Wildfell Hall 15

THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL

PART 15

CHAPTER XXXII

 

October 5th.—Esther Hargrave is getting a fine girl.  She is not out of the school-room yet, but her mother frequently brings her over to call in the mornings when the gentlemen are out, and sometimes she spends an hour or two in company with her sister and me, and the children; and when we go to the Grove, I always contrive to see her, and talk more to her than to any one else, for I am very much attached to my little friend, and so is she to me.  I wonder what she can see to like in me though, for I am no longer the happy, lively girl I used to be; but she has no other society, save that of her uncongenial mother, and her governess (as artificial and conventional a person as that prudent mother could procure to rectify the pupil’s natural qualities), and, now and then, her subdued, quiet sister.  I often wonder what will be her lot in life, and so does she; but her speculations on the future are full of buoyant hope; so were mine once.  I shudder to think of her being awakened, like me, to a sense of their delusive vanity.  It seems as if I should feel her disappointment, even more deeply than my own.  I feel almost as if I were born for such a fate, but she is so joyous and fresh, so light of heart and free of spirit, and so guileless and unsuspecting too.  Oh, it would be cruel to make her feel as I feel now, and know what I have known!

Her sister trembles for her too.  Yesterday morning, one of October’s brightest, loveliest days, Milicent and I were in the garden enjoying a brief half-hour together with our children, while Annabella was lying on the drawing-room sofa, deep in the last new novel.  We had been romping with the little creatures, almost as merry and wild as themselves, and now paused in the shade of the tall copper beech, to recover breath and rectify our hair, disordered by the rough play and the frolicsome breeze, while they toddled together along the broad, sunny walk; my Arthur supporting the feebler steps of her little Helen, and sagaciously pointing out to her the brightest beauties of the border as they passed, with semi-articulate prattle, that did as well for her as any other mode of discourse.  From laughing at the pretty sight, we began to talk of the children’s future life; and that made us thoughtful.  We both relapsed into silent musing as we slowly proceeded up the walk; and I suppose Milicent, by a train of associations, was led to think of her sister.

‘Helen,’ said she, ‘you often see Esther, don’t you?’

‘Not very often.’

‘But you have more frequent opportunities of meeting her than I have; and she loves you, I know, and reverences you too: there is nobody’s opinion she thinks so much of; and she says you have more sense than mamma.’

‘That is because she is self-willed, and my opinions more generally coincide with her own than your mamma’s.  But what then, Milicent?’

‘Well, since you have so much influence with her, I wish you would seriously impress it upon her, never, on any account, or for anybody’s persuasion, to marry for the sake of money, or rank, or establishment, or any earthly thing, but true affection and well-grounded esteem.’

‘There is no necessity for that,’ said I, ‘for we have had some discourse on that subject already, and I assure you her ideas of love and matrimony are as romantic as any one could desire.’

‘But romantic notions will not do: I want her to have true notions.’

‘Very right: but in my judgment, what the world stigmatises as romantic, is often more nearly allied to the truth than is commonly supposed; for, if the generous ideas of youth are too often over-clouded by the sordid views of after-life, that scarcely proves them to be false.’

‘Well, but if you think her ideas are what they ought to be, strengthen them, will you? and confirm them, as far as you can; for I had romantic notions once, and—I don’t mean to say that I regret my lot, for I am quite sure I don’t, but—’

‘I understand you,’ said I; ‘you are contented for yourself, but you would not have your sister to suffer the same as you.’

‘No—or worse.  She might have far worse to suffer than I, for I am really contented, Helen, though you mayn’t think it: I speak the solemn truth in saying that I would not exchange my husband for any man on earth, if I might do it by the plucking of this leaf.’

‘Well, I believe you: now that you have him, you would not exchange him for another; but then you would gladly exchange some of his qualities for those of better men.’

‘Yes: just as I would gladly exchange some of my own qualities for those of better women; for neither he nor I are perfect, and I desire his improvement as earnestly as my own.  And he will improve, don’t you think so, Helen? he’s only six-and-twenty yet.’

‘He may,’ I answered,

‘He will, he will!’ repeated she.

‘Excuse the faintness of my acquiescence, Milicent, I would not discourage your hopes for the world, but mine have been so often disappointed, that I am become as cold and doubtful in my expectations as the flattest of octogenarians.’

