|
THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL
INTRODUCTION
Anne Brontë serves a twofold
purpose in the study of what the Brontës wrote and
were. In the first place, her gentle and delicate presence,
her sad, short story, her hard life and early death, enter deeply
into the poetry and tragedy that have always been entwined with
the memory of the Brontës, as women and as writers; in the
second, the books and poems that she wrote serve as matter of
comparison by which to test the greatness of her two
sisters. She is the measure of their genius—like
them, yet not with them.
Many years after Anne’s death her brother-in-law
protested against a supposed portrait of her, as giving a totally
wrong impression of the ‘dear, gentle Anne
Brontë.’ ‘Dear’ and
‘gentle’ indeed she seems to have been through life,
the youngest and prettiest of the sisters, with a delicate
complexion, a slender neck, and small, pleasant features.
Notwithstanding, she possessed in full the Brontë
seriousness, the Brontë strength of will. When her
father asked her at four years old what a little child like her
wanted most, the tiny creature replied—if it were not a
Brontë it would be incredible!—‘Age and
experience.’ When the three p. xchildren
started their ‘Island Plays’ together in 1827, Anne,
who was then eight, chose Guernsey for her imaginary island, and
peopled it with ‘Michael Sadler, Lord Bentinck, and Sir
Henry Halford.’ She and Emily were constant
companions, and there is evidence that they shared a common world
of fancy from very early days to mature womanhood.
‘The Gondal Chronicles’ seem to have amused them for
many years, and to have branched out into innumerable books,
written in the ‘tiny writing’ of which Mr. Clement
Shorter has given us facsimiles. ‘I am now engaged in
writing the fourth volume of Solala Vernon’s Life,’
says Anne at twenty-one. And four years later Emily says,
‘The Gondals still flourish bright as ever. I am at
present writing a work on the First War. Anne has been
writing some articles on this and a book by Henry Sophona.
We intend sticking firm by the rascals as long as they delight
us, which I am glad to say they do at present.’
That the author of ‘Wildfell Hall’ should ever
have delighted in the Gondals, should ever have written the story
of Solala Vernon or Henry Sophona, is pleasant to know.
Then, for her too, as for her sisters, there was a moment when
the power of ‘making out’ could turn loneliness and
disappointment into riches and content. For a time at
least, and before a hard and degrading experience had broken the
spring of her youth, and replaced the disinterested and
spontaneous pleasure that is to be got from the life and play of
imagination, by a sad sense of duty, and an inexorable p.
xiconsciousness of moral and religious mission, Anne
Brontë wrote stories for her own amusement, and loved the
‘rascals’ she created.
But already in 1841, when we first hear of the Gondals and
Solala Vernon, the material for quite other books was in poor
Anne’s mind. She was then teaching in the family at
Thorpe Green, where Branwell joined her as tutor in 1843, and
where, owing to events that are still a mystery, she seems to
have passed through an ordeal that left her shattered in health
and nerve, with nothing gained but those melancholy and repulsive
memories that she was afterwards to embody in ‘Wildfell
Hall.’ She seems, indeed, to have been partly the
victim of Branwell’s morbid imagination, the imagination of
an opium-eater and a drunkard. That he was neither the
conqueror nor the villain that he made his sisters believe, all
the evidence that has been gathered since Mrs. Gaskell wrote goes
to show. But poor Anne believed his account of himself, and
no doubt saw enough evidence of vicious character in
Branwell’s daily life to make the worst enormities
credible. She seems to have passed the last months of her
stay at Thorpe Green under a cloud of dread and miserable
suspicion, and was thankful to escape from her situation in the
summer of 1845. At the same moment Branwell was summarily
dismissed from his tutorship, his employer, Mr. Robinson, writing
a stern letter of complaint to Bramwell’s father, concerned
no doubt with the young man’s disorderly and intemperate
habits. Mrs. Gaskell says: ‘The premature deaths of
two at least of the sisters—p. xiiall the
great possibilities of their earthly lives snapped
short—may be dated from Midsummer 1845.’ The
facts as we now know them hardly bear out so strong a
judgment. There is nothing to show that Branwell’s
conduct was responsible in any way for Emily’s illness and
death, and Anne, in the contemporary fragment recovered by Mr.
Shorter, gives a less tragic account of the matter.
‘During my stay (at Thorpe Green),’ she writes on
July 31, 1845, ‘I have had some very unpleasant and
undreamt-of experience of human nature. . . . Branwell has
. . . been a tutor at Thorpe Green, and had much tribulation and
ill-health. . . . We hope he will be better and do better
in future.’ And at the end of the paper she says,
sadly, forecasting the coming years, ‘I for my part cannot
well be flatter or older in mind than I am now.’ This
is the language of disappointment and anxiety; but it hardly fits
the tragic story that Mrs. Gaskell believed.
That story was, no doubt, the elaboration of Branwell’s
diseased fancy during the three years which elapsed between his
dismissal from Thorpe Green and his death. He imagined a
guilty romance with himself and his employer’s wife for
characters, and he imposed the horrid story upon his
sisters. Opium and drink are the sufficient explanations;
and no time need now be wasted upon unravelling the sordid
mystery. But the vices of the brother, real or imaginary,
have a certain importance in literature, because of the effect
they produced upon his sisters. There can be no question
that Branwell’s opium madness, his bouts of drunkenness at
the p. xiiiBlack Bull, his violence at home,
his free and coarse talk, and his perpetual boast of guilty
secrets, influenced the imagination of his wholly pure and
inexperienced sisters. Much of ‘Wuthering
Heights,’ and all of ‘Wildfell Hall,’ show
Branwell’s mark, and there are many passages in
Charlotte’s books also where those who know the history of
the parsonage can hear the voice of those sharp moral repulsions,
those dismal moral questionings, to which Branwell’s
misconduct and ruin gave rise. Their brother’s fate
was an element in the genius of Emily and Charlotte which they
were strong enough to assimilate, which may have done them some
harm, and weakened in them certain delicate or sane perceptions,
but was ultimately, by the strange alchemy of talent, far more
profitable than hurtful, inasmuch as it troubled the waters of
the soul, and brought them near to the more desperate realities
of our ‘frail, fall’n humankind.’
But Anne was not strong enough, her gift was not vigorous
enough, to enable her thus to transmute experience and
grief. The probability is that when she left Thorpe Green
in 1845 she was already suffering from that religious melancholy
of which Charlotte discovered such piteous evidence among her
papers after death. It did not much affect the writing of
‘Agnes Grey,’ which was completed in 1846, and
reflected the minor pains and discomforts of her teaching
experience, but it combined with the spectacle of
Branwell’s increasing moral and physical decay to produce
that bitter mandate of conscience under which she wrote
‘The Tenant of Wildfell Hall.’
p.
xiv‘Hers was naturally a sensitive, reserved, and
dejected nature. She hated her work, but would pursue
it. It was written as a warning,’—so said
Charlotte when, in the pathetic Preface of 1850, she was
endeavouring to explain to the public how a creature so gentle
and so good as Acton Bell should have written such a book as
‘Wildfell Hall.’ And in the second edition of
‘Wildfell Hall,’ which appeared in 1848, Anne
Brontë herself justified her novel in a Preface which is
reprinted in this volume for the first time. The little
Preface is a curious document. It has the same determined
didactic tone which pervades the book itself, the same narrowness
of view, and inflation of expression, an inflation which is
really due not to any personal egotism in the writer, but rather
to that very gentleness and inexperience which must yet nerve
itself under the stimulus of religion to its disagreeable and
repulsive task. ‘I knew that such
characters’—as Huntingdon and his
companions—‘do exist, and if I have warned one rash
youth from following in their steps the book has not been written
in vain.’ If the story has given more pain than
pleasure to ‘any honest reader,’ the writer
‘craves his pardon, for such was far from my
intention.’ But at the same time she cannot promise
to limit her ambition to the giving of innocent pleasure, or to
the production of ‘a perfect work of art.’
‘Time and talent so spent I should consider wasted and
misapplied.’ God has given her unpalatable truths to
speak, and she must speak them.
The measure of misconstruction and abuse, therefore, p. xvwhich
her book brought upon her she bore, says her sister, ‘as it
was her custom to bear whatever was unpleasant, with mild, steady
patience. She was a very sincere and practical Christian,
but the tinge of religious melancholy communicated a sad shade to
her brief, blameless life.’
In spite of misconstruction and abuse, however,
‘Wildfell Hall’ seems to have attained more immediate
success than anything else written by the sisters before 1848,
except ‘Jane Eyre.’ It went into a second
edition within a very short time of its publication, and Messrs.
Newby informed the American publishers with whom they were
negotiating that it was the work of the same hand which had
produced ‘Jane Eyre,’ and superior to either
‘Jane Eyre’ or ‘Wuthering Heights’!
It was, indeed, the sharp practice connected with this
astonishing judgment which led to the sisters’ hurried
journey to London in 1848—the famous journey when the two
little ladies in black revealed themselves to Mr. Smith, and
proved to him that they were not one Currer Bell, but two Miss
Brontës. It was Anne’s sole journey to
London—her only contact with a world that was not Haworth,
except that supplied by her school-life at Roehead and her two
teaching engagements.
And there was and is a considerable narrative ability, a sheer
moral energy in ‘Wildfell Hall,’ which would not be
enough, indeed, to keep it alive if it were not the work of a
Brontë, but still betray its kinship and source. The
scenes of Huntingdon’s wickedness are less interesting but
less improbable than the country-house scenes of ‘Jane
Eyre’; the story of his death has many true and p.
xvitouching passages; the last love-scene is well, even in
parts admirably, written. But the book’s truth, so
far as it is true, is scarcely the truth of imagination; it is
rather the truth of a tract or a report. There can be
little doubt that many of the pages are close transcripts from
Branwell’s conduct and language,—so far as
Anne’s slighter personality enabled her to render her
brother’s temperament, which was more akin to Emily’s
than to her own. The same material might have been used by
Emily or Charlotte; Emily, as we know, did make use of it in
‘Wuthering Heights’; but only after it had passed
through that ineffable transformation, that mysterious,
incommunicable heightening which makes and gives rank in
literature. Some subtle, innate correspondence between eye
and brain, between brain and hand, was present in Emily and
Charlotte, and absent in Anne. There is no other account to
be given of this or any other case of difference between
serviceable talent and the high gifts of ‘Delos’ and
Patara’s own Apollo.’
The same world of difference appears between her poems and
those of her playfellow and comrade, Emily. If ever our
descendants should establish the schools for writers which are
even now threatened or attempted, they will hardly know perhaps
any better than we what genius is, nor how it can be
produced. But if they try to teach by example, then Anne
and Emily Brontë are ready to their hand. Take the
verses written by Emily at Roehead which contain the lovely lines
which I have already quoted in an earlier p.
xvii‘Introduction.’ [0] Just before
those lines there are two or three verses which it is worth while
to compare with a poem of Anne’s called
‘Home.’ Emily was sixteen at the time of
writing; Anne about twenty-one or twenty-two. Both sisters
take for their motive the exile’s longing thought of
home. Emily’s lines are full of faults, but they have
the indefinable quality—here, no doubt, only in the bud,
only as a matter of promise—which Anne’s are entirely
without. From the twilight schoolroom at Roehead, Emily
turns in thought to the distant upland of Haworth and the little
stone-built house upon its crest:—
There is a spot, ’mid barren hills,
Where winter howls, and driving rain;
But, if the dreary tempest chills,
There is a light that warms again.
The house is old, the trees are bare,
Moonless above bends twilight’s dome,
But what on earth is half so dear—
So longed for—as the hearth of home?
The mute bird sitting on the stone,
The dank moss dripping from the wall,
The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o’ergrown,
I love them—how I love them all!
Anne’s verses, written from one of the houses where she
was a governess, express precisely the same feeling, and movement
of mind. But notice the instinctive p.
xviiirightness and swiftness of Emily’s, the blurred
weakness of Anne’s!—
For yonder garden, fair and wide,
With groves of evergreen,
Long winding walks, and borders trim,
And velvet lawns between—
Restore to me that little spot,
With gray walls compassed round,
Where knotted grass neglected lies,
And weeds usurp the ground.
Though all around this mansion high
Invites the foot to roam,
And though its halls are fair within—
Oh, give me back my Home!
A similar parallel lies between Anne’s lines
‘Domestic Peace,’—a sad and true reflection of
the terrible times with Branwell in 1846—and Emily’s
‘Wanderer from the Fold’; while in Emily’s
‘Last Lines,’ the daring spirit of the sister to whom
the magic gift was granted separates itself for ever from the
gentle and accustomed piety of the sister to whom it was
denied. Yet Anne’s ‘Last
Lines’—‘I hoped that with the brave and
strong’—have sweetness and sincerity; they have
gained and kept a place in English religious verse, and they must
always appeal to those who love the Brontës because, in the
language of Christian faith and submission, they record the death
of Emily and the passionate affection which her sisters bore
her.
And so we are brought back to the point from which p. xixwe
started. It is not as the writer of ‘Wildfell
Hall,’ but as the sister of Charlotte and Emily
Brontë, that Anne Brontë escapes oblivion—as the
frail ‘little one,’ upon whom the other two lavished
a tender and protecting care, who was a witness of Emily’s
death, and herself, within a few minutes of her own farewell to
life, bade Charlotte ‘take courage.’
‘When my thoughts turn to Anne,’ said Charlotte
many years earlier, ‘they always see her as a patient,
persecuted stranger,—more lonely, less gifted with the
power of making friends even than I am.’ Later on,
however, this power of making friends seems to have belonged to
Anne in greater measure than to the others. Her gentleness
conquered; she was not set apart, as they were, by the lonely and
self-sufficing activities of great powers; her Christianity,
though sad and timid, was of a kind which those around her could
understand; she made no grim fight with suffering and death as
did Emily. Emily was ‘torn’ from life
‘conscious, panting, reluctant,’ to use
Charlotte’s own words; Anne’s ‘sufferings were
mild,’ her mind ‘generally serene,’ and at the
last ‘she thanked God that death was come, and come so
gently.’ When Charlotte returned to the desolate
house at Haworth, Emily’s large house-dog and Anne’s
little spaniel welcomed her in ‘a strange, heart-touching
way,’ she writes to Mr. Williams. She alone was left,
heir to all the memories and tragedies of the house. She
took up again the task of life and labour. She cared for
her father; she returned to the writing of ‘Shirley’;
and when she herself passed away, four p. xxyears later,
she had so turned those years to account that not only all she
did but all she loved had passed silently into the keeping of
fame. Mrs. Gaskell’s touching and delightful task was
ready for her, and Anne, no less than Charlotte and Emily, was
sure of England’s remembrance.
MARY A. WARD.
AUTHOR’S PREFACE [1]
TO THE SECOND EDITION
While I acknowledge the success of the present work to have
been greater than I anticipated, and the praises it has elicited
from a few kind critics to have been greater than it deserved, I
must also admit that from some other quarters it has been
censured with an asperity which I was as little prepared to
expect, and which my judgment, as well as my feelings, assures me
is more bitter than just. It is scarcely the province of an
author to refute the arguments of his censors and vindicate his
own productions; but I may be allowed to make here a few
observations with which I would have prefaced the first edition,
had I foreseen the necessity of such precautions against the
misapprehensions of those who would read it with a prejudiced
mind or be content to judge it by a hasty glance.
My object in writing the following pages was not simply to
amuse the Reader; neither was it to gratify my own taste, nor yet
to ingratiate myself with the Press and the Public: I wished to
tell the truth, for truth always conveys its own moral to those
who are able to receive it. But as the priceless treasure
too frequently hides at the bottom of a well, it needs some
courage to dive for it, especially as he that does so will be
likely to incur more scorn and obloquy for the mud and water into
which he has ventured to plunge, than thanks for the jewel he
procures; as, in like manner, she who undertakes the cleansing of
a careless bachelor’s apartment will be liable to more
abuse for the dust she raises than commendation for the clearance
she effects. Let it not be imagined, however, that I
consider myself competent to reform the errors and abuses of
society, but only that I would fain contribute my humble quota
towards so good an aim; and if I can gain the public ear at all,
I would rather whisper a few wholesome truths therein than much
soft nonsense.
As the story of ‘Agnes Grey’ was accused of
extravagant over-colouring in those very parts that were
carefully copied from the life, with a most scrupulous avoidance
of all exaggeration, so, in the present work, I find myself
censured for depicting con amore, with ‘a morbid
love of the coarse, if not of the brutal,’ those scenes
which, I will venture to say, have not been more painful for the
most fastidious of my critics to read than they were for me to
describe. I may have gone too far; in which case I shall be
careful not to trouble myself or my readers in the same way
again; but when we have to do with vice and vicious characters, I
maintain it is better to depict them as they really are than as
they would wish to appear. To represent a bad thing in its
least offensive light is, doubtless, the most agreeable course
for a writer of fiction to pursue; but is it the most honest, or
the safest? Is it better to reveal the snares and pitfalls
of life to the young and thoughtless traveller, or to cover them
with branches and flowers? Oh, reader! if there were less
of this delicate concealment of facts—this whispering,
‘Peace, peace,’ when there is no peace, there would
be less of sin and misery to the young of both sexes who are left
to wring their bitter knowledge from experience.
I would not be understood to suppose that the proceedings of
the unhappy scapegrace, with his few profligate companions I have
here introduced, are a specimen of the common practices of
society—the case is an extreme one, as I trusted none would
fail to perceive; but I know that such characters do exist, and
if I have warned one rash youth from following in their steps, or
prevented one thoughtless girl from falling into the very natural
error of my heroine, the book has not been written in vain.
But, at the same time, if any honest reader shall have derived
more pain than pleasure from its perusal, and have closed the
last volume with a disagreeable impression on his mind, I humbly
crave his pardon, for such was far from my intention; and I will
endeavour to do better another time, for I love to give innocent
pleasure. Yet, be it understood, I shall not limit my
ambition to this—or even to producing ‘a perfect work
of art’: time and talents so spent, I should consider
wasted and misapplied. Such humble talents as God has given
me I will endeavour to put to their greatest use; if I am able to
amuse, I will try to benefit too; and when I feel it my duty to
speak an unpalatable truth, with the help of God, I will
speak it, though it be to the prejudice of my name and to the
detriment of my reader’s immediate pleasure as well as my
own.
One word more, and I have done. Respecting the
author’s identity, I would have it to be distinctly
understood that Acton Bell is neither Currer nor Ellis Bell, and
therefore let not his faults be attributed to them. As to
whether the name be real or fictitious, it cannot greatly signify
to those who know him only by his works. As little, I
should think, can it matter whether the writer so designated is a
man, or a woman, as one or two of my critics profess to have
discovered. I take the imputation in good part, as a
compliment to the just delineation of my female characters; and
though I am bound to attribute much of the severity of my censors
to this suspicion, I make no effort to refute it, because, in my
own mind, I am satisfied that if a book is a good one, it is so
whatever the sex of the author may be. All novels are, or
should be, written for both men and women to read, and I am at a
loss to conceive how a man should permit himself to write
anything that would be really disgraceful to a woman, or why a
woman should be censured for writing anything that would be
proper and becoming for a man.
July 22nd, 1848.
CHAPTER I
You must go back with me to the autumn of 1827.
My father, as you know, was a sort of gentleman farmer in
—shire; and I, by his express desire, succeeded him in the
same quiet occupation, not very willingly, for ambition urged me
to higher aims, and self-conceit assured me that, in disregarding
its voice, I was burying my talent in the earth, and hiding my
light under a bushel. My mother had done her utmost to
persuade me that I was capable of great achievements; but my
father, who thought ambition was the surest road to ruin, and
change but another word for destruction, would listen to no
scheme for bettering either my own condition, or that of my
fellow mortals. He assured me it was all rubbish, and
exhorted me, with his dying breath, to continue in the good old
way, to follow his steps, and those of his father before him, and
let my highest ambition be to walk honestly through the world,
looking neither to the right hand nor to the left, and to
transmit the paternal acres to my children in, at least, as
flourishing a condition as he left them to me.
‘Well!—an honest and industrious farmer is one of
the most useful members of society; and if I devote my talents to
the cultivation of my farm, and the improvement of agriculture in
general, I shall thereby benefit, not only my own immediate
connections and dependants, but, in some degree, mankind at
large:—hence I shall not have lived in vain.’
With such reflections as these I was endeavouring to console
myself, as I plodded home from the fields, one cold, damp, cloudy
evening towards the close of October. But the gleam of a
bright red fire through the parlour window had more effect in
cheering my spirits, and rebuking my thankless repinings, than
all the sage reflections and good resolutions I had forced my
mind to frame;—for I was young then, remember—only
four-and-twenty—and had not acquired half the rule over my
own spirit that I now possess—trifling as that may be.
However, that haven of bliss must not be entered till I had
exchanged my miry boots for a clean pair of shoes, and my rough
surtout for a respectable coat, and made myself generally
presentable before decent society; for my mother, with all her
kindness, was vastly particular on certain points.
In ascending to my room I was met upon the stairs by a smart,
pretty girl of nineteen, with a tidy, dumpy figure, a round face,
bright, blooming cheeks, glossy, clustering curls, and little
merry brown eyes. I need not tell you this was my sister
Rose. She is, I know, a comely matron still, and,
doubtless, no less lovely—in your eyes—than on the
happy day you first beheld her. Nothing told me then that
she, a few years hence, would be the wife of one entirely unknown
to me as yet, but destined hereafter to become a closer friend
than even herself, more intimate than that unmannerly lad of
seventeen, by whom I was collared in the passage, on coming down,
and well-nigh jerked off my equilibrium, and who, in correction
for his impudence, received a resounding whack over the sconce,
which, however, sustained no serious injury from the infliction;
as, besides being more than commonly thick, it was protected by a
redundant shock of short, reddish curls, that my mother called
auburn.
On entering the parlour we found that honoured lady seated in
her arm-chair at the fireside, working away at her knitting,
according to her usual custom, when she had nothing else to
do. She had swept the hearth, and made a bright blazing
fire for our reception; the servant had just brought in the
tea-tray; and Rose was producing the sugar-basin and tea-caddy
from the cupboard in the black oak side-board, that shone like
polished ebony, in the cheerful parlour twilight.
‘Well! here they both are,’ cried my mother,
looking round upon us without retarding the motion of her nimble
fingers and glittering needles. ‘Now shut the door,
and come to the fire, while Rose gets the tea ready; I’m
sure you must be starved;—and tell me what you’ve
been about all day;—I like to know what my children have
been about.’
‘I’ve been breaking in the grey colt—no easy
business that—directing the ploughing of the last wheat
stubble—for the ploughboy has not the sense to direct
himself—and carrying out a plan for the extensive and
efficient draining of the low meadowlands.’
‘That’s my brave boy!—and Fergus, what have
you been doing?’
‘Badger-baiting.’
And here he proceeded to give a particular account of his
sport, and the respective traits of prowess evinced by the badger
and the dogs; my mother pretending to listen with deep attention,
and watching his animated countenance with a degree of maternal
admiration I thought highly disproportioned to its object.
‘It’s time you should be doing something else,
Fergus,’ said I, as soon as a momentary pause in his
narration allowed me to get in a word.
‘What can I do?’ replied he; ‘my mother
won’t let me go to sea or enter the army; and I’m
determined to do nothing else—except make myself such a
nuisance to you all, that you will be thankful to get rid of me
on any terms.’
Our parent soothingly stroked his stiff, short curls. He
growled, and tried to look sulky, and then we all took our seats
at the table, in obedience to the thrice-repeated summons of
Rose.
‘Now take your tea,’ said she; ‘and
I’ll tell you what I’ve been doing. I’ve
been to call on the Wilsons; and it’s a thousand pities you
didn’t go with me, Gilbert, for Eliza Millward was
there!’
‘Well! what of her?’
‘Oh, nothing!—I’m not going to tell you
about her;—only that she’s a nice, amusing little
thing, when she is in a merry humour, and I shouldn’t mind
calling her—’
‘Hush, hush, my dear! your brother has no such
idea!’ whispered my mother earnestly, holding up her
finger.
‘Well,’ resumed Rose; ‘I was going to tell
you an important piece of news I heard there—I have been
bursting with it ever since. You know it was reported a
month ago, that somebody was going to take Wildfell
Hall—and—what do you think? It has actually
been inhabited above a week!—and we never knew!’
‘Impossible!’ cried my mother.
‘Preposterous!!!’ shrieked Fergus.
‘It has indeed!—and by a single lady!’
‘Good gracious, my dear! The place is in
ruins!’
‘She has had two or three rooms made habitable; and
there she lives, all alone—except an old woman for a
servant!’
‘Oh, dear! that spoils it—I’d hoped she was
a witch,’ observed Fergus, while carving his inch-thick
slice of bread and butter. ‘Nonsense, Fergus!
But isn’t it strange, mamma?’
‘Strange! I can hardly believe it.’
‘But you may believe it; for Jane Wilson has seen
her. She went with her mother, who, of course, when she
heard of a stranger being in the neighbourhood, would be on pins
and needles till she had seen her and got all she could out of
her. She is called Mrs. Graham, and she is in
mourning—not widow’s weeds, but slightish
mourning—and she is quite young, they say,—not above
five or six and twenty,—but so reserved! They tried
all they could to find out who she was and where she came from,
and, all about her, but neither Mrs. Wilson, with her
pertinacious and impertinent home-thrusts, nor Miss Wilson, with
her skilful manoeuvring, could manage to elicit a single
satisfactory answer, or even a casual remark, or chance
expression calculated to allay their curiosity, or throw the
faintest ray of light upon her history, circumstances, or
connections. Moreover, she was barely civil to them, and
evidently better pleased to say ‘good-by,’ than
‘how do you do.’ But Eliza Millward says her father
intends to call upon her soon, to offer some pastoral advice,
which he fears she needs, as, though she is known to have entered
the neighbourhood early last week, she did not make her
appearance at church on Sunday; and she—Eliza, that
is—will beg to accompany him, and is sure she can succeed
in wheedling something out of her—you know, Gilbert, she
can do anything. And we should call some time, mamma;
it’s only proper, you know.’
‘Of course, my dear. Poor thing! How lonely
she must feel!’
‘And pray, be quick about it; and mind you bring me word
how much sugar she puts in her tea, and what sort of caps and
aprons she wears, and all about it; for I don’t know how I
can live till I know,’ said Fergus, very gravely.
But if he intended the speech to be hailed as a master-stroke
of wit, he signally failed, for nobody laughed. However, he
was not much disconcerted at that; for when he had taken a
mouthful of bread and butter and was about to swallow a gulp of
tea, the humour of the thing burst upon him with such
irresistible force, that he was obliged to jump up from the
table, and rush snorting and choking from the room; and a minute
after, was heard screaming in fearful agony in the garden.
As for me, I was hungry, and contented myself with silently
demolishing the tea, ham, and toast, while my mother and sister
went on talking, and continued to discuss the apparent or
non-apparent circumstances, and probable or improbable history of
the mysterious lady; but I must confess that, after my
brother’s misadventure, I once or twice raised the cup to
my lips, and put it down again without daring to taste the
contents, lest I should injure my dignity by a similar
explosion.
The next day my mother and Rose hastened to pay their
compliments to the fair recluse; and came back but little wiser
than they went; though my mother declared she did not regret the
journey, for if she had not gained much good, she flattered
herself she had imparted some, and that was better: she had given
some useful advice, which, she hoped, would not be thrown away;
for Mrs. Graham, though she said little to any purpose, and
appeared somewhat self-opinionated, seemed not incapable of
reflection,—though she did not know where she had been all
her life, poor thing, for she betrayed a lamentable ignorance on
certain points, and had not even the sense to be ashamed of
it.
‘On what points, mother?’ asked I.
‘On household matters, and all the little niceties of
cookery, and such things, that every lady ought to be familiar
with, whether she be required to make a practical use of her
knowledge or not. I gave her some useful pieces of
information, however, and several excellent receipts, the value
of which she evidently could not appreciate, for she begged I
would not trouble myself, as she lived in such a plain, quiet
way, that she was sure she should never make use of them.
“No matter, my dear,” said I; “it is what every
respectable female ought to know;—and besides, though you
are alone now, you will not be always so; you have been married,
and probably—I might say almost certainly—will be
again.” “You are mistaken there,
ma’am,” said she, almost haughtily; “I am
certain I never shall.”—But I told her I knew
better.’
‘Some romantic young widow, I suppose,’ said I,
‘come there to end her days in solitude, and mourn in
secret for the dear departed—but it won’t last
long.’
‘No, I think not,’ observed Rose; ‘for she
didn’t seem very disconsolate after all; and she’s
excessively pretty—handsome rather—you must see her,
Gilbert; you will call her a perfect beauty, though you could
hardly pretend to discover a resemblance between her and Eliza
Millward.’
‘Well, I can imagine many faces more beautiful than
Eliza’s, though not more charming. I allow she has
small claims to perfection; but then, I maintain that, if she
were more perfect, she would be less interesting.’
‘And so you prefer her faults to other people’s
perfections?’
‘Just so—saving my mother’s
presence.’
‘Oh, my dear Gilbert, what nonsense you talk!—I
know you don’t mean it; it’s quite out of the
question,’ said my mother, getting up, and bustling out of
the room, under pretence of household business, in order to
escape the contradiction that was trembling on my tongue.
After that Rose favoured me with further particulars
respecting Mrs. Graham. Her appearance, manners, and dress,
and the very furniture of the room she inhabited, were all set
before me, with rather more clearness and precision than I cared
to see them; but, as I was not a very attentive listener, I could
not repeat the description if I would.
The next day was Saturday; and, on Sunday, everybody wondered
whether or not the fair unknown would profit by the vicar’s
remonstrance, and come to church. I confess I looked with
some interest myself towards the old family pew, appertaining to
Wildfell Hall, where the faded crimson cushions and lining had
been unpressed and unrenewed so many years, and the grim
escutcheons, with their lugubrious borders of rusty black cloth,
frowned so sternly from the wall above.
And there I beheld a tall, lady-like figure, clad in
black. Her face was towards me, and there was something in
it which, once seen, invited me to look again. Her hair was
raven black, and disposed in long glossy ringlets, a style of
coiffure rather unusual in those days, but always graceful and
becoming; her complexion was clear and pale; her eyes I could not
see, for, being bent upon her prayer-book, they were concealed by
their drooping lids and long black lashes, but the brows above
were expressive and well defined; the forehead was lofty and
intellectual, the nose, a perfect aquiline and the features, in
general, unexceptionable—only there was a slight hollowness
about the cheeks and eyes, and the lips, though finely formed,
were a little too thin, a little too firmly compressed, and had
something about them that betokened, I thought, no very soft or
amiable temper; and I said in my heart—‘I would
rather admire you from this distance, fair lady, than be the
partner of your home.’
Just then she happened to raise her eyes, and they met mine; I
did not choose to withdraw my gaze, and she turned again to her
book, but with a momentary, indefinable expression of quiet
scorn, that was inexpressibly provoking to me.
‘She thinks me an impudent puppy,’ thought
I. ‘Humph!—she shall change her mind before
long, if I think it worth while.’
But then it flashed upon me that these were very improper
thoughts for a place of worship, and that my behaviour, on the
present occasion, was anything but what it ought to be.
Previous, however, to directing my mind to the service, I glanced
round the church to see if any one had been observing
me;—but no,—all, who were not attending to their
prayer-books, were attending to the strange lady,—my good
mother and sister among the rest, and Mrs. Wilson and her
daughter; and even Eliza Millward was slily glancing from the
corners of her eyes towards the object of general
attraction. Then she glanced at me, simpered a little, and
blushed, modestly looked at her prayer-book, and endeavoured to
compose her features.
Here I was transgressing again; and this time I was made
sensible of it by a sudden dig in the ribs, from the elbow of my
pert brother. For the present, I could only resent the
insult by pressing my foot upon his toes, deferring further
vengeance till we got out of church.
Now, Halford, before I close this letter, I’ll tell you
who Eliza Millward was: she was the vicar’s younger
daughter, and a very engaging little creature, for whom I felt no
small degree of partiality;—and she knew it, though I had
never come to any direct explanation, and had no definite
intention of so doing, for my mother, who maintained there was no
one good enough for me within twenty miles round, could not bear
the thoughts of my marrying that insignificant little thing, who,
in addition to her numerous other disqualifications, had not
twenty pounds to call her own. Eliza’s figure was at
once slight and plump, her face small, and nearly as round as my
sister’s,—complexion, something similar to hers, but
more delicate and less decidedly blooming,—nose,
retroussé,—features, generally irregular; and,
altogether, she was rather charming than pretty. But her
eyes—I must not forget those remarkable features, for
therein her chief attraction lay—in outward aspect at
least;—they were long and narrow in shape, the irids black,
or very dark brown, the expression various, and ever changing,
but always either preternaturally—I had almost said
diabolically—wicked, or irresistibly bewitching—often
both. Her voice was gentle and childish, her tread light
and soft as that of a cat:—but her manners more frequently
resembled those of a pretty playful kitten, that is now pert and
roguish, now timid and demure, according to its own sweet
will.
Her sister, Mary, was several years older, several inches
taller, and of a larger, coarser build—a plain, quiet,
sensible girl, who had patiently nursed their mother, through her
last long, tedious illness, and been the housekeeper, and family
drudge, from thence to the present time. She was trusted
and valued by her father, loved and courted by all dogs, cats,
children, and poor people, and slighted and neglected by
everybody else.
The Reverend Michael Millward himself was a tall, ponderous
elderly gentleman, who placed a shovel hat above his large,
square, massive-featured face, carried a stout walking-stick in
his hand, and incased his still powerful limbs in knee-breeches
and gaiters,—or black silk stockings on state
occasions. He was a man of fixed principles, strong
prejudices, and regular habits, intolerant of dissent in any
shape, acting under a firm conviction that his opinions were
always right, and whoever differed from them must be either most
deplorably ignorant, or wilfully blind.
In childhood, I had always been accustomed to regard him with
a feeling of reverential awe—but lately, even now,
surmounted, for, though he had a fatherly kindness for the
well-behaved, he was a strict disciplinarian, and had often
sternly reproved our juvenile failings and peccadilloes; and
moreover, in those days, whenever he called upon our parents, we
had to stand up before him, and say our catechism, or repeat,
‘How doth the little busy bee,’ or some other hymn,
or—worse than all—be questioned about his last text,
and the heads of the discourse, which we never could
remember. Sometimes, the worthy gentleman would reprove my
mother for being over-indulgent to her sons, with a reference to
old Eli, or David and Absalom, which was particularly galling to
her feelings; and, very highly as she respected him, and all his
sayings, I once heard her exclaim, ‘I wish to goodness he
had a son himself! He wouldn’t be so ready with his
advice to other people then;—he’d see what it is to
have a couple of boys to keep in order.’
He had a laudable care for his own bodily health—kept
very early hours, regularly took a walk before breakfast, was
vastly particular about warm and dry clothing, had never been
known to preach a sermon without previously swallowing a raw
egg—albeit he was gifted with good lungs and a powerful
voice,—and was, generally, extremely particular about what
he ate and drank, though by no means abstemious, and having a
mode of dietary peculiar to himself,—being a great despiser
of tea and such slops, and a patron of malt liquors, bacon and
eggs, ham, hung beef, and other strong meats, which agreed well
enough with his digestive organs, and therefore were maintained
by him to be good and wholesome for everybody, and confidently
recommended to the most delicate convalescents or dyspeptics,
who, if they failed to derive the promised benefit from his
prescriptions, were told it was because they had not persevered,
and if they complained of inconvenient results therefrom, were
assured it was all fancy.
I will just touch upon two other persons whom I have
mentioned, and then bring this long letter to a close.
These are Mrs. Wilson and her daughter. The former was the
widow of a substantial farmer, a narrow-minded, tattling old
gossip, whose character is not worth describing. She had
two sons, Robert, a rough countrified farmer, and Richard, a
retiring, studious young man, who was studying the classics with
the vicar’s assistance, preparing for college, with a view
to enter the church.
Their sister Jane was a young lady of some talents, and more
ambition. She had, at her own desire, received a regular
boarding-school education, superior to what any member of the
family had obtained before. She had taken the polish well,
acquired considerable elegance of manners, quite lost her
provincial accent, and could boast of more accomplishments than
the vicar’s daughters. She was considered a beauty
besides; but never for a moment could she number me amongst her
admirers. She was about six and twenty, rather tall and
very slender, her hair was neither chestnut nor auburn, but a
most decided bright, light red; her complexion was remarkably
fair and brilliant, her head small, neck long, chin well turned,
but very short, lips thin and red, eyes clear hazel, quick, and
penetrating, but entirely destitute of poetry or feeling.
She had, or might have had, many suitors in her own rank of life,
but scornfully repulsed or rejected them all; for none but a
gentleman could please her refined taste, and none but a rich one
could satisfy her soaring ambition. One gentleman there
was, from whom she had lately received some rather pointed
attentions, and upon whose heart, name, and fortune, it was
whispered, she had serious designs. This was Mr. Lawrence,
the young squire, whose family had formerly occupied Wildfell
Hall, but had deserted it, some fifteen years ago, for a more
modern and commodious mansion in the neighbouring parish.
Now, Halford, I bid you adieu for the present. This is
the first instalment of my debt. If the coin suits you,
tell me so, and I’ll send you the rest at my leisure: if
you would rather remain my creditor than stuff your purse with
such ungainly, heavy pieces,—tell me still, and I’ll
pardon your bad taste, and willingly keep the treasure to
myself.
Yours immutably,
Gilbert Markham.
CHAPTER II
I perceive, with joy, my most valued friend, that the cloud of
your displeasure has passed away; the light of your countenance
blesses me once more, and you desire the continuation of my
story: therefore, without more ado, you shall have it.
I think the day I last mentioned was a certain Sunday, the
latest in the October of 1827. On the following Tuesday I
was out with my dog and gun, in pursuit of such game as I could
find within the territory of Linden-Car; but finding none at all,
I turned my arms against the hawks and carrion crows, whose
depredations, as I suspected, had deprived me of better
prey. To this end I left the more frequented regions, the
wooded valleys, the corn-fields, and the meadow-lands, and
proceeded to mount the steep acclivity of Wildfell, the wildest
and the loftiest eminence in our neighbourhood, where, as you
ascend, the hedges, as well as the trees, become scanty and
stunted, the former, at length, giving place to rough stone
fences, partly greened over with ivy and moss, the latter to
larches and Scotch fir-trees, or isolated blackthorns. The
fields, being rough and stony, and wholly unfit for the plough,
were mostly devoted to the posturing of sheep and cattle; the
soil was thin and poor: bits of grey rock here and there peeped
out from the grassy hillocks; bilberry-plants and
heather—relics of more savage wildness—grew under the
walls; and in many of the enclosures, ragweeds and rushes usurped
supremacy over the scanty herbage; but these were not my
property.
Near the top of this hill, about two miles from Linden-Car,
stood Wildfell Hall, a superannuated mansion of the Elizabethan
era, built of dark grey stone, venerable and picturesque to look
at, but doubtless, cold and gloomy enough to inhabit, with its
thick stone mullions and little latticed panes, its time-eaten
air-holes, and its too lonely, too unsheltered
situation,—only shielded from the war of wind and weather
by a group of Scotch firs, themselves half blighted with storms,
and looking as stern and gloomy as the Hall itself. Behind
it lay a few desolate fields, and then the brown heath-clad
summit of the hill; before it (enclosed by stone walls, and
entered by an iron gate, with large balls of grey
granite—similar to those which decorated the roof and
gables—surmounting the gate-posts) was a garden,—once
stocked with such hard plants and flowers as could best brook the
soil and climate, and such trees and shrubs as could best endure
the gardener’s torturing shears, and most readily assume
the shapes he chose to give them,—now, having been left so
many years untilled and untrimmed, abandoned to the weeds and the
grass, to the frost and the wind, the rain and the drought, it
presented a very singular appearance indeed. The close
green walls of privet, that had bordered the principal walk, were
two-thirds withered away, and the rest grown beyond all
reasonable bounds; the old boxwood swan, that sat beside the
scraper, had lost its neck and half its body: the castellated
towers of laurel in the middle of the garden, the gigantic
warrior that stood on one side of the gateway, and the lion that
guarded the other, were sprouted into such fantastic shapes as
resembled nothing either in heaven or earth, or in the waters
under the earth; but, to my young imagination, they presented all
of them a goblinish appearance, that harmonised well with the
ghostly legions and dark traditions our old nurse had told us
respecting the haunted hall and its departed occupants.
I had succeeded in killing a hawk and two crows when I came
within sight of the mansion; and then, relinquishing further
depredations, I sauntered on, to have a look at the old place,
and see what changes had been wrought in it by its new
inhabitant. I did not like to go quite to the front and
stare in at the gate; but I paused beside the garden wall, and
looked, and saw no change—except in one wing, where the
broken windows and dilapidated roof had evidently been repaired,
and where a thin wreath of smoke was curling up from the stack of
chimneys.
While I thus stood, leaning on my gun, and looking up at the
dark gables, sunk in an idle reverie, weaving a tissue of wayward
fancies, in which old associations and the fair young hermit, now
within those walls, bore a nearly equal part, I heard a slight
rustling and scrambling just within the garden; and, glancing in
the direction whence the sound proceeded, I beheld a tiny hand
elevated above the wall: it clung to the topmost stone, and then
another little hand was raised to take a firmer hold, and then
appeared a small white forehead, surmounted with wreaths of light
brown hair, with a pair of deep blue eyes beneath, and the upper
portion of a diminutive ivory nose.
The eyes did not notice me, but sparkled with glee on
beholding Sancho, my beautiful black and white setter, that was
coursing about the field with its muzzle to the ground. The
little creature raised its face and called aloud to the
dog. The good-natured animal paused, looked up, and wagged
his tail, but made no further advances. The child (a little
boy, apparently about five years old) scrambled up to the top of
the wall, and called again and again; but finding this of no
avail, apparently made up his mind, like Mahomet, to go to the
mountain, since the mountain would not come to him, and attempted
to get over; but a crabbed old cherry-tree, that grew hard by,
caught him by the frock in one of its crooked scraggy arms that
stretched over the wall. In attempting to disengage himself
his foot slipped, and down he tumbled—but not to the
earth;—the tree still kept him suspended. There was a
silent struggle, and then a piercing shriek;—but, in an
instant, I had dropped my gun on the grass, and caught the little
fellow in my arms.
I wiped his eyes with his frock, told him he was all right and
called Sancho to pacify him. He was just putting little
hand on the dog’s neck and beginning to smile through his
tears, when I heard behind me a click of the iron gate, and a
rustle of female garments, and lo! Mrs. Graham darted upon
me—her neck uncovered, her black locks streaming in the
wind.
‘Give me the child!’ she said, in a voice scarce
louder than a whisper, but with a tone of startling vehemence,
and, seizing the boy, she snatched him from me, as if some dire
contamination were in my touch, and then stood with one hand
firmly clasping his, the other on his shoulder, fixing upon me
her large, luminous dark eyes—pale, breathless, quivering
with agitation.
‘I was not harming the child, madam,’ said I,
scarce knowing whether to be most astonished or displeased;
‘he was tumbling off the wall there; and I was so fortunate
as to catch him, while he hung suspended headlong from that tree,
and prevent I know not what catastrophe.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ stammered
she;—suddenly calming down,—the light of reason
seeming to break upon her beclouded spirit, and a faint blush
mantling on her cheek—‘I did not know you;—and
I thought—’
She stooped to kiss the child, and fondly clasped her arm
round his neck.
‘You thought I was going to kidnap your son, I
suppose?’
She stroked his head with a half-embarrassed laugh, and
replied,—‘I did not know he had attempted to climb
the wall.—I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Markham, I
believe?’ she added, somewhat abruptly.
I bowed, but ventured to ask how she knew me.
‘Your sister called here, a few days ago, with Mrs.
Markham.’
‘Is the resemblance so strong then?’ I asked, in
some surprise, and not so greatly flattered at the idea as I
ought to have been.
‘There is a likeness about the eyes and complexion I
think,’ replied she, somewhat dubiously surveying my
face;—‘and I think I saw you at church on
Sunday.’
I smiled.—There was something either in that smile or
the recollections it awakened that was particularly displeasing
to her, for she suddenly assumed again that proud, chilly look
that had so unspeakably roused my aversion at church—a look
of repellent scorn, so easily assumed, and so entirely without
the least distortion of a single feature, that, while there, it
seemed like the natural expression of the face, and was the more
provoking to me, because I could not think it affected.
‘Good-morning, Mr. Markham,’ said she; and without
another word or glance, she withdrew, with her child, into the
garden; and I returned home, angry and dissatisfied—I could
scarcely tell you why, and therefore will not attempt it.
I only stayed to put away my gun and powder-horn, and give
some requisite directions to one of the farming-men, and then
repaired to the vicarage, to solace my spirit and soothe my
ruffled temper with the company and conversation of Eliza
Millward.
I found her, as usual, busy with some piece of soft embroidery
(the mania for Berlin wools had not yet commenced), while her
sister was seated at the chimney-corner, with the cat on her
knee, mending a heap of stockings.
‘Mary—Mary! put them away!’ Eliza was
hastily saying, just as I entered the room.
‘Not I, indeed!’ was the phlegmatic reply; and my
appearance prevented further discussion.
‘You’re so unfortunate, Mr. Markham!’
observed the younger sister, with one of her arch, sidelong
glances. ‘Papa’s just gone out into the parish,
and not likely to be back for an hour!’
‘Never mind; I can manage to spend a few minutes with
his daughters, if they’ll allow me,’ said I, bringing
a chair to the fire, and seating myself therein, without waiting
to be asked.
‘Well, if you’ll be very good and amusing, we
shall not object.’
‘Let your permission be unconditional, pray; for I came
not to give pleasure, but to seek it,’ I answered.
However, I thought it but reasonable to make some slight
exertion to render my company agreeable; and what little effort I
made, was apparently pretty successful, for Miss Eliza was never
in a better humour. We seemed, indeed, to be mutually
pleased with each other, and managed to maintain between us a
cheerful and animated though not very profound
conversation. It was little better than a
tête-à-tête, for Miss Millward never
opened her lips, except occasionally to correct some random
assertion or exaggerated expression of her sister’s, and
once to ask her to pick up the ball of cotton that had rolled
under the table. I did this myself, however, as in duty
bound.
‘Thank you, Mr. Markham,’ said she, as I presented
it to her. ‘I would have picked it up myself; only I
did not want to disturb the cat.’
‘Mary, dear, that won’t excuse you in Mr.
Markham’s eyes,’ said Eliza; ‘he hates cats, I
daresay, as cordially as he does old maids—like all other
gentlemen. Don’t you, Mr. Markham?’
‘I believe it is natural for our unamiable sex to
dislike the creatures,’ replied I; ‘for you ladies
lavish so many caresses upon them.’
‘Bless them—little darlings!’ cried she, in
a sudden burst of enthusiasm, turning round and overwhelming her
sister’s pet with a shower of kisses.
‘Don’t, Eliza!’ said Miss Millward, somewhat
gruffly, as she impatiently pushed her away.
But it was time for me to be going: make what haste I would, I
should still be too late for tea; and my mother was the soul of
order and punctuality.
My fair friend was evidently unwilling to bid me adieu.
I tenderly squeezed her little hand at parting; and she repaid me
with one of her softest smiles and most bewitching glances.
I went home very happy, with a heart brimful of complacency for
myself, and overflowing with love for Eliza.
CHAPTER III
Two days after, Mrs. Graham called at Linden-Car, contrary to
the expectation of Rose, who entertained an idea that the
mysterious occupant of Wildfell Hall would wholly disregard the
common observances of civilized life,—in which opinion she
was supported by the Wilsons, who testified that neither their
call nor the Millwards’ had been returned as yet.
Now, however, the cause of that omission was explained, though
not entirely to the satisfaction of Rose. Mrs. Graham had
brought her child with her, and on my mother’s expressing
surprise that he could walk so far, she replied,—‘It
is a long walk for him; but I must have either taken him with me,
or relinquished the visit altogether; for I never leave him
alone; and I think, Mrs. Markham, I must beg you to make my
excuses to the Millwards and Mrs. Wilson, when you see them, as I
fear I cannot do myself the pleasure of calling upon them till my
little Arthur is able to accompany me.’
‘But you have a servant,’ said Rose; ‘could
you not leave him with her?’
‘She has her own occupations to attend to; and besides,
she is too old to run after a child, and he is too mercurial to
be tied to an elderly woman.’
‘But you left him to come to church.’
‘Yes, once; but I would not have left him for any other
purpose; and I think, in future, I must contrive to bring him
with me, or stay at home.’
‘Is he so mischievous?’ asked my mother,
considerably shocked.
‘No,’ replied the lady, sadly smiling, as she
stroked the wavy locks of her son, who was seated on a low stool
at her feet; ‘but he is my only treasure, and I am his only
friend: so we don’t like to be separated.’
‘But, my dear, I call that doting,’ said my
plain-spoken parent. ‘You should try to suppress such
foolish fondness, as well to save your son from ruin as yourself
from ridicule.’
‘Ruin! Mrs. Markham!’
‘Yes; it is spoiling the child. Even at his age,
he ought not to be always tied to his mother’s
apron-string; he should learn to be ashamed of it.’
‘Mrs. Markham, I beg you will not say such things, in
his presence, at least. I trust my son will never be
ashamed to love his mother!’ said Mrs. Graham, with a
serious energy that startled the company.
My mother attempted to appease her by an explanation; but she
seemed to think enough had been said on the subject, and abruptly
turned the conversation.
‘Just as I thought,’ said I to myself: ‘the
lady’s temper is none of the mildest, notwithstanding her
sweet, pale face and lofty brow, where thought and suffering seem
equally to have stamped their impress.’
All this time I was seated at a table on the other side of the
room, apparently immersed in the perusal of a volume of the
Farmer’s Magazine, which I happened to have been
reading at the moment of our visitor’s arrival; and, not
choosing to be over civil, I had merely bowed as she entered, and
continued my occupation as before.
In a little while, however, I was sensible that some one was
approaching me, with a light, but slow and hesitating
tread. It was little Arthur, irresistibly attracted by my
dog Sancho, that was lying at my feet. On looking up I
beheld him standing about two yards off, with his clear blue eyes
wistfully gazing on the dog, transfixed to the spot, not by fear
of the animal, but by a timid disinclination to approach its
master. A little encouragement, however, induced him to
come forward. The child, though shy, was not sullen.
In a minute he was kneeling on the carpet, with his arms round
Sancho’s neck, and, in a minute or two more, the little
fellow was seated on my knee, surveying with eager interest the
various specimens of horses, cattle, pigs, and model farms
portrayed in the volume before me. I glanced at his mother
now and then to see how she relished the new-sprung intimacy; and
I saw, by the unquiet aspect of her eye, that for some reason or
other she was uneasy at the child’s position.
‘Arthur,’ said she, at length, ‘come
here. You are troublesome to Mr. Markham: he wishes to
read.’
‘By no means, Mrs. Graham; pray let him stay. I am
as much amused as he is,’ pleaded I. But still, with
hand and eye, she silently called him to her side.
‘No, mamma,’ said the child; ‘let me look at
these pictures first; and then I’ll come, and tell you all
about them.’
‘We are going to have a small party on Monday, the fifth
of November,’ said my mother; ‘and I hope you will
not refuse to make one, Mrs. Graham. You can bring your
little boy with you, you know—I daresay we shall be able to
amuse him;—and then you can make your own apologies to the
Millwards and Wilsons—they will all be here, I
expect.’
‘Thank you, I never go to parties.’
‘Oh! but this will be quite a family concern—early
hours, and nobody here but ourselves, and just the Millwards and
Wilsons, most of whom you already know, and Mr. Lawrence, your
landlord, with whom you ought to make acquaintance.’
‘I do know something of him—but you must excuse me
this time; for the evenings, now, are dark and damp, and Arthur,
I fear, is too delicate to risk exposure to their influence with
impunity. We must defer the enjoyment of your hospitality
till the return of longer days and warmer nights.’
Rose, now, at a hint from my mother, produced a decanter of
wine, with accompaniments of glasses and cake, from the cupboard
and the oak sideboard, and the refreshment was duly presented to
the guests. They both partook of the cake, but obstinately
refused the wine, in spite of their hostess’s hospitable
attempts to force it upon them. Arthur, especially shrank
from the ruby nectar as if in terror and disgust, and was ready
to cry when urged to take it.
‘Never mind, Arthur,’ said his mamma; ‘Mrs.
Markham thinks it will do you good, as you were tired with your
walk; but she will not oblige you to take it!—I daresay you
will do very well without. He detests the very sight of
wine,’ she added, ‘and the smell of it almost makes
him sick. I have been accustomed to make him swallow a
little wine or weak spirits-and-water, by way of medicine, when
he was sick, and, in fact, I have done what I could to make him
hate them.’
Everybody laughed, except the young widow and her son.
‘Well, Mrs. Graham,’ said my mother, wiping the
tears of merriment from her bright blue eyes—‘well,
you surprise me! I really gave you credit for having more
sense.—The poor child will be the veriest milksop that ever
was sopped! Only think what a man you will make of him, if
you persist in—’
‘I think it a very excellent plan,’ interrupted
Mrs. Graham, with imperturbable gravity. ‘By that
means I hope to save him from one degrading vice at least.
I wish I could render the incentives to every other equally
innoxious in his case.’
‘But by such means,’ said I, ‘you will never
render him virtuous.—What is it that constitutes virtue,
Mrs. Graham? Is it the circumstance of being able and
willing to resist temptation; or that of having no temptations to
resist?—Is he a strong man that overcomes great obstacles
and performs surprising achievements, though by dint of great
muscular exertion, and at the risk of some subsequent fatigue, or
he that sits in his chair all day, with nothing to do more
laborious than stirring the fire, and carrying his food to his
mouth? If you would have your son to walk honourably
through the world, you must not attempt to clear the stones from
his path, but teach him to walk firmly over them—not insist
upon leading him by the hand, but let him learn to go
alone.’
‘I will lead him by the hand, Mr. Markham, till he has
strength to go alone; and I will clear as many stones from his
path as I can, and teach him to avoid the rest—or walk
firmly over them, as you say;—for when I have done my
utmost, in the way of clearance, there will still be plenty left
to exercise all the agility, steadiness, and circumspection he
will ever have.—It is all very well to talk about noble
resistance, and trials of virtue; but for fifty—or five
hundred men that have yielded to temptation, show me one that has
had virtue to resist. And why should I take it for granted
that my son will be one in a thousand?—and not rather
prepare for the worst, and suppose he will be like his—like
the rest of mankind, unless I take care to prevent it?’
‘You are very complimentary to us all,’ I
observed.
‘I know nothing about you—I speak of those I do
know—and when I see the whole race of mankind (with a few
rare exceptions) stumbling and blundering along the path of life,
sinking into every pitfall, and breaking their shins over every
impediment that lies in their way, shall I not use all the means
in my power to insure for him a smoother and a safer
passage?’
‘Yes, but the surest means will be to endeavour to
fortify him against temptation, not to remove it out of his
way.’
‘I will do both, Mr. Markham. God knows he will
have temptations enough to assail him, both from within and
without, when I have done all I can to render vice as uninviting
to him, as it is abominable in its own nature—I myself have
had, indeed, but few incentives to what the world calls vice, but
yet I have experienced temptations and trials of another kind,
that have required, on many occasions, more watchfulness and
firmness to resist than I have hitherto been able to muster
against them. And this, I believe, is what most others
would acknowledge who are accustomed to reflection, and wishful
to strive against their natural corruptions.’
‘Yes,’ said my mother, but half apprehending her
drift; ‘but you would not judge of a boy by
yourself—and, my dear Mrs. Graham, let me warn you in good
time against the error—the fatal error, I may call
it—of taking that boy’s education upon
yourself. Because you are clever in some things and well
informed, you may fancy yourself equal to the task; but indeed
you are not; and if you persist in the attempt, believe me you
will bitterly repent it when the mischief is done.’
‘I am to send him to school, I suppose, to learn to
despise his mother’s authority and affection!’ said
the lady, with rather a bitter smile.
‘Oh, no!—But if you would have a boy to despise
his mother, let her keep him at home, and spend her life in
petting him up, and slaving to indulge his follies and
caprices.’
‘I perfectly agree with you, Mrs. Markham; but nothing
can be further from my principles and practice than such criminal
weakness as that.’
‘Well, but you will treat him like a
girl—you’ll spoil his spirit, and make a mere Miss
Nancy of him—you will, indeed, Mrs. Graham, whatever you
may think. But I’ll get Mr. Millward to talk to you
about it:—he’ll tell you the
consequences;—he’ll set it before you as plain as the
day;—and tell you what you ought to do, and all about
it;—and, I don’t doubt, he’ll be able to
convince you in a minute.’
‘No occasion to trouble the vicar,’ said Mrs.
Graham, glancing at me—I suppose I was smiling at my
mother’s unbounded confidence in that worthy
gentleman—‘Mr. Markham here thinks his powers of
conviction at least equal to Mr. Millward’s. If I
hear not him, neither should I be convinced though one rose from
the dead, he would tell you. Well, Mr. Markham, you that
maintain that a boy should not be shielded from evil, but sent
out to battle against it, alone and unassisted—not taught
to avoid the snares of life, but boldly to rush into them, or
over them, as he may—to seek danger, rather than shun it,
and feed his virtue by temptation,—would
you—?’
‘I beg your pardon, Mrs. Graham—but you get on too
fast. I have not yet said that a boy should be taught to
rush into the snares of life,—or even wilfully to seek
temptation for the sake of exercising his virtue by overcoming
it;—I only say that it is better to arm and strengthen your
hero, than to disarm and enfeeble the foe;—and if you were
to rear an oak sapling in a hothouse, tending it carefully night
and day, and shielding it from every breath of wind, you could
not expect it to become a hardy tree, like that which has grown
up on the mountain-side, exposed to all the action of the
elements, and not even sheltered from the shock of the
tempest.’
‘Granted;—but would you use the same argument with
regard to a girl?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘No; you would have her to be tenderly and delicately
nurtured, like a hot-house plant—taught to cling to others
for direction and support, and guarded, as much as possible, from
the very knowledge of evil. But will you be so good as to
inform me why you make this distinction? Is it that you
think she has no virtue?’
‘Assuredly not.’
‘Well, but you affirm that virtue is only elicited by
temptation;—and you think that a woman cannot be too little
exposed to temptation, or too little acquainted with vice, or
anything connected therewith. It must be either that you
think she is essentially so vicious, or so feeble-minded, that
she cannot withstand temptation,—and though she may be pure
and innocent as long as she is kept in ignorance and restraint,
yet, being destitute of real virtue, to teach her how to sin is
at once to make her a sinner, and the greater her knowledge, the
wider her liberty, the deeper will be her
depravity,—whereas, in the nobler sex, there is a natural
tendency to goodness, guarded by a superior fortitude, which, the
more it is exercised by trials and dangers, is only the further
developed—’
‘Heaven forbid that I should think so!’ I
interrupted her at last.
‘Well, then, it must be that you think they are both
weak and prone to err, and the slightest error, the merest shadow
of pollution, will ruin the one, while the character of the other
will be strengthened and embellished—his education properly
finished by a little practical acquaintance with forbidden
things. Such experience, to him (to use a trite simile),
will be like the storm to the oak, which, though it may scatter
the leaves, and snap the smaller branches, serves but to rivet
the roots, and to harden and condense the fibres of the
tree. You would have us encourage our sons to prove all
things by their own experience, while our daughters must not even
profit by the experience of others. Now I would have both
so to benefit by the experience of others, and the precepts of a
higher authority, that they should know beforehand to refuse the
evil and choose the good, and require no experimental proofs to
teach them the evil of transgression. I would not send a
poor girl into the world, unarmed against her foes, and ignorant
of the snares that beset her path; nor would I watch and guard
her, till, deprived of self-respect and self-reliance, she lost
the power or the will to watch and guard herself;—and as
for my son—if I thought he would grow up to be what you
call a man of the world—one that has “seen
life,” and glories in his experience, even though he should
so far profit by it as to sober down, at length, into a useful
and respected member of society—I would rather that he died
to-morrow!—rather a thousand times!’ she earnestly
repeated, pressing her darling to her side and kissing his
forehead with intense affection. He had already left his
new companion, and been standing for some time beside his
mother’s knee, looking up into her face, and listening in
silent wonder to her incomprehensible discourse.
‘Well! you ladies must always have the last word, I
suppose,’ said I, observing her rise, and begin to take
leave of my mother.
‘You may have as many words as you please,—only I
can’t stay to hear them.’
‘No; that is the way: you hear just as much of an
argument as you please; and the rest may be spoken to the
wind.’
‘If you are anxious to say anything more on the
subject,’ replied she, as she shook hands with Rose,
‘you must bring your sister to see me some fine day, and
I’ll listen, as patiently as you could wish, to whatever
you please to say. I would rather be lectured by you than
the vicar, because I should have less remorse in telling you, at
the end of the discourse, that I preserve my own opinion
precisely the same as at the beginning—as would be the
case, I am persuaded, with regard to either logician.’
‘Yes, of course,’ replied I, determined to be as
provoking as herself; ‘for when a lady does consent to
listen to an argument against her own opinions, she is always
predetermined to withstand it—to listen only with her
bodily ears, keeping the mental organs resolutely closed against
the strongest reasoning.’
‘Good-morning, Mr. Markham,’ said my fair
antagonist, with a pitying smile; and deigning no further
rejoinder, she slightly bowed, and was about to withdraw; but her
son, with childish impertinence, arrested her by
exclaiming,—‘Mamma, you have not shaken hands with
Mr. Markham!’
She laughingly turned round and held out her hand. I
gave it a spiteful squeeze, for I was annoyed at the continual
injustice she had done me from the very dawn of our
acquaintance. Without knowing anything about my real
disposition and principles, she was evidently prejudiced against
me, and seemed bent upon showing me that her opinions respecting
me, on every particular, fell far below those I entertained of
myself. I was naturally touchy, or it would not have vexed
me so much. Perhaps, too, I was a little bit spoiled by my
mother and sister, and some other ladies of my
acquaintance;—and yet I was by no means a fop—of that
I am fully convinced, whether you are or not.
CHAPTER IV
Our party, on the 5th of November, passed off very well, in
spite of Mrs. Graham’s refusal to grace it with her
presence. Indeed, it is probable that, had she been there,
there would have been less cordiality, freedom, and frolic
amongst us than there was without her.
My mother, as usual, was cheerful and chatty, full of activity
and good-nature, and only faulty in being too anxious to make her
guests happy, thereby forcing several of them to do what their
soul abhorred in the way of eating or drinking, sitting opposite
the blazing fire, or talking when they would be silent.
Nevertheless, they bore it very well, being all in their holiday
humours.
Mr. Millward was mighty in important dogmas and sententious
jokes, pompous anecdotes and oracular discourses, dealt out for
the edification of the whole assembly in general, and of the
admiring Mrs. Markham, the polite Mr. Lawrence, the sedate Mary
Millward, the quiet Richard Wilson, and the matter-of-fact Robert
in particular,—as being the most attentive listeners.
Mrs. Wilson was more brilliant than ever, with her budgets of
fresh news and old scandal, strung together with trivial
questions and remarks, and oft-repeated observations, uttered
apparently for the sole purpose of denying a moment’s rest
to her inexhaustible organs of speech. She had brought her
knitting with her, and it seemed as if her tongue had laid a
wager with her fingers, to outdo them in swift and ceaseless
motion.
Her daughter Jane was, of course, as graceful and elegant, as
witty and seductive, as she could possibly manage to be; for here
were all the ladies to outshine, and all the gentlemen to
charm,—and Mr. Lawrence, especially, to capture and
subdue. Her little arts to effect his subjugation were too
subtle and impalpable to attract my observation; but I thought
there was a certain refined affectation of superiority, and an
ungenial self-consciousness about her, that negatived all her
advantages; and after she was gone, Rose interpreted to me her
various looks, words, and actions with a mingled acuteness and
asperity that made me wonder, equally, at the lady’s
artifice and my sister’s penetration, and ask myself if she
too had an eye to the squire—but never mind, Halford; she
had not.
Richard Wilson, Jane’s younger brother, sat in a corner,
apparently good-tempered, but silent and shy, desirous to escape
observation, but willing enough to listen and observe: and,
although somewhat out of his element, he would have been happy
enough in his own quiet way, if my mother could only have let him
alone; but in her mistaken kindness, she would keep persecuting
him with her attentions—pressing upon him all manner of
viands, under the notion that he was too bashful to help himself,
and obliging him to shout across the room his monosyllabic
replies to the numerous questions and observations by which she
vainly attempted to draw him into conversation.
Rose informed me that he never would have favoured us with his
company but for the importunities of his sister Jane, who was
most anxious to show Mr. Lawrence that she had at least one
brother more gentlemanly and refined than Robert. That
worthy individual she had been equally solicitous to keep away;
but he affirmed that he saw no reason why he should not enjoy a
crack with Markham and the old lady (my mother was not old,
really), and bonny Miss Rose and the parson, as well as the
best;—and he was in the right of it too. So he talked
common-place with my mother and Rose, and discussed parish
affairs with the vicar, farming matters with me, and politics
with us both.
Mary Millward was another mute,—not so much tormented
with cruel kindness as Dick Wilson, because she had a certain
short, decided way of answering and refusing, and was supposed to
be rather sullen than diffident. However that might be, she
certainly did not give much pleasure to the company;—nor
did she appear to derive much from it. Eliza told me she
had only come because her father insisted upon it, having taken
it into his head that she devoted herself too exclusively to her
household duties, to the neglect of such relaxations and innocent
enjoyments as were proper to her age and sex. She seemed to
me to be good-humoured enough on the whole. Once or twice
she was provoked to laughter by the wit or the merriment of some
favoured individual amongst us; and then I observed she sought
the eye of Richard Wilson, who sat over against her. As he
studied with her father, she had some acquaintance with him, in
spite of the retiring habits of both, and I suppose there was a
kind of fellow-feeling established between them.
My Eliza was charming beyond description, coquettish without
affectation, and evidently more desirous to engage my attention
than that of all the room besides. Her delight in having me
near her, seated or standing by her side, whispering in her ear,
or pressing her hand in the dance, was plainly legible in her
glowing face and heaving bosom, however belied by saucy words and
gestures. But I had better hold my tongue: if I boast of
these things now, I shall have to blush hereafter.
To proceed, then, with the various individuals of our party;
Rose was simple and natural as usual, and full of mirth and
vivacity.
Fergus was impertinent and absurd; but his impertinence and
folly served to make others laugh, if they did not raise himself
in their estimation.
And finally (for I omit myself), Mr. Lawrence was gentlemanly
and inoffensive to all, and polite to the vicar and the ladies,
especially his hostess and her daughter, and Miss
Wilson—misguided man; he had not the taste to prefer Eliza
Millward. Mr. Lawrence and I were on tolerably intimate
terms. Essentially of reserved habits, and but seldom
quitting the secluded place of his birth, where he had lived in
solitary state since the death of his father, he had neither the
opportunity nor the inclination for forming many acquaintances;
and, of all he had ever known, I (judging by the results) was the
companion most agreeable to his taste. I liked the man well
enough, but he was too cold, and shy, and self-contained, to
obtain my cordial sympathies. A spirit of candour and
frankness, when wholly unaccompanied with coarseness, he admired
in others, but he could not acquire it himself. His
excessive reserve upon all his own concerns was, indeed,
provoking and chilly enough; but I forgave it, from a conviction
that it originated less in pride and want of confidence in his
friends, than in a certain morbid feeling of delicacy, and a
peculiar diffidence, that he was sensible of, but wanted energy
to overcome. His heart was like a sensitive plant, that
opens for a moment in the sunshine, but curls up and shrinks into
itself at the slightest touch of the finger, or the lightest
breath of wind. And, upon the whole, our intimacy was
rather a mutual predilection than a deep and solid friendship,
such as has since arisen between myself and you, Halford, whom,
in spite of your occasional crustiness, I can liken to nothing so
well as an old coat, unimpeachable in texture, but easy and
loose—that has conformed itself to the shape of the wearer,
and which he may use as he pleases, without being bothered with
the fear of spoiling it;—whereas Mr. Lawrence was like a
new garment, all very neat and trim to look at, but so tight in
the elbows, that you would fear to split the seams by the
unrestricted motion of your arms, and so smooth and fine in
surface that you scruple to expose it to a single drop of
rain.
Soon after the arrival of the guests, my mother mentioned Mrs.
Graham, regretted she was not there to meet them, and explained
to the Millwards and Wilsons the reasons she had given for
neglecting to return their calls, hoping they would excuse her,
as she was sure she did not mean to be uncivil, and would be glad
to see them at any time.—‘But she is a very singular
lady, Mr. Lawrence,’ added she; ‘we don’t know
what to make of her—but I daresay you can tell us something
about her, for she is your tenant, you know,—and she said
she knew you a little.’
All eyes were turned to Mr. Lawrence. I thought he
looked unnecessarily confused at being so appealed to.
‘I, Mrs. Markham!’ said he; ‘you are
mistaken—I don’t—that is—I have seen her,
certainly; but I am the last person you should apply to for
information respecting Mrs. Graham.’
He then immediately turned to Rose, and asked her to favour
the company with a song, or a tune on the piano.
‘No,’ said she, ‘you must ask Miss Wilson:
she outshines us all in singing, and music too.’
Miss Wilson demurred.
‘She’ll sing readily enough,’ said Fergus,
‘if you’ll undertake to stand by her, Mr. Lawrence,
and turn over the leaves for her.’
‘I shall be most happy to do so, Miss Wilson; will you
allow me?’
She bridled her long neck and smiled, and suffered him to lead
her to the instrument, where she played and sang, in her very
best style, one piece after another; while he stood patiently by,
leaning one hand on the back of her chair, and turning over the
leaves of her book with the other. Perhaps he was as much
charmed with her performance as she was. It was all very
fine in its way; but I cannot say that it moved me very
deeply. There was plenty of skill and execution, but
precious little feeling.
But we had not done with Mrs. Graham yet.
‘I don’t take wine, Mrs. Markham,’ said Mr.
Millward, upon the introduction of that beverage;
‘I’ll take a little of your home-brewed ale. I
always prefer your home-brewed to anything else.’
Flattered at this compliment, my mother rang the bell, and a
china jug of our best ale was presently brought and set before
the worthy gentleman who so well knew how to appreciate its
excellences.
‘Now this is the
thing!’ cried he, pouring out a glass of the same in a long
stream, skilfully directed from the jug to the tumbler, so as to
produce much foam without spilling a drop; and, having surveyed
it for a moment opposite the candle, he took a deep draught, and
then smacked his lips, drew a long breath, and refilled his
glass, my mother looking on with the greatest satisfaction.
‘There’s nothing like this, Mrs. Markham!’
said he. ‘I always maintain that there’s
nothing to compare with your home-brewed ale.’
‘I’m sure I’m glad you like it, sir. I
always look after the brewing myself, as well as the cheese and
the butter—I like to have things well done, while
we’re about it.’
‘Quite right, Mrs. Markham!’
‘But then, Mr. Millward, you don’t think it wrong
to take a little wine now and then—or a little spirits
either!’ said my mother, as she handed a smoking tumbler of
gin-and-water to Mrs. Wilson, who affirmed that wine sat heavy on
her stomach, and whose son Robert was at that moment helping
himself to a pretty stiff glass of the same.
‘By no means!’ replied the oracle, with a
Jove-like nod; ‘these things are all blessings and mercies,
if we only knew how to make use of them.’
‘But Mrs. Graham doesn’t think so. You shall
just hear now what she told us the other day—I told her
I’d tell you.’
And my mother favoured the company with a particular account
of that lady’s mistaken ideas and conduct regarding the
matter in hand, concluding with, ‘Now, don’t you
think it is wrong?’
‘Wrong!’ repeated the vicar, with more than common
solemnity—‘criminal, I should
say—criminal! Not only is it making a fool of the
boy, but it is despising the gifts of Providence, and teaching
him to trample them under his feet.’
He then entered more fully into the question, and explained at
large the folly and impiety of such a proceeding. My mother
heard him with profoundest reverence; and even Mrs. Wilson
vouchsafed to rest her tongue for a moment, and listen in
silence, while she complacently sipped her gin-and-water.
Mr. Lawrence sat with his elbow on the table, carelessly playing
with his half-empty wine-glass, and covertly smiling to
himself.
‘But don’t you think, Mr. Millward,’
suggested he, when at length that gentleman paused in his
discourse, ‘that when a child may be naturally prone to
intemperance—by the fault of its parents or ancestors, for
instance—some precautions are advisable?’ (Now
it was generally believed that Mr. Lawrence’s father had
shortened his days by intemperance.)
‘Some precautions, it may be; but temperance, sir, is
one thing, and abstinence another.’
‘But I have heard that, with some persons,
temperance—that is, moderation—is almost impossible;
and if abstinence be an evil (which some have doubted), no one
will deny that excess is a greater. Some parents have
entirely prohibited their children from tasting intoxicating
liquors; but a parent’s authority cannot last for ever;
children are naturally prone to hanker after forbidden things;
and a child, in such a case, would be likely to have a strong
curiosity to taste, and try the effect of what has been so lauded
and enjoyed by others, so strictly forbidden to
himself—which curiosity would generally be gratified on the
first convenient opportunity; and the restraint once broken,
serious consequences might ensue. I don’t pretend to
be a judge of such matters, but it seems to me, that this plan of
Mrs. Graham’s, as you describe it, Mrs. Markham,
extraordinary as it may be, is not without its advantages; for
here you see the child is delivered at once from temptation; he
has no secret curiosity, no hankering desire; he is as well
acquainted with the tempting liquors as he ever wishes to be; and
is thoroughly disgusted with them, without having suffered from
their effects.’
‘And is that right, sir? Have I not proven to you
how wrong it is—how contrary to Scripture and to reason, to
teach a child to look with contempt and disgust upon the
blessings of Providence, instead of to use them
aright?’
‘You may consider laudanum a blessing of Providence,
sir,’ replied Mr. Lawrence, smiling; ‘and yet, you
will allow that most of us had better abstain from it, even in
moderation; but,’ added he, ‘I would not desire you
to follow out my simile too closely—in witness whereof I
finish my glass.’
‘And take another, I hope, Mr. Lawrence,’ said my
mother, pushing the bottle towards him.
He politely declined, and pushing his chair a little away from
the table, leant back towards me—I was seated a trifle
behind, on the sofa beside Eliza Millward—and carelessly
asked me if I knew Mrs. Graham.
‘I have met her once or twice,’ I replied.
‘What do you think of her?’
‘I cannot say that I like her much. She is
handsome—or rather I should say distinguished and
interesting—in her appearance, but by no means
amiable—a woman liable to take strong prejudices, I should
fancy, and stick to them through thick and thin, twisting
everything into conformity with her own preconceived
opinions—too hard, too sharp, too bitter for my
taste.’
He made no reply, but looked down and bit his lip, and shortly
after rose and sauntered up to Miss Wilson, as much repelled by
me, I fancy, as attracted by her. I scarcely noticed it at
the time, but afterwards I was led to recall this and other
trifling facts, of a similar nature, to my remembrance,
when—but I must not anticipate.
We wound up the evening with dancing—our worthy pastor
thinking it no scandal to be present on the occasion, though one
of the village musicians was engaged to direct our evolutions
with his violin. But Mary Millward obstinately refused to
join us; and so did Richard Wilson, though my mother earnestly
entreated him to do so, and even offered to be his partner.
We managed very well without them, however. With a
single set of quadrilles, and several country dances, we carried
it on to a pretty late hour; and at length, having called upon
our musician to strike up a waltz, I was just about to whirl
Eliza round in that delightful dance, accompanied by Lawrence and
Jane Wilson, and Fergus and Rose, when Mr. Millward interposed
with:—‘No, no; I don’t allow that! Come,
it’s time to be going now.’
‘Oh, no, papa!’ pleaded Eliza.
‘High time, my girl—high time! Moderation in
all things, remember! That’s the
plan—“Let your moderation be known unto all
men!”’
But in revenge I followed Eliza into the dimly-lighted
passage, where, under pretence of helping her on with her shawl,
I fear I must plead guilty to snatching a kiss behind her
father’s back, while he was enveloping his throat and chin
in the folds of a mighty comforter. But alas! in turning
round, there was my mother close beside me. The consequence
was, that no sooner were the guests departed, than I was doomed
to a very serious remonstrance, which unpleasantly checked the
galloping course of my spirits, and made a disagreeable close to
the evening.
‘My dear Gilbert,’ said she, ‘I wish you
wouldn’t do so! You know how deeply I have your
advantage at heart, how I love you and prize you above everything
else in the world, and how much I long to see you well settled in
life—and how bitterly it would grieve me to see you married
to that girl—or any other in the neighbourhood. What
you see in her I don’t know. It isn’t only the
want of money that I think about—nothing of the
kind—but there’s neither beauty, nor cleverness, nor
goodness, nor anything else that’s desirable. If you
knew your own value, as I do, you wouldn’t dream of
it. Do wait awhile and see! If you bind yourself to
her, you’ll repent it all your lifetime when you look round
and see how many better there are. Take my word for it, you
will.’
‘Well, mother, do be quiet!—I hate to be
lectured!—I’m not going to marry yet, I tell you;
but—dear me! mayn’t I enjoy myself at all?’
‘Yes, my dear boy, but not in that way. Indeed,
you shouldn’t do such things. You would be wronging
the girl, if she were what she ought to be; but I assure you she
is as artful a little hussy as anybody need wish to see; and
you’ll got entangled in her snares before you know where
you are. And if you marry her, Gilbert, you’ll break
my heart—so there’s an end of it.’
‘Well, don’t cry about it, mother,’ said I,
for the tears were gushing from her eyes; ‘there, let that
kiss efface the one I gave Eliza; don’t abuse her any more,
and set your mind at rest; for I’ll promise
never—that is, I’ll promise to think twice before I
take any important step you seriously disapprove of.’
So saying, I lighted my candle, and went to bed, considerably
quenched in spirit.
CHAPTER V
It was about the close of the month, that, yielding at length
to the urgent importunities of Rose, I accompanied her in a visit
to Wildfell Hall. To our surprise, we were ushered into a
room where the first object that met the eye was a
painter’s easel, with a table beside it covered with rolls
of canvas, bottles of oil and varnish, palette, brushes, paints,
&c. Leaning against the wall were several sketches in
various stages of progression, and a few finished
paintings—mostly of landscapes and figures.
‘I must make you welcome to my studio,’ said Mrs.
Graham; ‘there is no fire in the sitting-room to-day, and
it is rather too cold to show you into a place with an empty
grate.’
And disengaging a couple of chairs from the artistical lumber
that usurped them, she bid us be seated, and resumed her place
beside the easel—not facing it exactly, but now and then
glancing at the picture upon it while she conversed, and giving
it an occasional touch with her brush, as if she found it
impossible to wean her attention entirely from her occupation to
fix it upon her guests. It was a view of Wildfell Hall, as
seen at early morning from the field below, rising in dark relief
against a sky of clear silvery blue, with a few red streaks on
the horizon, faithfully drawn and coloured, and very elegantly
and artistically handled.
‘I see your heart is in your work, Mrs. Graham,’
observed I: ‘I must beg you to go on with it; for if you
suffer our presence to interrupt you, we shall be constrained to
regard ourselves as unwelcome intruders.’
‘Oh, no!’ replied she, throwing her brush on to
the table, as if startled into politeness. ‘I am not
so beset with visitors but that I can readily spare a few minutes
to the few that do favour me with their company.’
‘You have almost completed your painting,’ said I,
approaching to observe it more closely, and surveying it with a
greater degree of admiration and delight than I cared to
express. ‘A few more touches in the foreground will
finish it, I should think. But why have you called it
Fernley Manor, Cumberland, instead of Wildfell Hall,
—shire?’ I asked, alluding to the name she had traced
in small characters at the bottom of the canvas.
But immediately I was sensible of having committed an act of
impertinence in so doing; for she coloured and hesitated; but
after a moment’s pause, with a kind of desperate frankness,
she replied:—
‘Because I have friends—acquaintances at
least—in the world, from whom I desire my present abode to
be concealed; and as they might see the picture, and might
possibly recognise the style in spite of the false initials I
have put in the corner, I take the precaution to give a false
name to the place also, in order to put them on a wrong scent, if
they should attempt to trace me out by it.’
‘Then you don’t intend to keep the picture?’
said I, anxious to say anything to change the subject.
‘No; I cannot afford to paint for my own
amusement.’
‘Mamma sends all her pictures to London,’ said
Arthur; ‘and somebody sells them for her there, and sends
us the money.’
In looking round upon the other pieces, I remarked a pretty
sketch of Linden-hope from the top of the hill; another view of
the old hall basking in the sunny haze of a quiet summer
afternoon; and a simple but striking little picture of a child
brooding, with looks of silent but deep and sorrowful regret,
over a handful of withered flowers, with glimpses of dark low
hills and autumnal fields behind it, and a dull beclouded sky
above.
‘You see there is a sad dearth of subjects,’
observed the fair artist. ‘I took the old hall once
on a moonlight night, and I suppose I must take it again on a
snowy winter’s day, and then again on a dark cloudy
evening; for I really have nothing else to paint. I have
been told that you have a fine view of the sea somewhere in the
neighbourhood. Is it true?—and is it within walking
distance?’
‘Yes, if you don’t object to walking four
miles—or nearly so—little short of eight miles, there
and back—and over a somewhat rough, fatiguing
road.’
‘In what direction does it lie?’
I described the situation as well as I could, and was entering
upon an explanation of the various roads, lanes, and fields to be
traversed in order to reach it, the goings straight on, and
turnings to the right and the left, when she checked me
with,—
‘Oh, stop! don’t tell me now: I shall forget every
word of your directions before I require them. I shall not
think about going till next spring; and then, perhaps, I may
trouble you. At present we have the winter before us,
and—’
She suddenly paused, with a suppressed exclamation, started up
from her seat, and saying, ‘Excuse me one moment,’
hurried from the room, and shut the door behind her.
Curious to see what had startled her so, I looked towards the
window—for her eyes had been carelessly fixed upon it the
moment before—and just beheld the skirts of a man’s
coat vanishing behind a large holly-bush that stood between the
window and the porch.
‘It’s mamma’s friend,’ said
Arthur.
Rose and I looked at each other.
‘I don’t know what to make of her at all,’
whispered Rose.
The child looked at her in grave surprise. She
straightway began to talk to him on indifferent matters, while I
amused myself with looking at the pictures. There was one
in an obscure corner that I had not before observed. It was
a little child, seated on the grass with its lap full of
flowers. The tiny features and large blue eyes, smiling
through a shock of light brown curls, shaken over the forehead as
it bent above its treasure, bore sufficient resemblance to those
of the young gentleman before me to proclaim it a portrait of
Arthur Graham in his early infancy.
