heart to ashes! Will _nobody_—” + +Before he could finish the sentence I had poured out a glass of some +acidulated, cooling drink that was on the table, and brought it to him. +He drank it greedily, but muttered, as I took away the glass,—“I +suppose you’re heaping coals of fire on my head, you think?” + +Not noticing this speech, I asked if there was anything else I could do +for him. + +“Yes; I’ll give you another opportunity of showing your Christian +magnanimity,” sneered he: “set my pillow straight, and these confounded +bed-clothes.” I did so. “There: now get me another glass of that slop.” +I complied. “This is delightful, isn’t it?” said he with a malicious +grin, as I held it to his lips; “you never hoped for such a glorious +opportunity?” + +“Now, shall I stay with you?” said I, as I replaced the glass on the +table: “or will you be more quiet if I go and send the nurse?” + +“Oh, yes, you’re wondrous gentle and obliging! But you’ve driven me mad +with it all!” responded he, with an impatient toss. + +“I’ll leave you, then,” said I; and I withdrew, and did not trouble him +with my presence again that day, except for a minute or two at a time, +just to see how he was and what he wanted. + +Next morning the doctor ordered him to be bled; and after that he was +more subdued and tranquil. I passed half the day in his room at +different intervals. My presence did not appear to agitate or irritate +him as before, and he accepted my services quietly, without any bitter +remarks: indeed, he scarcely spoke at all, except to make known his +wants, and hardly then. But on the morrow, that is to say, in +proportion as he recovered from the state of exhaustion and +stupefaction, his ill-nature appeared to revive. + +“Oh, this sweet revenge!” cried he, when I had been doing all I could +to make him comfortable and to remedy the carelessness of his nurse. +“And you can enjoy it with such a quiet conscience too, because it’s +all in the way of duty.” + +“It is well for me that I _am_ doing my duty,” said I, with a +bitterness I could not repress, “for it is the only comfort I have; and +the satisfaction of my own conscience, it seems, is the only reward I +need look for!” + +He looked rather surprised at the earnestness of my manner. + +“What reward _did_ you look for?” he asked. + +“You will think me a liar if I tell you; but I _did_ hope to benefit +you: as well to better your mind as to alleviate your present +sufferings; but it appears I am to do neither; your own bad spirit will +not let me. As far as _you_ are concerned, I have sacrificed my own +feelings, and all the little earthly comfort that was left me, to no +purpose; and every little thing I do for you is ascribed to +self-righteous malice and refined revenge!” + +“It’s all very fine, I daresay,” said he, eyeing me with stupid +amazement; “and of course I ought to be melted to tears of penitence +and admiration at the sight of so much generosity and superhuman +goodness; but you see I can’t manage it. However, pray do me all the +good you can, if you do really find any pleasure in it; for you +perceive I am almost as miserable just now as you need wish to see me. +Since you came, I confess, I have had better attendance than before, +for these wretches neglected me shamefully, and all my old friends seem +to have fairly forsaken me. I’ve had a dreadful time of it, I assure +you: I sometimes thought I should have died: do you think there’s any +chance?” + +“There’s always a chance of death; and it is always well to live with +such a chance in view.” + +“Yes, yes! but do you think there’s any likelihood that this illness +will have a fatal termination?” + +“I cannot tell; but, supposing it should, how are you prepared to meet +the event?” + +“Why, the doctor told me I wasn’t to think about it, for I was sure to +get better if I stuck to his regimen and prescriptions.” + +“I hope you may, Arthur; but neither the doctor nor I can speak with +certainty in such a case; there is internal injury, and it is difficult +to know to what extent.” + +“There now! you want to scare me to death.” + +“No; but I don’t want to lull you to false security. If a consciousness +of the uncertainty of life can dispose you to serious and useful +thoughts, I would not deprive you of the benefit of such reflections, +whether you do eventually recover or not. Does the idea of death appal +you very much?” + +“It’s just the only thing I can’t bear to think of; so if you’ve any—” + +“But it must come some time,” interrupted I, “and if it be years hence, +it will as certainly overtake you as if it came to-day,—and no doubt be +as unwelcome then as now, unless you—” + +“Oh, hang it! don’t torment me with your preachments now, unless you +want to kill me outright. I can’t stand it, I tell you. I’ve sufferings +enough without that. If you think there’s danger, save me from it; and +then, in gratitude, I’ll hear whatever you like to say.” + +I accordingly dropped the unwelcome topic. And now, Frederick, I think +I may bring my letter to a close. From these details you may form your +own judgment of the state of my patient, and of my own position and +future prospects. Let me hear from you soon, and I will write again to +tell you how we get on; but now that my presence is tolerated, and even +required, in the sick-room, I shall have but little time to spare +between my husband and my son,—for I must not entirely neglect the +latter: it would not do to keep him always with Rachel, and I dare not +leave him for a moment with any of the other servants, or suffer him to +be alone, lest he should meet them. If his father get worse, I shall +ask Esther Hargrave to take charge of him for a time, till I have +reorganised the household at least; but I greatly prefer keeping him +under my own eye. + +I find myself in rather a singular position: I am exerting my utmost +endeavours to promote the recovery and reformation of my husband, and +if I succeed, what shall I do? My duty, of course,—but how? No matter; +I can perform the task that is before me now, and God will give me +strength to do whatever He requires hereafter. Good-by, dear Frederick. + +HELEN HUNTINGDON. + + +“What do you think of it?” said Lawrence, as I silently refolded the +letter. + +“It seems to me,” returned I, “that she is casting her pearls before +swine. May they be satisfied with trampling them under their feet, and +not turn again and rend her! But I shall say no more against her: I see +that she was actuated by the best and noblest motives in what she has +done; and if the act is not a wise one, may heaven protect her from its +consequences! May I keep this letter, Lawrence?—you see she has never +once mentioned me throughout—or made the most distant allusion to me; +therefore, there can be no impropriety or harm in it.” + +“And, therefore, why should you wish to keep it?” + +“Were not these characters written by her hand? and were not these +words conceived in her mind, and many of them spoken by her lips?” + +“Well,” said he. And so I kept it; otherwise, Halford, you could never +have become so thoroughly acquainted with its contents. + +“And when you write,” said I, “will you have the goodness to ask her if +I may be permitted to enlighten my mother and sister on her real +history and circumstance, just so far as is necessary to make the +neighbourhood sensible of the shameful injustice they have done her? I +want no tender messages, but just ask her that, and tell her it is the +greatest favour she could do me; and tell her—no, nothing more. You see +I know the address, and I might write to her myself, but I am so +virtuous as to refrain.” + +“Well, I’ll do this for you, Markham.” + +“And as soon as you receive an answer, you’ll let me know?” + +“If all be well, I’ll come myself and tell you immediately.” + + + + + CHAPTER XLVIII + + +Five or six days after this Mr. Lawrence paid us the honour of a call; +and when he and I were alone together—which I contrived as soon as +possible by bringing him out to look at my cornstacks—he showed me +another letter from his sister. This one he was quite willing to submit +to my longing gaze; he thought, I suppose, it would do me good. The +only answer it gave to my message was this:— + +“Mr. Markham is at liberty to make such revelations concerning me as he +judges necessary. He will know that I should wish but little to be said +on the subject. I hope he is well; but tell him he must not think of +me.” + +I can give you a few extracts from the rest of the letter, for I was +permitted to keep this also—perhaps, as an antidote to all pernicious +hopes and fancies. + +* * * * * + + +He is decidedly better, but very low from the depressing effects of his +severe illness and the strict regimen he is obliged to observe—so +opposite to all his previous habits. It is deplorable to see how +completely his past life has degenerated his once noble constitution, +and vitiated the whole system of his organization. But the doctor says +he may now be considered out of danger, if he will only continue to +observe the necessary restrictions. Some stimulating cordials he must +have, but they should be judiciously diluted and sparingly used; and I +find it very difficult to keep him to this. At first, his extreme dread +of death rendered the task an easy one; but in proportion as he feels +his acute suffering abating, and sees the danger receding, the more +intractable he becomes. Now, also, his appetite for food is beginning +to return; and here, too, his long habits of self-indulgence are +greatly against him. I watch and restrain him as well as I can, and +often get bitterly abused for my rigid severity; and sometimes he +contrives to elude my vigilance, and sometimes acts in opposition to my +will. But he is now so completely reconciled to my attendance in +general that he is never satisfied when I am not by his side. I am +obliged to be a little stiff with him sometimes, or he would make a +complete slave of me; and I know it would be unpardonable weakness to +give up all other interests for him. I have the servants to overlook, +and my little Arthur to attend to,—and my own health too, all of which +would be entirely neglected were I to satisfy his exorbitant demands. I +do not generally sit up at night, for I think the nurse who has made it +her business is better qualified for such undertakings than I am;—but +still, an unbroken night’s rest is what I but seldom enjoy, and never +can venture to reckon upon; for my patient makes no scruple of calling +me up at an hour when his wants or his fancies require my presence. But +he is manifestly afraid of my displeasure; and if at one time he tries +my patience by his unreasonable exactions, and fretful complaints and +reproaches, at another he depresses me by his abject submission and +deprecatory self-abasement when he fears he has gone too far. But all +this I can readily pardon; I know it is chiefly the result of his +enfeebled frame and disordered nerves. What annoys me the most, is his +occasional attempts at affectionate fondness that I can neither credit +nor return; not that I hate him: his sufferings and my own laborious +care have given him some claim to my regard—to my affection even, if he +would only be quiet and sincere, and content to let things remain as +they are; but the more he tries to conciliate me, the more I shrink +from him and from the future. + +“Helen, what do you mean to do when I get well?” he asked this morning. +“Will you run away again?” + +“It entirely depends upon your own conduct.” + +“Oh, I’ll be very good.” + +“But if I find it necessary to leave you, Arthur, I shall not ‘run +away’: you know I have your own promise that I may go whenever I +please, and take my son with me.” + +“Oh, but you shall have no cause.” And then followed a variety of +professions, which I rather coldly checked. + +“Will you not forgive me, then?” said he. + +“Yes,—I _have_ forgiven you: but I know you cannot love me as you once +did—and I should be very sorry if you were to, for I could not pretend +to return it: so let us drop the subject, and never recur to it again. +By what I _have_ done for you, you may judge of what I _will_ do—if it +be not incompatible with the higher duty I owe to my son (higher, +because he never forfeited his claims, and because I hope to do more +good to him than I can ever do to you); and if you wish me to feel +kindly towards you, it is _deeds_ not _words_ which must purchase my +affection and esteem.” + +His sole reply to this was a slight grimace, and a scarcely perceptible +shrug. Alas, unhappy man! words, with him, are so much cheaper than +deeds; it was as if I had said, “Pounds, not pence, must buy the +article you want.” And then he sighed a querulous, self-commiserating +sigh, as if in pure regret that he, the loved and courted of so many +worshippers, should be now abandoned to the mercy of a harsh, exacting, +cold-hearted woman like that, and even glad of what kindness she chose +to bestow. + +“It’s a pity, isn’t it?” said I; and whether I rightly divined his +musings or not, the observation chimed in with his thoughts, for he +answered—“It can’t be helped,” with a rueful smile at my penetration. + +* * * * * + + +I have seen Esther Hargrave twice. She is a charming creature, but her +blithe spirit is almost broken, and her sweet temper almost spoiled, by +the still unremitting persecutions of her mother in behalf of her +rejected suitor—not violent, but wearisome and unremitting like a +continual dropping. The unnatural parent seems determined to make her +daughter’s life a burden, if she will not yield to her desires. + +“Mamma does all she can,” said she, “to make me feel myself a burden +and incumbrance to the family, and the most ungrateful, selfish, and +undutiful daughter that ever was born; and Walter, too, is as stern and +cold and haughty as if he hated me outright. I believe I should have +yielded at once if I had known, from the beginning, how much resistance +would have cost me; but now, for very obstinacy’s sake, I _will_ stand +out!” + +“A bad motive for a good resolve,” I answered. “But, however, I know +you have better motives, really, for your perseverance: and I counsel +you to keep them still in view.” + +“Trust me I will. I threaten mamma sometimes that I’ll run away, and +disgrace the family by earning my own livelihood, if she torments me +any more; and then that frightens her a little. But I _will_ do it, in +good earnest, if they don’t mind.” + +“Be quiet and patient a while,” said I, “and better times will come.” + +Poor girl! I wish somebody that was worthy to possess her would come +and take her away—don’t you, Frederick? + +* * * * * + + +If the perusal of this letter filled me with dismay for Helen’s future +life and mine, there was one great source of consolation: it was now in +my power to clear her name from every foul aspersion. The Millwards and +the Wilsons should see with their own eyes the bright sun bursting from +the cloud—and they should be scorched and dazzled by its beams;—and my +own friends too should see it—they whose suspicions had been such gall +and wormwood to my soul. To effect this I had only to drop the seed +into the ground, and it would soon become a stately, branching herb: a +few words to my mother and sister, I