The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
by Anne Bronte
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman
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'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 promise 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 manoeuvres: 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
an one 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.

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
shook; 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
TETE-E-TETE 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, talking 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 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 TETE-E-TETE.
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 part 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 naivete 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, that 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 parenthese,
'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.