In taking this up to bring it to the light, I discovered
another behind it, with its face to the wall. I ventured to
take that up too. It was the portrait of a gentleman in the
full prime of youthful manhood—handsome enough, and not
badly executed; but if done by the same hand as the others, it
was evidently some years before; for there was far more careful
minuteness of detail, and less of that freshness of colouring and
freedom of handling that delighted and surprised me in
them. Nevertheless, I surveyed it with considerable
interest. There was a certain individuality in the features
and expression that stamped it, at once, a successful
likeness. The bright blue eyes regarded the spectator with
a kind of lurking drollery—you almost expected to see them
wink; the lips—a little too voluptuously full—seemed
ready to break into a smile; the warmly-tinted cheeks were
embellished with a luxuriant growth of reddish whiskers; while
the bright chestnut hair, clustering in abundant, wavy curls,
trespassed too much upon the forehead, and seemed to intimate
that the owner thereof was prouder of his beauty than his
intellect—as, perhaps, he had reason to be; and yet he
looked no fool.
I had not had the portrait in my hands two minutes before the
fair artist returned.
‘Only some one come about the pictures,’ said she,
in apology for her abrupt departure: ‘I told him to
wait.’
‘I fear it will be considered an act of
impertinence,’ said ‘to presume to look at a picture
that the artist has turned to the wall; but may I
ask—’
‘It is an act of very great impertinence, sir; and
therefore I beg you will ask nothing about it, for your curiosity
will not be gratified,’ replied she, attempting to cover
the tartness of her rebuke with a smile; but I could see, by her
flushed cheek and kindling eye, that she was seriously
annoyed.
‘I was only going to ask if you had painted it
yourself,’ said I, sulkily resigning the picture into her
hands; for without a grain of ceremony she took it from me; and
quickly restoring it to the dark corner, with its face to the
wall, placed the other against it as before, and then turned to
me and laughed.
But I was in no humour for jesting. I carelessly turned
to the window, and stood looking out upon the desolate garden,
leaving her to talk to Rose for a minute or two; and then,
telling my sister it was time to go, shook hands with the little
gentleman, coolly bowed to the lady, and moved towards the
door. But, having bid adieu to Rose, Mrs. Graham presented
her hand to me, saying, with a soft voice, and by no means a
disagreeable smile,—‘Let not the sun go down upon
your wrath, Mr. Markham. I’m sorry I offended you by
my abruptness.’
When a lady condescends to apologise, there is no keeping
one’s anger, of course; so we parted good friends for once;
and this time I squeezed her hand with a cordial, not a spiteful
pressure.
CHAPTER VI
During the next four months I did not enter Mrs.
Graham’s house, nor she mine; but still the ladies
continued to talk about her, and still our acquaintance
continued, though slowly, to advance. As for their talk, I
paid but little attention to that (when it related to the fair
hermit, I mean), and the only information I derived from it was,
that one fine frosty day she had ventured to take her little boy
as far as the vicarage, and that, unfortunately, nobody was at
home but Miss Millward; nevertheless, she had sat a long time,
and, by all accounts, they had found a good deal to say to each
other, and parted with a mutual desire to meet again. But
Mary liked children, and fond mammas like those who can duly
appreciate their treasures.
But sometimes I saw her myself, not only when she came to
church, but when she was out on the hills with her son, whether
taking a long, purpose-like walk, or—on special fine
days—leisurely rambling over the moor or the bleak
pasture-lands, surrounding the old hall, herself with a book in
her hand, her son gambolling about her; and, on any of these
occasions, when I caught sight of her in my solitary walks or
rides, or while following my agricultural pursuits, I generally
contrived to meet or overtake her, for I rather liked to see Mrs.
Graham, and to talk to her, and I decidedly liked to talk to her
little companion, whom, when once the ice of his shyness was
fairly broken, I found to be a very amiable, intelligent, and
entertaining little fellow; and we soon became excellent
friends—how much to the gratification of his mamma I cannot
undertake to say. I suspected at first that she was
desirous of throwing cold water on this growing intimacy—to
quench, as it were, the kindling flame of our
friendship—but discovering, at length, in spite of her
prejudice against me, that I was perfectly harmless, and even
well-intentioned, and that, between myself and my dog, her son
derived a great deal of pleasure from the acquaintance that he
would not otherwise have known, she ceased to object, and even
welcomed my coming with a smile.
As for Arthur, he would shout his welcome from afar, and run
to meet me fifty yards from his mother’s side. If I
happened to be on horseback he was sure to get a canter or a
gallop; or, if there was one of the draught horses within an
available distance, he was treated to a steady ride upon that,
which served his turn almost as well; but his mother would always
follow and trudge beside him—not so much, I believe, to
ensure his safe conduct, as to see that I instilled no
objectionable notions into his infant mind, for she was ever on
the watch, and never would allow him to be taken out of her
sight. What pleased her best of all was to see him romping
and racing with Sancho, while I walked by her side—not, I
fear, for love of my company (though I sometimes deluded myself
with that idea), so much as for the delight she took in seeing
her son thus happily engaged in the enjoyment of those active
sports so invigorating to his tender frame, yet so seldom
exercised for want of playmates suited to his years: and,
perhaps, her pleasure was sweetened not a little by the fact of
my being with her instead of with him, and therefore incapable of
doing him any injury directly or indirectly, designedly or
otherwise, small thanks to her for that same.
But sometimes, I believe, she really had some little
gratification in conversing with me; and one bright February
morning, during twenty minutes’ stroll along the moor, she
laid aside her usual asperity and reserve, and fairly entered
into conversation with me, discoursing with so much eloquence and
depth of thought and feeling on a subject happily coinciding with
my own ideas, and looking so beautiful withal, that I went home
enchanted; and on the way (morally) started to find myself
thinking that, after all, it would, perhaps, be better to spend
one’s days with such a woman than with Eliza Millward; and
then I (figuratively) blushed for my inconstancy.
On entering the parlour I found Eliza there with Rose, and no
one else. The surprise was not altogether so agreeable as
it ought to have been. We chatted together a long time, but
I found her rather frivolous, and even a little insipid, compared
with the more mature and earnest Mrs. Graham. Alas, for
human constancy!
‘However,’ thought I, ‘I ought not to marry
Eliza, since my mother so strongly objects to it, and I ought not
to delude the girl with the idea that I intended to do so.
Now, if this mood continue, I shall have less difficulty in
emancipating my affections from her soft yet unrelenting sway;
and, though Mrs. Graham might be equally objectionable, I may be
permitted, like the doctors, to cure a greater evil by a less,
for I shall not fall seriously in love with the young widow, I
think, nor she with me—that’s certain—but if I
find a little pleasure in her society I may surely be allowed to
seek it; and if the star of her divinity be bright enough to dim
the lustre of Eliza’s, so much the better, but I scarcely
can think it.’
And thereafter I seldom suffered a fine day to pass without
paying a visit to Wildfell about the time my new acquaintance
usually left her hermitage; but so frequently was I baulked in my
expectations of another interview, so changeable was she in her
times of coming forth and in her places of resort, so transient
were the occasional glimpses I was able to obtain, that I felt
half inclined to think she took as much pains to avoid my company
as I to seek hers; but this was too disagreeable a supposition to
be entertained a moment after it could conveniently be
dismissed.
One calm, clear afternoon, however, in March, as I was
superintending the rolling of the meadow-land, and the repairing
of a hedge in the valley, I saw Mrs. Graham down by the brook,
with a sketch-book in her hand, absorbed in the exercise of her
favourite art, while Arthur was putting on the time with
constructing dams and breakwaters in the shallow, stony
stream. I was rather in want of amusement, and so rare an
opportunity was not to be neglected; so, leaving both meadow and
hedge, I quickly repaired to the spot, but not before Sancho,
who, immediately upon perceiving his young friend, scoured at
full gallop the intervening space, and pounced upon him with an
impetuous mirth that precipitated the child almost into the
middle of the beck; but, happily, the stones preserved him from
any serious wetting, while their smoothness prevented his being
too much hurt to laugh at the untoward event.
Mrs. Graham was studying the distinctive characters of the
different varieties of trees in their winter nakedness, and
copying, with a spirited, though delicate touch, their various
ramifications. She did not talk much, but I stood and
watched the progress of her pencil: it was a pleasure to behold
it so dexterously guided by those fair and graceful
fingers. But ere long their dexterity became impaired, they
began to hesitate, to tremble slightly, and make false strokes,
and then suddenly came to a pause, while their owner laughingly
raised her face to mine, and told me that her sketch did not
profit by my superintendence.
‘Then,’ said I, ‘I’ll talk to Arthur
till you’ve done.’
‘I should like to have a ride, Mr. Markham, if mamma
will let me,’ said the child.
‘What on, my boy?’
‘I think there’s a horse in that field,’
replied he, pointing to where the strong black mare was pulling
the roller.
‘No, no, Arthur; it’s too far,’ objected his
mother.
But I promised to bring him safe back after a turn or two up
and down the meadow; and when she looked at his eager face she
smiled and let him go. It was the first time she had even
allowed me to take him so much as half a field’s length
from her side.
Enthroned upon his monstrous steed, and solemnly proceeding up
and down the wide, steep field, he looked the very incarnation of
quiet, gleeful satisfaction and delight. The rolling,
however, was soon completed; but when I dismounted the gallant
horseman, and restored him to his mother, she seemed rather
displeased at my keeping him so long. She had shut up her
sketch-book, and been, probably, for some minutes impatiently
waiting his return.
It was now high time to go home, she said, and would have bid
me good-evening, but I was not going to leave her yet: I
accompanied her half-way up the hill. She became more
sociable, and I was beginning to be very happy; but, on coming
within sight of the grim old hall, she stood still, and turned
towards me while she spoke, as if expecting I should go no
further, that the conversation would end here, and I should now
take leave and depart—as, indeed, it was time to do, for
‘the clear, cold eve’ was fast
‘declining,’ the sun had set, and the gibbous moon
was visibly brightening in the pale grey sky; but a feeling
almost of compassion riveted me to the spot. It seemed hard
to leave her to such a lonely, comfortless home. I looked
up at it. Silent and grim it frowned; before us. A
faint, red light was gleaming from the lower windows of one wing,
but all the other windows were in darkness, and many exhibited
their black, cavernous gulfs, entirely destitute of glazing or
framework.
‘Do you not find it a desolate place to live in?’
said I, after a moment of silent contemplation.
‘I do, sometimes,’ replied she. ‘On
winter evenings, when Arthur is in bed, and I am sitting there
alone, hearing the bleak wind moaning round me and howling
through the ruinous old chambers, no books or occupations can
repress the dismal thoughts and apprehensions that come crowding
in—but it is folly to give way to such weakness, I
know. If Rachel is satisfied with such a life, why should
not I?—Indeed, I cannot be too thankful for such an asylum,
while it is left me.’
The closing sentence was uttered in an under-tone, as if
spoken rather to herself than to me. She then bid me
good-evening and withdrew.
I had not proceeded many steps on my way homewards when I
perceived Mr. Lawrence, on his pretty grey pony, coming up the
rugged lane that crossed over the hill-top. I went a little
out of my way to speak to him; for we had not met for some
time.
‘Was that Mrs. Graham you were speaking to just
now?’ said he, after the first few words of greeting had
passed between us.
‘Yes.’
‘Humph! I thought so.’ He looked
contemplatively at his horse’s mane, as if he had some
serious cause of dissatisfaction with it, or something else.
‘Well! what then?’
‘Oh, nothing!’ replied he. ‘Only I
thought you disliked her,’ he quietly added, curling his
classic lip with a slightly sarcastic smile.
‘Suppose I did; mayn’t a man change his mind on
further acquaintance?’
‘Yes, of course,’ returned he, nicely reducing an
entanglement in the pony’s redundant hoary mane. Then
suddenly turning to me, and fixing his shy, hazel eyes upon me
with a steady penetrating gaze, he added, ‘Then you have
changed your mind?’
‘I can’t say that I have exactly. No; I
think I hold the same opinion respecting her as before—but
slightly ameliorated.’
‘Oh!’ He looked round for something else to
talk about; and glancing up at the moon, made some remark upon
the beauty of the evening, which I did not answer, as being
irrelevant to the subject.
‘Lawrence,’ said I, calmly looking him in the
face, ‘are you in love with Mrs. Graham?’
Instead of his being deeply offended at this, as I more than
half expected he would, the first start of surprise, at the
audacious question, was followed by a tittering laugh, as if he
was highly amused at the idea.
‘I in love with her!’ repeated he.
‘What makes you dream of such a thing?’
‘From the interest you take in the progress of my
acquaintance with the lady, and the changes of my opinion
concerning her, I thought you might be jealous.’
He laughed again. ‘Jealous! no. But I
thought you were going to marry Eliza Millward.’
‘You thought wrong, then; I am not going to marry either
one or the other—that I know of—’
‘Then I think you’d better let them
alone.’
‘Are you going to marry Jane Wilson?’
He coloured, and played with the mane again, but
answered—‘No, I think not.’
‘Then you had better let her alone.’
‘She won’t let me alone,’ he might have
said; but he only looked silly and said nothing for the space of
half a minute, and then made another attempt to turn the
conversation; and this time I let it pass; for he had borne
enough: another word on the subject would have been like the last
atom that breaks the camel’s back.
I was too late for tea; but my mother had kindly kept the
teapot and muffin warm upon the hobs, and, though she scolded me
a little, readily admitted my excuses; and when I complained of
the flavour of the overdrawn tea, she poured the remainder into
the slop-basin, and bade Rose put some fresh into the pot, and
reboil the kettle, which offices were performed with great
commotion, and certain remarkable comments.
‘Well!—if it had been me now, I should have had no
tea at all—if it had been Fergus, even, he would have to
put up with such as there was, and been told to be thankful, for
it was far too good for him; but you—we can’t do too
much for you. It’s always so—if there’s
anything particularly nice at table, mamma winks and nods at me
to abstain from it, and if I don’t attend to that, she
whispers, “Don’t eat so much of that, Rose; Gilbert
will like it for his supper.”—I’m nothing at
all. In the parlour, it’s “Come, Rose, put away
your things, and let’s have the room nice and tidy against
they come in; and keep up a good fire; Gilbert likes a cheerful
fire.” In the kitchen—“Make that pie a
large one, Rose; I daresay the boys’ll be hungry; and
don’t put so much pepper in, they’ll not like it,
I’m sure”—or, “Rose, don’t put so
many spices in the pudding, Gilbert likes it
plain,”—or, “Mind you put plenty of currants in
the cake, Fergus liked plenty.” If I say,
“Well, mamma, I don’t,” I’m told I ought
not to think of myself. “You know, Rose, in all
household matters, we have only two things to consider, first,
what’s proper to be done; and, secondly, what’s most
agreeable to the gentlemen of the house—anything will do
for the ladies.”’
‘And very good doctrine too,’ said my
mother. ‘Gilbert thinks so, I’m
sure.’
‘Very convenient doctrine, for us, at all events,’
said I; ‘but if you would really study my pleasure, mother,
you must consider your own comfort and convenience a little more
than you do—as for Rose, I have no doubt she’ll take
care of herself; and whenever she does make a sacrifice or
perform a remarkable act of devotedness, she’ll take good
care to let me know the extent of it. But for you I might
sink into the grossest condition of self-indulgence and
carelessness about the wants of others, from the mere habit of
being constantly cared for myself, and having all my wants
anticipated or immediately supplied, while left in total
ignorance of what is done for me,—if Rose did not enlighten
me now and then; and I should receive all your kindness as a
matter of course, and never know how much I owe you.’
‘Ah! and you never will know, Gilbert, till you’re
married. Then, when you’ve got some trifling,
self-conceited girl like Eliza Millward, careless of everything
but her own immediate pleasure and advantage, or some misguided,
obstinate woman, like Mrs. Graham, ignorant of her principal
duties, and clever only in what concerns her least to
know—then you’ll find the difference.’
‘It will do me good, mother; I was not sent into the
world merely to exercise the good capacities and good feelings of
others—was I?—but to exert my own towards them; and
when I marry, I shall expect to find more pleasure in making my
wife happy and comfortable, than in being made so by her: I would
rather give than receive.’
‘Oh! that’s all nonsense, my dear.
It’s mere boy’s talk that! You’ll soon
tire of petting and humouring your wife, be she ever so charming,
and then comes the trial.’
‘Well, then, we must bear one another’s
burdens.’
‘Then you must fall each into your proper place.
You’ll do your business, and she, if she’s worthy of
you, will do hers; but it’s your business to please
yourself, and hers to please you. I’m sure your poor,
dear father was as good a husband as ever lived, and after the
first six months or so were over, I should as soon have expected
him to fly, as to put himself out of his way to pleasure
me. He always said I was a good wife, and did my duty; and
he always did his—bless him!—he was steady and
punctual, seldom found fault without a reason, always did justice
to my good dinners, and hardly ever spoiled my cookery by
delay—and that’s as much as any woman can expect of
any man.’
Is it so, Halford? Is that the extent of your domestic
virtues; and does your happy wife exact no more?
CHAPTER VII
Not many days after this, on a mild sunny morning—rather
soft under foot; for the last fall of snow was only just wasted
away, leaving yet a thin ridge, here and there, lingering on the
fresh green grass beneath the hedges; but beside them already,
the young primroses were peeping from among their moist, dark
foliage, and the lark above was singing of summer, and hope, and
love, and every heavenly thing—I was out on the hill-side,
enjoying these delights, and looking after the well-being of my
young lambs and their mothers, when, on glancing round me, I
beheld three persons ascending from the vale below. They
were Eliza Millward, Fergus, and Rose; so I crossed the field to
meet them; and, being told they were going to Wildfell Hall, I
declared myself willing to go with them, and offering my arm to
Eliza, who readily accepted it in lieu of my brother’s,
told the latter he might go back, for I would accompany the
ladies.
‘I beg your pardon!’ exclaimed he.
‘It’s the ladies that are accompanying me, not I
them. You had all had a peep at this wonderful stranger but
me, and I could endure my wretched ignorance no longer—come
what would, I must be satisfied; so I begged Rose to go with me
to the Hall, and introduce me to her at once. She swore she
would not, unless Miss Eliza would go too; so I ran to the
vicarage and fetched her; and we’ve come hooked all the
way, as fond as a pair of lovers—and now you’ve taken
her from me; and you want to deprive me of my walk and my visit
besides. Go back to your fields and your cattle, you
lubberly fellow; you’re not fit to associate with ladies
and gentlemen like us, that have nothing to do but to run
snooking about to our neighbours’ houses, peeping into
their private corners, and scenting out their secrets, and
picking holes in their coats, when we don’t find them ready
made to our hands—you don’t understand such refined
sources of enjoyment.’
‘Can’t you both go?’ suggested Eliza,
disregarding the latter half of the speech.
‘Yes, both, to be sure!’ cried Rose; ‘the
more the merrier—and I’m sure we shall want all the
cheerfulness we can carry with us to that great, dark, gloomy
room, with its narrow latticed windows, and its dismal old
furniture—unless she shows us into her studio
again.’
So we went all in a body; and the meagre old maid-servant,
that opened the door, ushered us into an apartment such as Rose
had described to me as the scene of her first introduction to
Mrs. Graham, a tolerably spacious and lofty room, but obscurely
lighted by the old-fashioned windows, the ceiling, panels, and
chimney-piece of grim black oak—the latter elaborately but
not very tastefully carved,—with tables and chairs to
match, an old bookcase on one side of the fire-place, stocked
with a motley assemblage of books, and an elderly cabinet piano
on the other.
The lady was seated in a stiff, high-backed arm-chair, with a
small round table, containing a desk and a work-basket on one
side of her, and her little boy on the other, who stood leaning
his elbow on her knee, and reading to her, with wonderful
fluency, from a small volume that lay in her lap; while she
rested her hand on his shoulder, and abstractedly played with the
long, wavy curls that fell on his ivory neck. They struck
me as forming a pleasing contrast to all the surrounding objects;
but of course their position was immediately changed on our
entrance. I could only observe the picture during the few
brief seconds that Rachel held the door for our admittance.
I do not think Mrs. Graham was particularly delighted to see
us: there was something indescribably chilly in her quiet, calm
civility; but I did not talk much to her. Seating myself
near the window, a little back from the circle, I called Arthur
to me, and he and I and Sancho amused ourselves very pleasantly
together, while the two young ladies baited his mother with small
talk, and Fergus sat opposite with his legs crossed and his hands
in his breeches-pockets, leaning back in his chair, and staring
now up at the ceiling, now straight forward at his hostess (in a
manner that made me strongly inclined to kick him out of the
room), now whistling sotto voce to himself a snatch of a
favourite air, now interrupting the conversation, or filling up a
pause (as the case might be) with some most impertinent question
or remark. At one time it was,—‘It, amazes me,
Mrs. Graham, how you could choose such a dilapidated, rickety old
place as this to live in. If you couldn’t afford to
occupy the whole house, and have it mended up, why couldn’t
you take a neat little cottage?’
‘Perhaps I was too proud, Mr. Fergus,’ replied
she, smiling; ‘perhaps I took a particular fancy for this
romantic, old-fashioned place—but, indeed, it has many
advantages over a cottage—in the first place, you see, the
rooms are larger and more airy; in the second place, the
unoccupied apartments, which I don’t pay for, may serve as
lumber-rooms, if I have anything to put in them; and they are
very useful for my little boy to run about in on rainy days when
he can’t go out; and then there is the garden for him to
play in, and for me to work in. You see I have effected
some little improvement already,’ continued she, turning to
the window. ‘There is a bed of young vegetables in
that corner, and here are some snowdrops and primroses already in
bloom—and there, too, is a yellow crocus just opening in
the sunshine.’
‘But then how can you bear such a situation—your
nearest neighbours two miles distant, and nobody looking in or
passing by? Rose would go stark mad in such a place.
She can’t put on life unless she sees half a dozen fresh
gowns and bonnets a day—not to speak of the faces within;
but you might sit watching at these windows all day long, and
never see so much as an old woman carrying her eggs to
market.’
‘I am not sure the loneliness of the place was not one
of its chief recommendations. I take no pleasure in
watching people pass the windows; and I like to be
quiet.’
‘Oh! as good as to say you wish we would all of us mind
our own business, and let you alone.’
‘No, I dislike an extensive acquaintance; but if I have
a few friends, of course I am glad to see them
occasionally. No one can be happy in eternal
solitude. Therefore, Mr. Fergus, if you choose to enter my
house as a friend, I will make you welcome; if not, I must
confess, I would rather you kept away.’ She then
turned and addressed some observation to Rose or Eliza.
‘And, Mrs. Graham,’ said he again, five minutes
after, ‘we were disputing, as we came along, a question
that you can readily decide for us, as it mainly regarded
yourself—and, indeed, we often hold discussions about you;
for some of us have nothing better to do than to talk about our
neighbours’ concerns, and we, the indigenous plants of the
soil, have known each other so long, and talked each other over
so often, that we are quite sick of that game; so that a stranger
coming amongst us makes an invaluable addition to our exhausted
sources of amusement. Well, the question, or questions, you
are requested to solve—’
‘Hold your tongue, Fergus!’ cried Rose, in a fever
of apprehension and wrath.
‘I won’t, I tell you. The questions you are
requested to solve are these:—First, concerning your birth,
extraction, and previous residence. Some will have it that
you are a foreigner, and some an Englishwoman; some a native of
the north country, and some of the south; some
say—’
‘Well, Mr. Fergus, I’ll tell you. I’m
an Englishwoman—and I don’t see why any one should
doubt it—and I was born in the country, neither in the
extreme north nor south of our happy isle; and in the country I
have chiefly passed my life, and now I hope you are satisfied;
for I am not disposed to answer any more questions at
present.’
‘Except this—’
‘No, not one more!’ laughed she, and, instantly
quitting her seat, she sought refuge at the window by which I was
seated, and, in very desperation, to escape my brother’s
persecutions, endeavoured to draw me into conversation.
‘Mr. Markham,’ said she, her rapid utterance and
heightened colour too plainly evincing her disquietude,
‘have you forgotten the fine sea-view we were speaking of
some time ago? I think I must trouble you, now, to tell me
the nearest way to it; for if this beautiful weather continue, I
shall, perhaps, be able to walk there, and take my sketch; I have
exhausted every other subject for painting; and I long to see
it.’
I was about to comply with her request, but Rose would not
suffer me to proceed.
‘Oh, don’t tell her, Gilbert!’ cried she;
‘she shall go with us. It’s — Bay you are
thinking about, I suppose, Mrs. Graham? It is a very long
walk, too far for you, and out of the question for Arthur.
But we were thinking about making a picnic to see it some fine
day; and, if you will wait till the settled fine weather comes,
I’m sure we shall all be delighted to have you amongst
us.’
Poor Mrs. Graham looked dismayed, and attempted to make
excuses, but Rose, either compassionating her lonely life, or
anxious to cultivate her acquaintance, was determined to have
her; and every objection was overruled. She was told it
would only be a small party, and all friends, and that the best
view of all was from — Cliffs, full five miles distant.
‘Just a nice walk for the gentlemen,’ continued
Rose; ‘but the ladies will drive and walk by turns; for we
shall have our pony-carriage, which will be plenty large enough
to contain little Arthur and three ladies, together with your
sketching apparatus, and our provisions.’
So the proposal was finally acceded to; and, after some
further discussion respecting the time and manner of the
projected excursion, we rose, and took our leave.
But this was only March: a cold, wet April, and two weeks of
May passed over before we could venture forth on our expedition
with the reasonable hope of obtaining that pleasure we sought in
pleasant prospects, cheerful society, fresh air, good cheer and
exercise, without the alloy of bad roads, cold winds, or
threatening clouds. Then, on a glorious morning, we
gathered our forces and set forth. The company consisted of
Mrs. and Master Graham, Mary and Eliza Millward, Jane and Richard
Wilson, and Rose, Fergus, and Gilbert Markham.
Mr. Lawrence had been invited to join us, but, for some reason
best known to himself, had refused to give us his company.
I had solicited the favour myself. When I did so, he
hesitated, and asked who were going. Upon my naming Miss
Wilson among the rest, he seemed half inclined to go, but when I
mentioned Mrs. Graham, thinking it might be a further inducement,
it appeared to have a contrary effect, and he declined it
altogether, and, to confess the truth, the decision was not
displeasing to me, though I could scarcely tell you why.
It was about midday when we reached the place of our
destination. Mrs. Graham walked all the way to the cliffs;
and little Arthur walked the greater part of it too; for he was
now much more hardy and active than when he first entered the
neighbourhood, and he did not like being in the carriage with
strangers, while all his four friends, mamma, and Sancho, and Mr.
Markham, and Miss Millward, were on foot, journeying far behind,
or passing through distant fields and lanes.
I have a very pleasant recollection of that walk, along the
hard, white, sunny road, shaded here and there with bright green
trees, and adorned with flowery banks and blossoming hedges of
delicious fragrance; or through pleasant fields and lanes, all
glorious in the sweet flowers and brilliant verdure of delightful
May. It was true, Eliza was not beside me; but she was with
her friends in the pony-carriage, as happy, I trusted, as I was;
and even when we pedestrians, having forsaken the highway for a
short cut across the fields, beheld the little carriage far away,
disappearing amid the green, embowering trees, I did not hate
those trees for snatching the dear little bonnet and shawl from
my sight, nor did I feel that all those intervening objects lay
between my happiness and me; for, to confess the truth, I was too
happy in the company of Mrs. Graham to regret the absence of
Eliza Millward.
The former, it is true, was most provokingly unsociable at
first—seemingly bent upon talking to no one but Mary
Millward and Arthur. She and Mary journeyed along together,
generally with the child between them;—but where the road
permitted, I always walked on the other side of her, Richard
Wilson taking the other side of Miss Millward, and Fergus roving
here and there according to his fancy; and, after a while, she
became more friendly, and at length I succeeded in securing her
attention almost entirely to myself—and then I was happy
indeed; for whenever she did condescend to converse, I liked to
listen. Where her opinions and sentiments tallied with
mine, it was her extreme good sense, her exquisite taste and
feeling, that delighted me; where they differed, it was still her
uncompromising boldness in the avowal or defence of that
difference, her earnestness and keenness, that piqued my fancy:
and even when she angered me by her unkind words or looks, and
her uncharitable conclusions respecting me, it only made me the
more dissatisfied with myself for having so unfavourably
impressed her, and the more desirous to vindicate my character
and disposition in her eyes, and, if possible, to win her
esteem.
At length our walk was ended. The increasing height and
boldness of the hills had for some time intercepted the prospect;
but, on gaining the summit of a steep acclivity, and looking
downward, an opening lay before us—and the blue sea burst
upon our sight!—deep violet blue—not deadly calm, but
covered with glinting breakers—diminutive white specks
twinkling on its bosom, and scarcely to be distinguished, by the
keenest vision, from the little seamews that sported above, their
white wings glittering in the sunshine: only one or two vessels
were visible, and those were far away.
I looked at my companion to see what she thought of this
glorious scene. She said nothing: but she stood still, and
fixed her eyes upon it with a gaze that assured me she was not
disappointed. She had very fine eyes, by-the-by—I
don’t know whether I have told you before, but they were
full of soul, large, clear, and nearly black—not brown, but
very dark grey. A cool, reviving breeze blew from the
sea—soft, pure, salubrious: it waved her drooping ringlets,
and imparted a livelier colour to her usually too pallid lip and
cheek. She felt its exhilarating influence, and so did
I—I felt it tingling through my frame, but dared not give
way to it while she remained so quiet. There was an aspect
of subdued exhilaration in her face, that kindled into almost a
smile of exalted, glad intelligence as her eye met mine.
Never had she looked so lovely: never had my heart so warmly
cleaved to her as now. Had we been left two minutes longer
standing there alone, I cannot answer for the consequences.
Happily for my discretion, perhaps for my enjoyment during the
remainder of the day, we were speedily summoned to the
repast—a very respectable collation, which Rose, assisted
by Miss Wilson and Eliza, who, having shared her seat in the
carriage, had arrived with her a little before the rest, had set
out upon an elevated platform overlooking the sea, and sheltered
from the hot sun by a shelving rock and overhanging trees.
Mrs. Graham seated herself at a distance from me. Eliza
was my nearest neighbour. She exerted herself to be
agreeable, in her gentle, unobtrusive way, and was, no doubt, as
fascinating and charming as ever, if I could only have felt
it. But soon my heart began to warm towards her once again;
and we were all very merry and happy together—as far as I
could see—throughout the protracted social meal.
When that was over, Rose summoned Fergus to help her to gather
up the fragments, and the knives, dishes, &c., and restore
them to the baskets; and Mrs. Graham took her camp-stool and
drawing materials; and having begged Miss Millward to take charge
of her precious son, and strictly enjoined him not to wander from
his new guardian’s side, she left us and proceeded along
the steep, stony hill, to a loftier, more precipitous eminence at
some distance, whence a still finer prospect was to be had, where
she preferred taking her sketch, though some of the ladies told
her it was a frightful place, and advised her not to attempt
it.
When she was gone, I felt as if there was to be no more
fun—though it is difficult to say what she had contributed
to the hilarity of the party. No jests, and little
laughter, had escaped her lips; but her smile had animated my
mirth; a keen observation or a cheerful word from her had
insensibly sharpened my wits, and thrown an interest over all
that was done and said by the rest. Even my conversation
with Eliza had been enlivened by her presence, though I knew it
not; and now that she was gone, Eliza’s playful nonsense
ceased to amuse me—nay, grew wearisome to my soul, and I
grew weary of amusing her: I felt myself drawn by an irresistible
attraction to that distant point where the fair artist sat and
plied her solitary task—and not long did I attempt to
resist it: while my little neighbour was exchanging a few words
with Miss Wilson, I rose and cannily slipped away. A few
rapid strides, and a little active clambering, soon brought me to
the place where she was seated—a narrow ledge of rock at
the very verge of the cliff, which descended with a steep,
precipitous slant, quite down to the rocky shore.
She did not hear me coming: the falling of my shadow across
her paper gave her an electric start; and she looked hastily
round—any other lady of my acquaintance would have screamed
under such a sudden alarm.
‘Oh! I didn’t know it was you.—Why did
you startle me so?’ said she, somewhat testily.
‘I hate anybody to come upon me so unexpectedly.’
‘Why, what did you take me for?’ said I: ‘if
I had known you were so nervous, I would have been more cautious;
but—’
‘Well, never mind. What did you come for? are they
all coming?’
‘No; this little ledge could scarcely contain them
all.’
‘I’m glad, for I’m tired of
talking.’
‘Well, then, I won’t talk. I’ll only
sit and watch your drawing.’
‘Oh, but you know I don’t like that.’
‘Then I’ll content myself with admiring this
magnificent prospect.’
She made no objection to this; and, for some time, sketched
away in silence. But I could not help stealing a glance,
now and then, from the splendid view at our feet to the elegant
white hand that held the pencil, and the graceful neck and glossy
raven curls that drooped over the paper.
‘Now,’ thought I, ‘if I had but a pencil and
a morsel of paper, I could make a lovelier sketch than hers,
admitting I had the power to delineate faithfully what is before
me.’
But, though this satisfaction was denied me, I was very well
content to sit beside her there, and say nothing.
‘Are you there still, Mr. Markham?’ said she at
length, looking round upon me—for I was seated a little
behind on a mossy projection of the cliff.—‘Why
don’t you go and amuse yourself with your
friends?’
‘Because I am tired of them, like you; and I shall have
enough of them to-morrow—or at any time hence; but you I
may not have the pleasure of seeing again for I know not how
long.’
‘What was Arthur doing when you came away?’
‘He was with Miss Millward, where you left him—all
right, but hoping mamma would not be long away. You
didn’t intrust him to me, by-the-by,’ I grumbled,
‘though I had the honour of a much longer acquaintance; but
Miss Millward has the art of conciliating and amusing
children,’ I carelessly added, ‘if she is good for
nothing else.’
‘Miss Millward has many estimable qualities, which such
as you cannot be expected to perceive or appreciate. Will
you tell Arthur that I shall come in a few minutes?’
‘If that be the case, I will wait, with your permission,
till those few minutes are past; and then I can assist you to
descend this difficult path.’
‘Thank you—I always manage best, on such
occasions, without assistance.’
‘But, at least, I can carry your stool and
sketch-book.’
She did not deny me this favour; but I was rather offended at
her evident desire to be rid of me, and was beginning to repent
of my pertinacity, when she somewhat appeased me by consulting my
taste and judgment about some doubtful matter in her
drawing. My opinion, happily, met her approbation, and the
improvement I suggested was adopted without hesitation.
‘I have often wished in vain,’ said she,
‘for another’s judgment to appeal to when I could
scarcely trust the direction of my own eye and head, they having
been so long occupied with the contemplation of a single object
as to become almost incapable of forming a proper idea respecting
it.’
‘That,’ replied I, ‘is only one of many
evils to which a solitary life exposes us.’
‘True,’ said she; and again we relapsed into
silence.
About two minutes after, however, she declared her sketch
completed, and closed the book.
On returning to the scene of our repast we found all the
company had deserted it, with the exception of three—Mary
Millward, Richard Wilson, and Arthur Graham. The younger
gentleman lay fast asleep with his head pillowed on the
lady’s lap; the other was seated beside her with a pocket
edition of some classic author in his hand. He never went
anywhere without such a companion wherewith to improve his
leisure moments: all time seemed lost that was not devoted to
study, or exacted, by his physical nature, for the bare support
of life. Even now he could not abandon himself to the
enjoyment of that pure air and balmy sunshine—that splendid
prospect, and those soothing sounds, the music of the waves and
of the soft wind in the sheltering trees above him—not even
with a lady by his side (though not a very charming one, I will
allow)—he must pull out his book, and make the most of his
time while digesting his temperate meal, and reposing his weary
limbs, unused to so much exercise.
Perhaps, however, he spared a moment to exchange a word or a
glance with his companion now and then—at any rate, she did
not appear at all resentful of his conduct; for her homely
features wore an expression of unusual cheerfulness and serenity,
and she was studying his pale, thoughtful face with great
complacency when we arrived.
The journey homeward was by no means so agreeable to me as the
former part of the day: for now Mrs. Graham was in the carriage,
and Eliza Millward was the companion of my walk. She had
observed my preference for the young widow, and evidently felt
herself neglected. She did not manifest her chagrin by keen
reproaches, bitter sarcasms, or pouting sullen silence—any
or all of these I could easily have endured, or lightly laughed
away; but she showed it by a kind of gentle melancholy, a mild,
reproachful sadness that cut me to the heart. I tried to
cheer her up, and apparently succeeded in some degree, before the
walk was over; but in the very act my conscience reproved me,
knowing, as I did, that, sooner or later, the tie must be broken,
and this was only nourishing false hopes and putting off the evil
day.
When the pony-carriage had approached as near Wildfell Hall as
the road would permit—unless, indeed, it proceeded up the
long rough lane, which Mrs. Graham would not allow—the
young widow and her son alighted, relinquishing the
driver’s seat to Rose; and I persuaded Eliza to take the
latter’s place. Having put her comfortably in, bid
her take care of the evening air, and wished her a kind
good-night, I felt considerably relieved, and hastened to offer
my services to Mrs. Graham to carry her apparatus up the fields,
but she had already hung her camp-stool on her arm and taken her
sketch-book in her hand, and insisted upon bidding me adieu then
and there, with the rest of the company. But this time she
declined my proffered aid in so kind and friendly a manner that I
almost forgave her.
CHAPTER VIII
Six weeks had passed away. It was a splendid morning
about the close of June. Most of the hay was cut, but the
last week had been very unfavourable; and now that fine weather
was come at last, being determined to make the most of it, I had
gathered all hands together into the hay-field, and was working
away myself, in the midst of them, in my shirt-sleeves, with a
light, shady straw hat on my head, catching up armfuls of moist,
reeking grass, and shaking it out to the four winds of heaven, at
the head of a goodly file of servants and
hirelings—intending so to labour, from morning till night,
with as much zeal and assiduity as I could look for from any of
them, as well to prosper the work by my own exertion as to
animate the workers by my example—when lo! my resolutions
were overthrown in a moment, by the simple fact of my
brother’s running up to me and putting into my hand a small
parcel, just arrived from London, which I had been for some time
expecting. I tore off the cover, and disclosed an elegant
and portable edition of ‘Marmion.’
‘I guess I know who that’s for,’ said
Fergus, who stood looking on while I complacently examined the
volume. ‘That’s for Miss Eliza, now.’
He pronounced this with a tone and look so prodigiously
knowing, that I was glad to contradict him.
‘You’re wrong, my lad,’ said I; and, taking
up my coat, I deposited the book in one of its pockets, and then
put it on (i.e. the coat). ‘Now come here, you
idle dog, and make yourself useful for once,’ I
continued. ‘Pull off your coat, and take my place in
the field till I come back.’
‘Till you come back?—and where are you going,
pray? ‘No matter where—the when is all that
concerns you;—and I shall be back by dinner, at
least.’
‘Oh—oh! and I’m to labour away till then, am
I?—and to keep all these fellows hard at it besides?
Well, well! I’ll submit—for once in a
way.—Come, my lads, you must look sharp: I’m come to
help you now:—and woe be to that man, or woman either, that
pauses for a moment amongst you—whether to stare about him,
to scratch his head, or blow his nose—no pretext will
serve—nothing but work, work, work in the sweat of your
face,’ &c., &c.
Leaving him thus haranguing the people, more to their
amusement than edification, I returned to the house, and, having
made some alteration in my toilet, hastened away to Wildfell
Hall, with the book in my pocket; for it was destined for the
shelves of Mrs. Graham.
‘What! then had she and you got on so well together as
to come to the giving and receiving of presents?’—Not
precisely, old buck; this was my first experiment in that line;
and I was very anxious to see the result of it.
We had met several times since the — Bay excursion, and
I had found she was not averse to my company, provided I confined
my conversation to the discussion of abstract matters, or topics
of common interest;—the moment I touched upon the
sentimental or the complimentary, or made the slightest approach
to tenderness in word or look, I was not only punished by an
immediate change in her manner at the time, but doomed to find
her more cold and distant, if not entirely inaccessible, when
next I sought her company. This circumstance did not
greatly disconcert me, however, because I attributed it, not so
much to any dislike of my person, as to some absolute resolution
against a second marriage formed prior to the time of our
acquaintance, whether from excess of affection for her late
husband, or because she had had enough of him and the matrimonial
state together. At first, indeed, she had seemed to take a
pleasure in mortifying my vanity and crushing my
presumption—relentlessly nipping off bud by bud as they
ventured to appear; and then, I confess, I was deeply wounded,
though, at the same time, stimulated to seek revenge;—but
latterly finding, beyond a doubt, that I was not that
empty-headed coxcomb she had first supposed me, she had repulsed
my modest advances in quite a different spirit. It was a
kind of serious, almost sorrowful displeasure, which I soon
learnt carefully to avoid awakening.
‘Let me first establish my position as a friend,’
thought I—‘the patron and playfellow of her son, the
sober, solid, plain-dealing friend of herself, and then, when I
have made myself fairly necessary to her comfort and enjoyment in
life (as I believe I can), we’ll see what next may be
effected.’
So we talked about painting, poetry, and music, theology,
geology, and philosophy: once or twice I lent her a book, and
once she lent me one in return: I met her in her walks as often
as I could; I came to her house as often as I dared. My
first pretext for invading the sanctum was to bring Arthur a
little waddling puppy of which Sancho was the father, and which
delighted the child beyond expression, and, consequently, could
not fail to please his mamma. My second was to bring him a
book, which, knowing his mother’s particularity, I had
carefully selected, and which I submitted for her approbation
before presenting it to him. Then, I brought her some
plants for her garden, in my sister’s name—having
previously persuaded Rose to send them. Each of these times
I inquired after the picture she was painting from the sketch
taken on the cliff, and was admitted into the studio, and asked
my opinion or advice respecting its progress.
My last visit had been to return the book she had lent me; and
then it was that, in casually discussing the poetry of Sir Walter
Scott, she had expressed a wish to see ‘Marmion,’ and
I had conceived the presumptuous idea of making her a present of
it, and, on my return home, instantly sent for the smart little
volume I had this morning received. But an apology for
invading the hermitage was still necessary; so I had furnished
myself with a blue morocco collar for Arthur’s little dog;
and that being given and received, with much more joy and
gratitude, on the part of the receiver, than the worth of the
gift or the selfish motive of the giver deserved, I ventured to
ask Mrs. Graham for one more look at the picture, if it was still
there.
‘Oh, yes! come in,’ said she (for I had met them
in the garden). ‘It is finished and framed, all ready
for sending away; but give me your last opinion, and if you can
suggest any further improvement, it shall be—duly
considered, at least.’
The picture was strikingly beautiful; it was the very scene
itself, transferred as if by magic to the canvas; but I expressed
my approbation in guarded terms, and few words, for fear of
displeasing her. She, however, attentively watched my
looks, and her artist’s pride was gratified, no doubt, to
read my heartfelt admiration in my eyes. But, while I
gazed, I thought upon the book, and wondered how it was to be
presented. My heart failed me; but I determined not to be
such a fool as to come away without having made the
attempt. It was useless waiting for an opportunity, and
useless trying to concoct a speech for the occasion. The
more plainly and naturally the thing was done, the better, I
thought; so I just looked out of the window to screw up my
courage, and then pulled out the book, turned round, and put it
into her hand, with this short explanation:
‘You were wishing to see ‘Marmion,’ Mrs.
Graham; and here it is, if you will be so kind as to take
it.’
A momentary blush suffused her face—perhaps, a blush of
sympathetic shame for such an awkward style of presentation: she
gravely examined the volume on both sides; then silently turned
over the leaves, knitting her brows the while, in serious
cogitation; then closed the book, and turning from it to me,
quietly asked the price of it—I felt the hot blood rush to
my face.
‘I’m sorry to offend you, Mr. Markham,’ said
she, ‘but unless I pay for the book, I cannot take
it.’ And she laid it on the table.
‘Why cannot you?’
‘Because,’—she paused, and looked at the
carpet.
‘Why cannot you?’ I repeated, with a degree of
irascibility that roused her to lift her eyes and look me
steadily in the face.
‘Because I don’t like to put myself under
obligations that I can never repay—I am obliged to you
already for your kindness to my son; but his grateful affection
and your own good feelings must reward you for that.’
‘Nonsense!’ ejaculated I.
She turned her eyes on me again, with a look of quiet, grave
surprise, that had the effect of a rebuke, whether intended for
such or not.
‘Then you won’t take the book?’ I asked,
more mildly than I had yet spoken.
‘I will gladly take it, if you will let me pay for
it.’ I told her the exact price, and the cost of the
carriage besides, in as calm a tone as I could command—for,
in fact, I was ready to weep with disappointment and
vexation.
She produced her purse, and coolly counted out the money, but
hesitated to put it into my hand. Attentively regarding me,
in a tone of soothing softness, she observed,—‘You
think yourself insulted, Mr Markham—I wish I could make you
understand that—that I—’
‘I do understand you, perfectly,’ I said.
‘You think that if you were to accept that trifle from me
now, I should presume upon it hereafter; but you are
mistaken:—if you will only oblige me by taking it, believe
me, I shall build no hopes upon it, and consider this no
precedent for future favours:—and it is nonsense to talk
about putting yourself under obligations to me when you must know
that in such a case the obligation is entirely on my
side,—the favour on yours.’
‘Well, then, I’ll take you at your word,’
she answered, with a most angelic smile, returning the odious
money to her purse—‘but remember!’
‘I will remember—what I have said;—but do
not you punish my presumption by withdrawing your friendship
entirely from me,—or expect me to atone for it by being
more distant than before,’ said I, extending my hand to
take leave, for I was too much excited to remain.
‘Well, then! let us be as we were,’ replied she,
frankly placing her hand in mine; and while I held it there, I
had much difficulty to refrain from pressing it to my
lips;—but that would be suicidal madness: I had been bold
enough already, and this premature offering had well-nigh given
the death-blow to my hopes.
It was with an agitated, burning heart and brain that I
hurried homewards, regardless of that scorching noonday
sun—forgetful of everything but her I had just
left—regretting nothing but her impenetrability, and my own
precipitancy and want of tact—fearing nothing but her
hateful resolution, and my inability to overcome it—hoping
nothing—but halt,—I will not bore you with my
conflicting hopes and fears—my serious cogitations and
resolves.
CHAPTER IX
Though my affections might now be said to be fairly weaned
from Eliza Millward, I did not yet entirely relinquish my visits
to the vicarage, because I wanted, as it were, to let her down
easy; without raising much sorrow, or incurring much
resentment,—or making myself the talk of the parish; and
besides, if I had wholly kept away, the vicar, who looked upon my
visits as paid chiefly, if not entirely, to himself, would have
felt himself decidedly affronted by the neglect. But when I
called there the day after my interview with Mrs. Graham, he
happened to be from home—a circumstance by no means so
agreeable to me now as it had been on former occasions.
Miss Millward was there, it is true, but she, of course, would be
little better than a nonentity. However, I resolved to make
my visit a short one, and to talk to Eliza in a brotherly,
friendly sort of way, such as our long acquaintance might warrant
me in assuming, and which, I thought, could neither give offence
nor serve to encourage false hopes.
It was never my custom to talk about Mrs. Graham either to her
or any one else; but I had not been seated three minutes before
she brought that lady on to the carpet herself in a rather
remarkable manner.
‘Oh, Mr. Markham!’ said she, with a shocked
expression and voice subdued almost to a whisper, ‘what do
you think of these shocking reports about Mrs. Graham?—can
you encourage us to disbelieve them?’
‘What reports?’
‘Ah, now! you know!’ she slily smiled and shook
her head.
‘I know nothing about them. What in the world do
you mean, Eliza?’
‘Oh, don’t ask me! I can’t
explain it.’ She took up the cambric handkerchief
which she had been beautifying with a deep lace border, and began
to be very busy.
‘What is it, Miss Millward? what does she mean?’
said I, appealing to her sister, who seemed to be absorbed in the
hemming of a large, coarse sheet.
‘I don’t know,’ replied she.
‘Some idle slander somebody has been inventing, I
suppose. I never heard it till Eliza told me the other
day,—but if all the parish dinned it in my ears, I
shouldn’t believe a word of it—I know Mrs. Graham too
well!’
‘Quite right, Miss Millward!—and so do
I—whatever it may be.’
‘Well,’ observed Eliza, with a gentle sigh,
‘it’s well to have such a comfortable assurance
regarding the worth of those we love. I only wish you may
not find your confidence misplaced.’
And she raised her face, and gave me such a look of sorrowful
tenderness as might have melted my heart, but within those eyes
there lurked a something that I did not like; and I wondered how
I ever could have admired them—her sister’s honest
face and small grey optics appeared far more agreeable. But
I was out of temper with Eliza at that moment for her
insinuations against Mrs. Graham, which were false, I was
certain, whether she knew it or not.
I said nothing more on the subject, however, at the time, and
but little on any other; for, finding I could not well recover my
equanimity, I presently rose and took leave, excusing myself
under the plea of business at the farm; and to the farm I went,
not troubling my mind one whit about the possible truth of these
mysterious reports, but only wondering what they were, by whom
originated, and on what foundations raised, and how they could
the most effectually be silenced or disproved.
A few days after this we had another of our quiet little
parties, to which the usual company of friends and neighbours had
been invited, and Mrs. Graham among the number. She could
not now absent herself under the plea of dark evenings or
inclement weather, and, greatly to my relief, she came.
Without her I should have found the whole affair an intolerable
bore; but the moment of her arrival brought new life to the
house, and though I might not neglect the other guests for her,
or expect to engross much of her attention and conversation to
myself alone, I anticipated an evening of no common
enjoyment.
Mr. Lawrence came too. He did not arrive till some time
after the rest were assembled. I was curious to see how he
would comport himself to Mrs. Graham. A slight bow was all
that passed between them on his entrance; and having politely
greeted the other members of the company, he seated himself quite
aloof from the young widow, between my mother and Rose.
‘Did you ever see such art?’ whispered Eliza, who
was my nearest neighbour. ‘Would you not say they
were perfect strangers?’
‘Almost; but what then?’
‘What then; why, you can’t pretend to be
ignorant?’
‘Ignorant of what?’ demanded I, so sharply that
she started and replied,—
‘Oh, hush! don’t speak so loud.’
‘Well, tell me then,’ I answered in a lower tone,
‘what is it you mean? I hate enigmas.’
‘Well, you know, I don’t vouch for the truth of
it—indeed, far from it—but haven’t you
heard—?’
‘I’ve heard nothing, except from you.’
‘You must be wilfully deaf then, for anyone will tell
you that; but I shall only anger you by repeating it, I see, so I
had better hold my tongue.’
She closed her lips and folded her hands before her, with an
air of injured meekness.
‘If you had wished not to anger me, you should have held
your tongue from the beginning, or else spoken out plainly and
honestly all you had to say.’
She turned aside her face, pulled out her handkerchief, rose,
and went to the window, where she stood for some time, evidently
dissolved in tears. I was astounded, provoked,
ashamed—not so much of my harshness as for her childish
weakness. However, no one seemed to notice her, and shortly
after we were summoned to the tea-table: in those parts it was
customary to sit to the table at tea-time on all occasions, and
make a meal of it, for we dined early. On taking my seat, I
had Rose on one side of me and an empty chair on the other.
‘May I sit by you?’ said a soft voice at my
elbow.
‘If you like,’ was the reply; and Eliza slipped
into the vacant chair; then, looking up in my face with a
half-sad, half-playful smile, she
whispered,—‘You’re so stern,
Gilbert.’
I handed down her tea with a slightly contemptuous smile, and
said nothing, for I had nothing to say.
‘What have I done to offend you?’ said she, more
plaintively. ‘I wish I knew.’
‘Come, take your tea, Eliza, and don’t be
foolish,’ responded I, handing her the sugar and cream.
Just then there arose a slight commotion on the other side of
me, occasioned by Miss Wilson’s coming to negotiate an
exchange of seats with Rose.
‘Will you be so good as to exchange places with me, Miss
Markham?’ said she; ‘for I don’t like to sit by
Mrs. Graham. If your mamma thinks proper to invite such
persons to her house, she cannot object to her daughter’s
keeping company with them.’
This latter clause was added in a sort of soliloquy when Rose
was gone; but I was not polite enough to let it pass.
‘Will you be so good as to tell me what you mean, Miss
Wilson?’ said I.
The question startled her a little, but not much.
‘Why, Mr. Markham,’ replied she, coolly, having
quickly recovered her self-possession, ‘it surprises me
rather that Mrs. Markham should invite such a person as Mrs.
Graham to her house; but, perhaps, she is not aware that the
lady’s character is considered scarcely
respectable.’
‘She is not, nor am I; and therefore you would oblige me
by explaining your meaning a little further.’
‘This is scarcely the time or the place for such
explanations; but I think you can hardly be so ignorant as you
pretend—you must know her as well as I do.’
‘I think I do, perhaps a little better; and therefore,
if you will inform me what you have heard or imagined against
her, I shall, perhaps, be able to set you right.’
‘Can you tell me, then, who was her husband, or if she
ever had any?’
Indignation kept me silent. At such a time and place I
could not trust myself to answer.
‘Have you never observed,’ said Eliza, ‘what
a striking likeness there is between that child of hers
and—’
‘And whom?’ demanded Miss Wilson, with an air of
cold, but keen severity.
Eliza was startled; the timidly spoken suggestion had been
intended for my ear alone.
‘Oh, I beg your pardon!’ pleaded she; ‘I may
be mistaken—perhaps I was mistaken.’ But she
accompanied the words with a sly glance of derision directed to
me from the corner of her disingenuous eye.
‘There’s no need to ask my pardon,’ replied
her friend, ‘but I see no one here that at all resembles
that child, except his mother, and when you hear ill-natured
reports, Miss Eliza, I will thank you, that is, I think you will
do well, to refrain from repeating them. I presume the
person you allude to is Mr. Lawrence; but I think I can assure
you that your suspicions, in that respect, are utterly misplaced;
and if he has any particular connection with the lady at all
(which no one has a right to assert), at least he has (what
cannot be said of some others) sufficient sense of propriety to
withhold him from acknowledging anything more than a bowing
acquaintance in the presence of respectable persons; he was
evidently both surprised and annoyed to find her here.’
‘Go it!’ cried Fergus, who sat on the other side
of Eliza, and was the only individual who shared that side of the
table with us. ‘Go it like bricks! mind you
don’t leave her one stone upon another.’
Miss Wilson drew herself up with a look of freezing scorn, but
said nothing. Eliza would have replied, but I interrupted
her by saying as calmly as I could, though in a tone which
betrayed, no doubt, some little of what I felt
within,—‘We have had enough of this subject; if we
can only speak to slander our betters, let us hold our
tongues.’
‘I think you’d better,’ observed Fergus,
‘and so does our good parson; he has been addressing the
company in his richest vein all the while, and eyeing you, from
time to time, with looks of stern distaste, while you sat there,
irreverently whispering and muttering together; and once he
paused in the middle of a story or a sermon, I don’t know
which, and fixed his eyes upon you, Gilbert, as much as to say,
“When Mr. Markham has done flirting with those two ladies I
will proceed.”’
What more was said at the tea-table I cannot tell, nor how I
found patience to sit till the meal was over. I remember,
however, that I swallowed with difficulty the remainder of the
tea that was in my cup, and ate nothing; and that the first thing
I did was to stare at Arthur Graham, who sat beside his mother on
the opposite side of the table, and the second to stare at Mr.
Lawrence, who sat below; and, first, it struck me that there was
a likeness; but, on further contemplation, I concluded it was
only in imagination.
Both, it is true, had more delicate features and smaller bones
than commonly fall to the lot of individuals of the rougher sex,
and Lawrence’s complexion was pale and clear, and
Arthur’s delicately fair; but Arthur’s tiny, somewhat
snubby nose could never become so long and straight as Mr.
Lawrence’s; and the outline of his face, though not full
enough to be round, and too finely converging to the small,
dimpled chin to be square, could never be drawn out to the long
oval of the other’s, while the child’s hair was
evidently of a lighter, warmer tint than the elder
gentleman’s had ever been, and his large, clear blue eyes,
though prematurely serious at times, were utterly dissimilar to
the shy hazel eyes of Mr. Lawrence, whence the sensitive soul
looked so distrustfully forth, as ever ready to retire within,
from the offences of a too rude, too uncongenial world.
Wretch that I was to harbour that detestable idea for a
moment! Did I not know Mrs. Graham? Had I not seen
her, conversed with her time after time? Was I not certain
that she, in intellect, in purity and elevation of soul, was
immeasurably superior to any of her detractors; that she was, in
fact, the noblest, the most adorable, of her sex I had ever
beheld, or even imagined to exist? Yes, and I would say
with Mary Millward (sensible girl as she was), that if all the
parish, ay, or all the world, should din these horrible lies in
my ears, I would not believe them, for I knew her better than
they.
Meantime, my brain was on fire with indignation, and my heart
seemed ready to burst from its prison with conflicting
passions. I regarded my two fair neighbours with a feeling
of abhorrence and loathing I scarcely endeavoured to
conceal. I was rallied from several quarters for my
abstraction and ungallant neglect of the ladies; but I cared
little for that: all I cared about, besides that one grand
subject of my thoughts, was to see the cups travel up to the
tea-tray, and not come down again. I thought Mr. Millward
never would cease telling us that he was no tea-drinker, and that
it was highly injurious to keep loading the stomach with slops to
the exclusion of more wholesome sustenance, and so give himself
time to finish his fourth cup.
At length it was over; and I rose and left the table and the
guests without a word of apology—I could endure their
company no longer. I rushed out to cool my brain in the
balmy evening air, and to compose my mind or indulge my
passionate thoughts in the solitude of the garden.
To avoid being seen from the windows I went down a quiet
little avenue that skirted one side of the inclosure, at the
bottom of which was a seat embowered in roses and
honeysuckles. Here I sat down to think over the virtues and
wrongs of the lady of Wildfell Hall; but I had not been so
occupied two minutes, before voices and laughter, and glimpses of
moving objects through the trees, informed me that the whole
company had turned out to take an airing in the garden too.
However, I nestled up in a corner of the bower, and hoped to
retain possession of it, secure alike from observation and
intrusion. But no—confound it—there was some
one coming down the avenue! Why couldn’t they enjoy
the flowers and sunshine of the open garden, and leave that
sunless nook to me, and the gnats and midges?
But, peeping through my fragrant screen of the interwoven
branches to discover who the intruders were (for a murmur of
voices told me it was more than one), my vexation instantly
subsided, and far other feelings agitated my still unquiet soul;
for there was Mrs. Graham, slowly moving down the walk with
Arthur by her side, and no one else. Why were they
alone? Had the poison of detracting tongues already spread
through all; and had they all turned their backs upon her?
I now recollected having seen Mrs. Wilson, in the early part of
the evening, edging her chair close up to my mother, and bending
forward, evidently in the delivery of some important confidential
intelligence; and from the incessant wagging of her head, the
frequent distortions of her wrinkled physiognomy, and the winking
and malicious twinkle of her little ugly eyes, I judged it was
some spicy piece of scandal that engaged her powers; and from the
cautious privacy of the communication I supposed some person then
present was the luckless object of her calumnies: and from all
these tokens, together with my mother’s looks and gestures
of mingled horror and incredulity, I now concluded that object to
have been Mrs. Graham. I did not emerge from my place of
concealment till she had nearly reached the bottom of the walk,
lest my appearance should drive her away; and when I did step
forward she stood still and seemed inclined to turn back as it
was.
‘Oh, don’t let us disturb you, Mr. Markham!’
said she. ‘We came here to seek retirement ourselves,
not to intrude on your seclusion.’
‘I am no hermit, Mrs. Graham—though I own it looks
rather like it to absent myself in this uncourteous fashion from
my guests.’
‘I feared you were unwell,’ said she, with a look
of real concern.
‘I was rather, but it’s over now. Do sit
here a little and rest, and tell me how you like this
arbour,’ said I, and, lifting Arthur by the shoulders, I
planted him in the middle of the seat by way of securing his
mamma, who, acknowledging it to be a tempting place of refuge,
threw herself back in one corner, while I took possession of the
other.
But that word refuge disturbed me. Had their unkindness
then really driven her to seek for peace in solitude?
‘Why have they left you alone?’ I asked.
‘It is I who have left them,’ was the smiling
rejoinder. ‘I was wearied to death with small
talk—nothing wears me out like that. I cannot imagine
how they can go on as they do.’
I could not help smiling at the serious depth of her
wonderment.
‘Is it that they think it a duty to be continually
talking,’ pursued she: ‘and so never pause to think,
but fill up with aimless trifles and vain repetitions when
subjects of real interest fail to present themselves, or do they
really take a pleasure in such discourse?’
‘Very likely they do,’ said I; ‘their
shallow minds can hold no great ideas, and their light heads are
carried away by trivialities that would not move a
better-furnished skull; and their only alternative to such
discourse is to plunge over head and ears into the slough of
scandal—which is their chief delight.’
‘Not all of them, surely?’ cried the lady,
astonished at the bitterness of my remark.
‘No, certainly; I exonerate my sister from such degraded
tastes, and my mother too, if you included her in your
animadversions.’
‘I meant no animadversions against any one, and
certainly intended no disrespectful allusions to your
mother. I have known some sensible persons great adepts in
that style of conversation when circumstances impelled them to
it; but it is a gift I cannot boast the possession of. I
kept up my attention on this occasion as long as I could, but
when my powers were exhausted I stole away to seek a few
minutes’ repose in this quiet walk. I hate talking
where there is no exchange of ideas or sentiments, and no good
given or received.’
‘Well,’ said I, ‘if ever I trouble you with
my loquacity, tell me so at once, and I promise not to be
offended; for I possess the faculty of enjoying the company of
those I—of my friends as well in silence as in
conversation.’
‘I don’t quite believe you; but if it were so you
would exactly suit me for a companion.’
‘I am all you wish, then, in other respects?’
‘No, I don’t mean that. How beautiful those
little clusters of foliage look, where the sun comes through
behind them!’ said she, on purpose to change the
subject.
And they did look beautiful, where at intervals the level rays
of the sun penetrating the thickness of trees and shrubs on the
opposite side of the path before us, relieved their dusky verdure
by displaying patches of semi-transparent leaves of resplendent
golden green.
‘I almost wish I were not a painter,’ observed my
companion.
‘Why so? one would think at such a time you would most
exult in your privilege of being able to imitate the various
brilliant and delightful touches of nature.’
‘No; for instead of delivering myself up to the full
enjoyment of them as others do, I am always troubling my head
about how I could produce the same effect upon canvas; and as
that can never be done, it is more vanity and vexation of
spirit.’
‘Perhaps you cannot do it to satisfy yourself, but you
may and do succeed in delighting others with the result of your
endeavours.’
‘Well, after all, I should not complain: perhaps few
people gain their livelihood with so much pleasure in their toil
as I do. Here is some one coming.’
She seemed vexed at the interruption.
‘It is only Mr. Lawrence and Miss Wilson,’ said I,
‘coming to enjoy a quiet stroll. They will not
disturb us.’
I could not quite decipher the expression of her face; but I
was satisfied there was no jealousy therein. What business
had I to look for it?
‘What sort of a person is Miss Wilson?’ she
asked.
‘She is elegant and accomplished above the generality of
her birth and station; and some say she is ladylike and
agreeable.’
‘I thought her somewhat frigid and rather supercilious
in her manner to-day.’
‘Very likely she might be so to you. She has
possibly taken a prejudice against you, for I think she regards
you in the light of a rival.’
‘Me! Impossible, Mr. Markham!’ said she,
evidently astonished and annoyed.
‘Well, I know nothing about it,’ returned I,
rather doggedly; for I thought her annoyance was chiefly against
myself.
The pair had now approached within a few paces of us.
Our arbour was set snugly back in a corner, before which the
avenue at its termination turned off into the more airy walk
along the bottom of the garden. As they approached this, I
saw, by the aspect of Jane Wilson, that she was directing her
companion’s attention to us; and, as well by her cold,
sarcastic smile as by the few isolated words of her discourse
that reached me, I knew full well that she was impressing him
with the idea, that we were strongly attached to each
other. I noticed that he coloured up to the temples, gave
us one furtive glance in passing, and walked on, looking grave,
but seemingly offering no reply to her remarks.
It was true, then, that he had some designs upon Mrs. Graham;
and, were they honourable, he would not be so anxious to conceal
them. She was blameless, of course, but he was detestable
beyond all count.
While these thoughts flashed through my mind, my companion
abruptly rose, and calling her son, said they would now go in
quest of the company, and departed up the avenue. Doubtless
she had heard or guessed something of Miss Wilson’s
remarks, and therefore it was natural enough she should choose to
continue the tête-à-tête no longer,
especially as at that moment my cheeks were burning with
indignation against my former friend, the token of which she
might mistake for a blush of stupid embarrassment. For this
I owed Miss Wilson yet another grudge; and still the more I
thought upon her conduct the more I hated her.
It was late in the evening before I joined the company.
I found Mrs. Graham already equipped for departure, and taking
leave of the rest, who were now returned to the house. I
offered, nay, begged to accompany her home. Mr. Lawrence
was standing by at the time conversing with some one else.
He did not look at us, but, on hearing my earnest request, he
paused in the middle of a sentence to listen for her reply, and
went on, with a look of quiet satisfaction, the moment he found
it was to be a denial.
A denial it was, decided, though not unkind. She could
not be persuaded to think there was danger for herself or her
child in traversing those lonely lanes and fields without
attendance. It was daylight still, and she should meet no
one; or if she did, the people were quiet and harmless she was
well assured. In fact, she would not hear of any
one’s putting himself out of the way to accompany her,
though Fergus vouchsafed to offer his services in case they
should be more acceptable than mine, and my mother begged she
might send one of the farming-men to escort her.
When she was gone the rest was all a blank or worse.
Lawrence attempted to draw me into conversation, but I snubbed
him and went to another part of the room. Shortly after the
party broke up and he himself took leave. When he came to
me I was blind to his extended hand, and deaf to his good-night
till he repeated it a second time; and then, to get rid of him, I
muttered an inarticulate reply, accompanied by a sulky nod.
‘What is the matter, Markham?’ whispered he.
I replied by a wrathful and contemptuous stare.
‘Are you angry because Mrs. Graham would not let you go
home with her?’ he asked, with a faint smile that nearly
exasperated me beyond control.
But, swallowing down all fiercer answers, I merely
demanded,—‘What business is it of yours?’
‘Why, none,’ replied he with provoking quietness;
‘only,’—and he raised his eyes to my face, and
spoke with unusual solemnity,—‘only let me tell you,
Markham, that if you have any designs in that quarter, they will
certainly fail; and it grieves me to see you cherishing false
hopes, and wasting your strength in useless efforts,
for—’
‘Hypocrite!’ I exclaimed; and he held his breath,
and looked very blank, turned white about the gills, and went
away without another word.
I had wounded him to the quick; and I was glad of it.
CHAPTER X
When all were gone, I learnt that the vile slander had indeed
been circulated throughout the company, in the very presence of
the victim. Rose, however, vowed she did not and would not
believe it, and my mother made the same declaration, though not,
I fear, with the same amount of real, unwavering
incredulity. It seemed to dwell continually on her mind,
and she kept irritating me from time to time by such expressions
as—‘Dear, dear, who would have thought
it!—Well! I always thought there was something odd
about her.—You see what it is for women to affect to be
different to other people.’ And once it
was,—‘I misdoubted that appearance of mystery from
the very first—I thought there would no good come of it;
but this is a sad, sad business, to be sure!’
‘Why, mother, you said you didn’t believe these
tales,’ said Fergus.
‘No more I do, my dear; but then, you know, there must
be some foundation.’
‘The foundation is in the wickedness and falsehood of
the world,’ said I, ‘and in the fact that Mr.
Lawrence has been seen to go that way once or twice of an
evening—and the village gossips say he goes to pay his
addresses to the strange lady, and the scandal-mongers have
greedily seized the rumour, to make it the basis of their own
infernal structure.’
‘Well, but, Gilbert, there must be something in her
manner to countenance such reports.’
‘Did you see anything in her manner?’
‘No, certainly; but then, you know, I always said there
was something strange about her.’
I believe it was on that very evening that I ventured on
another invasion of Wildfell Hall. From the time of our
party, which was upwards of a week ago, I had been making daily
efforts to meet its mistress in her walks; and always
disappointed (she must have managed it so on purpose), had
nightly kept revolving in my mind some pretext for another
call. At length I concluded that the separation could be
endured no longer (by this time, you will see, I was pretty far
gone); and, taking from the book-case an old volume that I
thought she might be interested in, though, from its unsightly
and somewhat dilapidated condition, I had not yet ventured to
offer it for perusal, I hastened away,—but not without
sundry misgivings as to how she would receive me, or how I could
summon courage to present myself with so slight an excuse.
But, perhaps, I might see her in the field or the garden, and
then there would be no great difficulty: it was the formal
knocking at the door, with the prospect of being gravely ushered
in by Rachel, to the presence of a surprised, uncordial mistress,
that so greatly disturbed me.
My wish, however, was not gratified. Mrs. Graham herself
was not to be seen; but there was Arthur playing with his
frolicsome little dog in the garden. I looked over the gate
and called him to me. He wanted me to come in; but I told
him I could not without his mother’s leave.
‘I’ll go and ask her,’ said the child.
‘No, no, Arthur, you mustn’t do that; but if
she’s not engaged, just ask her to come here a
minute. Tell her I want to speak to her.’
He ran to perform my bidding, and quickly returned with his
mother. How lovely she looked with her dark ringlets
streaming in the light summer breeze, her fair cheek slightly
flushed, and her countenance radiant with smiles. Dear
Arthur! what did I not owe to you for this and every other happy
meeting? Through him I was at once delivered from all
formality, and terror, and constraint. In love affairs,
there is no mediator like a merry, simple-hearted
child—ever ready to cement divided hearts, to span the
unfriendly gulf of custom, to melt the ice of cold reserve, and
overthrow the separating walls of dread formality and pride.
‘Well, Mr. Markham, what is it?’ said the young
mother, accosting me with a pleasant smile.
‘I want you to look at this book, and, if you please, to
take it, and peruse it at your leisure. I make no apology
for calling you out on such a lovely evening, though it be for a
matter of no greater importance.’
‘Tell him to come in, mamma,’ said Arthur.
‘Would you like to come in?’ asked the lady.
‘Yes; I should like to see your improvements in the
garden.’
‘And how your sister’s roots have prospered in my
charge,’ added she, as she opened the gate.
And we sauntered through the garden, and talked of the
flowers, the trees, and the book, and then of other things.
The evening was kind and genial, and so was my companion.
By degrees I waxed more warm and tender than, perhaps, I had ever
been before; but still I said nothing tangible, and she attempted
no repulse, until, in passing a moss rose-tree that I had brought
her some weeks since, in my sister’s name, she plucked a
beautiful half-open bud and bade me give it to Rose.
‘May I not keep it myself?’ I asked.
‘No; but here is another for you.’
Instead of taking it quietly, I likewise took the hand that
offered it, and looked into her face. She let me hold it
for a moment, and I saw a flash of ecstatic brilliance in her
eye, a glow of glad excitement on her face—I thought my
hour of victory was come—but instantly a painful
recollection seemed to flash upon her; a cloud of anguish
darkened her brow, a marble paleness blanched her cheek and lip;
there seemed a moment of inward conflict, and, with a sudden
effort, she withdrew her hand, and retreated a step or two
back.
‘Now, Mr. Markham,’ said she, with a kind of
desperate calmness, ‘I must tell you plainly that I cannot
do with this. I like your company, because I am alone here,
and your conversation pleases me more than that of any other
person; but if you cannot be content to regard me as a
friend—a plain, cold, motherly, or sisterly friend—I
must beg you to leave me now, and let me alone hereafter: in
fact, we must be strangers for the future.’
‘I will, then—be your friend, or brother, or
anything you wish, if you will only let me continue to see you;
but tell me why I cannot be anything more?’
There was a perplexed and thoughtful pause.
‘Is it in consequence of some rash vow?’
‘It is something of the kind,’ she answered.
‘Some day I may tell you, but at present you had better
leave me; and never, Gilbert, put me to the painful necessity of
repeating what I have just now said to you,’ she earnestly
added, giving me her hand in serious kindness. How sweet,
how musical my own name sounded in her mouth!
‘I will not,’ I replied. ‘But you
pardon this offence?’
‘On condition that you never repeat it.’
‘And may I come to see you now and then?’
‘Perhaps—occasionally; provided you never abuse
the privilege.’
‘I make no empty promises, but you shall see.’
‘The moment you do our intimacy is at an end,
that’s all.’
‘And will you always call me Gilbert? It sounds
more sisterly, and it will serve to remind me of our
contract.’
She smiled, and once more bid me go; and at length I judged it
prudent to obey, and she re-entered the house and I went down the
hill. But as I went the tramp of horses’ hoofs fell
on my ear, and broke the stillness of the dewy evening; and,
looking towards the lane, I saw a solitary equestrian coming
up. Inclining to dusk as it was, I knew him at a glance: it
was Mr. Lawrence on his grey pony. I flew across the field,
leaped the stone fence, and then walked down the lane to meet
him. On seeing me, he suddenly drew in his little steed,
and seemed inclined to turn back, but on second thought
apparently judged it better to continue his course as
before. He accosted me with a slight bow, and, edging close
to the wall, endeavoured to pass on; but I was not so
minded. Seizing his horse by the bridle, I
exclaimed,—‘Now, Lawrence, I will have this mystery
explained! Tell me where you are going, and what you mean
to do—at once, and distinctly!’
‘Will you take your hand off the bridle?’ said he,
quietly—‘you’re hurting my pony’s
mouth.’
‘You and your pony be—’
‘What makes you so coarse and brutal, Markham?
I’m quite ashamed of you.’
‘You answer my questions—before you leave this
spot I will know what you mean by this perfidious
duplicity!’
‘I shall answer no questions till you let go the
bridle,—if you stand till morning.’
‘Now then,’ said I, unclosing my hand, but still
standing before him.
‘Ask me some other time, when you can speak like a
gentleman,’ returned he, and he made an effort to pass me
again; but I quickly re-captured the pony, scarce less astonished
than its master at such uncivil usage.
‘Really, Mr. Markham, this is too much!’ said the
latter. ‘Can I not go to see my tenant on matters of
business, without being assaulted in this manner
by—?’
‘This is no time for business, sir!—I’ll
tell you, now, what I think of your conduct.’
‘You’d better defer your opinion to a more
convenient season,’ interrupted he in a low
tone—‘here’s the vicar.’ And, in
truth, the vicar was just behind me, plodding homeward from some
remote corner of his parish. I immediately released the
squire; and he went on his way, saluting Mr. Millward as he
passed.
‘What! quarrelling, Markham?’ cried the latter,
addressing himself to me,—‘and about that young
widow, I doubt?’ he added, reproachfully shaking his
head. ‘But let me tell you, young man’ (here he
put his face into mine with an important, confidential air),
‘she’s not worth it!’ and he confirmed the
assertion by a solemn nod.
‘Mr. Millward,’ I
exclaimed, in a tone of wrathful menace that made the reverend
gentleman look round—aghast—astounded at such
unwonted insolence, and stare me in the face, with a look that
plainly said, ‘What, this to me!’ But I was too
indignant to apologise, or to speak another word to him: I turned
away, and hastened homewards, descending with rapid strides the
steep, rough lane, and leaving him to follow as he pleased.
CHAPTER XI
You must suppose about three weeks passed over. Mrs.
Graham and I were now established friends—or brother and
sister, as we rather chose to consider ourselves. She
called me Gilbert, by my express desire, and I called her Helen,
for I had seen that name written in her books. I seldom
attempted to see her above twice a week; and still I made our
meetings appear the result of accident as often as I
could—for I found it necessary to be extremely
careful—and, altogether, I behaved with such exceeding
propriety that she never had occasion to reprove me once.
Yet I could not but perceive that she was at times unhappy and
dissatisfied with herself or her position, and truly I myself was
not quite contented with the latter: this assumption of brotherly
nonchalance was very hard to sustain, and I often felt myself a
most confounded hypocrite with it all; I saw too, or rather I
felt, that, in spite of herself, ‘I was not indifferent to
her,’ as the novel heroes modestly express it, and while I
thankfully enjoyed my present good fortune, I could not fail to
wish and hope for something better in future; but, of course, I
kept such dreams entirely to myself.
‘Where are you going, Gilbert?’ said Rose, one
evening, shortly after tea, when I had been busy with the farm
all day.
‘To take a walk,’ was the reply.
‘Do you always brush your hat so carefully, and do your
hair so nicely, and put on such smart new gloves when you take a
walk?’
‘Not always.’
‘You’re going to Wildfell Hall, aren’t
you?’
‘What makes you think so?’
‘Because you look as if you were—but I wish you
wouldn’t go so often.’
‘Nonsense, child! I don’t go once in six
weeks—what do you mean?’
‘Well, but if I were you, I wouldn’t have so much
to do with Mrs. Graham.’
‘Why, Rose, are you, too, giving in to the prevailing
opinion?’
‘No,’ returned she, hesitatingly—‘but
I’ve heard so much about her lately, both at the
Wilsons’ and the vicarage;—and besides, mamma says,
if she were a proper person she would not be living there by
herself—and don’t you remember last winter, Gilbert,
all that about the false name to the picture; and how she
explained it—saying she had friends or acquaintances from
whom she wished her present residence to be concealed, and that
she was afraid of their tracing her out;—and then, how
suddenly she started up and left the room when that person
came—whom she took good care not to let us catch a glimpse
of, and who Arthur, with such an air of mystery, told us was his
mamma’s friend?’
‘Yes, Rose, I remember it all; and I can forgive your
uncharitable conclusions; for, perhaps, if I did not know her
myself, I should put all these things together, and believe the
same as you do; but thank God, I do know her; and I should be
unworthy the name of a man, if I could believe anything that was
said against her, unless I heard it from her own lips.—I
should as soon believe such things of you, Rose.’
‘Oh, Gilbert!’
‘Well, do you think I could believe anything of the
kind,—whatever the Wilsons and Millwards dared to
whisper?’
‘I should hope not indeed!’
‘And why not?—Because I know you—Well, and I
know her just as well.’
‘Oh, no! you know nothing of her former life; and last
year, at this time, you did not know that such a person
existed.’
‘No matter. There is such a thing as looking
through a person’s eyes into the heart, and learning more
of the height, and breadth, and depth of another’s soul in
one hour than it might take you a lifetime to discover, if he or
she were not disposed to reveal it, or if you had not the sense
to understand it.’
‘Then you are going to see her this evening?’
‘To be sure I am!’
‘But what would mamma say, Gilbert!’
‘Mamma needn’t know.’
‘But she must know some time, if you go on.’
‘Go on!—there’s no going on in the
matter. Mrs. Graham and I are two friends—and will
be; and no man breathing shall hinder it,—or has a right to
interfere between us.’
‘But if you knew how they talk you would be more
careful, for her sake as well as for your own. Jane Wilson
thinks your visits to the old hall but another proof of her
depravity—’
‘Confound Jane Wilson!’
‘And Eliza Millward is quite grieved about
you.’
‘I hope she is.’
‘But I wouldn’t, if I were you.’
‘Wouldn’t what?—How do they know that I go
there?’
‘There’s nothing hid from them: they spy out
everything.’
‘Oh, I never thought of this!—And so they dare to
turn my friendship into food for further scandal against
her!—That proves the falsehood of their other lies, at all
events, if any proof were wanting.—Mind you contradict
them, Rose, whenever you can.’
‘But they don’t speak openly to me about such
things: it is only by hints and innuendoes, and by what I hear
others say, that I knew what they think.’
‘Well, then, I won’t go to-day, as it’s
getting latish. But oh, deuce take their cursed, envenomed
tongues!’ I muttered, in the bitterness of my soul.
And just at that moment the vicar entered the room: we had
been too much absorbed in our conversation to observe his
knock. After his customary cheerful and fatherly greeting
of Rose, who was rather a favourite with the old gentleman, he
turned somewhat sternly to me:—
‘Well, sir!’ said he, ‘you’re quite a
stranger. It is—let—me—see,’ he
continued, slowly, as he deposited his ponderous bulk in the
arm-chair that Rose officiously brought towards him; ‘it is
just—six-weeks—by my reckoning, since you
darkened—my—door!’ He spoke it with
emphasis, and struck his stick on the floor.
‘Is it, sir?’ said I.
‘Ay! It is so!’ He added an
affirmatory nod, and continued to gaze upon me with a kind of
irate solemnity, holding his substantial stick between his knees,
with his hands clasped upon its head.
‘I have been busy,’ I said, for an apology was
evidently demanded.
‘Busy!’ repeated he, derisively.
‘Yes, you know I’ve been getting in my hay; and
now the harvest is beginning.’
‘Humph!’
Just then my mother came in, and created a diversion in my
favour by her loquacious and animated welcome of the reverend
guest. She regretted deeply that he had not come a little
earlier, in time for tea, but offered to have some immediately
prepared, if he would do her the favour to partake of it.
‘Not any for me, I thank you,’ replied he;
‘I shall be at home in a few minutes.’
‘Oh, but do stay and take a little! it will be ready in
five minutes.’
But he rejected the offer with a majestic wave of the
hand.
‘I’ll tell you what I’ll take, Mrs.
Markham,’ said he: ‘I’ll take a glass of your
excellent ale.’
‘With pleasure!’ cried my mother, proceeding with
alacrity to pull the bell and order the favoured beverage.
‘I thought,’ continued he, ‘I’d just
look in upon you as I passed, and taste your home-brewed
ale. I’ve been to call on Mrs. Graham.’
‘Have you, indeed?’
He nodded gravely, and added with awful
emphasis—‘I thought it incumbent upon me to do
so.’
‘Really!’ ejaculated my mother.
‘Why so, Mr. Millward?’ asked I.
He looked at me with some severity, and turning again to my
mother, repeated,—‘I thought it incumbent upon
me!’ and struck his stick on the floor again. My
mother sat opposite, an awe-struck but admiring auditor.
‘“Mrs. Graham,” said I,’ he continued,
shaking his head as he spoke, ‘“these are terrible
reports!” “What, sir?” says she,
affecting to be ignorant of my meaning. “It is
my—duty—as—your pastor,” said I,
“to tell you both everything that I myself see
reprehensible in your conduct, and all I have reason to suspect,
and what others tell me concerning you.”—So I told
her!’
‘You did, sir?’ cried I, starting from my seat and
striking my fist on the table. He merely glanced towards
me, and continued—addressing his hostess:—
‘It was a painful duty, Mrs. Markham—but I told
her!’
‘And how did she take it?’ asked my mother.
‘Hardened, I fear—hardened!’ he replied,
with a despondent shake of the head; ‘and, at the same
time, there was a strong display of unchastened, misdirected
passions. She turned white in the face, and drew her breath
through her teeth in a savage sort of way;—but she offered
no extenuation or defence; and with a kind of shameless
calmness—shocking indeed to witness in one so
young—as good as told me that my remonstrance was
unavailing, and my pastoral advice quite thrown away upon
her—nay, that my very presence was displeasing while I
spoke such things. And I withdrew at length, too plainly
seeing that nothing could be done—and sadly grieved to find
her case so hopeless. But I am fully determined, Mrs.