knew, would suffice to spread the +news throughout the whole neighbourhood, without any further exertion +on my part. + +Rose was delighted; and as soon as I had told her all I thought +proper—which was all I affected to know—she flew with alacrity to put +on her bonnet and shawl, and hasten to carry the glad tidings to the +Millwards and Wilsons—glad tidings, I suspect, to none but herself and +Mary Millward—that steady, sensible girl, whose sterling worth had been +so quickly perceived and duly valued by the supposed Mrs. Graham, in +spite of her plain outside; and who, on her part, had been better able +to see and appreciate that lady’s true character and qualities than the +brightest genius among them. + +As I may never have occasion to mention her again, I may as well tell +you here that she was at this time privately engaged to Richard +Wilson—a secret, I believe, to every one but themselves. That worthy +student was now at Cambridge, where his most exemplary conduct and his +diligent perseverance in the pursuit of learning carried him safely +through, and eventually brought him with hard-earned honours, and an +untarnished reputation, to the close of his collegiate career. In due +time he became Mr. Millward’s first and only curate—for that +gentleman’s declining years forced him at last to acknowledge that the +duties of his extensive parish were a little too much for those vaunted +energies which he was wont to boast over his younger and less active +brethren of the cloth. This was what the patient, faithful lovers had +privately planned and quietly waited for years ago; and in due time +they were united, to the astonishment of the little world they lived +in, that had long since declared them both born to single blessedness; +affirming it impossible that the pale, retiring bookworm should ever +summon courage to seek a wife, or be able to obtain one if he did, and +equally impossible that the plain-looking, plain-dealing, unattractive, +unconciliating Miss Millward should ever find a husband. + +They still continued to live at the vicarage, the lady dividing her +time between her father, her husband, and their poor parishioners,—and +subsequently her rising family; and now that the Reverend Michael +Millward has been gathered to his fathers, full of years and honours, +the Reverend Richard Wilson has succeeded him to the vicarage of +Lindenhope, greatly to the satisfaction of its inhabitants, who had so +long tried and fully proved his merits, and those of his excellent and +well-loved partner. + +If you are interested in the after fate of that lady’s sister, I can +only tell you—what perhaps you have heard from another quarter—that +some twelve or thirteen years ago she relieved the happy couple of her +presence by marrying a wealthy tradesman of L——; and I don’t envy him +his bargain. I fear she leads him a rather uncomfortable life, though, +happily, he is too dull to perceive the extent of his misfortune. I +have little enough to do with her myself: we have not met for many +years; but, I am well assured, she has not yet forgotten or forgiven +either her former lover, or the lady whose superior qualities first +opened his eyes to the folly of his boyish attachment. + +As for Richard Wilson’s sister, she, having been wholly unable to +recapture Mr. Lawrence, or obtain any partner rich and elegant enough +to suit her ideas of what the husband of Jane Wilson ought to be, is +yet in single blessedness. Shortly after the death of her mother she +withdrew the light of her presence from Ryecote Farm, finding it +impossible any longer to endure the rough manners and unsophisticated +habits of her honest brother Robert and his worthy wife, or the idea of +being identified with such vulgar people in the eyes of the world, and +took lodgings in —— the county town, where she lived, and still lives, +I suppose, in a kind of close-fisted, cold, uncomfortable gentility, +doing no good to others, and but little to herself; spending her days +in fancy-work and scandal; referring frequently to her “brother the +vicar,” and her “sister, the vicar’s lady,” but never to her brother +the farmer and her sister the farmer’s wife; seeing as much company as +she can without too much expense, but loving no one and beloved by +none—a cold-hearted, supercilious, keenly, insidiously censorious old +maid. + + + + + CHAPTER XLIX + + +Though Mr. Lawrence’s health was now quite re-established, my visits to +Woodford were as unremitting as ever; though often less protracted than +before. We seldom _talked_ about Mrs. Huntingdon; but yet we never met +without mentioning her, for I never sought his company but with the +hope of hearing something about her, and he never sought mine at all, +because he saw me often enough without. But I always began to talk of +other things, and waited first to see if _he_ would introduce the +subject. If he did not, I would casually ask, “Have you heard from your +sister lately?” If he said “No,” the matter was dropped: if he said +“Yes,” I would venture to inquire, “How is she?” but never “How is her +husband?” though I might be burning to know; because I had not the +hypocrisy to profess any anxiety for his recovery, and I had not the +face to express any desire for a contrary result. Had I any such +desire?—I fear I must plead guilty; but since you have heard my +confession, you must hear my justification as well—a few of the +excuses, at least, wherewith I sought to pacify my own accusing +conscience. + +In the first place, you see, his life did harm to others, and evidently +no good to himself; and though I wished it to terminate, I would not +have hastened its close if, by the lifting of a finger, I could have +done so, or if a spirit had whispered in my ear that a single effort of +the will would be enough,—unless, indeed, I had the power to exchange +him for some other victim of the grave, whose life might be of service +to his race, and whose death would be lamented by his friends. But was +there any harm in wishing that, among the many thousands whose souls +would certainly be required of them before the year was over, this +wretched mortal might be one? I thought not; and therefore I wished +with all my heart that it might please heaven to remove him to a better +world, or if that might not be, still to take him out of this; for if +he were unfit to answer the summons now, after a warning sickness, and +with such an angel by his side, it seemed but too certain that he never +would be—that, on the contrary, returning health would bring returning +lust and villainy, and as he grew more certain of recovery, more +accustomed to her generous goodness, his feelings would become more +callous, his heart more flinty and impervious to her persuasive +arguments—but God knew best. Meantime, however, I could not but be +anxious for the result of His decrees; knowing, as I did, that (leaving +myself entirely out of the question), however Helen might feel +interested in her husband’s welfare, however she might deplore his +fate, still while he lived she must be miserable. + +A fortnight passed away, and my inquiries were always answered in the +negative. At length a welcome “yes” drew from me the second question. +Lawrence divined my anxious thoughts, and appreciated my reserve. I +feared, at first, he was going to torture me by unsatisfactory replies, +and either leave me quite in the dark concerning what I wanted to know, +or force me to drag the information out of him, morsel by morsel, by +direct inquiries. “And serve you right,” you will say; but he was more +merciful; and in a little while he put his sister’s letter into my +hand. I silently read it, and restored it to him without comment or +remark. This mode of procedure suited him so well, that thereafter he +always pursued the plan of showing me her letters at once, when +“inquired” after her, if there were any to show—it was so much less +trouble than to tell me their contents; and I received such confidences +so quietly and discreetly that he was never induced to discontinue +them. + +But I devoured those precious letters with my eyes, and never let them +go till their contents were stamped upon my mind; and when I got home, +the most important passages were entered in my diary among the +remarkable events of the day. + +The first of these communications brought intelligence of a serious +relapse in Mr. Huntingdon’s illness, entirely the result of his own +infatuation in persisting in the indulgence of his appetite for +stimulating drink. In vain had she remonstrated, in vain she had +mingled his wine with water: her arguments and entreaties were a +nuisance, her interference was an insult so intolerable that, at +length, on finding she had covertly diluted the pale port that was +brought him, he threw the bottle out of the window, swearing he would +not be cheated like a baby, ordered the butler, on pain of instant +dismissal, to bring a bottle of the strongest wine in the cellar, and +affirming that he should have been well long ago if he had been let to +have his own way, but she wanted to keep him weak in order that she +might have him under her thumb—but, by the Lord Harry, he would have no +more humbug—seized a glass in one hand and the bottle in the other, and +never rested till he had drunk it dry. Alarming symptoms were the +immediate result of this “imprudence,” as she mildly termed it—symptoms +which had rather increased than diminished since; and this was the +cause of her delay in writing to her brother. Every former feature of +his malady had returned with augmented virulence: the slight external +wound, half healed, had broken out afresh; internal inflammation had +taken place, which might terminate fatally if not soon removed. Of +course, the wretched sufferer’s temper was not improved by this +calamity—in fact, I suspect it was well nigh insupportable, though his +kind nurse did not complain; but she said she had been obliged at last +to give her son in charge to Esther Hargrave, as her presence was so +constantly required in the sick-room that she could not possibly attend +to him herself; and though the child had begged to be allowed to +continue with her there, and to help her to nurse his papa, and though +she had no doubt he would have been very good and quiet, she could not +think of subjecting his young and tender feelings to the sight of so +much suffering, or of allowing him to witness his father’s impatience, +or hear the dreadful language he was wont to use in his paroxysms of +pain or irritation. + +The latter (continued she) most deeply regrets the step that has +occasioned his relapse; but, as usual, he throws the blame upon me. If +I had reasoned with him like a rational creature, he says, it never +would have happened; but to be treated like a baby or a fool was enough +to put any man past his patience, and drive him to assert his +independence even at the sacrifice of his own interest. He forgets how +often I had _reasoned_ him “past his patience” before. He appears to be +sensible of his danger; but nothing can induce him to behold it in the +proper light. The other night, while I was waiting on him, and just as +I had brought him a draught to assuage his burning thirst, he observed, +with a return of his former sarcastic bitterness, “Yes, you’re mighty +attentive _now!_ I suppose there’s _nothing_ you wouldn’t do for me +now?” + +“You know,” said I, a little surprised at his manner, “that I am +willing to do anything I can to relieve you.” + +“Yes, _now_, my immaculate angel; but when once you have secured your +reward, and find yourself safe in heaven, and me howling in hell-fire, +catch you lifting a finger to serve me _then!_ No, you’ll look +complacently on, and not so much as dip the tip of your finger in water +to cool my tongue!” + +“If so, it will be because of the great gulf over which I cannot pass; +and if I _could_ look complacently on in such a case, it would be only +from the assurance that you were being purified from your sins, and +fitted to enjoy the happiness I felt.—But are you _determined_, Arthur, +that I shall not meet you in heaven?” + +“Humph! What should I do there, I should like to know?” + +“Indeed, I cannot tell; and I fear it is too certain that your tastes +and feelings must be widely altered before you can have any enjoyment +there. But do you prefer sinking, without an effort, into the state of +torment you picture to yourself?” + +“Oh, it’s all a fable,” said he, contemptuously. + +“Are you sure, Arthur? are you _quite_ sure? Because, if there is any +doubt, and if you _should_ find yourself mistaken after all, when it is +too late to turn—” + +“It would be rather awkward, to be sure,” said he; “but don’t bother me +now—I’m not going to die yet. I can’t and won’t,” he added vehemently, +as if suddenly struck with the appalling aspect of that terrible event. +“Helen, you _must_ save me!” And he earnestly seized my hand, and +looked into my face with such imploring eagerness that my heart bled +for him, and I could not speak for tears. + +* * * * * + + +The next letter brought intelligence that the malady was fast +increasing; and the poor sufferer’s horror of death was still more +distressing than his impatience of bodily pain. _All_ his friends had +not forsaken him; for Mr. Hattersley, hearing of his danger, had come +to see him from his distant home in the north. His wife had accompanied +him, as much for the pleasure of seeing her dear friend, from whom she +had been parted so long, as to visit her mother and sister. + +Mrs. Huntingdon expressed herself glad to see Milicent once more, and +pleased to behold her so happy and well. She is now at the Grove, +continued the letter, but she often calls to see me. Mr. Hattersley +spends much of his time at Arthur’s bed-side. With more good feeling +than I gave him credit for, he evinces considerable sympathy for his +unhappy friend, and is far more willing than able to comfort him. +Sometimes he tries to joke and laugh with him, but that will not do; +sometimes he endeavours to cheer him with talk about old times, and +this at one time may serve to divert the sufferer from his own sad +thoughts; at another, it will only plunge him into deeper melancholy +than before; and then Hattersley is confounded, and knows not what to +say, unless it be a timid suggestion that the clergyman might be sent +for. But Arthur will never consent to that: he knows he has rejected +the clergyman’s well-meant admonitions with scoffing levity at other +times, and cannot dream of turning to him for consolation now. + +Mr. Hattersley sometimes offers his services instead of mine, but +Arthur will not let me go: that strange whim still increases, as his +strength declines—the fancy to have me always by his side. I hardly +ever leave him, except to go into the next room, where I sometimes +snatch an hour or so of sleep when he is quiet; but even then the door +is left ajar, that he may know me to be within call. I am with him now, +while I write, and I fear my occupation annoys him; though I frequently +break off to attend to him, and though Mr. Hattersley is also by his +side. That gentleman came, as he said, to beg a holiday for me, that I +might have a run in the park, this fine frosty morning, with Milicent +and Esther and little Arthur, whom he had driven over to see me. Our +poor invalid evidently felt it a heartless proposition, and would have +felt it still more heartless in me to accede to it. I therefore said I +would only go and speak to them a minute, and then come back. I did but +exchange a few words with them, just outside the portico, inhaling the +fresh, bracing air as I stood, and then, resisting the earnest and +eloquent entreaties of all three to stay a little longer, and join them +in a walk round the garden, I tore myself away and returned to my +patient. I had not been absent five minutes, but he reproached me +bitterly for my levity and neglect. His friend espoused my cause. + +“Nay, nay, Huntingdon,” said he, “you’re too hard upon her; she must +have food and sleep, and a mouthful of fresh air now and then, or she +can’t stand it, I tell you. Look at her, man! she’s worn to a shadow +already.” + +“What are her sufferings to mine?” said the poor invalid. “You don’t +grudge me these attentions, do you, Helen?” + +“No, Arthur, if I could really serve you by them. I would give my life +to save you, if I might.” + +“Would you, _indeed?