Wildfell Hall 13

THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL

PART 13

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.

To be continued

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