Markham, that my daughters—shall—not—consort
with her. Do you adopt the same resolution with regard to
yours!—As for your sons—as for you, young man,’
he continued, sternly turning to me—
‘As for me, sir,’ I
began, but checked by some impediment in my utterance, and
finding that my whole frame trembled with fury, I said no more,
but took the wiser part of snatching up my hat and bolting from
the room, slamming the door behind me, with a bang that shook the
house to its foundations, and made my mother scream, and gave a
momentary relief to my excited feelings.
The next minute saw me hurrying with rapid strides in the
direction of Wildfell Hall—to what intent or purpose I
could scarcely tell, but I must be moving somewhere, and no other
goal would do—I must see her too, and speak to
her—that was certain; but what to say, or how to act, I had
no definite idea. Such stormy thoughts—so many
different resolutions crowded in upon me, that my mind was little
better than a chaos of conflicting passions.
CHAPTER XII
In little more than twenty minutes the journey was
accomplished. I paused at the gate to wipe my streaming
forehead, and recover my breath and some degree of
composure. Already the rapid walking had somewhat mitigated
my excitement; and with a firm and steady tread I paced the
garden-walk. In passing the inhabited wing of the building,
I caught a sight of Mrs. Graham, through the open window, slowly
pacing up and down her lonely room.
She seemed agitated and even dismayed at my arrival, as if she
thought I too was coming to accuse her. I had entered her
presence intending to condole with her upon the wickedness of the
world, and help her to abuse the vicar and his vile informants,
but now I felt positively ashamed to mention the subject, and
determined not to refer to it, unless she led the way.
‘I am come at an unseasonable hour,’ said I,
assuming a cheerfulness I did not feel, in order to reassure her;
‘but I won’t stay many minutes.’
She smiled upon me, faintly it is true, but most
kindly—I had almost said thankfully, as her apprehensions
were removed.
‘How dismal you are, Helen! Why have you no
fire?’ I said, looking round on the gloomy apartment.
‘It is summer yet,’ she replied.
‘But we always have a fire in the evenings, if we can
bear it; and you especially require one in this cold house and
dreary room.’
‘You should have come a little sooner, and I would have
had one lighted for you: but it is not worth while now—you
won’t stay many minutes, you say, and Arthur is gone to
bed.’
‘But I have a fancy for a fire, nevertheless. Will
you order one, if I ring?’
‘Why, Gilbert, you don’t look cold!’ said
she, smilingly regarding my face, which no doubt seemed warm
enough.
‘No,’ replied I, ‘but I want to see you
comfortable before I go.’
‘Me comfortable!’ repeated she, with a bitter
laugh, as if there were something amusingly absurd in the
idea. ‘It suits me better as it is,’ she added,
in a tone of mournful resignation.
But determined to have my own way, I pulled the bell.
‘There now, Helen!’ I said, as the approaching
steps of Rachel were heard in answer to the summons. There
was nothing for it but to turn round and desire the maid to light
the fire.
I owe Rachel a grudge to this day for the look she cast upon
me ere she departed on her mission, the sour, suspicious,
inquisitorial look that plainly demanded, ‘What are you
here for, I wonder?’ Her mistress did not fail to
notice it, and a shade of uneasiness darkened her brow.
‘You must not stay long, Gilbert,’ said she, when
the door was closed upon us.
‘I’m not going to,’ said I, somewhat
testily, though without a grain of anger in my heart against any
one but the meddling old woman. ‘But, Helen,
I’ve something to say to you before I go.’
‘What is it?’
‘No, not now—I don’t know yet precisely what
it is, or how to say it,’ replied I, with more truth than
wisdom; and then, fearing lest she should turn me out of the
house, I began talking about indifferent matters in order to gain
time. Meanwhile Rachel came in to kindle the fire, which
was soon effected by thrusting a red-hot poker between the bars
of the grate, where the fuel was already disposed for
ignition. She honoured me with another of her hard,
inhospitable looks in departing, but, little moved thereby, I
went on talking; and setting a chair for Mrs. Graham on one side
of the hearth, and one for myself on the other, I ventured to sit
down, though half suspecting she would rather see me go.
In a little while we both relapsed into silence, and continued
for several minutes gazing abstractedly into the fire—she
intent upon her own sad thoughts, and I reflecting how delightful
it would be to be seated thus beside her with no other presence
to restrain our intercourse—not even that of Arthur, our
mutual friend, without whom we had never met before—if only
I could venture to speak my mind, and disburden my full heart of
the feelings that had so long oppressed it, and which it now
struggled to retain, with an effort that it seemed impossible to
continue much longer,—and revolving the pros and cons for
opening my heart to her there and then, and imploring a return of
affection, the permission to regard her thenceforth as my own,
and the right and the power to defend her from the calumnies of
malicious tongues. On the one hand, I felt a new-born
confidence in my powers of persuasion—a strong conviction
that my own fervour of spirit would grant me eloquence—that
my very determination—the absolute necessity for
succeeding, that I felt must win me what I sought; while, on the
other, I feared to lose the ground I had already gained with so
much toil and skill, and destroy all future hope by one rash
effort, when time and patience might have won success. It
was like setting my life upon the cast of a die; and yet I was
ready to resolve upon the attempt. At any rate, I would
entreat the explanation she had half promised to give me before;
I would demand the reason of this hateful barrier, this
mysterious impediment to my happiness, and, as I trusted, to her
own.
But while I considered in what manner I could best frame my
request, my companion, wakened from her reverie with a scarcely
audible sigh, and looking towards the window, where the blood-red
harvest moon, just rising over one of the grim, fantastic
evergreens, was shining in upon us, said,—‘Gilbert,
it is getting late.’
‘I see,’ said I. ‘You want me to go, I
suppose?’
‘I think you ought. If my kind neighbours get to
know of this visit—as no doubt they will—they will
not turn it much to my advantage.’ It was with what
the vicar would doubtless have called a savage sort of smile that
she said this.
‘Let them turn it as they will,’ said I.
‘What are their thoughts to you or me, so long as we are
satisfied with ourselves—and each other. Let them go
to the deuce with their vile constructions and their lying
inventions!’
This outburst brought a flush of colour to her face.
‘You have heard, then, what they say of me?’
‘I heard some detestable falsehoods; but none but fools
would credit them for a moment, Helen, so don’t let them
trouble you.’
‘I did not think Mr. Millward a fool, and he believes it
all; but however little you may value the opinions of those about
you—however little you may esteem them as individuals, it
is not pleasant to be looked upon as a liar and a hypocrite, to
be thought to practise what you abhor, and to encourage the vices
you would discountenance, to find your good intentions
frustrated, and your hands crippled by your supposed
unworthiness, and to bring disgrace on the principles you
profess.’
‘True; and if I, by my thoughtlessness and selfish
disregard to appearances, have at all assisted to expose you to
these evils, let me entreat you not only to pardon me, but to
enable me to make reparation; authorise me to clear your name
from every imputation: give me the right to identify your honour
with my own, and to defend your reputation as more precious than
my life!’
‘Are you hero enough to unite yourself to one whom you
know to be suspected and despised by all around you, and identify
your interests and your honour with hers? Think! it is a
serious thing.’
‘I should be proud to do it, Helen!—most
happy—delighted beyond expression!—and if that be all
the obstacle to our union, it is demolished, and you
must—you shall be mine!’
And starting from my seat in a frenzy of ardour, I seized her
hand and would have pressed it to my lips, but she as suddenly
caught it away, exclaiming in the bitterness of intense
affliction,—‘No, no, it is not all!’
‘What is it, then? You promised I should know some
time, and—’
‘You shall know some time—but not now—my
head aches terribly,’ she said, pressing her hand to her
forehead, ‘and I must have some repose—and surely I
have had misery enough to-day!’ she added, almost
wildly.
‘But it could not harm you to tell it,’ I
persisted: ‘it would ease your mind; and I should then know
how to comfort you.’
She shook her head despondingly. ‘If you knew all,
you, too, would blame me—perhaps even more than I
deserve—though I have cruelly wronged you,’ she added
in a low murmur, as if she mused aloud.
‘You, Helen? Impossible?’
‘Yes, not willingly; for I did not know the strength and
depth of your attachment. I thought—at least I
endeavoured to think your regard for me was as cold and fraternal
as you professed it to be.’
‘Or as yours?’
‘Or as mine—ought to have been—of such a
light and selfish, superficial nature, that—’
‘There, indeed, you wronged me.’
‘I know I did; and, sometimes, I suspected it then; but
I thought, upon the whole, there could be no great harm in
leaving your fancies and your hopes to dream themselves to
nothing—or flutter away to some more fitting object, while
your friendly sympathies remained with me; but if I had known the
depth of your regard, the generous, disinterested affection you
seem to feel—’
‘Seem, Helen?’
‘That you do feel, then, I would have acted
differently.’
‘How? You could not have given me less
encouragement, or treated me with greater severity than you
did! And if you think you have wronged me by giving me your
friendship, and occasionally admitting me to the enjoyment of
your company and conversation, when all hopes of closer intimacy
were vain—as indeed you always gave me to
understand—if you think you have wronged me by this, you
are mistaken; for such favours, in themselves alone, are not only
delightful to my heart, but purifying, exalting, ennobling to my
soul; and I would rather have your friendship than the love of
any other woman in the world!’
Little comforted by this, she clasped her hands upon her knee,
and glancing upward, seemed, in silent anguish, to implore divine
assistance; then, turning to me, she calmly
said,—‘To-morrow, if you meet me on the moor about
mid-day, I will tell you all you seek to know; and perhaps you
will then see the necessity of discontinuing our
intimacy—if, indeed, you do not willingly resign me as one
no longer worthy of regard.’
‘I can safely answer no to that: you cannot have such
grave confessions to make—you must be trying my faith,
Helen.’
‘No, no, no,’ she earnestly
repeated—‘I wish it were so! Thank
heaven!’ she added, ‘I have no great crime to
confess; but I have more than you will like to hear, or, perhaps,
can readily excuse,—and more than I can tell you now; so
let me entreat you to leave me!’
‘I will; but answer me this one question first;—do
you love me?’
‘I will not answer it!’
‘Then I will conclude you do; and so
good-night.’
She turned from me to hide the emotion she could not quite
control; but I took her hand and fervently kissed it.
‘Gilbert, do leave me!’ she cried, in a tone of
such thrilling anguish that I felt it would be cruel to
disobey.
But I gave one look back before I closed the door, and saw her
leaning forward on the table, with her hands pressed against her
eyes, sobbing convulsively; yet I withdrew in silence. I
felt that to obtrude my consolations on her then would only serve
to aggravate her sufferings.
To tell you all the questionings and conjectures—the
fears, and hopes, and wild emotions that jostled and chased each
other through my mind as I descended the hill, would almost fill
a volume in itself. But before I was half-way down, a
sentiment of strong sympathy for her I had left behind me had
displaced all other feelings, and seemed imperatively to draw me
back: I began to think, ‘Why am I hurrying so fast in this
direction? Can I find comfort or consolation—peace,
certainty, contentment, all—or anything that I want at
home? and can I leave all perturbation, sorrow, and anxiety
behind me there?’
And I turned round to look at the old Hall. There was
little besides the chimneys visible above my contracted
horizon. I walked back to get a better view of it.
When it rose in sight, I stood still a moment to look, and then
continued moving towards the gloomy object of attraction.
Something called me nearer—nearer still—and why not,
pray? Might I not find more benefit in the contemplation of
that venerable pile with the full moon in the cloudless heaven
shining so calmly above it—with that warm yellow lustre
peculiar to an August night—and the mistress of my soul
within, than in returning to my home, where all comparatively was
light, and life, and cheerfulness, and therefore inimical to me
in my present frame of mind,—and the more so that its
inmates all were more or less imbued with that detestable belief,
the very thought of which made my blood boil in my
veins—and how could I endure to hear it openly declared, or
cautiously insinuated—which was worse?—I had had
trouble enough already, with some babbling fiend that would keep
whispering in my ear, ‘It may be true,’ till I had
shouted aloud, ‘It is false! I defy you to make me
suppose it!’
I could see the red firelight dimly gleaming from her parlour
window. I went up to the garden wall, and stood leaning
over it, with my eyes fixed upon the lattice, wondering what she
was doing, thinking, or suffering now, and wishing I could speak
to her but one word, or even catch one glimpse of her, before I
went.
I had not thus looked, and wished, and wondered long, before I
vaulted over the barrier, unable to resist the temptation of
taking one glance through the window, just to see if she were
more composed than when we parted;—and if I found her still
in deep distress, perhaps I might venture attempt a word of
comfort—to utter one of the many things I should have said
before, instead of aggravating her sufferings by my stupid
impetuosity. I looked. Her chair was vacant: so was
the room. But at that moment some one opened the outer
door, and a voice—her voice—said,—‘Come
out—I want to see the moon, and breathe the evening air:
they will do me good—if anything will.’
Here, then, were she and Rachel coming to take a walk in the
garden. I wished myself safe back over the wall. I
stood, however, in the shadow of the tall holly-bush, which,
standing between the window and the porch, at present screened me
from observation, but did not prevent me from seeing two figures
come forth into the moonlight: Mrs. Graham followed by
another—not Rachel, but a young man, slender and rather
tall. O heavens, how my temples throbbed! Intense
anxiety darkened my sight; but I thought—yes, and the voice
confirmed it—it was Mr. Lawrence!
‘You should not let it worry you so much, Helen,’
said he; ‘I will be more cautious in future; and in
time—’
I did not hear the rest of the sentence; for he walked close
beside her and spoke so gently that I could not catch the
words. My heart was splitting with hatred; but I listened
intently for her reply. I heard it plainly enough.
‘But I must leave this place, Frederick,’ she
said—‘I never can be happy here,—nor anywhere
else, indeed,’ she added, with a mirthless
laugh,—‘but I cannot rest here.’
‘But where could you find a better place?’ replied
he, ‘so secluded—so near me, if you think anything of
that.’
‘Yes,’ interrupted she, ‘it is all I could
wish, if they could only have left me alone.’
‘But wherever you go, Helen, there will be the same
sources of annoyance. I cannot consent to lose you: I must
go with you, or come to you; and there are meddling fools
elsewhere, as well as here.’
While thus conversing they had sauntered slowly past me, down
the walk, and I heard no more of their discourse; but I saw him
put his arm round her waist, while she lovingly rested her hand
on his shoulder;—and then, a tremulous darkness obscured my
sight, my heart sickened and my head burned like fire: I half
rushed, half staggered from the spot, where horror had kept me
rooted, and leaped or tumbled over the wall—I hardly know
which—but I know that, afterwards, like a passionate child,
I dashed myself on the ground and lay there in a paroxysm of
anger and despair—how long, I cannot undertake to say; but
it must have been a considerable time; for when, having partially
relieved myself by a torment of tears, and looked up at the moon,
shining so calmly and carelessly on, as little influenced by my
misery as I was by its peaceful radiance, and earnestly prayed
for death or forgetfulness, I had risen and journeyed
homewards—little regarding the way, but carried
instinctively by my feet to the door, I found it bolted against
me, and every one in bed except my mother, who hastened to answer
my impatient knocking, and received me with a shower of questions
and rebukes.
‘Oh, Gilbert! how could you do so? Where have you
been? Do come in and take your supper. I’ve got
it all ready, though you don’t deserve it, for keeping me
in such a fright, after the strange manner you left the house
this evening. Mr. Millward was quite— Bless the
boy! how ill he looks. Oh, gracious! what is the
matter?’
‘Nothing, nothing—give me a candle.’
‘But won’t you take some supper?’
‘No; I want to go to bed,’ said I, taking a candle
and lighting it at the one she held in her hand.
‘Oh, Gilbert, how you tremble!’ exclaimed my
anxious parent. ‘How white you look! Do tell me
what it is? Has anything happened?’
‘It’s nothing,’ cried I, ready to stamp with
vexation because the candle would not light. Then,
suppressing my irritation, I added, ‘I’ve been
walking too fast, that’s all. Good-night,’ and
marched off to bed, regardless of the ‘Walking too fast!
where have you been?’ that was called after me from
below.
My mother followed me to the very door of my room with her
questionings and advice concerning my health and my conduct; but
I implored her to let me alone till morning; and she withdrew,
and at length I had the satisfaction to hear her close her own
door. There was no sleep for me, however, that night as I
thought; and instead of attempting to solicit it, I employed
myself in rapidly pacing the chamber, having first removed my
boots, lest my mother should hear me. But the boards
creaked, and she was watchful. I had not walked above a
quarter of an hour before she was at the door again.
‘Gilbert, why are you not in bed—you said you
wanted to go?’
‘Confound it! I’m going,’ said I.
‘But why are you so long about it? You must have
something on your mind—’
‘For heaven’s sake, let me alone, and get to bed
yourself.’
‘Can it be that Mrs. Graham that distresses you
so?’
‘No, no, I tell you—it’s nothing.’
‘I wish to goodness it mayn’t,’ murmured
she, with a sigh, as she returned to her own apartment, while I
threw myself on the bed, feeling most undutifully disaffected
towards her for having deprived me of what seemed the only shadow
of a consolation that remained, and chained me to that wretched
couch of thorns.
Never did I endure so long, so miserable a night as
that. And yet it was not wholly sleepless. Towards
morning my distracting thoughts began to lose all pretensions to
coherency, and shape themselves into confused and feverish
dreams, and, at length, there followed an interval of unconscious
slumber. But then the dawn of bitter recollection that
succeeded—the waking to find life a blank, and worse than a
blank, teeming with torment and misery—not a mere barren
wilderness, but full of thorns and briers—to find myself
deceived, duped, hopeless, my affections trampled upon, my angel
not an angel, and my friend a fiend incarnate—it was worse
than if I had not slept at all.
It was a dull, gloomy morning; the weather had changed like my
prospects, and the rain was pattering against the window. I
rose, nevertheless, and went out; not to look after the farm,
though that would serve as my excuse, but to cool my brain, and
regain, if possible, a sufficient degree of composure to meet the
family at the morning meal without exciting inconvenient
remarks. If I got a wetting, that, in conjunction with a
pretended over-exertion before breakfast, might excuse my sudden
loss of appetite; and if a cold ensued, the severer the
better—it would help to account for the sullen moods and
moping melancholy likely to cloud my brow for long enough.
CHAPTER XIII
‘My dear Gilbert, I wish you would try to be a little
more amiable,’ said my mother one morning after some
display of unjustifiable ill-humour on my part. ‘You
say there is nothing the matter with you, and nothing has
happened to grieve you, and yet I never saw anyone so altered as
you within these last few days. You haven’t a good
word for anybody—friends and strangers, equals and
inferiors—it’s all the same. I do wish
you’d try to check it.’
‘Check what?’
‘Why, your strange temper. You don’t know
how it spoils you. I’m sure a finer disposition than
yours by nature could not be, if you’d let it have fair
play: so you’ve no excuse that way.’
While she thus remonstrated, I took up a book, and laying it
open on the table before me, pretended to be deeply absorbed in
its perusal, for I was equally unable to justify myself and
unwilling to acknowledge my errors; and I wished to have nothing
to say on the matter. But my excellent parent went on
lecturing, and then came to coaxing, and began to stroke my hair;
and I was getting to feel quite a good boy, but my mischievous
brother, who was idling about the room, revived my corruption by
suddenly calling out,—‘Don’t touch him, mother!
he’ll bite! He’s a very tiger in human
form. I’ve given him up for my part—fairly
disowned him—cast him off, root and branch.
It’s as much as my life is worth to come within six yards
of him. The other day he nearly fractured my skull for
singing a pretty, inoffensive love-song, on purpose to amuse
him.’
‘Oh, Gilbert! how could you?’ exclaimed my
mother.
‘I told you to hold your noise first, you know,
Fergus,’ said I.
‘Yes, but when I assured you it was no trouble and went
on with the next verse, thinking you might like it better, you
clutched me by the shoulder and dashed me away, right against the
wall there, with such force that I thought I had bitten my tongue
in two, and expected to see the place plastered with my brains;
and when I put my hand to my head, and found my skull not broken,
I thought it was a miracle, and no mistake. But, poor
fellow!’ added he, with a sentimental sigh—‘his
heart’s broken—that’s the truth of it—and
his head’s—’
‘Will you be silent now?’ cried I, starting up, and eyeing
the fellow so fiercely that my mother, thinking I meant to
inflict some grievous bodily injury, laid her hand on my arm, and
besought me to let him alone, and he walked leisurely out, with
his hands in his pockets, singing provokingly—‘Shall
I, because a woman’s fair,’ &c.
‘I’m not going to defile my fingers with
him,’ said I, in answer to the maternal intercession.
‘I wouldn’t touch him with the tongs.’
I now recollected that I had business with Robert Wilson,
concerning the purchase of a certain field adjoining my
farm—a business I had been putting off from day to day; for
I had no interest in anything now; and besides, I was
misanthropically inclined, and, moreover, had a particular
objection to meeting Jane Wilson or her mother; for though I had
too good reason, now, to credit their reports concerning Mrs.
Graham, I did not like them a bit the better for it—or
Eliza Millward either—and the thought of meeting them was
the more repugnant to me that I could not, now, defy their
seeming calumnies and triumph in my own convictions as
before. But to-day I determined to make an effort to return
to my duty. Though I found no pleasure in it, it would be
less irksome than idleness—at all events it would be more
profitable. If life promised no enjoyment within my
vocation, at least it offered no allurements out of it; and
henceforth I would put my shoulder to the wheel and toil away,
like any poor drudge of a cart-horse that was fairly broken in to
its labour, and plod through life, not wholly useless if not
agreeable, and uncomplaining if not contented with my lot.
Thus resolving, with a kind of sullen resignation, if such a
term may be allowed, I wended my way to Ryecote Farm, scarcely
expecting to find its owner within at this time of day, but
hoping to learn in what part of the premises he was most likely
to be found.
Absent he was, but expected home in a few minutes; and I was
desired to step into the parlour and wait. Mrs. Wilson was
busy in the kitchen, but the room was not empty; and I scarcely
checked an involuntary recoil as I entered it; for there sat Miss
Wilson chattering with Eliza Millward. However, I
determined to be cool and civil. Eliza seemed to have made
the same resolution on her part. We had not met since the
evening of the tea-party; but there was no visible emotion either
of pleasure or pain, no attempt at pathos, no display of injured
pride: she was cool in temper, civil in demeanour. There
was even an ease and cheerfulness about her air and manner that I
made no pretension to; but there was a depth of malice in her too
expressive eye that plainly told me I was not forgiven; for,
though she no longer hoped to win me to herself, she still hated
her rival, and evidently delighted to wreak her spite on
me. On the other hand, Miss Wilson was as affable and
courteous as heart could wish, and though I was in no very
conversable humour myself, the two ladies between them managed to
keep up a pretty continuous fire of small talk. But Eliza
took advantage of the first convenient pause to ask if I had
lately seen Mrs. Graham, in a tone of merely casual inquiry, but
with a sidelong glance—intended to be playfully
mischievous—really, brimful and running over with
malice.
‘Not lately,’ I replied, in a careless tone, but
sternly repelling her odious glances with my eyes; for I was
vexed to feel the colour mounting to my forehead, despite my
strenuous efforts to appear unmoved.
‘What! are you beginning to tire already? I
thought so noble a creature would have power to attach you for a
year at least!’
‘I would rather not speak of her now.’
‘Ah! then you are convinced, at last, of your
mistake—you have at length discovered that your divinity is
not quite the immaculate—’
‘I desired you not to speak of her, Miss
Eliza.’
‘Oh, I beg your pardon! I perceive Cupid’s
arrows have been too sharp for you: the wounds, being more than
skin-deep, are not yet healed, and bleed afresh at every mention
of the loved one’s name.’
‘Say, rather,’ interposed Miss Wilson, ‘that
Mr. Markham feels that name is unworthy to be mentioned in the
presence of right-minded females. I wonder, Eliza, you
should think of referring to that unfortunate person—you
might know the mention of her would be anything but agreeable to
any one here present.’
How could this be borne? I rose and was about to clap my
hat upon my head and burst away, in wrathful indignation from the
house; but recollecting—just in time to save my
dignity—the folly of such a proceeding, and how it would
only give my fair tormentors a merry laugh at my expense, for the
sake of one I acknowledged in my own heart to be unworthy of the
slightest sacrifice—though the ghost of my former reverence
and love so hung about me still, that I could not bear to hear
her name aspersed by others—I merely walked to the window,
and having spent a few seconds in vengibly biting my lips and
sternly repressing the passionate heavings of my chest, I
observed to Miss Wilson, that I could see nothing of her brother,
and added that, as my time was precious, it would perhaps be
better to call again to-morrow, at some time when I should be
sure to find him at home.
‘Oh, no!’ said she; ‘if you wait a minute,
he will be sure to come; for he has business at L—’
(that was our market-town), ‘and will require a little
refreshment before he goes.’
I submitted accordingly, with the best grace I could; and,
happily, I had not long to wait. Mr. Wilson soon arrived,
and, indisposed for business as I was at that moment, and little
as I cared for the field or its owner, I forced my attention to
the matter in hand, with very creditable determination, and
quickly concluded the bargain—perhaps more to the thrifty
farmer’s satisfaction than he cared to acknowledge.
Then, leaving him to the discussion of his substantial
‘refreshment,’ I gladly quitted the house, and went
to look after my reapers.
Leaving them busy at work on the side of the valley, I
ascended the hill, intending to visit a corn-field in the more
elevated regions, and see when it would be ripe for the
sickle. But I did not visit it that day; for, as I
approached, I beheld, at no great distance, Mrs. Graham and her
son coming down in the opposite direction. They saw me; and
Arthur already was running to meet me; but I immediately turned
back and walked steadily homeward; for I had fully determined
never to encounter his mother again; and regardless of the shrill
voice in my ear, calling upon me to ‘wait a moment,’
I pursued the even tenor of my way; and he soon relinquished the
pursuit as hopeless, or was called away by his mother. At
all events, when I looked back, five minutes after, not a trace
of either was to be seen.
This incident agitated and disturbed me most
unaccountably—unless you would account for it by saying
that Cupid’s arrows not only had been too sharp for me, but
they were barbed and deeply rooted, and I had not yet been able
to wrench them from my heart. However that be, I was
rendered doubly miserable for the remainder of the day.
CHAPTER XIV
Next morning, I bethought me, I, too, had business at
L—; so I mounted my horse, and set forth on the expedition
soon after breakfast. It was a dull, drizzly day; but that
was no matter: it was all the more suitable to my frame of
mind. It was likely to be a lonely journey; for it was no
market-day, and the road I traversed was little frequented at any
other time; but that suited me all the better too.
As I trotted along, however, chewing the cud of—bitter
fancies, I heard another horse at no great distance behind me;
but I never conjectured who the rider might be, or troubled my
head about him, till, on slackening my pace to ascend a gentle
acclivity, or rather, suffering my horse to slacken his pace into
a lazy walk—for, rapt in my own reflections, I was letting
it jog on as leisurely as it thought proper—I lost ground,
and my fellow-traveller overtook me. He accosted me by
name, for it was no stranger—it was Mr. Lawrence!
Instinctively the fingers of my whip-hand tingled, and grasped
their charge with convulsive energy; but I restrained the
impulse, and answering his salutation with a nod, attempted to
push on; but he pushed on beside me, and began to talk about the
weather and the crops. I gave the briefest possible answers
to his queries and observations, and fell back. He fell
back too, and asked if my horse was lame. I replied with a
look, at which he placidly smiled.
I was as much astonished as exasperated at this singular
pertinacity and imperturbable assurance on his part. I had
thought the circumstances of our last meeting would have left
such an impression on his mind as to render him cold and distant
ever after: instead of that, he appeared not only to have
forgotten all former offences, but to be impenetrable to all
present incivilities. Formerly, the slightest hint, or mere
fancied coldness in tone or glance, had sufficed to repulse him:
now, positive rudeness could not drive him away. Had he
heard of my disappointment; and was he come to witness the
result, and triumph in my despair? I grasped my whip with
more determined energy than before—but still forbore to
raise it, and rode on in silence, waiting for some more tangible
cause of offence, before I opened the floodgates of my soul and
poured out the dammed-up fury that was foaming and swelling
within.
‘Markham,’ said he, in his usual quiet tone,
‘why do you quarrel with your friends, because you have
been disappointed in one quarter? You have found your hopes
defeated; but how am I to blame for it? I warned you
beforehand, you know, but you would not—’
He said no more; for, impelled by some fiend at my elbow, I
had seized my whip by the small end, and—swift and sudden
as a flash of lightning—brought the other down upon his
head. It was not without a feeling of savage satisfaction
that I beheld the instant, deadly pallor that overspread his
face, and the few red drops that trickled down his forehead,
while he reeled a moment in his saddle, and then fell backward to
the ground. The pony, surprised to be so strangely relieved
of its burden, started and capered, and kicked a little, and then
made use of its freedom to go and crop the grass of the
hedge-bank: while its master lay as still and silent as a
corpse. Had I killed him?—an icy hand seemed to grasp
my heart and check its pulsation, as I bent over him, gazing with
breathless intensity upon the ghastly, upturned face. But
no; he moved his eyelids and uttered a slight groan. I
breathed again—he was only stunned by the fall. It
served him right—it would teach him better manners in
future. Should I help him to his horse? No. For
any other combination of offences I would; but his were too
unpardonable. He might mount it himself, if he
liked—in a while: already he was beginning to stir and look
about him—and there it was for him, quietly browsing on the
road-side.
So with a muttered execration I left the fellow to his fate,
and clapping spurs to my own horse, galloped away, excited by a
combination of feelings it would not be easy to analyse; and
perhaps, if I did so, the result would not be very creditable to
my disposition; for I am not sure that a species of exultation in
what I had done was not one principal concomitant.
Shortly, however, the effervescence began to abate, and not
many minutes elapsed before I had turned and gone back to look
after the fate of my victim. It was no generous
impulse—no kind relentings that led me to this—nor
even the fear of what might be the consequences to myself, if I
finished my assault upon the squire by leaving him thus
neglected, and exposed to further injury; it was, simply, the
voice of conscience; and I took great credit to myself for
attending so promptly to its dictates—and judging the merit
of the deed by the sacrifice it cost, I was not far wrong.
Mr. Lawrence and his pony had both altered their positions in
some degree. The pony had wandered eight or ten yards
further away; and he had managed, somehow, to remove himself from
the middle of the road: I found him seated in a recumbent
position on the bank,—looking very white and sickly still,
and holding his cambric handkerchief (now more red than white) to
his head. It must have been a powerful blow; but half the
credit—or the blame of it (which you please) must be
attributed to the whip, which was garnished with a massive
horse’s head of plated metal. The grass, being sodden
with rain, afforded the young gentleman a rather inhospitable
couch; his clothes were considerably bemired; and his hat was
rolling in the mud on the other side of the road. But his
thoughts seemed chiefly bent upon his pony, on which he was
wistfully gazing—half in helpless anxiety, and half in
hopeless abandonment to his fate.
I dismounted, however, and having fastened my own animal to
the nearest tree, first picked up his hat, intending to clap it
on his head; but either he considered his head unfit for a hat,
or the hat, in its present condition, unfit for his head; for
shrinking away the one, he took the other from my hand, and
scornfully cast it aside.
‘It’s good enough for you,’ I muttered.
My next good office was to catch his pony and bring it to him,
which was soon accomplished; for the beast was quiet enough in
the main, and only winced and flirted a trifle till I got hold of
the bridle—but then, I must see him in the saddle.
‘Here, you fellow—scoundrel—dog—give
me your hand, and I’ll help you to mount.’
No; he turned from me in disgust. I attempted to take
him by the arm. He shrank away as if there had been
contamination in my touch.
‘What, you won’t! Well! you may sit there
till doomsday, for what I care. But I suppose you
don’t want to lose all the blood in your
body—I’ll just condescend to bind that up for
you.’
‘Let me alone, if you please.’
‘Humph; with all my heart. You may go to the
d—l, if you choose—and say I sent you.’
But before I abandoned him to his fate I flung his
pony’s bridle over a stake in the hedge, and threw him my
handkerchief, as his own was now saturated with blood. He
took it and cast it back to me in abhorrence and contempt, with
all the strength he could muster. It wanted but this to
fill the measure of his offences. With execrations not loud
but deep I left him to live or die as he could, well satisfied
that I had done my duty in attempting to save him—but
forgetting how I had erred in bringing him into such a condition,
and how insultingly my after-services had been offered—and
sullenly prepared to meet the consequences if he should choose to
say I had attempted to murder him—which I thought not
unlikely, as it seemed probable he was actuated by such spiteful
motives in so perseveringly refusing my assistance.
Having remounted my horse, I just looked back to see how he
was getting on, before I rode away. He had risen from the
ground, and grasping his pony’s mane, was attempting to
resume his seat in the saddle; but scarcely had he put his foot
in the stirrup, when a sickness or dizziness seemed to overpower
him: he leant forward a moment, with his head drooped on the
animal’s back, and then made one more effort, which proving
ineffectual, he sank back on the bank, where I left him, reposing
his head on the oozy turf, and to all appearance, as calmly
reclining as if he had been taking his rest on his sofa at
home.
I ought to have helped him in spite of himself—to have
bound up the wound he was unable to staunch, and insisted upon
getting him on his horse and seeing him safe home; but, besides
my bitter indignation against himself, there was the question
what to say to his servants—and what to my own
family. Either I should have to acknowledge the deed, which
would set me down as a madman, unless I acknowledged the motive
too—and that seemed impossible—or I must get up a
lie, which seemed equally out of the question—especially as
Mr. Lawrence would probably reveal the whole truth, and thereby
bring me to tenfold disgrace—unless I were villain enough,
presuming on the absence of witnesses, to persist in my own
version of the case, and make him out a still greater scoundrel
than he was. No; he had only received a cut above the
temple, and perhaps a few bruises from the fall, or the hoofs of
his own pony: that could not kill him if he lay there half the
day; and, if he could not help himself, surely some one would be
coming by: it would be impossible that a whole day should pass
and no one traverse the road but ourselves. As for what he
might choose to say hereafter, I would take my chance about it:
if he told lies, I would contradict him; if he told the truth, I
would bear it as best I could. I was not obliged to enter
into explanations further than I thought proper. Perhaps he
might choose to be silent on the subject, for fear of raising
inquiries as to the cause of the quarrel, and drawing the public
attention to his connection with Mrs. Graham, which, whether for
her sake or his own, he seemed so very desirous to conceal.
Thus reasoning, I trotted away to the town, where I duly
transacted my business, and performed various little commissions
for my mother and Rose, with very laudable exactitude,
considering the different circumstances of the case. In
returning home, I was troubled with sundry misgivings about the
unfortunate Lawrence. The question, What if I should find
him lying still on the damp earth, fairly dying of cold and
exhaustion—or already stark and chill? thrust itself most
unpleasantly upon my mind, and the appalling possibility pictured
itself with painful vividness to my imagination as I approached
the spot where I had left him. But no, thank heaven, both
man and horse were gone, and nothing was left to witness against
me but two objects—unpleasant enough in themselves to be
sure, and presenting a very ugly, not to say murderous
appearance—in one place, the hat saturated with rain and
coated with mud, indented and broken above the brim by that
villainous whip-handle; in another, the crimson handkerchief,
soaking in a deeply tinctured pool of water—for much rain
had fallen in the interim.
Bad news flies fast: it was hardly four o’clock when I
got home, but my mother gravely accosted me with—‘Oh,
Gilbert!—Such an accident! Rose has been shopping in
the village, and she’s heard that Mr. Lawrence has been
thrown from his horse and brought home dying!’
This shocked me a trifle, as you may suppose; but I was
comforted to hear that he had frightfully fractured his skull and
broken a leg; for, assured of the falsehood of this, I trusted
the rest of the story was equally exaggerated; and when I heard
my mother and sister so feelingly deploring his condition, I had
considerable difficulty in preventing myself from telling them
the real extent of the injuries, as far as I knew them.
‘You must go and see him to-morrow,’ said my
mother.
‘Or to-day,’ suggested Rose: ‘there’s
plenty of time; and you can have the pony, as your horse is
tired. Won’t you, Gilbert—as soon as
you’ve had something to eat?’
‘No, no—how can we tell that it isn’t all a
false report? It’s highly im-’
‘Oh, I’m sure it isn’t; for the village is
all alive about it; and I saw two people that had seen others
that had seen the man that found him. That sounds
far-fetched; but it isn’t so when you think of
it.’
‘Well, but Lawrence is a good rider; it is not likely he
would fall from his horse at all; and if he did, it is highly
improbable he would break his bones in that way. It must be
a gross exaggeration at least.’
‘No; but the horse kicked him—or
something.’
‘What, his quiet little pony?’
‘How do you know it was that?’
‘He seldom rides any other.’
‘At any rate,’ said my mother, ‘you will
call to-morrow. Whether it be true or false, exaggerated or
otherwise, we shall like to know how he is.’
‘Fergus may go.’
‘Why not you?’
‘He has more time. I am busy just now.’
‘Oh! but, Gilbert, how can you be so composed about
it? You won’t mind business for an hour or two in a
case of this sort, when your friend is at the point of
death.’
‘He is not, I tell you.’
‘For anything you know, he may be: you can’t tell
till you have seen him. At all events, he must have met
with some terrible accident, and you ought to see him:
he’ll take it very unkind if you don’t.’
‘Confound it! I can’t. He and I have
not been on good terms of late.’
‘Oh, my dear boy! Surely, surely you are not so
unforgiving as to carry your little differences to such a length
as—’
‘Little differences, indeed!’ I muttered.
‘Well, but only remember the occasion. Think
how—’
‘Well, well, don’t bother me now—I’ll
see about it,’ I replied.
And my seeing about it was to send Fergus next morning, with
my mother’s compliments, to make the requisite inquiries;
for, of course, my going was out of the question—or sending
a message either. He brought back intelligence that the
young squire was laid up with the complicated evils of a broken
head and certain contusions (occasioned by a fall—of which
he did not trouble himself to relate the particulars—and
the subsequent misconduct of his horse), and a severe cold, the
consequence of lying on the wet ground in the rain; but there
were no broken bones, and no immediate prospects of
dissolution.
It was evident, then, that for Mrs. Graham’s sake it was
not his intention to criminate me.
CHAPTER XV
That day was rainy like its predecessor; but towards evening
it began to clear up a little, and the next morning was fair and
promising. I was out on the hill with the reapers. A
light wind swept over the corn, and all nature laughed in the
sunshine. The lark was rejoicing among the silvery floating
clouds. The late rain had so sweetly freshened and cleared
the air, and washed the sky, and left such glittering gems on
branch and blade, that not even the farmers could have the heart
to blame it. But no ray of sunshine could reach my heart,
no breeze could freshen it; nothing could fill the void my faith,
and hope, and joy in Helen Graham had left, or drive away the
keen regrets and bitter dregs of lingering love that still
oppressed it.
While I stood with folded arms abstractedly gazing on the
undulating swell of the corn, not yet disturbed by the reapers,
something gently pulled my skirts, and a small voice, no longer
welcome to my ears, aroused me with the startling
words,—‘Mr. Markham, mamma wants you.’
‘Wants me, Arthur?’
‘Yes. Why do you look so queer?’ said he,
half laughing, half frightened at the unexpected aspect of my
face in suddenly turning towards him,—‘and why have
you kept so long away? Come! Won’t you
come?’
‘I’m busy just now,’ I replied, scarce
knowing what to answer.
He looked up in childish bewilderment; but before I could
speak again the lady herself was at my side.
‘Gilbert, I must speak with you!’ said she, in a
tone of suppressed vehemence.
I looked at her pale cheek and glittering eye, but answered
nothing.
‘Only for a moment,’ pleaded she.
‘Just step aside into this other field.’ She
glanced at the reapers, some of whom were directing looks of
impertinent curiosity towards her. ‘I won’t
keep you a minute.’
I accompanied her through the gap.
‘Arthur, darling, run and gather those bluebells,’
said she, pointing to some that were gleaming at some distance
under the hedge along which we walked. The child hesitated,
as if unwilling to quit my side. ‘Go, love!’
repeated she more urgently, and in a tone which, though not
unkind, demanded prompt obedience, and obtained it.
‘Well, Mrs. Graham?’ said I, calmly and coldly;
for, though I saw she was miserable, and pitied her, I felt glad
to have it in my power to torment her.
She fixed her eyes upon me with a look that pierced me to the
heart; and yet it made me smile.
‘I don’t ask the reason of this change,
Gilbert,’ said she, with bitter calmness: ‘I know it
too well; but though I could see myself suspected and condemned
by every one else, and bear it with calmness, I cannot endure it
from you.—Why did you not come to hear my explanation on
the day I appointed to give it?’
‘Because I happened, in the interim, to learn all you
would have told me—and a trifle more, I imagine.’
‘Impossible, for I would have told you all!’ cried
she, passionately—‘but I won’t now, for I see
you are not worthy of it!’
And her pale lips quivered with agitation.
‘Why not, may I ask?’
She repelled my mocking smile with a glance of scornful
indignation.
‘Because you never understood me, or you would not soon
have listened to my traducers—my confidence would be
misplaced in you—you are not the man I thought you.
Go! I won’t care what you think of me.’
She turned away, and I went; for I thought that would torment
her as much as anything; and I believe I was right; for, looking
back a minute after, I saw her turn half round, as if hoping or
expecting to find me still beside her; and then she stood still,
and cast one look behind. It was a look less expressive of
anger than of bitter anguish and despair; but I immediately
assumed an aspect of indifference, and affected to be gazing
carelessly around me, and I suppose she went on; for after
lingering awhile to see if she would come back or call, I
ventured one more glance, and saw her a good way off, moving
rapidly up the field, with little Arthur running by her side and
apparently talking as he went; but she kept her face averted from
him, as if to hide some uncontrollable emotion. And I
returned to my business.
But I soon began to regret my precipitancy in leaving her so
soon. It was evident she loved me—probably she was
tired of Mr. Lawrence, and wished to exchange him for me; and if
I had loved and reverenced her less to begin with, the preference
might have gratified and amused me; but now the contrast between
her outward seeming and her inward mind, as I
supposed,—between my former and my present opinion of her,
was so harrowing—so distressing to my feelings, that it
swallowed up every lighter consideration.
But still I was curious to know what sort of an explanation
she would have given me—or would give now, if I pressed her
for it—how much she would confess, and how she would
endeavour to excuse herself. I longed to know what to
despise, and what to admire in her; how much to pity, and how
much to hate;—and, what was more, I would know. I
would see her once more, and fairly satisfy myself in what light
to regard her, before we parted. Lost to me she was, for
ever, of course; but still I could not bear to think that we had
parted, for the last time, with so much unkindness and misery on
both sides. That last look of hers had sunk into my heart;
I could not forget it. But what a fool I was! Had she
not deceived me, injured me—blighted my happiness for
life? ‘Well, I’ll see her, however,’ was
my concluding resolve, ‘but not to-day: to-day and to-night
she may think upon her sins, and be as miserable as she will:
to-morrow I will see her once again, and know something more
about her. The interview may be serviceable to her, or it
may not. At any rate, it will give a breath of excitement
to the life she has doomed to stagnation, and may calm with
certainty some agitating thoughts.’
I did go on the morrow, but not till towards evening, after
the business of the day was concluded, that is, between six and
seven; and the westering sun was gleaming redly on the old Hall,
and flaming in the latticed windows, as I reached it, imparting
to the place a cheerfulness not its own. I need not dilate
upon the feelings with which I approached the shrine of my former
divinity—that spot teeming with a thousand delightful
recollections and glorious dreams—all darkened now by one
disastrous truth
Rachel admitted me into the parlour, and went to call her
mistress, for she was not there: but there was her desk left open
on the little round table beside the high-backed chair, with a
book laid upon it. Her limited but choice collection of
books was almost as familiar to me as my own; but this volume I
had not seen before. I took it up. It was Sir Humphry
Davy’s ‘Last Days of a Philosopher,’ and on the
first leaf was written, ‘Frederick Lawrence.’ I
closed the book, but kept it in my hand, and stood facing the
door, with my back to the fire-place, calmly waiting her arrival;
for I did not doubt she would come. And soon I heard her
step in the hall. My heart was beginning to throb, but I
checked it with an internal rebuke, and maintained my
composure—outwardly at least. She entered, calm,
pale, collected.
‘To what am I indebted for this favour, Mr.
Markham?’ said she, with such severe but quiet dignity as
almost disconcerted me; but I answered with a smile, and
impudently enough,—
‘Well, I am come to hear your explanation.’
‘I told you I would not give it,’ said she.
‘I said you were unworthy of my confidence.’
‘Oh, very well,’ replied I, moving to the
door.
‘Stay a moment,’ said she. ‘This is
the last time I shall see you: don’t go just
yet.’
I remained, awaiting her further commands.
‘Tell me,’ resumed she, ‘on what grounds you
believe these things against me; who told you; and what did they
say?’
I paused a moment. She met my eye as unflinchingly as if
her bosom had been steeled with conscious innocence. She
was resolved to know the worst, and determined to dare it
too. ‘I can crush that bold spirit,’ thought
I. But while I secretly exulted in my power, I felt
disposed to dally with my victim like a cat. Showing her
the book that I still held, in my hand, and pointing to the name
on the fly-leaf, but fixing my eye upon her face, I
asked,—‘Do you know that gentleman?’
‘Of course I do,’ replied she; and a sudden flush
suffused her features—whether of shame or anger I could not
tell: it rather resembled the latter. ‘What next,
sir?’
‘How long is it since you saw him?’
‘Who gave you the right to catechize me on this or any
other subject?’
‘Oh, no one!—it’s quite at your option
whether to answer or not. And now, let me ask—have
you heard what has lately befallen this friend of
yours?—because, if you have not—’
‘I will not be insulted, Mr. Markham!’ cried she,
almost infuriated at my manner. ‘So you had better
leave the house at once, if you came only for that.’
‘I did not come to insult you: I came to hear your
explanation.’
‘And I tell you I won’t give it!’ retorted
she, pacing the room in a state of strong excitement, with her
hands clasped tightly together, breathing short, and flashing
fires of indignation from her eyes. ‘I will not
condescend to explain myself to one that can make a jest of such
horrible suspicions, and be so easily led to entertain
them.’
‘I do not make a jest of them, Mrs. Graham,’
returned I, dropping at once my tone of taunting sarcasm.
‘I heartily wish I could find them a jesting matter.
And as to being easily led to suspect, God only knows what a
blind, incredulous fool I have hitherto been, perseveringly
shutting my eyes and stopping my ears against everything that
threatened to shake my confidence in you, till proof itself
confounded my infatuation!’
‘What proof, sir?’
‘Well, I’ll tell you. You remember that
evening when I was here last?’
‘I do.’
‘Even then you dropped some hints that might have opened
the eyes of a wiser man; but they had no such effect upon me: I
went on trusting and believing, hoping against hope, and adoring
where I could not comprehend. It so happened, however, that
after I left you I turned back—drawn by pure depth of
sympathy and ardour of affection—not daring to intrude my
presence openly upon you, but unable to resist the temptation of
catching one glimpse through the window, just to see how you
were: for I had left you apparently in great affliction, and I
partly blamed my own want of forbearance and discretion as the
cause of it. If I did wrong, love alone was my incentive,
and the punishment was severe enough; for it was just as I had
reached that tree, that you came out into the garden with your
friend. Not choosing to show myself, under the
circumstances, I stood still, in the shadow, till you had both
passed by.’
‘And how much of our conversation did you
hear?’
‘I heard quite enough, Helen. And it was well for
me that I did hear it; for nothing less could have cured my
infatuation. I always said and thought, that I would never
believe a word against you, unless I heard it from your own
lips. All the hints and affirmations of others I treated as
malignant, baseless slanders; your own self-accusations I
believed to be overstrained; and all that seemed unaccountable in
your position I trusted that you could account for if you
chose.’
Mrs. Graham had discontinued her walk. She leant against
one end of the chimney-piece, opposite that near which I was
standing, with her chin resting on her closed hand, her
eyes—no longer burning with anger, but gleaming with
restless excitement—sometimes glancing at me while I spoke,
then coursing the opposite wall, or fixed upon the carpet.
‘You should have come to me after all,’ said she,
‘and heard what I had to say in my own justification.
It was ungenerous and wrong to withdraw yourself so secretly and
suddenly, immediately after such ardent protestations of
attachment, without ever assigning a reason for the change.
You should have told me all-no matter how bitterly. It
would have been better than this silence.’
‘To what end should I have done so? You could not
have enlightened me further, on the subject which alone concerned
me; nor could you have made me discredit the evidence of my
senses. I desired our intimacy to be discontinued at once,
as you yourself had acknowledged would probably be the case if I
knew all; but I did not wish to upbraid you,—though (as you
also acknowledged) you had deeply wronged me. Yes, you have
done me an injury you can never repair—or any other
either—you have blighted the freshness and promise of
youth, and made my life a wilderness! I might live a
hundred years, but I could never recover from the effects of this
withering blow—and never forget it!
Hereafter—You smile, Mrs. Graham,’ said I, suddenly
stopping short, checked in my passionate declamation by
unutterable feelings to behold her actually smiling at the
picture of the ruin she had wrought.
‘Did I?’ replied she, looking seriously up;
‘I was not aware of it. If I did, it was not for
pleasure at the thoughts of the harm I had done you. Heaven
knows I have had torment enough at the bare possibility of that;
it was for joy to find that you had some depth of soul and
feeling after all, and to hope that I had not been utterly
mistaken in your worth. But smiles and tears are so alike
with me, they are neither of them confined to any particular
feelings: I often cry when I am happy, and smile when I am
sad.’
She looked at me again, and seemed to expect a reply; but I
continued silent.
‘Would you be very glad,’ resumed she, ‘to
find that you were mistaken in your conclusions?’
‘How can you ask it, Helen?’
‘I don’t say I can clear myself altogether,’
said she, speaking low and fast, while her heart beat visibly and
her bosom heaved with excitement,—‘but would you be
glad to discover I was better than you think me?’
‘Anything that could in the least degree tend to restore
my former opinion of you, to excuse the regard I still feel for
you, and alleviate the pangs of unutterable regret that accompany
it, would be only too gladly, too eagerly received!’
Her cheeks burned, and her whole frame trembled, now, with excess
of agitation. She did not speak, but flew to her desk, and
snatching thence what seemed a thick album or manuscript volume,
hastily tore away a few leaves from the end, and thrust the rest
into my hand, saying, ‘You needn’t read it all; but
take it home with you,’ and hurried from the room.
But when I had left the house, and was proceeding down the walk,
she opened the window and called me back. It was only to
say,—‘Bring it back when you have read it; and
don’t breathe a word of what it tells you to any living
being. I trust to your honour.’
Before I could answer she had closed the casement and turned
away. I saw her cast herself back in the old oak chair, and
cover her face with her hands. Her feelings had been
wrought to a pitch that rendered it necessary to seek relief in
tears.
Panting with eagerness, and struggling to suppress my hopes, I
hurried home, and rushed up-stairs to my room, having first
provided myself with a candle, though it was scarcely twilight
yet—then, shut and bolted the door, determined to tolerate
no interruption; and sitting down before the table, opened out my
prize and delivered myself up to its perusal—first hastily
turning over the leaves and snatching a sentence here and there,
and then setting myself steadily to read it through.
I have it now before me; and though you could not, of course,
peruse it with half the interest that I did, I know you would not
be satisfied with an abbreviation of its contents, and you shall
have the whole, save, perhaps, a few passages here and there of
merely temporary interest to the writer, or such as would serve
to encumber the story rather than elucidate it. It begins
somewhat abruptly, thus—but we will reserve its
commencement for another chapter.
CHAPTER XVI
June 1st, 1821.—We have just returned to
Staningley—that is, we returned some days ago, and I am not
yet settled, and feel as if I never should be. We left town
sooner than was intended, in consequence of my uncle’s
indisposition;—I wonder what would have been the result if
we had stayed the full time. I am quite ashamed of my
new-sprung distaste for country life. All my former
occupations seem so tedious and dull, my former amusements so
insipid and unprofitable. I cannot enjoy my music, because
there is no one to hear it. I cannot enjoy my walks,
because there is no one to meet. I cannot enjoy my books,
because they have not power to arrest my attention: my head is so
haunted with the recollections of the last few weeks, that I
cannot attend to them. My drawing suits me best, for I can
draw and think at the same time; and if my productions cannot now
be seen by any one but myself, and those who do not care about
them, they, possibly, may be, hereafter. But, then, there
is one face I am always trying to paint or to sketch, and always
without success; and that vexes me. As for the owner of
that face, I cannot get him out of my mind—and, indeed, I
never try. I wonder whether he ever thinks of me; and I
wonder whether I shall ever see him again. And then might
follow a train of other wonderments—questions for time and
fate to answer—concluding with—Supposing all the rest
be answered in the affirmative, I wonder whether I shall ever
repent it? as my aunt would tell me I should, if she knew what I
was thinking about.
How distinctly I remember our conversation that evening before
our departure for town, when we were sitting together over the
fire, my uncle having gone to bed with a slight attack of the
gout.
‘Helen,’ said she, after a thoughtful silence,
‘do you ever think about marriage?’
‘Yes, aunt, often.’
‘And do you ever contemplate the possibility of being
married yourself, or engaged, before the season is
over?’
‘Sometimes; but I don’t think it at all likely
that I ever shall.’
‘Why so?’
‘Because, I imagine, there must be only a very, very few
men in the world that I should like to marry; and of those few,
it is ten to one I may never be acquainted with one; or if I
should, it is twenty to one he may not happen to be single, or to
take a fancy to me.’
‘That is no argument at all. It may be very
true—and I hope is true, that there are very few men whom
you would choose to marry, of yourself. It is not, indeed,
to be supposed that you would wish to marry any one till you were
asked: a girl’s affections should never be won
unsought. But when they are sought—when the citadel
of the heart is fairly besieged—it is apt to surrender
sooner than the owner is aware of, and often against her better
judgment, and in opposition to all her preconceived ideas of what
she could have loved, unless she be extremely careful and
discreet. Now, I want to warn you, Helen, of these things,
and to exhort you to be watchful and circumspect from the very
commencement of your career, and not to suffer your heart to be
stolen from you by the first foolish or unprincipled person that
covets the possession of it.—You know, my dear, you are
only just eighteen; there is plenty of time before you, and
neither your uncle nor I are in any hurry to get you off our
hands, and I may venture to say, there will be no lack of
suitors; for you can boast a good family, a pretty considerable
fortune and expectations, and, I may as well tell you
likewise—for, if I don’t, others will—that you
have a fair share of beauty besides—and I hope you may
never have cause to regret it!’
‘I hope not, aunt; but why should you fear
it?’
‘Because, my dear, beauty is that quality which, next to
money, is generally the most attractive to the worst kinds of
men; and, therefore, it is likely to entail a great deal of
trouble on the possessor.’
‘Have you been troubled in that way, aunt?’
‘No, Helen,’ said she, with reproachful gravity,
‘but I know many that have; and some, through carelessness,
have been the wretched victims of deceit; and some, through
weakness, have fallen into snares and temptations terrible to
relate.’
‘Well, I shall be neither careless nor weak.’
‘Remember Peter, Helen! Don’t boast, but
watch. Keep a guard over your eyes and ears as the inlets
of your heart, and over your lips as the outlet, lest they betray
you in a moment of unwariness. Receive, coldly and
dispassionately, every attention, till you have ascertained and
duly considered the worth of the aspirant; and let your
affections be consequent upon approbation alone. First
study; then approve; then love. Let your eyes be blind to
all external attractions, your ears deaf to all the fascinations
of flattery and light discourse.—These are
nothing—and worse than nothing—snares and wiles of
the tempter, to lure the thoughtless to their own
destruction. Principle is the first thing, after all; and
next to that, good sense, respectability, and moderate
wealth. If you should marry the handsomest, and most
accomplished and superficially agreeable man in the world, you
little know the misery that would overwhelm you if, after all,
you should find him to be a worthless reprobate, or even an
impracticable fool.’
‘But what are all the poor fools and reprobates to do,
aunt? If everybody followed your advice, the world would
soon come to an end.’
‘Never fear, my dear! the male fools and reprobates will
never want for partners, while there are so many of the other sex
to match them; but do you follow my advice. And this is no
subject for jesting, Helen—I am sorry to see you treat the
matter in that light way. Believe me, matrimony is a
serious thing.’ And she spoke it so seriously, that one
might have fancied she had known it to her cost; but I asked no
more impertinent questions, and merely answered,—‘I
know it is; and I know there is truth and sense in what you say;
but you need not fear me, for I not only should think it wrong to
marry a man that was deficient in sense or in principle, but I
should never be tempted to do it; for I could not like him, if he
were ever so handsome, and ever so charming, in other respects; I
should hate him—despise him—pity him—anything
but love him. My affections not only ought to be founded on
approbation, but they will and must be so: for, without
approving, I cannot love. It is needless to say, I ought to
be able to respect and honour the man I marry, as well as love
him, for I cannot love him without. So set your mind at
rest.’
‘I hope it may be so,’ answered she.
‘I know it is so,’ persisted I.
‘You have not been tried yet, Helen—we can but
hope,’ said she in her cold, cautious way.
‘I was vexed at her incredulity; but I am not sure her
doubts were entirely without sagacity; I fear I have found it
much easier to remember her advice than to profit by
it;—indeed, I have sometimes been led to question the
soundness of her doctrines on those subjects. Her counsels
may be good, as far as they go—in the main points at
least;—but there are some things she has overlooked in her
calculations. I wonder if she was ever in love.
I commenced my career—or my first campaign, as my uncle
calls it—kindling with bright hopes and
fancies—chiefly raised by this conversation—and full
of confidence in my own discretion. At first, I was
delighted with the novelty and excitement of our London life; but
soon I began to weary of its mingled turbulence and constraint,
and sigh for the freshness and freedom of home. My new
acquaintances, both male and female, disappointed my
expectations, and vexed and depressed me by turns; for I soon
grew tired of studying their peculiarities, and laughing at their
foibles—particularly as I was obliged to keep my criticisms
to myself, for my aunt would not hear them—and
they—the ladies especially—appeared so provokingly
mindless, and heartless, and artificial. The gentlemen
seemed better, but, perhaps, it was because I knew them
less—perhaps, because they flattered me; but I did not fall
in love with any of them; and, if their attentions pleased me one
moment, they provoked me the next, because they put me out of
humour with myself, by revealing my vanity and making me fear I
was becoming like some of the ladies I so heartily despised.
There was one elderly gentleman that annoyed me very much; a
rich old friend of my uncle’s, who, I believe, thought I
could not do better than marry him; but, besides being old, he
was ugly and disagreeable,—and wicked, I am sure, though my
aunt scolded me for saying so; but she allowed he was no
saint. And there was another, less hateful, but still more
tiresome, because she favoured him, and was always thrusting him
upon me, and sounding his praises in my ears—Mr. Boarham by
name, Bore’em, as I prefer spelling it, for a terrible bore
he was: I shudder still at the remembrance of his
voice—drone, drone, drone, in my ear—while he sat
beside me, prosing away by the half-hour together, and beguiling
himself with the notion that he was improving my mind by useful
information, or impressing his dogmas upon me and reforming my
errors of judgment, or perhaps that he was talking down to my
level, and amusing me with entertaining discourse. Yet he
was a decent man enough in the main, I daresay; and if he had
kept his distance, I never would have hated him. As it was,
it was almost impossible to help it, for he not only bothered me
with the infliction of his own presence, but he kept me from the
enjoyment of more agreeable society.
One night, however, at a ball, he had been more than usually
tormenting, and my patience was quite exhausted. It
appeared as if the whole evening was fated to be insupportable: I
had just had one dance with an empty-headed coxcomb, and then Mr.
Boarham had come upon me and seemed determined to cling to me for
the rest of the night. He never danced himself, and there
he sat, poking his head in my face, and impressing all beholders
with the idea that he was a confirmed, acknowledged lover; my
aunt looking complacently on all the time, and wishing him
God-speed. In vain I attempted to drive him away by giving
a loose to my exasperated feelings, even to positive rudeness:
nothing could convince him that his presence was
disagreeable. Sullen silence was taken for rapt attention,
and gave him greater room to talk; sharp answers were received as
smart sallies of girlish vivacity, that only required an
indulgent rebuke; and flat contradictions were but as oil to the
flames, calling forth new strains of argument to support his
dogmas, and bringing down upon me endless floods of reasoning to
overwhelm me with conviction.
But there was one present who seemed to have a better
appreciation of my frame of mind. A gentleman stood by, who
had been watching our conference for some time, evidently much
amused at my companion’s remorseless pertinacity and my
manifest annoyance, and laughing to himself at the asperity and
uncompromising spirit of my replies. At length, however, he
withdrew, and went to the lady of the house, apparently for the
purpose of asking an introduction to me, for, shortly after, they
both came up, and she introduced him as Mr. Huntingdon, the son
of a late friend of my uncle’s. He asked me to
dance. I gladly consented, of course; and he was my
companion during the remainder of my stay, which was not long,
for my aunt, as usual, insisted upon an early departure.
I was sorry to go, for I had found my new acquaintance a very
lively and entertaining companion. There was a certain
graceful ease and freedom about all he said and did, that gave a
sense of repose and expansion to the mind, after so much
constraint and formality as I had been doomed to suffer.
There might be, it is true, a little too much careless boldness
in his manner and address, but I was in so good a humour, and so
grateful for my late deliverance from Mr. Boarham, that it did
not anger me.
‘Well, Helen, how do you like Mr. Boarham now?’
said my aunt, as we took our seats in the carriage and drove
away.
‘Worse than ever,’ I replied.
She looked displeased, but said no more on that subject.
‘Who was the gentleman you danced with last,’
resumed she, after a pause—‘that was so officious in
helping you on with your shawl?’
‘He was not officious at all, aunt: he never attempted
to help me till he saw Mr. Boarham coming to do so; and then he
stepped laughingly forward and said, “Come, I’ll
preserve you from that infliction.”’
‘Who was it, I ask?’ said she, with frigid
gravity.
‘It was Mr. Huntingdon, the son of uncle’s old
friend.’
‘I have heard your uncle speak of young Mr.
Huntingdon. I’ve heard him say, “He’s a
fine lad, that young Huntingdon, but a bit wildish, I
fancy.” So I’d have you beware.’
‘What does “a bit wildish” mean?’ I
inquired.
‘It means destitute of principle, and prone to every
vice that is common to youth.’
‘But I’ve heard uncle say he was a sad wild fellow
himself, when he was young.’
She sternly shook her head.
‘He was jesting then, I suppose,’ said I,
‘and here he was speaking at random—at least, I
cannot believe there is any harm in those laughing blue
eyes.’
‘False reasoning, Helen!’ said she, with a
sigh.
‘Well, we ought to be charitable, you know,
aunt—besides, I don’t think it is false: I am an
excellent physiognomist, and I always judge of people’s
characters by their looks—not by whether they are handsome
or ugly, but by the general cast of the countenance. For
instance, I should know by your countenance that you were not of
a cheerful, sanguine disposition; and I should know by Mr.
Wilmot’s, that he was a worthless old reprobate; and by Mr.
Boarham’s, that he was not an agreeable companion; and by
Mr. Huntingdon’s, that he was neither a fool nor a knave,
though, possibly, neither a sage nor a saint—but that is no
matter to me, as I am not likely to meet him again—unless
as an occasional partner in the ball-room.’
It was not so, however, for I met him again next
morning. He came to call upon my uncle, apologising for not
having done so before, by saying he was only lately returned from
the Continent, and had not heard, till the previous night, of my
uncle’s arrival in town; and after that I often met him;
sometimes in public, sometimes at home; for he was very assiduous
in paying his respects to his old friend, who did not, however,
consider himself greatly obliged by the attention.
‘I wonder what the deuce the lad means by coming so
often,’ he would say,—‘can you tell,
Helen?—Hey? He wants none o’ my company, nor I
his—that’s certain.’
‘I wish you’d tell him so, then,’ said my
aunt.
‘Why, what for? If I don’t want him,
somebody does, mayhap’ (winking at me).
‘Besides, he’s a pretty tidy fortune, Peggy, you
know—not such a catch as Wilmot; but then Helen won’t
hear of that match: for, somehow, these old chaps don’t go
down with the girls—with all their money, and their
experience to boot. I’ll bet anything she’d
rather have this young fellow without a penny, than Wilmot with
his house full of gold. Wouldn’t you,
Nell?’
‘Yes, uncle; but that’s not saying much for Mr.
Huntingdon; for I’d rather be an old maid and a pauper than
Mrs. Wilmot.’
‘And Mrs. Huntingdon? What would you rather be
than Mrs. Huntingdon—eh?’
‘I’ll tell you when I’ve considered the
matter.’
‘Ah! it needs consideration, then? But come,
now—would you rather be an old maid—let alone the
pauper?’
‘I can’t tell till I’m asked.’
And I left the room immediately, to escape further
examination. But five minutes after, in looking from my
window, I beheld Mr. Boarham coming up to the door. I
waited nearly half-an-hour in uncomfortable suspense, expecting
every minute to be called, and vainly longing to hear him
go. Then footsteps were heard on the stairs, and my aunt
entered the room with a solemn countenance, and closed the door
behind her.
‘Here is Mr. Boarham, Helen,’ said she.
‘He wishes to see you.’
‘Oh, aunt!—Can’t you tell him I’m
indisposed?—I’m sure I am—to see
him.’
‘Nonsense, my dear! this is no trifling matter. He
is come on a very important errand—to ask your hand in
marriage of your uncle and me.’
‘I hope my uncle and you told him it was not in your
power to give it. What right had he to ask any one before
me?’
‘Helen!’
‘What did my uncle say?’
‘He said he would not interfere in the matter; if you
liked to accept Mr. Boarham’s obliging offer,
you—’
‘Did he say obliging offer?’
‘No; he said if you liked to take him you might; and if
not, you might please yourself.’
‘He said right; and what did you say?’
‘It is no matter what I said. What will you
say?—that is the question. He is now waiting to ask
you himself; but consider well before you go; and if you intend
to refuse him, give me your reasons.’
‘I shall refuse him, of course; but you must tell me
how, for I want to be civil and yet decided—and when
I’ve got rid of him, I’ll give you my reasons
afterwards.’
‘But stay, Helen; sit down a little and compose
yourself. Mr. Boarham is in no particular hurry, for he has
little doubt of your acceptance; and I want to speak with
you. Tell me, my dear, what are your objections to
him? Do you deny that he is an upright, honourable
man?’
‘No.’
‘Do you deny that he is sensible, sober,
respectable?’
‘No; he may be all this, but—’
‘But, Helen! How many such men do you expect to
meet with in the world? Upright, honourable, sensible,
sober, respectable! Is this such an every-day character
that you should reject the possessor of such noble qualities
without a moment’s hesitation? Yes, noble I may call
them; for think of the full meaning of each, and how many
inestimable virtues they include (and I might add many more to
the list), and consider that all this is laid at your feet.
It is in your power to secure this inestimable blessing for
life—a worthy and excellent husband, who loves you
tenderly, but not too fondly so as to blind him to your faults,
and will be your guide throughout life’s pilgrimage, and
your partner in eternal bliss. Think how—’
‘But I hate him, aunt,’ said I, interrupting this
unusual flow of eloquence.
‘Hate him, Helen! Is this a Christian
spirit?—you hate him? and he so good a man!’
‘I don’t hate him as a man, but as a
husband. As a man, I love him so much that I wish him a
better wife than I—one as good as himself, or
better—if you think that possible—provided she could
like him; but I never could, and therefore—’
‘But why not? What objection do you
find?’
‘Firstly, he is at least forty years
old—considerably more, I should think—and I am but
eighteen; secondly, he is narrow-minded and bigoted in the
extreme; thirdly, his tastes and feelings are wholly dissimilar
to mine; fourthly, his looks, voice, and manner are particularly
displeasing to me; and, finally, I have an aversion to his whole
person that I never can surmount.’
‘Then you ought to surmount it. And please to
compare him for a moment with Mr. Huntingdon, and, good looks
apart (which contribute nothing to the merit of the man, or to
the happiness of married life, and which you have so often
professed to hold in light esteem), tell me which is the better
man.’
‘I have no doubt Mr. Huntingdon is a much better man
than you think him; but we are not talking about him now, but
about Mr. Boarham; and as I would rather grow, live, and die in
single blessedness—than be his wife, it is but right that I
should tell him so at once, and put him out of suspense—so
let me go.’
‘But don’t give him a flat denial; he has no idea
of such a thing, and it would offend him greatly: say you have no
thoughts of matrimony at present—’
‘But I have thoughts of it.’
‘Or that you desire a further acquaintance.’
‘But I don’t desire a further
acquaintance—quite the contrary.’
And without waiting for further admonitions I left the room
and went to seek Mr. Boarham. He was walking up and down
the drawing-room, humming snatches of tunes and nibbling the end
of his cane.
‘My dear young lady,’ said he, bowing and smirking
with great complacency, ‘I have your kind guardian’s
permission—’
‘I know, sir,’ said I, wishing to shorten the
scene as much as possible, ‘and I am greatly obliged for
your preference, but must beg to decline the honour you wish to
confer, for I think we were not made for each other, as you
yourself would shortly discover if the experiment were
tried.’
My aunt was right. It was quite evident he had had
little doubt of my acceptance, and no idea of a positive
denial. He was amazed, astounded at such an answer, but too
incredulous to be much offended; and after a little humming and
hawing, he returned to the attack.
‘I know, my dear, that there exists a considerable
disparity between us in years, in temperament, and perhaps some
other things; but let me assure you, I shall not be severe to
mark the faults and foibles of a young and ardent nature such as
yours, and while I acknowledge them to myself, and even rebuke
them with all a father’s care, believe me, no youthful
lover could be more tenderly indulgent towards the object of his
affections than I to you; and, on the other hand, let me hope
that my more experienced years and graver habits of reflection
will be no disparagement in your eyes, as I shall endeavour to
make them all conducive to your happiness. Come, now!
What do you say? Let us have no young lady’s
affectations and caprices, but speak out at once.’
‘I will, but only to repeat what I said before, that I
am certain we were not made for each other.’
‘You really think so?’
‘I do.’
‘But you don’t know me—you wish for a
further acquaintance—a longer time to—’
‘No, I don’t. I know you as well as I ever
shall, and better than you know me, or you would never dream of
uniting yourself to one so incongruous—so utterly
unsuitable to you in every way.’
‘But, my dear young lady, I don’t look for
perfection; I can excuse—’
‘Thank you, Mr. Boarham, but I won’t trespass upon
your goodness. You may save your indulgence and
consideration for some more worthy object, that won’t tax
them so heavily.’
‘But let me beg you to consult your aunt; that excellent
lady, I am sure, will—’
‘I have consulted her; and I know her wishes coincide
with yours; but in such important matters, I take the liberty of
judging for myself; and no persuasion can alter my inclinations,
or induce me to believe that such a step would be conducive to my
happiness or yours—and I wonder that a man of your
experience and discretion should think of choosing such a
wife.’
‘Ah, well!’ said he, ‘I have sometimes
wondered at that myself. I have sometimes said to myself,
“Now Boarham, what is this you’re after? Take
care, man—look before you leap! This is a sweet,
bewitching creature, but remember, the brightest attractions to
the lover too often prove the husband’s greatest
torments!” I assure you my choice has not been made
without much reasoning and reflection. The seeming
imprudence of the match has cost me many an anxious thought by
day, and many a sleepless hour by night; but at length I
satisfied myself that it was not, in very deed, imprudent.
I saw my sweet girl was not without her faults, but of these her
youth, I trusted, was not one, but rather an earnest of virtues
yet unblown—a strong ground of presumption that her little
defects of temper and errors of judgment, opinion, or manner were
not irremediable, but might easily be removed or mitigated by the
patient efforts of a watchful and judicious adviser, and where I
failed to enlighten and control, I thought I might safely
undertake to pardon, for the sake of her many excellences.
Therefore, my dearest girl, since I am satisfied, why should you
object—on my account, at least?’
‘But to tell you the truth, Mr. Boarham, it is on my own
account I principally object; so let us—drop the
subject,’ I would have said, ‘for it is worse than
useless to pursue it any further,’ but he pertinaciously
interrupted me with,—‘But why so? I would love
you, cherish you, protect you,’ &c., &c.
I shall not trouble myself to put down all that passed between
us. Suffice it to say, that I found him very troublesome,
and very hard to convince that I really meant what I said, and
really was so obstinate and blind to my own interests, that there
was no shadow of a chance that either he or my aunt would ever be
able to overcome my objections. Indeed, I am not sure that
I succeeded after all; though wearied with his so pertinaciously
returning to the same point and repeating the same arguments over
and over again, forcing me to reiterate the same replies, I at
length turned short and sharp upon him, and my last words
were,—‘I tell you plainly, that it cannot be.
No consideration can induce me to marry against my
inclinations. I respect you—at least, I would respect
you, if you would behave like a sensible man—but I cannot
love you, and never could—and the more you talk the further
you repel me; so pray don’t say any more about
it.’
Whereupon he wished me a good-morning, and withdrew,
disconcerted and offended, no doubt; but surely it was not my
fault.
CHAPTER XVII
The next day I accompanied my uncle and aunt to a dinner-party
at Mr. Wilmot’s. He had two ladies staying with him:
his niece Annabella, a fine dashing girl, or rather young
woman,—of some five-and-twenty, too great a flirt to be
married, according to her own assertion, but greatly admired by
the gentlemen, who universally pronounced her a splendid woman;
and her gentle cousin, Milicent Hargrave, who had taken a violent
fancy to me, mistaking me for something vastly better than I
was. And I, in return, was very fond of her. I should
entirely exclude poor Milicent in my general animadversions
against the ladies of my acquaintance. But it was not on
her account, or her cousin’s, that I have mentioned the
party: it was for the sake of another of Mr. Wilmot’s
guests, to wit Mr. Huntingdon. I have good reason to
remember his presence there, for this was the last time I saw
him.
He did not sit near me at dinner; for it was his fate to hand
in a capacious old dowager, and mine to be handed in by Mr.
Grimsby, a friend of his, but a man I very greatly disliked:
there was a sinister cast in his countenance, and a mixture of
lurking ferocity and fulsome insincerity in his demeanour, that I
could not away with. What a tiresome custom that is,
by-the-by—one among the many sources of factitious
annoyance of this ultra-civilised life. If the gentlemen
must lead the ladies into the dining-room, why cannot they take
those they like best?
I am not sure, however, that Mr. Huntingdon would have taken
me, if he had been at liberty to make his own selection. It
is quite possible he might have chosen Miss Wilmot; for she
seemed bent upon engrossing his attention to herself, and he
seemed nothing loth to pay the homage she demanded. I
thought so, at least, when I saw how they talked and laughed, and
glanced across the table, to the neglect and evident umbrage of
their respective neighbours—and afterwards, as the
gentlemen joined us in the drawing-room, when she, immediately
upon his entrance, loudly called upon him to be the arbiter of a
dispute between herself and another lady, and he answered the
summons with alacrity, and decided the question without a
moment’s hesitation in her favour—though, to my
thinking, she was obviously in the wrong—and then stood
chatting familiarly with her and a group of other ladies; while I
sat with Milicent Hargrave at the opposite end of the room,
looking over the latter’s drawings, and aiding her with my
critical observations and advice, at her particular desire.
But in spite of my efforts to remain composed, my attention
wandered from the drawings to the merry group, and against my
better judgment my wrath rose, and doubtless my countenance
lowered; for Milicent, observing that I must be tired of her
daubs and scratches, begged I would join the company now, and
defer the examination of the remainder to another
opportunity. But while I was assuring her that I had no
wish to join them, and was not tired, Mr. Huntingdon himself came
up to the little round table at which we sat.
‘Are these yours?’ said he, carelessly taking up
one of the drawings.
‘No, they are Miss Hargrave’s.’
‘Oh! well, let’s have a look at them.’
And, regardless of Miss Hargrave’s protestations that
they were not worth looking at, he drew a chair to my side, and
receiving the drawings, one by one from my hand, successively
scanned them over, and threw them on the table, but said not a
word about them, though he was talking all the time. I
don’t know what Milicent Hargrave thought of such conduct,
but I found his conversation extremely interesting; though, as I
afterwards discovered, when I came to analyse it, it was chiefly
confined to quizzing the different members of the company
present; and albeit he made some clever remarks, and some
excessively droll ones, I do not think the whole would appear
anything very particular, if written here, without the
adventitious aids of look, and tone, and gesture, and that
ineffable but indefinite charm, which cast a halo over all he did
and said, and which would have made it a delight to look in his
face, and hear the music of his voice, if he had been talking
positive nonsense—and which, moreover, made me feel so
bitter against my aunt when she put a stop to this enjoyment, by
coming composedly forward, under pretence of wishing to see the
drawings, that she cared and knew nothing about, and while making
believe to examine them, addressing herself to Mr. Huntingdon,
with one of her coldest and most repellent aspects, and beginning
a series of the most common-place and formidably formal questions
and observations, on purpose to wrest his attention from
me—on purpose to vex me, as I thought: and having now
looked through the portfolio, I left them to their
tête-à-tête, and seated myself on a
sofa, quite apart from the company—never thinking how
strange such conduct would appear, but merely to indulge, at
first, the vexation of the moment, and subsequently to enjoy my
private thoughts.
But I was not left long alone, for Mr. Wilmot, of all men the
least welcome, took advantage of my isolated position to come and
plant himself beside me. I had flattered myself that I had
so effectually repulsed his advances on all former occasions,
that I had nothing more to apprehend from his unfortunate
predilection; but it seems I was mistaken: so great was his
confidence, either in his wealth or his remaining powers of
attraction, and so firm his conviction of feminine weakness, that
he thought himself warranted to return to the siege, which he did
with renovated ardour, enkindled by the quantity of wine he had
drunk—a circumstance that rendered him infinitely the more
disgusting; but greatly as I abhorred him at that moment, I did
not like to treat him with rudeness, as I was now his guest, and
had just been enjoying his hospitality; and I was no hand at a
polite but determined rejection, nor would it have greatly
availed me if I had, for he was too coarse-minded to take any
repulse that was not as plain and positive as his own
effrontery. The consequence was, that he waxed more
fulsomely tender, and more repulsively warm, and I was driven to
the very verge of desperation, and about to say I know not what,
when I felt my hand, that hung over the arm of the sofa, suddenly
taken by another and gently but fervently pressed.
Instinctively, I guessed who it was, and, on looking up, was less
surprised than delighted to see Mr. Huntingdon smiling upon
me. It was like turning from some purgatorial fiend to an
angel of light, come to announce that the season of torment was
past.
‘Helen,’ said he (he frequently called me Helen,
and I never resented the freedom), ‘I want you to look at
this picture. Mr. Wilmot will excuse you a moment,
I’m sure.’
I rose with alacrity. He drew my arm within his, and led
me across the room to a splendid painting of Vandyke’s that
I had noticed before, but not sufficiently examined. After
a moment of silent contemplation, I was beginning to comment on
its beauties and peculiarities, when, playfully pressing the hand
he still retained within his arm, he interrupted me
with,—‘Never mind the picture: it was not for that I
brought you here; it was to get you away from that scoundrelly
old profligate yonder, who is looking as if he would like to
challenge me for the affront.’
‘I am very much obliged to you,’ said I.
‘This is twice you have delivered me from such unpleasant
companionship.’
‘Don’t be too thankful,’ he answered:
‘it is not all kindness to you; it is partly from a feeling
of spite to your tormentors that makes me delighted to do the old
fellows a bad turn, though I don’t think I have any great
reason to dread them as rivals. Have I, Helen?’
‘You know I detest them both.’
‘And me?’
‘I have no reason to detest you.’
‘But what are your sentiments towards me?
Helen—Speak! How do you regard me?’
And again he pressed my hand; but I feared there was more of
conscious power than tenderness in his demeanour, and I felt he
had no right to extort a confession of attachment from me when he
had made no correspondent avowal himself, and knew not what to
answer. At last I said,—‘How do you regard
me?’
‘Sweet angel, I adore you! I—’
‘Helen, I want you a moment,’ said the distinct,
low voice of my aunt, close beside us. And I left him,
muttering maledictions against his evil angel.
‘Well, aunt, what is it? What do you want?’
said I, following her to the embrasure of the window.
‘I want you to join the company, when you are fit to be
seen,’ returned she, severely regarding me; ‘but
please to stay here a little, till that shocking colour is
somewhat abated, and your eyes have recovered something of their
natural expression. I should be ashamed for anyone to see
you in your present state.’
Of course, such a remark had no effect in reducing the
‘shocking colour’; on the contrary, I felt my face
glow with redoubled fires kindled by a complication of emotions,
of which indignant, swelling anger was the chief. I offered
no reply, however, but pushed aside the curtain and looked into
the night—or rather into the lamp-lit square.
‘Was Mr. Huntingdon proposing to you, Helen?’
inquired my too watchful relative.
‘No.’
‘What was he saying then? I heard something very
like it.’
‘I don’t know what he would have said, if you
hadn’t interrupted him.’
‘And would you have accepted him, Helen, if he had
proposed?’
‘Of course not—without consulting uncle and
you.’
‘Oh! I’m glad, my dear, you have so much
prudence left. Well, now,’ she added, after a
moment’s pause, ‘you have made yourself conspicuous
enough for one evening. The ladies are directing inquiring
glances towards us at this moment, I see: I shall join
them. Do you come too, when you are sufficiently composed
to appear as usual.’
‘I am so now.’
‘Speak gently then, and don’t look so
malicious,’ said my calm, but provoking aunt.
‘We shall return home shortly, and then,’ she added
with solemn significance, ‘I have much to say to
you.’
So I went home prepared for a formidable lecture. Little
was said by either party in the carriage during our short transit
homewards; but when I had entered my room and thrown myself into
an easy-chair, to reflect on the events of the day, my aunt
followed me thither, and having dismissed Rachel, who was
carefully stowing away my ornaments, closed the door; and placing
a chair beside me, or rather at right angles with mine, sat
down. With due deference I offered her my more commodious
seat. She declined it, and thus opened the conference:
‘Do you remember, Helen, our conversation the night but one
before we left Staningley?’
‘Yes, aunt.’
‘And do you remember how I warned you against letting
your heart be stolen from you by those unworthy of its
possession, and fixing your affections where approbation did not
go before, and where reason and judgment withheld their
sanction?’
‘Yes; but my reason—’
‘Pardon me—and do you remember assuring me that
there was no occasion for uneasiness on your account; for you
should never be tempted to marry a man who was deficient in sense
or principle, however handsome or charming in other respects he
might be, for you could not love him; you should
hate—despise—pity—anything but love
him—were not those your words?’
‘Yes; but—’
‘And did you not say that your affection must be founded
on approbation; and that, unless you could approve and honour and
respect, you could not love?’
‘Yes; but I do approve, and honour, and
respect—’
‘How so, my dear? Is Mr. Huntingdon a good
man?’
‘He is a much better man than you think him.’
‘That is nothing to the purpose. Is he a good
man?’
‘Yes—in some respects. He has a good
disposition.’
‘Is he a man of principle?’