_ No!” + +“Most willingly I would.” + +“Ah! that’s because you think yourself more fit to die!” + +There was a painful pause. He was evidently plunged in gloomy +reflections; but while I pondered for something to say that might +benefit without alarming him, Hattersley, whose mind had been pursuing +almost the same course, broke silence with, “I say, Huntingdon, I +_would_ send for a parson of some sort: if you didn’t like the vicar, +you know, you could have his curate, or somebody else.” + +“No; none of them can benefit me if _she_ can’t,” was the answer. And +the tears gushed from his eyes as he earnestly exclaimed, “Oh, Helen, +if I had listened to you, it never would have come to this! and if I +had heard you long ago—oh, God! how different it would have been!” + +“Hear me now, then, Arthur,” said I, gently pressing his hand. + +“It’s too late now,” said he despondingly. And after that another +paroxysm of pain came on; and then his mind began to wander, and we +feared his death was approaching: but an opiate was administered: his +sufferings began to abate, he gradually became more composed, and at +length sank into a kind of slumber. He has been quieter since; and now +Hattersley has left him, expressing a hope that he shall find him +better when he calls to-morrow. + +“Perhaps I _may_ recover,” he replied; “who knows? This may have been +the crisis. What do _you_ think, Helen?” + +Unwilling to depress him, I gave the most cheering answer I could, but +still recommended him to prepare for the possibility of what I inly +feared was but too certain. But he was determined to hope. Shortly +after he relapsed into a kind of doze, but now he groans again. + +There is a change. Suddenly he called me to his side, with such a +strange, excited manner, that I feared he was delirious, but he was +not. “That _was_ the crisis, Helen!” said he, delightedly. “I had an +infernal pain here—it is quite gone now. I never was so easy since the +fall—quite gone, by heaven!” and he clasped and kissed my hand in the +very fulness of his heart; but finding I did not participate in his +joy, he quickly flung it from him, and bitterly cursed my coldness and +insensibility. How could I reply? Kneeling beside him, I took his hand +and fondly pressed it to my lips—for the first time since our +separation—and told him, as well as tears would let me speak, that it +was not _that_ that kept me silent: it was the fear that this sudden +cessation of pain was not so favourable a symptom as he supposed. I +immediately sent for the doctor: we are now anxiously awaiting him. I +will tell you what he says. There is still the same freedom from pain, +the same deadness to all sensation where the suffering was most acute. + +My worst fears are realised: mortification has commenced. The doctor +has told him there is no hope. No words can describe his anguish. I can +write no more. + +* * * * * + + +The next was still more distressing in the tenor of its contents. The +sufferer was fast approaching dissolution—dragged almost to the verge +of that awful chasm he trembled to contemplate, from which no agony of +prayers or tears could save him. Nothing could comfort him now; +Hattersley’s rough attempts at consolation were utterly in vain. The +world was nothing to him: life and all its interests, its petty cares +and transient pleasures, were a cruel mockery. To talk of the past was +to torture him with vain remorse; to refer to the future was to +increase his anguish; and yet to be silent was to leave him a prey to +his own regrets and apprehensions. Often he dwelt with shuddering +minuteness on the fate of his perishing clay—the slow, piecemeal +dissolution already invading his frame: the shroud, the coffin, the +dark, lonely grave, and all the horrors of corruption. + +“If I try,” said his afflicted wife, “to divert him from these +things—to raise his thoughts to higher themes, it is no better:—‘Worse +and worse!’ he groans. ‘If there be really life beyond the tomb, and +judgment after death, how _can_ I face it?’—I cannot do him any good; +he will neither be enlightened, nor roused, nor comforted by anything I +say; and yet he clings to me with unrelenting pertinacity—with a kind +of childish desperation, as if _I_ could save him from the fate he +dreads. He keeps me night and day beside him. He is holding my left +hand now, while I write; he has held it thus for hours: sometimes +quietly, with his pale face upturned to mine: sometimes clutching my +arm with violence—the big drops starting from his forehead at the +thoughts of what he sees, or thinks he sees, before him. If I withdraw +my hand for a moment it distresses him. + +“‘Stay with me, Helen,’ he says; ‘let me hold you so: it seems as if +harm could not reach me while you are here. But death _will_ come—it is +coming now—fast, fast!—and—oh, if I _could_ believe there was nothing +after!’ + +“‘Don’t try to believe it, Arthur; there is joy and glory after, if you +will but try to reach it!’ + +“‘What, for _me?_’ he said, with something like a laugh. ‘Are we not to +be judged according to the deeds done in the body? Where’s the use of a +probationary existence, if a man may spend it as he pleases, just +contrary to God’s decrees, and then go to heaven with the best—if the +vilest sinner may win the reward of the holiest saint, by merely +saying, ‘I repent!’” + +“‘But if you _sincerely_ repent—’ + +“‘I _can’t_ repent; I only fear.’ + +“‘You only regret the past for its consequences to yourself?’ + +“‘Just so—except that I’m sorry to have wronged you, Nell, because +you’re so good to me.’ + +“‘Think of the goodness of God, and you cannot but be grieved to have +offended Him.’ + +“‘What _is_ God?—I cannot see Him or hear Him.—God is only an idea.’ + +“‘God is Infinite Wisdom, and Power, and Goodness—and LOVE; but if this +idea is too vast for your human faculties—if your mind loses itself in +its overwhelming infinitude, fix it on Him who condescended to take our +nature upon Him, who was raised to heaven even in His glorified human +body, in whom the fulness of the Godhead shines.’ + +“But he only shook his head and sighed. Then, in another paroxysm of +shuddering horror, he tightened his grasp on my hand and arm, and, +groaning and lamenting, still clung to me with that wild, desperate +earnestness so harrowing to my soul, because I know I cannot help him. +I did my best to soothe and comfort him. + +“‘Death is so terrible,’ he cried, ‘I cannot bear it! _You_ don’t know, +Helen—you can’t imagine what it is, because you haven’t it before you! +and when I’m buried, you’ll return to your old ways and be as happy as +ever, and all the world will go on just as busy and merry as if I had +never been; while I—’ He burst into tears. + +“‘You needn’t let _that_ distress you,’ I said; ‘we shall all follow +you soon enough.’ + +“‘I wish to God I could take you with me now!’ he exclaimed: ‘you +should plead for me.’ + +“‘No man can deliver his brother, nor make agreement unto God for him,’ +I replied: ‘it cost more to redeem their souls—it cost the blood of an +incarnate God, perfect and sinless in Himself, to redeem us from the +bondage of the evil one:—let _Him_ plead for you.’ + +“But I seem to speak in vain. He does not now, as formerly, laugh these +blessed truths to scorn: but still he cannot trust, or will not +comprehend them. He cannot linger long. He suffers dreadfully, and so +do those that wait upon him. But I will not harass you with further +details: I have said enough, I think, to convince you that I did well +to go to him.” + +* * * * * + + +Poor, poor Helen! dreadful indeed her trials must have been! And I +could do nothing to lessen them—nay, it almost seemed as if I had +brought them upon her myself by my own secret desires; and whether I +looked at her husband’s sufferings or her own, it seemed almost like a +judgment upon myself for having cherished such a wish. + +The next day but one there came another letter. That too was put into +my hands without a remark, and these are its contents:— + +Dec. 5th. + + +He is gone at last. I sat beside him all night, with my hand fast +locked in his, watching the changes of his features and listening to +his failing breath. He had been silent a long time, and I thought he +would never speak again, when he murmured, faintly but +distinctly,—“Pray for me, Helen!” + +“I do pray for you, every hour and every minute, Arthur; but you must +pray for yourself.” + +His lips moved, but emitted no sound;—then his looks became unsettled; +and, from the incoherent, half-uttered words that escaped him from time +to time, supposing him to be now unconscious, I gently disengaged my +hand from his, intending to steal away for a breath of air, for I was +almost ready to faint; but a convulsive movement of the fingers, and a +faintly whispered “Don’t leave me!” immediately recalled me: I took his +hand again, and held it till he was no more—and then I fainted. It was +not grief; it was exhaustion, that, till then, I had been enabled +successfully to combat. Oh, Frederick! none can imagine the miseries, +bodily and mental, of that death-bed! How could I endure to think that +that poor trembling soul was hurried away to everlasting torment? it +would drive me mad. But, thank God, I have hope—not only from a vague +dependence on the possibility that penitence and pardon might have +reached him at the last, but from the blessed confidence that, through +whatever purging fires the erring spirit may be doomed to pass—whatever +fate awaits it—still it is not lost, and God, who hateth nothing that +He hath made, _will_ bless it in the end! + +His body will be consigned on Thursday to that dark grave he so much +dreaded; but the coffin must be closed as soon as possible. If you will +attend the funeral, come quickly, for I need help. + +HELEN HUNTINGDON. + + + + + CHAPTER L + + +On reading this I had no reason to disguise my joy and hope from +Frederick Lawrence, for I had none to be ashamed of. I felt no joy but +that his sister was at length released from her afflictive, +overwhelming toil—no hope but that she would in time recover from the +effects of it, and be suffered to rest in peace and quietness, at +least, for the remainder of her life. I experienced a painful +commiseration for her unhappy husband (though fully aware that he had +brought every particle of his sufferings upon himself, and but too well +deserved them all), and a profound sympathy for her own afflictions, +and deep anxiety for the consequences of those harassing cares, those +dreadful vigils, that incessant and deleterious confinement beside a +living corpse—for I was persuaded she had not hinted half the +sufferings she had had to endure. + +“You will go to her, Lawrence?” said I, as I put the letter into his +hand. + +“Yes, immediately.” + +“That’s right! I’ll leave you, then, to prepare for your departure.” + +“I’ve done that already, while you were reading the letter, and before +you came; and the carriage is now coming round to the door.” + +Inly approving his promptitude, I bade him good-morning, and withdrew. +He gave me a searching glance as we pressed each other’s hands at +parting; but whatever he sought in my countenance, he saw there nothing +but the most becoming gravity—it might be mingled with a little +sternness in momentary resentment at what I suspected to be passing in +his mind. + +Had I forgotten my own prospects, my ardent love, my pertinacious +hopes? It seemed like sacrilege to revert to them now, but I had not +forgotten them. It was, however, with a gloomy sense of the darkness of +those prospects, the fallacy of those hopes, and the vanity of that +affection, that I reflected on those things as I remounted my horse and +slowly journeyed homewards. Mrs. Huntingdon was free now; it was no +longer a crime to think of her—but did she ever think of _me?_ Not +_now_—of course it was not to be expected—but would she when this shock +was over? In all the course of her correspondence with her brother (our +mutual friend, as she herself had called him) she had never mentioned +me but once—and that was from necessity. This alone afforded strong +presumption that I was already forgotten; yet this was not the worst: +it might have been her sense of duty that had kept her silent: she +might be only _trying_ to forget; but in addition to this, I had a +gloomy conviction that the awful realities she had seen and felt, her +reconciliation with the man she had once loved, his dreadful sufferings +and death, must eventually efface from her mind all traces of her +passing love for me. She might recover from these horrors so far as to +be restored to her former health, her tranquillity, her cheerfulness +even—but never to those feelings which would appear to her, henceforth, +as a fleeting fancy, a vain, illusive dream; especially as there was no +one to remind her of my existence—no means of assuring her of my +fervent constancy, now that we were so far apart, and delicacy forbade +me to see her or to write to her, for months to come at least. And how +could I engage her brother in my behalf? how could I break that icy +crust of shy reserve? Perhaps he would disapprove of my attachment now +as highly as before; perhaps he would think me too poor—too lowly born, +to match with his sister. Yes, there was another barrier: doubtless +there was a wide distinction between the rank and circumstances of Mrs. +Huntingdon, the lady of Grassdale Manor, and those of Mrs. Graham, the +artist, the tenant of Wildfell Hall. And it might be deemed presumption +in me to offer my hand to the former, by the world, by her friends, if +not by herself; a penalty I might brave, if I were certain she loved +me; but otherwise, how could I? And, finally, her deceased husband, +with his usual selfishness, might have so constructed his will as to +place restrictions upon her marrying again. So that you see I had +reasons enough for despair if I chose to indulge it. + +Nevertheless, it was with no small degree of impatience that I looked +forward to Mr. Lawrence’s return from Grassdale: impatience that +increased in proportion as his absence was prolonged. He stayed away +some