Wildfell Hall 8

THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL

PART 8

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?

To be continued

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Wildfell Hall 7

THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL

PART 7

 

 

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.

To be continued

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