‘Perhaps not, exactly; but it is only for want of
thought. If he had some one to advise him, and remind him
of what is right—’
‘He would soon learn, you think—and you yourself
would willingly undertake to be his teacher? But, my dear,
he is, I believe, full ten years older than you—how is it
that you are so beforehand in moral acquirements?’
‘Thanks to you, aunt, I have been well brought up, and
had good examples always before me, which he, most likely, has
not; and, besides, he is of a sanguine temperament, and a gay,
thoughtless temper, and I am naturally inclined to
reflection.’
‘Well, now you have made him out to be deficient in both
sense and principle, by your own confession—’
‘Then, my sense and my principle are at his
service.’
‘That sounds presumptuous, Helen. Do you think you
have enough for both; and do you imagine your merry, thoughtless
profligate would allow himself to be guided by a young girl like
you?’
‘No; I should not wish to guide him; but I think I might
have influence sufficient to save him from some errors, and I
should think my life well spent in the effort to preserve so
noble a nature from destruction. He always listens
attentively now when I speak seriously to him (and I often
venture to reprove his random way of talking), and sometimes he
says that if he had me always by his side he should never do or
say a wicked thing, and that a little daily talk with me would
make him quite a saint. It may he partly jest and partly
flattery, but still—’
‘But still you think it may be truth?’
‘If I do think there is any mixture of truth in it, it
is not from confidence in my own powers, but in his natural
goodness. And you have no right to call him a profligate,
aunt; he is nothing of the kind.’
‘Who told you so, my dear? What was that story
about his intrigue with a married lady—Lady who was
it?—Miss Wilmot herself was telling you the other
day?’
‘It was false—false!’ I cried.
‘I don’t believe a word of it.’
‘You think, then, that he is a virtuous, well-conducted
young man?’
‘I know nothing positive respecting his character.
I only know that I have heard nothing definite against
it—nothing that could be proved, at least; and till people
can prove their slanderous accusations, I will not believe
them. And I know this, that if he has committed errors,
they are only such as are common to youth, and such as nobody
thinks anything about; for I see that everybody likes him, and
all the mammas smile upon him, and their daughters—and Miss
Wilmot herself—are only too glad to attract his
attention.’
‘Helen, the world may look upon such offences as venial;
a few unprincipled mothers may be anxious to catch a young man of
fortune without reference to his character; and thoughtless girls
may be glad to win the smiles of so handsome a gentleman, without
seeking to penetrate beyond the surface; but you, I trusted, were
better informed than to see with their eyes, and judge with their
perverted judgment. I did not think you would call these
venial errors!’
‘Nor do I, aunt; but if I hate the sins, I love the
sinner, and would do much for his salvation, even supposing your
suspicions to be mainly true, which I do not and will not
believe.’
‘Well, my dear, ask your uncle what sort of company he
keeps, and if he is not banded with a set of loose, profligate
young men, whom he calls his friends, his jolly companions, and
whose chief delight is to wallow in vice, and vie with each other
who can run fastest and furthest down the headlong road to the
place prepared for the devil and his angels.’
‘Then I will save him from them.’
‘Oh, Helen, Helen! you little know the misery of uniting
your fortunes to such a man!’
‘I have such confidence in him, aunt, notwithstanding
all you say, that I would willingly risk my happiness for the
chance of securing his. I will leave better men to those
who only consider their own advantage. If he has done
amiss, I shall consider my life well spent in saving him from the
consequences of his early errors, and striving to recall him to
the path of virtue. God grant me success!’
Here the conversation ended, for at this juncture my
uncle’s voice was heard from his chamber, loudly calling
upon my aunt to come to bed. He was in a bad humour that
night; for his gout was worse. It had been gradually
increasing upon him ever since we came to town; and my aunt took
advantage of the circumstance next morning to persuade him to
return to the country immediately, without waiting for the close
of the season. His physician supported and enforced her
arguments; and contrary to her usual habits, she so hurried the
preparations for removal (as much for my sake as my
uncle’s, I think), that in a very few days we departed; and
I saw no more of Mr. Huntingdon. My aunt flatters herself I
shall soon forget him—perhaps she thinks I have forgotten
him already, for I never mention his name; and she may continue
to think so, till we meet again—if ever that should
be. I wonder if it will?
CHAPTER XVIII
August 25th.—I am now quite settled down to my usual
routine of steady occupations and quiet
amusements—tolerably contented and cheerful, but still
looking forward to spring with the hope of returning to town, not
for its gaieties and dissipations, but for the chance of meeting
Mr. Huntingdon once again; for still he is always in my thoughts
and in my dreams. In all my employments, whatever I do, or
see, or hear, has an ultimate reference to him; whatever skill or
knowledge I acquire is some day to be turned to his advantage or
amusement; whatever new beauties in nature or art I discover are
to be depicted to meet his eye, or stored in my memory to be told
him at some future period. This, at least, is the hope that
I cherish, the fancy that lights me on my lonely way. It
may be only an ignis fatuus, after all, but it can do no harm to
follow it with my eyes and rejoice in its lustre, as long as it
does not lure me from the path I ought to keep; and I think it
will not, for I have thought deeply on my aunt’s advice,
and I see clearly, now, the folly of throwing myself away on one
that is unworthy of all the love I have to give, and incapable of
responding to the best and deepest feelings of my inmost
heart—so clearly, that even if I should see him again, and
if he should remember me and love me still (which, alas! is too
little probable, considering how he is situated, and by whom
surrounded), and if he should ask me to marry him—I am
determined not to consent until I know for certain whether my
aunt’s opinion of him or mine is nearest the truth; for if
mine is altogether wrong, it is not he that I love; it is a
creature of my own imagination. But I think it is not
wrong—no, no—there is a secret something—an
inward instinct that assures me I am right. There is
essential goodness in him;—and what delight to unfold
it! If he has wandered, what bliss to recall him! If
he is now exposed to the baneful influence of corrupting and
wicked companions, what glory to deliver him from them! Oh!
if I could but believe that Heaven has designed me for this!
* * * * *
To-day is the first of September; but my uncle has ordered the
gamekeeper to spare the partridges till the gentlemen come.
‘What gentlemen?’ I asked when I heard it. A
small party he had invited to shoot. His friend Mr. Wilmot
was one, and my aunt’s friend, Mr. Boarham, another.
This struck me as terrible news at the moment; but all regret and
apprehension vanished like a dream when I heard that Mr.
Huntingdon was actually to be a third! My aunt is greatly
against his coming, of course: she earnestly endeavoured to
dissuade my uncle from asking him; but he, laughing at her
objections, told her it was no use talking, for the mischief was
already done: he had invited Huntingdon and his friend Lord
Lowborough before we left London, and nothing now remained but to
fix the day for their coming. So he is safe, and I am sure
of seeing him. I cannot express my joy. I find it
very difficult to conceal it from my aunt; but I don’t wish
to trouble her with my feelings till I know whether I ought to
indulge them or not. If I find it my absolute duty to
suppress them, they shall trouble no one but myself; and if I can
really feel myself justified in indulging this attachment, I can
dare anything, even the anger and grief of my best friend, for
its object—surely, I shall soon know. But they are
not coming till about the middle of the month.
We are to have two lady visitors also: Mr. Wilmot is to bring
his niece and her cousin Milicent. I suppose my aunt thinks
the latter will benefit me by her society, and the salutary
example of her gentle deportment and lowly and tractable spirit;
and the former I suspect she intends as a species of
counter-attraction to win Mr. Huntingdon’s attention from
me. I don’t thank her for this; but I shall be glad
of Milicent’s company: she is a sweet, good girl, and I
wish I were like her—more like her, at least, than I
am.
* * * * *
19th.—They are come. They came the day before
yesterday. The gentlemen are all gone out to shoot, and the
ladies are with my aunt, at work in the drawing-room. I
have retired to the library, for I am very unhappy, and I want to
be alone. Books cannot divert me; so having opened my desk,
I will try what may be done by detailing the cause of my
uneasiness. This paper will serve instead of a confidential
friend into whose ear I might pour forth the overflowings of my
heart. It will not sympathise with my distresses, but then
it will not laugh at them, and, if I keep it close, it cannot
tell again; so it is, perhaps, the best friend I could have for
the purpose.
First, let me speak of his arrival—how I sat at my
window, and watched for nearly two hours, before his carriage
entered the park-gates—for they all came before
him,—and how deeply I was disappointed at every arrival,
because it was not his. First came Mr. Wilmot and the
ladies. When Milicent had got into her room, I quitted my
post a few minutes to look in upon her and have a little private
conversation, for she was now my intimate friend, several long
epistles having passed between us since our parting. On
returning to my window, I beheld another carriage at the
door. Was it his? No; it was Mr. Boarham’s
plain dark chariot; and there stood he upon the steps, carefully
superintending the dislodging of his various boxes and
packages. What a collection! One would have thought
he projected a visit of six months at least. A considerable
time after, came Lord Lowborough in his barouche. Is he one
of the profligate friends, I wonder? I should think not;
for no one could call him a jolly companion, I’m
sure,—and, besides, he appears too sober and gentlemanly in
his demeanour to merit such suspicions. He is a tall, thin,
gloomy-looking man, apparently between thirty and forty, and of a
somewhat sickly, careworn aspect.
At last, Mr. Huntingdon’s light phaeton came bowling
merrily up the lawn. I had but a transient glimpse of him:
for the moment it stopped, he sprang out over the side on to the
portico steps, and disappeared into the house.
I now submitted to be dressed for dinner—a duty which
Rachel had been urging upon me for the last twenty minutes; and
when that important business was completed, I repaired to the
drawing-room, where I found Mr. and Miss Wilmot and Milicent
Hargrave already assembled. Shortly after, Lord Lowborough
entered, and then Mr. Boarham, who seemed quite willing to forget
and forgive my former conduct, and to hope that a little
conciliation and steady perseverance on his part might yet
succeed in bringing me to reason. While I stood at the
window, conversing with Milicent, he came up to me, and was
beginning to talk in nearly his usual strain, when Mr. Huntingdon
entered the room.
‘How will he greet me, I wonder?’ said my bounding
heart; and, instead of advancing to meet him, I turned to the
window to hide or subdue my emotion. But having saluted his
host and hostess, and the rest of the company, he came to me,
ardently squeezed my hand, and murmured he was glad to see me
once again. At that moment dinner was announced: my aunt
desired him to take Miss Hargrave into the dining-room, and
odious Mr. Wilmot, with unspeakable grimaces, offered his arm to
me; and I was condemned to sit between himself and Mr.
Boarham. But afterwards, when we were all again assembled
in the drawing-room, I was indemnified for so much suffering by a
few delightful minutes of conversation with Mr. Huntingdon.
In the course of the evening, Miss Wilmot was called upon to
sing and play for the amusement of the company, and I to exhibit
my drawings, and, though he likes music, and she is an
accomplished musician, I think I am right in affirming, that he
paid more attention to my drawings than to her music.
So far so good;—but hearing him pronounce, sotto voce,
but with peculiar emphasis, concerning one of the pieces,
‘This is better than all!’—I looked up, curious
to see which it was, and, to my horror, beheld him complacently
gazing at the back of the picture:—it was his own face that
I had sketched there and forgotten to rub out! To make
matters worse, in the agony of the moment, I attempted to snatch
it from his hand; but he prevented me, and exclaiming,
‘No—by George, I’ll keep it!’ placed it
against his waistcoat and buttoned his coat upon it with a
delighted chuckle.
Then, drawing a candle close to his elbow, he gathered all the
drawings to himself, as well what he had seen as the others, and
muttering, ‘I must look at both sides now,’ he
eagerly commenced an examination, which I watched, at first, with
tolerable composure, in the confidence that his vanity would not
be gratified by any further discoveries; for, though I must plead
guilty to having disfigured the backs of several with abortive
attempts to delineate that too fascinating physiognomy, I was
sure that, with that one unfortunate exception, I had carefully
obliterated all such witnesses of my infatuation. But the
pencil frequently leaves an impression upon cardboard that no
amount of rubbing can efface. Such, it seems, was the case
with most of these; and, I confess, I trembled when I saw him
holding them so close to the candle, and poring so intently over
the seeming blanks; but still, I trusted, he would not be able to
make out these dim traces to his own satisfaction. I was
mistaken, however. Having ended his scrutiny, he quietly
remarked,—‘I perceive the backs of young
ladies’ drawings, like the postscripts of their letters,
are the most important and interesting part of the
concern.’
Then, leaning back in his chair, he reflected a few minutes in
silence, complacently smiling to himself, and while I was
concocting some cutting speech wherewith to check his
gratification, he rose, and passing over to where Annabella
Wilmot sat vehemently coquetting with Lord Lowborough, seated
himself on the sofa beside her, and attached himself to her for
the rest of the evening.
‘So then,’ thought I, ‘he despises me,
because he knows I love him.’
And the reflection made me so miserable I knew not what to
do. Milicent came and began to admire my drawings, and make
remarks upon them; but I could not talk to her—I could talk
to no one, and, upon the introduction of tea, I took advantage of
the open door and the slight diversion caused by its entrance to
slip out—for I was sure I could not take any—and take
refuge in the library. My aunt sent Thomas in quest of me,
to ask if I were not coming to tea; but I bade him say I should
not take any to-night, and, happily, she was too much occupied
with her guests to make any further inquiries at the time.
As most of the company had travelled far that day, they
retired early to rest; and having heard them all, as I thought,
go up-stairs, I ventured out, to get my candlestick from the
drawing-room sideboard. But Mr. Huntingdon had lingered
behind the rest. He was just at the foot of the stairs when
I opened the door, and hearing my step in the hall—though I
could hardly hear it myself—he instantly turned back.
‘Helen, is that you?’ said he. ‘Why
did you run away from us?’
‘Good-night, Mr. Huntingdon,’ said I, coldly, not
choosing to answer the question. And I turned away to enter
the drawing-room.
‘But you’ll shake hands, won’t you?’
said he, placing himself in the doorway before me. And he
seized my hand and held it, much against my will.
‘Let me go, Mr. Huntingdon,’ said I.
‘I want to get a candle.’
‘The candle will keep,’ returned he.
I made a desperate effort to free my hand from his grasp.
‘Why are you in such a hurry to leave me, Helen?’
he said, with a smile of the most provoking
self-sufficiency. ‘You don’t hate me, you
know.’
‘Yes, I do—at this moment.’
‘Not you. It is Annabella Wilmot you hate, not
me.’
‘I have nothing to do with Annabella Wilmot,’ said
I, burning with indignation.
‘But I have, you know,’ returned he, with peculiar
emphasis.
‘That is nothing to me, sir,’ I retorted.
‘Is it nothing to you, Helen? Will you swear
it? Will you?’
‘No I won’t, Mr. Huntingdon! and I will go,’
cried I, not knowing whether to laugh, or to cry, or to break out
into a tempest of fury.
‘Go, then, you vixen!’ he said; but the instant he
released my hand he had the audacity to put his arm round my
neck, and kiss me.
Trembling with anger and agitation, and I don’t know
what besides, I broke away, and got my candle, and rushed
up-stairs to my room. He would not have done so but for
that hateful picture. And there he had it still in his
possession, an eternal monument to his pride and my
humiliation.
It was but little sleep I got that night, and in the morning I
rose perplexed and troubled with the thoughts of meeting him at
breakfast. I knew not how it was to be done. An
assumption of dignified, cold indifference would hardly do, after
what he knew of my devotion—to his face, at least.
Yet something must be done to check his presumption—I would
not submit to be tyrannised over by those bright, laughing
eyes. And, accordingly, I received his cheerful morning
salutation as calmly and coldly as my aunt could have wished, and
defeated with brief answers his one or two attempts to draw me
into conversation, while I comported myself with unusual
cheerfulness and complaisance towards every other member of the
party, especially Annabella Wilmot, and even her uncle and Mr.
Boarham were treated with an extra amount of civility on the
occasion, not from any motives of coquetry, but just to show him
that my particular coolness and reserve arose from no general
ill-humour or depression of spirits.
He was not, however, to be repelled by such acting as
this. He did not talk much to me, but when he did speak it
was with a degree of freedom and openness, and kindliness too,
that plainly seemed to intimate he knew his words were music to
my ears; and when his looks met mine it was with a
smile—presumptuous, it might be—but oh! so sweet, so
bright, so genial, that I could not possibly retain my anger;
every vestige of displeasure soon melted away beneath it like
morning clouds before the summer sun.
Soon after breakfast all the gentlemen save one, with boyish
eagerness, set out on their expedition against the hapless
partridges; my uncle and Mr. Wilmot on their shooting ponies, Mr.
Huntingdon and Lord Lowborough on their legs: the one exception
being Mr. Boarham, who, in consideration of the rain that had
fallen during the night, thought it prudent to remain behind a
little and join them in a while when the sun had dried the
grass. And he favoured us all with a long and minute
disquisition upon the evils and dangers attendant upon damp feet,
delivered with the most imperturbable gravity, amid the jeers and
laughter of Mr. Huntingdon and my uncle, who, leaving the prudent
sportsman to entertain the ladies with his medical discussions,
sallied forth with their guns, bending their steps to the stables
first, to have a look at the horses and let out the dogs.
Not desirous of sharing Mr. Boarham’s company for the
whole of the morning, I betook myself to the library, and there
brought forth my easel and began to paint. The easel and
the painting apparatus would serve as an excuse for abandoning
the drawing-room if my aunt should come to complain of the
desertion, and besides I wanted to finish the picture. It
was one I had taken great pains with, and I intended it to be my
masterpiece, though it was somewhat presumptuous in the
design. By the bright azure of the sky, and by the warm and
brilliant lights and deep long shadows, I had endeavoured to
convey the idea of a sunny morning. I had ventured to give
more of the bright verdure of spring or early summer to the grass
and foliage than is commonly attempted in painting. The
scene represented was an open glade in a wood. A group of
dark Scotch firs was introduced in the middle distance to relieve
the prevailing freshness of the rest; but in the foreground was
part of the gnarled trunk and of the spreading boughs of a large
forest-tree, whose foliage was of a brilliant golden
green—not golden from autumnal mellowness, but from the
sunshine and the very immaturity of the scarce expanded
leaves. Upon this bough, that stood out in bold relief
against the sombre firs, were seated an amorous pair of turtle
doves, whose soft sad-coloured plumage afforded a contrast of
another nature; and beneath it a young girl was kneeling on the
daisy-spangled turf, with head thrown back and masses of fair
hair falling on her shoulders, her hands clasped, lips parted,
and eyes intently gazing upward in pleased yet earnest
contemplation of those feathered lovers—too deeply absorbed
in each other to notice her.
I had scarcely settled to my work, which, however, wanted but
a few touches to the finishing, when the sportsmen passed the
window on their return from the stables. It was partly
open, and Mr. Huntingdon must have seen me as he went by, for in
half a minute he came back, and setting his gun against the wall,
threw up the sash and sprang in, and set himself before my
picture.
‘Very pretty, i’faith,’ said he, after
attentively regarding it for a few seconds; ‘and a very
fitting study for a young lady. Spring just opening into
summer—morning just approaching noon—girlhood just
ripening into womanhood, and hope just verging on fruition.
She’s a sweet creature! but why didn’t you make her
black hair?’
‘I thought light hair would suit her better. You
see I have made her blue-eyed and plump, and fair and
rosy.’
‘Upon my word—a very Hebe! I should fall in
love with her if I hadn’t the artist before me. Sweet
innocent! she’s thinking there will come a time when she
will be wooed and won like that pretty hen-dove by as fond and
fervent a lover; and she’s thinking how pleasant it will
be, and how tender and faithful he will find her.’
‘And perhaps,’ suggested I, ‘how tender and
faithful she shall find him.’
‘Perhaps, for there is no limit to the wild extravagance
of Hope’s imaginings at such an age.’
‘Do you call that, then, one of her wild, extravagant
delusions?’
‘No; my heart tells me it is not. I might have
thought so once, but now, I say, give me the girl I love, and I
will swear eternal constancy to her and her alone, through summer
and winter, through youth and age, and life and death! if age and
death must come.’
He spoke this in such serious earnest that my heart bounded
with delight; but the minute after he changed his tone, and
asked, with a significant smile, if I had ‘any more
portraits.’
‘No,’ replied I, reddening with confusion and
wrath.
But my portfolio was on the table: he took it up, and coolly
sat down to examine its contents.
‘Mr. Huntingdon, those are my unfinished
sketches,’ cried I, ‘and I never let any one see
them.’
And I placed my hand on the portfolio to wrest it from him,
but he maintained his hold, assuring me that he ‘liked
unfinished sketches of all things.’
‘But I hate them to be seen,’ returned I.
‘I can’t let you have it, indeed!’
‘Let me have its bowels then,’ said he; and just
as I wrenched the portfolio from his hand, he deftly abstracted
the greater part of its contents, and after turning them over a
moment he cried out,—‘Bless my stars, here’s
another;’ and slipped a small oval of ivory paper into his
waistcoat pocket—a complete miniature portrait that I had
sketched with such tolerable success as to be induced to colour
it with great pains and care. But I was determined he
should not keep it.
‘Mr. Huntingdon,’ cried I, ‘I insist upon
having that back! It is mine, and you have no right to take
it. Give it me directly—I’ll never forgive you
if you don’t!’
But the more vehemently I insisted, the more he aggravated my
distress by his insulting, gleeful laugh. At length,
however, he restored it to me, saying,—‘Well, well,
since you value it so much, I’ll not deprive you of
it.’
To show him how I valued it, I tore it in two and threw it
into the fire. He was not prepared for this. His
merriment suddenly ceasing, he stared in mute amazement at the
consuming treasure; and then, with a careless ‘Humph!
I’ll go and shoot now,’ he turned on his heel and
vacated the apartment by the window as he came, and setting on
his hat with an air, took up his gun and walked away, whistling
as he went—and leaving me not too much agitated to finish
my picture, for I was glad, at the moment, that I had vexed
him.
When I returned to the drawing-room, I found Mr. Boarham had
ventured to follow his comrades to the field; and shortly after
lunch, to which they did not think of returning, I volunteered to
accompany the ladies in a walk, and show Annabella and Milicent
the beauties of the country. We took a long ramble, and
re-entered the park just as the sportsmen were returning from
their expedition. Toil-spent and travel-stained, the main
body of them crossed over the grass to avoid us, but Mr.
Huntingdon, all spattered and splashed as he was, and stained
with the blood of his prey—to the no small offence of my
aunt’s strict sense of propriety—came out of his way
to meet us, with cheerful smiles and words for all but me, and
placing himself between Annabella Wilmot and myself, walked up
the road and began to relate the various exploits and disasters
of the day, in a manner that would have convulsed me with
laughter if I had been on good terms with him; but he addressed
himself entirely to Annabella, and I, of course, left all the
laughter and all the badinage to her, and affecting the utmost
indifference to whatever passed between them, walked along a few
paces apart, and looking every way but theirs, while my aunt and
Milicent went before, linked arm in arm and gravely discoursing
together. At length Mr. Huntingdon turned to me, and
addressing me in a confidential whisper,
said,—‘Helen, why did you burn my picture?’
‘Because I wished to destroy it,’ I answered, with
an asperity it is useless now to lament.
‘Oh, very good!’ was the reply; ‘if you
don’t value me, I must turn to somebody that
will.’
I thought it was partly in jest—a half-playful mixture
of mock resignation and pretended indifference: but immediately
he resumed his place beside Miss Wilmot, and from that hour to
this—during all that evening, and all the next day, and the
next, and the next, and all this morning (the 22nd), he has never
given me one kind word or one pleasant look—never spoken to
me, but from pure necessity—never glanced towards me but
with a cold, unfriendly look I thought him quite incapable of
assuming.
My aunt observes the change, and though she has not inquired
the cause or made any remark to me on the subject, I see it gives
her pleasure. Miss Wilmot observes it, too, and
triumphantly ascribes it to her own superior charms and
blandishments; but I am truly miserable—more so than I like
to acknowledge to myself. Pride refuses to aid me. It
has brought me into the scrape, and will not help me out of
it.
He meant no harm—it was only his joyous, playful spirit;
and I, by my acrimonious resentment—so serious, so
disproportioned to the offence—have so wounded his
feelings, so deeply offended him, that I fear he will never
forgive me—and all for a mere jest! He thinks I
dislike him, and he must continue to think so. I must lose
him for ever, and Annabella may win him, and triumph as she
will.
But it is not my loss nor her triumph that I deplore so
greatly as the wreck of my fond hopes for his advantage, and her
unworthiness of his affection, and the injury he will do himself
by trusting his happiness to her. She does not love him:
she thinks only of herself. She cannot appreciate the good
that is in him: she will neither see it, nor value it, nor
cherish it. She will neither deplore his faults nor attempt
their amendment, but rather aggravate them by her own. And
I doubt whether she will not deceive him after all. I see
she is playing double between him and Lord Lowborough, and while
she amuses herself with the lively Huntingdon, she tries her
utmost to enslave his moody friend; and should she succeed in
bringing both to her feet, the fascinating commoner will have but
little chance against the lordly peer. If he observes her
artful by-play, it gives him no uneasiness, but rather adds new
zest to his diversion by opposing a stimulating check to his
otherwise too easy conquest.
Messrs. Wilmot and Boarham have severally taken occasion by
his neglect of me to renew their advances; and if I were like
Annabella and some others I should take advantage of their
perseverance to endeavour to pique him into a revival of
affection; but, justice and honesty apart, I could not bear to do
it. I am annoyed enough by their present persecutions
without encouraging them further; and even if I did it would have
precious little effect upon him. He sees me suffering under
the condescending attentions and prosaic discourses of the one,
and the repulsive obtrusions of the other, without so much as a
shadow of commiseration for me, or resentment against my
tormentors. He never could have loved me, or he would not
have resigned me so willingly, and he would not go on talking to
everybody else so cheerfully as he does—laughing and
jesting with Lord Lowborough and my uncle, teasing Milicent
Hargrave, and flirting with Annabella Wilmot—as if nothing
were on his mind. Oh! why can’t I hate him? I
must be infatuated, or I should scorn to regret him as I
do. But I must rally all the powers I have remaining, and
try to tear him from my heart. There goes the dinner-bell,
and here comes my aunt to scold me for sitting here at my desk
all day, instead of staying with the company: wish the company
were—gone.
CHAPTER XIX
Twenty Second: Night.—What have I done? and what will be
the end of it? I cannot calmly reflect upon it; I cannot
sleep. I must have recourse to my diary again; I will
commit it to paper to-night, and see what I shall think of it
to-morrow.
I went down to dinner resolving to be cheerful and
well-conducted, and kept my resolution very creditably,
considering how my head ached and how internally wretched I
felt. I don’t know what is come over me of late; my
very energies, both mental and physical, must be strangely
impaired, or I should not have acted so weakly in many respects
as I have done; but I have not been well this last day or
two. I suppose it is with sleeping and eating so little,
and thinking so much, and being so continually out of
humour. But to return. I was exerting myself to sing
and play for the amusement, and at the request, of my aunt and
Milicent, before the gentlemen came into the drawing-room (Miss
Wilmot never likes to waste her musical efforts on ladies’
ears alone). Milicent had asked for a little Scotch song,
and I was just in the middle of it when they entered. The
first thing Mr. Huntingdon did was to walk up to Annabella.
‘Now, Miss Wilmot, won’t you give us some music
to-night?’ said he. ‘Do now! I know you
will, when I tell you that I have been hungering and thirsting
all day for the sound of your voice. Come! the
piano’s vacant.’
It was, for I had quitted it immediately upon hearing his
petition. Had I been endowed with a proper degree of
self-possession, I should have turned to the lady myself, and
cheerfully joined my entreaties to his, whereby I should have
disappointed his expectations, if the affront had been purposely
given, or made him sensible of the wrong, if it had only arisen
from thoughtlessness; but I felt it too deeply to do anything but
rise from the music-stool, and throw myself back on the sofa,
suppressing with difficulty the audible expression of the
bitterness I felt within. I knew Annabella’s musical
talents were superior to mine, but that was no reason why I
should be treated as a perfect nonentity. The time and the
manner of his asking her appeared like a gratuitous insult to me;
and I could have wept with pure vexation.
Meantime, she exultingly seated herself at the piano, and
favoured him with two of his favourite songs, in such superior
style that even I soon lost my anger in admiration, and listened
with a sort of gloomy pleasure to the skilful modulations of her
full-toned and powerful voice, so judiciously aided by her
rounded and spirited touch; and while my ears drank in the sound,
my eyes rested on the face of her principal auditor, and derived
an equal or superior delight from the contemplation of his
speaking countenance, as he stood beside her—that eye and
brow lighted up with keen enthusiasm, and that sweet smile
passing and appearing like gleams of sunshine on an April
day. No wonder he should hunger and thirst to hear her
sing. I now forgave him from my heart his reckless slight
of me, and I felt ashamed at my pettish resentment of such a
trifle—ashamed too of those bitter envious pangs that
gnawed my inmost heart, in spite of all this admiration and
delight.
‘There now,’ said she, playfully running her
fingers over the keys when she had concluded the second
song. ‘What shall I give you next?’
But in saying this she looked back at Lord Lowborough, who was
standing a little behind, leaning against the back of a chair, an
attentive listener, too, experiencing, to judge by his
countenance, much the same feelings of mingled pleasure and
sadness as I did. But the look she gave him plainly said,
‘Do you choose for me now: I have done enough for him, and
will gladly exert myself to gratify you;’ and thus
encouraged, his lordship came forward, and turning over the
music, presently set before her a little song that I had noticed
before, and read more than once, with an interest arising from
the circumstance of my connecting it in my mind with the reigning
tyrant of my thoughts. And now, with my nerves already
excited and half unstrung, I could not hear those words so
sweetly warbled forth without some symptoms of emotion I was not
able to suppress. Tears rose unbidden to my eyes, and I
buried my face in the sofa-pillow that they might flow unseen
while I listened. The air was simple, sweet, and sad.
It is still running in my head, and so are the words:—
Farewell to thee! but not farewell
To all my fondest thoughts of thee:
Within my heart they still shall dwell;
And they shall cheer and comfort me.
O beautiful, and full of grace!
If thou hadst never met mine eye,
I had not dreamed a living face
Could fancied charms so far outvie.
If I may ne’er behold again
That form and face so dear to me,
Nor hear thy voice, still would I fain
Preserve, for aye, their memory.
That voice, the magic of whose tone
Can wake an echo in my breast,
Creating feelings that, alone,
Can make my tranced spirit blest.
That laughing eye, whose sunny beam
My memory would not cherish less;—
And oh, that smile! I whose joyous gleam
No mortal languish can express.
Adieu! but let me cherish, still,
The hope with which I cannot part.
Contempt may wound, and coldness chill,
But still it lingers in my heart.
And who can tell but Heaven, at last,
May answer all my thousand prayers,
And bid the future pay the past
With joy for anguish, smiles for tears.
When it ceased, I longed for nothing so much as to be out of
the room. The sofa was not far from the door, but I did not
dare to raise my head, for I knew Mr. Huntingdon was standing
near me, and I knew by the sound of his voice, as he spoke in
answer to some remark of Lord Lowborough’s, that his face
was turned towards me. Perhaps a half-suppressed sob had
caught his ear, and caused him to look round—heaven
forbid! But with a violent effort, I checked all further
signs of weakness, dried my tears, and, when I thought he had
turned away again, rose, and instantly left the apartment, taking
refuge in my favourite resort, the library.
There was no light there but the faint red glow of the
neglected fire;—but I did not want a light; I only wanted
to indulge my thoughts, unnoticed and undisturbed; and sitting
down on a low stool before the easy-chair, I sunk my head upon
its cushioned seat, and thought, and thought, until the tears
gushed out again, and I wept like any child. Presently,
however, the door was gently opened and someone entered the
room. I trusted it was only a servant, and did not
stir. The door was closed again—but I was not alone;
a hand gently touched my shoulder, and a voice said,
softly,—‘Helen, what is the matter?’
I could not answer at the moment.
‘You must, and shall tell me,’ was added, more
vehemently, and the speaker threw himself on his knees beside me
on the rug, and forcibly possessed himself of my hand; but I
hastily caught it away, and replied,—‘It is nothing
to you, Mr. Huntingdon.’
‘Are you sure it is nothing to me?’ he returned;
‘can you swear that you were not thinking of me while you
wept?’ This was unendurable. I made an effort
to rise, but he was kneeling on my dress.
‘Tell me,’ continued he—‘I want to
know,—because if you were, I have something to say to
you,—and if not, I’ll go.’
‘Go then!’ I cried; but, fearing he would obey too
well, and never come again, I hastily added—‘Or say
what you have to say, and have done with it!’
‘But which?’ said he—‘for I shall only
say it if you really were thinking of me. So tell me,
Helen.’
‘You’re excessively impertinent, Mr.
Huntingdon!’
‘Not at all—too pertinent, you mean. So you
won’t tell me?—Well, I’ll spare your
woman’s pride, and, construing your silence into
“Yes,” I’ll take it for granted that I was the
subject of your thoughts, and the cause of your
affliction—’
‘Indeed, sir—’
‘If you deny it, I won’t tell you my
secret,’ threatened he; and I did not interrupt him again,
or even attempt to repulse him: though he had taken my hand once
more, and half embraced me with his other arm, I was scarcely
conscious of it at the time.
‘It is this,’ resumed he: ‘that Annabella
Wilmot, in comparison with you, is like a flaunting peony
compared with a sweet, wild rosebud gemmed with dew—and I
love you to distraction!—Now, tell me if that intelligence
gives you any pleasure. Silence again? That means
yes. Then let me add, that I cannot live without you, and
if you answer No to this last question, you will drive me
mad.—Will you bestow yourself upon me?—you
will!’ he cried, nearly squeezing me to death in his
arms.
‘No, no!’ I exclaimed, struggling to free myself
from him—‘you must ask my uncle and aunt.’
‘They won’t refuse me, if you
don’t.’
‘I’m not so sure of that—my aunt dislikes
you.’
‘But you don’t, Helen—say you love me, and
I’ll go.’
‘I wish you would go!’ I replied.
‘I will, this instant,—if you’ll only say
you love me.’
‘You know I do,’ I answered. And again he
caught me in his arms, and smothered me with kisses.
At that moment my aunt opened wide the door, and stood before
us, candle in hand, in shocked and horrified amazement, gazing
alternately at Mr. Huntingdon and me—for we had both
started up, and now stood wide enough asunder. But his
confusion was only for a moment. Rallying in an instant,
with the most enviable assurance, he began,—‘I beg
ten thousand pardons, Mrs. Maxwell! Don’t be too
severe upon me. I’ve been asking your sweet niece to
take me for better, for worse; and she, like a good girl, informs
me she cannot think of it without her uncle’s and
aunt’s consent. So let me implore you not to condemn
me to eternal wretchedness: if you favour my cause, I am safe;
for Mr. Maxwell, I am certain, can refuse you nothing.’
‘We will talk of this to-morrow, sir,’ said my
aunt, coldly. ‘It is a subject that demands mature
and serious deliberation. At present, you had better return
to the drawing-room.’
‘But meantime,’ pleaded he, ‘let me commend
my cause to your most indulgent—’
‘No indulgence for you, Mr. Huntingdon, must come
between me and the consideration of my niece’s
happiness.’
‘Ah, true! I know she is an angel, and I am a
presumptuous dog to dream of possessing such a treasure; but,
nevertheless, I would sooner die than relinquish her in favour of
the best man that ever went to heaven—and as for her
happiness, I would sacrifice my body and soul—’
‘Body and soul, Mr. Huntingdon—sacrifice your
soul?’
‘Well, I would lay down life—’
‘You would not be required to lay it down.’
‘I would spend it, then—devote my life—and
all its powers to the promotion and
preservation—’
‘Another time, sir, we will talk of this—and I
should have felt disposed to judge more favourably of your
pretensions, if you too had chosen another time and place, and
let me add—another manner for your declaration.’
‘Why, you see, Mrs. Maxwell,’ he began—
‘Pardon me, sir,’ said she, with
dignity—‘The company are inquiring for you in the
other room.’ And she turned to me.
‘Then you must plead for me, Helen,’ said he, and
at length withdrew.
‘You had better retire to your room, Helen,’ said
my aunt, gravely. ‘I will discuss this matter with
you, too, to-morrow.’
‘Don’t be angry, aunt,’ said I.
‘My dear, I am not angry,’ she replied: ‘I
am surprised. If it is true that you told him you could not
accept his offer without our consent—’
‘It is true,’ interrupted I.
‘Then how could you permit—?’
‘I couldn’t help it, aunt,’ I cried,
bursting into tears. They were not altogether the tears of
sorrow, or of fear for her displeasure, but rather the outbreak
of the general tumultuous excitement of my feelings. But my
good aunt was touched at my agitation. In a softer tone,
she repeated her recommendation to retire, and, gently kissing my
forehead, bade me good-night, and put her candle in my hand; and
I went; but my brain worked so, I could not think of
sleeping. I feel calmer now that I have written all this;
and I will go to bed, and try to win tired nature’s sweet
restorer.
CHAPTER XX
September 24th.—In the morning I rose, light and
cheerful—nay, intensely happy. The hovering cloud
cast over me by my aunt’s views, and by the fear of not
obtaining her consent, was lost in the bright effulgence of my
own hopes, and the too delightful consciousness of requited
love. It was a splendid morning; and I went out to enjoy
it, in a quiet ramble, in company with my own blissful
thoughts. The dew was on the grass, and ten thousand
gossamers were waving in the breeze; the happy red-breast was
pouring out its little soul in song, and my heart overflowed with
silent hymns of gratitude and praise to heaven.
But I had not wandered far before my solitude was interrupted
by the only person that could have disturbed my musings, at that
moment, without being looked upon as an unwelcome intruder: Mr.
Huntingdon came suddenly upon me. So unexpected was the
apparition, that I might have thought it the creation of an
over-excited imagination, had the sense of sight alone borne
witness to his presence; but immediately I felt his strong arm
round my waist and his warm kiss on my cheek, while his keen and
gleeful salutation, ‘My own Helen!’ was ringing in my
ear.
‘Not yours yet!’ said I, hastily swerving aside
from this too presumptuous greeting. ‘Remember my
guardians. You will not easily obtain my aunt’s
consent. Don’t you see she is prejudiced against
you?’
‘I do, dearest; and you must tell me why, that I may
best know how to combat her objections. I suppose she
thinks I am a prodigal,’ pursued he, observing that I was
unwilling to reply, ‘and concludes that I shall have but
little worldly goods wherewith to endow my better half? If
so, you must tell her that my property is mostly entailed, and I
cannot get rid of it. There may be a few mortgages on the
rest—a few trifling debts and incumbrances here and there,
but nothing to speak of; and though I acknowledge I am not so
rich as I might be—or have been—still, I think, we
could manage pretty comfortably on what’s left. My
father, you know, was something of a miser, and in his latter
days especially saw no pleasure in life but to amass riches; and
so it is no wonder that his son should make it his chief delight
to spend them, which was accordingly the case, until my
acquaintance with you, dear Helen, taught me other views and
nobler aims. And the very idea of having you to care for
under my roof would force me to moderate my expenses and live
like a Christian—not to speak of all the prudence and
virtue you would instil into my mind by your wise counsels and
sweet, attractive goodness.’
‘But it is not that,’ said I; ‘it is not
money my aunt thinks about. She knows better than to value
worldly wealth above its price.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘She wishes me to—to marry none but a really good
man.’
‘What, a man of “decided
piety”?—ahem!—Well, come, I’ll manage
that too! It’s Sunday to-day, isn’t it?
I’ll go to church morning, afternoon, and evening, and
comport myself in such a godly sort that she shall regard me with
admiration and sisterly love, as a brand plucked from the
burning. I’ll come home sighing like a furnace, and
full of the savour and unction of dear Mr. Blatant’s
discourse—’
‘Mr. Leighton,’ said I, dryly.
‘Is Mr. Leighton a “sweet preacher,”
Helen—a “dear, delightful, heavenly-minded
man”?’
‘He is a good man, Mr. Huntingdon. I wish I could
say half as much for you.’
‘Oh, I forgot, you are a saint, too. I crave your
pardon, dearest—but don’t call me Mr. Huntingdon; my
name is Arthur.’
‘I’ll call you nothing—for I’ll have
nothing at all to do with you if you talk in that way any
more. If you really mean to deceive my aunt as you say, you
are very wicked; and if not, you are very wrong to jest on such a
subject.’
‘I stand corrected,’ said he, concluding his laugh
with a sorrowful sigh. ‘Now,’ resumed he, after
a momentary pause, ‘let us talk about something else.
And come nearer to me, Helen, and take my arm; and then
I’ll let you alone. I can’t be quiet while I
see you walking there.’
I complied; but said we must soon return to the house.
‘No one will be down to breakfast yet, for long
enough,’ he answered. ‘You spoke of your
guardians just now, Helen, but is not your father still
living?’
‘Yes, but I always look upon my uncle and aunt as my
guardians, for they are so in deed, though not in name. My
father has entirely given me up to their care. I have never
seen him since dear mamma died, when I was a very little girl,
and my aunt, at her request, offered to take charge of me, and
took me away to Staningley, where I have remained ever since; and
I don’t think he would object to anything for me that she
thought proper to sanction.’
‘But would he sanction anything to which she thought
proper to object?’
‘No, I don’t think he cares enough about
me.’
‘He is very much to blame—but he doesn’t
know what an angel he has for his daughter—which is all the
better for me, as, if he did, he would not be willing to part
with such a treasure.’
‘And Mr. Huntingdon,’ said I, ‘I suppose you
know I am not an heiress?’
He protested he had never given it a thought, and begged I
would not disturb his present enjoyment by the mention of such
uninteresting subjects. I was glad of this proof of
disinterested affection; for Annabella Wilmot is the probable
heiress to all her uncle’s wealth, in addition to her late
father’s property, which she has already in possession.
I now insisted upon retracing our steps to the house; but we
walked slowly, and went on talking as we proceeded. I need
not repeat all we said: let me rather refer to what passed
between my aunt and me, after breakfast, when Mr. Huntingdon
called my uncle aside, no doubt to make his proposals, and she
beckoned me into another room, where she once more commenced a
solemn remonstrance, which, however, entirely failed to convince
me that her view of the case was preferable to my own.
‘You judge him uncharitably, aunt, I know,’ said
I. ‘His very friends are not half so bad as you
represent them. There is Walter Hargrave, Milicent’s
brother, for one: he is but a little lower than the angels, if
half she says of him is true. She is continually talking to
me about him, and lauding his many virtues to the
skies.’
‘You will form a very inadequate estimate of a
man’s character,’ replied she, ‘if you judge by
what a fond sister says of him. The worst of them generally
know how to hide their misdeeds from their sisters’ eyes,
and their mother’s, too.’
‘And there is Lord Lowborough,’ continued I,
‘quite a decent man.’
‘Who told you so? Lord Lowborough is a desperate
man. He has dissipated his fortune in gambling and other
things, and is now seeking an heiress to retrieve it. I
told Miss Wilmot so; but you’re all alike: she haughtily
answered she was very much obliged to me, but she believed she
knew when a man was seeking her for her fortune, and when for
herself; she flattered herself she had had experience enough in
those matters to be justified in trusting to her own
judgment—and as for his lordship’s lack of fortune,
she cared nothing about that, as she hoped her own would suffice
for both; and as for his wildness, she supposed he was no worse
than others—besides, he was reformed now. Yes, they
can all play the hypocrite when they want to take in a fond,
misguided woman!’
‘Well, I think he’s about as good as she
is,’ said I. ‘But when Mr. Huntingdon is
married, he won’t have many opportunities of consorting
with his bachelor friends;—and the worse they are, the more
I long to deliver him from them.’
‘To be sure, my dear; and the worse he is, I suppose,
the more you long to deliver him from himself.’
‘Yes, provided he is not incorrigible—that is, the
more I long to deliver him from his faults—to give him an
opportunity of shaking off the adventitious evil got from contact
with others worse than himself, and shining out in the unclouded
light of his own genuine goodness—to do my utmost to help
his better self against his worse, and make him what he would
have been if he had not, from the beginning, had a bad, selfish,
miserly father, who, to gratify his own sordid passions,
restricted him in the most innocent enjoyments of childhood and
youth, and so disgusted him with every kind of
restraint;—and a foolish mother who indulged him to the top
of his bent, deceiving her husband for him, and doing her utmost
to encourage those germs of folly and vice it was her duty to
suppress,—and then, such a set of companions as you
represent his friends to be—’
‘Poor man!’ said she, sarcastically, ‘his
kind have greatly wronged him!’
‘They have!’ cried I—‘and they shall
wrong him no more—his wife shall undo what his mother
did!’
‘Well,’ said she, after a short pause, ‘I
must say, Helen, I thought better of your judgment than
this—and your taste too. How you can love such a man
I cannot tell, or what pleasure you can find in his company; for
“what fellowship hath light with darkness; or he that
believeth with an infidel?”’
‘He is not an infidel;—and I am not light, and he
is not darkness; his worst and only vice is
thoughtlessness.’
‘And thoughtlessness,’ pursued my aunt, ‘may
lead to every crime, and will but poorly excuse our errors in the
sight of God. Mr. Huntingdon, I suppose, is not without the
common faculties of men: he is not so light-headed as to be
irresponsible: his Maker has endowed him with reason and
conscience as well as the rest of us; the Scriptures are open to
him as well as to others;—and “if he hear not them,
neither will he hear though one rose from the dead.” And
remember, Helen,’ continued she, solemnly,
‘“the wicked shall be turned into hell, and they that
forget God!”’ And suppose, even, that he should
continue to love you, and you him, and that you should pass
through life together with tolerable comfort—how will it be
in the end, when you see yourselves parted for ever; you,
perhaps, taken into eternal bliss, and he cast into the lake that
burneth with unquenchable fire—there for ever
to—’
‘Not for ever,’ I exclaimed, ‘“only
till he has paid the uttermost farthing;” for “if any
man’s work abide not the fire, he shall suffer loss, yet
himself shall be saved, but so as by fire;” and He that
“is able to subdue all things to Himself will have all men
to be saved,” and “will, in the fulness of time,
gather together in one all things in Christ Jesus, who tasted
death for every man, and in whom God will reconcile all things to
Himself, whether they be things in earth or things in
heaven.”’
‘Oh, Helen! where did you learn all this?’
‘In the Bible, aunt. I have searched it through,
and found nearly thirty passages, all tending to support the same
theory.’
‘And is that the use you make of your Bible? And
did you find no passages tending to prove the danger and the
falsity of such a belief?’
‘No: I found, indeed, some passages that, taken by
themselves, might seem to contradict that opinion; but they will
all bear a different construction to that which is commonly
given, and in most the only difficulty is in the word which we
translate “everlasting” or
“eternal.” I don’t know the Greek, but I
believe it strictly means for ages, and might signify either
endless or long-enduring. And as for the danger of the
belief, I would not publish it abroad if I thought any poor
wretch would be likely to presume upon it to his own destruction,
but it is a glorious thought to cherish in one’s own heart,
and I would not part with it for all the world can
give!’
Here our conference ended, for it was now high time to prepare
for church. Every one attended the morning service, except
my uncle, who hardly ever goes, and Mr. Wilmot, who stayed at
home with him to enjoy a quiet game of cribbage. In the
afternoon Miss Wilmot and Lord Lowborough likewise excused
themselves from attending; but Mr. Huntingdon vouchsafed to
accompany us again. Whether it was to ingratiate himself
with my aunt I cannot tell, but, if so, he certainly should have
behaved better. I must confess, I did not like his conduct
during service at all. Holding his prayer-book upside down,
or open at any place but the right, he did nothing but stare
about him, unless he happened to catch my aunt’s eye or
mine, and then he would drop his own on his book, with a
puritanical air of mock solemnity that would have been ludicrous,
if it had not been too provoking. Once, during the sermon,
after attentively regarding Mr. Leighton for a few minutes, he
suddenly produced his gold pencil-case and snatched up a
Bible. Perceiving that I observed the movement, he
whispered that he was going to make a note of the sermon; but
instead of that, as I sat next him, I could not help seeing that
he was making a caricature of the preacher, giving to the
respectable, pious, elderly gentleman, the air and aspect of a
most absurd old hypocrite. And yet, upon his return, he
talked to my aunt about the sermon with a degree of modest,
serious discrimination that tempted me to believe he had really
attended to and profited by the discourse.
Just before dinner my uncle called me into the library for the
discussion of a very important matter, which was dismissed in few
words.
‘Now, Nell,’ said he, ‘this young Huntingdon
has been asking for you: what must I say about it? Your
aunt would answer “no”—but what say
you?’
‘I say yes, uncle,’ replied I, without a
moment’s hesitation; for I had thoroughly made up my mind
on the subject.
‘Very good!’ cried he. ‘Now
that’s a good honest answer—wonderful for a
girl!—Well, I’ll write to your father
to-morrow. He’s sure to give his consent; so you may
look on the matter as settled. You’d have done a deal
better if you’d taken Wilmot, I can tell you; but that you
won’t believe. At your time of life, it’s love
that rules the roast: at mine, it’s solid, serviceable
gold. I suppose now, you’d never dream of looking
into the state of your husband’s finances, or troubling
your head about settlements, or anything of that sort?’
‘I don’t think I should.’
‘Well, be thankful, then, that you’ve wiser heads
to think for you. I haven’t had time, yet, to examine
thoroughly into this young rascal’s affairs, but I see that
a great part of his father’s fine property has been
squandered away;—but still, I think, there’s a pretty
fair share of it left, and a little careful nursing may make a
handsome thing of it yet; and then we must persuade your father
to give you a decent fortune, as he has only one besides yourself
to care for;—and, if you behave well, who knows but what I
may be induced to remember you in my will!’ continued he,
putting his fingers to his nose, with a knowing wink.
‘Thanks, uncle, for that and all your kindness,’
replied I.
‘Well, and I questioned this young spark on the matter
of settlements,’ continued he; ‘and he seemed
disposed to be generous enough on that point—’
‘I knew he would!’ said I. ‘But pray
don’t trouble your head—or his, or mine about that;
for all I have will be his, and all he has will be mine; and what
more could either of us require?’ And I was about to
make my exit, but he called me back.
‘Stop, stop!’ cried he; ‘we haven’t
mentioned the time yet. When must it be? Your aunt
would put it off till the Lord knows when, but he is anxious to
be bound as soon as may be: he won’t hear of waiting beyond
next month; and you, I guess, will be of the same mind,
so—’
‘Not at all, uncle; on the contrary, I should like to
wait till after Christmas, at least.’
‘Oh! pooh, pooh! never tell me that tale—I know
better,’ cried he; and he persisted in his
incredulity. Nevertheless, it is quite true. I am in
no hurry at all. How can I be, when I think of the
momentous change that awaits me, and of all I have to
leave? It is happiness enough to know that we are to be
united; and that he really loves me, and I may love him as
devotedly, and think of him as often as I please. However,
I insisted upon consulting my aunt about the time of the wedding,
for I determined her counsels should not be utterly disregarded;
and no conclusions on that particular are come to yet.
CHAPTER XXI
October 1st.—All is settled now. My father has
given his consent, and the time is fixed for Christmas, by a sort
of compromise between the respective advocates for hurry and
delay. Milicent Hargrave is to be one bridesmaid and
Annabella Wilmot the other—not that I am particularly fond
of the latter, but she is an intimate of the family, and I have
not another friend.
When I told Milicent of my engagement, she rather provoked me
by her manner of taking it. After staring a moment in mute
surprise, she said,—‘Well, Helen, I suppose I ought
to congratulate you—and I am glad to see you so happy; but
I did not think you would take him; and I can’t help
feeling surprised that you should like him so much.’
‘Why so?’
‘Because you are so superior to him in every way, and
there’s something so bold and reckless about him—so,
I don’t know how—but I always feel a wish to get out
of his way when I see him approach.’
‘You are timid, Milicent; but that’s no fault of
his.’
‘And then his look,’ continued she.
‘People say he’s handsome, and of course he is; but I
don’t like that kind of beauty, and I wonder that you
should.’
‘Why so, pray?’
‘Well, you know, I think there’s nothing noble or
lofty in his appearance.’
‘In fact, you wonder that I can like any one so unlike
the stilted heroes of romance. Well, give me my flesh and
blood lover, and I’ll leave all the Sir Herberts and
Valentines to you—if you can find them.’
‘I don’t want them,’ said she.
‘I’ll be satisfied with flesh and blood
too—only the spirit must shine through and
predominate. But don’t you think Mr.
Huntingdon’s face is too red?’
‘No!’ cried I, indignantly. ‘It is not
red at all. There is just a pleasant glow, a healthy
freshness in his complexion—the warm, pinky tint of the
whole harmonising with the deeper colour of the cheeks, exactly
as it ought to do. I hate a man to be red and white, like a
painted doll, or all sickly white, or smoky black, or cadaverous
yellow.’
‘Well, tastes differ—but I like pale or
dark,’ replied she. ‘But, to tell you the
truth, Helen, I had been deluding myself with the hope that you
would one day be my sister. I expected Walter would be
introduced to you next season; and I thought you would like him,
and was certain he would like you; and I flattered myself I
should thus have the felicity of seeing the two persons I like
best in the world—except mamma—united in one.
He mayn’t be exactly what you would call handsome, but
he’s far more distinguished-looking, and nicer and better
than Mr. Huntingdon;—and I’m sure you would say so,
if you knew him.’
‘Impossible, Milicent! You think so, because
you’re his sister; and, on that account, I’ll forgive
you; but nobody else should so disparage Arthur Huntingdon to me
with impunity.’
Miss Wilmot expressed her feelings on the subject almost as
openly.
‘And so, Helen,’ said she, coming up to me with a
smile of no amiable import, ‘you are to be Mrs. Huntingdon,
I suppose?’
‘Yes,’ replied I. ‘Don’t you
envy me?’
‘Oh, dear, no!’ she exclaimed. ‘I
shall probably be Lady Lowborough some day, and then you know,
dear, I shall be in a capacity to inquire, “Don’t you
envy me?”’
‘Henceforth I shall envy no one,’ returned I.
‘Indeed! Are you so happy then?’ said she,
thoughtfully; and something very like a cloud of disappointment
shadowed her face. ‘And does he love you—I
mean, does he idolise you as much as you do him?’ she
added, fixing her eyes upon me with ill-disguised anxiety for the
reply.
‘I don’t want to be idolised,’ I answered;
‘but I am well assured that he loves me more than anybody
else in the world—as I do him.’
‘Exactly,’ said she, with a nod. ‘I
wish—‘ she paused.
‘What do you wish?’ asked I, annoyed at the
vindictive expression of her countenance.
‘I wish,’ returned, she, with a short laugh,
‘that all the attractive points and desirable
qualifications of the two gentlemen were united in one—that
Lord Lowborough had Huntingdon’s handsome face and good
temper, and all his wit, and mirth and charm, or else that
Huntingdon had Lowborough’s pedigree, and title, and
delightful old family seat, and I had him; and you might have the
other and welcome.’
‘Thank you, dear Annabella: I am better satisfied with
things as they are, for my own part; and for you, I wish you were
as well content with your intended as I am with mine,’ said
I; and it was true enough; for, though vexed at first at her
unamiable spirit, her frankness touched me, and the contrast
between our situations was such, that I could well afford to pity
her and wish her well.
Mr. Huntingdon’s acquaintances appear to be no better
pleased with our approaching union than mine. This
morning’s post brought him letters from several of his
friends, during the perusal of which, at the breakfast-table, he
excited the attention of the company by the singular variety of
his grimaces. But he crushed them all into his pocket, with
a private laugh, and said nothing till the meal was
concluded. Then, while the company were hanging over the
fire or loitering through the room, previous to settling to their
various morning avocations, he came and leant over the back of my
chair, with his face in contact with my curls, and commencing
with a quiet little kiss, poured forth the following complaints
into my ear:—
‘Helen, you witch, do you know that you’ve
entailed upon me the curses of all my friends? I wrote to
them the other day, to tell them of my happy prospects, and now,
instead of a bundle of congratulations, I’ve got a
pocketful of bitter execrations and reproaches.
There’s not one kind wish for me, or one good word for you,
among them all. They say there’ll be no more fun now,
no more merry days and glorious nights—and all my
fault—I am the first to break up the jovial band, and
others, in pure despair, will follow my example. I was the
very life and prop of the community, they do me the honour to
say, and I have shamefully betrayed my trust—’
‘You may join them again, if you like,’ said I,
somewhat piqued at the sorrowful tone of his discourse.
‘I should be sorry to stand between any man—or body
of men, and so much happiness; and perhaps I can manage to do
without you, as well as your poor deserted friends.’
‘Bless you, no,’ murmured he.
‘It’s “all for love or the world well
lost,” with me. Let them go to—where they
belong, to speak politely. But if you saw how they abuse
me, Helen, you would love me all the more for having ventured so
much for your sake.’
He pulled out his crumpled letters. I thought he was
going to show them to me, and told him I did not wish to see
them.
‘I’m not going to show them to you, love,’
said he. ‘They’re hardly fit for a lady’s
eyes—the most part of them. But look here. This
is Grimsby’s scrawl—only three lines, the sulky
dog! He doesn’t say much, to be sure, but his very
silence implies more than all the others’ words, and the
less he says, the more he thinks—and this is
Hargrave’s missive. He is particularly grieved at me,
because, forsooth he had fallen in love with you from his
sister’s reports, and meant to have married you himself, as
soon as he had sown his wild oats.’
‘I’m vastly obliged to him,’ observed I.
‘And so am I,’ said he. ‘And look at
this. This is Hattersley’s—every page stuffed
full of railing accusations, bitter curses, and lamentable
complaints, ending up with swearing that he’ll get married
himself in revenge: he’ll throw himself away on the first
old maid that chooses to set her cap at him,—as if I cared
what he did with himself.’
‘Well,’ said I, ‘if you do give up your
intimacy with these men, I don’t think you will have much
cause to regret the loss of their society; for it’s my
belief they never did you much good.’
‘Maybe not; but we’d a merry time of it, too,
though mingled with sorrow and pain, as Lowborough knows to his
cost—Ha, ha!’ and while he was laughing at the
recollection of Lowborough’s troubles, my uncle came and
slapped him on the shoulder.
‘Come, my lad!’ said he. ‘Are you too
busy making love to my niece to make war with the
pheasants?—First of October, remember! Sun shines
out—rain ceased—even Boarham’s not afraid to
venture in his waterproof boots; and Wilmot and I are going to
beat you all. I declare, we old ’uns are the keenest
sportsmen of the lot!’
‘I’ll show you what I can do to-day,
however,’ said my companion. ‘I’ll murder
your birds by wholesale, just for keeping me away from better
company than either you or them.’
And so saying he departed; and I saw no more of him till
dinner. It seemed a weary time; I wonder what I shall do
without him.
It is very true that the three elder gentlemen have proved
themselves much keener sportsmen than the two younger ones; for
both Lord Lowborough and Arthur Huntingdon have of late almost
daily neglected the shooting excursions to accompany us in our
various rides and rambles. But these merry times are fast
drawing to a close. In less than a fortnight the party
break up, much to my sorrow, for every day I enjoy it more and
more—now that Messrs. Boarham and Wilmot have ceased to
tease me, and my aunt has ceased to lecture me, and I have ceased
to be jealous of Annabella—and even to dislike
her—and now that Mr. Huntingdon is become my Arthur, and I
may enjoy his society without restraint. What shall I do
without him, I repeat?
CHAPTER XXII
October 5th.—My cup of sweets is not unmingled: it is
dashed with a bitterness that I cannot hide from myself, disguise
it as I will. I may try to persuade myself that the
sweetness overpowers it; I may call it a pleasant aromatic
flavour; but say what I will, it is still there, and I cannot but
taste it. I cannot shut my eyes to Arthur’s faults;
and the more I love him the more they trouble me. His very
heart, that I trusted so, is, I fear, less warm and generous than
I thought it. At least, he gave me a specimen of his
character to-day that seemed to merit a harder name than
thoughtlessness. He and Lord Lowborough were accompanying
Annabella and me in a long, delightful ride; he was riding by my
side, as usual, and Annabella and Lord Lowborough were a little
before us, the latter bending towards his companion as if in
tender and confidential discourse.
‘Those two will get the start of us, Helen, if we
don’t look sharp,’ observed Huntingdon.
‘They’ll make a match of it, as sure as can be.
That Lowborough’s fairly besotted. But he’ll
find himself in a fix when he’s got her, I
doubt.’
‘And she’ll find herself in a fix when she’s
got him,’ said I, ‘if what I’ve heard of him is
true.’
‘Not a bit of it. She knows what she’s
about; but he, poor fool, deludes himself with the notion that
she’ll make him a good wife, and because she has amused him
with some rodomontade about despising rank and wealth in matters
of love and marriage, he flatters himself that she’s
devotedly attached to him; that she will not refuse him for his
poverty, and does not court him for his rank, but loves him for
himself alone.’
‘But is not he courting her for her fortune?’
‘No, not he. That was the first attraction,
certainly; but now he has quite lost sight of it: it never enters
his calculations, except merely as an essential without which,
for the lady’s own sake, he could not think of marrying
her. No; he’s fairly in love. He thought he
never could be again, but he’s in for it once more.
He was to have been married before, some two or three years ago;
but he lost his bride by losing his fortune. He got into a
bad way among us in London: he had an unfortunate taste for
gambling; and surely the fellow was born under an unlucky star,
for he always lost thrice where he gained once.
That’s a mode of self-torment I never was much addicted
to. When I spend my money I like to enjoy the full value of
it: I see no fun in wasting it on thieves and blacklegs; and as
for gaining money, hitherto I have always had sufficient;
it’s time enough to be clutching for more, I think, when
you begin to see the end of what you have. But I have
sometimes frequented the gaming-houses just to watch the
on-goings of those mad votaries of chance—a very
interesting study, I assure you, Helen, and sometimes very
diverting: I’ve had many a laugh at the boobies and
bedlamites. Lowborough was quite infatuated—not
willingly, but of necessity,—he was always resolving to
give it up, and always breaking his resolutions. Every
venture was the ‘just once more:’ if he gained a
little, he hoped to gain a little more next time, and if he lost,
it would not do to leave off at that juncture; he must go on till
he had retrieved that last misfortune, at least: bad luck could
not last for ever; and every lucky hit was looked upon as the
dawn of better times, till experience proved the contrary.
At length he grew desperate, and we were daily on the look-out
for a case of felo-de-se—no great matter, some of us
whispered, as his existence had ceased to be an acquisition to
our club. At last, however, he came to a check. He
made a large stake, which he determined should be the last,
whether he lost or won. He had often so determined before,
to be sure, and as often broken his determination; and so it was
this time. He lost; and while his antagonist smilingly
swept away the stakes, he turned chalky white, drew back in
silence, and wiped his forehead. I was present at the time;
and while he stood with folded arms and eyes fixed on the ground,
I knew well enough what was passing in his mind.
‘“Is it to be the last, Lowborough?” said I,
stepping up to him.
‘“The last but one,” he answered, with a
grim smile; and then, rushing back to the table, he struck his
hand upon it, and, raising his voice high above all the confusion
of jingling coins and muttered oaths and curses in the room, he
swore a deep and solemn oath that, come what would, this trial
should be the last, and imprecated unspeakable curses on his head
if ever he should shuffle a card or rattle a dice-box
again. He then doubled his former stake, and challenged any
one present to play against him. Grimsby instantly
presented himself. Lowborough glared fiercely at him, for
Grimsby was almost as celebrated for his luck as he was for his
ill-fortune. However, they fell to work. But Grimsby
had much skill and little scruple, and whether he took advantage
of the other’s trembling, blinded eagerness to deal
unfairly by him, I cannot undertake to say; but Lowborough lost
again, and fell dead sick.
‘“You’d better try once more,” said
Grimsby, leaning across the table. And then he winked at
me.
‘“I’ve nothing to try with,” said the
poor devil, with a ghastly smile.
‘“Oh, Huntingdon will lend you what you
want,” said the other.
‘“No; you heard my oath,” answered
Lowborough, turning away in quiet despair. And I took him
by the arm and led him out.
‘“Is it to be the last, Lowborough?” I
asked, when I got him into the street.
‘“The last,” he answered, somewhat against
my expectation. And I took him home—that is, to our
club—for he was as submissive as a child—and plied
him with brandy-and-water till he began to look rather
brighter—rather more alive, at least.
‘“Huntingdon, I’m ruined!” said he,
taking the third glass from my hand—he had drunk the others
in dead silence.
‘“Not you,” said I.
“You’ll find a man can live without his money as
merrily as a tortoise without its head, or a wasp without its
body.”
‘“But I’m in debt,” said
he—“deep in debt. And I can never, never get
out of it.”
‘“Well, what of that? Many a better man than
you has lived and died in debt; and they can’t put you in
prison, you know, because you’re a peer.” And I
handed him his fourth tumbler.
‘“But I hate to be in debt!” he
shouted. “I wasn’t born for it, and I cannot
bear it.”
‘“What can’t be cured must be
endured,” said I, beginning to mix the fifth.
‘“And then, I’ve lost my
Caroline.” And he began to snivel then, for the
brandy had softened his heart.
‘“No matter,” I answered, “there are
more Carolines in the world than one.”
‘“There’s only one for me,” he
replied, with a dolorous sigh. “And if there were
fifty more, who’s to get them, I wonder, without
money?”
‘“Oh, somebody will take you for your title; and
then you’ve your family estate yet; that’s entailed,
you know.”
‘“I wish to God I could sell it to pay my
debts,” he muttered.
‘“And then,” said Grimsby, who had just come
in, “you can try again, you know. I would have more
than one chance, if I were you. I’d never stop
here.”
‘“I won’t, I tell you!” shouted
he. And he started up, and left the room—walking
rather unsteadily, for the liquor had got into his head. He
was not so much used to it then, but after that he took to it
kindly to solace his cares.
‘He kept his oath about gambling (not a little to the
surprise of us all), though Grimsby did his utmost to tempt him
to break it, but now he had got hold of another habit that
bothered him nearly as much, for he soon discovered that the
demon of drink was as black as the demon of play, and nearly as
hard to get rid of—especially as his kind friends did all
they could to second the promptings of his own insatiable
cravings.’
‘Then, they were demons themselves,’ cried I,
unable to contain my indignation. ‘And you, Mr.
Huntingdon, it seems, were the first to tempt him.’
‘Well, what could we do?’ replied he,
deprecatingly.—‘We meant it in kindness—we
couldn’t bear to see the poor fellow so
miserable:—and besides, he was such a damper upon us,
sitting there silent and glum, when he was under the threefold
influence—of the loss of his sweetheart, the loss of his
fortune, and the reaction of the lost night’s debauch;
whereas, when he had something in him, if he was not merry
himself, he was an unfailing source of merriment to us.
Even Grimsby could chuckle over his odd sayings: they delighted
him far more than my merry jests, or Hattersley’s riotous
mirth. But one evening, when we were sitting over our wine,
after one of our club dinners, and all had been hearty
together,—Lowborough giving us mad toasts, and hearing our
wild songs, and bearing a hand in the applause, if he did not
help us to sing them himself,—he suddenly relapsed into
silence, sinking his head on his hand, and never lifting his
glass to his lips;—but this was nothing new; so we let him
alone, and went on with our jollification, till, suddenly raising
his head, he interrupted us in the middle of a roar of laughter
by exclaiming,—‘Gentlemen, where is all this to
end?—Will you just tell me that now?—Where is it all
to end?’ He rose.
‘“A speech, a speech!” shouted we.
“Hear, hear! Lowborough’s going to give us a
speech!”
‘He waited calmly till the thunders of applause and
jingling of glasses had ceased, and then
proceeded,—“It’s only this,
gentlemen,—that I think we’d better go no
further. We’d better stop while we can.”
‘“Just so!” cried Hattersley—
“Stop, poor sinner, stop and think
Before you further go,
No longer sport upon the brink
Of everlasting woe.”
‘“Exactly!” replied his lordship, with the
utmost gravity. “And if you choose to visit the
bottomless pit, I won’t go with you—we must part
company, for I swear I’ll not move another step towards
it!—What’s this?” he said, taking up his glass
of wine.
‘“Taste it,” suggested I.
‘“This is hell broth!” he exclaimed.
“I renounce it for ever!” And he threw it out
into the middle of the table.
‘“Fill again!” said I, handing him the
bottle—“and let us drink to your
renunciation.”
‘“It’s rank poison,” said he, grasping
the bottle by the neck, “and I forswear it!
I’ve given up gambling, and I’ll give up this
too.” He was on the point of deliberately pouring the
whole contents of the bottle on to the table, but Hargrave
wrested it from him. “On you be the curse,
then!” said he. And, backing from the room, he
shouted, “Farewell, ye tempters!” and vanished amid
shouts of laughter and applause.
‘We expected him back among us the next day; but, to our
surprise, the place remained vacant: we saw nothing of him for a
whole week; and we really began to think he was going to keep his
word. At last, one evening, when we were most of us
assembled together again, he entered, silent and grim as a ghost,
and would have quietly slipped into his usual seat at my elbow,
but we all rose to welcome him, and several voices were raised to
ask what he would have, and several hands were busy with bottle
and glass to serve him; but I knew a smoking tumbler of
brandy-and-water would comfort him best, and had nearly prepared
it, when he peevishly pushed it away, saying,—
‘“Do let me alone, Huntingdon! Do be quiet,
all of you! I’m not come to join you: I’m only
come to be with you awhile, because I can’t bear my own
thoughts.” And he folded his arms, and leant back in
his chair; so we let him be. But I left the glass by him;
and, after awhile, Grimsby directed my attention towards it, by a
significant wink; and, on turning my head, I saw it was drained
to the bottom. He made me a sign to replenish, and quietly
pushed up the bottle. I willingly complied; but Lowborough
detected the pantomime, and, nettled at the intelligent grins
that were passing between us, snatched the glass from my hand,
dashed the contents of it in Grimsby’s face, threw the
empty tumbler at me, and then bolted from the room.’
‘I hope he broke your head,’ said I.
‘No, love,’ replied he, laughing immoderately at
the recollection of the whole affair; ‘he would have done
so,—and perhaps, spoilt my face, too, but, providentially,
this forest of curls’ (taking off his hat, and showing his
luxuriant chestnut locks) ‘saved my skull, and prevented
the glass from breaking, till it reached the table.’
‘After that,’ he continued, ‘Lowborough kept
aloof from us a week or two longer. I used to meet him
occasionally in the town; and then, as I was too good-natured to
resent his unmannerly conduct, and he bore no malice against
me,—he was never unwilling to talk to me; on the contrary,
he would cling to me, and follow me anywhere but to the club, and
the gaming-houses, and such-like dangerous places of
resort—he was so weary of his own moping, melancholy
mind. At last, I got him to come in with me to the club, on
condition that I would not tempt him to drink; and, for some
time, he continued to look in upon us pretty regularly of an
evening,—still abstaining, with wonderful perseverance,
from the “rank poison” he had so bravely
forsworn. But some of our members protested against this
conduct. They did not like to have him sitting there like a
skeleton at a feast, instead of contributing his quota to the
general amusement, casting a cloud over all, and watching, with
greedy eyes, every drop they carried to their lips—they
vowed it was not fair; and some of them maintained that he should
either be compelled to do as others did, or expelled from the
society; and swore that, next time he showed himself, they would
tell him as much, and, if he did not take the warning, proceed to
active measures. However, I befriended him on this
occasion, and recommended them to let him be for a while,
intimating that, with a little patience on our parts, he would
soon come round again. But, to be sure, it was rather
provoking; for, though he refused to drink like an honest
Christian, it was well known to me that he kept a private bottle
of laudanum about him, which he was continually soaking
at—or rather, holding off and on with, abstaining one day
and exceeding the next—just like the spirits.
‘One night, however, during one of our orgies—one
of our high festivals, I mean—he glided in, like the ghost
in “Macbeth,” and seated himself, as usual, a little
back from the table, in the chair we always placed for “the
spectre,” whether it chose to fill it or not. I saw
by his face that he was suffering from the effects of an overdose
of his insidious comforter; but nobody spoke to him, and he spoke
to nobody. A few sidelong glances, and a whispered
observation, that “the ghost was come,” was all the
notice he drew by his appearance, and we went on with our merry
carousals as before, till he startled us all by suddenly drawing
in his chair, and leaning forward with his elbows on the table,
and exclaiming with portentous solemnity,—“Well! it
puzzles me what you can find to be so merry about. What you
see in life I don’t know—I see only the blackness of
darkness, and a fearful looking for of judgment and fiery
indignation!”
‘All the company simultaneously pushed up their glasses
to him, and I set them before him in a semicircle, and, tenderly
patting him on the back, bid him drink, and he would soon see as
bright a prospect as any of us; but he pushed them back,
muttering,—
‘“Take them away! I won’t taste it, I
tell you. I won’t—I won’t!”
So I handed them down again to the owners; but I saw that he
followed them with a glare of hungry regret as they
departed. Then he clasped his hands before his eyes to shut
out the sight, and two minutes after lifted his head again, and
said, in a hoarse but vehement whisper,—
‘“And yet I must! Huntingdon, get me a
glass!”
‘“Take the bottle, man!” said I, thrusting
the brandy-bottle into his hand—but stop, I’m telling
too much,’ muttered the narrator, startled at the look I
turned upon him. ‘But no matter,’ he recklessly
added, and thus continued his relation: ‘In his desperate
eagerness, he seized the bottle and sucked away, till he suddenly
dropped from his chair, disappearing under the table amid a
tempest of applause. The consequence of this imprudence was
something like an apoplectic fit, followed by a rather severe
brain fever—’
‘And what did you think of yourself, sir?’ said I,
quickly.
‘Of course, I was very penitent,’ he
replied. ‘I went to see him once or twice—nay,
twice or thrice—or by’r lady, some four
times—and when he got better, I tenderly brought him back
to the fold.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, I restored him to the bosom of the club, and
compassionating the feebleness of his health and extreme lowness
of his spirits, I recommended him to “take a little wine
for his stomach’s sake,” and, when he was
sufficiently re-established, to embrace the media-via,
ni-jamais-ni-toujours plan—not to kill himself like a fool,
and not to abstain like a ninny—in a word, to enjoy himself
like a rational creature, and do as I did; for, don’t
think, Helen, that I’m a tippler; I’m nothing at all
of the kind, and never was, and never shall be. I value my
comfort far too much. I see that a man cannot give himself
up to drinking without being miserable one-half his days and mad
the other; besides, I like to enjoy my life at all sides and
ends, which cannot be done by one that suffers himself to be the
slave of a single propensity—and, moreover, drinking spoils
one’s good looks,’ he concluded, with a most
conceited smile that ought to have provoked me more than it
did.
‘And did Lord Lowborough profit by your advice?’ I
asked.
‘Why, yes, in a manner. For a while he managed
very well; indeed, he was a model of moderation and
prudence—something too much so for the tastes of our wild
community; but, somehow, Lowborough had not the gift of
moderation: if he stumbled a little to one side, he must go down
before he could right himself: if he overshot the mark one night,
the effects of it rendered him so miserable the next day that he
must repeat the offence to mend it; and so on from day to day,
till his clamorous conscience brought him to a stand. And
then, in his sober moments, he so bothered his friends with his
remorse, and his terrors and woes, that they were obliged, in
self-defence, to get him to drown his sorrows in wine, or any
more potent beverage that came to hand; and when his first
scruples of conscience were overcome, he would need no more
persuading, he would often grow desperate, and be as great a
blackguard as any of them could desire—but only to lament
his own unutterable wickedness and degradation the more when the
fit was over.
‘At last, one day when he and I were alone together,
after pondering awhile in one of his gloomy, abstracted moods,
with his arms folded and his head sunk on his breast, he suddenly
woke up, and vehemently grasping my arm, said,—
‘“Huntingdon, this won’t do! I’m
resolved to have done with it.”
‘“What, are you going to shoot yourself?”
said I.
‘“No; I’m going to reform.”
‘“Oh, that’s nothing new! You’ve
been going to reform these twelve months and more.”
‘“Yes, but you wouldn’t let me; and I was
such a fool I couldn’t live without you. But now I
see what it is that keeps me back, and what’s wanted to
save me; and I’d compass sea and land to get it—only
I’m afraid there’s no chance.” And he
sighed as if his heart would break.
‘“What is it, Lowborough?” said I, thinking
he was fairly cracked at last.
‘“A wife,” he answered; “for I
can’t live alone, because my own mind distracts me, and I
can’t live with you, because you take the devil’s
part against me.”
‘“Who—I?”
‘“Yes—all of you do—and you more than
any of them, you know. But if I could get a wife, with
fortune enough to pay off my debts and set me straight in the
world—”
‘“To be sure,” said I.
‘“And sweetness and goodness enough,” he
continued, “to make home tolerable, and to reconcile me to
myself, I think I should do yet. I shall never be in love
again, that’s certain; but perhaps that would be no great
matter, it would enable me to choose with my eyes open—and
I should make a good husband in spite of it; but could any one be
in love with me?—that’s the question. With your
good looks and powers of fascination” (he was pleased to
say), “I might hope; but as it is, Huntingdon, do you think
anybody would take me—ruined and wretched as I
am?”
‘“Yes, certainly.”
‘“Who?”
‘“Why, any neglected old maid, fast sinking in
despair, would be delighted to—”
‘“No, no,” said he—“it must be
somebody that I can love.”
‘“Why, you just said you never could be in love
again!”
‘“Well, love is not the word—but somebody
that I can like. I’ll search all England through, at
all events!” he cried, with a sudden burst of hope, or
desperation. “Succeed or fail, it will be better than
rushing headlong to destruction at that d-d club: so farewell to
it and you. Whenever I meet you on honest ground or under a
Christian roof, I shall be glad to see you; but never more shall
you entice me to that devil’s den!”
‘This was shameful language, but I shook hands with him,
and we parted. He kept his word; and from that time forward
he has been a pattern of propriety, as far as I can tell; but
till lately I have not had very much to do with him. He
occasionally sought my company, but as frequently shrunk from it,
fearing lest I should wile him back to destruction, and I found
his not very entertaining, especially as he sometimes attempted
to awaken my conscience and draw me from the perdition he
considered himself to have escaped; but when I did happen to meet
him, I seldom failed to ask after the progress of his matrimonial
efforts and researches, and, in general, he could give me but a
poor account. The mothers were repelled by his empty
coffers and his reputation for gambling, and the daughters by his
cloudy brow and melancholy temper—besides, he didn’t
understand them; he wanted the spirit and assurance to carry his
point.
‘I left him at it when I went to the continent; and on
my return, at the year’s end, I found him still a
disconsolate bachelor—though, certainly, looking somewhat
less like an unblest exile from the tomb than before. The
young ladies had ceased to be afraid of him, and were beginning
to think him quite interesting; but the mammas were still
unrelenting. It was about this time, Helen, that my good
angel brought me into conjunction with you; and then I had eyes
and ears for nobody else. But, meantime, Lowborough became
acquainted with our charming friend, Miss Wilmot—through
the intervention of his good angel, no doubt he would tell you,
though he did not dare to fix his hopes on one so courted and
admired, till after they were brought into closer contact here at
Staningley, and she, in the absence of her other admirers,
indubitably courted his notice and held out every encouragement
to his timid advances. Then, indeed, he began to hope for a
dawn of brighter days; and if, for a while, I darkened his
prospects by standing between him and his sun—and so nearly
plunged him again into the abyss of despair—it only
intensified his ardour and strengthened his hopes when I chose to
abandon the field in the pursuit of a brighter treasure. In
a word, as I told you, he is fairly besotted. At first, he
could dimly perceive her faults, and they gave him considerable
uneasiness; but now his passion and her art together have blinded
him to everything but her perfections and his amazing good
fortune. Last night he came to me brimful of his new-found
felicity:
‘“Huntingdon, I am not a castaway!” said he,
seizing my hand and squeezing it like a vice. “There
is happiness in store for me yet—even in this
life—she loves me!”
‘“Indeed!” said I. “Has she told
you so?”
‘“No, but I can no longer doubt it. Do you
not see how pointedly kind and affectionate she is? And she
knows the utmost extent of my poverty, and cares nothing about
it! She knows all the folly and all the wickedness of my
former life, and is not afraid to trust me—and my rank and
title are no allurements to her; for them she utterly
disregards. She is the most generous, high-minded being
that can be conceived of. She will save me, body and soul,
from destruction. Already, she has ennobled me in my own
estimation, and made me three times better, wiser, greater than I
was. Oh! if I had but known her before, how much
degradation and misery I should have been spared! But what
have I done to deserve so magnificent a creature?”
‘And the cream of the jest,’ continued Mr.
Huntingdon, laughing, ‘is, that the artful minx loves
nothing about him but his title and pedigree, and “that
delightful old family seat.”’
‘How do you know?’ said I.
‘She told me so herself; she said, “As for the man
himself, I thoroughly despise him; but then, I suppose, it is
time to be making my choice, and if I waited for some one capable
of eliciting my esteem and affection, I should have to pass my
life in single blessedness, for I detest you all!”
Ha, ha! I suspect she was wrong there; but, however, it is
evident she has no love for him, poor fellow.’
‘Then you ought to tell him so.’
‘What! and spoil all her plans and prospects, poor
girl? No, no: that would be a breach of confidence,
wouldn’t it, Helen? Ha, ha! Besides, it would
break his heart.’ And he laughed again.
‘Well, Mr. Huntingdon, I don’t know what you see
so amazingly diverting in the matter; I see nothing to laugh
at.’
‘I’m laughing at you, just now, love,’ said
he, redoubling his machinations.
And leaving him to enjoy his merriment alone, I touched Ruby
with the whip, and cantered on to rejoin our companions; for we
had been walking our horses all this time, and were consequently
a long way behind. Arthur was soon at my side again; but
not disposed to talk to him, I broke into a gallop. He did
the same; and we did not slacken our pace till we came up with
Miss Wilmot and Lord Lowborough, which was within half a mile of
the park-gates. I avoided all further conversation with him
till we came to the end of our ride, when I meant to jump off my
horse and vanish into the house, before he could offer his
assistance; but while I was disengaging my habit from the crutch,
he lifted me off, and held me by both hands, asserting that he
would not let me go till I had forgiven him.
‘I have nothing to forgive,’ said I.
‘You have not injured me.’
‘No, darling—God forbid that I should! but you are
angry because it was to me that Annabella confessed her lack of
esteem for her lover.’
‘No, Arthur, it is not that that displeases me: it is
the whole system of your conduct towards your friend, and if you
wish me to forget it, go now, and tell him what sort of a woman
it is that he adores so madly, and on whom he has hung his hopes
of future happiness.’
‘I tell you, Helen, it would break his heart—it
would be the death of him—besides being a scandalous trick
to poor Annabella. There is no help for him now; he is past
praying for. Besides, she may keep up the deception to the
end of the chapter; and then he will be just as happy in the
illusion as if it were reality; or perhaps he will only discover
his mistake when he has ceased to love her; and if not, it is
much better that the truth should dawn gradually upon him.
So now, my angel, I hope I have made out a clear case, and fully
convinced you that I cannot make the atonement you require.
What other requisition have you to make? Speak, and I will
gladly obey.’