ten or twelve days. All very right that he should remain to +comfort and help his sister, but he might have written to tell me how +she was, or at least to tell me when to expect his return; for he might +have known I was suffering tortures of anxiety for her, and uncertainty +for my own future prospects. And when he did return, all he told me +about her was, that she had been greatly exhausted and worn by her +unremitting exertions in behalf of that man who had been the scourge of +her life, and had dragged her with him nearly to the portals of the +grave, and was still much shaken and depressed by his melancholy end +and the circumstances attendant upon it; but no word in reference to +me; no intimation that my name had ever passed her lips, or even been +spoken in her presence. To be sure, I asked no questions on the +subject; I could not bring my mind to do so, believing, as I did, that +Lawrence was indeed averse to the idea of my union with his sister. + +I saw that he expected to be further questioned concerning his visit, +and I saw too, with the keen perception of awakened jealousy, or +alarmed self-esteem, or by whatever name I ought to call it, that he +rather shrank from that impending scrutiny, and was no less pleased +than surprised to find it did not come. Of course, I was burning with +anger, but pride obliged me to suppress my feelings, and preserve a +smooth face, or at least a stoic calmness, throughout the interview. It +was well it did, for, reviewing the matter in my sober judgment, I must +say it would have been highly absurd and improper to have quarrelled +with him on such an occasion. I must confess, too, that I wronged him +in my heart: the truth was, he liked me very well, but he was fully +aware that a union between Mrs. Huntingdon and me would be what the +world calls a mésalliance; and it was not in his nature to set the +world at defiance; especially in such a case as this, for its dread +laugh, or ill opinion, would be far more terrible to him directed +against his sister than himself. Had he believed that a union was +necessary to the happiness of both, or of either, or had he known how +fervently I loved her, he would have acted differently; but seeing me +so calm and cool, he would not for the world disturb my philosophy; and +though refraining entirely from any active opposition to the match, he +would yet do nothing to bring it about, and would much rather take the +part of prudence, in aiding us to overcome our mutual predilections, +than that of feeling, to encourage them. “And he was in the right of +it,” you will say. Perhaps he was; at any rate, I had no business to +feel so bitterly against him as I did; but I could not then regard the +matter in such a moderate light; and, after a brief conversation upon +indifferent topics, I went away, suffering all the pangs of wounded +pride and injured friendship, in addition to those resulting from the +fear that I was indeed forgotten, and the knowledge that she I loved +was alone and afflicted, suffering from injured health and dejected +spirits, and I was forbidden to console or assist her: forbidden even +to assure her of my sympathy, for the transmission of any such message +through Mr. Lawrence was now completely out of the question. + +But what should I do? I would wait, and see if she would notice me, +which of course she would not, unless by some kind message intrusted to +her brother, that, in all probability, he would not deliver, and then, +dreadful thought! she would think me cooled and changed for not +returning it, or, perhaps, he had already given her to understand that +I had ceased to think of her. I would wait, however, till the six +months after our parting were fairly passed (which would be about the +close of February), and then I would send her a letter, modestly +reminding her of her former permission to write to her at the close of +that period, and hoping I might avail myself of it—at least to express +my heartfelt sorrow for her late afflictions, my just appreciation of +her generous conduct, and my hope that her health was now completely +re-established, and that she would, some time, be permitted to enjoy +those blessings of a peaceful, happy life, which had been denied her so +long, but which none could more truly be said to merit than +herself—adding a few words of kind remembrance to my little friend +Arthur, with a hope that he had not forgotten me, and perhaps a few +more in reference to bygone times, to the delightful hours I had passed +in her society, and my unfading recollection of them, which was the +salt and solace of my life, and a hope that her recent troubles had not +entirely banished me from her mind. If she did not answer this, of +course I should write no more: if she did (as surely she would, in some +fashion), my future proceedings should be regulated by her reply. + +Ten weeks was long to wait in such a miserable state of uncertainty; +but courage! it must be endured! and meantime I would continue to see +Lawrence now and then, though not so often as before, and I would still +pursue my habitual inquiries after his sister, if he had lately heard +from her, and how she was, but nothing more. + +I did so, and the answers I received were always provokingly limited to +the letter of the inquiry: she was much as usual: she made no +complaints, but the tone of her last letter evinced great depression of +mind: she said she was better: and, finally, she said she was well, and +very busy with her son’s education, and with the management of her late +husband’s property, and the regulation of his affairs. The rascal had +never told me how that property was disposed, or whether Mr. Huntingdon +had died intestate or not; and I would sooner die than ask him, lest he +should misconstrue into covetousness my desire to know. He never +offered to show me his sister’s letters now, and I never hinted a wish +to see them. February, however, was approaching; December was past; +January, at length, was almost over—a few more weeks, and then, certain +despair or renewal of hope would put an end to this long agony of +suspense. + +But alas! it was just about that time she was called to sustain another +blow in the death of her uncle—a worthless old fellow enough in +himself, I daresay, but he had always shown more kindness and affection +to her than to any other creature, and she had always been accustomed +to regard him as a parent. She was with him when he died, and had +assisted her aunt to nurse him during the last stage of his illness. +Her brother went to Staningley to attend the funeral, and told me, upon +his return, that she was still there, endeavouring to cheer her aunt +with her presence, and likely to remain some time. This was bad news +for me, for while she continued there I could not write to her, as I +did not know the address, and would not ask it of him. But week +followed week, and every time I inquired about her she was still at +Staningley. + +“Where _is_ Staningley?” I asked at last. + +“In ——shire,” was the brief reply; and there was something so cold and +dry in the manner of it, that I was effectually deterred from +requesting a more definite account. + +“When will she return to Grassdale?” was my next question. + +“I don’t know.” + +“Confound it!” I muttered. + +“Why, Markham?” asked my companion, with an air of innocent surprise. +But I did not deign to answer him, save by a look of silent, sullen +contempt, at which he turned away, and contemplated the carpet with a +slight smile, half pensive, half amused; but quickly looking up, he +began to talk of other subjects, trying to draw me into a cheerful and +friendly conversation, but I was too much irritated to discourse with +him, and soon took leave. + +You see Lawrence and I somehow could not manage to get on very well +together. The fact is, I believe, we were both of us a little too +touchy. It is a troublesome thing, Halford, this susceptibility to +affronts where none are intended. I am no martyr to it now, as you can +bear me witness: I have learned to be merry and wise, to be more easy +with myself and more indulgent to my neighbours, and I can afford to +laugh at both Lawrence and you. + +Partly from accident, partly from wilful negligence on my part (for I +was really beginning to dislike him), several weeks elapsed before I +saw my friend again. When we did meet, it was _he_ that sought _me_ +out. One bright morning, early in June, he came into the field, where I +was just commencing my hay harvest. + +“It is long since I saw you, Markham,” said he, after the first few +words had passed between us. “Do you never mean to come to Woodford +again?” + +“I called once, and you were out.” + +“I was sorry, but that was long since; I hoped you would call again, +and now _I_ have called, and _you_ were out, which you generally are, +or I would do myself the pleasure of calling more frequently; but being +determined to see you this time, I have left my pony in the lane, and +come over hedge and ditch to join you; for I am about to leave Woodford +for a while, and may not have the pleasure of seeing you again for a +month or two.” + +“Where are you going?” + +“To Grassdale first,” said he, with a half-smile he would willingly +have suppressed if he could. + +“To Grassdale! Is she there, then?” + +“Yes, but in a day or two she will leave it to accompany Mrs. Maxwell +to F—— for the benefit of the sea air, and I shall go with them.” (F—— +was at that time a quiet but respectable watering-place: it is +considerably more frequented now.) + +Lawrence seemed to expect me to take advantage of this circumstance to +entrust him with some sort of a message to his sister; and I believe he +would have undertaken to deliver it without any material objections, if +I had had the sense to ask him, though of course he would not _offer_ +to do so, if I was content to let it alone. But I could not bring +myself to make the request, and it was not till after he was gone, that +I saw how fair an opportunity I had lost; and then, indeed, I deeply +regretted my stupidity and my foolish pride, but it was now too late to +remedy the evil. + +He did not return till towards the latter end of August. He wrote to me +twice or thrice from F——, but his letters were most provokingly +unsatisfactory, dealing in generalities or in trifles that I cared +nothing about, or replete with fancies and reflections equally +unwelcome to me at the time, saying next to nothing about his sister, +and little more about himself. I would wait, however, till he came +back; perhaps I could get something more out of him then. At all +events, I would not write to her now, while she was with him and her +aunt, who doubtless would be still more hostile to my presumptuous +aspirations than himself. When she was returned to the silence and +solitude of her own home, it would be my fittest opportunity. + +When Lawrence came, however, he was as reserved as ever on the subject +of my keen anxiety. He told me that his sister had derived considerable +benefit from her stay at F—— that her son was quite well, and—alas! +that both of them were gone, with Mrs. Maxwell, back to Staningley, and +there they stayed at least three months. But instead of boring you with +my chagrin, my expectations and disappointments, my fluctuations of +dull despondency and flickering hope, my varying resolutions, now to +drop it, and now to persevere—now to make a bold push, and now to let +things pass and patiently abide my time,—I will employ myself in +settling the business of one or two of the characters introduced in the +course of this narrative, whom I may not have occasion to mention +again. + +Some time before Mr. Huntingdon’s death Lady Lowborough eloped with +another gallant to the Continent, where, having lived a while in +reckless gaiety and dissipation, they quarrelled and parted. She went +dashing on for a season, but years came and money went: she sunk, at +length, in difficulty and debt, disgrace and misery; and died at last, +as I have heard, in penury, neglect, and utter wretchedness. But this +might be only a report: she may be living yet for anything I or any of +her relatives or former acquaintances can tell; for they have all lost +sight of her long years ago, and would as thoroughly forget her if they +could. Her husband, however, upon this second misdemeanour, immediately +sought and obtained a divorce, and, not long after, married again. It +was well he did, for Lord Lowborough, morose and moody as he seemed, +was not the man for a bachelor’s life. No public interests, no +ambitious projects, or active pursuits,—or ties of friendship even (if +he had had any friends), could compensate to him for the absence of +domestic comforts and endearments. He had a son and a nominal daughter, +it is true, but they too painfully reminded him of their mother, and +the unfortunate little Annabella was a source of perpetual bitterness +to his soul. He had obliged himself to treat her with paternal +kindness: he had forced himself not to hate her, and even, perhaps, to +feel some degree of kindly regard for her, at last, in return for her +artless and unsuspecting attachment to himself; but the bitterness of +his self-condemnation for his inward feelings towards that innocent +being, his constant struggles to subdue the evil promptings of his +nature (for it was not a generous one), though partly guessed at by +those who knew him, could be known to God and his own heart alone;—so +also was the hardness of his conflicts with the temptation to return to +the vice of his youth, and seek oblivion for past calamities, and +deadness to the present misery of a blighted heart a joyless, +friendless life, and a morbidly disconsolate mind, by yielding again to +that insidious foe to health, and sense, and virtue, which had so +deplorably enslaved and degraded him before. + +The second object of his choice was widely different from the first. +Some wondered at his taste; some even ridiculed it—but in this their +folly was more apparent than his. The lady was about his own +age—_i.e._, between thirty and forty—remarkable neither for beauty, nor +wealth, nor brilliant accomplishments; nor any other thing that I ever +heard of, except genuine good sense, unswerving integrity, active +piety, warm-hearted benevolence, and a fund of cheerful spirits. These +qualities, however, as you may readily imagine, combined to render her +an excellent mother to the children, and an invaluable wife to his +lordship. _He_, with his usual self-depreciation, thought her a world +too good for him, and while he wondered at the kindness of Providence +in conferring such a gift upon him, and even at her taste in preferring +him to other men, he did his best to reciprocate the good she did him, +and so far succeeded that she was, and I believe still is, one of the +happiest and fondest wives in England; and all who question the good +taste of either partner may be thankful if _their_ respective +selections afford them half the genuine satisfaction in the end, or +repay their preference with affection half as lasting and sincere. + +If you are at all interested in the fate of that low scoundrel, +Grimsby, I can only tell you that he went from bad to worse, sinking +from bathos to bathos of vice and