‘I have none but this,’ said I, as gravely as
before: ‘that, in future, you will never make a jest of the
sufferings of others, and always use your influence with your
friends for their own advantage against their evil propensities,
instead of seconding their evil propensities against
themselves.’
‘I will do my utmost,’ said he, ‘to remember
and perform the injunctions of my angel monitress;’ and
after kissing both my gloved hands, he let me go.
When I entered my room, I was surprised to see Annabella
Wilmot standing before my toilet-table, composedly surveying her
features in the glass, with one hand flirting her gold-mounted
whip, and the other holding up her long habit.
‘She certainly is a magnificent creature!’ thought
I, as I beheld that tall, finely developed figure, and the
reflection of the handsome face in the mirror before me, with the
glossy dark hair, slightly and not ungracefully disordered by the
breezy ride, the rich brown complexion glowing with exercise, and
the black eyes sparkling with unwonted brilliance. On
perceiving me, she turned round, exclaiming, with a laugh that
savoured more of malice than of mirth,—‘Why, Helen!
what have you been doing so long? I came to tell you my
good fortune,’ she continued, regardless of Rachel’s
presence. ‘Lord Lowborough has proposed, and I have
been graciously pleased to accept him. Don’t you envy
me, dear?’
‘No, love,’ said I—‘or him
either,’ I mentally added. ‘And do you like
him, Annabella?’
‘Like him! yes, to be sure—over head and ears in
love!’
‘Well, I hope you’ll make him a good
wife.’
‘Thank you, my dear! And what besides do you
hope?’
‘I hope you will both love each other, and both be
happy.’
‘Thanks; and I hope you will make a very good wife to
Mr. Huntingdon!’ said she, with a queenly bow, and
retired.
‘Oh, Miss! how could you say so to her!’ cried
Rachel.
‘Say what?’ replied I.
‘Why, that you hoped she would make him a good
wife. I never heard such a thing!’
‘Because I do hope it, or rather, I wish it; she’s
almost past hope.’
‘Well,’ said she, ‘I’m sure I hope
he’ll make her a good husband. They tell queer things
about him downstairs. They were saying—’
‘I know, Rachel. I’ve heard all about him;
but he’s reformed now. And they have no business to
tell tales about their masters.’
‘No, mum—or else, they have said some things about
Mr. Huntingdon too.’ ‘I won’t hear them,
Rachel; they tell lies.’
‘Yes, mum,’ said she, quietly, as she went on
arranging my hair.
‘Do you believe them, Rachel?’ I asked, after a
short pause.
‘No, Miss, not all. You know when a lot of
servants gets together they like to talk about their betters; and
some, for a bit of swagger, likes to make it appear as though
they knew more than they do, and to throw out hints and things
just to astonish the others. But I think, if I was you,
Miss Helen, I’d look very well before I leaped. I do
believe a young lady can’t be too careful who she
marries.’
‘Of course not,’ said I; ‘but be quick, will
you, Rachel? I want to be dressed.’
And, indeed, I was anxious to be rid of the good woman, for I
was in such a melancholy frame I could hardly keep the tears out
of my eyes while she dressed me. It was not for Lord
Lowborough—it was not for Annabella—it was not for
myself—it was for Arthur Huntingdon that they rose.
* * * * *
13th.—They are gone, and he is gone. We are to be
parted for more than two months, above ten weeks! a long, long
time to live and not to see him. But he has promised to
write often, and made me promise to write still oftener, because
he will be busy settling his affairs, and I shall have nothing
better to do. Well, I think I shall always have plenty to
say. But oh! for the time when we shall be always together,
and can exchange our thoughts without the intervention of these
cold go-betweens, pen, ink, and paper!
* * * * *
22nd.—I have had several letters from Arthur
already. They are not long, but passing sweet, and just
like himself, full of ardent affection, and playful lively
humour; but there is always a ‘but’ in this imperfect
world, and I do wish he would sometimes be serious. I
cannot get him to write or speak in real, solid earnest. I
don’t much mind it now, but if it be always so, what shall
I do with the serious part of myself?
CHAPTER XXIII
Feb. 18, 1822.—Early this morning Arthur mounted his
hunter and set off in high glee to meet the — hounds.
He will be away all day, and so I will amuse myself with my
neglected diary, if I can give that name to such an irregular
composition. It is exactly four months since I opened it
last.
I am married now, and settled down as Mrs. Huntingdon of
Grassdale Manor. I have had eight weeks’ experience
of matrimony. And do I regret the step I have taken?
No, though I must confess, in my secret heart, that Arthur is not
what I thought him at first, and if I had known him in the
beginning as thoroughly as I do now, I probably never should have
loved him, and if I loved him first, and then made the discovery,
I fear I should have thought it my duty not to have married
him. To be sure I might have known him, for every one was
willing enough to tell me about him, and he himself was no
accomplished hypocrite, but I was wilfully blind; and now,
instead of regretting that I did not discern his full character
before I was indissolubly bound to him, I am glad, for it has
saved me a great deal of battling with my conscience, and a great
deal of consequent trouble and pain; and, whatever I ought to
have done, my duty now is plainly to love him and to cleave to
him, and this just tallies with my inclination.
He is very fond of me, almost too fond. I could do with
less caressing and more rationality. I should like to be
less of a pet and more of a friend, if I might choose; but I
won’t complain of that: I am only afraid his affection
loses in depth where it gains in ardour. I sometimes liken
it to a fire of dry twigs and branches compared with one of solid
coal, very bright and hot; but if it should burn itself out and
leave nothing but ashes behind, what shall I do? But it
won’t, it sha’n’t, I am determined; and surely
I have power to keep it alive. So let me dismiss that
thought at once. But Arthur is selfish; I am constrained to
acknowledge that; and, indeed, the admission gives me less pain
than might be expected, for, since I love him so much, I can
easily forgive him for loving himself: he likes to be pleased,
and it is my delight to please him; and when I regret this
tendency of his, it is for his own sake, not for mine.
The first instance he gave was on the occasion of our bridal
tour. He wanted to hurry it over, for all the continental
scenes were already familiar to him: many had lost their interest
in his eyes, and others had never had anything to lose. The
consequence was, that after a flying transit through part of
France and part of Italy, I came back nearly as ignorant as I
went, having made no acquaintance with persons and manners, and
very little with things, my head swarming with a motley confusion
of objects and scenes; some, it is true, leaving a deeper and
more pleasing impression than others, but these embittered by the
recollection that my emotions had not been shared by my
companion, but that, on the contrary, when I had expressed a
particular interest in anything that I saw or desired to see, it
had been displeasing to him, inasmuch as it proved that I could
take delight in anything disconnected with himself.
As for Paris, we only just touched at that, and he would not
give me time to see one-tenth of the beauties and interesting
objects of Rome. He wanted to get me home, he said, to have
me all to himself, and to see me safely installed as the mistress
of Grassdale Manor, just as single-minded, as naïve, and
piquante as I was; and as if I had been some frail butterfly, he
expressed himself fearful of rubbing the silver off my wings by
bringing me into contact with society, especially that of Paris
and Rome; and, more-over, he did not scruple to tell me that
there were ladies in both places that would tear his eyes out if
they happened to meet him with me.
Of course I was vexed at all this; but still it was less the
disappointment to myself that annoyed me, than the disappointment
in him, and the trouble I was at to frame excuses to my friends
for having seen and observed so little, without imputing one
particle of blame to my companion. But when we got
home—to my new, delightful home—I was so happy and he
was so kind that I freely forgave him all; and I was beginning to
think my lot too happy, and my husband actually too good for me,
if not too good for this world, when, on the second Sunday after
our arrival, he shocked and horrified me by another instance of
his unreasonable exaction. We were walking home from the
morning service, for it was a fine frosty day, and as we are so
near the church, I had requested the carriage should not be
used.
‘Helen,’ said he, with unusual gravity, ‘I
am not quite satisfied with you.’
I desired to know what was wrong.
‘But will you promise to reform if I tell
you?’
‘Yes, if I can, and without offending a higher
authority.’
‘Ah! there it is, you see: you don’t love me with
all your heart.’
‘I don’t understand you, Arthur (at least I hope I
don’t): pray tell me what I have done or said
amiss.’
‘It is nothing you have done or said; it is something
that you are—you are too religious. Now I like a
woman to be religious, and I think your piety one of your
greatest charms; but then, like all other good things, it may be
carried too far. To my thinking, a woman’s religion
ought not to lessen her devotion to her earthly lord. She
should have enough to purify and etherealise her soul, but not
enough to refine away her heart, and raise her above all human
sympathies.’
‘And am I above all human sympathies?’ said I.
‘No, darling; but you are making more progress towards
that saintly condition than I like; for all these two hours I
have been thinking of you and wanting to catch your eye, and you
were so absorbed in your devotions that you had not even a glance
to spare for me—I declare it is enough to make one jealous
of one’s Maker—which is very wrong, you know; so
don’t excite such wicked passions again, for my
soul’s sake.’
‘I will give my whole heart and soul to my Maker if I
can,’ I answered, ‘and not one atom more of it to you
than He allows. What are you, sir, that you should set
yourself up as a god, and presume to dispute possession of my
heart with Him to whom I owe all I have and all I am, every
blessing I ever did or ever can enjoy—and yourself among
the rest—if you are a blessing, which I am half inclined to
doubt.’
‘Don’t be so hard upon me, Helen; and don’t
pinch my arm so: you are squeezing your fingers into the
bone.’
‘Arthur,’ continued I, relaxing my hold of his
arm, ‘you don’t love me half as much as I do you; and
yet, if you loved me far less than you do, I would not complain,
provided you loved your Maker more. I should rejoice to see
you at any time so deeply absorbed in your devotions that you had
not a single thought to spare for me. But, indeed, I should
lose nothing by the change, for the more you loved your God the
more deep and pure and true would be your love to me.’
At this he only laughed and kissed my hand, calling me a sweet
enthusiast. Then taking off his hat, he added: ‘But
look here, Helen—what can a man do with such a head as
this?’
The head looked right enough, but when he placed my hand on
the top of it, it sunk in a bed of curls, rather alarmingly low,
especially in the middle.
‘You see I was not made to be a saint,’ said he,
laughing, ‘If God meant me to be religious, why
didn’t He give me a proper organ of veneration?’
‘You are like the servant,’ I replied, ‘who,
instead of employing his one talent in his master’s
service, restored it to him unimproved, alleging, as an excuse,
that he knew him “to be a hard man, reaping where he had
not sown, and gathering where he had not strawed.” Of
him to whom less is given, less will be required, but our utmost
exertions are required of us all. You are not without the
capacity of veneration, and faith and hope, and conscience and
reason, and every other requisite to a Christian’s
character, if you choose to employ them; but all our talents
increase in the using, and every faculty, both good and bad,
strengthens by exercise: therefore, if you choose to use the bad,
or those which tend to evil, till they become your masters, and
neglect the good till they dwindle away, you have only yourself
to blame. But you have talents, Arthur—natural
endowments both of heart and mind and temper, such as many a
better Christian would be glad to possess, if you would only
employ them in God’s service. I should never expect
to see you a devotee, but it is quite possible to be a good
Christian without ceasing to be a happy, merry-hearted
man.’
‘You speak like an oracle, Helen, and all you say is
indisputably true; but listen here: I am hungry, and I see before
me a good substantial dinner; I am told that if I abstain from
this to-day I shall have a sumptuous feast to-morrow, consisting
of all manner of dainties and delicacies. Now, in the first
place, I should be loth to wait till to-morrow when I have the
means of appeasing my hunger already before me: in the second
place, the solid viands of to-day are more to my taste than the
dainties that are promised me; in the third place, I don’t
see to-morrow’s banquet, and how can I tell that it is not
all a fable, got up by the greasy-faced fellow that is advising
me to abstain in order that he may have all the good victuals to
himself? in the fourth place, this table must be spread for
somebody, and, as Solomon says, “Who can eat, or who else
can hasten hereunto more than I?” and finally, with your
leave, I’ll sit down and satisfy my cravings of to-day, and
leave to-morrow to shift for itself—who knows but what I
may secure both this and that?’
‘But you are not required to abstain from the
substantial dinner of to-day: you are only advised to partake of
these coarser viands in such moderation as not to incapacitate
you from enjoying the choicer banquet of to-morrow. If,
regardless of that counsel, you choose to make a beast of
yourself now, and over-eat and over-drink yourself till you turn
the good victuals into poison, who is to blame if, hereafter,
while you are suffering the torments of yesterday’s
gluttony and drunkenness, you see more temperate men sitting down
to enjoy themselves at that splendid entertainment which you are
unable to taste?’
‘Most true, my patron saint; but again, our friend
Solomon says, “There is nothing better for a man than to
eat and to drink, and to be merry.”’
‘And again,’ returned I, ‘he says,
“Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth; and walk in the ways
of thine heart, and in the sight of thine eyes: but know thou,
that for all these things God will bring thee into
judgment.”’
‘Well, but, Helen, I’m sure I’ve been very
good these last few weeks. What have you seen amiss in me,
and what would you have me to do?’
‘Nothing more than you do, Arthur: your actions are all
right so far; but I would have your thoughts changed; I would
have you to fortify yourself against temptation, and not to call
evil good, and good evil; I should wish you to think more deeply,
to look further, and aim higher than you do.’
CHAPTER XXIV
March 25th.—Arthur is getting tired—not of me, I
trust, but of the idle, quiet life he leads—and no wonder,
for he has so few sources of amusement: he never reads anything
but newspapers and sporting magazines; and when he sees me
occupied with a book, he won’t let me rest till I close
it. In fine weather he generally manages to get through the
time pretty well, but on rainy days, of which we have had a good
many of late, it is quite painful to witness his ennui. I
do all I can to amuse him, but it is impossible to get him to
feel interested in what I most like to talk about, while, on the
other hand, he likes to talk about things that cannot interest
me—or even that annoy me—and these please
him—the most of all: for his favourite amusement is to sit
or loll beside me on the sofa, and tell me stories of his former
amours, always turning upon the ruin of some confiding girl or
the cozening of some unsuspecting husband; and when I express my
horror and indignation, he lays it all to the charge of jealousy,
and laughs till the tears run down his cheeks. I used to
fly into passions or melt into tears at first, but seeing that
his delight increased in proportion to my anger and agitation, I
have since endeavoured to suppress my feelings and receive his
revelations in the silence of calm contempt; but still he reads
the inward struggle in my face, and misconstrues my bitterness of
soul for his unworthiness into the pangs of wounded jealousy; and
when he has sufficiently diverted himself with that, or fears my
displeasure will become too serious for his comfort, he tries to
kiss and soothe me into smiles again—never were his
caresses so little welcome as then! This is double
selfishness displayed to me and to the victims of his former
love. There are times when, with a momentary pang—a
flash of wild dismay, I ask myself, ‘Helen, what have you
done?’ But I rebuke the inward questioner, and repel
the obtrusive thoughts that crowd upon me; for were he ten times
as sensual and impenetrable to good and lofty thoughts, I well
know I have no right to complain. And I don’t and
won’t complain. I do and will love him still; and I
do not and will not regret that I have linked my fate with
his.
April 4th.—We have had a downright quarrel. The
particulars are as follows: Arthur had told me, at different
intervals, the whole story of his intrigue with Lady F—,
which I would not believe before. It was some consolation,
however, to find that in this instance the lady had been more to
blame than he, for he was very young at the time, and she had
decidedly made the first advances, if what he said was
true. I hated her for it, for it seemed as if she had
chiefly contributed to his corruption; and when he was beginning
to talk about her the other day, I begged he would not mention
her, for I detested the very sound of her name.
‘Not because you loved her, Arthur, mind, but because
she injured you and deceived her husband, and was altogether a
very abominable woman, whom you ought to be ashamed to
mention.’
But he defended her by saying that she had a doting old
husband, whom it was impossible to love.
‘Then why did she marry him?’ said I.
‘For his money,’ was the reply.
‘Then that was another crime, and her solemn promise to
love and honour him was another, that only increased the enormity
of the last.’
‘You are too severe upon the poor lady,’ laughed
he. ‘But never mind, Helen, I don’t care for
her now; and I never loved any of them half as much as I do you,
so you needn’t fear to be forsaken like them.’
‘If you had told me these things before, Arthur, I never
should have given you the chance.’
‘Wouldn’t you, my darling?’
‘Most certainly not!’
He laughed incredulously.
‘I wish I could convince you of it now!’ cried I,
starting up from beside him: and for the first time in my life,
and I hope the last, I wished I had not married him.
‘Helen,’ said he, more gravely, ‘do you know
that if I believed you now I should be very angry? but thank
heaven I don’t. Though you stand there with your
white face and flashing eyes, looking at me like a very tigress,
I know the heart within you perhaps a trifle better than you know
it yourself.’
Without another word I left the room and locked myself up in
my own chamber. In about half an hour he came to the door,
and first he tried the handle, then he knocked.
‘Won’t you let me in, Helen?’ said he.
‘No; you have displeased me,’ I replied, ‘and I
don’t want to see your face or hear your voice again till
the morning.’
He paused a moment as if dumfounded or uncertain how to answer
such a speech, and then turned and walked away. This was
only an hour after dinner: I knew he would find it very dull to
sit alone all the evening; and this considerably softened my
resentment, though it did not make me relent. I was
determined to show him that my heart was not his slave, and I
could live without him if I chose; and I sat down and wrote a
long letter to my aunt, of course telling her nothing of all
this. Soon after ten o’clock I heard him come up
again, but he passed my door and went straight to his own
dressing-room, where he shut himself in for the night.
I was rather anxious to see how he would meet me in the
morning, and not a little disappointed to behold him enter the
breakfast-room with a careless smile.
‘Are you cross still, Helen?’ said he, approaching
as if to salute me. I coldly turned to the table, and began
to pour out the coffee, observing that he was rather late.
He uttered a low whistle and sauntered away to the window,
where he stood for some minutes looking out upon the pleasing
prospect of sullen grey clouds, streaming rain, soaking lawn, and
dripping leafless trees, and muttering execrations on the
weather, and then sat down to breakfast. While taking his
coffee he muttered it was ‘d—d cold.’
‘You should not have left it so long,’ said I.
He made no answer, and the meal was concluded in
silence. It was a relief to both when the letter-bag was
brought in. It contained upon examination a newspaper and
one or two letters for him, and a couple of letters for me, which
he tossed across the table without a remark. One was from
my brother, the other from Milicent Hargrave, who is now in
London with her mother. His, I think, were business
letters, and apparently not much to his mind, for he crushed them
into his pocket with some muttered expletives that I should have
reproved him for at any other time. The paper he set before
him, and pretended to be deeply absorbed in its contents during
the remainder of breakfast, and a considerable time after.
The reading and answering of my letters, and the direction of
household concerns, afforded me ample employment for the morning:
after lunch I got my drawing, and from dinner till bed-time I
read. Meanwhile, poor Arthur was sadly at a loss for
something to amuse him or to occupy his time. He wanted to
appear as busy and as unconcerned as I did. Had the weather
at all permitted, he would doubtless have ordered his horse and
set off to some distant region, no matter where, immediately
after breakfast, and not returned till night: had there been a
lady anywhere within reach, of any age between fifteen and
forty-five, he would have sought revenge and found employment in
getting up, or trying to get up, a desperate flirtation with her;
but being, to my private satisfaction, entirely cut off from both
these sources of diversion, his sufferings were truly
deplorable. When he had done yawning over his paper and
scribbling short answers to his shorter letters, he spent the
remainder of the morning and the whole of the afternoon in
fidgeting about from room to room, watching the clouds, cursing
the rain, alternately petting and teasing and abusing his dogs,
sometimes lounging on the sofa with a book that he could not
force himself to read, and very often fixedly gazing at me when
he thought I did not perceive it, with the vain hope of detecting
some traces of tears, or some tokens of remorseful anguish in my
face. But I managed to preserve an undisturbed though grave
serenity throughout the day. I was not really angry: I felt
for him all the time, and longed to be reconciled; but I
determined he should make the first advances, or at least show
some signs of an humble and contrite spirit first; for, if I
began, it would only minister to his self-conceit, increase his
arrogance, and quite destroy the lesson I wanted to give him.
He made a long stay in the dining-room after dinner, and, I
fear, took an unusual quantity of wine, but not enough to loosen
his tongue: for when he came in and found me quietly occupied
with my book, too busy to lift my head on his entrance, he merely
murmured an expression of suppressed disapprobation, and,
shutting the door with a bang, went and stretched himself at full
length on the sofa, and composed himself to sleep. But his
favourite cocker, Dash, that had been lying at my feet, took the
liberty of jumping upon him and beginning to lick his face.
He struck it off with a smart blow, and the poor dog squeaked and
ran cowering back to me. When he woke up, about half an
hour after, he called it to him again, but Dash only looked
sheepish and wagged the tip of his tail. He called again
more sharply, but Dash only clung the closer to me, and licked my
hand, as if imploring protection. Enraged at this, his
master snatched up a heavy book and hurled it at his head.
The poor dog set up a piteous outcry, and ran to the door.
I let him out, and then quietly took up the book.
‘Give that book to me,’ said Arthur, in no very
courteous tone. I gave it to him.
‘Why did you let the dog out?’ he asked;
‘you knew I wanted him.’
‘By what token?’ I replied; ‘by your
throwing the book at him? but perhaps it was intended for
me?’
‘No; but I see you’ve got a taste of it,’
said he, looking at my hand, that had also been struck, and was
rather severely grazed.
I returned to my reading, and he endeavoured to occupy himself
in the same manner; but in a little while, after several
portentous yawns, he pronounced his book to be ‘cursed
trash,’ and threw it on the table. Then followed
eight or ten minutes of silence, during the greater part of
which, I believe, he was staring at me. At last his
patience was tired out.
‘What is that book, Helen?’ he exclaimed.
I told him.
‘Is it interesting?’
‘Yes, very.’
I went on reading, or pretending to read, at least—I
cannot say there was much communication between my eyes and my
brain; for, while the former ran over the pages, the latter was
earnestly wondering when Arthur would speak next, and what he
would say, and what I should answer. But he did not speak
again till I rose to make the tea, and then it was only to say he
should not take any. He continued lounging on the sofa, and
alternately closing his eyes and looking at his watch and at me,
till bed-time, when I rose, and took my candle and retired.
‘Helen!’ cried he, the moment I had left the
room. I turned back, and stood awaiting his commands.
‘What do you want, Arthur?’ I said at length.
‘Nothing,’ replied he. ‘Go!’
I went, but hearing him mutter something as I was closing the
door, I turned again. It sounded very like
‘confounded slut,’ but I was quite willing it should
be something else.
‘Were you speaking, Arthur?’ I asked.
‘No,’ was the answer, and I shut the door and
departed. I saw nothing more of him till the following
morning at breakfast, when he came down a full hour after the
usual time.
‘You’re very late,’ was my morning’s
salutation.
‘You needn’t have waited for me,’ was his;
and he walked up to the window again. It was just such
weather as yesterday.
‘Oh, this confounded rain!’ he muttered.
But, after studiously regarding it for a minute or two, a bright
idea, seemed to strike him, for he suddenly exclaimed, ‘But
I know what I’ll do!’ and then returned and took his
seat at the table. The letter-bag was already there,
waiting to be opened. He unlocked it and examined the
contents, but said nothing about them.
‘Is there anything for me?’ I asked.
‘No.’
He opened the newspaper and began to read.
‘You’d better take your coffee,’ suggested
I; ‘it will be cold again.’
‘You may go,’ said he, ‘if you’ve
done; I don’t want you.’
I rose and withdrew to the next room, wondering if we were to
have another such miserable day as yesterday, and wishing
intensely for an end of these mutually inflicted torments.
Shortly after I heard him ring the bell and give some orders
about his wardrobe that sounded as if he meditated a long
journey. He then sent for the coachman, and I heard
something about the carriage and the horses, and London, and
seven o’clock to-morrow morning, that startled and
disturbed me not a little.
‘I must not let him go to London, whatever comes of
it,’ said I to myself; ‘he will run into all kinds of
mischief, and I shall be the cause of it. But the question
is, How am I to alter his purpose? Well, I will wait
awhile, and see if he mentions it.’
I waited most anxiously, from hour to hour; but not a word was
spoken, on that or any other subject, to me. He whistled
and talked to his dogs, and wandered from room to room, much the
same as on the previous day. At last I began to think I
must introduce the subject myself, and was pondering how to bring
it about, when John unwittingly came to my relief with the
following message from the coachman:
‘Please, sir, Richard says one of the horses has got a
very bad cold, and he thinks, sir, if you could make it
convenient to go the day after to-morrow, instead of to-morrow,
he could physic it to-day, so as—’
‘Confound his impudence!’ interjected the
master.
‘Please, sir, he says it would be a deal better if you
could,’ persisted John, ‘for he hopes there’ll
be a change in the weather shortly, and he says it’s not
likely, when a horse is so bad with a cold, and physicked and
all—’
‘Devil take the horse!’ cried the gentleman.
‘Well, tell him I’ll think about it,’ he added,
after a moment’s reflection. He cast a searching
glance at me, as the servant withdrew, expecting to see some
token of deep astonishment and alarm; but, being previously
prepared, I preserved an aspect of stoical indifference.
His countenance fell as he met my steady gaze, and he turned away
in very obvious disappointment, and walked up to the fire-place,
where he stood in an attitude of undisguised dejection, leaning
against the chimney-piece with his forehead sunk upon his
arm.
‘Where do you want to go, Arthur?’ said I.
‘To London,’ replied he, gravely.
‘What for?’ I asked.
‘Because I cannot be happy here.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because my wife doesn’t love me.’
‘She would love you with all her heart, if you deserved
it.’
‘What must I do to deserve it?’
This seemed humble and earnest enough; and I was so much
affected, between sorrow and joy, that I was obliged to pause a
few seconds before I could steady my voice to reply.
‘If she gives you her heart,’ said I, ‘you
must take it, thankfully, and use it well, and not pull it in
pieces, and laugh in her face, because she cannot snatch it
away.’
He now turned round, and stood facing me, with his back to the
fire. ‘Come, then, Helen, are you going to be a good
girl?’ said he.
This sounded rather too arrogant, and the smile that
accompanied it did not please me. I therefore hesitated to
reply. Perhaps my former answer had implied too much: he
had heard my voice falter, and might have seen me brush away a
tear.
‘Are you going to forgive me, Helen?’ he resumed,
more humbly.
‘Are you penitent?’ I replied, stepping up to him
and smiling in his face.
‘Heart-broken!’ he answered, with a rueful
countenance, yet with a merry smile just lurking within his eyes
and about the corners of his mouth; but this could not repulse
me, and I flew into his arms. He fervently embraced me, and
though I shed a torrent of tears, I think I never was happier in
my life than at that moment.
‘Then you won’t go to London, Arthur?’ I
said, when the first transport of tears and kisses had
subsided.
‘No, love,—unless you will go with me.’
‘I will, gladly,’ I answered, ‘if you think
the change will amuse you, and if you will put off the journey
till next week.’
He readily consented, but said there was no need of much
preparation, as he should not be for staying long, for he did not
wish me to be Londonized, and to lose my country freshness and
originality by too much intercourse with the ladies of the
world. I thought this folly; but I did not wish to
contradict him now: I merely said that I was of very domestic
habits, as he well knew, and had no particular wish to mingle
with the world.
So we are to go to London on Monday, the day after
to-morrow. It is now four days since the termination of our
quarrel, and I am sure it has done us both good: it has made me
like Arthur a great deal better, and made him behave a great deal
better to me. He has never once attempted to annoy me
since, by the most distant allusion to Lady F—, or any of
those disagreeable reminiscences of his former life. I wish
I could blot them from my memory, or else get him to regard such
matters in the same light as I do. Well! it is something,
however, to have made him see that they are not fit subjects for
a conjugal jest. He may see further some time. I will
put no limits to my hopes; and, in spite of my aunt’s
forebodings and my own unspoken fears, I trust we shall be happy
yet.
CHAPTER XXV
On the eighth of April we went to London, on the eighth of May
I returned, in obedience to Arthur’s wish; very much
against my own, because I left him behind. If he had come
with me, I should have been very glad to get home again, for he
led me such a round of restless dissipation while there, that, in
that short space of time, I was quite tired out. He seemed
bent upon displaying me to his friends and acquaintances in
particular, and the public in general, on every possible
occasion, and to the greatest possible advantage. It was
something to feel that he considered me a worthy object of pride;
but I paid dear for the gratification: for, in the first place,
to please him I had to violate my cherished predilections, my
almost rooted principles in favour of a plain, dark, sober style
of dress—I must sparkle in costly jewels and deck myself
out like a painted butterfly, just as I had, long since,
determined I would never do—and this was no trifling
sacrifice; in the second place, I was continually straining to
satisfy his sanguine expectations and do honour to his choice by
my general conduct and deportment, and fearing to disappoint him
by some awkward misdemeanour, or some trait of inexperienced
ignorance about the customs of society, especially when I acted
the part of hostess, which I was not unfrequently called upon to
do; and, in the third place, as I intimated before, I was wearied
of the throng and bustle, the restless hurry and ceaseless change
of a life so alien to all my previous habits. At last, he
suddenly discovered that the London air did not agree with me,
and I was languishing for my country home, and must immediately
return to Grassdale.
I laughingly assured him that the case was not so urgent as he
appeared to think it, but I was quite willing to go home if he
was. He replied that he should be obliged to remain a week
or two longer, as he had business that required his presence.
‘Then I will stay with you,’ said I.
‘But I can’t do with you, Helen,’ was his
answer: ‘as long as you stay I shall attend to you and
neglect my business.’
‘But I won’t let you,’ I returned;
‘now that I know you have business to attend to, I shall
insist upon your attending to it, and letting me alone; and, to
tell the truth, I shall be glad of a little rest. I can
take my rides and walks in the Park as usual; and your business
cannot occupy all your time: I shall see you at meal-times, and
in the evenings at least, and that will be better than being
leagues away and never seeing you at all.’
‘But, my love, I cannot let you stay. How can I
settle my affairs when I know that you are here,
neglected—?’
‘I shall not feel myself neglected: while you are doing
your duty, Arthur, I shall never complain of neglect. If
you had told me before, that you had anything to do, it would
have been half done before this; and now you must make up for
lost time by redoubled exertions. Tell me what it is; and I
will be your taskmaster, instead of being a hindrance.’
‘No, no,’ persisted the impracticable creature;
‘you must go home, Helen; I must have the satisfaction of
knowing that you are safe and well, though far away. Your
bright eyes are faded, and that tender, delicate bloom has quite
deserted your cheek.’
‘That is only with too much gaiety and
fatigue.’
‘It is not, I tell you; it is the London air: you are
pining for the fresh breezes of your country home, and you shall
feel them before you are two days older. And remember your
situation, dearest Helen; on your health, you know, depends the
health, if not the life, of our future hope.’
‘Then you really wish to get rid of me?’
‘Positively, I do; and I will take you down myself to
Grassdale, and then return. I shall not be absent above a
week or fortnight at most.’
‘But if I must go, I will go alone: if you must stay, it
is needless to waste your time in the journey there and
back.’
But he did not like the idea of sending me alone.
‘Why, what helpless creature do you take me for,’
I replied, ‘that you cannot trust me to go a hundred miles
in our own carriage, with our own footman and a maid to attend
me? If you come with me I shall assuredly keep you.
But tell me, Arthur, what is this tiresome business; and why did
you never mention it before?’
‘It is only a little business with my lawyer,’
said he; and he told me something about a piece of property he
wanted to sell, in order to pay off a part of the incumbrances on
his estate; but either the account was a little confused, or I
was rather dull of comprehension, for I could not clearly
understand how that should keep him in town a fortnight after
me. Still less can I now comprehend how it should keep him
a month, for it is nearly that time since I left him, and no
signs of his return as yet. In every letter he promises to
be with me in a few days, and every time deceives me, or deceives
himself. His excuses are vague and insufficient. I
cannot doubt that he has got among his former companions
again. Oh, why did I leave him! I wish—I do
intensely wish he would return!
June 29th.—No Arthur yet; and for many days I have been
looking and longing in vain for a letter. His letters, when
they come, are kind, if fair words and endearing epithets can
give them a claim to the title—but very short, and full of
trivial excuses and promises that I cannot trust; and yet how
anxiously I look forward to them! how eagerly I open and devour
one of those little, hastily-scribbled returns for the three or
four long letters, hitherto unanswered, he has had from me!
Oh, it is cruel to leave me so long alone! He knows I
have no one but Rachel to speak to, for we have no neighbours
here, except the Hargraves, whose residence I can dimly descry
from these upper windows embosomed among those low, woody hills
beyond the Dale. I was glad when I learnt that Milicent was
so near us; and her company would be a soothing solace to me now;
but she is still in town with her mother; there is no one at the
Grove but little Esther and her French governess, for Walter is
always away. I saw that paragon of manly perfections in
London: he seemed scarcely to merit the eulogiums of his mother
and sister, though he certainly appeared more conversable and
agreeable than Lord Lowborough, more candid and high-minded than
Mr. Grimsby, and more polished and gentlemanly than Mr.
Hattersley, Arthur’s only other friend whom he judged fit
to introduce to me.—Oh, Arthur, why won’t you come?
why won’t you write to me at least? You talked about
my health: how can you expect me to gather bloom and vigour here,
pining in solitude and restless anxiety from day to day?—It
would serve you right to come back and find my good looks
entirely wasted away. I would beg my uncle and aunt, or my
brother, to come and see me, but I do not like to complain of my
loneliness to them, and indeed loneliness is the least of my
sufferings. But what is he, doing—what is it that
keeps him away? It is this ever-recurring question, and the
horrible suggestions it raises, that distract me.
July 3rd.—My last bitter letter has wrung from him an
answer at last, and a rather longer one than usual; but still I
don’t know what to make of it. He playfully abuses me
for the gall and vinegar of my latest effusion, tells me I can
have no conception of the multitudinous engagements that keep him
away, but avers that, in spite of them all, he will assuredly be
with me before the close of next week; though it is impossible
for a man so circumstanced as he is to fix the precise day of his
return: meantime he exhorts me to the exercise of patience,
‘that first of woman’s virtues,’ and desires me
to remember the saying, ‘Absence makes the heart grow
fonder,’ and comfort myself with the assurance that the
longer he stays away the better he shall love me when he returns;
and till he does return, he begs I will continue to write to him
constantly, for, though he is sometimes too idle and often too
busy to answer my letters as they come, he likes to receive them
daily; and if I fulfil my threat of punishing his seeming neglect
by ceasing to write, he shall be so angry that he will do his
utmost to forget me. He adds this piece of intelligence
respecting poor Milicent Hargrave:
‘Your little friend Milicent is likely, before long, to
follow your example, and take upon her the yoke of matrimony in
conjunction with a friend of mine. Hattersley, you know,
has not yet fulfilled his direful threat of throwing his precious
person away on the first old maid that chose to evince a
tenderness for him; but he still preserves a resolute
determination to see himself a married man before the year is
out. “Only,” said he to me, “I must have
somebody that will let me have my own way in everything—not
like your wife, Huntingdon: she is a charming creature, but she
looks as if she had a will of her own, and could play the vixen
upon occasion” (I thought “you’re right there,
man,” but I didn’t say so). “I must have
some good, quiet soul that will let me just do what I like and go
where I like, keep at home or stay away, without a word of
reproach or complaint; for I can’t do with being
bothered.” “Well,” said I, “I know
somebody that will suit you to a tee, if you don’t care for
money, and that’s Hargrave’s sister,
Milicent.” He desired to be introduced to her
forthwith, for he said he had plenty of the needful himself, or
should have when his old governor chose to quit the stage.
So you see, Helen, I have managed pretty well, both for your
friend and mine.’
Poor Milicent! But I cannot imagine she will ever be led
to accept such a suitor—one so repugnant to all her ideas
of a man to be honoured and loved.
5th.—Alas! I was mistaken. I have got a long
letter from her this morning, telling me she is already engaged,
and expects to be married before the close of the month.
‘I hardly know what to say about it,’ she writes,
‘or what to think. To tell you the truth, Helen, I
don’t like the thoughts of it at all. If I am to be
Mr. Hattersley’s wife, I must try to love him; and I do try
with all my might; but I have made very little progress yet; and
the worst symptom of the case is, that the further he is from me
the better I like him: he frightens me with his abrupt manners
and strange hectoring ways, and I dread the thoughts of marrying
him. “Then why have you accepted him?” you will
ask; and I didn’t know I had accepted him; but mamma tells
me I have, and he seems to think so too. I certainly
didn’t mean to do so; but I did not like to give him a flat
refusal, for fear mamma should be grieved and angry (for I knew
she wished me to marry him), and I wanted to talk to her first
about it: so I gave him what I thought was an evasive, half
negative answer; but she says it was as good as an acceptance,
and he would think me very capricious if I were to attempt to
draw back—and indeed I was so confused and frightened at
the moment, I can hardly tell what I said. And next time I
saw him, he accosted me in all confidence as his affianced bride,
and immediately began to settle matters with mamma. I had
not courage to contradict them then, and how can I do it
now? I cannot; they would think me mad. Besides,
mamma is so delighted with the idea of the match; she thinks she
has managed so well for me; and I cannot bear to disappoint
her. I do object sometimes, and tell her what I feel, but
you don’t know how she talks. Mr. Hattersley, you
know, is the son of a rich banker, and as Esther and I have no
fortunes, and Walter very little, our dear mamma is very anxious
to see us all well married, that is, united to rich
partners. It is not my idea of being well married, but she
means it all for the best. She says when I am safe off her
hands it will be such a relief to her mind; and she assures me it
will be a good thing for the family as well as for me. Even
Walter is pleased at the prospect, and when I confessed my
reluctance to him, he said it was all childish nonsense. Do
you think it nonsense, Helen? I should not care if I could
see any prospect of being able to love and admire him, but I
can’t. There is nothing about him to hang one’s
esteem and affection upon; he is so diametrically opposite to
what I imagined my husband should be. Do write to me, and
say all you can to encourage me. Don’t attempt to
dissuade me, for my fate is fixed: preparations for the important
event are already going on around me; and don’t say a word
against Mr. Hattersley, for I want to think well of him; and
though I have spoken against him myself, it is for the last time:
hereafter, I shall never permit myself to utter a word in his
dispraise, however he may seem to deserve it; and whoever
ventures to speak slightingly of the man I have promised to love,
to honour, and obey, must expect my serious displeasure.
After all, I think he is quite as good as Mr. Huntingdon, if not
better; and yet you love him, and seem to be happy and contented;
and perhaps I may manage as well. You must tell me, if you
can, that Mr. Hattersley is better than he seems—that he is
upright, honourable, and open-hearted—in fact, a perfect
diamond in the rough. He may be all this, but I don’t
know him. I know only the exterior, and what, I trust, is
the worst part of him.’
She concludes with ‘Good-by, dear Helen. I am
waiting anxiously for your advice—but mind you let it be
all on the right side.’
Alas! poor Milicent, what encouragement can I give you? or
what advice—except that it is better to make a bold stand
now, though at the expense of disappointing and angering both
mother and brother and lover, than to devote your whole life,
hereafter, to misery and vain regret?
Saturday, 13th.—The week is over, and he is not
come. All the sweet summer is passing away without one
breath of pleasure to me or benefit to him. And I had all
along been looking forward to this season with the fond, delusive
hope that we should enjoy it so sweetly together; and that, with
God’s help and my exertions, it would be the means of
elevating his mind, and refining his taste to a due appreciation
of the salutary and pure delights of nature, and peace, and holy
love. But now—at evening, when I see the round red
sun sink quietly down behind those woody hills, leaving them
sleeping in a warm, red, golden haze, I only think another lovely
day is lost to him and me; and at morning, when roused by the
flutter and chirp of the sparrows, and the gleeful twitter of the
swallows—all intent upon feeding their young, and full of
life and joy in their own little frames—I open the window
to inhale the balmy, soul-reviving air, and look out upon the
lovely landscape, laughing in dew and sunshine—I too often
shame that glorious scene with tears of thankless misery, because
he cannot feel its freshening influence; and when I wander in the
ancient woods, and meet the little wild flowers smiling in my
path, or sit in the shadow of our noble ash-trees by the
water-side, with their branches gently swaying in the light
summer breeze that murmurs through their feathery
foliage—my ears full of that low music mingled with the
dreamy hum of insects, my eyes abstractedly gazing on the glassy
surface of the little lake before me, with the trees that crowd
about its bank, some gracefully bending to kiss its waters, some
rearing their stately heads high above, but stretching their wide
arms over its margin, all faithfully mirrored far, far down in
its glassy depth—though sometimes the images are partially
broken by the sport of aquatic insects, and sometimes, for a
moment, the whole is shivered into trembling fragments by a
transient breeze that sweeps the surface too roughly—still
I have no pleasure; for the greater the happiness that nature
sets before me, the more I lament that he is not here to taste
it: the greater the bliss we might enjoy together, the more I
feel our present wretchedness apart (yes, ours; he must be
wretched, though he may not know it); and the more my senses are
pleased, the more my heart is oppressed; for he keeps it with him
confined amid the dust and smoke of London—perhaps shut up
within the walls of his own abominable club.
But most of all, at night, when I enter my lonely chamber, and
look out upon the summer moon, ‘sweet regent of the
sky,’ floating above me in the ‘black blue vault of
heaven,’ shedding a flood of silver radiance over park, and
wood, and water, so pure, so peaceful, so divine—and think,
Where is he now?—what is he doing at this moment? wholly
unconscious of this heavenly scene—perhaps revelling with
his boon companions, perhaps—God help me, it is
too—too much!
23rd.—Thank heaven, he is come at last! But how
altered! flushed and feverish, listless and languid, his beauty
strangely diminished, his vigour and vivacity quite
departed. I have not upbraided him by word or look; I have
not even asked him what he has been doing. I have not the
heart to do it, for I think he is ashamed of himself-he must be
so indeed, and such inquiries could not fail to be painful to
both. My forbearance pleases him—touches him even, I
am inclined to think. He says he is glad to be home again,
and God knows how glad I am to get him back, even as he is.
He lies on the sofa, nearly all day long; and I play and sing to
him for hours together. I write his letters for him, and
get him everything he wants; and sometimes I read to him, and
sometimes I talk, and sometimes only sit by him and soothe him
with silent caresses. I know he does not deserve it; and I
fear I am spoiling him; but this once, I will forgive him, freely
and entirely. I will shame him into virtue if I can, and I
will never let him leave me again.
He is pleased with my attentions—it may be, grateful for
them. He likes to have me near him: and though he is
peevish and testy with his servants and his dogs, he is gentle
and kind to me. What he would be, if I did not so
watchfully anticipate his wants, and so carefully avoid, or
immediately desist from doing anything that has a tendency to
irritate or disturb him, with however little reason, I cannot
tell. How intensely I wish he were worthy of all this
care! Last night, as I sat beside him, with his head in my
lap, passing my fingers through his beautiful curls, this thought
made my eyes overflow with sorrowful tears—as it often
does; but this time, a tear fell on his face and made him look
up. He smiled, but not insultingly.
‘Dear Helen!’ he said—‘why do you cry?
you know that I love you’ (and he pressed my hand to his
feverish lips), ‘and what more could you desire?’
‘Only, Arthur, that you would love yourself as truly and
as faithfully as you are loved by me.’
‘That would be hard, indeed!’ he replied, tenderly
squeezing my hand.
August 24th.—Arthur is himself again, as lusty and
reckless, as light of heart and head as ever, and as restless and
hard to amuse as a spoilt child, and almost as full of mischief
too, especially when wet weather keeps him within doors. I
wish he had something to do, some useful trade, or profession, or
employment—anything to occupy his head or his hands for a
few hours a day, and give him something besides his own pleasure
to think about. If he would play the country gentleman and
attend to the farm—but that he knows nothing about, and
won’t give his mind to consider,—or if he would take
up with some literary study, or learn to draw or to play—as
he is so fond of music, I often try to persuade him to learn the
piano, but he is far too idle for such an undertaking: he has no
more idea of exerting himself to overcome obstacles than he has
of restraining his natural appetites; and these two things are
the ruin of him. I lay them both to the charge of his harsh
yet careless father, and his madly indulgent mother.—If
ever I am a mother I will zealously strive against this crime of
over-indulgence. I can hardly give it a milder name when I
think of the evils it brings.
Happily, it will soon be the shooting season, and then, if the
weather permit, he will find occupation enough in the pursuit and
destruction of the partridges and pheasants: we have no grouse,
or he might have been similarly occupied at this moment, instead
of lying under the acacia-tree pulling poor Dash’s
ears. But he says it is dull work shooting alone; he must
have a friend or two to help him.
‘Let them be tolerably decent then, Arthur,’ said
I. The word ‘friend’ in his mouth makes me
shudder: I know it was some of his ‘friends’ that
induced him to stay behind me in London, and kept him away so
long: indeed, from what he has unguardedly told me, or hinted
from time to time, I cannot doubt that he frequently showed them
my letters, to let them see how fondly his wife watched over his
interests, and how keenly she regretted his absence; and that
they induced him to remain week after week, and to plunge into
all manner of excesses, to avoid being laughed at for a
wife-ridden fool, and, perhaps, to show how far he could venture
to go without danger of shaking the fond creature’s devoted
attachment. It is a hateful idea, but I cannot believe it
is a false one.
‘Well,’ replied he, ‘I thought of Lord
Lowborough for one; but there is no possibility of getting him
without his better half, our mutual friend, Annabella; so we must
ask them both. You’re not afraid of her, are you,
Helen?’ he asked, with a mischievous twinkle in his
eyes.
‘Of course not,’ I answered: ‘why should
I? And who besides?’
‘Hargrave for one. He will be glad to come, though
his own place is so near, for he has little enough land of his
own to shoot over, and we can extend our depredations into it, if
we like; and he is thoroughly respectable, you know,
Helen—quite a lady’s man: and I think, Grimsby for
another: he’s a decent, quiet fellow enough.
You’ll not object to Grimsby?’
‘I hate him: but, however, if you wish it, I’ll
try to endure his presence for a while.’
‘All a prejudice, Helen, a mere woman’s
antipathy.’
‘No; I have solid grounds for my dislike. And is
that all?’
‘Why, yes, I think so. Hattersley will be too busy
billing and cooing, with his bride to have much time to spare for
guns and dogs at present,’ he replied. And that
reminds me, that I have had several letters from Milicent since
her marriage, and that she either is, or pretends to be, quite
reconciled to her lot. She professes to have discovered
numberless virtues and perfections in her husband, some of which,
I fear, less partial eyes would fail to distinguish, though they
sought them carefully with tears; and now that she is accustomed
to his loud voice, and abrupt, uncourteous manners, she affirms
she finds no difficulty in loving him as a wife should do, and
begs I will burn that letter wherein she spoke so unadvisedly
against him. So that I trust she may yet be happy; but, if
she is, it will be entirely the reward of her own goodness of
heart; for had she chosen to consider herself the victim of fate,
or of her mother’s worldly wisdom, she might have been
thoroughly miserable; and if, for duty’s sake, she had not
made every effort to love her husband, she would, doubtless, have
hated him to the end of her days.
CHAPTER XXVI
Sept. 23rd.—Our guests arrived about three weeks
ago. Lord and Lady Lowborough have now been married above
eight months; and I will do the lady the credit to say that her
husband is quite an altered man; his looks, his spirits, and his
temper, are all perceptibly changed for the better since I last
saw him. But there is room for improvement still. He
is not always cheerful, nor always contented, and she often
complains of his ill-humour, which, however, of all persons, she
ought to be the last to accuse him of, as he never displays it
against her, except for such conduct as would provoke a
saint. He adores her still, and would go to the
world’s end to please her. She knows her power, and
she uses it too; but well knowing that to wheedle and coax is
safer than to command, she judiciously tempers her despotism with
flattery and blandishments enough to make him deem himself a
favoured and a happy man.
But she has a way of tormenting him, in which I am a
fellow-sufferer, or might be, if I chose to regard myself as
such. This is by openly, but not too glaringly, coquetting
with Mr. Huntingdon, who is quite willing to be her partner in
the game; but I don’t care for it, because, with him, I
know there is nothing but personal vanity, and a mischievous
desire to excite my jealousy, and, perhaps, to torment his
friend; and she, no doubt, is actuated by much the same motives;
only, there is more of malice and less of playfulness in her
manoeuvres. It is obviously, therefore, my interest to
disappoint them both, as far as I am concerned, by preserving a
cheerful, undisturbed serenity throughout; and, accordingly, I
endeavour to show the fullest confidence in my husband, and the
greatest indifference to the arts of my attractive guest. I
have never reproached the former but once, and that was for
laughing at Lord Lowborough’s depressed and anxious
countenance one evening, when they had both been particularly
provoking; and then, indeed, I said a good deal on the subject,
and rebuked him sternly enough; but he only laughed, and
said,—‘You can feel for him, Helen, can’t
you?’
‘I can feel for anyone that is unjustly treated,’
I replied, ‘and I can feel for those that injure them
too.’
‘Why, Helen, you are as jealous as he is!’ cried
he, laughing still more; and I found it impossible to convince
him of his mistake. So, from that time, I have carefully
refrained from any notice of the subject whatever, and left Lord
Lowborough to take care of himself. He either has not the
sense or the power to follow my example, though he does try to
conceal his uneasiness as well as he can; but still, it will
appear in his face, and his ill-humour will peep out at
intervals, though not in the expression of open
resentment—they never go far enough for that. But I
confess I do feel jealous at times, most painfully, bitterly so;
when she sings and plays to him, and he hangs over the
instrument, and dwells upon her voice with no affected interest;
for then I know he is really delighted, and I have no power to
awaken similar fervour. I can amuse and please him with my
simple songs, but not delight him thus.
28th.—Yesterday, we all went to the Grove, Mr.
Hargrave’s much-neglected home. His mother frequently
asks us over, that she may have the pleasure of her dear
Walter’s company; and this time she had invited us to a
dinner-party, and got together as many of the country gentry as
were within reach to meet us. The entertainment was very
well got up; but I could not help thinking about the cost of it
all the time. I don’t like Mrs. Hargrave; she is a
hard, pretentious, worldly-minded woman. She has money
enough to live very comfortably, if she only knew how to use it
judiciously, and had taught her son to do the same; but she is
ever straining to keep up appearances, with that despicable pride
that shuns the semblance of poverty as of a shameful crime.
She grinds her dependents, pinches her servants, and deprives
even her daughters and herself of the real comforts of life,
because she will not consent to yield the palm in outward show to
those who have three times her wealth; and, above all, because
she is determined her cherished son shall be enabled to
‘hold up his head with the highest gentlemen in the
land.’ This same son, I imagine, is a man of
expensive habits, no reckless spendthrift and no abandoned
sensualist, but one who likes to have ‘everything handsome
about him,’ and to go to a certain length in youthful
indulgences, not so much to gratify his own tastes as to maintain
his reputation as a man of fashion in the world, and a
respectable fellow among his own lawless companions; while he is
too selfish to consider how many comforts might be obtained for
his fond mother and sisters with the money he thus wastes upon
himself: as long as they can contrive to make a respectable
appearance once a year, when they come to town, he gives himself
little concern about their private stintings and struggles at
home. This is a harsh judgment to form of ‘dear,
noble-minded, generous-hearted Walter,’ but I fear it is
too just.
Mrs. Hargrave’s anxiety to make good matches for her
daughters is partly the cause, and partly the result, of these
errors: by making a figure in the world, and showing them off to
advantage, she hopes to obtain better chances for them; and by
thus living beyond her legitimate means, and lavishing so much on
their brother, she renders them portionless, and makes them
burdens on her hands. Poor Milicent, I fear, has already
fallen a sacrifice to the manoeuvrings of this mistaken mother,
who congratulates herself on having so satisfactorily discharged
her maternal duty, and hopes to do as well for Esther. But
Esther is a child as yet, a little merry romp of fourteen: as
honest-hearted, and as guileless and simple as her sister, but
with a fearless spirit of her own, that I fancy her mother will
find some difficulty in bending to her purposes.
CHAPTER XXVII
October 9th.—It was on the night of the 4th, a little
after tea, that Annabella had been singing and playing, with
Arthur as usual at her side: she had ended her song, but still
she sat at the instrument; and he stood leaning on the back of
her chair, conversing in scarcely audible tones, with his face in
very close proximity with hers. I looked at Lord
Lowborough. He was at the other end of the room, talking
with Messrs. Hargrave and Grimsby; but I saw him dart towards his
lady and his host a quick, impatient glance, expressive of
intense disquietude, at which Grimsby smiled. Determined to
interrupt the tête-à-tête, I rose, and,
selecting a piece of music from the music stand, stepped up to
the piano, intending to ask the lady to play it; but I stood
transfixed and speechless on seeing her seated there, listening,
with what seemed an exultant smile on her flushed face to his
soft murmurings, with her hand quietly surrendered to his
clasp. The blood rushed first to my heart, and then to my
head; for there was more than this: almost at the moment of my
approach, he cast a hurried glance over his shoulder towards the
other occupants of the room, and then ardently pressed the
unresisting hand to his lips. On raising his eyes, he
beheld me, and dropped them again, confounded and dismayed.
She saw me too, and confronted me with a look of hard
defiance. I laid the music on the piano, and retired.
I felt ill; but I did not leave the room: happily, it was getting
late, and could not be long before the company dispersed.
I went to the fire, and leant my head against the
chimney-piece. In a minute or two, some one asked me if I
felt unwell. I did not answer; indeed, at the time, I knew
not what was said; but I mechanically looked up, and saw Mr.
Hargrave standing beside me on the rug.
‘Shall I get you a glass of wine?’ said he.
‘No, thank you,’ I replied; and, turning from him,
I looked round. Lady Lowborough was beside her husband,
bending over him as he sat, with her hand on his shoulder, softly
talking and smiling in his face; and Arthur was at the table,
turning over a book of engravings. I seated myself in the
nearest chair; and Mr. Hargrave, finding his services were not
desired, judiciously withdrew. Shortly after, the company
broke up, and, as the guests were retiring to their rooms, Arthur
approached me, smiling with the utmost assurance.
‘Are you very angry, Helen?’ murmured he.
‘This is no jest, Arthur,’ said I, seriously, but
as calmly as I could—‘unless you think it a jest to
lose my affection for ever.’
‘What! so bitter?’ he exclaimed, laughingly,
clasping my hand between both his; but I snatched it away, in
indignation—almost in disgust, for he was obviously
affected with wine.
‘Then I must go down on my knees,’ said he; and
kneeling before me, with clasped hands, uplifted in mock
humiliation, he continued imploringly—‘Forgive me,
Helen—dear Helen, forgive me, and I’ll never do it
again!’ and, burying his face in his handkerchief, he
affected to sob aloud.
Leaving him thus employed, I took my candle, and, slipping
quietly from the room, hastened up-stairs as fast as I
could. But he soon discovered that I had left him, and,
rushing up after me, caught me in his arms, just as I had entered
the chamber, and was about to shut the door in his face.
‘No, no, by heaven, you sha’n’t escape me
so!’ he cried. Then, alarmed at my agitation, he
begged me not to put myself in such a passion, telling me I was
white in the face, and should kill myself if I did so.
‘Let me go, then,’ I murmured; and immediately he
released me—and it was well he did, for I was really in a
passion. I sank into the easy-chair and endeavoured to
compose myself, for I wanted to speak to him calmly. He
stood beside me, but did not venture to touch me or to speak for
a few seconds; then, approaching a little nearer, he dropped on
one knee—not in mock humility, but to bring himself nearer
my level, and leaning his hand on the arm of the chair, he began
in a low voice: ‘It is all nonsense, Helen—a jest, a
mere nothing—not worth a thought. Will you never
learn,’ he continued more boldly, ‘that you have
nothing to fear from me? that I love you wholly and
entirely?—or if,’ he added with a lurking smile,
‘I ever give a thought to another, you may well spare it,
for those fancies are here and gone like a flash of lightning,
while my love for you burns on steadily, and for ever, like the
sun. You little exorbitant tyrant, will not
that—?’
‘Be quiet a moment, will you, Arthur?’ said I,
‘and listen to me—and don’t think I’m in
a jealous fury: I am perfectly calm. Feel my
hand.’ And I gravely extended it towards
him—but closed it upon his with an energy that seemed to
disprove the assertion, and made him smile. ‘You
needn’t smile, sir,’ said I, still tightening my
grasp, and looking steadfastly on him till he almost quailed
before me. ‘You may think it all very fine, Mr.
Huntingdon, to amuse yourself with rousing my jealousy; but take
care you don’t rouse my hate instead. And when you
have once extinguished my love, you will find it no easy matter
to kindle it again.’
‘Well, Helen, I won’t repeat the offence.
But I meant nothing by it, I assure you. I had taken too
much wine, and I was scarcely myself at the time.’
‘You often take too much; and that is another practice I
detest.’ He looked up astonished at my warmth.
‘Yes,’ I continued; ‘I never mentioned it
before, because I was ashamed to do so; but now I’ll tell
you that it distresses me, and may disgust me, if you go on and
suffer the habit to grow upon you, as it will if you don’t
check it in time. But the whole system of your conduct to
Lady Lowborough is not referable to wine; and this night you knew
perfectly well what you were doing.’
‘Well, I’m sorry for it,’ replied he, with
more of sulkiness than contrition: ‘what more would you
have?’
‘You are sorry that I saw you, no doubt,’ I
answered coldly.
‘If you had not seen me,’ he muttered, fixing his
eyes on the carpet, ‘it would have done no harm.’
My heart felt ready to burst; but I resolutely swallowed back
my emotion, and answered calmly,
‘You think not?’
‘No,’ replied he, boldly. ‘After all,
what have I done? It’s nothing—except as you
choose to make it a subject of accusation and
distress.’
‘What would Lord Lowborough, your friend, think, if he
knew all? or what would you yourself think, if he or any other
had acted the same part to me, throughout, as you have to
Annabella?’
‘I would blow his brains out.’
‘Well, then, Arthur, how can you call it
nothing—an offence for which you would think yourself
justified in blowing another man’s brains out? Is it
nothing to trifle with your friend’s feelings and
mine—to endeavour to steal a woman’s affections from
her husband—what he values more than his gold, and
therefore what it is more dishonest to take? Are the
marriage vows a jest; and is it nothing to make it your sport to
break them, and to tempt another to do the same? Can I love
a man that does such things, and coolly maintains it is
nothing?’
‘You are breaking your marriage vows yourself,’
said he, indignantly rising and pacing to and fro.
‘You promised to honour and obey me, and now you attempt to
hector over me, and threaten and accuse me, and call me worse
than a highwayman. If it were not for your situation,
Helen, I would not submit to it so tamely. I won’t be
dictated to by a woman, though she be my wife.’
‘What will you do then? Will you go on till I hate
you, and then accuse me of breaking my vows?’
He was silent a moment, and then replied: ‘You never
will hate me.’ Returning and resuming his former
position at my feet, he repeated more vehemently—‘You
cannot hate me as long as I love you.’
‘But how can I believe that you love me, if you continue
to act in this way? Just imagine yourself in my place:
would you think I loved you, if I did so? Would you believe
my protestations, and honour and trust me under such
circumstances?’
‘The cases are different,’ he replied.
‘It is a woman’s nature to be constant—to love
one and one only, blindly, tenderly, and for ever—bless
them, dear creatures! and you above them all; but you must have
some commiseration for us, Helen; you must give us a little more
licence, for, as Shakespeare has it—
However we
do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won
Than women’s are.’
‘Do you mean by that, that your fancies are lost to me,
and won by Lady Lowborough?’
‘No! heaven is my witness that I think her mere dust and
ashes in comparison with you, and shall continue to think so,
unless you drive me from you by too much severity. She is a
daughter of earth; you are an angel of heaven; only be not too
austere in your divinity, and remember that I am a poor, fallible
mortal. Come now, Helen; won’t you forgive me?’
he said, gently taking my hand, and looking up with an innocent
smile.
‘If I do, you will repeat the offence.’
‘I swear by—’
‘Don’t swear; I’ll believe your word as well
as your oath. I wish I could have confidence in
either.’
‘Try me, then, Helen: only trust and pardon me this
once, and you shall see! Come, I am in hell’s
torments till you speak the word.’
I did not speak it, but I put my hand on his shoulder and
kissed his forehead, and then burst into tears. He embraced
me tenderly; and we have been good friends ever since. He
has been decently temperate at table, and well-conducted towards
Lady Lowborough. The first day he held himself aloof from
her, as far as he could without any flagrant breach of
hospitality: since that he has been friendly and civil, but
nothing more—in my presence, at least, nor, I think, at any
other time; for she seems haughty and displeased, and Lord
Lowborough is manifestly more cheerful, and more cordial towards
his host than before. But I shall be glad when they are
gone, for I have so little love for Annabella that it is quite a
task to be civil to her, and as she is the only woman here
besides myself, we are necessarily thrown so much together.
Next time Mrs. Hargrave calls I shall hail her advent as quite a
relief. I have a good mind to ask Arthur’s leave to
invite the old lady to stay with us till our guests depart.
I think I will. She will take it as a kind attention, and,
though I have little relish for her society, she will be truly
welcome as a third to stand between Lady Lowborough and me.
The first time the latter and I were alone together, after
that unhappy evening, was an hour or two after breakfast on the
following day, when the gentlemen were gone out, after the usual
time spent in the writing of letters, the reading of newspapers,
and desultory conversation. We sat silent for two or three
minutes. She was busy with her work, and I was running over
the columns of a paper from which I had extracted all the pith
some twenty minutes before. It was a moment of painful
embarrassment to me, and I thought it must be infinitely more so
to her; but it seems I was mistaken. She was the first to
speak; and, smiling with the coolest assurance, she
began,—
‘Your husband was merry last night, Helen: is he often
so?’
My blood boiled in my face; but it was better she should seem
to attribute his conduct to this than to anything else.
‘No,’ replied I, ‘and never will be so
again, I trust.’
‘You gave him a curtain lecture, did you?’
‘No! but I told him I disliked such conduct, and he
promised me not to repeat it.’
‘I thought he looked rather subdued this morning,’
she continued; ‘and you, Helen? you’ve been weeping,
I see—that’s our grand resource, you know. But
doesn’t it make your eyes smart? and do you always find it
to answer?’
‘I never cry for effect; nor can I conceive how any one
can.’
‘Well, I don’t know: I never had occasion to try
it; but I think if Lowborough were to commit such improprieties,
I’d make him cry. I don’t wonder at your being
angry, for I’m sure I’d give my husband a lesson he
would not soon forget for a lighter offence than that. But
then he never will do anything of the kind; for I keep him in too
good order for that.’
‘Are you sure you don’t arrogate too much of the
credit to yourself. Lord Lowborough was quite as remarkable
for his abstemiousness for some time before you married him, as
he is now, I have heard.’
‘Oh, about the wine you mean—yes, he’s safe
enough for that. And as to looking askance to another
woman, he’s safe enough for that too, while I live, for he
worships the very ground I tread on.’
‘Indeed! and are you sure you deserve it?’
‘Why, as to that, I can’t say: you know
we’re all fallible creatures, Helen; we none of us deserve
to be worshipped. But are you sure your darling Huntingdon
deserves all the love you give to him?’
I knew not what to answer to this. I was burning with
anger; but I suppressed all outward manifestations of it, and
only bit my lip and pretended to arrange my work.
‘At any rate,’ resumed she, pursuing her
advantage, ‘you can console yourself with the assurance
that you are worthy of all the love he gives to you.’
‘You flatter me,’ said I; ‘but, at least, I
can try to be worthy of it.’ And then I turned the
conversation.
CHAPTER XXVIII
December 25th.—Last Christmas I was a bride, with a
heart overflowing with present bliss, and full of ardent hopes
for the future, though not unmingled with foreboding fears.
Now I am a wife: my bliss is sobered, but not destroyed; my hopes
diminished, but not departed; my fears increased, but not yet
thoroughly confirmed; and, thank heaven, I am a mother too.
God has sent me a soul to educate for heaven, and give me a new
and calmer bliss, and stronger hopes to comfort me.
Dec. 25th, 1823.—Another year is gone. My little
Arthur lives and thrives. He is healthy, but not robust,
full of gentle playfulness and vivacity, already affectionate,
and susceptible of passions and emotions it will be long ere he
can find words to express. He has won his father’s
heart at last; and now my constant terror is, lest he should be
ruined by that father’s thoughtless indulgence. But I
must beware of my own weakness too, for I never knew till now how
strong are a parent’s temptations to spoil an only
child.
I have need of consolation in my son, for (to this silent
paper I may confess it) I have but little in my husband. I
love him still; and he loves me, in his own way—but oh, how
different from the love I could have given, and once had hoped to
receive! How little real sympathy there exists between us;
how many of my thoughts and feelings are gloomily cloistered
within my own mind; how much of my higher and better self is
indeed unmarried—doomed either to harden and sour in the
sunless shade of solitude, or to quite degenerate and fall away
for lack of nutriment in this unwholesome soil! But, I
repeat, I have no right to complain; only let me state the
truth—some of the truth, at least,—and see hereafter
if any darker truths will blot these pages. We have now
been full two years united; the ‘romance’ of our
attachment must be worn away. Surely I have now got down to
the lowest gradation in Arthur’s affection, and discovered
all the evils of his nature: if there be any further change, it
must be for the better, as we become still more accustomed to
each other; surely we shall find no lower depth than this.
And, if so, I can bear it well—as well, at least, as I have
borne it hitherto.
Arthur is not what is commonly called a bad man: he has many
good qualities; but he is a man without self-restraint or lofty
aspirations, a lover of pleasure, given up to animal enjoyments:
he is not a bad husband, but his notions of matrimonial duties
and comforts are not my notions. Judging from appearances,
his idea of a wife is a thing to love one devotedly, and to stay
at home to wait upon her husband, and amuse him and minister to
his comfort in every possible way, while he chooses to stay with
her; and, when he is absent, to attend to his interests, domestic
or otherwise, and patiently wait his return, no matter how he may
be occupied in the meantime.
Early in spring he announced his intention of going to London:
his affairs there demanded his attendance, he said, and he could
refuse it no longer. He expressed his regret at having to
leave me, but hoped I would amuse myself with the baby till he
returned.
‘But why leave me?’ I said. ‘I can go
with you: I can be ready at any time.’
‘You would not take that child to town?’
‘Yes; why not?’
The thing was absurd: the air of the town would be certain to
disagree with him, and with me as a nurse; the late hours and
London habits would not suit me under such circumstances; and
altogether he assured me that it would be excessively
troublesome, injurious, and unsafe. I over-ruled his
objections as well as I could, for I trembled at the thoughts of
his going alone, and would sacrifice almost anything for myself,
much even for my child, to prevent it; but at length he told me,
plainly, and somewhat testily, that he could not do with me: he
was worn out with the baby’s restless nights, and must have
some repose. I proposed separate apartments; but it would
not do.
‘The truth is, Arthur,’ I said at last, ‘you
are weary of my company, and determined not to have me with
you. You might as well have said so at once.’
He denied it; but I immediately left the room, and flew to the
nursery, to hide my feelings, if I could not soothe them,
there.
I was too much hurt to express any further dissatisfaction
with his plans, or at all to refer to the subject again, except
for the necessary arrangements concerning his departure and the
conduct of affairs during his absence, till the day before he
went, when I earnestly exhorted him to take care of himself and
keep out of the way of temptation. He laughed at my
anxiety, but assured me there was no cause for it, and promised
to attend to my advice.
‘I suppose it is no use asking you to fix a day for your
return?’ said I.
‘Why, no; I hardly can, under the circumstances; but be
assured, love, I shall not be long away.’
‘I don’t wish to keep you a prisoner at
home,’ I replied; ‘I should not grumble at your
staying whole months away—if you can be happy so long
without me—provided I knew you were safe; but I don’t
like the idea of your being there among your friends, as you call
them.’
‘Pooh, pooh, you silly girl! Do you think I
can’t take care of myself?’
‘You didn’t last time. But this time, Arthur,’ I added,
earnestly, ‘show me that you can, and teach me that I need
not fear to trust you!’
He promised fair, but in such a manner as we seek to soothe a
child. And did he keep his promise? No; and
henceforth I can never trust his word. Bitter, bitter
confession! Tears blind me while I write. It was
early in March that he went, and he did not return till
July. This time he did not trouble himself to make excuses
as before, and his letters were less frequent, and shorter and
less affectionate, especially after the first few weeks: they
came slower and slower, and more terse and careless every
time. But still, when I omitted writing, he complained of
my neglect. When I wrote sternly and coldly, as I confess I
frequently did at the last, he blamed my harshness, and said it
was enough to scare him from his home: when I tried mild
persuasion, he was a little more gentle in his replies, and
promised to return; but I had learnt, at last, to disregard his
promises.
CHAPTER XXIX
Those were four miserable months, alternating between intense
anxiety, despair, and indignation, pity for him and pity for
myself. And yet, through all, I was not wholly comfortless:
I had my darling, sinless, inoffensive little one to console me;
but even this consolation was embittered by the
constantly-recurring thought, ‘How shall I teach him
hereafter to respect his father, and yet to avoid his
example?’
But I remembered that I had brought all these afflictions, in
a manner wilfully, upon myself; and I determined to bear them
without a murmur. At the same time I resolved not to give
myself up to misery for the transgressions of another, and
endeavoured to divert myself as much as I could; and besides the
companionship of my child, and my dear, faithful Rachel, who
evidently guessed my sorrows and felt for them, though she was
too discreet to allude to them, I had my books and pencil, my
domestic affairs, and the welfare and comfort of Arthur’s
poor tenants and labourers to attend to: and I sometimes sought
and obtained amusement in the company of my young friend Esther
Hargrave: occasionally I rode over to see her, and once or twice
I had her to spend the day with me at the Manor. Mrs.
Hargrave did not visit London that season: having no daughter to
marry, she thought it as well to stay at home and economise; and,
for a wonder, Walter came down to join her in the beginning of
June, and stayed till near the close of August.
The first time I saw him was on a sweet, warm evening, when I
was sauntering in the park with little Arthur and Rachel, who is
head-nurse and lady’s-maid in one—for, with my
secluded life and tolerably active habits, I require but little
attendance, and as she had nursed me and coveted to nurse my
child, and was moreover so very trustworthy, I preferred
committing the important charge to her, with a young nursery-maid
under her directions, to engaging any one else: besides, it saves
money; and since I have made acquaintance with Arthur’s
affairs, I have learnt to regard that as no trifling
recommendation; for, by my own desire, nearly the whole of the
income of my fortune is devoted, for years to come, to the paying
off of his debts, and the money he contrives to squander away in
London is incomprehensible. But to return to Mr.
Hargrave. I was standing with Rachel beside the water,
amusing the laughing baby in her arms with a twig of willow laden
with golden catkins, when, greatly to my surprise, he entered the
park, mounted on his costly black hunter, and crossed over the
grass to meet me. He saluted me with a very fine
compliment, delicately worded, and modestly delivered withal,
which he had doubtless concocted as he rode along. He told
me he had brought a message from his mother, who, as he was
riding that way, had desired him to call at the Manor and beg the
pleasure of my company to a friendly family dinner to-morrow.
‘There is no one to meet but ourselves,’ said he;
‘but Esther is very anxious to see you; and my mother fears
you will feel solitary in this great house so much alone, and
wishes she could persuade you to give her the pleasure of your
company more frequently, and make yourself at home in our more
humble dwelling, till Mr. Huntingdon’s return shall render
this a little more conducive to your comfort.’
‘She is very kind,’ I answered, ‘but I am
not alone, you see;—and those whose time is fully occupied
seldom complain of solitude.’
‘Will you not come to-morrow, then? She will be
sadly disappointed if you refuse.’
I did not relish being thus compassionated for my loneliness;
but, however, I promised to come.
‘What a sweet evening this is!’ observed he,
looking round upon the sunny park, with its imposing swell and
slope, its placid water, and majestic clumps of trees.
‘And what a paradise you live in!’
‘It is a lovely evening,’ answered I; and I sighed
to think how little I had felt its loveliness, and how little of
a paradise sweet Grassdale was to me—how still less to the
voluntary exile from its scenes. Whether Mr. Hargrave
divined my thoughts, I cannot tell, but, with a half-hesitating,
sympathising seriousness of tone and manner, he asked if I had
lately heard from Mr. Huntingdon.
‘Not lately,’ I replied.
‘I thought not,’ he muttered, as if to himself,
looking thoughtfully on the ground.
‘Are you not lately returned from London?’ I
asked.
‘Only yesterday.’
‘And did you see him there?’
‘Yes—I saw him.’
‘Was he well?’
‘Yes—that is,’ said he, with increasing
hesitation and an appearance of suppressed indignation, ‘he
was as well as—as he deserved to be, but under
circumstances I should have deemed incredible for a man so
favoured as he is.’ He here looked up and pointed the
sentence with a serious bow to me. I suppose my face was
crimson.
‘Pardon me, Mrs. Huntingdon,’ he continued,
‘but I cannot suppress my indignation when I behold such
infatuated blindness and perversion of taste;—but, perhaps,
you are not aware—‘ He paused.
‘I am aware of nothing, sir—except that he delays
his coming longer than I expected; and if, at present, he prefers
the society of his friends to that of his wife, and the
dissipations of the town to the quiet of country life, I suppose
I have those friends to thank for it. Their tastes and
occupations are similar to his, and I don’t see why his
conduct should awaken either their indignation or
surprise.’
‘You wrong me cruelly,’ answered he.
‘I have shared but little of Mr. Huntingdon’s society
for the last few weeks; and as for his tastes and occupations,
they are quite beyond me—lonely wanderer as I am.
Where I have but sipped and tasted, he drains the cup to the
dregs; and if ever for a moment I have sought to drown the voice
of reflection in madness and folly, or if I have wasted too much
of my time and talents among reckless and dissipated companions,
God knows I would gladly renounce them entirely and for ever, if
I had but half the blessings that man so thanklessly casts behind
his back—but half the inducements to virtue and domestic,
orderly habits that he despises—but such a home, and such a
partner to share it! It is infamous!’ he muttered,
between his teeth. ‘And don’t think, Mrs.
Huntingdon,’ he added aloud, ‘that I could be guilty
of inciting him to persevere in his present pursuits: on the
contrary, I have remonstrated with him again and again; I have
frequently expressed my surprise at his conduct, and reminded him
of his duties and his privileges—but to no purpose; he
only—’
‘Enough, Mr. Hargrave; you ought to be aware that
whatever my husband’s faults may be, it can only aggravate
the evil for me to hear them from a stranger’s
lips.’
‘Am I then a stranger?’ said he in a sorrowful
tone. ‘I am your nearest neighbour, your son’s
godfather, and your husband’s friend; may I not be yours
also?’
‘Intimate acquaintance must precede real friendship; I
know but little of you, Mr. Hargrave, except from
report.’
‘Have you then forgotten the six or seven weeks I spent
under your roof last autumn? I have not forgotten
them. And I know enough of you, Mrs. Huntingdon, to think
that your husband is the most enviable man in the world, and I
should be the next if you would deem me worthy of your
friendship.’
‘If you knew more of me, you would not think it, or if
you did you would not say it, and expect me to be flattered by
the compliment.’
I stepped backward as I spoke. He saw that I wished the
conversation to end; and immediately taking the hint, he gravely
bowed, wished me good-evening, and turned his horse towards the
road. He appeared grieved and hurt at my unkind reception
of his sympathising overtures. I was not sure that I had
done right in speaking so harshly to him; but, at the time, I had
felt irritated—almost insulted by his conduct; it seemed as
if he was presuming upon the absence and neglect of my husband,
and insinuating even more than the truth against him.
Rachel had moved on, during our conversation, to some
yards’ distance. He rode up to her, and asked to see
the child. He took it carefully into his arms, looked upon
it with an almost paternal smile, and I heard him say, as I
approached,—
‘And this, too, he has forsaken!’
He then tenderly kissed it, and restored it to the gratified
nurse.
‘Are you fond of children, Mr. Hargrave?’ said I,
a little softened towards him.
‘Not in general,’ he replied, ‘but that is
such a sweet child, and so like its mother,’ he added in a
lower tone.
‘You are mistaken there; it is its father it
resembles.’
‘Am I not right, nurse?’ said he, appealing to
Rachel.
‘I think, sir, there’s a bit of both,’ she
replied.
He departed; and Rachel pronounced him a very nice
gentleman. I had still my doubts on the subject.
In the course of the following six weeks I met him several
times, but always, save once, in company with his mother, or his
sister, or both. When I called on them, he always happened
to be at home, and, when they called on me, it was always he that
drove them over in the phaeton. His mother, evidently, was
quite delighted with his dutiful attentions and newly-acquired
domestic habits.
The time that I met him alone was on a bright, but not
oppressively hot day, in the beginning of July: I had taken
little Arthur into the wood that skirts the park, and there
seated him on the moss-cushioned roots of an old oak; and, having
gathered a handful of bluebells and wild-roses, I was kneeling
before him, and presenting them, one by one, to the grasp of his
tiny fingers; enjoying the heavenly beauty of the flowers,
through the medium of his smiling eyes: forgetting, for the
moment, all my cares, laughing at his gleeful laughter, and
delighting myself with his delight,—when a shadow suddenly
eclipsed the little space of sunshine on the grass before us; and
looking up, I beheld Walter Hargrave standing and gazing upon
us.
‘Excuse me, Mrs. Huntingdon,’ said he, ‘but
I was spell-bound; I had neither the power to come forward and
interrupt you, nor to withdraw from the contemplation of such a
scene. How vigorous my little godson grows! and how merry
he is this morning!’ He approached the child, and
stooped to take his hand; but, on seeing that his caresses were
likely to produce tears and lamentations, instead of a
reciprocation of friendly demonstrations, he prudently drew
back.
‘What a pleasure and comfort that little creature must
be to you, Mrs. Huntingdon!’ he observed, with a touch of
sadness in his intonation, as he admiringly contemplated the
infant.
‘It is,’ replied I; and then I asked after his
mother and sister.
He politely answered my inquiries, and then returned again to
the subject I wished to avoid; though with a degree of timidity
that witnessed his fear to offend.
‘You have not heard from Huntingdon lately?’ he
said.
‘Not this week,’ I replied. Not these three
weeks, I might have said.
‘I had a letter from him this morning. I wish it
were such a one as I could show to his lady.’ He half
drew from his waistcoat-pocket a letter with Arthur’s still
beloved hand on the address, scowled at it, and put it back
again, adding—‘But he tells me he is about to return
next week.’
‘He tells me so every time he writes.’
‘Indeed! well, it is like him. But to me he always
avowed it his intention to stay till the present
month.’
It struck me like a blow, this proof of premeditated
transgression and systematic disregard of truth.
‘It is only of a piece with the rest of his
conduct,’ observed Mr. Hargrave, thoughtfully regarding me,
and reading, I suppose, my feelings in my face.
‘Then he is really coming next week?’ said I,
after a pause.
‘You may rely upon it, if the assurance can give you any
pleasure. And is it possible, Mrs. Huntingdon, that you can
rejoice at his return?’ he exclaimed, attentively perusing
my features again.
‘Of course, Mr. Hargrave; is he not my
husband?’
‘Oh, Huntingdon; you know not what you slight!’ he
passionately murmured.
I took up my baby, and, wishing him good-morning, departed, to
indulge my thoughts unscrutinized, within the sanctum of my
home.
And was I glad? Yes, delighted; though I was angered by
Arthur’s conduct, and though I felt that he had wronged me,
and was determined he should feel it too.
CHAPTER XXX
On the following morning I received a few lines from him
myself, confirming Hargrave’s intimations respecting his
approaching return. And he did come next week, but in a
condition of body and mind even worse than before. I did
not, however, intend to pass over his derelictions this time
without a remark; I found it would not do. But the first
day he was weary with his journey, and I was glad to get him
back: I would not upbraid him then; I would wait till
to-morrow. Next morning he was weary still: I would wait a
little longer. But at dinner, when, after breakfasting at
twelve o’clock on a bottle of soda-water and a cup of
strong coffee, and lunching at two on another bottle of
soda-water mingled with brandy, he was finding fault with
everything on the table, and declaring we must change our cook, I
thought the time was come.
‘It is the same cook as we had before you went,
Arthur,’ said I. ‘You were generally pretty
well satisfied with her then.’
‘You must have been letting her get into slovenly
habits, then, while I was away. It is enough to poison one,
eating such a disgusting mess!’ And he pettishly
pushed away his plate, and leant back despairingly in his
chair.
‘I think it is you that are changed, not she,’
said I, but with the utmost gentleness, for I did not wish to
irritate him.
‘It may be so,’ he replied carelessly, as he
seized a tumbler of wine and water, adding, when he had tossed it
off, ‘for I have an infernal fire in my veins, that all the
waters of the ocean cannot quench!’
‘What kindled it?’ I was about to ask, but at that
moment the butler entered and began to take away the things.
‘Be quick, Benson; do have done with that infernal
clatter!’ cried his master. ‘And don’t
bring the cheese, unless you want to make me sick
outright!’
Benson, in some surprise, removed the cheese, and did his best
to effect a quiet and speedy clearance of the rest; but,
unfortunately, there was a rumple in the carpet, caused by the
hasty pushing back of his master’s chair, at which he
tripped and stumbled, causing a rather alarming concussion with
the trayful of crockery in his hands, but no positive damage,
save the fall and breaking of a sauce tureen; but, to my
unspeakable shame and dismay, Arthur turned furiously around upon
him, and swore at him with savage coarseness. The poor man
turned pale, and visibly trembled as he stooped to pick up the
fragments.
‘He couldn’t help it, Arthur,’ said I;
‘the carpet caught his foot, and there’s no great
harm done. Never mind the pieces now, Benson; you can clear
them away afterwards.’
Glad to be released, Benson expeditiously set out the dessert
and withdrew.
‘What could you mean, Helen, by taking the
servant’s part against me,’ said Arthur, as soon as
the door was closed, ‘when you knew I was
distracted?’
‘I did not know you were distracted, Arthur: and the
poor man was quite frightened and hurt at your sudden
explosion.’
‘Poor man, indeed! and do you think I could stop to
consider the feelings of an insensate brute like that, when my
own nerves were racked and torn to pieces by his confounded
blunders?’
‘I never heard you complain of your nerves
before.’
‘And why shouldn’t I have nerves as well as
you?’
‘Oh, I don’t dispute your claim to their
possession, but I never complain of mine.’
‘No, how should you, when you never do anything to try
them?’
‘Then why do you try yours, Arthur?’
‘Do you think I have nothing to do but to stay at home
and take care of myself like a woman?’
‘Is it impossible, then, to take care of yourself like a
man when you go abroad? You told me that you could, and
would too; and you promised—’
‘Come, come, Helen, don’t begin with that nonsense
now; I can’t bear it.’
‘Can’t bear what?—to be reminded of the
promises you have broken?’
‘Helen, you are cruel. If you knew how my heart
throbbed, and how every nerve thrilled through me while you
spoke, you would spare me. You can pity a dolt of a servant
for breaking a dish; but you have no compassion for me when my
head is split in two and all on fire with this consuming
fever.’