villainy, consorting only with the +worst members of his club and the lowest dregs of society—happily for +the rest of the world—and at last met his end in a drunken brawl, from +the hands, it is said, of some brother scoundrel he had cheated at +play. + +As for Mr. Hattersley, he had never wholly forgotten his resolution to +“come out from among them,” and behave like a man and a Christian, and +the last illness and death of his once jolly friend Huntingdon so +deeply and seriously impressed him with the evil of their former +practices, that he never needed another lesson of the kind. Avoiding +the temptations of the town, he continued to pass his life in the +country, immersed in the usual pursuits of a hearty, active, country +gentleman; his occupations being those of farming, and breeding horses +and cattle, diversified with a little hunting and shooting, and +enlivened by the occasional companionship of his friends (better +friends than those of his youth), and the society of his happy little +wife (now cheerful and confiding as heart could wish), and his fine +family of stalwart sons and blooming daughters. His father, the banker, +having died some years ago and left him all his riches, he has now full +scope for the exercise of his prevailing tastes, and I need not tell +you that Ralph Hattersley, Esq., is celebrated throughout the country +for his noble breed of horses. + + + + + CHAPTER LI + + +We will now turn to a certain still, cold, cloudy afternoon about the +commencement of December, when the first fall of snow lay thinly +scattered over the blighted fields and frozen roads, or stored more +thickly in the hollows of the deep cart-ruts and footsteps of men and +horses impressed in the now petrified mire of last month’s drenching +rains. I remember it well, for I was walking home from the vicarage +with no less remarkable a personage than Miss Eliza Millward by my +side. I had been to call upon her father,—a sacrifice to civility +undertaken entirely to please my mother, not myself, for I hated to go +near the house; not merely on account of my antipathy to the once so +bewitching Eliza, but because I had not half forgiven the old gentleman +himself for his ill opinion of Mrs. Huntingdon; for though now +constrained to acknowledge himself mistaken in his former judgment, he +still maintained that she had done wrong to leave her husband; it was a +violation of her sacred duties as a wife, and a tempting of Providence +by laying herself open to temptation; and nothing short of bodily +ill-usage (and that of no trifling nature) could excuse such a step—nor +even that, for in such a case she ought to appeal to the laws for +protection. But it was not of him I intended to speak; it was of his +daughter Eliza. Just as I was taking leave of the vicar, she entered +the room, ready equipped for a walk. + +“I was just coming to see your sister, Mr. Markham,” said she; “and so, +if you have no objection, I’ll accompany you home. I like company when +I’m walking out—don’t you?” + +“Yes, when it’s agreeable.” + +“That of course,” rejoined the young lady, smiling archly. + +So we proceeded together. + +“Shall I find Rose at home, do you think?” said she, as we closed the +garden gate, and set our faces towards Linden-Car. + +“I believe so.” + +“I trust I shall, for I’ve a little bit of news for her—if you haven’t +forestalled me.” + +“I?” + +“Yes: do you know what Mr. Lawrence is gone for?” She looked up +anxiously for my reply. + +“_Is_ he gone?” said I; and her face brightened. + +“Ah! then he hasn’t told you about his sister?” + +“What of _her?_” I demanded in terror, lest some evil should have +befallen her. + +“Oh, Mr. Markham, how you blush!” cried she, with a tormenting laugh. +“Ha, ha, you have not forgotten her yet. But you had better be quick +about it, I can tell you, for—alas, alas!—she’s going to be married +next Thursday!” + +“No, Miss Eliza, that’s false.” + +“Do you charge me with a falsehood, sir?” + +“You are misinformed.” + +“Am I? Do you know better, then?” + +“I think I do.” + +“What makes you look so pale then?” said she, smiling with delight at +my emotion. “Is it anger at poor me for telling such a fib? Well, I +only ‘tell the tale as ’twas told to me:’ I don’t vouch for the truth +of it; but at the same time, I don’t see what reason Sarah should have +for deceiving me, or her informant for deceiving her; and that was what +she told me the footman told her:—that Mrs. Huntingdon was going to be +married on Thursday, and Mr. Lawrence was gone to the wedding. She did +tell me the name of the gentleman, but I’ve forgotten that. Perhaps you +can assist me to remember it. Is there not some one that lives near—or +frequently visits the neighbourhood, that has long been attached to +her?—a Mr.—oh, dear! Mr.—” + +“Hargrave?” suggested I, with a bitter smile. + +“You’re right,” cried she; “that was the very name.” + +“Impossible, Miss Eliza!” I exclaimed, in a tone that made her start. + +“Well, you know, that’s what they told me,” said she, composedly +staring me in the face. And then she broke out into a long shrill laugh +that put me to my wit’s end with fury. + +“Really you must excuse me,” cried she. “I know it’s very rude, but ha, +ha, ha!—did you think to marry her yourself? Dear, dear, what a +pity!—ha, ha, ha! Gracious, Mr. Markham, are you going to faint? Oh, +mercy! shall I call this man? Here, Jacob—” But checking the word on +her lips, I seized her arm and gave it, I think, a pretty severe +squeeze, for she shrank into herself with a faint cry of pain or +terror; but the spirit within her was not subdued: instantly rallying, +she continued, with well-feigned concern, “What can I do for you? Will +you have some water—some brandy? I daresay they have some in the +public-house down there, if you’ll let me run.” + +“Have done with this nonsense!” cried I, sternly. She looked +confounded—almost frightened again, for a moment. “You know I hate such +jests,” I continued. + +“_Jests_ indeed! I wasn’t _jesting!_” + +“You were laughing, at all events; and I don’t like to be laughed at,” +returned I, making violent efforts to speak with proper dignity and +composure, and to say nothing but what was coherent and sensible. “And +since you are in such a merry mood, Miss Eliza, you must be good enough +company for yourself; and therefore I shall leave you to finish your +walk alone—for, now I think of it, I have business elsewhere; so +good-evening.” + +With that I left her (smothering her malicious laughter) and turned +aside into the fields, springing up the bank, and pushing through the +nearest gap in the hedge. Determined at once to prove the truth—or +rather the falsehood—of her story, I hastened to Woodford as fast as my +legs could carry me; first veering round by a circuitous course, but +the moment I was out of sight of my fair tormentor cutting away across +the country, just as a bird might fly, over pasture-land, and fallow, +and stubble, and lane, clearing hedges and ditches and hurdles, till I +came to the young squire’s gates. Never till now had I known the full +fervour of my love—the full strength of my hopes, not wholly crushed +even in my hours of deepest despondency, always tenaciously clinging to +the thought that one day she might be mine, or, if not that, at least +that something of my memory, some slight remembrance of our friendship +and our love, would be for ever cherished in her heart. I marched up to +the door, determined, if I saw the master, to question him boldly +concerning his sister, to wait and hesitate no longer, but cast false +delicacy and stupid pride behind my back, and know my fate at once. + +“Is Mr. Lawrence at home?” I eagerly asked of the servant that opened +the door. + +“No, sir, master went yesterday,” replied he, looking very alert. + +“Went where?” + +“To Grassdale, sir—wasn’t you aware, sir? He’s very close, is master,” +said the fellow, with a foolish, simpering grin. “I suppose, sir—” + +But I turned and left him, without waiting to hear what he supposed. I +was not going to stand there to expose my tortured feelings to the +insolent laughter and impertinent curiosity of a fellow like that. + +But what was to be done now? Could it be possible that she had left me +for _that_ man? I could not believe it. Me she might forsake, but _not_ +to give herself to him! Well, I would know the truth; to no concerns of +daily life could I attend while this tempest of doubt and dread, of +jealousy and rage, distracted me. I would take the morning coach from +L—— (the evening one would be already gone), and fly to Grassdale—I +_must_ be there before the marriage. And why? Because a thought struck +me that _perhaps_ I might prevent it—that if I did not, she and I might +both lament it to the latest moment of our lives. It struck me that +someone might have belied me to her: perhaps her brother; yes, no doubt +her brother had persuaded her that I was false and faithless, and +taking advantage of her natural indignation, and perhaps her desponding +carelessness about her future life, had urged her, artfully, cruelly, +on to this other marriage, in order to secure her from me. If this +_was_ the case, and if she should only discover her mistake when too +late to repair it—to what a life of misery and vain regret might she be +doomed as well as me; and what remorse for me to think my foolish +scruples had induced it all! Oh, I _must_ see her—she must know my +truth even if I told it at the church door! I might pass for a madman +or an impertinent fool—even she might be offended at such an +interruption, or at least might tell me it was now too late. But if I +_could_ save her, if she _might_ be mine!—it was too rapturous a +thought! + +Winged by this hope, and goaded by these fears, I hurried homewards to +prepare for my departure on the morrow. I told my mother that urgent +business which admitted no delay, but which I could not then explain, +called me away. + +My deep anxiety and serious preoccupation could not be concealed from +her maternal eyes; and I had much ado to calm her apprehensions of some +disastrous mystery. + +That night there came a heavy fall of snow, which so retarded the +progress of the coaches on the following day that I was almost driven +to distraction. I travelled all night, of course, for this was +Wednesday: to-morrow morning, doubtless, the marriage would take place. +But the night was long and dark: the snow heavily clogged the wheels +and balled the horses’ feet; the animals were consumedly lazy; the +coachman most execrably cautious; the passengers confoundedly apathetic +in their supine indifference to the rate of our progression. Instead of +assisting me to bully the several coachmen and urge them forward, they +merely stared and grinned at my impatience: one fellow even ventured to +rally me upon it—but I silenced him with a look that quelled him for +the rest of the journey; and when, at the last stage, I would have +taken the reins into my own hand, they all with one accord opposed it. + +It was broad daylight when we entered M—— and drew up at the “Rose and +Crown.” I alighted and called aloud for a post-chaise to Grassdale. +There was none to be had: the only one in the town was under repair. “A +gig, then—a fly—car—anything—only be quick!” There was a gig, but not a +horse to spare. I sent into the town to seek one: but they were such an +intolerable time about it that I could wait no longer—I thought my own +feet could carry me sooner; and bidding them send the conveyance after +me, if it were ready within an hour, I set off as fast as I could walk. +The distance was little more than six miles, but the road was strange, +and I had to keep stopping to inquire my way; hallooing to carters and +clodhoppers, and frequently invading the cottages, for there were few +abroad that winter’s morning; sometimes knocking up the lazy people +from their beds, for where so little work was to be done, perhaps so +little food and fire to be had, they cared not to curtail their +slumbers. I had no time to think of _them_, however; aching with +weariness and desperation, I hurried on. The gig did not overtake me: +and it was well I had not waited for it; vexatious rather, that I had +been fool enough to wait so long. + +At length, however, I entered the neighbourhood of Grassdale. I +approached the little rural church—but lo! there stood a train of +carriages before it; it needed not the white favours bedecking the +servants and horses, nor the merry voices of the village idlers +assembled to witness the show, to apprise me that there was a wedding +within. I ran in among them, demanding, with breathless eagerness, had +the ceremony long commenced? They only gaped and stared. In my +desperation, I pushed past them, and was about to enter the churchyard +gate, when a group of ragged urchins, that had been hanging like bees +to the window, suddenly dropped off and made a rush for the porch, +vociferating in the uncouth dialect of their country something which +signified, “It’s over—they’re coming out!” + +If Eliza Millward had seen me then she might indeed have been +delighted. I grasped the gate-post for support, and stood intently +gazing towards the door to take my last look on my soul’s delight, my +first on that detested mortal who had torn her from my heart, and +doomed her, I was certain, to a life of misery and hollow, vain +repining—for what happiness could she enjoy with him? I did not wish to +shock her with my presence now, but I had not power to move away. Forth +came the bride and bridegroom. Him I saw not; I had eyes for none but +her. A long veil shrouded half her graceful form, but did not hide it; +I could see that while she carried her head erect, her eyes were bent +upon the ground, and her face and neck were suffused with a crimson +blush; but every feature was radiant with smiles, and gleaming through +the misty whiteness of her veil were clusters of golden ringlets! Oh, +heavens! it was _not_ my Helen! The first glimpse made me start—but my +eyes were darkened with exhaustion and despair. Dare I trust them? +“Yes—it _is_ not she! It was a younger, slighter, rosier beauty—lovely +indeed, but with far less dignity and depth of soul—without that +indefinable grace, that keenly _spiritual_ yet gentle charm, that +ineffable power to attract and subjugate the heart—_my_ heart at least. +I looked at the bridegroom—it was Frederick Lawrence! I wiped away the +cold drops that were trickling down my forehead, and stepped back as he +approached; but, his eyes fell upon me, and he knew me, altered as my +appearance must have been. + +“Is that you, Markham?” said he, startled and confounded at the +apparition—perhaps, too, at the wildness of my looks. + +“Yes, Lawrence; is that you?” I mustered the presence of mind to reply. + +He smiled and coloured, as if half-proud and half-ashamed of his +identity; and if he had reason to be proud of the sweet lady on his +arm, he had no less cause to be ashamed of having concealed his good +fortune so long. + +“Allow me to introduce you to my bride,” said he, endeavouring to hide +his embarrassment by an assumption of careless gaiety. “Esther, this is +Mr. Markham; my friend Markham, Mrs. Lawrence, late Miss Hargrave.” + +I bowed to the bride, and vehemently wrung the bridegroom’s hand. + +“Why did you not tell me of this?” I said, reproachfully, pretending a +resentment I did not feel (for in truth I was almost wild with joy to +find myself so happily mistaken, and overflowing with affection to him +for this and for the base injustice I felt that I had done him in my +mind—he might have wronged me, but not to _that_ extent; and as I had +hated him like a demon for the last forty hours, the reaction from such +a feeling was so great that I could pardon all offences for the +moment—and love him in spite of them too). + +“I _did_ tell you,” said he, with an air of guilty confusion; “you +received my letter?” + +“What letter?” + +“The one announcing my intended marriage.” + +“I never received the most distant hint of such an intention.” + +“It must have crossed you on your way then—it should have reached you +yesterday morning—it was rather late, I acknowledge. But what brought +you here, then, if you received no information?” + +It was now _my_ turn to be confounded; but the young lady, who had been +busily patting the snow with her foot during our short sotto-voce +colloquy, very opportunely came to my assistance by pinching her +companion’s arm and whispering a suggestion that his friend should be +invited to step into the carriage and go with them; it being scarcely +agreeable to stand there among so many gazers, and keeping their +friends waiting into the bargain. + +“And so cold as it is too!” said he, glancing with dismay at her slight +drapery, and immediately handing her into the carriage. “Markham, will +you come? We are going to Paris, but we can drop you anywhere between +this and Dover.” + +“No, thank you. Good-by—I needn’t wish you a pleasant journey; but I +shall expect a very handsome apology, some time, mind, and scores of +letters, before we meet again.” + +He shook my hand, and hastened to take his place beside his lady. This +was no time or place for explanation or discourse: we had already stood +long enough to excite the wonder of the village sight-seers, and +perhaps the wrath of the attendant bridal party; though, of course, all +this passed in a much shorter time than I have taken to relate, or even +than you will take to read it. I stood beside the carriage, and, the +window being down, I saw my happy friend fondly encircle his +companion’s waist with his arm, while she rested her glowing cheek on +his shoulder, looking the very impersonation of loving, trusting bliss. +In the interval between the footman’s closing the door and taking his +place behind she raised her smiling brown eyes to his face, observing, +playfully,—“I fear you must think me very insensible, Frederick: I know +it is the custom for ladies to cry on these occasions, but I couldn’t +squeeze a tear for my life.” + +He only answered with a kiss, and pressed her still closer to his +bosom. + +“But what is this?” he murmured. “Why, Esther, you’re crying now!” + +“Oh, it’s nothing—it’s only too much happiness—and the wish,” sobbed +she, “that our dear Helen were as happy as ourselves.” + +“Bless you for that wish!” I inwardly responded, as the carriage rolled +away—“and heaven grant it be not wholly vain!” + +I thought a cloud had suddenly darkened her husband’s face as she +spoke. What did he think? Could he grudge such happiness to his dear +sister and his friend as he now felt himself? At _such_ a moment it was +impossible. The contrast between her fate and his _must_ darken his +bliss for a time. Perhaps, too, he thought of me: perhaps he regretted +the part he had had in preventing our union, by omitting to help us, if +not by actually plotting against us. I exonerated him from _that_ +charge now, and deeply lamented my former ungenerous suspicions; but he +_had_ wronged us, still—I hoped, I trusted that he had. He had not +attempted to check the course of our love by actually damming up the +streams in their passage, but he had passively watched the two currents +wandering through life’s arid wilderness, declining to clear away the +obstructions that divided them, and secretly hoping that both would +lose themselves in the sand before they could be joined in one. And +meantime he had been quietly proceeding with his own affairs; perhaps, +his heart and head had been so full of his fair lady that he had had +but little thought to spare for others. Doubtless he had made his first +acquaintance with her—his first intimate acquaintance at least—during +his three months’ sojourn at F——, for I now recollected that he had +once casually let fall an intimation that his aunt and sister had a +young friend staying with them at the time, and this accounted for at +least one-half his silence about all transactions there. Now, too, I +saw a reason for many little things that had slightly puzzled me +before; among the rest, for sundry departures from Woodford, and +absences more or less prolonged, for which he never satisfactorily +accounted, and concerning which he hated to be questioned on his +return. Well might the servant say his master was “very close.” But why +this strange reserve to _me?_ Partly, from that remarkable idiosyncrasy +to which I have before alluded; partly, perhaps, from tenderness to my +feelings, or fear to disturb my philosophy by touching upon the +infectious theme of love. + + + + + CHAPTER LII + + +The tardy gig had overtaken me at last. I entered it, and bade the man +who brought it drive to Grassdale Manor—I was too busy with my own +thoughts to care to drive it myself. I would see Mrs. Huntingdon—there +could be no impropriety in that now that her husband had been dead +above a year—and by her indifference or her joy at my unexpected +arrival I could soon tell whether her heart was truly mine. But my +companion, a loquacious, forward fellow, was not disposed to leave me +to the indulgence of my private cogitations. + +“There they go!” said he, as the carriages filed away before us. +“There’ll be brave doings on yonder _to-day_, as what come +to-morra.—Know anything of that family, sir? or you’re a stranger in +these parts?” + +“I know them by report.” + +“Humph! There’s the best of ’em gone, anyhow. And I suppose the old +missis is agoing to leave after this stir’s gotten overed, and take +herself off, somewhere, to live on her bit of a jointure; and the young +’un—at least the new ’un (she’s none so very young)—is coming down to +live at the Grove.” + +“Is Mr. Hargrave married, then?” + +“Ay, sir, a few months since. He should a been wed afore, to a widow +lady, but they couldn’t agree over the money: she’d a rare long purse, +and Mr. Hargrave wanted it all to hisself; but she wouldn’t let it go, +and so then they fell out. This one isn’t quite as rich, nor as +handsome either, but she hasn’t been married before. She’s very plain, +they say, and getting on to forty or past, and so, you know, if she +didn’t jump at this hopportunity, she thought she’d never get a better. +I guess she thought such a handsome young husband was worth all ’at +ever she had, and he might take it and welcome, but I lay she’ll rue +her bargain afore long. They say she begins already to see ’at he isn’t +not altogether that nice, generous, perlite, delightful gentleman ’at +she thought him afore marriage—he begins a being careless and masterful +already. Ay, and she’ll find him harder and carelesser nor she thinks +on.” + +“You seem to be well acquainted with him,” I observed. + +“I am, sir; I’ve known him since he was quite a young gentleman; and a +proud ’un he was, and a wilful. I was servant yonder for several years; +but I couldn’t stand their niggardly ways—she got ever longer and +worse, did missis, with her nipping and screwing, and watching and +grudging; so I thought I’d find another place.” + +“Are we not near the house?” said I, interrupting him. + +“Yes, sir; yond’s the park.” + +My heart sank within me to behold that stately mansion in the midst of +its expansive grounds. The park as beautiful now, in its wintry garb, +as it could be in its summer glory: the majestic sweep, the undulating +swell and fall, displayed to full advantage in that robe of dazzling +purity, stainless and printless—save one long, winding track left by +the trooping deer—the stately timber-trees with their heavy-laden +branches gleaming white against the dull, grey sky; the deep, +encircling woods; the broad expanse of water sleeping in frozen quiet; +and the weeping ash and willow drooping their snow-clad boughs above +it—all presented a picture, striking indeed, and pleasing to an +unencumbered mind, but by no means encouraging to me. There was one +comfort, however,—all this was entailed upon little Arthur, and could +not under any circumstances, strictly speaking, be his mother’s. But +how was she situated? Overcoming with a sudden effort my repugnance to +mention her name to my garrulous companion, I asked him if he knew +whether her late husband had left a will, and how the property had been +disposed of. Oh, yes, he knew all about it; and I was quickly informed +that to her had been left the full control and management of the estate +during her son’s minority, besides the absolute, unconditional +possession of her own fortune (but I knew that her father had not given +her much), and the small additional sum that had been settled upon her +before marriage. + +Before the close of the explanation we drew up at the park-gates. Now +for the trial. If I should find her within—but alas! she might be still +at Staningley: her brother had given me no intimation to the contrary. +I inquired at the porter’s lodge if Mrs. Huntingdon were at home. No, +she was with her aunt in ——shire, but was expected to return before +Christmas. She usually spent most of her time at Staningley, only +coming to Grassdale occasionally, when the management of affairs, or +the interest of her tenants and dependents, required her presence. + +“Near what town is Staningley situated?” I asked. The requisite +information was soon obtained. “Now then, my man, give me the reins, +and we’ll return to M——. I must have some breakfast at the ‘Rose and +Crown,’ and then away to Staningley by the first coach for ——.” + +At M—— I had time before the coach started to replenish my forces with +a hearty breakfast, and to obtain the refreshment of my usual morning’s +ablutions, and the amelioration of some slight change in my toilet, and +also to despatch a short note to my mother (excellent son that I was), +to assure her that I was still in existence, and to excuse my +non-appearance at the expected time. It was a long journey to +Staningley for those slow-travelling days, but I did not deny myself +needful refreshment on the road, nor even a night’s rest at a wayside +inn, choosing rather to brook a little delay than to present myself +worn, wild, and weather-beaten before my mistress and her aunt, who +would be astonished enough to see me without that. Next morning, +therefore, I not only fortified myself with as substantial a breakfast +as my excited feelings would allow me to swallow, but I bestowed a +little more than usual time and care upon my toilet; and, furnished +with a change of linen from my small carpet-bag, well-brushed clothes, +well-polished boots, and neat new gloves, I mounted “The Lightning,” +and resumed my journey. I had nearly two stages yet before me, but the +coach, I was informed, passed through the neighbourhood of Staningley, +and having desired to be set down as near the Hall as possible, I had +nothing to do but to sit with folded arms and speculate upon the coming +hour. + +It was a clear, frosty morning. The very fact of sitting exalted aloft, +surveying the snowy landscape and sweet sunny sky, inhaling the pure, +bracing air, and crunching away over the crisp frozen snow, was +exhilarating enough in itself; but add to this the idea of to what goal +I was hastening, and whom I expected to meet, and you may have some +faint conception of my frame of mind at the time—only a _faint_ one, +though, for my heart swelled with unspeakable delight, and my spirits +rose almost to madness, in spite of my prudent endeavours to bind them +down to a reasonable platitude by thinking of the undeniable difference +between Helen’s rank and mine; of all that she had passed through since +our parting; of her long, unbroken silence; and, above all, of her +cool, cautious aunt, whose counsels she would doubtless be careful not +to slight again. These considerations made my heart flutter with +anxiety, and my chest heave with impatience to get the crisis over; but +they could not dim her image in my mind, or mar the vivid recollection +of what had been said and felt between us, or destroy the keen +anticipation of what was to be: in fact, I could not realise their +terrors now. Towards the close of the journey, however, a couple of my +fellow-passengers kindly came to my assistance, and brought me low +enough. + +“Fine land this,” said one of them, pointing with his umbrella to the +wide fields on the right, conspicuous for their compact hedgerows, +deep, well-cut ditches, and fine timber-trees, growing sometimes on the +borders, sometimes in the midst of the enclosure: “_very_ fine land, if +you saw it in the summer or spring.” + +“Ay,” responded the other, a gruff elderly man, with a drab greatcoat +buttoned up to the chin, and a cotton umbrella between his knees. “It’s +old Maxwell’s, I suppose.” + +“It _was_ his, sir; but he’s dead now, you’re aware, and has left it +all to his niece.” + +“All?” + +“Every rood of it, and the mansion-house and all! every hatom of his +worldly goods, except just a trifle, by way of remembrance, to his +nephew down in ——shire, and an annuity to his wife.” + +“It’s strange, sir!” + +“It is, sir; and she wasn’t his own niece neither. But he had no near +relations of his own—none but a nephew he’d quarrelled with; and he +always had a partiality for this one. And then his wife advised him to +it, they say: she’d brought most of the property, and it was her wish +that this lady should have it.” + +“Humph! She’ll be a fine catch for somebody.” + +“She will so. She’s a widow, but quite young yet, and uncommon +handsome: a fortune of her own, besides, and only one child, and she’s +nursing a fine estate for him in ——. There’ll be lots to speak for her! +’fraid there’s no chance for uz”—(facetiously jogging me with his +elbow, as well as his companion)—“ha, ha, ha! No offence, sir, I +hope?”—(to me). “Ahem! I should think she’ll marry none but a nobleman +myself. Look ye, sir,” resumed he, turning to his other neighbour, and +pointing past me with his umbrella, “that’s the Hall: grand park, you +see, and all them woods—plenty of timber there, and lots of game. +Hallo! what now?” + +This exclamation was occasioned by the sudden stoppage of the coach at +the park-gates. + +“Gen’leman for Staningley Hall?” cried the coachman and I rose and +threw my carpet-bag on to the ground, preparatory to dropping myself +down after it. + +“Sickly, sir?” asked my talkative neighbour, staring me in the face. I +daresay it was white enough. + +“No. Here, coachman!” + +“Thank’ee, sir.