He leant his head on his hand, and sighed. I went to him
and put my hand on his forehead. It was burning indeed.
‘Then come with me into the drawing-room, Arthur; and
don’t take any more wine: you have taken several glasses
since dinner, and eaten next to nothing all the day. How
can that make you better?’
With some coaxing and persuasion, I got him to leave the
table. When the baby was brought I tried to amuse him with
that; but poor little Arthur was cutting his teeth, and his
father could not bear his complaints: sentence of immediate
banishment was passed upon him on the first indication of
fretfulness; and because, in the course of the evening, I went to
share his exile for a little while, I was reproached, on my
return, for preferring my child to my husband. I found the
latter reclining on the sofa just as I had left him.
‘Well!’ exclaimed the injured man, in a tone of
pseudo-resignation. ‘I thought I wouldn’t send
for you; I thought I’d just see how long it would please
you to leave me alone.’
‘I have not been very long, have I, Arthur? I have
not been an hour, I’m sure.’
‘Oh, of course, an hour is nothing to you, so pleasantly
employed; but to me—’
‘It has not been pleasantly employed,’ interrupted
I. ‘I have been nursing our poor little baby, who is
very far from well, and I could not leave him till I got him to
sleep.’
‘Oh, to be sure, you’re overflowing with kindness
and pity for everything but me.’
‘And why should I pity you? What is the matter
with you?’
‘Well! that passes everything! After all the wear
and tear that I’ve had, when I come home sick and weary,
longing for comfort, and expecting to find attention and
kindness, at least from my wife, she calmly asks what is the
matter with me!’
‘There is nothing the matter with you,’ returned
I, ‘except what you have wilfully brought upon yourself,
against my earnest exhortation and entreaty.’
‘Now, Helen,’ said he emphatically, half rising
from his recumbent posture, ‘if you bother me with another
word, I’ll ring the bell and order six bottles of wine,
and, by heaven, I’ll drink them dry before I stir from this
place!’
I said no more, but sat down before the table and drew a book
towards me.
‘Do let me have quietness at least!’ continued he,
‘if you deny me every other comfort;’ and sinking
back into his former position, with an impatient expiration
between a sigh and a groan, he languidly closed his eyes, as if
to sleep.
What the book was that lay open on the table before me, I
cannot tell, for I never looked at it. With an elbow on
each side of it, and my hands clasped before my eyes, I delivered
myself up to silent weeping. But Arthur was not asleep: at
the first slight sob, he raised his head and looked round,
impatiently exclaiming, ‘What are you crying for,
Helen? What the deuce is the matter now?’
‘I’m crying for you, Arthur,’ I replied,
speedily drying my tears; and starting up, I threw myself on my
knees before him, and clasping his nerveless hand between my own,
continued: ‘Don’t you know that you are a part of
myself? And do you think you can injure and degrade
yourself, and I not feel it?’
‘Degrade myself, Helen?’
‘Yes, degrade! What have you been doing all this
time?’
‘You’d better not ask,’ said he, with a
faint smile.
‘And you had better not tell; but you cannot deny that
you have degraded yourself miserably. You have shamefully
wronged yourself, body and soul, and me too; and I can’t
endure it quietly, and I won’t!’
‘Well, don’t squeeze my hand so frantically, and
don’t agitate me so, for heaven’s sake! Oh,
Hattersley! you were right: this woman will be the death of me,
with her keen feelings and her interesting force of
character. There, there, do spare me a little.’
‘Arthur, you must repent!’ cried I, in a frenzy of
desperation, throwing my arms around him and burying my face in
his bosom. ‘You shall say you are sorry for what you
have done!’
‘Well, well, I am.’
‘You are not! you’ll do it again.’
‘I shall never live to do it again if you treat me so
savagely,’ replied he, pushing me from him.
‘You’ve nearly squeezed the breath out of my
body.’ He pressed his hand to his heart, and looked
really agitated and ill.
‘Now get me a glass of wine,’ said he, ‘to
remedy what you’ve done, you she tiger! I’m
almost ready to faint.’
I flew to get the required remedy. It seemed to revive
him considerably.
‘What a shame it is,’ said I, as I took the empty
glass from his hand, ‘for a strong young man like you to
reduce yourself to such a state!’
‘If you knew all, my girl, you’d say rather,
“What a wonder it is you can bear it so well as you
do!” I’ve lived more in these four months,
Helen, than you have in the whole course of your existence, or
will to the end of your days, if they numbered a hundred years;
so I must expect to pay for it in some shape.’
‘You will have to pay a higher price than you
anticipate, if you don’t take care: there will be the total
loss of your own health, and of my affection too, if that is of
any value to you.’
‘What! you’re at that game of threatening me with
the loss of your affection again, are you? I think it
couldn’t have been very genuine stuff to begin with, if
it’s so easily demolished. If you don’t mind,
my pretty tyrant, you’ll make me regret my choice in good
earnest, and envy my friend Hattersley his meek little wife:
she’s quite a pattern to her sex, Helen. He had her
with him in London all the season, and she was no trouble at
all. He might amuse himself just as he pleased, in regular
bachelor style, and she never complained of neglect; he might
come home at any hour of the night or morning, or not come home
at all; be sullen, sober, or glorious drunk; and play the fool or
the madman to his own heart’s desire, without any fear or
botheration. She never gives him a word of reproach or
complaint, do what he will. He says there’s not such
a jewel in all England, and swears he wouldn’t take a
kingdom for her.’
‘But he makes her life a curse to her.’
‘Not he! She has no will but his, and is always
contented and happy as long as he is enjoying himself.’
‘In that case she is as great a fool as he is; but it is
not so. I have several letters from her, expressing the
greatest anxiety about his proceedings, and complaining that you
incite him to commit those extravagances—one especially, in
which she implores me to use my influence with you to get you
away from London, and affirms that her husband never did such
things before you came, and would certainly discontinue them as
soon as you departed and left him to the guidance of his own good
sense.’
‘The detestable little traitor! Give me the
letter, and he shall see it as sure as I’m a living
man.’
‘No, he shall not see it without her consent; but if he
did, there is nothing there to anger him, nor in any of the
others. She never speaks a word against him: it is only
anxiety for him that she expresses. She only alludes to his
conduct in the most delicate terms, and makes every excuse for
him that she can possibly think of; and as for her own misery, I
rather feel it than see it expressed in her letters.’
‘But she abuses me; and no doubt you helped
her.’
‘No; I told her she over-rated my influence with you,
that I would gladly draw you away from the temptations of the
town if I could, but had little hope of success, and that I
thought she was wrong in supposing that you enticed Mr.
Hattersley or any one else into error. I had myself held
the contrary opinion at one time, but I now believed that you
mutually corrupted each other; and, perhaps, if she used a little
gentle but serious remonstrance with her husband, it might be of
some service; as, though he was more rough-hewn than mine, I
believed he was of a less impenetrable material.’
‘And so that is the way you go on—heartening each
other up to mutiny, and abusing each other’s partners, and
throwing out implications against your own, to the mutual
gratification of both!’
‘According to your own account,’ said I, ‘my
evil counsel has had but little effect upon her. And as to
abuse and aspersions, we are both of us far too deeply ashamed of
the errors and vices of our other halves, to make them the common
subject of our correspondence. Friends as we are, we would
willingly keep your failings to ourselves—even from
ourselves if we could, unless by knowing them we could deliver
you from them.’
‘Well, well! don’t worry me about them:
you’ll never effect any good by that. Have patience
with me, and bear with my languor and crossness a little while,
till I get this cursed low fever out of my veins, and then
you’ll find me cheerful and kind as ever. Why
can’t you be gentle and good, as you were last
time?—I’m sure I was very grateful for it.’
‘And what good did your gratitude do? I deluded
myself with the idea that you were ashamed of your
transgressions, and hoped you would never repeat them again; but
now you have left me nothing to hope!’
‘My case is quite desperate, is it? A very blessed
consideration, if it will only secure me from the pain and worry
of my dear anxious wife’s efforts to convert me, and her
from the toil and trouble of such exertions, and her sweet face
and silver accents from the ruinous effects of the same. A
burst of passion is a fine rousing thing upon occasion, Helen,
and a flood of tears is marvellously affecting, but, when
indulged too often, they are both deuced plaguy things for
spoiling one’s beauty and tiring out one’s
friends.’
Thenceforth I restrained my tears and passions as much as I
could. I spared him my exhortations and fruitless efforts
at conversion too, for I saw it was all in vain: God might awaken
that heart, supine and stupefied with self-indulgence, and remove
the film of sensual darkness from his eyes, but I could
not. His injustice and ill-humour towards his inferiors,
who could not defend themselves, I still resented and withstood;
but when I alone was their object, as was frequently the case, I
endured it with calm forbearance, except at times, when my
temper, worn out by repeated annoyances, or stung to distraction
by some new instance of irrationality, gave way in spite of
myself, and exposed me to the imputations of fierceness, cruelty,
and impatience. I attended carefully to his wants and
amusements, but not, I own, with the same devoted fondness as
before, because I could not feel it; besides, I had now another
claimant on my time and care—my ailing infant, for whose
sake I frequently braved and suffered the reproaches and
complaints of his unreasonably exacting father.
But Arthur is not naturally a peevish or irritable man; so far
from it, that there was something almost ludicrous in the
incongruity of this adventitious fretfulness and nervous
irritability, rather calculated to excite laughter than anger, if
it were not for the intensely painful considerations attendant
upon those symptoms of a disordered frame, and his temper
gradually improved as his bodily health was restored, which was
much sooner than would have been the case but for my strenuous
exertions; for there was still one thing about him that I did not
give up in despair, and one effort for his preservation that I
would not remit. His appetite for the stimulus of wine had
increased upon him, as I had too well foreseen. It was now
something more to him than an accessory to social enjoyment: it
was an important source of enjoyment in itself. In this
time of weakness and depression he would have made it his
medicine and support, his comforter, his recreation, and his
friend, and thereby sunk deeper and deeper, and bound himself
down for ever in the bathos whereinto he had fallen. But I
determined this should never be, as long as I had any influence
left; and though I could not prevent him from taking more than
was good for him, still, by incessant perseverance, by kindness,
and firmness, and vigilance, by coaxing, and daring, and
determination, I succeeded in preserving him from absolute
bondage to that detestable propensity, so insidious in its
advances, so inexorable in its tyranny, so disastrous in its
effects.
And here I must not forget that I am not a little indebted to
his friend Mr. Hargrave. About that time he frequently
called at Grassdale, and often dined with us, on which occasions
I fear Arthur would willingly have cast prudence and decorum to
the winds, and made ‘a night of it,’ as often as his
friend would have consented to join him in that exalted pastime;
and if the latter had chosen to comply, he might, in a night or
two, have ruined the labour of weeks, and overthrown with a touch
the frail bulwark it had cost me such trouble and toil to
construct. I was so fearful of this at first, that I
humbled myself to intimate to him, in private, my apprehensions
of Arthur’s proneness to these excesses, and to express a
hope that he would not encourage it. He was pleased with
this mark of confidence, and certainly did not betray it.
On that and every subsequent occasion his presence served rather
as a check upon his host, than an incitement to further acts of
intemperance; and he always succeeded in bringing him from the
dining-room in good time, and in tolerably good condition; for if
Arthur disregarded such intimations as ‘Well, I must not
detain you from your lady,’ or ‘We must not forget
that Mrs. Huntingdon is alone,’ he would insist upon
leaving the table himself, to join me, and his host, however
unwillingly, was obliged to follow.
Hence I learned to welcome Mr. Hargrave as a real friend to
the family, a harmless companion for Arthur, to cheer his spirits
and preserve him from the tedium of absolute idleness and a total
isolation from all society but mine, and a useful ally to
me. I could not but feel grateful to him under such
circumstances; and I did not scruple to acknowledge my obligation
on the first convenient opportunity; yet, as I did so, my heart
whispered all was not right, and brought a glow to my face, which
he heightened by his steady, serious gaze, while, by his manner
of receiving those acknowledgments, he more than doubled my
misgivings. His high delight at being able to serve me was
chastened by sympathy for me and commiseration for
himself—about, I know not what, for I would not stay to
inquire, or suffer him to unburden his sorrows to me. His
sighs and intimations of suppressed affliction seemed to come
from a full heart; but either he must contrive to retain them
within it, or breathe them forth in other ears than mine: there
was enough of confidence between us already. It seemed
wrong that there should exist a secret understanding between my
husband’s friend and me, unknown to him, of which he was
the object. But my after-thought was, ‘If it is
wrong, surely Arthur’s is the fault, not mine.’
And indeed I know not whether, at the time, it was not for him
rather than myself that I blushed; for, since he and I are one, I
so identify myself with him, that I feel his degradation, his
failings, and transgressions as my own: I blush for him, I fear
for him; I repent for him, weep, pray, and feel for him as for
myself; but I cannot act for him; and hence I must be, and I am,
debased, contaminated by the union, both in my own eyes and in
the actual truth. I am so determined to love him, so
intensely anxious to excuse his errors, that I am continually
dwelling upon them, and labouring to extenuate the loosest of his
principles and the worst of his practices, till I am familiarised
with vice, and almost a partaker in his sins. Things that
formerly shocked and disgusted me, now seem only natural. I
know them to be wrong, because reason and God’s word
declare them to be so; but I am gradually losing that instinctive
horror and repulsion which were given me by nature, or instilled
into me by the precepts and example of my aunt. Perhaps
then I was too severe in my judgments, for I abhorred the sinner
as well as the sin; now I flatter myself I am more charitable and
considerate; but am I not becoming more indifferent and insensate
too? Fool that I was, to dream that I had strength and
purity enough to save myself and him! Such vain presumption
would be rightly served, if I should perish with him in the gulf
from which I sought to save him! Yet, God preserve me from
it, and him too! Yes, poor Arthur, I will still hope and
pray for you; and though I write as if you were some abandoned
wretch, past hope and past reprieve, it is only my anxious fears,
my strong desires that make me do so; one who loved you less
would be less bitter, less dissatisfied.
His conduct has, of late, been what the world calls
irreproachable; but then I know his heart is still unchanged; and
I know that spring is approaching, and deeply dread the
consequences.
As he began to recover the tone and vigour of his exhausted
frame, and with it something of his former impatience of
retirement and repose, I suggested a short residence by the
sea-side, for his recreation and further restoration, and for the
benefit of our little one as well. But no: watering-places
were so intolerably dull; besides, he had been invited by one of
his friends to spend a month or two in Scotland for the better
recreation of grouse-shooting and deer-stalking, and had 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 anyone but me, and had been standing before the door, grimly
surveying the company. He now stepped up to Annabella, who
sat with her back towards him, with Hattersley still beside her,
though not now attending to her, being occupied in vociferously
abusing and bullying his host.
‘Well, Annabella,’ said her husband, as he leant
over the back of her chair, ‘which of these three
“bold, manly spirits” would you have me to
resemble?’
‘By heaven and earth, you shall resemble us all!’
cried Hattersley, starting up and rudely seizing him by the
arm. ‘Hallo, Huntingdon!’ he
shouted—‘I’ve got him! Come, man, and
help me! And d—n me, if I don’t make him drunk
before I let him go! He shall make up for all past
delinquencies as sure as I’m a living soul!’
There followed a disgraceful contest: Lord Lowborough, in
desperate earnest, and pale with anger, silently struggling to
release himself from the powerful madman that was striving to
drag him from the room. I attempted to urge Arthur to
interfere in behalf of his outraged guest, but he could do
nothing but laugh.
‘Huntingdon, you fool, come and help me, can’t
you!’ cried Hattersley, himself somewhat weakened by his
excesses.
‘I’m wishing you God-speed, Hattersley,’
cried Arthur, ‘and aiding you with my prayers: I
can’t do anything else if my life depended on it!
I’m quite used up. Oh—oh!’ and leaning
back in his seat, he clapped his hands on his sides and groaned
aloud.
‘Annabella, give me a candle!’ said Lowborough,
whose antagonist had now got him round the waist and was
endeavouring to root him from the door-post, to which he madly
clung with all the energy of desperation.
‘I shall take no part in your rude sports!’
replied the lady coldly drawing back. ‘I wonder you
can expect it.’ But I snatched up a candle and
brought it to him. He took it and held the flame to
Hattersley’s hands, till, roaring like a wild beast, the
latter unclasped them and let him go. He vanished, I
suppose to his own apartment, for nothing more was seen of him
till the morning. Swearing and cursing like a maniac,
Hattersley threw himself on to the ottoman beside the
window. The door being now free, Milicent attempted to make
her escape from the scene of her husband’s disgrace; but he
called her back, and insisted upon her coming to him.
‘What do you want, Ralph?’ murmured she,
reluctantly approaching him.
‘I want to know what’s the matter with you,’
said he, pulling her on to his knee like a child.
‘What are you crying for, Milicent?—Tell
me!’
‘I’m not crying.’
‘You are,’ persisted he, rudely pulling her hands
from her face. ‘How dare you tell such a
lie!’
‘I’m not crying now,’ pleaded she.
‘But you have been, and just this minute too; and I will
know what for. Come, now, you shall tell me!’
‘Do let me alone, Ralph! Remember, we are not at
home.’
‘No matter: you shall answer my question!’
exclaimed her tormentor; and he attempted to extort the
confession by shaking her, and remorselessly crushing her slight
arms in the gripe of his powerful fingers.
‘Don’t let him treat your sister in that
way,’ said I to Mr. Hargrave.
‘Come now, Hattersley, I can’t allow that,’
said that gentleman, stepping up to the ill-assorted
couple. ‘Let my sister alone, if you
please.’
And he made an effort to unclasp the ruffian’s fingers
from her arm, but was suddenly driven backward, and nearly laid
upon the floor by a violent blow on the chest, accompanied with
the admonition, ‘Take that for your insolence! and learn to
interfere between me and mine again.’
‘If you were not drunk, I’d have satisfaction for
that!’ gasped Hargrave, white and breathless as much from
passion as from the immediate effects of the blow.
‘Go to the devil!’ responded his
brother-in-law. ‘Now, Milicent, tell me what you were
crying for.’
‘I’ll tell you some other time,’ murmured
she, ‘when we are alone.’
‘Tell me now!’ said he, with another shake and a
squeeze that made her draw in her breath and bite her lip to
suppress a cry of pain.
‘I’ll tell you, Mr. Hattersley,’ said
I. ‘She was crying from pure shame and humiliation
for you; because she could not bear to see you conduct yourself
so disgracefully.’
‘Confound you, Madam!’ muttered he, with a stare
of stupid amazement at my ‘impudence.’
‘It was not that—was it, Milicent?’
She was silent.
‘Come, speak up, child!’
‘I can’t tell now,’ sobbed she.
‘But you can say “yes” or “no”
as well as “I can’t
tell.”—Come!’
‘Yes,’ she whispered, hanging her head, and
blushing at the awful acknowledgment.
‘Curse you for an impertinent hussy, then!’ cried
he, throwing her from him with such violence that she fell on her
side; but she was up again before either I or her brother could
come to her assistance, and made the best of her way out of the
room, and, I suppose, up-stairs, without loss of time.
The next object of assault was Arthur, who sat opposite, and
had, no doubt, richly enjoyed the whole scene.
‘Now, Huntingdon,’ exclaimed his irascible friend,
‘I will not have you sitting there and laughing like an
idiot!’
‘Oh, Hattersley,’ cried he, wiping his swimming
eyes—‘you’ll be the death of me.’
‘Yes, I will, but not as you suppose: I’ll have
the heart out of your body, man, if you irritate me with any more
of that imbecile laughter!—What! are you at it
yet?—There! see if that’ll settle you!’ cried
Hattersley, snatching up a footstool and hurting it at the head
of his host; but he as well as missed his aim, and the latter
still sat collapsed and quaking with feeble laughter, with tears
running down his face: a deplorable spectacle indeed.
Hattersley tried cursing and swearing, but it would not do: he
then took a number of books from the table beside him, and threw
them, one by one, at the object of his wrath; but Arthur only
laughed the more; and, finally, Hattersley rushed upon him in a
frenzy and seizing him by the shoulders, gave him a violent
shaking, under which he laughed and shrieked alarmingly.
But I saw no more: I thought I had witnessed enough of my
husband’s degradation; and leaving Annabella and the rest
to follow when they pleased, I withdrew, but not to bed.
Dismissing Rachel to her rest, I walked up and down my room, in
an agony of misery for what had been done, and suspense, not
knowing what might further happen, or how or when that unhappy
creature would come up to bed.
At last he came, slowly and stumblingly ascending the stairs,
supported by Grimsby and Hattersley, who neither of them walked
quite steadily themselves, but were both laughing and joking at
him, and making noise enough for all the servants to hear.
He himself was no longer laughing now, but sick and stupid.
I will write no more about that.
Such disgraceful scenes (or nearly such) have been repeated
more than once. I don’t say much to Arthur about it,
for, if I did, it would do more harm than good; but I let him
know that I intensely dislike such exhibitions; and each time he
has promised they should never again be repeated. But I
fear he is losing the little self-command and self-respect he
once possessed: formerly, he would have been ashamed to act
thus—at least, before any other witnesses than his boon
companions, or such as they. His friend Hargrave, with a
prudence and self-government that I envy for him, never disgraces
himself by taking more than sufficient to render him a little
‘elevated,’ and is always the first to leave the
table after Lord Lowborough, who, wiser still, perseveres in
vacating the dining-room immediately after us: but never once,
since Annabella offended him so deeply, has he entered the
drawing-room before the rest; always spending the interim in the
library, which I take care to have lighted for his accommodation;
or, on fine moonlight nights, in roaming about the grounds.
But I think she regrets her misconduct, for she has never
repeated it since, and of late she has comported herself with
wonderful propriety towards him, treating him with more uniform
kindness and consideration than ever I have observed her to do
before. I date the time of this improvement from the period
when she ceased to hope and strive for Arthur’s
admiration.
CHAPTER XXXII
October 5th.—Esther Hargrave is getting a fine
girl. She is not out of the school-room yet, but her mother
frequently brings her over to call in the mornings when the
gentlemen are out, and sometimes she spends an hour or two in
company with her sister and me, and the children; and when we go
to the Grove, I always contrive to see her, and talk more to her
than to any one else, for I am very much attached to my little
friend, and so is she to me. I wonder what she can see to
like in me though, for I am no longer the happy, lively girl I
used to be; but she has no other society, save that of her
uncongenial mother, and her governess (as artificial and
conventional a person as that prudent mother could procure to
rectify the pupil’s natural qualities), and, now and then,
her subdued, quiet sister. I often wonder what will be her
lot in life, and so does she; but her speculations on the future
are full of buoyant hope; so were mine once. I shudder to
think of her being awakened, like me, to a sense of their
delusive vanity. It seems as if I should feel her
disappointment, even more deeply than my own. I feel almost
as if I were born for such a fate, but she is so joyous and
fresh, so light of heart and free of spirit, and so guileless and
unsuspecting too. Oh, it would be cruel to make her feel as
I feel now, and know what I have known!
Her sister trembles for her too. Yesterday morning, one
of October’s brightest, loveliest days, Milicent and I were
in the garden enjoying a brief half-hour together with our
children, while Annabella was lying on the drawing-room sofa,
deep in the last new novel. We had been romping with the
little creatures, almost as merry and wild as themselves, and now
paused in the shade of the tall copper beech, to recover breath
and rectify our hair, disordered by the rough play and the
frolicsome breeze, while they toddled together along the broad,
sunny walk; my Arthur supporting the feebler steps of her little
Helen, and sagaciously pointing out to her the brightest beauties
of the border as they passed, with semi-articulate prattle, that
did as well for her as any other mode of discourse. From
laughing at the pretty sight, we began to talk of the
children’s future life; and that made us thoughtful.
We both relapsed into silent musing as we slowly proceeded up the
walk; and I suppose Milicent, by a train of associations, was led
to think of her sister.
‘Helen,’ said she, ‘you often see Esther,
don’t you?’
‘Not very often.’
‘But you have more frequent opportunities of meeting her
than I have; and she loves you, I know, and reverences you too:
there is nobody’s opinion she thinks so much of; and she
says you have more sense than mamma.’
‘That is because she is self-willed, and my opinions
more generally coincide with her own than your
mamma’s. But what then, Milicent?’
‘Well, since you have so much influence with her, I wish
you would seriously impress it upon her, never, on any account,
or for anybody’s persuasion, to marry for the sake of
money, or rank, or establishment, or any earthly thing, but true
affection and well-grounded esteem.’
‘There is no necessity for that,’ said I,
‘for we have had some discourse on that subject already,
and I assure you her ideas of love and matrimony are as romantic
as any one could desire.’
‘But romantic notions will not do: I want her to have
true notions.’
‘Very right: but in my judgment, what the world
stigmatises as romantic, is often more nearly allied to the truth
than is commonly supposed; for, if the generous ideas of youth
are too often over-clouded by the sordid views of after-life,
that scarcely proves them to be false.’
‘Well, but if you think her ideas are what they ought to
be, strengthen them, will you? and confirm them, as far as you
can; for I had romantic notions once, and—I don’t
mean to say that I regret my lot, for I am quite sure I
don’t, but—’
‘I understand you,’ said I; ‘you are
contented for yourself, but you would not have your sister to
suffer the same as you.’
‘No—or worse. She might have far worse to
suffer than I, for I am really contented, Helen, though you
mayn’t think it: I speak the solemn truth in saying that I
would not exchange my husband for any man on earth, if I might do
it by the plucking of this leaf.’
‘Well, I believe you: now that you have him, you would
not exchange him for another; but then you would gladly exchange
some of his qualities for those of better men.’
‘Yes: just as I would gladly exchange some of my own
qualities for those of better women; for neither he nor I are
perfect, and I desire his improvement as earnestly as my
own. And he will improve, don’t you think so, Helen?
he’s only six-and-twenty yet.’
‘He may,’ I answered,
‘He will, he will!’
repeated she.
‘Excuse the faintness of my acquiescence, Milicent, I
would not discourage your hopes for the world, but mine have been
so often disappointed, that I am become as cold and doubtful in
my expectations as the flattest of octogenarians.’
‘And yet you do hope, still, even for Mr.
Huntingdon?’
‘I do, I confess, “even” for him; for it
seems as if life and hope must cease together. And is he so
much worse, Milicent, than Mr. Hattersley?’
‘Well, to give you my candid opinion, I think there is
no comparison between them. But you mustn’t be
offended, Helen, for you know I always speak my mind, and you may
speak yours too. I sha’n’t care.’
‘I am not offended, love; and my opinion is, that if
there be a comparison made between the two, the difference, for
the most part, is certainly in Hattersley’s
favour.’
Milicent’s own heart told her how much it cost me to
make this acknowledgment; and, with a childlike impulse, she
expressed her sympathy by suddenly kissing my cheek, without a
word of reply, and then turning quickly away, caught up her baby,
and hid her face in its frock. How odd it is that we so
often weep for each other’s distresses, when we shed not a
tear for our own! Her heart had been full enough of her own
sorrows, but it overflowed at the idea of mine; and I, too, shed
tears at the sight of her sympathetic emotion, though I had not
wept for myself for many a week.
It was one rainy day last week; most of the company were
killing time in the billiard-room, but Milicent and I were with
little Arthur and Helen in the library, and between our books,
our children, and each other, we expected to make out a very
agreeable morning. We had not been thus secluded above two
hours, however, when Mr. Hattersley came in, attracted, I
suppose, by the voice of his child, as he was crossing the hall,
for he is prodigiously fond of her, and she of him.
He was redolent of the stables, where he had been regaling
himself with the company of his fellow-creatures the horses ever
since breakfast. But that was no matter to my little
namesake; as soon as the colossal person of her father darkened
the door, she uttered a shrill scream of delight, and, quitting
her mother’s side, ran crowing towards him, balancing her
course with outstretched arms, and embracing his knee, threw back
her head and laughed in his face. He might well look
smilingly down upon those small, fair features, radiant with
innocent mirth, those clear blue shining eyes, and that soft
flaxen hair cast back upon the little ivory neck and
shoulders. Did he not think how unworthy he was of such a
possession? I fear no such idea crossed his mind. He
caught her up, and there followed some minutes of very rough
play, during which it is difficult to say whether the father or
the daughter laughed and shouted the loudest. At length,
however, the boisterous pastime terminated, suddenly, as might be
expected: the little one was hurt, and began to cry; and the
ungentle play-fellow tossed it into its mother’s lap,
bidding her ‘make all straight.’ As happy to return
to that gentle comforter as it had been to leave her, the child
nestled in her arms, and hushed its cries in a moment; and
sinking its little weary head on her bosom, soon dropped
asleep.
Meantime Mr. Hattersley strode up to the fire, and interposing
his height and breadth between us and it, stood with arms akimbo,
expanding his chest, and gazing round him as if the house and all
its appurtenances and contents were his own undisputed
possessions.
‘Deuced bad weather this!’ he began.
‘There’ll be no shooting to-day, I
guess.’ Then, suddenly lifting up his voice, he
regaled us with a few bars of a rollicking song, which abruptly
ceasing, he finished the tune with a whistle, and then
continued:—‘I say, Mrs. Huntingdon, what a fine stud
your husband has! not large, but good. I’ve been
looking at them a bit this morning; and upon my word, Black Boss,
and Grey Tom, and that young Nimrod are the finest animals
I’ve seen for many a day!’ Then followed a
particular discussion of their various merits, succeeded by a
sketch of the great things he intended to do in the horse-jockey
line, when his old governor thought proper to quit the
stage. ‘Not that I wish him to close his
accounts,’ added he: ‘the old Trojan is welcome to
keep his books open as long as he pleases for me.’
‘I hope so, indeed, Mr. Hattersley.’
‘Oh, yes! It’s only my way of talking.
The event must come some time, and so I look to the bright side
of it: that’s the right plan—isn’t it, Mrs.
H.? What are you two doing here? By-the-by,
where’s Lady Lowborough?’
‘In the billiard-room.’
‘What a splendid creature she is!’ continued he,
fixing his eyes on his wife, who changed colour, and looked more
and more disconcerted as he proceeded. ‘What a noble
figure she has; and what magnificent black eyes; and what a fine
spirit of her own; and what a tongue of her own, too, when she
likes to use it. I perfectly adore her! But never
mind, Milicent: I wouldn’t have her for my wife, not if
she’d a kingdom for her dowry! I’m better
satisfied with the one I have. Now then! what do you look
so sulky for? don’t you believe me?’
‘Yes, I believe you,’ murmured she, in a tone of
half sad, half sullen resignation, as she turned away to stroke
the hair of her sleeping infant, that she had laid on the sofa
beside her.
‘Well, then, what makes you so cross? Come here,
Milly, and tell me why you can’t be satisfied with my
assurance.’
She went, and putting her little hand within his arm, looked
up in his face, and said softly,—
‘What does it amount to, Ralph? Only to this, that
though you admire Annabella so much, and for qualities that I
don’t possess, you would still rather have me than her for
your wife, which merely proves that you don’t think it
necessary to love your wife; you are satisfied if she can keep
your house, and take care of your child. But I’m not
cross; I’m only sorry; for,’ added she, in a low,
tremulous accent, withdrawing her hand from his arm, and bending
her looks on the rug, ‘if you don’t love me, you
don’t, and it can’t be helped.’
‘Very true; but who told you I didn’t? Did I
say I loved Annabella?’
‘You said you adored her.’
‘True, but adoration isn’t love. I adore
Annabella, but I don’t love her; and I love thee, Milicent,
but I don’t adore thee.’ In proof of his
affection, he clutched a handful of her light brown ringlets, and
appeared to twist them unmercifully.
‘Do you really, Ralph?’ murmured she, with a faint
smile beaming through her tears, just putting up her hand to his,
in token that he pulled rather too hard.
‘To be sure I do,’ responded he: ‘only you
bother me rather, sometimes.’
‘I bother you!’ cried she, in very natural
surprise.
‘Yes, you—but only by your exceeding
goodness. When a boy has been eating raisins and
sugar-plums all day, he longs for a squeeze of sour orange by way
of a change. And did you never, Milly, observe the sands on
the sea-shore; how nice and smooth they look, and how soft and
easy they feel to the foot? But if you plod along, for half
an hour, over this soft, easy carpet—giving way at every
step, yielding the more the harder you press,—you’ll
find it rather wearisome work, and be glad enough to come to a
bit of good, firm rock, that won’t budge an inch whether
you stand, walk, or stamp upon it; and, though it be hard as the
nether millstone, you’ll find it the easier footing after
all.’
‘I know what you mean, Ralph,’ said she, nervously
playing with her watchguard and tracing the figure on the rug
with the point of her tiny foot—‘I know what you
mean: but I thought you always liked to be yielded to, and I
can’t alter now.’
‘I do like it,’ replied he, bringing her to him by
another tug at her hair. ‘You mustn’t mind my
talk, Milly. A man must have something to grumble about;
and if he can’t complain that his wife harries him to death
with her perversity and ill-humour, he must complain that she
wears him out with her kindness and gentleness.’
‘But why complain at all, unless because you are tired
and dissatisfied?’
‘To excuse my own failings, to be sure. Do you
think I’ll bear all the burden of my sins on my own
shoulders, as long as there’s another ready to help me,
with none of her own to carry?’
‘There is no such one on earth,’ said she
seriously; and then, taking his hand from her head, she kissed it
with an air of genuine devotion, and tripped away to the
door.
‘What now?’ said he. ‘Where are you
going?’
‘To tidy my hair,’ she answered, smiling through
her disordered locks; ‘you’ve made it all come
down.’
‘Off with you then!—An excellent little
woman,’ he remarked when she was gone, ‘but a thought
too soft—she almost melts in one’s hands. I
positively think I ill-use her sometimes, when I’ve taken
too much—but I can’t help it, for she never
complains, either at the time or after. I suppose she
doesn’t mind it.’
‘I can enlighten you on that subject, Mr.
Hattersley,’ said I: ‘she does mind it; and some
other things she minds still more, which yet you may never hear
her complain of.’
‘How do you know?—does she complain to you?’
demanded he, with a sudden spark of fury ready to burst into a
flame if I should answer “yes.”
‘No,’ I replied; ‘but I have known her
longer and studied her more closely than you have done.—And
I can tell you, Mr. Hattersley, that Milicent loves you more than
you deserve, and that you have it in your power to make her very
happy, instead of which you are her evil genius, and, I will
venture to say, there is not a single day passes in which you do
not inflict upon her some pang that you might spare her if you
would.’
‘Well—it’s not my fault,’ said he,
gazing carelessly up at the ceiling and plunging his hands into
his pockets: ‘if my ongoings don’t suit her, she
should tell me so.’
‘Is she not exactly the wife you wanted? Did you
not tell Mr. Huntingdon you must have one that would submit to
anything without a murmur, and never blame you, whatever you
did?’
‘True, but we shouldn’t always have what we want:
it spoils the best of us, doesn’t it? How can I help
playing the deuce when I see it’s all one to her whether I
behave like a Christian or like a scoundrel, such as nature made
me? and how can I help teasing her when she’s so invitingly
meek and mim, when she lies down like a spaniel at my feet and
never so much as squeaks to tell me that’s
enough?’
‘If you are a tyrant by nature, the temptation is
strong, I allow; but no generous mind delights to oppress the
weak, but rather to cherish and protect.’
‘I don’t oppress her; but it’s so confounded
flat to be always cherishing and protecting; and then, how can I
tell that I am oppressing her when she “melts away and
makes no sign”? I sometimes think she has no feeling
at all; and then I go on till she cries, and that satisfies
me.’
‘Then you do delight to oppress her?’
‘I don’t, I tell you! only when I’m in a bad
humour, or a particularly good one, and want to afflict for the
pleasure of comforting; or when she looks flat and wants shaking
up a bit. And sometimes she provokes me by crying for
nothing, and won’t tell me what it’s for; and then, I
allow, it enrages me past bearing, especially when I’m not
my own man.’
‘As is no doubt generally the case on such
occasions,’ said I. ‘But in future, Mr.
Hattersley, when you see her looking flat, or crying for
“nothing” (as you call it), ascribe it all to
yourself: be assured it is something you have done amiss, or your
general misconduct, that distresses her.’
‘I don’t believe it. If it were, she should
tell me so: I don’t like that way of moping and fretting in
silence, and saying nothing: it’s not honest. How can
she expect me to mend my ways at that rate?’
‘Perhaps she gives you credit for having more sense than
you possess, and deludes herself with the hope that you will one
day see your own errors and repair them, if left to your own
reflection.’
‘None of your sneers, Mrs. Huntingdon. I have the
sense to see that I’m not always quite correct, but
sometimes I think that’s no great matter, as long as I
injure nobody but myself—’
‘It is a great matter,’ interrupted I, ‘both
to yourself (as you will hereafter find to your cost) and to all
connected with you, most especially your wife. But, indeed,
it is nonsense to talk about injuring no one but yourself: it is
impossible to injure yourself, especially by such acts as we
allude to, without injuring hundreds, if not thousands, besides,
in a greater or less, degree, either by the evil you do or the
good you leave undone.’ ‘And as I was
saying,’ continued he, ‘or would have said if you
hadn’t taken me up so short, I sometimes think I should do
better if I were joined to one that would always remind me when I
was wrong, and give me a motive for doing good and eschewing
evil, by decidedly showing her approval of the one and
disapproval of the other.’
‘If you had no higher motive than the approval of your
fellow-mortal, it would do you little good.’
‘Well, but if I had a mate that would not always be
yielding, and always equally kind, but that would have the spirit
to stand at bay now and then, and honestly tell me her mind at
all times, such a one as yourself for instance. Now, if I
went on with you as I do with her when I’m in London,
you’d make the house too hot to hold me at times,
I’ll be sworn.’
‘You mistake me: I’m no termagant.’
‘Well, all the better for that, for I can’t stand
contradiction, in a general way, and I’m as fond of my own
will as another; only I think too much of it doesn’t answer
for any man.’
‘Well, I would never contradict you without a cause, but
certainly I would always let you know what I thought of your
conduct; and if you oppressed me, in body, mind, or estate, you
should at least have no reason to suppose “I didn’t
mind it.”’
‘I know that, my lady; and I think if my little wife
were to follow the same plan, it would be better for us
both.’
‘I’ll tell her.’
‘No, no, let her be; there’s much to be said on
both sides, and, now I think upon it, Huntingdon often regrets
that you are not more like her, scoundrelly dog that he is, and
you see, after all, you can’t reform him: he’s ten
times worse than I. He’s afraid of you, to be sure;
that is, he’s always on his best behaviour in your
presence—but—’
‘I wonder what his worst behaviour is like, then?’
I could not forbear observing.
‘Why, to tell you the truth, it’s very bad
indeed—isn’t it, Hargrave?’ said he, addressing
that gentleman, who had entered the room unperceived by me, for I
was now standing near the fire, with my back to the door.
‘Isn’t Huntingdon,’ he continued, ‘as
great a reprobate as ever was d—d?’
‘His lady will not hear him censured with
impunity,’ replied Mr. Hargrave, coming forward; ‘but
I must say, I thank God I am not such another.’
‘Perhaps it would become you better,’ said I,
‘to look at what you are, and say, “God be merciful
to me a sinner.”’
‘You are severe,’ returned he, bowing slightly and
drawing himself up with a proud yet injured air. Hattersley
laughed, and clapped him on the shoulder. Moving from under
his hand with a gesture of insulted dignity, Mr. Hargrave took
himself away to the other end of the rug.
‘Isn’t it a shame, Mrs. Huntingdon?’ cried
his brother-in-law; ‘I struck Walter Hargrave when I was
drunk, the second night after we came, and he’s turned a
cold shoulder on me ever since; though I asked his pardon the
very morning after it was done!’
‘Your manner of asking it,’ returned the other,
‘and the clearness with which you remembered the whole
transaction, showed you were not too drunk to be fully conscious
of what you were about, and quite responsible for the
deed.’
‘You wanted to interfere between me and my wife,’
grumbled Hattersley, ‘and that is enough to provoke any
man.’
‘You justify it, then?’ said his opponent, darting
upon him a most vindictive glance.
‘No, I tell you I wouldn’t have done it if I
hadn’t been under excitement; and if you choose to bear
malice for it after all the handsome things I’ve said, do
so and be d—d!’
‘I would refrain from such language in a lady’s
presence, at least,’ said Mr. Hargrave, hiding his anger
under a mask of disgust.
‘What have I said?’ returned Hattersley:
‘nothing but heaven’s truth. He will be damned,
won’t he, Mrs. Huntingdon, if he doesn’t forgive his
brother’s trespasses?’
‘You ought to forgive him, Mr. Hargrave, since he asks
you,’ said I.
‘Do you say so? Then I will!’ And,
smiling almost frankly, he stepped forward and offered his
hand. It was immediately clasped in that of his relative,
and the reconciliation was apparently cordial on both sides.
‘The affront,’ continued Hargrave, turning to me,
‘owed half its bitterness to the fact of its being offered
in your presence; and since you bid me forgive it, I will, and
forget it too.’
‘I guess the best return I can make will be to take
myself off,’ muttered Hattersley, with a broad grin.
His companion smiled, and he left the room. This put me on
my guard. Mr. Hargrave turned seriously to me, and
earnestly began,—
‘Dear Mrs. Huntingdon, how I have longed for, yet
dreaded, this hour! Do not be alarmed,’ he added, for
my face was crimson with anger: ‘I am not about to offend
you with any useless entreaties or complaints. I am not
going to presume to trouble you with the mention of my own
feelings or your perfections, but I have something to reveal to
you which you ought to know, and which, yet, it pains me
inexpressibly—’
‘Then don’t trouble yourself to reveal
it!’
‘But it is of importance—’
‘If so I shall hear it soon enough, especially if it is
bad news, as you seem to consider it. At present I am going
to take the children to the nursery.’
‘But can’t you ring and send them?’
‘No; I want the exercise of a run to the top of the
house. Come, Arthur.’
‘But you will return?’
‘Not yet; don’t wait.’
‘Then when may I see you again?’
‘At lunch,’ said I, departing with little Helen in
one arm and leading Arthur by the hand.
He turned away, muttering some sentence of impatient censure
or complaint, in which ‘heartless’ was the only
distinguishable word.
‘What nonsense is this, Mr. Hargrave?’ said I,
pausing in the doorway. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, nothing; I did not intend you should hear my
soliloquy. But the fact is, Mrs. Huntingdon, I have a
disclosure to make, painful for me to offer as for you to hear;
and I want you to give me a few minutes of your attention in
private at any time and place you like to appoint. It is
from no selfish motive that I ask it, and not for any cause that
could alarm your superhuman purity: therefore you need not kill
me with that look of cold and pitiless disdain. I know too
well the feelings with which the bearers of bad tidings are
commonly regarded not to—’
‘What is this wonderful piece of intelligence?’
said I, impatiently interrupting him. ‘If it is
anything of real importance, speak it in three words before I
go.’
‘In three words I cannot. Send those children away
and stay with me.’
‘No; keep your bad tidings to yourself. I know it
is something I don’t want to hear, and something you would
displease me by telling.’
‘You have divined too truly, I fear; but still, since I
know it, I feel it my duty to disclose it to you.’
‘Oh, spare us both the infliction, and I will exonerate
you from the duty. You have offered to tell; I have refused
to hear: my ignorance will not be charged on you.’
‘Be it so: you shall not hear it from me. But if
the blow fall too suddenly upon you when it comes, remember I
wished to soften it!’
I left him. I was determined his words should not alarm
me. What could he, of all men, have to reveal that was of
importance for me to hear? It was no doubt some exaggerated
tale about my unfortunate husband that he wished to make the most
of to serve his own bad purposes.
6th.—He has not alluded to this momentous mystery since,
and I have seen no reason to repent of my unwillingness to hear
it. The threatened blow has not been struck yet, and I do
not greatly fear it. At present I am pleased with Arthur:
he has not positively disgraced himself for upwards of a
fortnight, and all this last week has been so very moderate in
his indulgence at table that I can perceive a marked difference
in his general temper and appearance. Dare I hope this will
continue?
CHAPTER XXXIII
Seventh.—Yes, I will hope! To-night I heard
Grimsby and Hattersley grumbling together about the inhospitality
of their host. They did not know I was near, for I happened
to be standing behind the curtain in the bow of the window,
watching the moon rising over the clump of tall dark elm-trees
below the lawn, and wondering why Arthur was so sentimental as to
stand without, leaning against the outer pillar of the portico,
apparently watching it too.
‘So, I suppose we’ve seen the last of our merry
carousals in this house,’ said Mr. Hattersley; ‘I
thought his good-fellowship wouldn’t last long.
But,’ added he, laughing, ‘I didn’t expect it
would meet its end this way. I rather thought our pretty
hostess would be setting up her porcupine quills, and threatening
to turn us out of the house if we didn’t mind our
manners.’
‘You didn’t foresee this, then?’ answered
Grimsby, with a guttural chuckle. ‘But he’ll
change again when he’s sick of her. If we come here a
year or two hence, we shall have all our own way, you’ll
see.’
‘I don’t know,’ replied the other:
‘she’s not the style of woman you soon tire of.
But be that as it may, it’s devilish provoking now that we
can’t be jolly, because he chooses to be on his good
behaviour.’
‘It’s all these cursed women!’ muttered
Grimsby: ‘they’re the very bane of the world!
They bring trouble and discomfort wherever they come, with their
false, fair faces and their deceitful tongues.’
At this juncture I issued from my retreat, and smiling on Mr.
Grimsby as I passed, left the room and went out in search of
Arthur. Having seen him bend his course towards the
shrubbery, I followed him thither, and found him just entering
the shadowy walk. I was so light of heart, so overflowing
with affection, that I sprang upon him and clasped him in my
arms. This startling conduct had a singular effect upon
him: first, he murmured, ‘Bless you, darling!’ and
returned my close embrace with a fervour like old times, and then
he started, and, in a tone of absolute terror, exclaimed,
‘Helen! what the devil is this?’ and I saw, by the
faint light gleaming through the overshadowing tree, that he was
positively pale with the shock.
How strange that the instinctive impulse of affection should
come first, and then the shock of the surprise! It shows,
at least, that the affection is genuine: he is not sick of me
yet.
‘I startled you, Arthur,’ said I, laughing in my
glee. ‘How nervous you are!’
‘What the deuce did you do it for?’ cried he,
quite testily, extricating himself from my arms, and wiping his
forehead with his handkerchief. ‘Go back,
Helen—go back directly! You’ll get your death
of cold!’
‘I won’t, till I’ve told you what I came
for. They are blaming you, Arthur, for your temperance and
sobriety, and I’m come to thank you for it. They say
it is all “these cursed women,” and that we are the
bane of the world; but don’t let them laugh or grumble you
out of your good resolutions, or your affection for
me.’
He laughed. I squeezed him in my arms again, and cried
in tearful earnest, ‘Do, do persevere! and I’ll love
you better than ever I did before!’
‘Well, well, I will!’ said he, hastily kissing
me. ‘There, now, go. You mad creature, how
could you come out in your light evening dress this chill autumn
night?’
‘It is a glorious night,’ said I.
‘It is a night that will give you your death, in another
minute. Run away, do!’
‘Do you see my death among those trees, Arthur?’
said I, for he was gazing intently at the shrubs, as if he saw it
coming, and I was reluctant to leave him, in my new-found
happiness and revival of hope and love. But he grew angry
at my delay, so I kissed him and ran back to the house.
I was in such a good humour that night: Milicent told me I was
the life of the party, and whispered she had never seen me so
brilliant. Certainly, I talked enough for twenty, and
smiled upon them all. Grimsby, Hattersley, Hargrave, Lady
Lowborough, all shared my sisterly kindness. Grimsby stared
and wondered; Hattersley laughed and jested (in spite of the
little wine he had been suffered to imbibe), but still behaved as
well as he knew how. Hargrave and Annabella, from different
motives and in different ways, emulated me, and doubtless both
surpassed me, the former in his discursive versatility and
eloquence, the latter in boldness and animation at least.
Milicent, delighted to see her husband, her brother, and her
over-estimated friend acquitting themselves so well, was lively
and gay too, in her quiet way. Even Lord Lowborough caught
the general contagion: his dark greenish eyes were lighted up
beneath their moody brows; his sombre countenance was beautified
by smiles; all traces of gloom and proud or cold reserve had
vanished for the time; and he astonished us all, not only by his
general cheerfulness and animation, but by the positive flashes
of true force and brilliance he emitted from time to time.
Arthur did not talk much, but he laughed, and listened to the
rest, and was in perfect good-humour, though not excited by
wine. So that, altogether, we made a very merry, innocent,
and entertaining party.
9th.—Yesterday, when Rachel came to dress me for dinner,
I saw that she had been crying. I wanted to know the cause
of it, but she seemed reluctant to tell. Was she
unwell? No. Had she heard bad news from her
friends? No. Had any of the servants vexed her?
‘Oh, no, ma’am!’ she answered;
‘it’s not for myself.’
‘What then, Rachel? Have you been reading
novels?’
‘Bless you, no!’ said she, with a sorrowful shake
of the head; and then she sighed and continued: ‘But to
tell you the truth, ma’am, I don’t like
master’s ways of going on.’
‘What do you mean, Rachel? He’s going on
very properly at present.’
‘Well, ma’am, if you think so, it’s
right.’
And she went on dressing my hair, in a hurried way, quite
unlike her usual calm, collected manner, murmuring, half to
herself, she was sure it was beautiful hair: she ‘could
like to see ’em match it.’ When it was done,
she fondly stroked it, and gently patted my head.
‘Is that affectionate ebullition intended for my hair,
or myself, nurse?’ said I, laughingly turning round upon
her; but a tear was even now in her eye.
‘What do you mean, Rachel?’ I exclaimed.
‘Well, ma’am, I don’t know; but
if—’
‘If what?’
‘Well, if I was you, I wouldn’t have that Lady
Lowborough in the house another minute—not another minute I
wouldn’t!
I was thunderstruck; but before I could recover from the shock
sufficiently to demand an explanation, Milicent entered my room,
as she frequently does when she is dressed before me; and she
stayed with me till it was time to go down. She must have
found me a very unsociable companion this time, for
Rachel’s last words rang in my ears. But still I
hoped, I trusted they had no foundation but in some idle rumour
of the servants from what they had seen in Lady
Lowborough’s manner last month; or perhaps from something
that had passed between their master and her during her former
visit. At dinner I narrowly observed both her and Arthur,
and saw nothing extraordinary in the conduct of either, nothing
calculated to excite suspicion, except in distrustful minds,
which mine was not, and therefore I would not suspect.
Almost immediately after dinner Annabella went out with her
husband to share his moonlight ramble, for it was a splendid
evening like the last. Mr. Hargrave entered the
drawing-room a little before the others, and challenged me to a
game of chess. He did it without any of that sad but proud
humility he usually assumes in addressing me, unless he is
excited with wine. I looked at his face to see if that was
the case now. His eye met mine keenly, but steadily: there
was something about him I did not understand, but he seemed sober
enough. Not choosing to engage with him, I referred him to
Milicent.
‘She plays badly,’ said he, ‘I want to match
my skill with yours. Come now! you can’t pretend you
are reluctant to lay down your work. I know you never take
it up except to pass an idle hour, when there is nothing better
you can do.’
‘But chess-players are so unsociable,’ I objected;
‘they are no company for any but themselves.’
‘There is no one here but Milicent, and
she—’
‘Oh, I shall be delighted to watch you!’ cried our
mutual friend. ‘Two such players—it will be
quite a treat! I wonder which will conquer.’
I consented.
‘Now, Mrs. Huntingdon,’ said Hargrave, as he
arranged the men on the board, speaking distinctly, and with a
peculiar emphasis, as if he had a double meaning to all his
words, ‘you are a good player, but I am a better: we shall
have a long game, and you will give me some trouble; but I can be
as patient as you, and in the end I shall certainly
win.’ He fixed his eyes upon me with a glance I did
not like, keen, crafty, bold, and almost impudent;—already
half triumphant in his anticipated success.
‘I hope not, Mr. Hargrave!’ returned I, with
vehemence that must have startled Milicent at least; but he only
smiled and murmured, ‘Time will show.’
We set to work: he sufficiently interested in the game, but
calm and fearless in the consciousness of superior skill: I,
intensely eager to disappoint his expectations, for I considered
this the type of a more serious contest, as I imagined he did,
and I felt an almost superstitious dread of being beaten: at all
events, I could ill endure that present success should add one
tittle to his conscious power (his insolent self-confidence I
ought to say), or encourage for a moment his dream of future
conquest. His play was cautious and deep, but I struggled
hard against him. For some time the combat was doubtful: at
length, to my joy, the victory seemed inclining to my side: I had
taken several of his best pieces, and manifestly baffled his
projects. He put his hand to his brow and paused, in
evident perplexity. I rejoiced in my advantage, but dared
not glory in it yet. At length, he lifted his head, and
quietly making his move, looked at me and said, calmly,
‘Now you think you will win, don’t you?’
‘I hope so,’ replied I, taking his pawn that he
had pushed into the way of my bishop with so careless an air that
I thought it was an oversight, but was not generous enough, under
the circumstances, to direct his attention to it, and too
heedless, at the moment, to foresee the after-consequences of my
move. ‘It is those bishops that trouble me,’
said he; ‘but the bold knight can overleap the reverend
gentlemen,’ taking my last bishop with his knight;
‘and now, those sacred persons once removed, I shall carry
all before me.’
‘Oh, Walter, how you talk!’ cried Milicent;
‘she has far more pieces than you still.’
‘I intend to give you some trouble yet,’ said I;
‘and perhaps, sir, you will find yourself checkmated before
you are aware. Look to your queen.’
The combat deepened. The game was a long one, and I did
give him some trouble: but he was a better player than I.
‘What keen gamesters you are!’ said Mr.
Hattersley, who had now entered, and been watching us for some
time. ‘Why, Mrs. Huntingdon, your hand trembles as if
you had staked your all upon it! and, Walter, you dog, you look
as deep and cool as if you were certain of success, and as keen
and cruel as if you would drain her heart’s blood!
But if I were you, I wouldn’t beat her, for very fear:
she’ll hate you if you do—she will, by heaven!
I see it in her eye.’
‘Hold your tongue, will you?’ said I: his talk
distracted me, for I was driven to extremities. A few more
moves, and I was inextricably entangled in the snare of my
antagonist.
‘Check,’ cried he: I sought in agony some means of
escape. ‘Mate!’ he added, quietly, but with
evident delight. He had suspended the utterance of that
last fatal syllable the better to enjoy my dismay. I was
foolishly disconcerted by the event. Hattersley laughed;
Milicent was troubled to see me so disturbed. Hargrave
placed his hand on mine that rested on the table, and squeezing
it with a firm but gentle pressure, murmured, ‘Beaten,
beaten!’ and gazed into my face with a look where
exultation was blended with an expression of ardour and
tenderness yet more insulting.
‘No, never, Mr. Hargrave!’ exclaimed I, quickly
withdrawing my hand.
‘Do you deny?’ replied he, smilingly pointing to
the board. ‘No, no,’ I answered, recollecting
how strange my conduct must appear: ‘you have beaten me in
that game.’
‘Will you try another, then?’
‘No.’
‘You acknowledge my superiority?’
‘Yes, as a chess-player.’
I rose to resume my work.
‘Where is Annabella?’ said Hargrave, gravely,
after glancing round the room.
‘Gone out with Lord Lowborough,’ answered I, for
he looked at me for a reply.
‘And not yet returned!’ he said, seriously.
‘I suppose not.’
‘Where is Huntingdon?’ looking round again.
‘Gone out with Grimsby, as you know,’ said
Hattersley, suppressing a laugh, which broke forth as he
concluded the sentence. Why did he laugh? Why did
Hargrave connect them thus together? Was it true,
then? And was this the dreadful secret he had wished to
reveal to me? I must know, and that quickly. I
instantly rose and left the room to go in search of Rachel and
demand an explanation of her words; but Mr. Hargrave followed me
into the anteroom, and before I could open its outer door, gently
laid his hand upon the lock. ‘May I tell you
something, Mrs. Huntingdon?’ said he, in a subdued tone,
with serious, downcast eyes.
‘If it be anything worth hearing,’ replied I,
struggling to be composed, for I trembled in every limb.
He quietly pushed a chair towards me. I merely leant my
hand upon it, and bid him go on.
‘Do not be alarmed,’ said he: ‘what I wish
to say is nothing in itself; and I will leave you to draw your
own inferences from it. You say that Annabella is not yet
returned?’
‘Yes, yes—go on!’ said I, impatiently; for I
feared my forced calmness would leave me before the end of his
disclosure, whatever it might be.
‘And you hear,’ continued he, ‘that
Huntingdon is gone out with Grimsby?’
‘Well?’
‘I heard the latter say to your husband—or the man
who calls himself so—’
‘Go on, sir!’
He bowed submissively, and continued: ‘I heard him
say,—“I shall manage it, you’ll see!
They’re gone down by the water; I shall meet them there,
and tell him I want a bit of talk with him about some things that
we needn’t trouble the lady with; and she’ll say she
can be walking back to the house; and then I shall apologise, you
know, and all that, and tip her a wink to take the way of the
shrubbery. I’ll keep him talking there, about those
matters I mentioned, and anything else I can think of, as long as
I can, and then bring him round the other way, stopping to look
at the trees, the fields, and anything else I can find to
discourse of.”’ Mr. Hargrave paused, and looked
at me.
Without a word of comment or further questioning, I rose, and
darted from the room and out of the house. The torment of
suspense was not to be endured: I would not suspect my husband
falsely, on this man’s accusation, and I would not trust
him unworthily—I must know the truth at once. I flew
to the shrubbery. Scarcely had I reached it, when a sound
of voices arrested my breathless speed.
‘We have lingered too long; he will be back,’ said
Lady Lowborough’s voice.
‘Surely not, dearest!’ was his reply; ‘but
you can run across the lawn, and get in as quietly as you can;
I’ll follow in a while.’
My knees trembled under me; my brain swam round. I was
ready to faint. She must not see me thus. I shrunk
among the bushes, and leant against the trunk of a tree to let
her pass.
‘Ah, Huntingdon!’ said she reproachfully, pausing
where I had stood with him the night before—‘it was
here you kissed that woman!’ she looked back into the leafy
shade. Advancing thence, he answered, with a careless
laugh,—
‘Well, dearest, I couldn’t help it. You know
I must keep straight with her as long as I can.
Haven’t I seen you kiss your dolt of a husband scores of
times?—and do I ever complain?’
‘But tell me, don’t you love her still—a
little?’ said she, placing her hand on his arm, looking
earnestly in his face—for I could see them, plainly, the
moon shining full upon them from between the branches of the tree
that sheltered me.
‘Not one bit, by all that’s sacred!’ he
replied, kissing her glowing cheek.
‘Good heavens, I must be gone!’ cried she,
suddenly breaking from him, and away she flew.
There he stood before me; but I had not strength to confront
him now: my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth; I was
well-nigh sinking to the earth, and I almost wondered he did not
hear the beating of my heart above the low sighing of the wind
and the fitful rustle of the falling leaves. My senses
seemed to fail me, but still I saw his shadowy form pass before
me, and through the rushing sound in my ears I distinctly heard
him say, as he stood looking up the lawn,—‘There goes
the fool! Run, Annabella, run! There—in with
you! Ah,—he didn’t see! That’s
right, Grimsby, keep him back!’ And even his low
laugh reached me as he walked away.
‘God help me now!’ I murmured, sinking on my knees
among the damp weeds and brushwood that surrounded me, and
looking up at the moonlit sky, through the scant foliage
above. It seemed all dim and quivering now to my darkened
sight. My burning, bursting heart strove to pour forth its
agony to God, but could not frame its anguish into prayer; until
a gust of wind swept over me, which, while it scattered the dead
leaves, like blighted hopes, around, cooled my forehead, and
seemed a little to revive my sinking frame. Then, while I
lifted up my soul in speechless, earnest supplication, some
heavenly influence seemed to strengthen me within: I breathed
more freely; my vision cleared; I saw distinctly the pure moon
shining on, and the light clouds skimming the clear, dark sky;
and then I saw the eternal stars twinkling down upon me; I knew
their God was mine, and He was strong to save and swift to
hear. ‘I will never leave thee, nor forsake
thee,’ seemed whispered from above their myriad orbs.
No, no; I felt He would not leave me comfortless: in spite of
earth and hell I should have strength for all my trials, and win
a glorious rest at last!
Refreshed, invigorated, if not composed, I rose and returned
to the house. Much of my new-born strength and courage
forsook me, I confess, as I entered it, and shut out the fresh
wind and the glorious sky: everything I saw and heard seemed to
sicken my heart—the hall, the lamp, the staircase, the
doors of the different apartments, the social sound of talk and
laughter from the drawing-room. How could I bear my future
life! In this house, among those people—oh, how could
I endure to live! John just then entered the hall, and
seeing me, told me he had been sent in search of me, adding that
he had taken in the tea, and master wished to know if I were
coming.
‘Ask Mrs. Hattersley to be so kind as to make the tea,
John,’ said I. ‘Say I am not well to-night, and
wish to be excused.’
I retired into the large, empty dining-room, where all was
silence and darkness, but for the soft sighing of the wind
without, and the faint gleam of moonlight that pierced the blinds
and curtains; and there I walked rapidly up and down, thinking of
my bitter thoughts alone. How different was this from the
evening of yesterday! That, it seems, was the last expiring
flash of my life’s happiness. Poor, blinded fool that
I was to be so happy! I could now see the reason of
Arthur’s strange reception of me in the shrubbery; the
burst of kindness was for his paramour, the start of horror for
his wife. Now, too, I could better understand the
conversation between Hattersley and Grimsby; it was doubtless of
his love for her they spoke, not for me.
I heard the drawing-room door open: a light quick step came
out of the ante-room, crossed the hall, and ascended the
stairs. It was Milicent, poor Milicent, gone to see how I
was—no one else cared for me; but she still was kind.
I shed no tears before, but now they came, fast and free.
Thus she did me good, without approaching me. Disappointed
in her search, I heard her come down, more slowly than she had
ascended. Would she come in there, and find me out?
No, she turned in the opposite direction and re-entered the
drawing-room. I was glad, for I knew not how to meet her,
or what to say. I wanted no confidante in my
distress. I deserved none, and I wanted none. I had
taken the burden upon myself; let me bear it alone.
As the usual hour of retirement approached I dried my eyes,
and tried to clear my voice and calm my mind. I must see
Arthur to-night, and speak to him; but I would do it calmly:
there should be no scene—nothing to complain or to boast of
to his companions—nothing to laugh at with his
lady-love. When the company were retiring to their chambers
I gently opened the door, and just as he passed, beckoned him
in.
‘What’s to do with you, Helen?’ said
he. ‘Why couldn’t you come to make tea for us?
and what the deuce are you here for, in the dark? What ails
you, young woman: you look like a ghost!’ he continued,
surveying me by the light of his candle.
‘No matter,’ I answered, ‘to you; you have
no longer any regard for me it appears; and I have no longer any
for you.’
‘Hal-lo! what the devil is this?’ he
muttered. ‘I would leave you to-morrow,’
continued I, ‘and never again come under this roof, but for
my child’—I paused a moment to steady, my voice.
‘What in the devil’s name is this, Helen?’
cried he. ‘What can you be driving at?’
‘You know perfectly well. Let us waste no time in
useless explanation, but tell me, will you—?’
He vehemently swore he knew nothing about it, and insisted
upon hearing what poisonous old woman had been blackening his
name, and what infamous lies I had been fool enough to
believe.
‘Spare yourself the trouble of forswearing yourself and
racking your brains to stifle truth with falsehood,’ I
coldly replied. ‘I have trusted to the testimony of
no third person. I was in the shrubbery this evening, and I
saw and heard for myself.’
This was enough. He uttered a suppressed exclamation of
consternation and dismay, and muttering, ‘I shall catch it
now!’ set down his candle on the nearest chair, and rearing
his back against the wall, stood confronting me with folded
arms.
‘Well, what then?’ said he, with the calm
insolence of mingled shamelessness and desperation.
‘Only this,’ returned I; ‘will you let me
take our child and what remains of my fortune, and go?’
‘Go where?’
‘Anywhere, where he will be safe from your contaminating
influence, and I shall be delivered from your presence, and you
from mine.’
‘No.’
‘Will you let me have the child then, without the
money?’
‘No, nor yourself without the child. Do you think
I’m going to be made the talk of the country for your
fastidious caprices?’
‘Then I must stay here, to be hated and despised.
But henceforth we are husband and wife only in the
name.’
‘Very good.’
‘I am your child’s mother, and your housekeeper,
nothing more. So you need not trouble yourself any longer
to feign the love you cannot feel: I will exact no more heartless
caresses from you, nor offer nor endure them either. I will
not be mocked with the empty husk of conjugal endearments, when
you have given the substance to another!’
‘Very good, if you please. We shall see who will
tire first, my lady.’
‘If I tire, it will be of living in the world with you:
not of living without your mockery of love. When you tire
of your sinful ways, and show yourself truly repentant, I will
forgive you, and, perhaps, try to love you again, though that
will be hard indeed.’
‘Humph! and meantime you will go and talk me over to
Mrs. Hargrave, and write long letters to aunt Maxwell to complain
of the wicked wretch you have married?’
‘I shall complain to no one. Hitherto I have
struggled hard to hide your vices from every eye, and invest you
with virtues you never possessed; but now you must look to
yourself.’
I left him muttering bad language to himself, and went
up-stairs.
‘You are poorly, ma’am,’ said Rachel,
surveying me with deep anxiety.
‘It is too true, Rachel,’ said I, answering her
sad looks rather than her words.
‘I knew it, or I wouldn’t have mentioned such a
thing.’
‘But don’t you trouble yourself about it,’
said I, kissing her pale, time-wasted cheek. ‘I can
bear it better than you imagine.’
‘Yes, you were always for “bearing.”
But if I was you I wouldn’t bear it; I’d give way to
it, and cry right hard! and I’d talk too, I just
would—I’d let him know what it was
to—’
‘I have talked,’ said I; ‘I’ve said
enough.’
‘Then I’d cry,’ persisted she.
‘I wouldn’t look so white and so calm, and burst my
heart with keeping it in.’
‘I have cried,’ said I, smiling, in spite of my
misery; ‘and I am calm now, really: so don’t
discompose me again, nurse: let us say no more about it, and
don’t mention it to the servants. There, you may go
now. Good-night; and don’t disturb your rest for me:
I shall sleep well—if I can.’
Notwithstanding this resolution, I found my bed so intolerable
that, before two o’clock, I rose, and lighting my candle by
the rushlight that was still burning, I got my desk and sat down
in my dressing-gown to recount the events of the past
evening. It was better to be so occupied than to be lying
in bed torturing my brain with recollections of the far past and
anticipations of the dreadful future. I have found relief
in describing the very circumstances that have destroyed my
peace, as well as the little trivial details attendant upon their
discovery. No sleep I could have got this night would have
done so much towards composing my mind, and preparing me to meet
the trials of the day. I fancy so, at least; and yet, when
I cease writing, I find my head aches terribly; and when I look
into the glass, I am startled at my haggard, worn appearance.
Rachel has been to dress me, and says I have had a sad night
of it, she can see. Milicent has just looked in to ask me
how I was. I told her I was better, but to excuse my
appearance admitted I had had a restless night. I wish this
day were over! I shudder at the thoughts of going down to
breakfast. How shall I encounter them all? Yet let me
remember it is not I that am guilty: I have no cause to fear; and
if they scorn me as a victim of their guilt, I can pity their
folly and despise their scorn.
CHAPTER XXXIV
Evening.—Breakfast passed well over: I was calm and cool
throughout. I answered composedly all inquiries respecting
my health; and whatever was unusual in my look or manner was
generally attributed to the trifling indisposition that had
occasioned my early retirement last night. But how am I to
get over the ten or twelve days that must yet elapse before they
go? Yet why so long for their departure? When they
are gone, how shall I get through the months or years of my
future life in company with that man—my greatest enemy? for
none could injure me as he has done. Oh! when I think how
fondly, how foolishly I have loved him, how madly I have trusted
him, how constantly I have laboured, and studied, and prayed, and
struggled for his advantage; and how cruelly he has trampled on
my love, betrayed my trust, scorned my prayers and tears, and
efforts for his preservation, crushed my hopes, destroyed my
youth’s best feelings, and doomed me to a life of hopeless
misery, as far as man can do it, it is not enough to say that I
no longer love my husband—I hate
him! The word stares me in the face like a guilty
confession, but it is true: I hate him—I hate him!
But God have mercy on his miserable soul! and make him see and
feel his guilt—I ask no other vengeance! If he could
but fully know and truly feel my wrongs I should be well avenged,
and I could freely pardon all; but he is so lost, so hardened in
his heartless depravity, that in this life I believe he never
will. But it is useless dwelling on this theme: let me seek
once more to dissipate reflection in the minor details of passing
events.
Mr. Hargrave has annoyed me all day long with his serious,
sympathising, and (as he thinks) unobtrusive politeness. If
it were more obtrusive it would trouble me less, for then I could
snub him; but, as it is, he contrives to appear so really kind
and thoughtful that I cannot do so without rudeness and seeming
ingratitude. I sometimes think I ought to give him credit
for the good feeling he simulates so well; and then again, I
think it is my duty to suspect him under the peculiar
circumstances in which I am placed. His kindness may not
all be feigned; but still, let not the purest impulse of
gratitude to him induce me to forget myself: let me remember the
game of chess, the expressions he used on the occasion, and those
indescribable looks of his, that so justly roused my indignation,
and I think I shall be safe enough. I have done well to
record them so minutely.
I think he wishes to find an opportunity of speaking to me
alone: he has seemed to be on the watch all day; but I have taken
care to disappoint him—not that I fear anything he could
say, but I have trouble enough without the addition of his
insulting consolations, condolences, or whatever else he might
attempt; and, for Milicent’s sake, I do not wish to quarrel
with him. He excused himself from going out to shoot with
the other gentlemen in the morning, under the pretext of having
letters to write; and instead of retiring for that purpose into
the library, he sent for his desk into the morning-room, where I
was seated with Milicent and Lady Lowborough. They had
betaken themselves to their work; I, less to divert my mind than
to deprecate conversation, had provided myself with a book.
Milicent saw that I wished to be quiet, and accordingly let me
alone. Annabella, doubtless, saw it too: but that was no
reason why she should restrain her tongue, or curb her cheerful
spirits: she accordingly chatted away, addressing herself almost
exclusively to me, and with the utmost assurance and familiarity,
growing the more animated and friendly the colder and briefer my
answers became. Mr. Hargrave saw that I could ill endure
it, and, looking up from his desk, he answered her questions and
observations for me, as far as he could, and attempted to
transfer her social attentions from me to himself; but it would
not do. Perhaps she thought I had a headache, and could not
bear to talk; at any rate, she saw that her loquacious vivacity
annoyed me, as I could tell by the malicious pertinacity with
which she persisted. But I checked it effectually by
putting into her hand the book I had been trying to read, on the
fly-leaf of which I had hastily scribbled,—
‘I am too well acquainted with your character and
conduct to feel any real friendship for you, and as I am without
your talent for dissimulation, I cannot assume the appearance of
it. I must, therefore, beg that hereafter all familiar
intercourse may cease between us; and if I still continue to
treat you with civility, as if you were a woman worthy of
consideration and respect, understand that it is out of regard
for your cousin Milicent’s feelings, not for
yours.’
Upon perusing this she turned scarlet, and bit her lip.
Covertly tearing away the leaf, she crumpled it up and put it in
the fire, and then employed herself in turning over the pages of
the book, and, really or apparently, perusing its contents.
In a little while Milicent announced it her intention to repair
to the nursery, and asked if I would accompany her.
‘Annabella will excuse us,’ said she;
‘she’s busy reading.’
‘No, I won’t,’ cried Annabella, suddenly
looking up, and throwing her book on the table; ‘I want to
speak to Helen a minute. You may go, Milicent, and
she’ll follow in a while.’ (Milicent went.)
‘Will you oblige me, Helen?’ continued she.
Her impudence astounded me; but I complied, and followed her
into the library. She closed the door, and walked up to the
fire.
‘Who told you this?’ said she.
‘No one: I am not incapable of seeing for
myself.’
‘Ah, you are suspicious!’ cried she, smiling, with
a gleam of hope. Hitherto there had been a kind of
desperation in her hardihood; now she was evidently relieved.
‘If I were suspicious,’ I replied, ‘I should
have discovered your infamy long before. No, Lady
Lowborough, I do not found my charge upon suspicion.’
‘On what do you found it, then?’ said she,
throwing herself into an arm-chair, and stretching out her feet
to the fender, with an obvious effort to appear composed.
‘I enjoy a moonlight ramble as well as you,’ I
answered, steadily fixing my eyes upon her; ‘and the
shrubbery happens to be one of my favourite resorts.’
She coloured again excessively, and remained silent, pressing
her finger against her teeth, and gazing into the fire. I
watched her a few moments with a feeling of malevolent
gratification; then, moving towards the door, I calmly asked if
she had anything more to say.
‘Yes, yes!’ cried she eagerly, starting up from
her reclining posture. ‘I want to know if you will
tell Lord Lowborough?’
‘Suppose I do?’
‘Well, if you are disposed to publish the matter, I
cannot dissuade you, of course—but there will be terrible
work if you do—and if you don’t, I shall think you
the most generous of mortal beings—and if there is anything
in the world I can do for you—anything short
of—‘ she hesitated.
‘Short of renouncing your guilty connection with my
husband, I suppose you mean?’ said I.
She paused, in evident disconcertion and perplexity, mingled
with anger she dared not show.
‘I cannot renounce what is dearer than life,’ she
muttered, in a low, hurried tone. Then, suddenly raising
her head and fixing her gleaming eyes upon me, she continued
earnestly: ‘But, Helen—or Mrs. Huntingdon, or
whatever you would have me call you—will you tell
him? If you are generous, here is a fitting opportunity for
the exercise of your magnanimity: if you are proud, here am
I—your rival—ready to acknowledge myself your debtor
for an act of the most noble forbearance.’
‘I shall not tell him.’
‘You will not!’ cried she, delightedly.
‘Accept my sincere thanks, then!’
She sprang up, and offered me her hand. I drew back.
‘Give me no thanks; it is not for your sake that I
refrain. Neither is it an act of any forbearance: I have no
wish to publish your shame. I should be sorry to distress
your husband with the knowledge of it.’
‘And Milicent? will you tell her?’
‘No: on the contrary, I shall do my utmost to conceal it
from her. I would not for much that she should know the
infamy and disgrace of her relation!’
‘You use hard words, Mrs. Huntingdon, but I can pardon
you.’
‘And now, Lady Lowborough,’ continued I,
‘let me counsel you to leave this house as soon as
possible. You must be aware that your continuance here is
excessively disagreeable to me—not for Mr.
Huntingdon’s sake,’ said I, observing the dawn of a
malicious smile of triumph on her face—‘you are
welcome to him, if you like him, as far as I am
concerned—but because it is painful to be always disguising
my true sentiments respecting you, and straining to keep up an
appearance of civility and respect towards one for whom I have
not the most distant shadow of esteem; and because, if you stay,
your conduct cannot possibly remain concealed much longer from
the only two persons in the house who do not know it
already. And, for your husband’s sake, Annabella, and
even for your own, I wish—I earnestly advise and entreat
you to break off this unlawful connection at once, and return to
your duty while you may, before the dreadful
consequences—’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said she, interrupting me
with a gesture of impatience. ‘But I cannot go,
Helen, before the time appointed for our departure. What
possible pretext could I frame for such a thing? Whether I
proposed going back alone—which Lowborough would not hear
of—or taking him with me, the very circumstance itself
would be certain to excite suspicion—and when our visit is
so nearly at an end too—little more than a
week—surely you can endure my presence so long! I
will not annoy you with any more of my friendly
impertinences.’
‘Well, I have nothing more to say to you.’
‘Have you mentioned this affair to Huntingdon?’
asked she, as I was leaving the room.
‘How dare you mention his name to me!’ was the
only answer I gave.
No words have passed between us since, but such as outward
decency or pure necessity demanded.
CHAPTER XXXV
Nineteenth.—In proportion as Lady Lowborough finds she
has nothing to fear from me, and as the time of departure draws
nigh, the more audacious and insolent she becomes. She does
not scruple to speak to my husband with affectionate familiarity
in my presence, when no one else is by, and is particularly fond
of displaying her interest in his health and welfare, or in
anything that concerns him, as if for the purpose of contrasting
her kind solicitude with my cold indifference. And he
rewards her by such smiles and glances, such whispered words, or
boldly-spoken insinuations, indicative of his sense of her
goodness and my neglect, as make the blood rush into my face, in
spite of myself—for I would be utterly regardless of it
all—deaf and blind to everything that passes between them,
since the more I show myself sensible of their wickedness the
more she triumphs in her victory, and the more he flatters
himself that I love him devotedly still, in spite of my pretended
indifference. On such occasions I have sometimes been
startled by a subtle, fiendish suggestion inciting me to show him
the contrary by a seeming encouragement of Hargrave’s
advances; but such ideas are banished in a moment with horror and
self-abasement; and then I hate him tenfold more than ever for
having brought me to this!—God pardon me for it and all my
sinful thoughts! Instead of being humbled and purified by
my afflictions, I feel that they are turning my nature into
gall. This must be my fault as much as theirs that wrong
me. No true Christian could cherish such bitter feelings as
I do against him and her, especially the latter: him, I still
feel that I could pardon—freely, gladly—on the
slightest token of repentance; but she—words cannot utter
my abhorrence. Reason forbids, but passion urges strongly;
and I must pray and struggle long ere I subdue it.
It is well that she is leaving to-morrow, for I could not well
endure her presence for another day. This morning she rose
earlier than usual. I found her in the room alone, when I
went down to breakfast.
‘Oh, Helen! is it you?’ said she, turning as I
entered.
I gave an involuntary start back on seeing her, at which she
uttered a short laugh, observing, ‘I think we are both
disappointed.’
I came forward and busied myself with the breakfast
things.
‘This is the last day I shall burden your
hospitality,’ said she, as she seated herself at the
table. ‘Ah, here comes one that will not rejoice at
it!’ she murmured, half to herself, as Arthur entered the
room.
He shook hands with her and wished her good-morning: then,
looking lovingly in her face, and still retaining her hand in
his, murmured pathetically, ‘The last—last
day!’
‘Yes,’ said she with some asperity; ‘and I
rose early to make the best of it—I have been here alone
this half-hour, and you—you lazy creature—’
‘Well, I thought I was early too,’ said he;
‘but,’ dropping his voice almost to a whisper,
‘you see we are not alone.’
‘We never are,’ returned she. But they were
almost as good as alone, for I was now standing at the window,
watching the clouds, and struggling to suppress my wrath.
Some more words passed between them, which, happily, I did not
overhear; but Annabella had the audacity to come and place
herself beside me, and even to put her hand upon my shoulder and
say softly, ‘You need not grudge him to me, Helen, for I
love him more than ever you could do.’
This put me beside myself. I took her hand and violently
dashed it from me, with an expression of abhorrence and
indignation that could not be suppressed. Startled, almost
appalled, by this sudden outbreak, she recoiled in silence.
I would have given way to my fury and said more, but
Arthur’s low laugh recalled me to myself. I checked
the half-uttered invective, and scornfully turned away,
regretting that I had given him so much amusement. He was
still laughing when Mr. Hargrave made his appearance. How
much of the scene he had witnessed I do not know, for the door
was ajar when he entered. He greeted his host and his
cousin both coldly, and me with a glance intended to express the
deepest sympathy mingled with high admiration and esteem.
‘How much allegiance do you owe to that man?’ he
asked below his breath, as he stood beside me at the window,
affecting to be making observations on the weather.
‘None,’ I answered. And immediately
returning to the table, I employed myself in making the
tea. He followed, and would have entered into some kind of
conversation with me, but the other guests were now beginning to
assemble, and I took no more notice of him, except to give him
his coffee.
After breakfast, determined to pass as little of the day as
possible in company with Lady Lowborough, I quietly stole away
from the company and retired to the library. Mr. Hargrave
followed me thither, under pretence of coming for a book; and
first, turning to the shelves, he selected a volume, and then
quietly, but by no means timidly, approaching me, he stood beside
me, resting his hand on the back of my chair, and said softly,
‘And so you consider yourself free at last?’
‘Yes,’ said I, without moving, or raising my eyes
from my book, ‘free to do anything but offend God and my
conscience.’
There was a momentary pause.
‘Very right,’ said he, ‘provided your
conscience be not too morbidly tender, and your ideas of God not
too erroneously severe; but can you suppose it would offend that
benevolent Being to make the happiness of one who would die for
yours?—to raise a devoted heart from purgatorial torments
to a state of heavenly bliss, when you could do it without the
slightest injury to yourself or any other?’
This was spoken in a low, earnest, melting tone, as he bent
over me. I now raised my head; and steadily confronting his
gaze, I answered calmly, ‘Mr. Hargrave, do you mean to
insult me?’
He was not prepared for this. He paused a moment to
recover the shock; then, drawing himself up and removing his hand
from my chair, he answered, with proud sadness,—‘That
was not my intention.’
I just glanced towards the door, with a slight movement of the
head, and then returned to my book. He immediately
withdrew. This was better than if I had answered with more
words, and in the passionate spirit to which my first impulse
would have prompted. What a good thing it is to be able to
command one’s temper! I must labour to cultivate this
inestimable quality: God only knows how often I shall need it in
this rough, dark road that lies before me.
In the course of the morning I drove over to the Grove with
the two ladies, to give Milicent an opportunity for bidding
farewell to her mother and sister. They persuaded her to
stay with them the rest of the day, Mrs. Hargrave promising to
bring her back in the evening and remain till the party broke up
on the morrow. Consequently, Lady Lowborough and I had the
pleasure of returning tête-à-tête in
the carriage together. For the first mile or two we kept
silence, I looking out of my window, and she leaning back in her
corner. But I was not going to restrict myself to any
particular position for her; when I was tired of leaning forward,
with the cold, raw wind in my face, and surveying the russet
hedges and the damp, tangled grass of their banks, I gave it up
and leant back too. With her usual impudence, my companion
then made some attempts to get up a conversation; but the
monosyllables ‘yes,’ or ‘no’ or
‘humph,’ were the utmost her several remarks could
elicit from me. At last, on her asking my opinion upon some
immaterial point of discussion, I answered,—‘Why do
you wish to talk to me, Lady Lowborough? You must know what
I think of you.’
‘Well, if you will be so bitter against me,’
replied she, ‘I can’t help it; but I’m not
going to sulk for anybody.’ Our short drive was now
at an end. As soon as the carriage door was opened, she
sprang out, and went down the park to meet the gentlemen, who
were just returning from the woods. Of course I did not
follow.
But I had not done with her impudence yet: after dinner, I
retired to the drawing-room, as usual, and she accompanied me,
but I had the two children with me, and I gave them my whole
attention, and determined to keep them till the gentlemen came,
or till Milicent arrived with her mother. Little Helen,
however, was soon tired of playing, and insisted upon going to
sleep; and while I sat on the sofa with her on my knee, and
Arthur seated beside me, gently playing with her soft, flaxen
hair, Lady Lowborough composedly came and placed herself on the
other side.