—All right!” + +The coachman pocketed his fee and drove away, leaving me, not walking +up the park, but pacing to and fro before its gates, with folded arms, +and eyes fixed upon the ground, an overwhelming force of images, +thoughts, impressions crowding on my mind, and nothing tangibly +distinct but this: My love had been cherished in vain—my hope was gone +for ever; I must tear myself away at once, and banish or suppress all +thoughts of her, like the remembrance of a wild, mad dream. Gladly +would I have lingered round the place for hours, in the hope of +catching at least one distant glimpse of her before I went, but it must +not be—I must not suffer her to see me; for what could have brought me +hither but the hope of reviving her attachment, with a view hereafter +to obtain her hand? And could I bear that she should think me capable +of such a thing?—of presuming upon the acquaintance—the _love_, if you +will—accidentally contracted, or rather forced upon her against her +will, when she was an unknown fugitive, toiling for her own support, +apparently without fortune, family, or connections; to come upon her +now, when she was reinstated in her proper sphere, and claim a share in +her prosperity, which, had it never failed her, would most certainly +have kept her unknown to me for ever? And this, too, when we had parted +sixteen months ago, and she had expressly forbidden me to hope for a +re-union in this world, and never sent me a line or a message from that +day to this. No! The very idea was intolerable. + +And even if she should have a lingering affection for me still, ought I +to disturb her peace by awakening those feelings? to subject her to the +struggles of conflicting duty and inclination—to whichsoever side the +latter might allure, or the former imperatively call her—whether she +should deem it her duty to risk the slights and censures of the world, +the sorrow and displeasure of those she loved, for a romantic idea of +truth and constancy to me, or to sacrifice her individual wishes to the +feelings of her friends and her own sense of prudence and the fitness +of things? No—and I would not! I would go at once, and she should never +know that I had approached the place of her abode: for though I might +disclaim all idea of ever aspiring to her hand, or even of soliciting a +place in her friendly regard, her peace should not be broken by my +presence, nor her heart afflicted by the sight of my fidelity. + +“Adieu then, dear Helen, forever! Forever adieu!” + +So said I—and yet I could not tear myself away. I moved a few paces, +and then looked back, for one last view of her stately home, that I +might have its outward form, at least, impressed upon my mind as +indelibly as her own image, which, alas! I must not see again—then +walked a few steps further; and then, lost in melancholy musings, +paused again and leant my back against a rough old tree that grew +beside the road. + + + + + CHAPTER LIII + + +While standing thus, absorbed in my gloomy reverie, a gentleman’s +carriage came round the corner of the road. I did not look at it; and +had it rolled quietly by me, I should not have remembered the fact of +its appearance at all; but a tiny voice from within it roused me by +exclaiming, “Mamma, mamma, here’s Mr. Markham!” + +I did not hear the reply, but presently the same voice answered, “It is +indeed, mamma—look for yourself.” + +I did not raise my eyes, but I suppose mamma looked, for a clear +melodious voice, whose tones thrilled through my nerves, exclaimed, +“Oh, aunt! here’s Mr. Markham, Arthur’s friend! Stop, Richard!” + +There was such evidence of joyous though suppressed excitement in the +utterance of those few words—especially that tremulous, “Oh, aunt”—that +it threw me almost off my guard. The carriage stopped immediately, and +I looked up and met the eye of a pale, grave, elderly lady surveying me +from the open window. She bowed, and so did I, and then she withdrew +her head, while Arthur screamed to the footman to let him out; but +before that functionary could descend from his box a hand was silently +put forth from the carriage window. I knew that hand, though a black +glove concealed its delicate whiteness and half its fair proportions, +and quickly seizing it, I pressed it in my own—ardently for a moment, +but instantly recollecting myself, I dropped it, and it was immediately +withdrawn. + +“Were you coming to see us, or only passing by?” asked the low voice of +its owner, who, I felt, was attentively surveying my countenance from +behind the thick black veil which, with the shadowing panels, entirely +concealed her own from me. + +“I—I came to see the place,” faltered I. + +“The _place_,” repeated she, in a tone which betokened more displeasure +or disappointment than surprise. + +“Will you not enter it, then?” + +“If you wish it.” + +“Can you doubt?” + +“Yes, yes! he _must_ enter,” cried Arthur, running round from the other +door; and seizing my hand in both his, he shook it heartily. + +“Do you remember me, sir?” said he. + +“Yes, full well, my little man, altered though you are,” replied I, +surveying the comparatively tall, slim young gentleman, with his +mother’s image visibly stamped upon his fair, intelligent features, in +spite of the blue eyes beaming with gladness, and the bright locks +clustering beneath his cap. + +“Am I not grown?” said he, stretching himself up to his full height. + +“Grown! three inches, upon my word!” + +“I was _seven_ last birthday,” was the proud rejoinder. “In seven years +more I shall be as tall as you nearly.” + +“Arthur,” said his mother, “tell him to come in. Go on, Richard.” + +There was a touch of sadness as well as coldness in her voice, but I +knew not to what to ascribe it. The carriage drove on and entered the +gates before us. My little companion led me up the park, discoursing +merrily all the way. Arrived at the hall-door, I paused on the steps +and looked round me, waiting to recover my composure, if possible—or, +at any rate, to remember my new-formed resolutions and the principles +on which they were founded; and it was not till Arthur had been for +some time gently pulling my coat, and repeating his invitations to +enter, that I at length consented to accompany him into the apartment +where the ladies awaited us. + +Helen eyed me as I entered with a kind of gentle, serious scrutiny, and +politely asked after Mrs. Markham and Rose. I respectfully answered her +inquiries. Mrs. Maxwell begged me to be seated, observing it was rather +cold, but she supposed I had not travelled far that morning. + +“Not quite twenty miles,” I answered. + +“Not on foot!” + +“No, Madam, by coach.” + +“Here’s Rachel, sir,” said Arthur, the only truly happy one amongst us, +directing my attention to that worthy individual, who had just entered +to take her mistress’s things. She vouchsafed me an almost friendly +smile of recognition—a favour that demanded, at least, a civil +salutation on my part, which was accordingly given and respectfully +returned—she had seen the error of her former estimation of my +character. + +When Helen was divested of her lugubrious bonnet and veil, her heavy +winter cloak, &c., she looked so like herself that I knew not how to +bear it. I was particularly glad to see her beautiful black hair, +unstinted still, and unconcealed in its glossy luxuriance. + +“Mamma has left off her widow’s cap in honour of uncle’s marriage,” +observed Arthur, reading my looks with a child’s mingled simplicity and +quickness of observation. Mamma looked grave and Mrs. Maxwell shook her +head. “And aunt Maxwell is never going to leave off hers,” persisted +the naughty boy; but when he saw that his pertness was seriously +displeasing and painful to his aunt, he went and silently put his arm +round her neck, kissed her cheek, and withdrew to the recess of one of +the great bay-windows, where he quietly amused himself with his dog, +while Mrs. Maxwell gravely discussed with me the interesting topics of +the weather, the season, and the roads. I considered her presence very +useful as a check upon my natural impulses—an antidote to those +emotions of tumultuous excitement which would otherwise have carried me +away against my reason and my will; but _just then_ I felt the +restraint almost intolerable, and I had the greatest difficulty in +forcing myself to attend to her remarks and answer them with ordinary +politeness; for I was sensible that Helen was standing within a few +feet of me beside the fire. I dared not look at her, but I felt her eye +was upon me, and from one hasty, furtive glance, I thought her cheek +was slightly flushed, and that her fingers, as she played with her +watch-chain, were agitated with that restless, trembling motion which +betokens high excitement. + +“Tell me,” said she, availing herself of the first pause in the +attempted conversation between her aunt and me, and speaking fast and +low, with her eyes bent on the gold chain—for I now ventured another +glance—“Tell me how you all are at Lindenhope—has nothing happened +since I left you?” + +“I believe not.” + +“Nobody dead? nobody married?” + +“No.” + +“Or—or expecting to marry?—No old ties dissolved or new ones formed? no +old friends forgotten or supplanted?” + +She dropped her voice so low in the last sentence that no one could +have caught the concluding words but myself, and at the same time +turned her eyes upon me with a dawning smile, most sweetly melancholy, +and a look of timid though keen inquiry that made my cheeks tingle with +inexpressible emotions. + +“I believe not,” I answered. “Certainly not, if others are as little +changed as I.” Her face glowed in sympathy with mine. + +“And you really did not mean to call?” she exclaimed. + +“I feared to intrude.” + +“To intrude!” cried she, with an impatient gesture. “What—” but as if +suddenly recollecting her aunt’s presence, she checked herself, and, +turning to that lady, continued—“Why, aunt, this man is my brother’s +close friend, and was my own intimate acquaintance (for a few short +months at least), and professed a great attachment to my boy—and when +he passes the house, so many scores of miles from his home, he declines +to look in for fear of intruding!” + +“Mr. Markham is over-modest,” observed Mrs. Maxwell. + +“Over-ceremonious rather,” said her niece—“over—well, it’s no matter.” +And turning from me, she seated herself in a chair beside the table, +and pulling a book to her by the cover, began to turn over the leaves +in an energetic kind of abstraction. + +“If I had known,” said I, “that you would have honoured me by +remembering me as an intimate acquaintance, I most likely should not +have denied myself the pleasure of calling upon you, but I thought you +had forgotten me long ago.” + +“You judged of others by yourself,” muttered she without raising her +eyes from the book, but reddening as she spoke, and hastily turning +over a dozen leaves at once. + +There was a pause, of which Arthur thought he might venture to avail +himself to introduce his handsome young setter, and show me how +wonderfully it was grown and improved, and to ask after the welfare of +its father Sancho. Mrs. Maxwell then withdrew to take off her things. +Helen immediately pushed the book from her, and after silently +surveying her son, his friend, and his dog for a few moments, she +dismissed the former from the room under pretence of wishing him to +fetch his last new book to show me. The child obeyed with alacrity; but +I continued caressing the dog. The silence might have lasted till its +master’s return, had it depended on me to break it; but, in half a +minute or less, my hostess impatiently rose, and, taking her former +station on the rug between me and the chimney corner, earnestly +exclaimed— + +“Gilbert, what _is_ the matter with you?—why are you so changed? It is +a very indiscreet question, I know,” she hastened to add: “perhaps a +very rude one—don’t answer it if you think so—but I hate mysteries and +concealments.” + +“I am not changed, Helen—unfortunately I am as keen and passionate as +ever—it is not I, it is circumstances that are changed.” + +“What circumstances? _Do_ tell me!” Her cheek was blanched with the +very anguish of anxiety—could it be with the fear that I had rashly +pledged my faith to another? + +“I’ll tell you at once,” said I. “I will confess that I came here for +the purpose of seeing you (not without some monitory misgivings at my +own presumption, and fears that I should be as little welcome as +expected when I came), but I did not know that this estate was yours +until enlightened on the subject of your inheritance by the +conversation of two fellow-passengers in the last stage of my journey; +and then I saw at once the folly of the hopes I had cherished, and the +madness of retaining them a moment longer; and though I alighted at +your gates, I determined not to enter within them; I lingered a few +minutes to see the place, but was fully resolved to return to M—— +without seeing its mistress.” + +“And if my aunt and I had not been just returning from our morning +drive, I should have seen and heard no more of you?” + +“I thought it would be better for both that we should not meet,” +replied I, as calmly as I could, but not daring to speak above my +breath, from conscious inability to steady my voice, and not daring to +look in her face lest my firmness should forsake me altogether. “I +thought an interview would only disturb your peace and madden me. But I +am glad, now, of this opportunity of seeing you once more and knowing +that you have not forgotten me, and of assuring you that I shall never +cease to remember you.” + +There was a moment’s pause. Mrs. Huntingdon moved away, and stood in +the recess of the window. Did she regard this as an intimation that +modesty alone prevented me from asking her hand? and was she +considering how to repulse me with the smallest injury to my feelings? +Before I could speak to relieve her from such a perplexity, she broke +the silence herself by suddenly turning towards me and observing— + +“You might have had such an opportunity before—as far, I mean, as +regards assuring me of your kindly recollections, and yourself of mine, +if you had written to me.” + +“I would have done so, but I did not know your address, and did not +like to ask your brother, because I thought he would object to my +writing; but this would not have deterred me for a moment, if I could +have ventured to believe that you expected to hear from me, or even +wasted a thought upon your unhappy friend; but your silence naturally +led me to conclude myself forgotten.” + +“Did you expect me to write to _you_, then?” + +“No, Helen—Mrs. Huntingdon,” said I, blushing at the implied +imputation, “certainly not; but if you had sent me a message through +your brother, or even asked him about me now and then—” + +“I did ask about you frequently. I was not going to do more,” continued +she, smiling, “so long as you continued to restrict yourself to a few +polite inquiries about my health.” + +“Your brother never told me that you had mentioned my name.” + +“Did you ever ask him?” + +“No; for I saw he did not wish to be questioned about you, or to afford +the slightest encouragement or assistance to my too obstinate +attachment.” Helen did not reply. “And he was perfectly right,” added +I. But she remained in silence, looking out upon the snowy lawn. “Oh, I +will relieve her of my presence,” thought I; and immediately I rose and +advanced to take leave, with a most heroic resolution—but pride was at +the bottom of it, or it could not have carried me through. + +“Are you going already?” said she, taking the hand I offered, and not +immediately letting it go. + +“Why should I stay any longer?” + +“Wait till Arthur comes, at least.” + +Only too glad to obey, I stood and leant against the opposite side of +the window. + +“You told me you were not changed,” said my companion: “you _are_—very +much so.” + +“No, Mrs. Huntingdon, I only ought to be.” + +“Do you mean to maintain that you have the same regard for me that you +had when last we met?” + +“I have; but it would be wrong to talk of it now.” + +“It was wrong to talk of it _then_, Gilbert; it would _not_ now—unless +to do so would be to violate the truth.” + +I was too much agitated to speak; but, without waiting for an answer, +she turned away her glistening eye and crimson cheek, and threw up the +window and looked out, whether to calm her own, excited feelings, or to +relieve her embarrassment, or only to pluck that beautiful half-blown +Christmas-rose that grew upon the little shrub without, just peeping +from the snow that had hitherto, no doubt, defended it from the frost, +and was now melting away in the sun. Pluck it, however, she did, and +having gently dashed the glittering powder from its leaves, approached +it to her lips and said: + +“This rose is not so fragrant as a summer flower, but it has stood +through hardships none of _them_ could bear: the cold rain of winter +has sufficed to nourish it, and its faint sun to warm it; the bleak +winds have not blanched it, or broken its stem, and the keen frost has +not blighted it. Look, Gilbert, it is still fresh and blooming as a +flower can be, with the cold snow even now on its petals.