‘To-morrow, Mrs. Huntingdon,’ said she, ‘you
will be delivered from my presence, which, no doubt, you will be
very glad of—it is natural you should; but do you know I
have rendered you a great service? Shall I tell you what it
is?’
‘I shall be glad to hear of any service you have
rendered me,’ said I, determined to be calm, for I knew by
the tone of her voice she wanted to provoke me.
‘Well,’ resumed she, ‘have you not observed
the salutary change in Mr. Huntingdon? Don’t you see
what a sober, temperate man he is become? You saw with
regret the sad habits he was contracting, I know: and I know you
did your utmost to deliver him from them, but without success,
until I came to your assistance. I told him in few words
that I could not bear to see him degrade himself so, and that I
should cease to—no matter what I told him, but you see the
reformation I have wrought; and you ought to thank me for
it.’
I rose and rang for the nurse.
‘But I desire no thanks,’ she continued;
‘all the return I ask is, that you will take care of him
when I am gone, and not, by harshness and neglect, drive him back
to his old courses.’
I was almost sick with passion, but Rachel was now at the
door. I pointed to the children, for I could not trust
myself to speak: she took them away, and I followed.
‘Will you, Helen?’ continued the speaker.
I gave her a look that blighted the malicious smile on her
face, or checked it, at least for a moment, and departed.
In the ante-room I met Mr. Hargrave. He saw I was in no
humour to be spoken to, and suffered me to pass without a word;
but when, after a few minutes’ seclusion in the library, I
had regained my composure, and was returning to join Mrs.
Hargrave and Milicent, whom I had just heard come downstairs and
go into the drawing-room, I found him there still lingering in
the dimly-lighted apartment, and evidently waiting for me.
‘Mrs. Huntingdon,’ said he as I passed,
‘will you allow me one word?’
‘What is it then? be quick, if you please.’
‘I offended you this morning; and I cannot live under
your displeasure.’
‘Then go, and sin no more,’ replied I, turning
away.
‘No, no!’ said he, hastily, setting himself before
me. ‘Pardon me, but I must have your
forgiveness. I leave you to-morrow, and I may not have an
opportunity of speaking to you again. I was wrong to forget
myself and you, as I did; but let me implore you to forget and
forgive my rash presumption, and think of me as if those words
had never been spoken; for, believe me, I regret them deeply, and
the loss of your esteem is too severe a penalty: I cannot bear
it.’
‘Forgetfulness is not to be purchased with a wish; and I
cannot bestow my esteem on all who desire it, unless they deserve
it too.’
‘I shall think my life well spent in labouring to
deserve it, if you will but pardon this offence—will
you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes! but that is coldly spoken. Give me your hand
and I’ll believe you. You won’t? Then,
Mrs. Huntingdon, you do not forgive me!’
‘Yes; here it is, and my forgiveness with it: only,
sin no more.’
He pressed my cold hand with sentimental fervour, but said
nothing, and stood aside to let me pass into the room, where all
the company were now assembled. Mr. Grimsby was seated near
the door: on seeing me enter, almost immediately followed by
Hargrave, he leered at me with a glance of intolerable
significance, as I passed. I looked him in the face, till
he sullenly turned away, if not ashamed, at least confounded for
the moment. Meantime Hattersley had seized Hargrave by the
arm, and was whispering something in his ear—some coarse
joke, no doubt, for the latter neither laughed nor spoke in
answer, but, turning from him with a slight curl of the lip,
disengaged himself and went to his mother, who was telling Lord
Lowborough how many reasons she had to be proud of her son.
Thank heaven, they are all going to-morrow.
CHAPTER XXXVI
December 20th, 1824.—This is the third anniversary of
our felicitous union. It is now two months since our guests
left us to the enjoyment of each other’s society; and I
have had nine weeks’ experience of this new phase of
conjugal life—two persons living together, as master and
mistress of the house, and father and mother of a winsome, merry
little child, with the mutual understanding that there is no
love, friendship, or sympathy between them. As far as in me
lies, I endeavour to live peaceably with him: I treat him with
unimpeachable civility, give up my convenience to his, wherever
it may reasonably be done, and consult him in a business-like way
on household affairs, deferring to his pleasure and judgment,
even when I know the latter to be inferior to my own.
As for him, for the first week or two, he was peevish and low,
fretting, I suppose, over his dear Annabella’s departure,
and particularly ill-tempered to me: everything I did was wrong;
I was cold-hearted, hard, insensate; my sour, pale face was
perfectly repulsive; my voice made him shudder; he knew not how
he could live through the winter with me; I should kill him by
inches. Again I proposed a separation, but it would not do:
he was not going to be the talk of all the old gossips in the
neighbourhood: he would not have it said that he was such a brute
his wife could not live with him. No; he must contrive to
bear with me.
‘I must contrive to bear with you, you mean,’ said
I; ‘for so long as I discharge my functions of steward and
house-keeper, so conscientiously and well, without pay and
without thanks, you cannot afford to part with me. I shall
therefore remit these duties when my bondage becomes
intolerable.’ This threat, I thought, would serve to
keep him in check, if anything would.
I believe he was much disappointed that I did not feel his
offensive sayings more acutely, for when he had said anything
particularly well calculated to hurt my feelings, he would stare
me searchingly in the face, and then grumble against my
‘marble heart’ or my ‘brutal
insensibility.’ If I had bitterly wept and deplored
his lost affection, he would, perhaps, have condescended to pity
me, and taken me into favour for a while, just to comfort his
solitude and console him for the absence of his beloved
Annabella, until he could meet her again, or some more fitting
substitute. Thank heaven, I am not so weak as that! I
was infatuated once with a foolish, besotted affection, that
clung to him in spite of his unworthiness, but it is fairly gone
now—wholly crushed and withered away; and he has none but
himself and his vices to thank for it.
At first (in compliance with his sweet lady’s
injunctions, I suppose), he abstained wonderfully well from
seeking to solace his cares in wine; but at length he began to
relax his virtuous efforts, and now and then exceeded a little,
and still continues to do so; nay, sometimes, not a little.
When he is under the exciting influence of these excesses, he
sometimes fires up and attempts to play the brute; and then I
take little pains to suppress my scorn and disgust. When he
is under the depressing influence of the after-consequences, he
bemoans his sufferings and his errors, and charges them both upon
me; he knows such indulgence injures his health, and does him
more harm than good; but he says I drive him to it by my
unnatural, unwomanly conduct; it will be the ruin of him in the
end, but it is all my fault; and then I am roused to defend
myself, sometimes with bitter recrimination. This is a kind
of injustice I cannot patiently endure. Have I not laboured
long and hard to save him from this very vice? Would I not
labour still to deliver him from it if I could? but could I do so
by fawning upon him and caressing him when I know that he scorns
me? Is it my fault that I have lost my influence with him,
or that he has forfeited every claim to my regard? And
should I seek a reconciliation with him, when I feel that I abhor
him, and that he despises me? and while he continues still to
correspond with Lady Lowborough, as I know he does? No,
never, never, never! he may drink himself dead, but it is not my fault!
Yet I do my part to save him still: I give him to understand
that drinking makes his eyes dull, and his face red and bloated;
and that it tends to render him imbecile in body and mind; and if
Annabella were to see him as often as I do, she would speedily be
disenchanted; and that she certainly will withdraw her favour
from him, if he continues such courses. Such a mode of
admonition wins only coarse abuse for me—and, indeed, I
almost feel as if I deserved it, for I hate to use such
arguments; but they sink into his stupefied heart, and make him
pause, and ponder, and abstain, more than anything else I could
say.
At present I am enjoying a temporary relief from his presence:
he is gone with Hargrave to join a distant hunt, and will
probably not be back before to-morrow evening. How
differently I used to feel his absence!
Mr. Hargrave is still at the Grove. He and Arthur
frequently meet to pursue their rural sports together: he often
calls upon us here, and Arthur not unfrequently rides over to
him. I do not think either of these soi-disant friends is
overflowing with love for the other; but such intercourse serves
to get the time on, and I am very willing it should continue, as
it saves me some hours of discomfort in Arthur’s society,
and gives him some better employment than the sottish indulgence
of his sensual appetites. The only objection I have to Mr.
Hargrave’s being in the neighbourhood, is that the fear of
meeting him at the Grove prevents me from seeing his sister so
often as I otherwise should; for, of late, he has conducted
himself towards me with such unerring propriety, that I have
almost forgotten his former conduct. I suppose he is
striving to ‘win my esteem.’ If he continue to
act in this way, he may win it; but what then? The moment
he attempts to demand anything more, he will lose it again.
February 10th.—It is a hard, embittering thing to have
one’s kind feelings and good intentions cast back in
one’s teeth. I was beginning to relent towards my
wretched partner; to pity his forlorn, comfortless condition,
unalleviated as it is by the consolations of intellectual
resources and the answer of a good conscience towards God; and to
think I ought to sacrifice my pride, and renew my efforts once
again to make his home agreeable and lead him back to the path of
virtue; not by false professions of love, and not by pretended
remorse, but by mitigating my habitual coldness of manner, and
commuting my frigid civility into kindness wherever an
opportunity occurred; and not only was I beginning to think so,
but I had already begun to act upon the thought—and what
was the result? No answering spark of kindness, no
awakening penitence, but an unappeasable ill-humour, and a spirit
of tyrannous exaction that increased with indulgence, and a
lurking gleam of self-complacent triumph at every detection of
relenting softness in my manner, that congealed me to marble
again as often as it recurred; and this morning he finished the
business:—I think the petrifaction is so completely
effected at last that nothing can melt me again. Among his
letters was one which he perused with symptoms of unusual
gratification, and then threw it across the table to me, with the
admonition,—
‘There! read that, and take a lesson by it!’
It was in the free, dashing hand of Lady Lowborough. I
glanced at the first page; it seemed full of extravagant
protestations of affection; impetuous longings for a speedy
reunion—and impious defiance of God’s mandates, and
railings against His providence for having cast their lot
asunder, and doomed them both to the hateful bondage of alliance
with those they could not love. He gave a slight titter on
seeing me change colour. I folded up the letter, rose, and
returned it to him, with no remark, but—
‘Thank you, I will take a lesson by it!’
My little Arthur was standing between his knees, delightedly
playing with the bright, ruby ring on his finger. Urged by
a sudden, imperative impulse to deliver my son from that
contaminating influence, I caught him up in my arms and carried
him with me out of the room. Not liking this abrupt
removal, the child began to pout and cry. This was a new
stab to my already tortured heart. I would not let him go;
but, taking him with me into the library, I shut the door, and,
kneeling on the floor beside him, I embraced him, kissed him,
wept over with him with passionate fondness. Rather
frightened than consoled by this, he turned struggling from me,
and cried out aloud for his papa. I released him from my
arms, and never were more bitter tears than those that now
concealed him from my blinded, burning eyes. Hearing his
cries, the father came to the room. I instantly turned
away, lest he should see and misconstrue my emotion. He
swore at me, and took the now pacified child away.
It is hard that my little darling should love him more than
me; and that, when the well-being and culture of my son is all I
have to live for, I should see my influence destroyed by one
whose selfish affection is more injurious than the coldest
indifference or the harshest tyranny could be. If I, for
his good, deny him some trifling indulgence, he goes to his
father, and the latter, in spite of his selfish indolence, will
even give himself some trouble to meet the child’s desires:
if I attempt to curb his will, or look gravely on him for some
act of childish disobedience, he knows his other parent will
smile and take his part against me. Thus, not only have I
the father’s spirit in the son to contend against, the
germs of his evil tendencies to search out and eradicate, and his
corrupting intercourse and example in after-life to counteract,
but already he counteracts my arduous labour for the
child’s advantage, destroys my influence over his tender
mind, and robs me of his very love; I had no earthly hope but
this, and he seems to take a diabolical delight in tearing it
away.
But it is wrong to despair; I will remember the counsel of the
inspired writer to him ‘that feareth the Lord and obeyeth
the voice of his servant, that sitteth in darkness and hath no
light; let him trust in the name of the Lord, and stay upon his
God!’
CHAPTER XXXVII
December 20th, 1825.—Another year is past; and I am
weary of this life. And yet I cannot wish to leave it:
whatever afflictions assail me here, I cannot wish to go and
leave my darling in this dark and wicked world alone, without a
friend to guide him through its weary mazes, to warn him of its
thousand snares, and guard him from the perils that beset him on
every hand. I am not well fitted to be his only companion,
I know; but there is no other to supply my place. I am too
grave to minister to his amusements and enter into his infantile
sports as a nurse or a mother ought to do, and often his bursts
of gleeful merriment trouble and alarm me; I see in them his
father’s spirit and temperament, and I tremble for the
consequences; and too often damp the innocent mirth I ought to
share. That father, on the contrary, has no weight of
sadness on his mind; is troubled with no fears, no scruples
concerning his son’s future welfare; and at evenings
especially, the times when the child sees him the most and the
oftenest, he is always particularly jocund and open-hearted:
ready to laugh and to jest with anything or anybody but me, and I
am particularly silent and sad: therefore, of course, the child
dotes upon his seemingly joyous amusing, ever-indulgent papa, and
will at any time gladly exchange my company for his. This
disturbs me greatly; not so much for the sake of my son’s
affection (though I do prize that highly, and though I feel it is
my right, and know I have done much to earn it) as for that
influence over him which, for his own advantage, I would strive
to purchase and retain, and which for very spite his father
delights to rob me of, and, from motives of mere idle egotism, is
pleased to win to himself; making no use of it but to torment me
and ruin the child. My only consolation is, that he spends
comparatively little of his time at home, and, during the months
he passes in London or elsewhere, I have a chance of recovering
the ground I had lost, and overcoming with good the evil he has
wrought by his wilful mismanagement. But then it is a
bitter trial to behold him, on his return, doing his utmost to
subvert my labours and transform my innocent, affectionate,
tractable darling into a selfish, disobedient, and mischievous
boy; thereby preparing the soil for those vices he has so
successfully cultivated in his own perverted nature.
Happily, there were none of Arthur’s
‘friends’ invited to Grassdale last autumn: he took
himself off to visit some of them instead. I wish he would
always do so, and I wish his friends were numerous and loving
enough to keep him amongst them all the year round. Mr.
Hargrave, considerably to my annoyance, did not go with him; but
I think I have done with that gentleman at last.
For seven or eight months he behaved so remarkably well, and
managed so skilfully too, that I was almost completely off my
guard, and was really beginning to look upon him as a friend, and
even to treat him as such, with certain prudent restrictions
(which I deemed scarcely necessary); when, presuming upon my
unsuspecting kindness, he thought he might venture to overstep
the bounds of decent moderation and propriety that had so long
restrained him. It was on a pleasant evening at the close
of May: I was wandering in the park, and he, on seeing me there
as he rode past, made bold to enter and approach me, dismounting
and leaving his horse at the gate. This was the first time
he had ventured to come within its inclosure since I had been
left alone, without the sanction of his mother’s or
sister’s company, or at least the excuse of a message from
them. But he managed to appear so calm and easy, so
respectful and self-possessed in his friendliness, that, though a
little surprised, I was neither alarmed nor offended at the
unusual liberty, and he walked with me under the ash-trees and by
the water-side, and talked, with considerable animation, good
taste, and intelligence, on many subjects, before I began to
think about getting rid of him. Then, after a pause, during
which we both stood gazing on the calm, blue water—I
revolving in my mind the best means of politely dismissing my
companion, he, no doubt, pondering other matters equally alien to
the sweet sights and sounds that alone were present to his
senses,—he suddenly electrified me by beginning, in a
peculiar tone, low, soft, but perfectly distinct, to pour forth
the most unequivocal expressions of earnest and passionate love;
pleading his cause with all the bold yet artful eloquence he
could summon to his aid. But I cut short his appeal, and
repulsed him so determinately, so decidedly, and with such a
mixture of scornful indignation, tempered with cool,
dispassionate sorrow and pity for his benighted mind, that he
withdrew, astonished, mortified, and discomforted; and, a few
days after, I heard that he had departed for London. He
returned, however, in eight or nine weeks, and did not entirely
keep aloof from me, but comported himself in so remarkable a
manner that his quick-sighted sister could not fail to notice the
change.
‘What have you done to Walter, Mrs. Huntingdon?’
said she one morning, when I had called at the Grove, and he had
just left the room after exchanging a few words of the coldest
civility. ‘He has been so extremely ceremonious and
stately of late, I can’t imagine what it is all about,
unless you have desperately offended him. Tell me what it
is, that I may be your mediator, and make you friends
again.’
‘I have done nothing willingly to offend him,’
said I. ‘If he is offended, he can best tell you
himself what it is about.’
‘I’ll ask him,’ cried the giddy girl,
springing up and putting her head out of the window:
‘he’s only in the garden—Walter!’
‘No, no, Esther! you will seriously displease me if you
do; and I shall leave you immediately, and not come again for
months—perhaps years.’
‘Did you call, Esther?’ said her brother,
approaching the window from without.
‘Yes; I wanted to ask you—’
‘Good-morning, Esther,’ said I, taking her hand
and giving it a severe squeeze.
‘To ask you,’ continued she, ‘to get me a
rose for Mrs. Huntingdon.’ He departed.
‘Mrs. Huntingdon,’ she exclaimed, turning to me and
still holding me fast by the hand, ‘I’m quite shocked
at you—you’re just as angry, and distant, and cold as
he is: and I’m determined you shall be as good friends as
ever before you go.’
‘Esther, how can you be so rude!’ cried Mrs.
Hargrave, who was seated gravely knitting in her
easy-chair. ‘Surely, you never will learn to conduct
yourself like a lady!’
‘Well, mamma, you said yourself—‘ But
the young lady was silenced by the uplifted finger of her mamma,
accompanied with a very stern shake of the head.
‘Isn’t she cross?’ whispered she to me; but,
before I could add my share of reproof, Mr. Hargrave reappeared
at the window with a beautiful moss-rose in his hand.
‘Here, Esther, I’ve brought you the rose,’
said he, extending it towards her.
‘Give it her yourself, you blockhead!’ cried she,
recoiling with a spring from between us.
‘Mrs. Huntingdon would rather receive it from
you,’ replied he, in a very serious tone, but lowering his
voice that his mother might not hear. His sister took the
rose and gave it to me.
‘My brother’s compliments, Mrs. Huntingdon, and he
hopes you and he will come to a better understanding
by-and-by. Will that do, Walter?’ added the saucy
girl, turning to him and putting her arm round his neck, as he
stood leaning upon the sill of the window—‘or should
I have said that you are sorry you were so touchy? or that you
hope she will pardon your offence?’
‘You silly girl! you don’t know what you are
talking about,’ replied he gravely.
‘Indeed I don’t: for I’m quite in the
dark!’
‘Now, Esther,’ interposed Mrs. Hargrave, who, if
equally benighted on the subject of our estrangement, saw at
least that her daughter was behaving very improperly, ‘I
must insist upon your leaving the room!’
‘Pray don’t, Mrs. Hargrave, for I’m going to
leave it myself,’ said I, and immediately made my
adieux.
About a week after Mr. Hargrave brought his sister to see
me. He conducted himself, at first, with his usual cold,
distant, half-stately, half-melancholy, altogether injured air;
but Esther made no remark upon it this time: she had evidently
been schooled into better manners. She talked to me, and
laughed and romped with little Arthur, her loved and loving
playmate. He, somewhat to my discomfort, enticed her from
the room to have a run in the hall, and thence into the
garden. I got up to stir the fire. Mr. Hargrave asked
if I felt cold, and shut the door—a very unseasonable piece
of officiousness, for I had meditated following the noisy
playfellows if they did not speedily return. He then took
the liberty of walking up to the fire himself, and asking me if I
were aware that Mr. Huntingdon was now at the seat of Lord
Lowborough, and likely to continue there some time.
‘No; but it’s no matter,’ I answered
carelessly; and if my cheek glowed like fire, it was rather at
the question than the information it conveyed.
‘You don’t object to it?’ he said.
‘Not at all, if Lord Lowborough likes his
company.’
‘You have no love left for him, then?’
‘Not the least.’
‘I knew that—I knew you were too high-minded and
pure in your own nature to continue to regard one so utterly
false and polluted with any feelings but those of indignation and
scornful abhorrence!’
‘Is he not your friend?’ said I, turning my eyes
from the fire to his face, with perhaps a slight touch of those
feelings he assigned to another.
‘He was,’ replied he, with the same calm gravity
as before; ‘but do not wrong me by supposing that I could
continue my friendship and esteem to a man who could so
infamously, so impiously forsake and injure one so
transcendently—well, I won’t speak of it. But
tell me, do you never think of revenge?’
‘Revenge! No—what good would that
do?—it would make him no better, and me no
happier.’
‘I don’t know how to talk to you, Mrs.
Huntingdon,’ said he, smiling; ‘you are only half a
woman—your nature must be half human, half angelic.
Such goodness overawes me; I don’t know what to make of
it.’
‘Then, sir, I fear you must be very much worse than you
should be, if I, a mere ordinary mortal, am, by your own
confession, so vastly your superior; and since there exists so
little sympathy between us, I think we had better each look out
for some more congenial companion.’ And forthwith
moving to the window, I began to look out for my little son and
his gay young friend.
‘No, I am the ordinary mortal, I maintain,’
replied Mr. Hargrave. ‘I will not allow myself to be
worse than my fellows; but you, Madam—I equally maintain
there is nobody like you. But are you happy?’ he
asked in a serious tone.
‘As happy as some others, I suppose.’
‘Are you as happy as you desire to be?’
‘No one is so blest as that comes to on this side
eternity.’
‘One thing I know,’ returned he, with a deep sad
sigh; ‘you are immeasurably happier than I am.’
‘I am very sorry for you, then,’ I could not help
replying.
‘Are you, indeed? No, for if you were you would be
glad to relieve me.’
‘And so I should if I could do so without injuring
myself or any other.’
‘And can you suppose that I should wish you to injure
yourself? No: on the contrary, it is your own happiness I
long for more than mine. You are miserable now, Mrs.
Huntingdon,’ continued he, looking me boldly in the
face. ‘You do not complain, but I see—and
feel—and know that you are miserable—and must remain
so as long as you keep those walls of impenetrable ice about your
still warm and palpitating heart; and I am miserable, too.
Deign to smile on me and I am happy: trust me, and you shall be
happy also, for if you are a woman I can make you so—and I
will do it in spite of yourself!’ he muttered between his
teeth; ‘and as for others, the question is between
ourselves alone: you cannot injure your husband, you know, and no
one else has any concern in the matter.’
‘I have a son, Mr. Hargrave, and you have a
mother,’ said I, retiring from the window, whither he had
followed me.
‘They need not know,’ he began; but before
anything more could be said on either side, Esther and Arthur
re-entered the room. The former glanced at Walter’s
flushed, excited countenance, and then at mine—a little
flushed and excited too, I daresay, though from far different
causes. She must have thought we had been quarrelling
desperately, and was evidently perplexed and disturbed at the
circumstance; but she was too polite or too much afraid of her
brother’s anger to refer to it. She seated herself on
the sofa, and putting back her bright, golden ringlets, that were
scattered in wild profusion over her face, she immediately began
to talk about the garden and her little playfellow, and continued
to chatter away in her usual strain till her brother summoned her
to depart.
‘If I have spoken too warmly, forgive me,’ he
murmured on taking his leave, ‘or I shall never forgive
myself.’ Esther smiled and glanced at me: I merely
bowed, and her countenance fell. She thought it a poor
return for Walter’s generous concession, and was
disappointed in her friend. Poor child, she little knows
the world she lives in!
Mr. Hargrave had not an opportunity of meeting me again in
private for several weeks after this; but when he did meet me
there was less of pride and more of touching melancholy in his
manner than before. Oh, how he annoyed me! I was
obliged at last almost entirely to remit my visits to the Grove,
at the expense of deeply offending Mrs. Hargrave and seriously
afflicting poor Esther, who really values my society for want of
better, and who ought not to suffer for the fault of her
brother. But that indefatigable foe was not yet vanquished:
he seemed to be always on the watch. I frequently saw him
riding lingeringly past the premises, looking searchingly round
him as he went—or, if I did not, Rachel did. That
sharp-sighted woman soon guessed how matters stood between us,
and descrying the enemy’s movements from her elevation at
the nursery-window, she would give me a quiet intimation if she
saw me preparing for a walk when she had reason to believe he was
about, or to think it likely that he would meet or overtake me in
the way I meant to traverse. I would then defer my ramble,
or confine myself for that day to the park and gardens, or, if
the proposed excursion was a matter of importance, such as a
visit to the sick or afflicted, I would take Rachel with me, and
then I was never molested.
But one mild, sunshiny day, early in November, I had ventured
forth alone to visit the village school and a few of the poor
tenants, and on my return I was alarmed at the clatter of a
horse’s feet behind me, approaching at a rapid, steady
trot. There was no stile or gap at hand by which I could
escape into the fields, so I walked quietly on, saying to myself,
‘It may not be he after all; and if it is, and if he do
annoy me, it shall be for the last time, I am determined, if
there be power in words and looks against cool impudence and
mawkish sentimentality so inexhaustible as his.’
The horse soon overtook me, and was reined up close beside
me. It was Mr. Hargrave. He greeted me with a smile
intended to be soft and melancholy, but his triumphant
satisfaction at having caught me at last so shone through that it
was quite a failure. After briefly answering his salutation
and inquiring after the ladies at the Grove, I turned away and
walked on; but he followed and kept his horse at my side: it was
evident he intended to be my companion all the way.
‘Well! I don’t much care. If you want
another rebuff, take it—and welcome,’ was my inward
remark. ‘Now, sir, what next?’
This question, though unspoken, was not long unanswered; after
a few passing observations upon indifferent subjects, he began in
solemn tones the following appeal to my humanity:—
‘It will be four years next April since I first saw you,
Mrs. Huntingdon—you may have forgotten the circumstance,
but I never can. I admired you then most deeply, but I
dared not love you. In the following autumn I saw so much
of your perfections that I could not fail to love you, though I
dared not show it. For upwards of three years I have
endured a perfect martyrdom. From the anguish of suppressed
emotions, intense and fruitless longings, silent sorrow, crushed
hopes, and trampled affections, I have suffered more than I can
tell, or you imagine—and you were the cause of it, and not
altogether the innocent cause. My youth is wasting away; my
prospects are darkened; my life is a desolate blank; I have no
rest day or night: I am become a burden to myself and others, and
you might save me by a word—a glance, and will not do
it—is this right?’
‘In the first place, I don’t believe you,’
answered I; ‘in the second, if you will be such a fool, I
can’t hinder it.’
‘If you affect,’ replied he, earnestly, ‘to
regard as folly the best, the strongest, the most godlike
impulses of our nature, I don’t believe you. I know
you are not the heartless, icy being you pretend to be—you
had a heart once, and gave it to your husband. When you
found him utterly unworthy of the treasure, you reclaimed it; and
you will not pretend that you loved that sensual, earthly-minded
profligate so deeply, so devotedly, that you can never love
another? I know that there are feelings in your nature that
have never yet been called forth; I know, too, that in your
present neglected lonely state you are and must be
miserable. You have it in your power to raise two human
beings from a state of actual suffering to such unspeakable
beatitude as only generous, noble, self-forgetting love can give
(for you can love me if you will); you may tell me that you scorn
and detest me, but, since you have set me the example of plain
speaking, I will answer that I do not believe you. But you
will not do it! you choose rather to leave us miserable; and you
coolly tell me it is the will of God that we should remain
so. You may call this religion, but I call it wild
fanaticism!’
‘There is another life both for you and for me,’
said I. ‘If it be the will of God that we should sow
in tears now, it is only that we may reap in joy hereafter.
It is His will that we should not injure others by the
gratification of our own earthly passions; and you have a mother,
and sisters, and friends who would be seriously injured by your
disgrace; and I, too, have friends, whose peace of mind shall
never be sacrificed to my enjoyment, or yours either, with my
consent; and if I were alone in the world, I have still my God
and my religion, and I would sooner die than disgrace my calling
and break my faith with heaven to obtain a few brief years of
false and fleeting happiness—happiness sure to end in
misery even here—for myself or any other!’
‘There need be no disgrace, no misery or sacrifice in
any quarter,’ persisted he. ‘I do not ask you
to leave your home or defy the world’s
opinion.’ But I need not repeat all his
arguments. I refuted them to the best of my power; but that
power was provokingly small, at the moment, for I was too much
flurried with indignation—and even shame—that he
should thus dare to address me, to retain sufficient command of
thought and language to enable me adequately to contend against
his powerful sophistries. Finding, however, that he could
not be silenced by reason, and even covertly exulted in his
seeming advantage, and ventured to deride those assertions I had
not the coolness to prove, I changed my course and tried another
plan.
‘Do you really love me?’ said I, seriously,
pausing and looking him calmly in the face.
‘Do I love you!’ cried he.
‘Truly?’ I demanded.
His countenance brightened; he thought his triumph was at
hand. He commenced a passionate protestation of the truth
and fervour of his attachment, which I cut short by another
question:—
‘But is it not a selfish love? Have you enough
disinterested affection to enable you to sacrifice your own
pleasure to mine?’
‘I would give my life to serve you.’
‘I don’t want your life; but have you enough real
sympathy for my afflictions to induce you to make an effort to
relieve them, at the risk of a little discomfort to
yourself?’
‘Try me, and see.’
‘If you have, never mention this subject again.
You cannot recur to it in any way without doubling the weight of
those sufferings you so feelingly deplore. I have nothing
left me but the solace of a good conscience and a hopeful trust
in heaven, and you labour continually to rob me of these.
If you persist, I must regard you as my deadliest foe.’
‘But hear me a moment—’
‘No, sir! You said you would give your life to
serve me; I only ask your silence on one particular point.
I have spoken plainly; and what I say I mean. If you
torment me in this way any more, I must conclude that your
protestations are entirely false, and that you hate me in your
heart as fervently as you profess to love me!’
He bit his lip, and bent his eyes upon the ground in silence
for a while.
‘Then I must leave you,’ said he at length,
looking steadily upon me, as if with the last hope of detecting
some token of irrepressible anguish or dismay awakened by those
solemn words. ‘I must leave you. I cannot live
here, and be for ever silent on the all-absorbing subject of my
thoughts and wishes.’
‘Formerly, I believe, you spent but little of your time
at home,’ I answered; ‘it will do you no harm to
absent yourself again, for a while—if that be really
necessary.’
‘If that be really possible,’ he muttered;
‘and can you bid me go so coolly? Do you really wish
it?’
‘Most certainly I do. If you cannot see me without
tormenting me as you have lately done, I would gladly say
farewell and never see you more.’
He made no answer, but, bending from his horse, held out his
hand towards me. I looked up at his face, and saw therein
such a look of genuine agony of soul, that, whether bitter
disappointment, or wounded pride, or lingering love, or burning
wrath were uppermost, I could not hesitate to put my hand in his
as frankly as if I bade a friend farewell. He grasped it
very hard, and immediately put spurs to his horse and galloped
away. Very soon after, I learned that he was gone to Paris,
where he still is; and the longer he stays there the better for
me.
I thank God for this deliverance!
CHAPTER XXXVIII
December 20th, 1826.—The fifth anniversary of my
wedding-day, and, I trust, the last I shall spend under this
roof. My resolution is formed, my plan concocted, and
already partly put in execution. My conscience does not
blame me, but while the purpose ripens let me beguile a few of
these long winter evenings in stating the case for my own
satisfaction: a dreary amusement enough, but having the air of a
useful occupation, and being pursued as a task, it will suit me
better than a lighter one.
In September, quiet Grassdale was again alive with a party of
ladies and gentlemen (so called), consisting of the same
individuals as those invited the year before last, with the
addition of two or three others, among whom were Mrs. Hargrave
and her younger daughter. The gentlemen and Lady Lowborough
were invited for the pleasure and convenience of the host; the
other ladies, I suppose, for the sake of appearances, and to keep
me in check, and make me discreet and civil in my
demeanour. But the ladies stayed only three weeks; the
gentlemen, with two exceptions, above two months: for their
hospitable entertainer was loth to part with them and be left
alone with his bright intellect, his stainless conscience, and
his loved and loving wife.
On the day of Lady Lowborough’s arrival, I followed her
into her chamber, and plainly told her that, if I found reason to
believe that she still continued her criminal connection with Mr.
Huntingdon, I should think it my absolute duty to inform her
husband of the circumstance—or awaken his suspicions at
least—however painful it might be, or however dreadful the
consequences. She was startled at first by the declaration,
so unexpected, and so determinately yet calmly delivered; but
rallying in a moment, she coolly replied that, if I saw anything
at all reprehensible or suspicious in her conduct, she would
freely give me leave to tell his lordship all about it.
Willing to be satisfied with this, I left her; and certainly I
saw nothing thenceforth particularly reprehensible or suspicious
in her demeanour towards her host; but then I had the other
guests to attend to, and I did not watch them narrowly—for,
to confess the truth, I feared to see anything between
them. I no longer regarded it as any concern of mine, and
if it was my duty to enlighten Lord Lowborough, it was a painful
duty, and I dreaded to be called to perform it.
But my fears were brought to an end in a manner I had not
anticipated. One evening, about a fortnight after the
visitors’ arrival, I had retired into the library to snatch
a few minutes’ respite from forced cheerfulness and
wearisome discourse, for after so long a period of seclusion,
dreary indeed as I had often found it, I could not always bear to
be doing violence to my feelings, and goading my powers to talk,
and smile and listen, and play the attentive hostess, or even the
cheerful friend: I had just ensconced myself within the bow of
the window, and was looking out upon the west, where the
darkening hills rose sharply defined against the clear amber
light of evening, that gradually blended and faded away into the
pure, pale blue of the upper sky, where one bright star was
shining through, as if to promise—‘When that dying
light is gone, the world will not be left in darkness, and they
who trust in God, whose minds are unbeclouded by the mists of
unbelief and sin, are never wholly comfortless,’—when
I heard a hurried step approaching, and Lord Lowborough
entered. This room was still his favourite resort. He
flung the door to with unusual violence, and cast his hat aside
regardless where it fell. What could be the matter with
him? His face was ghastly pale; his eyes were fixed upon
the ground; his teeth clenched: his forehead glistened with the
dews of agony. It was plain he knew his wrongs at last!
Unconscious of my presence, he began to pace the room in a
state of fearful agitation, violently wringing his hands and
uttering low groans or incoherent ejaculations. I made a
movement to let him know that he was not alone; but he was too
preoccupied to notice it. Perhaps, while his back was
towards me, I might cross the room and slip away
unobserved. I rose to make the attempt, but then he
perceived me. He started and stood still a moment; then
wiped his streaming forehead, and, advancing towards me, with a
kind of unnatural composure, said in a deep, almost sepulchral
tone,—‘Mrs. Huntingdon, I must leave you
to-morrow.’
‘To-morrow!’ I repeated. ‘I do not ask
the cause.’
‘You know it then, and you can be so calm!’ said
he, surveying me with profound astonishment, not unmingled with a
kind of resentful bitterness, as it appeared to me.
‘I have so long been aware of—‘ I paused in
time, and added, ‘of my husband’s character, that
nothing shocks me.’
‘But this—how long have you been aware of
this?’ demanded he, laying his clenched hand on the table
beside him, and looking me keenly and fixedly in the face.
I felt like a criminal.
‘Not long,’ I answered.
‘You knew it!’ cried he, with bitter
vehemence—‘and you did not tell me! You helped
to deceive me!’
‘My lord, I did not help to deceive you.’
‘Then why did you not tell me?’
‘Because I knew it would be painful to you. I
hoped she would return to her duty, and then there would be no
need to harrow your feelings with such—’
‘O God! how long has this been going on? How long
has it been, Mrs. Huntingdon?—Tell me—I must
know!’ exclaimed, with intense and fearful eagerness.
‘Two years, I believe.’
‘Great heaven! and she has duped me all this
time!’ He turned away with a suppressed groan of
agony, and paced the room again in a paroxysm of renewed
agitation. My heart smote me; but I would try to console
him, though I knew not how to attempt it.
‘She is a wicked woman,’ I said. ‘She
has basely deceived and betrayed you. She is as little
worthy of your regret as she was of your affection. Let her
injure you no further; abstract yourself from her, and stand
alone.’
‘And you, Madam,’ said he sternly, arresting
himself, and turning round upon me, ‘you have injured me
too by this ungenerous concealment!’
There was a sudden revulsion in my feelings. Something
rose within me, and urged me to resent this harsh return for my
heartfelt sympathy, and defend myself with answering
severity. Happily, I did not yield to the impulse. I
saw his anguish as, suddenly smiting his forehead, he turned
abruptly to the window, and, looking upward at the placid sky,
murmured passionately, ‘O God, that I might
die!’—and felt that to add one drop of bitterness to
that already overflowing cup would be ungenerous indeed.
And yet I fear there was more coldness than gentleness in the
quiet tone of my reply:—‘I might offer many excuses
that some would admit to be valid, but I will not attempt to
enumerate them—’
‘I know them,’ said he hastily: ‘you would
say that it was no business of yours: that I ought to have taken
care of myself; that if my own blindness has led me into this pit
of hell, I have no right to blame another for giving me credit
for a larger amount of sagacity than I
possessed—’
‘I confess I was wrong,’ continued I, without
regarding this bitter interruption; ‘but whether want of
courage or mistaken kindness was the cause of my error, I think
you blame me too severely. I told Lady Lowborough two weeks
ago, the very hour she came, that I should certainly think it my
duty to inform you if she continued to deceive you: she gave me
full liberty to do so if I should see anything reprehensible or
suspicious in her conduct; I have seen nothing; and I trusted she
had altered her course.’
He continued gazing from the window while I spoke, and did not
answer, but, stung by the recollections my words awakened,
stamped his foot upon the floor, ground his teeth, and corrugated
his brow, like one under the influence of acute physical
pain.
‘It was wrong, it was wrong!’ he muttered at
length. ‘Nothing can excuse it; nothing can atone for
it,—for nothing can recall those years of cursed credulity;
nothing obliterate them!—nothing, nothing!’ he
repeated in a whisper, whose despairing bitterness precluded all
resentment.
‘When I put the case to myself, I own it was
wrong,’ I answered; ‘but I can only now regret that I
did not see it in this light before, and that, as you say,
nothing can recall the past.’
Something in my voice or in the spirit of this answer seemed
to alter his mood. Turning towards me, and attentively
surveying my face by the dim light, he said, in a milder tone
than he had yet employed,—‘You, too, have suffered, I
suppose.’
‘I suffered much, at first.’
‘When was that?’
‘Two years ago; and two years hence you will be as calm
as I am now, and far, far happier, I trust, for you are a man,
and free to act as you please.’
Something like a smile, but a very bitter one, crossed his
face for a moment.
‘You have not been happy, lately?’ he said, with a
kind of effort to regain composure, and a determination to waive
the further discussion of his own calamity.
‘Happy?’ I repeated, almost provoked at such a
question. ‘Could I be so, with such a
husband?’
‘I have noticed a change in your appearance since the
first years of your marriage,’ pursued he: ‘I
observed it to—to that infernal demon,’ he muttered
between his teeth; ‘and he said it was your own sour temper
that was eating away your bloom: it was making you old and ugly
before your time, and had already made his fireside as
comfortless as a convent cell. You smile, Mrs. Huntingdon;
nothing moves you. I wish my nature were as calm as
yours.’
‘My nature was not originally calm,’ said I.
‘I have learned to appear so by dint of hard lessons and
many repeated efforts.’
At this juncture Mr. Hattersley burst into the room.
‘Hallo, Lowborough!’ he began—‘Oh! I
beg your pardon,’ he exclaimed on seeing me. ‘I
didn’t know it was a
tête-à-tête. Cheer up,
man,’ he continued, giving Lord Lowborough a thump on the
back, which caused the latter to recoil from him with looks of
ineffable disgust and irritation. ‘Come, I want to
speak with you a bit.’
‘Speak, then.’
‘But I’m not sure it would be quite agreeable to
the lady what I have to say.’
‘Then it would not be agreeable to me,’ said his
lordship, turning to leave the room.
‘Yes, it would,’ cried the other, following him
into the hall. ‘If you’ve the heart of a man,
it would be the very ticket for you. It’s just this,
my lad,’ he continued, rather lowering his voice, but not
enough to prevent me from hearing every word he said, though the
half-closed door stood between us. ‘I think
you’re an ill-used man—nay, now, don’t flare
up; I don’t want to offend you: it’s only my rough
way of talking. I must speak right out, you know, or else
not at all; and I’m come—stop now! let me
explain—I’m come to offer you my services, for though
Huntingdon is my friend, he’s a devilish scamp, as we all
know, and I’ll be your friend for the nonce. I know
what it is you want, to make matters straight: it’s just to
exchange a shot with him, and then you’ll feel yourself all
right again; and if an accident happens—why, that’ll
be all right too, I daresay, to a desperate fellow like
you. Come now, give me your hand, and don’t look so
black upon it. Name time and place, and I’ll manage
the rest.’
‘That,’ answered the more low, deliberate voice of
Lord Lowborough, ‘is just the remedy my own heart, or the
devil within it, suggested—to meet him, and not to 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 naïveté of that pretty little
child, and hear such things spoken by that small infantile voice,
was as peculiarly piquant and irresistibly droll to them as it
was inexpressibly distressing and painful to me; and when he had
set the table in a roar he would look round delightedly upon them
all, and add his shrill laugh to theirs. But if that
beaming blue eye rested on me, its light would vanish for a
moment, and he would say, in some concern, ‘Mamma, why
don’t you laugh? Make her laugh, papa—she never
will.’
Hence was I obliged to stay among these human brutes, watching
an opportunity to get my child away from them instead of leaving
them immediately after the removal of the cloth, as I should
always otherwise have done. He was never willing to go, and
I frequently had to carry him away by force, for which he thought
me very cruel and unjust; and sometimes his father would insist
upon my letting him remain; and then I would leave him to his
kind friends, and retire to indulge my bitterness and despair
alone, or to rack my brains for a remedy to this great evil.
But here again I must do Mr. Hargrave the justice to
acknowledge that I never saw him laugh at the child’s
misdemeanours, nor heard him utter a word of encouragement to his
aspirations after manly accomplishments. But when anything
very extraordinary was said or done by the infant profligate, I
noticed, at times, a peculiar expression in his face that I could
neither interpret nor define: a slight twitching about the
muscles of the mouth; a sudden flash in the eye, as he darted a
sudden glance at the child and then at me: and then I could fancy
there arose a gleam of hard, keen, sombre satisfaction in his
countenance at the look of impotent wrath and anguish he was too
certain to behold in mine. But on one occasion, when Arthur
had been behaving particularly ill, and Mr. Huntingdon and his
guests had been particularly provoking and insulting to me in
their encouragement of him, and I particularly anxious to get him
out of the room, and on the very point of demeaning myself by a
burst of uncontrollable passion—Mr. Hargrave suddenly rose
from his seat with an aspect of stern determination, lifted the
child from his father’s knee, where he was sitting
half-tipsy, cocking his head and laughing at me, and execrating
me with words he little knew the meaning of, handed him out of
the room, and, setting him down in the hall, held the door open
for me, gravely bowed as I withdrew, and closed it after
me. I heard high words exchanged between him and his
already half-inebriated host as I departed, leading away my
bewildered and disconcerted boy.
But this should not continue: my child must not be abandoned
to this corruption: better far that he should live in poverty and
obscurity, with a fugitive mother, than in luxury and affluence
with such a father. These guests might not be with us long,
but they would return again: and he, the most injurious of the
whole, his child’s worst enemy, would still remain. I
could endure it for myself, but for my son it must be borne no
longer: the world’s opinion and the feelings of my friends
must be alike unheeded here, at least—alike unable to deter
me from my duty. But where should I find an asylum, and how
obtain subsistence for us both? Oh, I would take my
precious charge at early dawn, take the coach to M—, flee
to the port of —, cross the Atlantic, and seek a quiet,
humble home in New England, where I would support myself and him
by the labour of my hands. The palette and the easel, my
darling playmates once, must be my sober toil-fellows now.
But was I sufficiently skilful as an artist to obtain my
livelihood in a strange land, without friends and without
recommendation? No; I must wait a little; I must labour
hard to improve my talent, and to produce something worth while
as a specimen of my powers, something to speak favourably for me,
whether as an actual painter or a teacher. Brilliant
success, of course, I did not look for, but some degree of
security from positive failure was indispensable: I must not take
my son to starve. And then I must have money for the
journey, the passage, and some little to support us in our
retreat in case I should be unsuccessful at first: and not too
little either: for who could tell how long I might have to
struggle with the indifference or neglect of others, or my own
inexperience or inability to suit their tastes?
What should I do then? Apply to my brother and explain
my circumstances and my resolves to him? No, no: even if I
told him all my grievances, which I should be very reluctant to
do, he would be certain to disapprove of the step: it would seem
like madness to him, as it would to my uncle and aunt, or to
Milicent. No; I must have patience and gather a hoard of my
own. Rachel should be my only confidante—I thought I
could persuade her into the scheme; and she should help me,
first, to find out a picture-dealer in some distant town; then,
through her means, I would privately sell what pictures I had on
hand that would do for such a purpose, and some of those I should
thereafter paint. Besides this, I would contrive to dispose
of my jewels, not the family jewels, but the few I brought with
me from home, and those my uncle gave me on my marriage. A
few months’ arduous toil might well be borne by me with
such an end in view; and in the interim my son could not be much
more injured than he was already.
Having formed this resolution, I immediately set to work to
accomplish it, I might possibly have been induced to wax cool
upon it afterwards, or perhaps to keep weighing the pros and cons
in my mind till the latter overbalanced the former, and I was
driven to relinquish the project altogether, or delay the
execution of it to an indefinite period, had not something
occurred to confirm me in that determination, to which I still
adhere, which I still think I did well to form, and shall do
better to execute.
Since Lord Lowborough’s departure I had regarded the
library as entirely my own, a secure retreat at all hours of the
day. None of our gentlemen had the smallest pretensions to
a literary taste, except Mr. Hargrave; and he, at present, was
quite contented with the newspapers and periodicals of the
day. And if, by any chance, he should look in here, I felt
assured he would soon depart on seeing me, for, instead of
becoming less cool and distant towards me, he had become
decidedly more so since the departure of his mother and sisters,
which was just what I wished. Here, then, I set up my
easel, and here I worked at my canvas from daylight till dusk,
with very little intermission, saving when pure necessity, or my
duties to little Arthur, called me away: for I still thought
proper to devote some portion of every day exclusively to his
instruction and amusement. But, contrary to my expectation,
on the third morning, while I was thus employed, Mr. Hargrave did
look in, and did not immediately withdraw on seeing me. He
apologized for his intrusion, and said he was only come for a
book; but when he had got it, he condescended to cast a glance
over my picture. Being a man of taste, he had something to
say on this subject as well as another, and having modestly
commented on it, without much encouragement from me, he proceeded
to expatiate on the art in general. Receiving no
encouragement in that either, he dropped it, but did not
depart.
‘You don’t give us much of your company, Mrs.
Huntingdon,’ observed he, after a brief pause, during which
I went on coolly mixing and tempering my colours; ‘and I
cannot wonder at it, for you must be heartily sick of us
all. I myself am so thoroughly ashamed of my companions,
and so weary of their irrational conversation and
pursuits—now that there is no one to humanize them and keep
them in check, since you have justly abandoned us to our own
devices—that I think I shall presently withdraw from
amongst them, probably within this week; and I cannot suppose you
will regret my departure.’
He paused. I did not answer.
‘Probably,’ he added, with a smile, ‘your
only regret on the subject will be that I do not take all my
companions along with me. I flatter myself, at times, that
though among them I am not of them; but it is natural that you
should be glad to get rid of me. I may regret this, but I
cannot blame you for it.’
‘I shall not rejoice at your departure, for you can
conduct yourself like a gentleman,’ said I, thinking it but
right to make some acknowledgment for his good behaviour;
‘but I must confess I shall rejoice to bid adieu to the
rest, inhospitable as it may appear.’
‘No one can blame you for such an avowal,’ replied
he gravely: ‘not even the gentlemen themselves, I
imagine. I’ll just tell you,’ he continued, as
if actuated by a sudden resolution, ‘what was said last
night in the dining-room, after you left us: perhaps you will not
mind it, as you’re so very philosophical on certain
points,’ he added with a slight sneer. ‘They
were talking about Lord Lowborough and his delectable lady, the
cause of whose sudden departure is no secret amongst them; and
her character is so well known to them all, that, nearly related
to me as she is, I could not attempt to defend it. Curse
me!’ he muttered, par 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.
‘What a pleasure it is to find you at home, Mr.
Markham!’ said she, with a disingenuously malicious
smile. ‘I so seldom see you now, for you never come
to the vicarage. Papa, is quite offended, I can tell
you,’ she added playfully, looking into my face with an
impertinent laugh, as she seated herself, half beside and half
before my desk, off the corner of the table.
‘I have had a good deal to do of late,’ said I,
without looking up from my letter.
‘Have you, indeed! Somebody said you had been
strangely neglecting your business these last few
months.’
‘Somebody said wrong, for, these last two months
especially, I have been particularly plodding and
diligent.’
‘Ah! well, there’s nothing like active employment,
I suppose, to console the afflicted;—and, excuse me, Mr.
Markham, but you look so very far from well, and have been, by
all accounts, so moody and thoughtful of late,—I could
almost think you have some secret care preying on your
spirits. Formerly,’ said she timidly, ‘I could
have ventured to ask you what it was, and what I could do to
comfort you: I dare not do it now.’
‘You’re very kind, Miss Eliza. When I think
you can do anything to comfort me, I’ll make bold to tell
you.’
‘Pray do!—I suppose I mayn’t guess what it
is that troubles you?’
‘There’s no necessity, for I’ll tell you
plainly. The thing that troubles me the most at present is
a young lady sitting at my elbow, and preventing me from
finishing my letter, and, thereafter, repairing to my daily
business.’
Before she could reply to this ungallant speech, Rose entered
the room; and Miss Eliza rising to greet her, they both seated
themselves near the fire, where that idle lad Fergus was
standing, leaning his shoulder against the corner of the
chimney-piece, with his legs crossed and his hands in his
breeches-pockets.
‘Now, Rose, I’ll tell you a piece of news—I
hope you have not heard it before: for good, bad, or indifferent,
one always likes to be the first to tell. It’s about
that sad Mrs. Graham—’
‘Hush-sh-sh!’ whispered Fergus, in a tone of
solemn import. ‘“We never mention her; her name
is never heard.”’ And glancing up, I caught him
with his eye askance on me, and his finger pointed to his
forehead; then, winking at the young lady with a doleful shake of
the head, be whispered—‘A monomania—but
don’t mention it—all right but that.’
‘I should be sorry to injure any one’s
feelings,’ returned she, speaking below her breath.
‘Another time, perhaps.’
‘Speak out, Miss Eliza!’ said I, not deigning to
notice the other’s buffooneries: ‘you needn’t
fear to say anything in my presence.’
‘Well,’ answered she, ‘perhaps you know
already that Mrs. Graham’s husband is not really dead, and
that she had run away from him?’ I started, and felt
my face glow; but I bent it over my letter, and went on folding
it up as she proceeded. ‘But perhaps you did not know
that she is now gone back to him again, and that a perfect
reconciliation has taken place between them? Only
think,’ she continued, turning to the confounded Rose,
‘what a fool the man must be!’
‘And who gave you this piece of intelligence, Miss
Eliza?’ said I, interrupting my sister’s
exclamations.
‘I had it from a very authentic source.’
‘From whom, may I ask?’
‘From one of the servants at Woodford.’
‘Oh! I was not aware that you were on such
intimate terms with Mr. Lawrence’s household.’
‘It was not from the man himself that I heard it, but he
told it in confidence to our maid Sarah, and Sarah told it to
me.’
‘In confidence, I suppose? And you tell it in
confidence to us? But I can tell you that it is but a lame
story after all, and scarcely one-half of it true.’
While I spoke I completed the sealing and direction of my
letters, with a somewhat unsteady hand, in spite of all my
efforts to retain composure, and in spite of my firm conviction
that the story was a lame one—that the supposed Mrs.
Graham, most certainly, had not voluntarily gone back to her
husband, or dreamt of a reconciliation. Most likely she was
gone away, and the tale-bearing servant, not knowing what was
become of her, had conjectured that such was the case, and our
fair visitor had detailed it as a certainty, delighted with such
an opportunity of tormenting me. But it was
possible—barely possible—that some one might have
betrayed her, and she had been taken away by force.
Determined to know the worst, I hastily pocketed my two letters,
and muttered something about being too late for the post, left
the room, rushed into the yard, and vociferously called for my
horse. No one being there, I dragged him out of the stable
myself, strapped the saddle on to his back and the bridle on to
his head, mounted, and speedily galloped away to Woodford.
I found its owner pensively strolling in the grounds.
‘Is your sister gone?’ were my first words as I
grasped his hand, instead of the usual inquiry after his
health.
‘Yes, she’s gone,’ was his answer, so calmly
spoken that my terror was at once removed.
‘I suppose I mayn’t know where she is?’ said
I, as I dismounted, and relinquished my horse to the gardener,
who, being the only servant within call, had been summoned by his
master, from his employment of raking up the dead leaves on the
lawn, to take him to the stables.
My companion gravely took my arm, and leading me away to the
garden, thus answered my question,—‘She is at
Grassdale Manor, in —shire.’
‘Where?’ cried I, with a convulsive start.
‘At Grassdale Manor.’
‘How was it?’ I gasped. ‘Who betrayed
her?’
‘She went of her own accord.’
‘Impossible, Lawrence! She could not be so
frantic!’ exclaimed I, vehemently grasping his arm, as if
to force him to unsay those hateful words.
‘She did,’ persisted he in the same grave,
collected manner as before; ‘and not without reason,’
he continued, gently disengaging himself from my grasp.
‘Mr. Huntingdon is ill.’
‘And so she went to nurse him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fool!’ I could not help exclaiming, and Lawrence
looked up with a rather reproachful glance. ‘Is he
dying, then?’
‘I think not, Markham.’
‘And how many more nurses has he? How many ladies
are there besides to take care of him?’
‘None; he was alone, or she would not have
gone.’
‘Oh, confound it! This is intolerable!’
‘What is? That he should be alone?’
I attempted no reply, for I was not sure that this
circumstance did not partly conduce to my distraction. I
therefore continued to pace the walk in silent anguish, with my
hand pressed to my forehead; then suddenly pausing and turning to
my companion, I impatiently exclaimed, ‘Why did she take
this infatuated step? What fiend persuaded her to
it?’
‘Nothing persuaded her but her own sense of
duty.’
‘Humbug!’
‘I was half inclined to say so myself, Markham, at
first. I assure you it was not by my advice that she went,
for I detest that man as fervently as you can do,—except,
indeed, that his reformation would give me much greater pleasure
than his death; but all I did was to inform her of the
circumstance of his illness (the consequence of a fall from his
horse in hunting), and to tell her that that unhappy person, Miss
Myers, had left him some time ago.’
‘It was ill done! Now, when he finds the
convenience of her presence, he will make all manner of lying
speeches and false, fair promises for the future, and she will
believe him, and then her condition will be ten times worse and
ten times more irremediable than before.’
‘There does not appear to be much ground for such
apprehensions at present,’ said he, producing a letter from
his pocket. ‘From the account I received this
morning, I should say—’
It was her writing! By an irresistible impulse I held
out my hand, and the words, ‘Let me see it,’
involuntarily passed my lips. He was evidently reluctant to
grant the request, but while he hesitated I snatched it from his
hand. Recollecting myself, however, the minute after, I
offered to restore it.
‘Here, take it,’ said I, ‘if you don’t
want me to read it.’
‘No,’ replied he, ‘you may read it if you
like.’
I read it, and so may you.
Grassdale, Nov. 4th.
Dear Frederick,—I know you
will be anxious to hear from me, and I will tell you all I
can. Mr. Huntingdon is very ill, but not dying, or in any
immediate danger; and he is rather better at present than he was
when I came. I found the house in sad confusion: Mrs.
Greaves, Benson, every decent servant had left, and those that
were come to supply their places were a negligent, disorderly
set, to say no worse—I must change them again, if I
stay. A professional nurse, a grim, hard old woman, had
been hired to attend the wretched invalid. He suffers much,
and has no fortitude to bear him through. The immediate
injuries he sustained from the accident, however, were not very
severe, and would, as the doctor says, have been but trifling to
a man of temperate habits, but with him it is very
different. On the night of my arrival, when I first entered
his room, he was lying in a kind of half delirium. He did
not notice me till I spoke, and then he mistook me for
another.
‘Is it you, Alice, come again?’ he murmured.
‘What did you leave me for?’
‘It is I, Arthur—it is Helen, your wife,’ I
replied.
‘My wife!’ said he, with a start. ‘For
heaven’s sake, don’t mention her—I have
none. Devil take her,’ he cried, a moment after,
‘and you, too! What did you do it for?’
I said no more; but observing that he kept gazing towards the
foot of the bed, I went and sat there, placing the light so as to
shine full upon me, for I thought he might be dying, and I wanted
him to know me. For a long time he lay silently looking
upon me, first with a vacant stare, then with a fixed gaze of
strange growing intensity. At last he startled me by
suddenly raising himself on his elbow and demanding in a
horrified whisper, with his eyes still fixed upon me, ‘Who
is it?’
‘It is Helen Huntingdon,’ said I, quietly rising
at the same time, and removing to a less conspicuous
position.
‘I must be going mad,’ cried he, ‘or
something—delirious, perhaps; but leave me, whoever you
are. I can’t bear that white face, and those
eyes. For God’s sake go, and send me somebody else
that doesn’t look like that!’
I went at once, and sent the hired nurse; but next morning I
ventured to enter his chamber again, and, taking the
nurse’s place by his bedside, I watched him and waited on
him for several hours, showing myself as little as possible, and
only speaking when necessary, and then not above my breath.
At first he addressed me as the nurse, but, on my crossing the
room to draw up the window-blinds, in obedience to his
directions, he said, ‘No, it isn’t nurse; it’s
Alice. Stay with me, do! That old hag will be the
death of me.’
‘I mean to stay with you,’ said I. And after
that he would call me Alice, or some other name almost equally
repugnant to my feelings. I forced myself to endure it for
a while, fearing a contradiction might disturb him too much; but
when, having asked for a glass of water, while I held it to his
lips, he murmured, ‘Thanks, dearest!’ I could not
help distinctly observing, ‘You would not say so if you
knew me,’ intending to follow that up with another
declaration of my identity; but he merely muttered an incoherent
reply, so I dropped it again, till some time after, when, as I
was bathing his forehead and temples with vinegar and water to
relieve the heat and pain in his head, he observed, after looking
earnestly upon me for some minutes, ‘I have such strange
fancies—I can’t get rid of them, and they won’t
let me rest; and the most singular and pertinacious of them all
is your face and voice—they seem just like hers. I
could swear at this moment that she was by my side.’
‘She is,’ said I.
‘That seems comfortable,’ continued he, without
noticing my words; ‘and while you do it, the other fancies
fade away—but this only strengthens.—Go on—go
on, till it vanishes, too. I can’t stand such a mania
as this; it would kill me!’
‘It never will vanish,’ said I, distinctly,
‘for it is the truth!’
‘The truth!’ he cried, starting, as if an asp had
stung him. ‘You don’t mean to say that you are
really she?’
‘I do; but you needn’t shrink away from me, as if
I were your greatest enemy: I am come to take care of you, and do
what none of them would do.’
‘For God’s sake, don’t torment me
now!’ cried he in pitiable agitation; and then he began to
mutter bitter curses against me, or the evil fortune that had
brought me there; while I put down the sponge and basin, and
resumed my seat at the bed-side.
‘Where are they?’ said he: ‘have they all
left me—servants and all?’
‘There are servants within call if you want them; but
you had better lie down now and be quiet: none of them could or
would attend you as carefully as I shall do.’
‘I can’t understand it at all,’ said he, in
bewildered perplexity. ‘Was it a dream
that—‘ and he covered his eyes with his hands, as if
trying to unravel the mystery.
‘No, Arthur, it was not a dream, that your conduct was
such as to oblige me to leave you; but I heard that you were ill
and alone, and I am come back to nurse you. You need not
fear to trust me: tell me all your wants, and I will try to
satisfy them. There is no one else to care for you; and I
shall not upbraid you now.’
‘Oh! I see,’ said he, with a bitter smile;
‘it’s an act of Christian charity, whereby you hope
to gain a higher seat in heaven for yourself, and scoop a deeper
pit in hell for me.’
‘No; I came to offer you that comfort and assistance
your situation required; and if I could benefit your soul as well
as your body, and awaken some sense of contrition
and—’
‘Oh, yes; if you could overwhelm me with remorse and
confusion of face, now’s the time. What have you done
with my son?’
‘He is well, and you may see him some time, if you will
compose yourself, but not now.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He is safe.’
‘Is he here?’
‘Wherever he is, you will not see him till you have
promised to leave him entirely under my care and protection, and
to let me take him away whenever and wherever I please, if I
should hereafter judge it necessary to remove him again.
But we will talk of that to-morrow: you must be quiet
now.’
‘No, let me see him now, I promise, if it must be
so.’
‘No—’
‘I swear it, as God is in heaven! Now, then, let
me see him.’
‘But I cannot trust your oaths and promises: I must have
a written agreement, and you must sign it in presence of a
witness: but not to-day—to-morrow.’
‘No, to-day; now,’ persisted he: and he was in
such a state of feverish excitement, and so bent upon the
immediate gratification of his wish, that I thought it better to
grant it at once, as I saw he would not rest till I did.
But I was determined my son’s interest should not be
forgotten; and having clearly written out the promise I wished
Mr. Huntingdon to give upon a slip of paper, I deliberately read
it over to him, and made him sign it in the presence of
Rachel. He begged I would not insist upon this: it was a
useless exposure of my want of faith in his word to the
servant. I told him I was sorry, but since he had forfeited
my confidence, he must take the consequence. He next
pleaded inability to hold the pen. ‘Then we must wait
until you can hold it,’ said I. Upon which he said he
would try; but then he could not see to write. I placed my
finger where the signature was to be, and told him he might write
his name in the dark, if he only knew where to put it. But
he had not power to form the letters. ‘In that case,
you must be too ill to see the child,’ said I; and finding
me inexorable, he at length managed to ratify the agreement; and
I bade Rachel send the boy.
All this may strike you as harsh, but I felt I must not lose
my present advantage, and my son’s future welfare should
not be sacrificed to any mistaken tenderness for this man’s
feelings. Little Arthur had not forgotten his father, but
thirteen months of absence, during which he had seldom been
permitted to hear a word about him, or hardly to whisper his
name, had rendered him somewhat shy; and when he was ushered into
the darkened room where the sick man lay, so altered from his
former self, with fiercely flushed face and wildly-gleaming
eyes—he instinctively clung to me, and stood looking on his
father with a countenance expressive of far more awe than
pleasure.
‘Come here, Arthur,’ said the latter, extending
his hand towards him. The child went, and timidly touched
that burning hand, but almost started in alarm, when his father
suddenly clutched his arm and drew him nearer to his side.
‘Do you know me?’ asked Mr. Huntingdon, intently
perusing his features.
‘Yes.’
‘Who am I?’
‘Papa.’
‘Are you glad to see me?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re not!’ replied the disappointed
parent, relaxing his hold, and darting a vindictive glance at
me.
Arthur, thus released, crept back to me and put his hand in
mine. His father swore I had made the child hate him, and
abused and cursed me bitterly. The instant he began I sent
our son out of the room; and when he paused to breathe, I calmly
assured him that he was entirely mistaken; I had never once
attempted to prejudice his child against him.
‘I did indeed desire him to forget you,’ I said,
‘and especially to forget the lessons you taught him; and
for that cause, and to lessen the danger of discovery, I own I
have generally discouraged his inclination to talk about you; but
no one can blame me for that, I think.’
The invalid only replied by groaning aloud, and rolling his
head on a pillow in a paroxysm of impatience.
‘I am in hell, already!’ cried he.
‘This cursed thirst is burning my heart to ashes!
Will nobody—?’
Before he could finish the sentence I had poured out a glass
of some acidulated, cooling drink that was on the table, and
brought it to him. He drank it greedily, but muttered, as I
took away the glass,—‘I suppose you’re heaping
coals of fire on my head, you think?’
Not noticing this speech, I asked if there was anything else I
could do for him.
‘Yes; I’ll give you another opportunity of showing
your Christian magnanimity,’ sneered he: ‘set my
pillow straight, and these confounded bed-clothes.’ I
did so. ‘There: now get me another glass of that
slop.’ I complied. ‘This is delightful,
isn’t it?’ said he with a malicious grin, as I held
it to his lips; ‘you never hoped for such a glorious
opportunity?’
‘Now, shall I stay with you?’ said I, as I
replaced the glass on the table: ‘or will you be more quiet
if I go and send the nurse?’
‘Oh, yes, you’re wondrous gentle and
obliging! But you’ve driven me mad with it
all!’ responded he, with an impatient toss.
‘I’ll leave you, then,’ said I; and I
withdrew, and did not trouble him with my presence again that
day, except for a minute or two at a time, just to see how he was
and what he wanted.
Next morning the doctor ordered him to be bled; and after that
he was more subdued and tranquil. I passed half the day in
his room at different intervals. My presence did not appear
to agitate or irritate him as before, and he accepted my services
quietly, without any bitter remarks: indeed, he scarcely spoke at
all, except to make known his wants, and hardly then. But
on the morrow, that is to say, in proportion as he recovered from
the state of exhaustion and stupefaction, his ill-nature appeared
to revive.
‘Oh, this sweet revenge!’ cried he, when I had
been doing all I could to make him comfortable and to remedy the
carelessness of his nurse. ‘And you can enjoy it with
such a quiet conscience too, because it’s all in the way of
duty.’
‘It is well for me that I am doing my duty,’ said
I, with a bitterness I could not repress, ‘for it is the
only comfort I have; and the satisfaction of my own conscience,
it seems, is the only reward I need look for!’
He looked rather surprised at the earnestness of my
manner.
‘What reward did you look for?’ he asked.
‘You will think me a liar if I tell you; but I did hope
to benefit you: as well to better your mind as to alleviate your
present sufferings; but it appears I am to do neither; your own
bad spirit will not let me. As far as you are concerned, I
have sacrificed my own feelings, and all the little earthly
comfort that was left me, to no purpose; and every little thing I
do for you is ascribed to self-righteous malice and refined
revenge!’
‘It’s all very fine, I daresay,’ said he,
eyeing me with stupid amazement; ‘and of course I ought to
be melted to tears of penitence and admiration at the sight of so
much generosity and superhuman goodness; but you see I
can’t manage it. However, pray do me all the good you
can, if you do really find any pleasure in it; for you perceive I
am almost as miserable just now as you need wish to see me.
Since you came, I confess, I have had better attendance than
before, for these wretches neglected me shamefully, and all my
old friends seem to have fairly forsaken me. I’ve had
a dreadful time of it, I assure you: I sometimes thought I should
have died: do you think there’s any chance?’
‘There’s always a chance of death; and it is
always well to live with such a chance in view.’
‘Yes, yes! but do you think there’s any likelihood
that this illness will have a fatal termination?’
‘I cannot tell; but, supposing it should, how are you
prepared to meet the event?’
‘Why, the doctor told me I wasn’t to think about
it, for I was sure to get better if I stuck to his regimen and
prescriptions.’
‘I hope you may, Arthur; but neither the doctor nor I
can speak with certainty in such a case; there is internal
injury, and it is difficult to know to what extent.’
‘There now! you want to scare me to death.’
‘No; but I don’t want to lull you to false
security. If a consciousness of the uncertainty of life can
dispose you to serious and useful thoughts, I would not deprive
you of the benefit of such reflections, whether you do eventually
recover or not. Does the idea of death appal you very
much?’
‘It’s just the only thing I can’t bear to
think of; so if you’ve any—’
‘But it must come some time,’ interrupted I,
‘and if it be years hence, it will as certainly overtake
you as if it came to-day,—and no doubt be as unwelcome then
as now, unless you—’
‘Oh, hang it! don’t torment me with your
preachments now, unless you want to kill me outright. I
can’t stand it, I tell you. I’ve sufferings
enough without that. If you think there’s danger,
save me from it; and then, in gratitude, I’ll hear whatever
you like to say.’
I accordingly dropped the unwelcome topic. And now,
Frederick, I think I may bring my letter to a close. From
these details you may form your own judgment of the state of my
patient, and of my own position and future prospects. Let
me hear from you soon, and I will write again to tell you how we
get on; but now that my presence is tolerated, and even required,
in the sick-room, I shall have but little time to spare between
my husband and my son,—for I must not entirely neglect the
latter: it would not do to keep him always with Rachel, and I
dare not leave him for a moment with any of the other servants,
or suffer him to be alone, lest he should meet them. If his
father get worse, I shall ask Esther Hargrave to take charge of
him for a time, till I have reorganised the household at least;
but I greatly prefer keeping him under my own eye.
I find myself in rather a singular position: I am exerting my
utmost endeavours to promote the recovery and reformation of my
husband, and if I succeed, what shall I do? My duty, of
course,—but how? No matter; I can perform the task
that is before me now, and God will give me strength to do
whatever He requires hereafter. Good-by, dear
Frederick.
Helen
Huntingdon.
‘What do you think of it?’ said Lawrence, as I
silently refolded the letter.
‘It seems to me,’ returned I, ‘that she is
casting her pearls before swine. May they be satisfied with
trampling them under their feet, and not turn again and rend
her! But I shall say no more against her: I see that she
was actuated by the best and noblest motives in what she has
done; and if the act is not a wise one, may heaven protect her
from its consequences! May I keep this letter,
Lawrence?—you see she has never once mentioned me
throughout—or made the most distant allusion to me;
therefore, there can be no impropriety or harm in it.’
‘And, therefore, why should you wish to keep
it?’
‘Were not these characters written by her hand? and were
not these words conceived in her mind, and many of them spoken by
her lips?’
‘Well,’ said he. And so I kept it;
otherwise, Halford, you could never have become so thoroughly
acquainted with its contents.
‘And when you write,’ said I, ‘will you have
the goodness to ask her if I may be permitted to enlighten my
mother and sister on her real history and circumstance, just so
far as is necessary to make the neighbourhood sensible of the
shameful injustice they have done her? I want no tender
messages, but just ask her that, and tell her it is the greatest
favour she could do me; and tell her—no, nothing
more. You see I know the address, and I might write to her
myself, but I am so virtuous as to refrain.’
‘Well, I’ll do this for you, Markham.’
‘And as soon as you receive an answer, you’ll let
me know?’
‘If all be well, I’ll come myself and tell you
immediately.’
CHAPTER XLVIII
Five or six days after this Mr. Lawrence paid us the honour of
a call; and when he and I were alone together—which I
contrived as soon as possible by bringing him out to look at my
cornstacks—he showed me another letter from his
sister. This one he was quite willing to submit to my
longing gaze; he thought, I suppose, it would do me good.
The only answer it gave to my message was this:—
‘Mr. Markham is at liberty to make such revelations
concerning me as he judges necessary. He will know that I
should wish but little to be said on the subject. I hope he
is well; but tell him he must not think of me.’
I can give you a few extracts from the rest of the letter, for
I was permitted to keep this also—perhaps, as an antidote
to all pernicious hopes and fancies.
* * * * *
He is decidedly better, but very low from the depressing
effects of his severe illness and the strict regimen he is
obliged to observe—so opposite to all his previous
habits. It is deplorable to see how completely his past
life has degenerated his once noble constitution, and vitiated
the whole system of his organization. But the doctor says
he may now be considered out of danger, if he will only continue
to observe the necessary restrictions. Some stimulating
cordials he must have, but they should be judiciously diluted and
sparingly used; and I find it very difficult to keep him to
this. At first, his extreme dread of death rendered the
task an easy one; but in proportion as he feels his acute
suffering abating, and sees the danger receding, the more
intractable he becomes. Now, also, his appetite for food is
beginning to return; and here, too, his long habits of
self-indulgence are greatly against him. I watch and
restrain him as well as I can, and often get bitterly abused for
my rigid severity; and sometimes he contrives to elude my
vigilance, and sometimes acts in opposition to my will. But
he is now so completely reconciled to my attendance in general
that he is never satisfied when I am not by his side. I am
obliged to be a little stiff with him sometimes, or he would make
a complete slave of me; and I know it would be unpardonable
weakness to give up all other interests for him. I have the
servants to overlook, and my little Arthur to attend
to,—and my own health too, all of which would be entirely
neglected were I to satisfy his exorbitant demands. I do
not generally sit up at night, for I think the nurse who has made
it her business is better qualified for such undertakings than I
am;—but still, an unbroken night’s rest is what I but
seldom enjoy, and never can venture to reckon upon; for my
patient makes no scruple of calling me up at an hour when his
wants or his fancies require my presence. But he is
manifestly afraid of my displeasure; and if at one time he tries
my patience by his unreasonable exactions, and fretful complaints
and reproaches, at another he depresses me by his abject
submission and deprecatory self-abasement when he fears he has
gone too far. But all this I can readily pardon; I know it
is chiefly the result of his enfeebled frame and disordered
nerves. What annoys me the most, is his occasional attempts
at affectionate fondness that I can neither credit nor return;
not that I hate him: his sufferings and my own laborious care
have given him some claim to my regard—to my affection
even, if he would only be quiet and sincere, and content to let
things remain as they are; but the more he tries to conciliate
me, the more I shrink from him and from the future.
‘Helen, what do you mean to do when I get well?’
he asked this morning. ‘Will you run away
again?’
‘It entirely depends upon your own conduct.’
‘Oh, I’ll be very good.’
‘But if I find it necessary to leave you, Arthur, I
shall not “run away”: you know I have your own
promise that I may go whenever I please, and take my son with
me.’
‘Oh, but you shall have no cause.’ And then
followed a variety of professions, which I rather coldly
checked.
‘Will you not forgive me, then?’ said he.
‘Yes,—I have forgiven you: but I know you cannot
love me as you once did—and I should be very sorry if you
were to, for I could not pretend to return it: so let us drop the
subject, and never recur to it again. By what I have done
for you, you may judge of what I will do—if it be not
incompatible with the higher duty I owe to my son (higher,
because he never forfeited his claims, and because I hope to do
more good to him than I can ever do to you); and if you wish me
to feel kindly towards you, it is deeds not words which must
purchase my affection and esteem.’
His sole reply to this was a slight grimace, and a scarcely
perceptible shrug. Alas, unhappy man! words, with him, are
so much cheaper than deeds; it was as if I had said,
‘Pounds, not pence, must buy the article you
want.’ And then he sighed a querulous,
self-commiserating sigh, as if in pure regret that he, the loved
and courted of so many worshippers, should be now abandoned to
the mercy of a harsh, exacting, cold-hearted woman like that, and
even glad of what kindness she chose to bestow.
‘It’s a pity, isn’t it?’ said I; and
whether I rightly divined his musings or not, the observation
chimed in with his thoughts, for he answered—‘It
can’t be helped,’ with a rueful smile at my
penetration.
* * * * *
I have seen Esther Hargrave twice. She is a charming
creature, but her blithe spirit is almost broken, and her sweet
temper almost spoiled, by the still unremitting persecutions of
her mother in behalf of her rejected suitor—not violent,
but wearisome and unremitting like a continual dropping.
The unnatural parent seems determined to make her
daughter’s life a burden, if she will not yield to her
desires.
‘Mamma does all she can,’ said she, ‘to make
me feel myself a burden and incumbrance to the family, and the
most ungrateful, selfish, and undutiful daughter that ever was
born; and Walter, too, is as stern and cold and haughty as if he
hated me outright. I believe I should have yielded at once
if I had known, from the beginning, how much resistance would
have cost me; but now, for very obstinacy’s sake, I will
stand out!’
‘A bad motive for a good resolve,’ I
answered. ‘But, however, I know you have better
motives, really, for your perseverance: and I counsel you to keep
them still in view.’
‘Trust me I will. I threaten mamma sometimes that
I’ll run away, and disgrace the family by earning my own
livelihood, if she torments me any more; and then that frightens
her a little. But I will do it, in good earnest, if they
don’t mind.’
‘Be quiet and patient a while,’ said I, ‘and
better times will come.’
Poor girl! I wish somebody that was worthy to possess
her would come and take her away—don’t you,
Frederick?
* * * * *
If the perusal of this letter filled me with dismay for
Helen’s future life and mine, there was one great source of
consolation: it was now in my power to clear her name from every
foul aspersion. The Millwards and the Wilsons should see
with their own eyes the bright sun bursting from the
cloud—and they should be scorched and dazzled by its
beams;—and my own friends too should see it—they
whose suspicions had been such gall and wormwood to my
soul. To effect this I had only to drop the seed into the
ground, and it would soon become a stately, branching herb: a few
words to my mother and sister, I knew, would suffice to spread
the news throughout the whole neighbourhood, without any further
exertion on my part.
Rose was delighted; and as soon as I had told her all I
thought proper—which was all I affected to know—she
flew with alacrity to put on her bonnet and shawl, and hasten to
carry the glad tidings to the Millwards and Wilsons—glad
tidings, I suspect, to none but herself and Mary
Millward—that steady, sensible girl, whose sterling worth
had been so quickly perceived and duly valued by the supposed
Mrs. Graham, in spite of her plain outside; and who, on her part,
had been better able to see and appreciate that lady’s true
character and qualities than the brightest genius among them.
As I may never have occasion to mention her again, I may as
well tell you here that she was at this time privately engaged to
Richard Wilson—a secret, I believe, to every one but
themselves. That worthy student was now at Cambridge, where
his most exemplary conduct and his diligent perseverance in the
pursuit of learning carried him safely through, and eventually
brought him with hard-earned honours, and an untarnished
reputation, to the close of his collegiate career. In due
time he became Mr. Millward’s first and only
curate—for that gentleman’s declining years forced
him at last to acknowledge that the duties of his extensive
parish were a little too much for those vaunted energies which he
was wont to boast over his younger and less active brethren of
the cloth. This was what the patient, faithful lovers had
privately planned and quietly waited for years ago; and in due
time they were united, to the astonishment of the little world
they lived in, that had long since declared them both born to
single blessedness; affirming it impossible that the pale,
retiring bookworm should ever summon courage to seek a wife, or
be able to obtain one if he did, and equally impossible that the
plain-looking, plain-dealing, unattractive, unconciliating Miss
Millward should ever find a husband.
They still continued to live at the vicarage, the lady
dividing her time between her father, her husband, and their poor
parishioners,—and subsequently her rising family; and now
that the Reverend Michael Millward has been gathered to his
fathers, full of years and honours, the Reverend Richard Wilson
has succeeded him to the vicarage of Linden-hope, greatly to the
satisfaction of its inhabitants, who had so long tried and fully
proved his merits, and those of his excellent and well-loved
partner.
If you are interested in the after fate of that lady’s
sister, I can only tell you—what perhaps you have heard
from another quarter—that some twelve or thirteen years ago
she relieved the happy couple of her presence by marrying a
wealthy tradesman of L—; and I don’t envy him his
bargain. I fear she leads him a rather uncomfortable life,
though, happily, he is too dull to perceive the extent of his
misfortune. I have little enough to do with her myself: we
have not met for many years; but, I am well assured, she has not
yet forgotten or forgiven either her former lover, or the lady
whose superior qualities first opened his eyes to the folly of
his boyish attachment.
As for Richard Wilson’s sister, she, having been wholly
unable to recapture Mr. Lawrence, or obtain any partner rich and
elegant enough to suit her ideas of what the husband of Jane
Wilson ought to be, is yet in single blessedness. Shortly
after the death of her mother she withdrew the light of her
presence from Ryecote Farm, finding it impossible any longer to
endure the rough manners and unsophisticated habits of her honest
brother Robert and his worthy wife, or the idea of being
identified with such vulgar people in the eyes of the world, and
took lodgings in — the county town, where she lived, and
still lives, I suppose, in a kind of close-fisted, cold,
uncomfortable gentility, doing no good to others, and but little
to herself; spending her days in fancy-work and scandal;
referring frequently to her ‘brother the vicar,’ and
her ‘sister, the vicar’s lady,’ but never to
her brother the farmer and her sister the farmer’s wife;
seeing as much company as she can without too much expense, but
loving no one and beloved by none—a cold-hearted,
supercilious, keenly, insidiously censorious old maid.
CHAPTER XLIX
Though Mr. Lawrence’s health was now quite
re-established, my visits to Woodford were as unremitting as
ever; though often less protracted than before. We seldom
talked about Mrs. Huntingdon; but yet we never met without
mentioning her, for I never sought his company but with the hope
of hearing something about her, and he never sought mine at all,
because he saw me often enough without. But I always began
to talk of other things, and waited first to see if he would
introduce the subject. If he did not, I would casually ask,
‘Have you heard from your sister lately?’ If he
said ‘No,’ the matter was dropped: if he said
‘Yes,’ I would venture to inquire, ‘How is
she?’ but never ‘How is her husband?’ though I
might be burning to know; because I had not the hypocrisy to
profess any anxiety for his recovery, and I had not the face to
express any desire for a contrary result. Had I any such
desire?—I fear I must plead guilty; but since you have
heard my confession, you must hear my justification as well
—a few of the excuses, at least, wherewith I sought to
pacify my own accusing conscience.
In the first place, you see, his life did harm to others, and
evidently no good to himself; and though I wished it to
terminate, I would not have hastened its close if, by the lifting
of a finger, I could have done so, or if a spirit had whispered
in my ear that a single effort of the will would be
enough,—unless, indeed, I had the power to exchange him for
some other victim of the grave, whose life might be of service to
his race, and whose death would be lamented by his friends.
But was there any harm in wishing that, among the many thousands
whose souls would certainly be required of them before the year
was over, this wretched mortal might be one? I thought not;
and therefore I wished with all my heart that it might please
heaven to remove him to a better world, or if that might not be,
still to take him out of this; for if he were unfit to answer the
summons now, after a warning sickness, and with such an angel by
his side, it seemed but too certain that he never would
be—that, on the contrary, returning health would bring
returning lust and villainy, and as he grew more certain of
recovery, more accustomed to her generous goodness, his feelings
would become more callous, his heart more flinty and impervious
to her persuasive arguments—but God knew best.
Meantime, however, I could not but be anxious for the result of
His decrees; knowing, as I did, that (leaving myself entirely out
of the question), however Helen might feel interested in her
husband’s welfare, however she might deplore his fate,
still while he lived she must be miserable.
A fortnight passed away, and my inquiries were always answered
in the negative. At length a welcome ‘yes’ drew
from me the second question. Lawrence divined my anxious
thoughts, and appreciated my reserve. I feared, at first,
he was going to torture me by unsatisfactory replies, and either
leave me quite in the dark concerning what I wanted to know, or
force me to drag the information out of him, morsel by morsel, by
direct inquiries. ‘And serve you right,’ you
will say; but he was more merciful; and in a little while he put
his sister’s letter into my hand. I silently read it,
and restored it to him without comment or remark. This mode
of procedure suited him so well, that thereafter he always
pursued the plan of showing me her letters at once, when
‘inquired’ after her, if there were any to
show—it was so much less trouble than to tell me their
contents; and I received such confidences so quietly and
discreetly that he was never induced to discontinue them.
But I devoured those precious letters with my eyes, and never
let them go till their contents were stamped upon my mind; and
when I got home, the most important passages were entered in my
diary among the remarkable events of the day.
The first of these communications brought intelligence of a
serious relapse in Mr. Huntingdon’s illness, entirely the
result of his own infatuation in persisting in the indulgence of
his appetite for stimulating drink. In vain had she
remonstrated, in vain she had mingled his wine with water: her
arguments and entreaties were a nuisance, her interference was an
insult so intolerable that, at length, on finding she had
covertly diluted the pale port that was brought him, he threw the
bottle out of the window, swearing he would not be cheated like a
baby, ordered the butler, on pain of instant dismissal, to bring
a bottle of the strongest wine in the cellar, and affirming that
he should have been well long ago if he had been let to have his
own way, but she wanted to keep him weak in order that she might
have him under her thumb—but, by the Lord Harry, he would
have no more humbug—seized a glass in one hand and the
bottle in the other, and never rested till he had drunk it
dry. Alarming symptoms were the immediate result of this
‘imprudence,’ as she mildly termed it—symptoms
which had rather increased than diminished since; and this was
the cause of her delay in writing to her brother. Every
former feature of his malady had returned with augmented
virulence: the slight external wound, half healed, had broken out
afresh; internal inflammation had taken place, which might
terminate fatally if not soon removed. Of course, the
wretched sufferer’s temper was not improved by this
calamity—in fact, I suspect it was well nigh insupportable,
though his kind nurse did not complain; but she said she had been
obliged at last to give her son in charge to Esther Hargrave, as
her presence was so constantly required in the sick-room that she
could not possibly attend to him herself; and though the child
had begged to be allowed to continue with her there, and to help
her to nurse his papa, and though she had no doubt he would have
been very good and quiet, she could not think of subjecting his
young and tender feelings to the sight of so much suffering, or
of allowing him to witness his father’s impatience, or hear
the dreadful language he was wont to use in his paroxysms of pain
or irritation.
The latter (continued she) most deeply regrets the step that
has occasioned his relapse; but, as usual, he throws the blame
upon me. If I had reasoned with him like a rational
creature, he says, it never would have happened; but to be
treated like a baby or a fool was enough to put any man past his
patience, and drive him to assert his independence even at the
sacrifice of his own interest. He forgets how often I had
reasoned him ‘past his patience’ before. He
appears to be sensible of his danger; but nothing can induce him
to behold it in the proper light. The other night, while I
was waiting on him, and just as I had brought him a draught to
assuage his burning thirst, he observed, with a return of his
former sarcastic bitterness, ‘Yes, you’re mighty
attentive now! I suppose there’s nothing you
wouldn’t do for me now?’
‘You know,’ said I, a little surprised at his
manner, ‘that I am willing to do anything I can to relieve
you.’
‘Yes, now, my immaculate angel; but when once you have
secured your reward, and find yourself safe in heaven, and me
howling in hell-fire, catch you lifting a finger to serve me
then! No, you’ll look complacently on, and not so
much as dip the tip of your finger in water to cool my
tongue!’
‘If so, it will be because of the great gulf over which
I cannot pass; and if I could look complacently on in such a
case, it would be only from the assurance that you were being
purified from your sins, and fitted to enjoy the happiness I
felt.—But are you determined, Arthur, that I shall not meet
you in heaven?’
‘Humph! What should I do there, I should like to
know?’
‘Indeed, I cannot tell; and I fear it is too certain
that your tastes and feelings must be widely altered before you
can have any enjoyment there. But do you prefer sinking,
without an effort, into the state of torment you picture to
yourself?’
‘Oh, it’s all a fable,’ said he,
contemptuously.
‘Are you sure, Arthur? are you quite sure?
Because, if there is any doubt, and if you should find yourself
mistaken after all, when it is too late to turn—’
‘It would be rather awkward, to be sure,’ said he;
‘but don’t bother me now—I’m not going to
die yet. I can’t and won’t,’ he added
vehemently, as if suddenly struck with the appalling aspect of
that terrible event. ‘Helen, you must save
me!’ And he earnestly seized my hand, and looked into
my face with such imploring eagerness that my heart bled for him,
and I could not speak for tears.
* * * * *
The next letter brought intelligence that the malady was fast
increasing; and the poor sufferer’s horror of death was
still more distressing than his impatience of bodily pain.
All his friends had not forsaken him; for Mr. Hattersley, hearing
of his danger, had come to see him from his distant home in the
north. His wife had accompanied him, as much for the
pleasure of seeing her dear friend, from whom she had been parted
so long, as to visit her mother and sister.
Mrs. Huntingdon expressed herself glad to see Milicent once
more, and pleased to behold her so happy and well. She is
now at the Grove, continued the letter, but she often calls to
see me. Mr. Hattersley spends much of his time at
Arthur’s bed-side. With more good feeling than I gave
him credit for, he evinces considerable sympathy for his unhappy
friend, and is far more willing than able to comfort him.
Sometimes he tries to joke and laugh with him, but that will not
do; sometimes he endeavours to cheer him with talk about old
times, and this at one time may serve to divert the sufferer from
his own sad thoughts; at another, it will only plunge him into
deeper melancholy than before; and then Hattersley is confounded,
and knows not what to say, unless it be a timid suggestion that
the clergyman might be sent for. But Arthur will never
consent to that: he knows he has rejected the clergyman’s
well-meant admonitions with scoffing levity at other times, and
cannot dream of turning to him for consolation now.
Mr. Hattersley sometimes offers his services instead of mine,
but Arthur will not let me go: that strange whim still increases,
as his strength declines—the fancy to have me always by his
side. I hardly ever leave him, except to go into the next
room, where I sometimes snatch an hour or so of sleep when he is
quiet; but even then the door is left ajar, that he may know me
to be within call. I am with him now, while I write, and I
fear my occupation annoys him; though I frequently break off to
attend to him, and though Mr. Hattersley is also by his
side. That gentleman came, as he said, to beg a holiday for
me, that I might have a run in the park, this fine frosty
morning, with Milicent and Esther and little Arthur, whom he had
driven over to see me. Our poor invalid evidently felt it a
heartless proposition, and would have felt it still more
heartless in me to accede to it. I therefore said I would
only go and speak to them a minute, and then come back. I
did but exchange a few words with them, just outside the portico,
inhaling the fresh, bracing air as I stood, and then, resisting
the earnest and eloquent entreaties of all three to stay a little
longer, and join them in a walk round the garden, I tore myself
away and returned to my patient. I had not been absent five
minutes, but he reproached me bitterly for my levity and
neglect. His friend espoused my cause.
‘Nay, nay, Huntingdon,’ said he,
‘you’re too hard upon her; she must have food and
sleep, and a mouthful of fresh air now and then, or she
can’t stand it, I tell you. Look at her, man!
she’s worn to a shadow already.’
‘What are her sufferings to mine?’ said the poor
invalid. ‘You don’t grudge me these attentions,
do you, Helen?’
‘No, Arthur, if I could really serve you by them.
I would give my life to save you, if I might.’
‘Would you, indeed? No!’
‘Most willingly I would.’
‘Ah! that’s because you think yourself more fit to
die!’
There was a painful pause. He was evidently plunged in
gloomy reflections; but while I pondered for something to say
that might benefit without alarming him, Hattersley, whose mind
had been pursuing almost the same course, broke silence with,
‘I say, Huntingdon, I would send for a parson of some sort:
if you didn’t like the vicar, you know, you could have his
curate, or somebody else.’
‘No; none of them can benefit me if she
can’t,’ was the answer. And the tears gushed
from his eyes as he earnestly exclaimed, ‘Oh, Helen, if I
had listened to you, it never would have come to this! and if I
had heard you long ago—oh, God! how different it would have
been!’
‘Hear me now, then, Arthur,’ said I, gently
pressing his hand.
‘It’s too late now,’ said he
despondingly. And after that another paroxysm of pain came
on; and then his mind began to wander, and we feared his death
was approaching: but an opiate was administered: his sufferings
began to abate, he gradually became more composed, and at length
sank into a kind of slumber. He has been quieter since; and
now Hattersley has left him, expressing a hope that he shall find
him better when he calls to-morrow.
‘Perhaps I may recover,’ he replied; ‘who
knows? This may have been the crisis. What do you
think, Helen?’ Unwilling to depress him, I gave the
most cheering answer I could, but still recommended him to
prepare for the possibility of what I inly feared was but too
certain. But he was determined to hope. Shortly after
he relapsed into a kind of doze, but now he groans again.
There is a change. Suddenly he called me to his side,
with such a strange, excited manner, that I feared he was
delirious, but he was not. ‘That was the crisis,
Helen!’ said he, delightedly. ‘I had an
infernal pain here—it is quite gone now. I never was
so easy since the fall—quite gone, by heaven!’ and he
clasped and kissed my hand in the very fulness of his heart; but
finding I did not participate in his joy, he quickly flung it
from him, and bitterly cursed my coldness and
insensibility. How could I reply? Kneeling beside
him, I took his hand and fondly pressed it to my lips—for
the first time since our separation—and told him, as well
as tears would let me speak, that it was not that that kept me
silent: it was the fear that this sudden cessation of pain was
not so favourable a symptom as he supposed. I immediately
sent for the doctor: we are now anxiously awaiting him. I
will tell you what he says. There is still the same freedom
from pain, the same deadness to all sensation where the suffering
was most acute.
My worst fears are realised: mortification has
commenced. The doctor has told him there is no hope.
No words can describe his anguish. I can write no more.
* * * * *
The next was still more distressing in the tenor of its
contents. The sufferer was fast approaching
dissolution—dragged almost to the verge of that awful chasm
he trembled to contemplate, from which no agony of prayers or
tears could save him. Nothing could comfort him now;
Hattersley’s rough attempts at consolation were utterly in
vain. The world was nothing to him: life and all its
interests, its petty cares and transient pleasures, were a cruel
mockery. To talk of the past was to torture him with vain
remorse; to refer to the future was to increase his anguish; and
yet to be silent was to leave him a prey to his own regrets and
apprehensions. Often he dwelt with shuddering minuteness on
the fate of his perishing clay—the slow, piecemeal
dissolution already invading his frame: the shroud, the coffin,
the dark, lonely grave, and all the horrors of corruption.
‘If I try,’ said his afflicted wife, ‘to
divert him from these things—to raise his thoughts to
higher themes, it is no better:—“Worse and
worse!” he groans. “If there be really life
beyond the tomb, and judgment after death, how can I face
it?”—I cannot do him any good; he will neither be
enlightened, nor roused, nor comforted by anything I say; and yet
he clings to me with unrelenting pertinacity—with a kind of
childish desperation, as if I could save him from the fate he
dreads. He keeps me night and day beside him. He is
holding my left hand now, while I write; he has held it thus for
hours: sometimes quietly, with his pale face upturned to mine:
sometimes clutching my arm with violence—the big drops
starting from his forehead at the thoughts of what he sees, or
thinks he sees, before him. If I withdraw my hand for a
moment it distresses him.
‘“Stay with me, Helen,” he says; “let
me hold you so: it seems as if harm could not reach me while you
are here. But death will come—it is coming
now—fast, fast!—and—oh, if I could believe
there was nothing after!”
‘“Don’t try to believe it, Arthur; there is
joy and glory after, if you will but try to reach it!”
‘“What, for me?” he said, with something
like a laugh. “Are we not to be judged according to
the deeds done in the body? Where’s the use of a
probationary existence, if a man may spend it as he pleases, just
contrary to God’s decrees, and then go to heaven with the
best—if the vilest sinner may win the reward of the holiest
saint, by merely saying, “I
repent!””’
‘“But if you sincerely repent—”
‘“I can’t repent; I only fear.”
‘“You only regret the past for its consequences to
yourself?”
‘“Just so—except that I’m sorry to
have wronged you, Nell, because you’re so good to
me.”
‘“Think of the goodness of God, and you cannot but
be grieved to have offended Him.”
‘“What is God?—I cannot see Him or hear
Him.—God is only an idea.”
‘“God is Infinite Wisdom, and Power, and
Goodness—and Love; but if this
idea is too vast for your human faculties—if your mind
loses itself in its overwhelming infinitude, fix it on Him who
condescended to take our nature upon Him, who was raised to
heaven even in His glorified human body, in whom the fulness of
the Godhead shines.”
‘But he only shook his head and sighed. Then, in
another paroxysm of shuddering horror, he tightened his grasp on
my hand and arm, and, groaning and lamenting, still clung to me
with that wild, desperate earnestness so harrowing to my soul,
because I know I cannot help him. I did my best to soothe
and comfort him.
‘“Death is so terrible,” he cried, “I
cannot bear it! You don’t know, Helen—you
can’t imagine what it is, because you haven’t it
before you! and when I’m buried, you’ll return to
your old ways and be as happy as ever, and all the world will go
on just as busy and merry as if I had never been; while
I—” He burst into tears.
‘“You needn’t let that distress you,”
I said; “we shall all follow you soon enough.”
‘“I wish to God I could take you with me
now!” he exclaimed: “you should plead for
me.”
‘“No man can deliver his brother, nor make
agreement unto God for him,” I replied: “it cost more
to redeem their souls—it cost the blood of an incarnate
God, perfect and sinless in Himself, to redeem us from the
bondage of the evil one:—let Him plead for you.”
‘But I seem to speak in vain. He does not now, as
formerly, laugh these blessed truths to scorn: but still he
cannot trust, or will not comprehend them. He cannot linger
long. He suffers dreadfully, and so do those that wait upon
him. But I will not harass you with further details: I have
said enough, I think, to convince you that I did well to go to
him.’
* * * * *
Poor, poor Helen! dreadful indeed her trials must have
been! And I could do nothing to lessen them—nay, it
almost seemed as if I had brought them upon her myself by my own
secret desires; and whether I looked at her husband’s
sufferings or her own, it seemed almost like a judgment upon
myself for having cherished such a wish.
The next day but one there came another letter. That too
was put into my hands without a remark, and these are its
contents:—
Dec. 5th.
He is gone at last. I sat beside him all night, with my
hand fast looked in his, watching the changes of his features and
listening to his failing breath. He had been silent a long
time, and I thought he would never speak again, when he murmured,
faintly but distinctly,—‘Pray for me,
Helen!’
‘I do pray for you, every hour and every minute, Arthur;
but you must pray for yourself.’
His lips moved, but emitted no sound;—then his looks
became unsettled; and, from the incoherent, half-uttered words
that escaped him from time to time, supposing him to be now
unconscious, I gently disengaged my hand from his, intending to
steal away for a breath of air, for I was almost ready to faint;
but a convulsive movement of the fingers, and a faintly whispered
‘Don’t leave me!’ immediately recalled me: I
took his hand again, and held it till he was no more—and
then I fainted. It was not grief; it was exhaustion, that,
till then, I had been enabled successfully to combat. Oh,
Frederick! none can imagine the miseries, bodily and mental, of
that death-bed! How could I endure to think that that poor
trembling soul was hurried away to everlasting torment? it would
drive me mad. But, thank God, I have hope—not only
from a vague dependence on the possibility that penitence and
pardon might have reached him at the last, but from the blessed
confidence that, through whatever purging fires the erring spirit
may be doomed to pass—whatever fate awaits it—still
it is not lost, and God, who hateth nothing that He hath made,
will bless it in the end!
His body will be consigned on Thursday to that dark grave he
so much dreaded; but the coffin must be closed as soon as
possible. If you will attend the funeral, come quickly, for
I need help.
Helen
Huntingdon.
CHAPTER L
On reading this I had no reason to disguise my joy and hope
from Frederick Lawrence, for I had none to be ashamed of. I
felt no joy but that his sister was at length released from her
afflictive, overwhelming toil—no hope but that she would in
time recover from the effects of it, and be suffered to rest in
peace and quietness, at least, for the remainder of her
life. I experienced a painful commiseration for her unhappy
husband (though fully aware that he had brought every particle of
his sufferings upon himself, and but too well deserved them all),
and a profound sympathy for her own afflictions, and deep anxiety
for the consequences of those harassing cares, those dreadful
vigils, that incessant and deleterious confinement beside a
living corpse—for I was persuaded she had not hinted half
the sufferings she had had to endure.
‘You will go to her, Lawrence?’ said I, as I put
the letter into his hand.
‘Yes, immediately.’
‘That’s right! I’ll leave you, then,
to prepare for your departure.’
‘I’ve done that already, while you were reading
the letter, and before you came; and the carriage is now coming
round to the door.’
Inly approving his promptitude, I bade him good-morning, and
withdrew. He gave me a searching glance as we pressed each
other’s hands at parting; but whatever he sought in my
countenance, he saw there nothing but the most becoming
gravity—it might be mingled with a little sternness in
momentary resentment at what I suspected to be passing in his
mind.
Had I forgotten my own prospects, my ardent love, my
pertinacious hopes? It seemed like sacrilege to revert to
them now, but I had not forgotten them. It was, however,
with a gloomy sense of the darkness of those prospects, the
fallacy of those hopes, and the vanity of that affection, that I
reflected on those things as I remounted my horse and slowly
journeyed homewards. Mrs. Huntingdon was free now; it was
no longer a crime to think of her—but did she ever think of
me? Not now—of course it was not to be
expected—but would she when this shock was over? In
all the course of her correspondence with her brother (our mutual
friend, as she herself had called him) she had never mentioned me
but once—and that was from necessity. This alone
afforded strong presumption that I was already forgotten; yet
this was not the worst: it might have been her sense of duty that
had kept her silent: she might be only trying to forget; but in
addition to this, I had a gloomy conviction that the awful
realities she had seen and felt, her reconciliation with the man
she had once loved, his dreadful sufferings and death, must
eventually efface from her mind all traces of her passing love
for me. She might recover from these horrors so far as to
be restored to her former health, her tranquillity, her
cheerfulness even—but never to those feelings which would
appear to her, henceforth, as a fleeting fancy, a vain, illusive
dream; especially as there was no one to remind her of my
existence—no means of assuring her of my fervent constancy,
now that we were so far apart, and delicacy forbade me to see her
or to write to her, for months to come at least. And how
could I engage her brother in my behalf? how could I break that
icy crust of shy reserve? Perhaps he would disapprove of my
attachment now as highly as before; perhaps he would think me too
poor—too lowly born, to match with his sister. Yes,
there was another barrier: doubtless there was a wide distinction
between the rank and circumstances of Mrs. Huntingdon, the lady
of Grassdale Manor, and those of Mrs. Graham, the artist, the
tenant of Wildfell Hall. And it might be deemed presumption
in me to offer my hand to the former, by the world, by her
friends, if not by herself; a penalty I might brave, if I were
certain she loved me; but otherwise, how could I? And,
finally, her deceased husband, with his usual selfishness, might
have so constructed his will as to place restrictions upon her
marrying again. So that you see I had reasons enough for
despair if I chose to indulge it.
Nevertheless, it was with no small degree of impatience that I
looked forward to Mr. Lawrence’s return from Grassdale:
impatience that increased in proportion as his absence was
prolonged. He stayed away some ten or twelve days.
All very right that he should remain to comfort and help his
sister, but he might have written to tell me how she was, or at
least to tell me when to expect his return; for he might have
known I was suffering tortures of anxiety for her, and
uncertainty for my own future prospects. And when he did
return, all he told me about her was, that she had been greatly
exhausted and worn by her unremitting exertions in behalf of that
man who had been the scourge of her life, and had dragged her
with him nearly to the portals of the grave, and was still much
shaken and depressed by his melancholy end and the circumstances
attendant upon it; but no word in reference to me; no intimation
that my name had ever passed her lips, or even been spoken in her
presence. To be sure, I asked no questions on the subject;
I could not bring my mind to do so, believing, as I did, that
Lawrence was indeed averse to the idea of my union with his
sister.
I saw that he expected to be further questioned concerning his
visit, and I saw too, with the keen perception of awakened
jealousy, or alarmed self-esteem, or by whatever name I ought to
call it, that he rather shrank from that impending scrutiny, and
was no less pleased than surprised to find it did not come.
Of course, I was burning with anger, but pride obliged me to
suppress my feelings, and preserve a smooth face, or at least a
stoic calmness, throughout the interview. It was well it
did, for, reviewing the matter in my sober judgment, I must say
it would have been highly absurd and improper to have quarrelled
with him on such an occasion. I must confess, too, that I
wronged him in my heart: the truth was, he liked me very well,
but he was fully aware that a union between Mrs. Huntingdon and
me would be what the world calls a mesalliance; and it was not in
his nature to set the world at defiance; especially in such a
case as this, for its dread laugh, or ill opinion, would be far
more terrible to him directed against his sister than
himself. Had he believed that a union was necessary to the
happiness of both, or of either, or had he known how fervently I
loved her, he would have acted differently; but seeing me so calm
and cool, he would not for the world disturb my philosophy; and
though refraining entirely from any active opposition to the
match, he would yet do nothing to bring it about, and would much
rather take the part of prudence, in aiding us to overcome our
mutual predilections, than that of feeling, to encourage
them. ‘And he was in the right of it,’ you will
say. Perhaps he was; at any rate, I had no business to feel
so bitterly against him as I did; but I could not then regard the
matter in such a moderate light; and, after a brief conversation
upon indifferent topics, I went away, suffering all the pangs of
wounded pride and injured friendship, in addition to those
resulting from the fear that I was indeed forgotten, and the
knowledge that she I loved was alone and afflicted, suffering
from injured health and dejected spirits, and I was forbidden to
console or assist her: forbidden even to assure her of my
sympathy, for the transmission of any such message through Mr.
Lawrence was now completely out of the question.
But what should I do? I would wait, and see if she would
notice me, which of course she would not, unless by some kind
message intrusted to her brother, that, in all probability, he
would not deliver, and then, dreadful thought! she would think me
cooled and changed for not returning it, or, perhaps, he had
already given her to understand that I had ceased to think of
her. I would wait, however, till the six months after our
parting were fairly passed (which would be about the close of
February), and then I would send her a letter, modestly reminding
her of her former permission to write to her at the close of that
period, and hoping I might avail myself of it—at least to
express my heartfelt sorrow for her late afflictions, my just
appreciation of her generous conduct, and my hope that her health
was now completely re-established, and that she would, some time,
be permitted to enjoy those blessings of a peaceful, happy life,
which had been denied her so long, but which none could more
truly be said to merit than herself—adding a few words of
kind remembrance to my little friend Arthur, with a hope that he
had not forgotten me, and perhaps a few more in reference to
bygone times, to the delightful hours I had passed in her
society, and my unfading recollection of them, which was the salt
and solace of my life, and a hope that her recent troubles had
not entirely banished me from her mind. If she did not
answer this, of course I should write no more: if she did (as
surely she would, in some fashion), my future proceedings should
be regulated by her reply.
Ten weeks was long to wait in such a miserable state of
uncertainty; but courage! it must be endured! and meantime I
would continue to see Lawrence now and then, though not so often
as before, and I would still pursue my habitual inquiries after
his sister, if he had lately heard from her, and how she was, but
nothing more.
I did so, and the answers I received were always provokingly
limited to the letter of the inquiry: she was much as usual: she
made no complaints, but the tone of her last letter evinced great
depression of mind: she said she was better: and, finally, she
said she was well, and very busy with her son’s education,
and with the management of her late husband’s property, and
the regulation of his affairs. The rascal had never told me
how that property was disposed, or whether Mr. Huntingdon had
died intestate or not; and I would sooner die than ask him, lest
he should misconstrue into covetousness my desire to know.
He never offered to show me his sister’s letters now, and I
never hinted a wish to see them. February, however, was
approaching; December was past; January, at length, was almost
over—a few more weeks, and then, certain despair or renewal
of hope would put an end to this long agony of suspense.
But alas! it was just about that time she was called to
sustain another blow in the death of her uncle—a worthless
old fellow enough in himself, I daresay, but he had always shown
more kindness and affection to her than to any other creature,
and she had always been accustomed to regard him as a
parent. She was with him when he died, and had assisted her
aunt to nurse him during the last stage of his illness. Her
brother went to Staningley to attend the funeral, and told me,
upon his return, that she was still there, endeavouring to cheer
her aunt with her presence, and likely to remain some time.
This was bad news for me, for while she continued there I could
not write to her, as I did not know the address, and would not
ask it of him. But week followed week, and every time I
inquired about her she was still at Staningley.
‘Where is Staningley?’ I asked at last.
‘In —shire,’ was the brief reply; and there
was something so cold and dry in the manner of it, that I was
effectually deterred from requesting a more definite account.
‘When will she return to Grassdale?’ was my next
question.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Confound it!’ I muttered.
‘Why, Markham?’ asked my companion, with an air of
innocent surprise. But I did not deign to answer him, save
by a look of silent, sullen contempt, at which he turned away,
and contemplated the carpet with a slight smile, half pensive,
half amused; but quickly looking up, he began to talk of other
subjects, trying to draw me into a cheerful and friendly
conversation, but I was too much irritated to discourse with him,
and soon took leave.
You see Lawrence and I somehow could not manage to get on very
well together. The fact is, I believe, we were both of us a
little too touchy. It is a troublesome thing, Halford, this
susceptibility to affronts where none are intended. I am no
martyr to it now, as you can bear me witness: I have learned to
be merry and wise, to be more easy with myself and more indulgent
to my neighbours, and I can afford to laugh at both Lawrence and
you.
Partly from accident, partly from wilful negligence on my part
(for I was really beginning to dislike him), several weeks
elapsed before I saw my friend again. When we did meet, it
was he that sought me out. One bright morning, early in
June, he came into the field, where I was just commencing my hay
harvest.
‘It is long since I saw you, Markham,’ said he,
after the first few words had passed between us. ‘Do
you never mean to come to Woodford again?’
‘I called once, and you were out.’
‘I was sorry, but that was long since; I hoped you would
call again, and now I have called, and you were out, which you
generally are, or I would do myself the pleasure of calling more
frequently; but being determined to see you this time, I have
left my pony in the lane, and come over hedge and ditch to join
you; for I am about to leave Woodford for a while, and may not
have the pleasure of seeing you again for a month or
two.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To Grassdale first,’ said he, with a half-smile
he would willingly have suppressed if he could.
‘To Grassdale! Is she there, then?’
‘Yes, but in a day or two she will leave it to accompany
Mrs. Maxwell to F— for the benefit of the sea air, and I
shall go with them.’ (F— was at that time a
quiet but respectable watering-place: it is considerably more
frequented now.)
Lawrence seemed to expect me to take advantage of this
circumstance to entrust him with some sort of a message to his
sister; and I believe he would have undertaken to deliver it
without any material objections, if I had had the sense to ask
him, though of course he would not offer to do so, if I was
content to let it alone. But I could not bring myself to
make the request, and it was not till after he was gone, that I
saw how fair an opportunity I had lost; and then, indeed, I
deeply regretted my stupidity and my foolish pride, but it was
now too late to remedy the evil.
He did not return till towards the latter end of August.
He wrote to me twice or thrice from F—, but his letters
were most provokingly unsatisfactory, dealing in generalities or
in trifles that I cared nothing about, or replete with fancies
and reflections equally unwelcome to me at the time, saying next
to nothing about his sister, and little more about himself.
I would wait, however, till he came back; perhaps I could get
something more out of him then. At all events, I would not
write to her now, while she was with him and her aunt, who
doubtless would be still more hostile to my presumptuous
aspirations than himself. When she was returned to the
silence and solitude of her own home, it would be my fittest
opportunity.
When Lawrence came, however, he was as reserved as ever on the
subject of my keen anxiety. He told me that his sister had
derived considerable benefit from her stay at F— that her
son was quite well, and—alas! that both of them were gone,
with Mrs. Maxwell, back to Staningley, and there they stayed at
least three months. But instead of boring you with my
chagrin, my expectations and disappointments, my fluctuations of
dull despondency and flickering hope, my varying resolutions, now
to drop it, and now to persevere—now to make a bold push,
and now to let things pass and patiently abide my time,—I
will employ myself in settling the business of one or two of the
characters introduced in the course of this narrative, whom I may
not have occasion to mention again.
Some time before Mr. Huntingdon’s death Lady Lowborough
eloped with another gallant to the Continent, where, having lived
a while in reckless gaiety and dissipation, they quarrelled and
parted. She went dashing on for a season, but years came
and money went: she sunk, at length, in difficulty and debt,
disgrace and misery; and died at last, as I have heard, in
penury, neglect, and utter wretchedness. But this might be
only a report: she may be living yet for anything I or any of her
relatives or former acquaintances can tell; for they have all
lost sight of her long years ago, and would as thoroughly forget
her if they could. Her husband, however, upon this second
misdemeanour, immediately sought and obtained a divorce, and, not
long after, married again. It was well he did, for Lord
Lowborough, morose and moody as he seemed, was not the man for a
bachelor’s life. No public interests, no ambitious
projects, or active pursuits,—or ties of friendship even
(if he had had any friends), could compensate to him for the
absence of domestic comforts and endearments. He had a son
and a nominal daughter, it is true, but they too painfully
reminded him of their mother, and the unfortunate little
Annabella was a source of perpetual bitterness to his soul.
He had obliged himself to treat her with paternal kindness: he
had forced himself not to hate her, and even, perhaps, to feel
some degree of kindly regard for her, at last, in return for her
artless and unsuspecting attachment to himself; but the
bitterness of his self-condemnation for his inward feelings
towards that innocent being, his constant struggles to subdue the
evil promptings of his nature (for it was not a generous one),
though partly guessed at by those who knew him, could be known to
God and his own heart alone;—so also was the hardness of
his conflicts with the temptation to return to the vice of his
youth, and seek oblivion for past calamities, and deadness to the
present misery of a blighted heart a joyless, friendless life,
and a morbidly disconsolate mind, by yielding again to that
insidious foe to health, and sense, and virtue, which had so
deplorably enslaved and degraded him before.
The second object of his choice was widely different from the
first. Some wondered at his taste; some even ridiculed
it—but in this their folly was more apparent than
his. The lady was about his own age—i.e.,
between thirty and forty—remarkable neither for beauty, nor
wealth, nor brilliant accomplishments; nor any other thing that I
ever heard of, except genuine good sense, unswerving integrity,
active piety, warm-hearted benevolence, and a fund of cheerful
spirits. These qualities, however, as you way readily
imagine, combined to render her an excellent mother to the
children, and an invaluable wife to his lordship. He, with
his usual self-depreciation, thought her a world too good for
him, and while he wondered at the kindness of Providence in
conferring such a gift upon him, and even at her taste in
preferring him to other men, he did his best to reciprocate the
good she did him, and so far succeeded that she was, and I
believe still is, one of the happiest and fondest wives in
England; and all who question the good taste of either partner
may be thankful if their respective selections afford them half
the genuine satisfaction in the end, or repay their preference
with affection half as lasting and sincere.
If you are at all interested in the fate of that low
scoundrel, Grimsby, I can only tell you that he went from bad to
worse, sinking from bathos to bathos of vice and villainy,
consorting only with the worst members of his club and the lowest
dregs of society—happily for the rest of the
world—and at last met his end in a drunken brawl, from the
hands, it is said, of some brother scoundrel he had cheated at
play.
As for Mr. Hattersley, he had never wholly forgotten his
resolution to ‘come out from among them,’ and behave
like a man and a Christian, and the last illness and death of his
once jolly friend Huntingdon so deeply and seriously impressed
him with the evil of their former practices, that he never needed
another lesson of the kind. Avoiding the temptations of the
town, he continued to pass his life in the country, immersed in
the usual pursuits of a hearty, active, country gentleman; his
occupations being those of farming, and breeding horses and
cattle, diversified with a little hunting and shooting, and
enlivened by the occasional companionship of his friends (better
friends than those of his youth), and the society of his happy
little wife (now cheerful and confiding as heart could wish), and
his fine family of stalwart sons and blooming daughters.
His father, the banker, having died some years ago and left him
all his riches, he has now full scope for the exercise of his
prevailing tastes, and I need not tell you that Ralph Hattersley,
Esq., is celebrated throughout the country for his noble breed of
horses.
CHAPTER LI
We will now turn to a certain still, cold, cloudy afternoon
about the commencement of December, when the first fall of snow
lay thinly scattered over the blighted fields and frozen roads,
or stored more thickly in the hollows of the deep cart-ruts and
footsteps of men and horses impressed in the now petrified mire
of last month’s drenching rains. I remember it well,
for I was walking home from the vicarage with no less remarkable
a personage than Miss Eliza Millward by my side. I had been
to call upon her father,—a sacrifice to civility undertaken
entirely to please my mother, not myself, for I hated to go near
the house; not merely on account of my antipathy to the once so
bewitching Eliza, but because I had not half forgiven the old
gentleman himself for his ill opinion of Mrs. Huntingdon; for
though now constrained to acknowledge himself mistaken in his
former judgment, he still maintained that she had done wrong to
leave her husband; it was a violation of her sacred duties as a
wife, and a tempting of Providence by laying herself open to
temptation; and nothing short of bodily ill-usage (and that of no
trifling nature) could excuse such a step—nor even that,
for in such a case she ought to appeal to the laws for
protection. But it was not of him I intended to speak; it
was of his daughter Eliza. Just as I was taking leave of
the vicar, she entered the room, ready equipped for a walk.
‘I was just coming to see, your sister, Mr.
Markham,’ said she; ‘and so, if you have no
objection, I’ll accompany you home. I like company
when I’m walking out—don’t you?’
‘Yes, when it’s agreeable.’
‘That of course,’ rejoined the young lady, smiling
archly.
So we proceeded together.
‘Shall I find Rose at home, do you think?’ said
she, as we closed the garden gate, and set our faces towards
Linden-Car.
‘I believe so.’
‘I trust I shall, for I’ve a little bit of news
for her—if you haven’t forestalled me.’
‘I?’
‘Yes: do you know what Mr. Lawrence is gone
for?’ She looked up anxiously for my reply.
‘Is he gone?’ said I; and her face brightened.
‘Ah! then he hasn’t told you about his
sister?’
‘What of her?’ I demanded in terror, lest some
evil should have befallen her.
‘Oh, Mr. Markham, how you blush!’ cried she, with
a tormenting laugh. ‘Ha, ha, you have not forgotten
her yet. But you had better be quick about it, I can tell
you, for—alas, alas!—she’s going to be married
next Thursday!’
‘No, Miss Eliza, that’s false.’
‘Do you charge me with a falsehood, sir?’
‘You are misinformed.’
‘Am I? Do you know better, then?’
‘I think I do.’
‘What makes you look so pale then?’ said she,
smiling with delight at my emotion. ‘Is it anger at
poor me for telling such a fib? Well, I only “tell
the tale as ’twas told to me:” I don’t vouch
for the truth of it; but at the same time, I don’t see what
reason Sarah should have for deceiving me, or her informant for
deceiving her; and that was what she told me the footman told
her:—that Mrs. Huntingdon was going to be married on
Thursday, and Mr. Lawrence was gone to the wedding. She did
tell me the name of the gentleman, but I’ve forgotten
that. Perhaps you can assist me to remember it. Is
there not some one that lives near—or frequently visits the
neighbourhood, that has long been attached to her?—a
Mr.—oh, dear! Mr.—’
‘Hargrave?’ suggested I, with a bitter smile.
‘You’re right,’ cried she; ‘that was
the very name.’
‘Impossible, Miss Eliza!’ I exclaimed, in a tone
that made her start.
‘Well, you know, that’s what they told me,’
said she, composedly staring me in the face. And then she
broke out into a long shrill laugh that put me to my wit’s
end with fury.
‘Really you must excuse me,’ cried she.
‘I know it’s very rude, but ha, ha, ha!—did you
think to marry her yourself? Dear, dear, what a
pity!—ha, ha, ha! Gracious, Mr. Markham, are you
going to faint? Oh, mercy! shall I call this man?
Here, Jacob—‘ But checking the word on her
lips, I seized her arm and gave it, I think, a pretty severe
squeeze, for she shrank into herself with a faint cry of pain or
terror; but the spirit within her was not subdued: instantly
rallying, she continued, with well-feigned concern, ‘What
can I do for you? Will you have some water—some
brandy? I daresay they have some in the public-house down
there, if you’ll let me run.’
‘Have done with this nonsense!’ cried I,
sternly. She looked confounded—almost frightened
again, for a moment. ‘You know I hate such
jests,’ I continued.
‘Jests indeed! I wasn’t jesting!’
‘You were laughing, at all events; and I don’t
like to be laughed at,’ returned I, making violent efforts
to speak with proper dignity and composure, and to say nothing
but what was coherent and sensible. ‘And since you
are in such a merry mood, Miss Eliza, you must be good enough
company for yourself; and therefore I shall leave you to finish
your walk alone—for, now I think of it, I have business
elsewhere; so good-evening.’
With that I left her (smothering her malicious laughter) and
turned aside into the fields, springing up the bank, and pushing
through the nearest gap in the hedge. Determined at once to
prove the truth—or rather the falsehood—of her story,
I hastened to Woodford as fast as my legs could carry me; first
veering round by a circuitous course, but the moment I was out of
sight of my fair tormentor cutting away across the country, just
as a bird might fly, over pasture-land, and fallow, and stubble,
and lane, clearing hedges and ditches and hurdles, till I came to
the young squire’s gates. Never till now had I known
the full fervour of my love—the full strength of my hopes,
not wholly crushed even in my hours of deepest despondency,
always tenaciously clinging to the thought that one day she might
be mine, or, if not that, at least that something of my memory,
some slight remembrance of our friendship and our love, would be
for ever cherished in her heart. I marched up to the door,
determined, if I saw the master, to question him boldly
concerning his sister, to wait and hesitate no longer, but cast
false delicacy and stupid pride behind my back, and know my fate
at once.
‘Is Mr. Lawrence at home?’ I eagerly asked of the
servant that opened the door.
‘No, sir, master went yesterday,’ replied he,
looking very alert.
‘Went where?’
‘To Grassdale, sir—wasn’t you aware,
sir? He’s very close, is master,’ said the
fellow, with a foolish, simpering grin. ‘I suppose,
sir—’
But I turned and left him, without waiting to hear what he
supposed. I was not going to stand there to expose my
tortured feelings to the insolent laughter and impertinent
curiosity of a fellow like that.
But what was to be done now? Could it be possible that
she had left me for that man? I could not believe it.
Me she might forsake, but not to give herself to him! Well,
I would know the truth; to no concerns of daily life could I
attend while this tempest of doubt and dread, of jealousy and
rage, distracted me. I would take the morning coach from
L— (the evening one would be already gone), and fly to
Grassdale—I must be there before the marriage. And
why? Because a thought struck me that perhaps I might
prevent it—that if I did not, she and I might both lament
it to the latest moment of our lives. It struck me that
someone might have belied me to her: perhaps her brother; yes, no
doubt her brother had persuaded her that I was false and
faithless, and taking advantage of her natural indignation, and
perhaps her desponding carelessness about her future life, had
urged her, artfully, cruelly, on to this other marriage, in order
to secure her from me. If this was the case, and if she
should only discover her mistake when too late to repair
it—to what a life of misery and vain regret might she be
doomed as well as me; and what remorse for me to think my foolish
scruples had induced it all! Oh, I must see her—she
must know my truth even if I told it at the church door! I
might pass for a madman or an impertinent fool—even she
might be offended at such an interruption, or at least might tell
me it was now too late. But if I could save her, if she
might be mine!—it was too rapturous a thought!
Winged by this hope, and goaded by these fears, I hurried
homewards to prepare for my departure on the morrow. I told
my mother that urgent business which admitted no delay, but which
I could not then explain, called me away.
My deep anxiety and serious preoccupation could not be
concealed from her maternal eyes; and I had much ado to calm her
apprehensions of some disastrous mystery.
That night there came a heavy fall of snow, which so retarded
the progress of the coaches on the following day that I was
almost driven to distraction. I travelled all night, of
course, for this was Wednesday: to-morrow morning, doubtless, the
marriage would take place. But the night was long and dark:
the snow heavily clogged the wheels and balled the horses’
feet; the animals were consumedly lazy; the coachman most
execrably cautious; the passengers confoundedly apathetic in
their supine indifference to the rate of our progression.
Instead of assisting me to bully the several coachmen and urge
them forward, they merely stared and grinned at my impatience:
one fellow even ventured to rally me upon it—but I silenced
him with a look that quelled him for the rest of the journey; and
when, at the last stage, I would have taken the reins into my own
hand, they all with one accord opposed it.
It was broad daylight when we entered M— and drew up at
the ‘Rose and Crown.’ I alighted and called
aloud for a post-chaise to Grassdale. There was none to be
had: the only one in the town was under repair. ‘A
gig, then—a fly—car—anything—only be
quick!’ There was a gig, but not a horse to
spare. I sent into the town to seek one: but they were such
an intolerable time about it that I could wait no longer—I
thought my own feet could carry me sooner; and bidding them send
the conveyance after me, if it were ready within an hour, I set
off as fast as I could walk. The distance was little more
than six miles, but the road was strange, and I had to keep
stopping to inquire my way; hallooing to carters and clodhoppers,
and frequently invading the cottages, for there were few abroad
that winter’s morning; sometimes knocking up the lazy
people from their beds, for where so little work was to be done,
perhaps so little food and fire to be had, they cared not to
curtail their slumbers. I had no time to think of them,
however; aching with weariness and desperation, I hurried
on. The gig did not overtake me: and it was well I had not
waited for it; vexatious rather, that I had been fool enough to
wait so long.
At length, however, I entered the neighbourhood of
Grassdale. I approached the little rural church—but
lo! there stood a train of carriages before it; it needed not the
white favours bedecking the servants and horses, nor the merry
voices of the village idlers assembled to witness the show, to
apprise me that there was a wedding within. I ran in among
them, demanding, with breathless eagerness, had the ceremony long
commenced? They only gaped and stared. In my
desperation, I pushed past them, and was about to enter the
churchyard gate, when a group of ragged urchins, that had been
hanging like bees to the window, suddenly dropped off and made a
rush for the porch, vociferating in the uncouth dialect of their
country something which signified, ‘It’s
over—they’re coming out!’
If Eliza Millward had seen me then she might indeed have been
delighted. I grasped the gate-post for support, and stood
intently gazing towards the door to take my last look on my
soul’s delight, my first on that detested mortal who had
torn her from my heart, and doomed her, I was certain, to a life
of misery and hollow, vain repining—for what happiness
could she enjoy with him? I did not wish to shock her with
my presence now, but I had not power to move away. Forth
came the bride and bridegroom. Him I saw not; I had eyes
for none but her. A long veil shrouded half her graceful
form, but did not hide it; I could see that while she carried her
head erect, her eyes were bent upon the ground, and her face and
neck were suffused with a crimson blush; but every feature was
radiant with smiles, and gleaming through the misty whiteness of
her veil were clusters of golden ringlets! Oh, heavens! it
was not my Helen! The first glimpse made me start—but
my eyes were darkened with exhaustion and despair. Dare I
trust them? ‘Yes—it is not she! It was a
younger, slighter, rosier beauty—lovely indeed, but with
far less dignity and depth of soul—without that indefinable
grace, that keenly spiritual yet gentle charm, that ineffable
power to attract and subjugate the heart—my heart at
least. I looked at the bridegroom—it was Frederick
Lawrence! I wiped away the cold drops that were trickling
down my forehead, and stepped back as he approached; but, his
eyes fell upon me, and he knew me, altered as my appearance must
have been.
‘Is that you, Markham?’ said he, startled and
confounded at the apparition—perhaps, too, at the wildness
of my looks.
‘Yes, Lawrence; is that you?’ I mustered the
presence of mind to reply.
He smiled and coloured, as if half-proud and half-ashamed of
his identity; and if he had reason to be proud of the sweet lady
on his arm, he had no less cause to be ashamed of having
concealed his good fortune so long.
‘Allow me to introduce you to my bride,’ said he,
endeavouring to hide his embarrassment by an assumption of
careless gaiety. ‘Esther, this is Mr. Markham; my
friend Markham, Mrs. Lawrence, late Miss Hargrave.’
I bowed to the bride, and vehemently wrung the
bridegroom’s hand.
‘Why did you not tell me of this?’ I said,
reproachfully, pretending a resentment I did not feel (for in
truth I was almost wild with joy to find myself so happily
mistaken, and overflowing with affection to him for this and for
the base injustice I felt that I had done him in my mind—he
might have wronged me, but not to that extent; and as I had hated
him like a demon for the last forty hours, the reaction from such
a feeling was so great that I could pardon all offences for the
moment—and love him in spite of them too).
‘I did tell you,’ said he, with an air of guilty
confusion; ‘you received my letter?’
‘What letter?’
‘The one announcing my intended marriage.’
‘I never received the most distant hint of such an
intention.’
‘It must have crossed you on your way then—it
should have reached you yesterday morning—it was rather
late, I acknowledge. But what brought you here, then, if
you received no information?’
It was now my turn to be confounded; but the young lady, who
had been busily patting the snow with her foot during our short
sotto-voce colloquy, very opportunely came to my assistance by
pinching her companion’s arm and whispering a suggestion
that his friend should be invited to step into the carriage and
go with them; it being scarcely agreeable to stand there among so
many gazers, and keeping their friends waiting into the
bargain.
‘And so cold as it is too!’ said he, glancing with
dismay at her slight drapery, and immediately handing her into
the carriage. ‘Markham, will you come? We are
going to Paris, but we can drop you anywhere between this and
Dover.’
‘No, thank you. Good-by—I needn’t wish
you a pleasant journey; but I shall expect a very handsome
apology, some time, mind, and scores of letters, before we meet
again.’
He shook my hand, and hastened to take his place beside his
lady. This was no time or place for explanation or
discourse: we had already stood long enough to excite the wonder
of the village sight-seers, and perhaps the wrath of the
attendant bridal party; though, of course, all this passed in a
much shorter time than I have taken to relate, or even than you
will take to read it. I stood beside the carriage, and, the
window being down, I saw my happy friend fondly encircle his
companion’s waist with his arm, while she rested her
glowing cheek on his shoulder, looking the very impersonation of
loving, trusting bliss. In the interval between the
footman’s closing the door and taking his place behind she
raised her smiling brown eyes to his face, observing,
playfully,—‘I fear you must think me very insensible,
Frederick: I know it is the custom for ladies to cry on these
occasions, but I couldn’t squeeze a tear for my
life.’
He only answered with a kiss, and pressed her still closer to
his bosom.
‘But what is this?’ he murmured. ‘Why,
Esther, you’re crying now!’
‘Oh, it’s nothing—it’s only too much
happiness—and the wish,’ sobbed she, ‘that our
dear Helen were as happy as ourselves.’
‘Bless you for that wish!’ I inwardly responded,
as the carriage rolled away—‘and heaven grant it be
not wholly vain!’
I thought a cloud had suddenly darkened her husband’s
face as she spoke. What did he think? Could he grudge
such happiness to his dear sister and his friend as he now felt
himself? At such a moment it was impossible. The
contrast between her fate and his must darken his bliss for a
time. Perhaps, too, he thought of me: perhaps he regretted
the part he had had in preventing our union, by omitting to help
us, if not by actually plotting against us. I exonerated
him from that charge now, and deeply lamented my former
ungenerous suspicions; but he had wronged us, still—I
hoped, I trusted that he had. He had not attempted to cheek
the course of our love by actually damming up the streams in
their passage, but he had passively watched the two currents
wandering through life’s arid wilderness, declining to
clear away the obstructions that divided them, and secretly
hoping that both would lose themselves in the sand before they
could be joined in one. And meantime he had been quietly
proceeding with his own affairs; perhaps, his heart and head had
been so full of his fair lady that he had had but little thought
to spare for others. Doubtless he had made his first
acquaintance with her—his first intimate acquaintance at
least—during his three months’ sojourn at F—,
for I now recollected that he had once casually let fall an
intimation that his aunt and sister had a young friend staying
with them at the time, and this accounted for at least one-half
his silence about all transactions there. Now, too, I saw a
reason for many little things that had slightly puzzled me
before; among the rest, for sundry departures from Woodford, and
absences more or less prolonged, for which he never
satisfactorily accounted, and concerning which he hated to be
questioned on his return. Well might the servant say his
master was ‘very close.’ But why this strange
reserve to me? Partly, from that remarkable idiosyncrasy to
which I have before alluded; partly, perhaps, from tenderness to
my feelings, or fear to disturb my philosophy by touching upon
the infectious theme of love.
CHAPTER LII
The tardy gig had overtaken me at last. I entered it,
and bade the man who brought it drive to Grassdale Manor—I
was too busy with my own thoughts to care to drive it
myself. I would see Mrs. Huntingdon—there could be no
impropriety in that now that her husband had been dead above a
year—and by her indifference or her joy at my unexpected
arrival I could soon tell whether her heart was truly mine.
But my companion, a loquacious, forward fellow, was not disposed
to leave me to the indulgence of my private cogitations.
‘There they go!’ said he, as the carriages filed
away before us. ‘There’ll be brave doings on
yonder to-day, as what come to-morra.—Know anything of that
family, sir? or you’re a stranger in these
parts?’
‘I know them by report.’
‘Humph! There’s the best of ’em gone,
anyhow. And I suppose the old missis is agoing to leave
after this stir’s gotten overed, and take herself off,
somewhere, to live on her bit of a jointure; and the young
’un—at least the new ’un (she’s none so
very young)—is coming down to live at the Grove.’
‘Is Mr. Hargrave married, then?’
‘Ay, sir, a few months since. He should a been wed
afore, to a widow lady, but they couldn’t agree over the
money: she’d a rare long purse, and Mr. Hargrave wanted it
all to hisself; but she wouldn’t let it go, and so then
they fell out. This one isn’t quite as rich, nor as
handsome either, but she hasn’t been married before.
She’s very plain, they say, and getting on to forty or
past, and so, you know, if she didn’t jump at this
hopportunity, she thought she’d never get a better. I
guess she thought such a handsome young husband was worth all
‘at ever she had, and he might take it and welcome, but I
lay she’ll rue her bargain afore long. They say she
begins already to see ‘at he isn’t not altogether
that nice, generous, perlite, delightful gentleman ‘at she
thought him afore marriage—he begins a being careless and
masterful already. Ay, and she’ll find him harder and
carelesser nor she thinks on.’
‘You seem to be well acquainted with him,’ I
observed.
‘I am, sir; I’ve known him since he was quite a
young gentleman; and a proud ’un he was, and a
wilful. I was servant yonder for several years; but I
couldn’t stand their niggardly ways—she got ever
longer and worse, did missis, with her nipping and screwing, and
watching and grudging; so I thought I’d find another
place.’
‘Are we not near the house?’ said I, interrupting
him.
‘Yes, sir; yond’s the park.’
My heart sank within me to behold that stately mansion in the
midst of its expansive grounds. The park as beautiful now,
in its wintry garb, as it could be in its summer glory: the
majestic sweep, the undulating swell and fall, displayed to full
advantage in that robe of dazzling purity, stainless and
printless—save one long, winding track left by the trooping
deer—the stately timber-trees with their heavy-laden
branches gleaming white against the dull, grey sky; the deep,
encircling woods; the broad expanse of water sleeping in frozen
quiet; and the weeping ash and willow drooping their snow-clad
boughs above it—all presented a picture, striking indeed,
and pleasing to an unencumbered mind, but by no means encouraging
to me. There was one comfort, however,—all this was
entailed upon little Arthur, and could not under any
circumstances, strictly speaking, be his mother’s.
But how was she situated? Overcoming with a sudden effort
my repugnance to mention her name to my garrulous companion, I
asked him if he knew whether her late husband had left a will,
and how the property had been disposed of. Oh, yes, he knew
all about it; and I was quickly informed that to her had been
left the full control and management of the estate during her
son’s minority, besides the absolute, unconditional
possession of her own fortune (but I knew that her father had not
given her much), and the small additional sum that had been
settled upon her before marriage.
Before the close of the explanation we drew up at the
park-gates. Now for the trial. If I should find her
within—but alas! she might be still at Staningley: her
brother had given me no intimation to the contrary. I
inquired at the porter’s lodge if Mrs. Huntingdon were at
home. No, she was with her aunt in —shire, but was
expected to return before Christmas. She usually spent most
of her time at Staningley, only coming to Grassdale occasionally,
when the management of affairs, or the interest of her tenants
and dependents, required her presence.
‘Near what town is Staningley situated?’ I
asked. The requisite information was soon obtained.
‘Now then, my man, give me the reins, and we’ll
return to M—. I must have some breakfast at the
“Rose and Crown,” and then away to Staningley by the
first coach for —.’
At M— I had time before the coach started to replenish
my forces with a hearty breakfast, and to obtain the refreshment
of my usual morning’s ablutions, and the amelioration of
some slight change in my toilet, and also to despatch a short
note to my mother (excellent son that I was), to assure her that
I was still in existence, and to excuse my non-appearance at the
expected time. It was a long journey to Staningley for
those slow-travelling days, but I did not deny myself needful
refreshment on the road, nor even a night’s rest at a
wayside inn, choosing rather to brook a little delay than to
present myself worn, wild, and weather-beaten before my mistress
and her aunt, who would be astonished enough to see me without
that. Next morning, therefore, I not only fortified myself
with as substantial a breakfast as my excited feelings would
allow me to swallow, but I bestowed a little more than usual time
and care upon my toilet; and, furnished with a change of linen
from my small carpet-bag, well-brushed clothes, well-polished
boots, and neat new gloves, I mounted ‘The
Lightning,’ and resumed my journey. I had nearly two
stages yet before me, but the coach, I was informed, passed
through the neighbourhood of Staningley, and having desired to be
set down as near the Hall as possible, I had nothing to do but to
sit with folded arms and speculate upon the coming hour.
It was a clear, frosty morning. The very fact of sitting
exalted aloft, surveying the snowy landscape and sweet sunny sky,
inhaling the pure, bracing air, and crunching away over the crisp
frozen snow, was exhilarating enough in itself; but add to this
the idea of to what goal I was hastening, and whom I expected to
meet, and you may have some faint conception of my frame of mind
at the time—only a faint one, though: for my heart swelled
with unspeakable delight, and my spirits rose almost to madness,
in spite of my prudent endeavours to bind them down to a
reasonable platitude by thinking of the undeniable difference
between Helen’s rank and mine; of all that she had passed
through since our parting; of her long, unbroken silence; and,
above all, of her cool, cautious aunt, whose counsels she would
doubtless be careful not to slight again. These
considerations made my heart flutter with anxiety, and my chest
heave with impatience to get the crisis over; but they could not
dim her image in my mind, or mar the vivid recollection of what
had been said and felt between us, or destroy the keen
anticipation of what was to be: in fact, I could not realise
their terrors now. Towards the close of the journey,
however, a couple of my fellow-passengers kindly came to my
assistance, and brought me low enough.
‘Fine land this,’ said one of them, pointing with
his umbrella to the wide fields on the right, conspicuous for
their compact hedgerows, deep, well-cut ditches, and fine
timber-trees, growing sometimes on the borders, sometimes in the
midst of the enclosure: ‘very fine land, if you saw it in
the summer or spring.’
‘Ay,’ responded the other, a gruff elderly man,
with a drab greatcoat buttoned up to the chin, and a cotton
umbrella between his knees. ‘It’s old
Maxwell’s, I suppose.’
‘It was his, sir; but he’s dead now, you’re
aware, and has left it all to his niece.’
‘All?’
‘Every rood of it, and the mansion-house and all! every
hatom of his worldly goods, except just a trifle, by way of
remembrance, to his nephew down in —shire, and an annuity
to his wife.’
‘It’s strange, sir!’
‘It is, sir; and she wasn’t his own niece
neither. But he had no near relations of his own—none
but a nephew he’d quarrelled with; and he always had a
partiality for this one. And then his wife advised him to
it, they say: she’d brought most of the property, and it
was her wish that this lady should have it.’
‘Humph! She’ll be a fine catch for
somebody.’
‘She will so. She’s a widow, but quite young
yet, and uncommon handsome: a fortune of her own, besides, and
only one child, and she’s nursing a fine estate for him in
—. There’ll be lots to speak for her!
’fraid there’s no chance for
uz’—(facetiously jogging me with his elbow, as well
as his companion)—‘ha, ha, ha! No offence, sir,
I hope?’—(to me). ‘Ahem! I should
think she’ll marry none but a nobleman myself. Look
ye, sir,’ resumed he, turning to his other neighbour, and
pointing past me with his umbrella, ‘that’s the Hall:
grand park, you see, and all them woods—plenty of timber
there, and lots of game. Hallo! what now?’
This exclamation was occasioned by the sudden stoppage of the
coach at the park-gates.
‘Gen’leman for Staningley Hall?’ cried the
coachman and I rose and threw my carpet-bag on to the ground,
preparatory to dropping myself down after it.
‘Sickly, sir?’ asked my talkative neighbour,
staring me in the face. I daresay it was white enough.
‘No. Here, coachman!’
‘Thank’ee, sir.—All right!’
The coachman pocketed his fee and drove away, leaving me, not
walking up the park, but pacing to and fro before its gates, with
folded arms, and eyes fixed upon the ground, an overwhelming
force of images, thoughts, impressions crowding on my mind, and
nothing tangibly distinct but this: My love had been cherished in
vain—my hope was gone for ever; I must tear myself away at
once, and banish or suppress all thoughts of her, like the
remembrance of a wild, mad dream. Gladly would I have
lingered round the place for hours, in the hope of catching at
least one distant glimpse of her before I went, but it must not
be—I must not suffer her to see me; for what could have
brought me hither but the hope of reviving her attachment, with a
view hereafter to obtain her hand? And could I bear that
she should think me capable of such a thing?—of presuming
upon the acquaintance—the love, if you
will—accidentally contracted, or rather forced upon her
against her will, when she was an unknown fugitive, toiling for
her own support, apparently without fortune, family, or
connections; to come upon her now, when she was reinstated in her
proper sphere, and claim a share in her prosperity, which, had it
never failed her, would most certainly have kept her unknown to
me for ever? And this, too, when we had parted sixteen
months ago, and she had expressly forbidden me to hope for a
re-union in this world, and never sent me a line or a message
from that day to this. No! The very idea was
intolerable.
And even if she should have a lingering affection for me
still, ought I to disturb her peace by awakening those feelings?
to subject her to the struggles of conflicting duty and
inclination—to whichsoever side the latter might allure, or
the former imperatively call her—whether she should deem it
her duty to risk the slights and censures of the world, the
sorrow and displeasure of those she loved, for a romantic idea of
truth and constancy to me, or to sacrifice her individual wishes
to the feelings of her friends and her own sense of prudence and
the fitness of things? No—and I would not! I
would go at once, and she should never know that I had approached
the place of her abode: for though I might disclaim all idea of
ever aspiring to her hand, or even of soliciting a place in her
friendly regard, her peace should not be broken by my presence,
nor her heart afflicted by the sight of my fidelity.
‘Adieu then, dear Helen, forever! Forever
adieu!’
So said I—and yet I could not tear myself away. I
moved a few paces, and then looked back, for one last view of her
stately home, that I might have its outward form, at least,
impressed upon my mind as indelibly as her own image, which,
alas! I must not see again—then walked a few steps further;
and then, lost in melancholy musings, paused again and leant my
back against a rough old tree that grew beside the road.
CHAPTER LIII
While standing thus, absorbed in my gloomy reverie, a
gentleman’s carriage came round the corner of the
road. I did not look at it; and had it rolled quietly by
me, I should not have remembered the fact of its appearance at
all; but a tiny voice from within it roused me by exclaiming,
‘Mamma, mamma, here’s Mr. Markham!’
I did not hear the reply, but presently the same voice
answered, ‘It is indeed, mamma—look for
yourself.’
I did not raise my eyes, but I suppose mamma looked, for a
clear melodious voice, whose tones thrilled through my nerves,
exclaimed, ‘Oh, aunt! here’s Mr. Markham,
Arthur’s friend! Stop, Richard!’
There was such evidence of joyous though suppressed excitement
in the utterance of those few words—especially that
tremulous, ‘Oh, aunt’—that it threw me almost
off my guard. The carriage stopped immediately, and I
looked up and met the eye of a pale, grave, elderly lady
surveying me from the open window. She bowed, and so did I,
and then she withdrew her head, while Arthur screamed to the
footman to let him out; but before that functionary could descend
from his box a hand was silently put forth from the carriage
window. I knew that hand, though a black glove concealed
its delicate whiteness and half its fair proportions, and quickly
seizing it, I pressed it in my own—ardently for a moment,
but instantly recollecting myself, I dropped it, and it was
immediately withdrawn.
‘Were you coming to see us, or only passing by?’
asked the low voice of its owner, who, I felt, was attentively
surveying my countenance from behind the thick black veil which,
with the shadowing panels, entirely concealed her own from
me.
‘I—I came to see the place,’ faltered I.
‘The place,’ repeated she, in a tone which
betokened more displeasure or disappointment than surprise.
‘Will you not enter it, then?’
‘If you wish it.’
‘Can you doubt?’
‘Yes, yes! he must enter,’ cried Arthur, running
round from the other door; and seizing my hand in both his, he
shook it heartily.
‘Do you remember me, sir?’ said he.
‘Yes, full well, my little man, altered though you
are,’ replied I, surveying the comparatively tall, slim
young gentleman, with his mother’s image visibly stamped
upon his fair, intelligent features, in spite of the blue eyes
beaming with gladness, and the bright locks clustering beneath
his cap.
‘Am I not grown?’ said he, stretching himself up
to his full height.
‘Grown! three inches, upon my word!’
‘I was seven last birthday,’ was the proud
rejoinder. ‘In seven years more I shall be as tall as
you nearly.’
‘Arthur,’ said his mother, ‘tell him to come
in. Go on, Richard.’
There was a touch of sadness as well as coldness in her voice,
but I knew not to what to ascribe it. The carriage drove on
and entered the gates before us. My little companion led me
up the park, discoursing merrily all the way. Arrived at
the hall-door, I paused on the steps and looked round me, waiting
to recover my composure, if possible—or, at any rate, to
remember my new-formed resolutions and the principles on which
they were founded; and it was not till Arthur had been for some
time gently pulling my coat, and repeating his invitations to
enter, that I at length consented to accompany him into the
apartment where the ladies awaited us.
Helen eyed me as I entered with a kind of gentle, serious
scrutiny, and politely asked after Mrs. Markham and Rose. I
respectfully answered her inquiries. Mrs. Maxwell begged me
to be seated, observing it was rather cold, but she supposed I
had not travelled far that morning.
‘Not quite twenty miles,’ I answered.
‘Not on foot!’
‘No, Madam, by coach.’
‘Here’s Rachel, sir,’ said Arthur, the only
truly happy one amongst us, directing my attention to that worthy
individual, who had just entered to take her mistress’s
things. She vouchsafed me an almost friendly smile of
recognition—a favour that demanded, at least, a civil
salutation on my part, which was accordingly given and
respectfully returned—she had seen the error of her former
estimation of my character.
When Helen was divested of her lugubrious bonnet and veil, her
heavy winter cloak, &c., she looked so like herself that I
knew not how to bear it. I was particularly glad to see her
beautiful black hair, unstinted still, and unconcealed in its
glossy luxuriance.
‘Mamma has left off her widow’s cap in honour of
uncle’s marriage,’ observed Arthur, reading my looks
with a child’s mingled simplicity and quickness of
observation. Mamma looked grave and Mrs. Maxwell shook her
head. ‘And aunt Maxwell is never going to leave off
hers,’ persisted the naughty boy; but when he saw that his
pertness was seriously displeasing and painful to his aunt, he
went and silently put his arm round her neck, kissed her cheek,
and withdrew to the recess of one of the great bay-windows, where
he quietly amused himself with his dog, while Mrs. Maxwell
gravely discussed with me the interesting topics of the weather,
the season, and the roads. I considered her presence very
useful as a check upon my natural impulses—an antidote to
those emotions of tumultuous excitement which would otherwise
have carried me away against my reason and my will; but just then
I felt the restraint almost intolerable, and I had the greatest
difficulty in forcing myself to attend to her remarks and answer
them with ordinary politeness; for I was sensible that Helen was
standing within a few feet of me beside the fire. I dared
not look at her, but I felt her eye was upon me, and from one
hasty, furtive glance, I thought her cheek was slightly flushed,
and that her fingers, as she played with her watch-chain, were
agitated with that restless, trembling motion which betokens high
excitement.
‘Tell me,’ said she, availing herself of the first
pause in the attempted conversation between her aunt and me, and
speaking fast and low, with her eyes bent on the gold
chain—for I now ventured another glance—‘Tell
me how you all are at Linden-hope—has nothing happened
since I left you?’
‘I believe not.’
‘Nobody dead? nobody married?’
‘No.’
‘Or—or expecting to marry?—No old ties
dissolved or new ones formed? no old friends forgotten or
supplanted?’
She dropped her voice so low in the last sentence that no one
could have caught the concluding words but myself, and at the
same time turned her eyes upon me with a dawning smile, most
sweetly melancholy, and a look of timid though keen inquiry that
made my cheeks tingle with inexpressible emotions.
‘I believe not,’ I answered.
‘Certainly not, if others are as little changed as
I.’ Her face glowed in sympathy with mine.
‘And you really did not mean to call?’ she
exclaimed.
‘I feared to intrude.’
‘To intrude!’ cried she, with an impatient
gesture. ‘What—‘ but as if suddenly
recollecting her aunt’s presence, she checked herself, and,
turning to that lady, continued—‘Why, aunt, this man
is my brother’s close friend, and was my own intimate
acquaintance (for a few short months at least), and professed a
great attachment to my boy—and when he passes the house, so
many scores of miles from his home, he declines to look in for
fear of intruding!’
‘Mr. Markham is over-modest,’ observed Mrs.
Maxwell.
‘Over-ceremonious rather,’ said her
niece—‘over—well, it’s no
matter.’ And turning from me, she seated herself in a
chair beside the table, and pulling a book to her by the cover,
began to turn over the leaves in an energetic kind of
abstraction.
‘If I had known,’ said I, ‘that you would
have honoured me by remembering me as an intimate acquaintance, I
most likely should not have denied myself the pleasure of calling
upon you, but I thought you had forgotten me long ago.’
‘You judged of others by yourself,’ muttered she
without raising her eyes from the book, but reddening as she
spoke, and hastily turning over a dozen leaves at once.
There was a pause, of which Arthur thought he might venture to
avail himself to introduce his handsome young setter, and show me
how wonderfully it was grown and improved, and to ask after the
welfare of its father Sancho. Mrs. Maxwell then withdrew to
take off her things. Helen immediately pushed the book from
her, and after silently surveying her son, his friend, and his
dog for a few moments, she dismissed the former from the room
under pretence of wishing him to fetch his last new book to show
me. The child obeyed with alacrity; but I continued
caressing the dog. The silence might have lasted till its
master’s return, had it depended on me to break it; but, in
half a minute or less, my hostess impatiently rose, and, taking
her former station on the rug between me and the chimney corner,
earnestly exclaimed—
‘Gilbert, what is the matter with you?—why are you
so changed? It is a very indiscreet question, I
know,’ she hastened to add: ‘perhaps a very rude
one—don’t answer it if you think so—but I hate
mysteries and concealments.’
‘I am not changed, Helen—unfortunately I am as
keen and passionate as ever—it is not I, it is
circumstances that are changed.’
‘What circumstances? Do tell me!’ Her
cheek was blanched with the very anguish of anxiety—could
it be with the fear that I had rashly pledged my faith to
another?
‘I’ll tell you at once,’ said I.
‘I will confess that I came here for the purpose of seeing
you (not without some monitory misgivings at my own presumption,
and fears that I should be as little welcome as expected when I
came), but I did not know that this estate was yours until
enlightened on the subject of your inheritance by the
conversation of two fellow-passengers in the last stage of my
journey; and then I saw at once the folly of the hopes I had
cherished, and the madness of retaining them a moment longer; and
though I alighted at your gates, I determined not to enter within
them; I lingered a few minutes to see the place, but was fully
resolved to return to M— without seeing its
mistress.’
‘And if my aunt and I had not been just returning from
our morning drive, I should have seen and heard no more of
you?’
‘I thought it would be better for both that we should
not meet,’ replied I, as calmly as I could, but not daring
to speak above my breath, from conscious inability to steady my
voice, and not daring to look in her face lest my firmness should
forsake me altogether. ‘I thought an interview would
only disturb your peace and madden me. But I am glad, now,
of this opportunity of seeing you once more and knowing that you
have not forgotten me, and of assuring you that I shall never
cease to remember you.’
There was a moment’s pause. Mrs. Huntingdon moved
away, and stood in the recess of the window. Did she regard
this as an intimation that modesty alone prevented me from asking
her hand? and was she considering how to repulse me with the
smallest injury to my feelings? Before I could speak to
relieve her from such a perplexity, she broke the silence herself
by suddenly turning towards me and observing—
‘You might have had such an opportunity before—as
far, I mean, as regards assuring me of your kindly recollections,
and yourself of mine, if you had written to me.’
‘I would have done so, but I did not know your address,
and did not like to ask your brother, because I thought he would
object to my writing; but this would not have deterred me for a
moment, if I could have ventured to believe that you expected to
hear from me, or even wasted a thought upon your unhappy friend;
but your silence naturally led me to conclude myself
forgotten.’
‘Did you expect me to write to you, then?’
‘No, Helen—Mrs. Huntingdon,’ said I,
blushing at the implied imputation, ‘certainly not; but if
you had sent me a message through your brother, or even asked him
about me now and then—’
‘I did ask about you frequently. I was not going
to do more,’ continued she, smiling, ‘so long as you
continued to restrict yourself to a few polite inquiries about my
health.’
‘Your brother never told me that you had mentioned my
name.’
‘Did you ever ask him?’
‘No; for I saw he did not wish to be questioned about
you, or to afford the slightest encouragement or assistance to my
too obstinate attachment.’ Helen did not reply.
‘And he was perfectly right,’ added I. But she
remained in silence, looking out upon the snowy lawn.
‘Oh, I will relieve her of my presence,’ thought I;
and immediately I rose and advanced to take leave, with a most
heroic resolution—but pride was at the bottom of it, or it
could not have carried me through.
‘Are you going already?’ said she, taking the hand
I offered, and not immediately letting it go.
‘Why should I stay any longer?’
‘Wait till Arthur comes, at least.’
Only too glad to obey, I stood and leant against the opposite
side of the window.
‘You told me you were not changed,’ said my
companion: ‘you are—very much so.’
‘No, Mrs. Huntingdon, I only ought to be.’
‘Do you mean to maintain that you have the same regard
for me that you had when last we met?’
‘I have; but it would be wrong to talk of it
now.’
‘It was wrong to talk of it then, Gilbert; it would not
now—unless to do so would be to violate the
truth.’
I was too much agitated to speak; but, without waiting for an
answer, she turned away her glistening eye and crimson cheek, and
threw up the window and looked out, whether to calm her own,
excited feelings, or to relieve her embarrassment, or only to
pluck that beautiful half-blown Christmas-rose that grew upon the
little shrub without, just peeping from the snow that had
hitherto, no doubt, defended it from the frost, and was now
melting away in the sun. Pluck it, however, she did, and
having gently dashed the glittering powder from its leaves,
approached it to her lips and said:
‘This rose is not so fragrant as a summer flower, but it
has stood through hardships none of them could bear: the cold
rain of winter has sufficed to nourish it, and its faint sun to
warm it; the bleak winds have not blanched it, or broken its
stem, and the keen frost has not blighted it. Look,
Gilbert, it is still fresh and blooming as a flower can be, with
the cold snow even now on its petals.—Will you have
it?’
I held out my hand: I dared not speak lest my emotion should
overmaster me. She laid the rose across my palm, but I
scarcely closed my fingers upon it, so deeply was I absorbed in
thinking what might be the meaning of her words, and what I ought
to do or say upon the occasion; whether to give way to my
feelings or restrain them still. Misconstruing this
hesitation into indifference—or reluctance even—to
accept her gift, Helen suddenly snatched it from my hand, threw
it out on to the snow, shut down the window with an emphasis, and
withdrew to the fire.
‘Helen, what means this?’ I cried, electrified at
this startling change in her demeanour.
‘You did not understand my gift,’ said
she—‘or, what is worse, you despised it.
I’m sorry I gave it you; but since I did make such a
mistake, the only remedy I could think of was to take it
away.’
‘You misunderstood me cruelly,’ I replied, and in
a minute I had opened the window again, leaped out, picked up the
flower, brought it in, and presented it to her, imploring her to
give it me again, and I would keep it for ever for her sake, and
prize it more highly than anything in the world I possessed.
‘And will this content you?’ said she, as she took
it in her hand.
‘It shall,’ I answered.
‘There, then; take it.’
I pressed it earnestly to my lips, and put it in my bosom,
Mrs. Huntingdon looking on with a half-sarcastic smile.
‘Now, are you going?’ said she.
‘I will if—if I must.’
‘You are changed,’ persisted she—‘you
are grown either very proud or very indifferent.’
‘I am neither, Helen—Mrs. Huntingdon. If you
could see my heart—’
‘You must be one,—if not both. And why Mrs.
Huntingdon?—why not Helen, as before?’
‘Helen, then—dear Helen!’ I murmured.
I was in an agony of mingled love, hope, delight, uncertainty,
and suspense.
‘The rose I gave you was an emblem of my heart,’
said she; ‘would you take it away and leave me here
alone?’
‘Would you give me your hand too, if I asked
it?’
‘Have I not said enough?’ she answered, with a
most enchanting smile. I snatched her hand, and would have
fervently kissed it, but suddenly checked myself, and
said,—
‘But have you considered the consequences?’
‘Hardly, I think, or I should not have offered myself to
one too proud to take me, or too indifferent to make his
affection outweigh my worldly goods.’
Stupid blockhead that I was!—I trembled to clasp her in
my arms, but dared not believe in so much joy, and yet restrained
myself to say,—
‘But if you should repent!’
‘It would be your fault,’ she replied: ‘I
never shall, unless you bitterly disappoint me. If you have
not sufficient confidence in my affection to believe this, let me
alone.’
‘My darling angel—my own Helen,’ cried I,
now passionately kissing the hand I still retained, and throwing
my left arm around her, ‘you never shall repent, if it
depend on me alone. But have you thought of your
aunt?’ I trembled for the answer, and clasped her
closer to my heart in the instinctive dread of losing my
new-found treasure.
‘My aunt must not know of it yet,’ said she.
‘She would think it a rash, wild step, because she could
not imagine how well I know you; but she must know you herself,
and learn to like you. You must leave us now, after lunch,
and come again in spring, and make a longer stay, and cultivate
her acquaintance, and I know you will like each other.’
‘And then you will be mine,’ said I, printing a
kiss upon her lips, and another, and another; for I was as daring
and impetuous now as I had been backward and constrained
before.
‘No—in another year,’ replied she, gently
disengaging herself from my embrace, but still fondly clasping my
hand.
‘Another year! Oh, Helen, I could not wait so
long!’
‘Where is your fidelity?’
‘I mean I could not endure the misery of so long a
separation.’
‘It would not be a separation: we will write every day:
my spirit shall be always with you, and sometimes you shall see
me with your bodily eye. I will not be such a hypocrite as
to pretend that I desire to wait so long myself, but as my
marriage is to please myself, alone, I ought to consult my
friends about the time of it.’
‘Your friends will disapprove.’
‘They will not greatly disapprove, dear Gilbert,’
said she, earnestly kissing my hand; ‘they cannot, when
they know you, or, if they could, they would not be true
friends—I should not care for their estrangement. Now
are you satisfied?’ She looked up in my face with a
smile of ineffable tenderness.
‘Can I be otherwise, with your love? And you do
love me, Helen?’ said I, not doubting the fact, but wishing
to hear it confirmed by her own acknowledgment. ‘If
you loved as I do,’ she earnestly replied, ‘you would
not have so nearly lost me—these scruples of false delicacy
and pride would never thus have troubled you—you would have
seen that the greatest worldly distinctions and discrepancies of
rank, birth, and fortune are as dust in the balance compared with
the unity of accordant thoughts and feelings, and truly loving,
sympathising hearts and souls.’
‘But this is too much happiness,’ said I,
embracing her again; ‘I have not deserved it, Helen—I
dare not believe in such felicity: and the longer I have to wait,
the greater will be my dread that something will intervene to
snatch you from me—and think, a thousand things may happen
in a year!—I shall be in one long fever of restless terror
and impatience all the time. And besides, winter is such a
dreary season.’
‘I thought so too,’ replied she gravely: ‘I
would not be married in winter—in December, at
least,’ she added, with a shudder—for in that month
had occurred both the ill-starred marriage that had bound her to
her former husband, and the terrible death that released
her—‘and therefore I said another year, in
spring.’
‘Next spring?’
‘No, no—next autumn, perhaps.’
‘Summer, then?’
‘Well, the close of summer. There now! be
satisfied.’
While she was speaking Arthur re-entered the room—good
boy for keeping out so long.
‘Mamma, I couldn’t find the book in either of the
places you told me to look for it’ (there was a conscious
something in mamma’s smile that seemed to say, ‘No,
dear, I knew you could not’), ‘but Rachel got it for
me at last. Look, Mr. Markham, a natural history, with all
kinds of birds and beasts in it, and the reading as nice as the
pictures!’
In great good humour I sat down to examine the book, and drew
the little fellow between my knees. Had he come a minute
before I should have received him less graciously, but now I
affectionately stroked his curling looks, and even kissed his
ivory forehead: he was my own Helen’s son, and therefore
mine; and as such I have ever since regarded him. That
pretty child is now a fine young man: he has realised his
mother’s brightest expectations, and is at present residing
in Grassdale Manor with his young wife—the merry little
Helen Hattersley of yore.
I had not looked through half the book before Mrs. Maxwell
appeared to invite me into the other room to lunch. That
lady’s cool, distant manners rather chilled me at first;
but I did my best to propitiate her, and not entirely without
success, I think, even in that first short visit; for when I
talked cheerfully to her, she gradually became more kind and
cordial, and when I departed she bade me a gracious adieu, hoping
ere long to have the pleasure of seeing me again.
‘But you must not go till you have seen the
conservatory, my aunt’s winter garden,’ said Helen,
as I advanced to take leave of her, with as much philosophy and
self-command as I could summon to my aid.
I gladly availed myself of such a respite, and followed her
into a large and beautiful conservatory, plentifully furnished
with flowers, considering the season—but, of course, I had
little attention to spare for them. It was not, however,
for any tender colloquy that my companion had brought me
there:—
‘My aunt is particularly fond of flowers,’ she
observed, ‘and she is fond of Staningley too: I brought you
here to offer a petition in her behalf, that this may be her home
as long as she lives, and—if it be not our home
likewise—that I may often see her and be with her; for I
fear she will be sorry to lose me; and though she leads a retired
and contemplative life, she is apt to get low-spirited if left
too much alone.’
‘By all means, dearest Helen!—do what you will
with your own. I should not dream of wishing your aunt to
leave the place under any circumstances; and we will live either
here or elsewhere as you and she may determine, and you shall see
her as often as you like. I know she must be pained to part
with you, and I am willing to make any reparation in my
power. I love her for your sake, and her happiness shall be
as dear to me as that of my own mother.’
‘Thank you, darling! you shall have a kiss for
that. Good-by. There now—there,
Gilbert—let me go—here’s Arthur; don’t
astonish his infantile brain with your madness.’
* * * * *
But it is time to bring my narrative to a close. Any one
but you would say I had made it too long already. But for
your satisfaction I will add a few words more; because I know you
will have a fellow-feeling for the old lady, and will wish to
know the last of her history. I did come again in spring,
and, agreeably to Helen’s injunctions, did my best to
cultivate her acquaintance. She received me very kindly,
having been, doubtless, already prepared to think highly of my
character by her niece’s too favourable report. I
turned my best side out, of course, and we got along marvellously
well together. When my ambitious intentions were made known
to her, she took it more sensibly than I had ventured to
hope. Her only remark on the subject, in my hearing,
was—
‘And so, Mr. Markham, you are going to rob me of my
niece, I understand. Well! I hope God will prosper
your union, and make my dear girl happy at last. Could she
have been contented to remain single, I own I should have been
better satisfied; but if she must marry again, I know of no one,
now living and of a suitable age, to whom I would more willingly
resign her than yourself, or who would be more likely to
appreciate her worth and make, her truly happy, as far as I can
tell.’
Of course I was delighted with the compliment, and hoped to
show her that she was not mistaken in her favourable
judgment.
‘I have, however, one request to offer,’ continued
she. ‘It seems I am still to look on Staningley as my
home: I wish you to make it yours likewise, for Helen is attached
to the place and to me—as I am to her. There are
painful associations connected with Grassdale, which she cannot
easily overcome; and I shall not molest you with my company or
interference here: I am a very quiet person, and shall keep my
own apartments, and attend to my own concerns, and only see you
now and then.’
Of course I most readily consented to this; and we lived in
the greatest harmony with our dear aunt until the day of her
death, which melancholy event took place a few years
after—melancholy, not to herself (for it came quietly upon
her, and she was glad to reach her journey’s end), but only
to the few loving friends and grateful dependents she left
behind.
To return, however, to my own affairs: I was married in
summer, on a glorious August morning. It took the whole
eight months, and all Helen’s kindness and goodness to
boot, to overcome my mother’s prejudices against my
bride-elect, and to reconcile her to the idea of my leaving
Linden Grange and living so far away. Yet she was gratified
at her son’s good fortune after all, and proudly attributed
it all to his own superior merits and endowments. I
bequeathed the farm to Fergus, with better hopes of its
prosperity than I should have had a year ago under similar
circumstances; for he had lately fallen in love with the Vicar of
L—’s eldest daughter—a lady whose superiority
had roused his latent virtues, and stimulated him to the most
surprising exertions, not only to gain her affection and esteem,
and to obtain a fortune sufficient to aspire to her hand, but to
render himself worthy of her, in his own eyes, as well as in
those of her parents; and in the end he was successful, as you
already know. As for myself, I need not tell you how
happily my Helen and I have lived together, and how blessed we
still are in each other’s society, and in the promising
young scions that are growing up about us. We are just now
looking forward to the advent of you and Rose, for the time of
your annual visit draws nigh, when you must leave your dusty,
smoky, noisy, toiling, striving city for a season of invigorating
relaxation and social retirement with us.
Till then, farewell,
Gilbert Markham.
Staningley: June
10th, 1847.
the
end
Printed by Spottiswoode, Ballentyne
& Co. Ltd.
Colchester, London & Eton, England.
Footnotes:
Introduction to Wuthering
Heights, p. xl. ‘Still, as I mused the naked
room,’ &c.
This Preface is now printed here
for the first time in a collected edition of the works of the
Brontë sisters.
books, favouritebooks, classicbooks, our favouriteauthor, classicbooks, freedownload, booksauthor, favourite
free booksclassic booksfree classic booksdownload free booksdownload classic booksdownload free classic booksfree novels
freeclassicsbooksdownloadfree download classic booksdownload classicdownload novels
|