—Will you have +it?” + +I held out my hand: I dared not speak lest my emotion should overmaster +me. She laid the rose across my palm, but I scarcely closed my fingers +upon it, so deeply was I absorbed in thinking what might be the meaning +of her words, and what I ought to do or say upon the occasion; whether +to give way to my feelings or restrain them still. Misconstruing this +hesitation into indifference—or reluctance even—to accept her gift, +Helen suddenly snatched it from my hand, threw it out on to the snow, +shut down the window with an emphasis, and withdrew to the fire. + +“Helen, what means this?” I cried, electrified at this startling change +in her demeanour. + +“You did not understand my gift,” said she—“or, what is worse, you +despised it. I’m sorry I gave it you; but since I did make such a +mistake, the only remedy I could think of was to take it away.” + +“You misunderstood me cruelly,” I replied, and in a minute I had opened +the window again, leaped out, picked up the flower, brought it in, and +presented it to her, imploring her to give it me again, and I would +keep it for ever for her sake, and prize it more highly than anything +in the world I possessed. + +“And will this content you?” said she, as she took it in her hand. + +“It shall,” I answered. + +“There, then; take it.” + +I pressed it earnestly to my lips, and put it in my bosom, Mrs. +Huntingdon looking on with a half-sarcastic smile. + +“Now, are you going?” said she. + +“I will if—if I must.” + +“You _are_ changed,” persisted she—“you are grown either very proud or +very indifferent.” + +“I am neither, Helen—Mrs. Huntingdon. If you could see my heart—” + +“You _must_ be one,—if not both. And why Mrs. Huntingdon?—why not +Helen, as before?” + +“Helen, then—dear Helen!” I murmured. I was in an agony of mingled +love, hope, delight, uncertainty, and suspense. + +“The rose I gave you was an emblem of my heart,” said she; “would you +take it away and leave me here alone?” + +“Would you give me your hand too, if I asked it?” + +“Have I not said enough?” she answered, with a most enchanting smile. I +snatched her hand, and would have fervently kissed it, but suddenly +checked myself, and said,— + +“But have you considered the consequences?” + +“Hardly, I think, or I should not have offered myself to one too proud +to take me, or too indifferent to make his affection outweigh my +worldly goods.” + +Stupid blockhead that I was!—I trembled to clasp her in my arms, but +dared not believe in so much joy, and yet restrained myself to say,— + +“But if you _should_ repent!” + +“It would be your fault,” she replied: “I never shall, unless you +bitterly disappoint me. If you have not sufficient confidence in my +affection to believe this, let me alone.” + +“My darling angel—my _own Helen_,” cried I, now passionately kissing +the hand I still retained, and throwing my left arm around her, “you +never shall repent, if it depend on me alone. But have you thought of +your aunt?” I trembled for the answer, and clasped her closer to my +heart in the instinctive dread of losing my new-found treasure. + +“My aunt must not know of it yet,” said she. “She would think it a +rash, wild step, because she could not imagine how well I know you; but +she must know you herself, and learn to like you. You must leave us +now, after lunch, and come again in spring, and make a longer stay, and +cultivate her acquaintance, and I know you will like each other.” + +“And then you will be mine,” said I, printing a kiss upon her lips, and +another, and another; for I was as daring and impetuous now as I had +been backward and constrained before. + +“No—in another year,” replied she, gently disengaging herself from my +embrace, but still fondly clasping my hand. + +“Another year! Oh, Helen, I could not wait so long!” + +“Where is your fidelity?” + +“I mean I could not endure the misery of so long a separation.” + +“It would not be a separation: we will write every day: my spirit shall +be always with you, and sometimes you shall see me with your bodily +eye. I will not be such a hypocrite as to pretend that I desire to wait +so long myself, but as my marriage is to please myself, alone, I ought +to consult my friends about the time of it.” + +“Your friends will disapprove.” + +“They will not greatly disapprove, dear Gilbert,” said she, earnestly +kissing my hand; “they cannot, when they know you, or, if they could, +they would not be true friends—I should not care for their +estrangement. Now are you satisfied?” She looked up in my face with a +smile of ineffable tenderness. + +“Can I be otherwise, with your love? And you _do_ love me, Helen?” said +I, not doubting the fact, but wishing to hear it confirmed by her own +acknowledgment. + +“If you loved as _I_ do,” she earnestly replied, “you would not have so +nearly lost me—these scruples of false delicacy and pride would never +thus have troubled you—you would have seen that the greatest worldly +distinctions and discrepancies of rank, birth, and fortune are as dust +in the balance compared with the unity of accordant thoughts and +feelings, and truly loving, sympathising hearts and souls.” + +“But this is too much happiness,” said I, embracing her again; “I have +not deserved it, Helen—I dare not believe in such felicity: and the +longer I have to wait, the greater will be my dread that something will +intervene to snatch you from me—and think, a thousand things may happen +in a year!—I shall be in one long fever of restless terror and +impatience all the time. And besides, winter is such a dreary season.” + +“I thought so too,” replied she gravely: “I would not be married in +winter—in December, at least,” she added, with a shudder—for in that +month had occurred both the ill-starred marriage that had bound her to +her former husband, and the terrible death that released her—“and +therefore I said another year, in spring.” + +“_Next_ spring?” + +“No, no—next autumn, perhaps.” + +“Summer, then?” + +“Well, the close of summer. There now! be satisfied.” + +While she was speaking Arthur re-entered the room—good boy for keeping +out so long. + +“Mamma, I couldn’t find the book in either of the places you told me to +look for it” (there was a conscious something in mamma’s smile that +seemed to say, “No, dear, I knew you could not”), “but Rachel got it +for me at last. Look, Mr. Markham, a natural history, with all kinds of +birds and beasts in it, and the reading as nice as the pictures!” + +In great good humour I sat down to examine the book, and drew the +little fellow between my knees. Had he come a minute before I should +have received him less graciously, but now I affectionately stroked his +curling locks, and even kissed his ivory forehead: he was my own +Helen’s son, and therefore mine; and as such I have ever since regarded +him. That pretty child is now a fine young man: he has realised his +mother’s brightest expectations, and is at present residing in +Grassdale Manor with his young wife—the merry little Helen Hattersley +of yore. + +I had not looked through half the book before Mrs. Maxwell appeared to +invite me into the other room to lunch. That lady’s cool, distant +manners rather chilled me at first; but I did my best to propitiate +her, and not entirely without success, I think, even in that first +short visit; for when I talked cheerfully to her, she gradually became +more kind and cordial, and when I departed she bade me a gracious +adieu, hoping ere long to have the pleasure of seeing me again. + +“But you must not go till you have seen the conservatory, my aunt’s +winter garden,” said Helen, as I advanced to take leave of her, with as +much philosophy and self-command as I could summon to my aid. + +I gladly availed myself of such a respite, and followed her into a +large and beautiful conservatory, plentifully furnished with flowers, +considering the season—but, of course, I had little attention to spare +for _them_. It was not, however, for any tender colloquy that my +companion had brought me there:— + +“My aunt is particularly fond of flowers,” she observed, “and she is +fond of Staningley too: I brought you here to offer a petition in her +behalf, that this may be her home as long as she lives, and—if it be +not our home likewise—that I may often see her and be with her; for I +fear she will be sorry to lose me; and though she leads a retired and +contemplative life, she is apt to get low-spirited if left too much +alone.” + +“By all means, dearest Helen!—do what you will with your own. I should +not dream of wishing your aunt to leave the place under any +circumstances; and we will live either here or elsewhere as you and she +may determine, and you shall see her as often as you like. I know she +must be pained to part with you, and I am willing to make any +reparation in my power. I love her for your sake, and her happiness +shall be as dear to me as that of my own mother.” + +“Thank you, darling! you shall have a kiss for that. Good-by. There +now—there, Gilbert—let me go—here’s Arthur; don’t astonish his +infantile brain with your madness.” + +* * * * * + + +But it is time to bring my narrative to a close. Any one but you would +say I had made it too long already. But for _your_ satisfaction I will +add a few words more; because I know you will have a fellow-feeling for +the old lady, and will wish to know the last of her history. I did come +again in spring, and, agreeably to Helen’s injunctions, did my best to +cultivate her acquaintance. She received me very kindly, having been, +doubtless, already prepared to think highly of my character by her +niece’s too favourable report. I turned my best side out, of course, +and we got along marvellously well together. When my ambitious +intentions were made known to her, she took it more sensibly than I had +ventured to hope. Her only remark on the subject, in my hearing, was— + +“And so, Mr. Markham, you are going to rob me of my niece, I +understand. Well! I hope God will prosper your union, and make my dear +girl happy at last. Could she have been contented to remain single, I +own I should have been better satisfied; but if she must marry again, I +know of no one, now living and of a suitable age, to whom I would more +willingly resign her than yourself, or who would be more likely to +appreciate her worth and make, her truly happy, as far as I can tell.” + +Of course I was delighted with the compliment, and hoped to show her +that she was not mistaken in her favourable judgment. + +“I have, however, one request to offer,” continued she. “It seems I am +still to look on Staningley as my home: I wish you to make it yours +likewise, for Helen is attached to the place and to me—as I am to her. +There are painful associations connected with Grassdale, which she +cannot easily overcome; and I shall not molest you with my company or +interference here: I am a very quiet person, and shall keep my own +apartments, and attend to my own concerns, and only see you now and +then.” + +Of course I most readily consented to this; and we lived in the +greatest harmony with our dear aunt until the day of her death, which +melancholy event took place a few years after—melancholy, not to +herself (for it came quietly upon her, and she was glad to reach her +journey’s end), but only to the few loving friends and grateful +dependents she left behind. + +To return, however, to my own affairs: I was married in summer, on a +glorious August morning. It took the whole eight months, and all +Helen’s kindness and goodness to boot, to overcome my mother’s +prejudices against my bride-elect, and to reconcile her to the idea of +my leaving Linden Grange and living so far away. Yet she was gratified +at her son’s good fortune after all, and proudly attributed it all to +his own superior merits and endowments. I bequeathed the farm to +Fergus, with better hopes of its prosperity than I should have had a +year ago under similar circumstances; for he had lately fallen in love +with the Vicar of L——’s eldest daughter—a lady whose superiority had +roused his latent virtues, and stimulated him to the most surprising +exertions, not only to gain her affection and esteem, and to obtain a +fortune sufficient to aspire to her hand, but to render himself worthy +of her, in his own eyes, as well as in those of her parents; and in the +end he was successful, as you already know. As for myself, I need not +tell you how happily my Helen and I have lived together, and how +blessed we still are in each other’s society, and in the promising +young scions that are growing up about us. We are just now looking +forward to the advent of you and Rose, for the time of your annual +visit draws nigh, when you must leave your dusty, smoky, noisy, +toiling, striving city for a season of invigorating relaxation and +social retirement with us. + +Till then, farewell, +GILBERT MARKHAM. + + +_Staningley_, _June_ 10_th_, 1847. + +THE END + +Printed by SPOTTISWOODE, BALLENTYNE & CO. LTD. +Colchester, London & Eton, England. + + + + +Footnotes: + + [1] Introduction to _Wuthering Heights_, p. xl. “Still, as I mused the + naked room,” &c. + + [2] This Preface is now printed here for the first time in a collected + edition of the works of the Brontë sisters. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL *** + +***** This file should be named 969-0.txt or 969-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/9/6/969/ + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +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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