‘And yet you do hope, still, even for Mr. Huntingdon?’

‘I do, I confess, “even” for him; for it seems as if life and hope must cease together.  And is he so much worse, Milicent, than Mr. Hattersley?’

‘Well, to give you my candid opinion, I think there is no comparison between them.  But you mustn’t be offended, Helen, for you know I always speak my mind, and you may speak yours too.  I sha’n’t care.’

‘I am not offended, love; and my opinion is, that if there be a comparison made between the two, the difference, for the most part, is certainly in Hattersley’s favour.’

Milicent’s own heart told her how much it cost me to make this acknowledgment; and, with a childlike impulse, she expressed her sympathy by suddenly kissing my cheek, without a word of reply, and then turning quickly away, caught up her baby, and hid her face in its frock.  How odd it is that we so often weep for each other’s distresses, when we shed not a tear for our own!  Her heart had been full enough of her own sorrows, but it overflowed at the idea of mine; and I, too, shed tears at the sight of her sympathetic emotion, though I had not wept for myself for many a week.

It was one rainy day last week; most of the company were killing time in the billiard-room, but Milicent and I were with little Arthur and Helen in the library, and between our books, our children, and each other, we expected to make out a very agreeable morning.  We had not been thus secluded above two hours, however, when Mr. Hattersley came in, attracted, I suppose, by the voice of his child, as he was crossing the hall, for he is prodigiously fond of her, and she of him.

He was redolent of the stables, where he had been regaling himself with the company of his fellow-creatures the horses ever since breakfast.  But that was no matter to my little namesake; as soon as the colossal person of her father darkened the door, she uttered a shrill scream of delight, and, quitting her mother’s side, ran crowing towards him, balancing her course with outstretched arms, and embracing his knee, threw back her head and laughed in his face.  He might well look smilingly down upon those small, fair features, radiant with innocent mirth, those clear blue shining eyes, and that soft flaxen hair cast back upon the little ivory neck and shoulders.  Did he not think how unworthy he was of such a possession?  I fear no such idea crossed his mind.  He caught her up, and there followed some minutes of very rough play, during which it is difficult to say whether the father or the daughter laughed and shouted the loudest.  At length, however, the boisterous pastime terminated, suddenly, as might be expected: the little one was hurt, and began to cry; and the ungentle play-fellow tossed it into its mother’s lap, bidding her ‘make all straight.’ As happy to return to that gentle comforter as it had been to leave her, the child nestled in her arms, and hushed its cries in a moment; and sinking its little weary head on her bosom, soon dropped asleep.

Meantime Mr. Hattersley strode up to the fire, and interposing his height and breadth between us and it, stood with arms akimbo, expanding his chest, and gazing round him as if the house and all its appurtenances and contents were his own undisputed possessions.

‘Deuced bad weather this!’ he began.  ‘There’ll be no shooting to-day, I guess.’  Then, suddenly lifting up his voice, he regaled us with a few bars of a rollicking song, which abruptly ceasing, he finished the tune with a whistle, and then continued:—‘I say, Mrs. Huntingdon, what a fine stud your husband has! not large, but good.  I’ve been looking at them a bit this morning; and upon my word, Black Boss, and Grey Tom, and that young Nimrod are the finest animals I’ve seen for many a day!’  Then followed a particular discussion of their various merits, succeeded by a sketch of the great things he intended to do in the horse-jockey line, when his old governor thought proper to quit the stage.  ‘Not that I wish him to close his accounts,’ added he: ‘the old Trojan is welcome to keep his books open as long as he pleases for me.’

‘I hope so, indeed, Mr. Hattersley.’

‘Oh, yes!  It’s only my way of talking.  The event must come some time, and so I look to the bright side of it: that’s the right plan—isn’t it, Mrs. H.?  What are you two doing here?  By-the-by, where’s Lady Lowborough?’

‘In the billiard-room.’

‘What a splendid creature she is!’ continued he, fixing his eyes on his wife, who changed colour, and looked more and more disconcerted as he proceeded.  ‘What a noble figure she has; and what magnificent black eyes; and what a fine spirit of her own; and what a tongue of her own, too, when she likes to use it.  I perfectly adore her!  But never mind, Milicent: I wouldn’t have her for my wife, not if she’d a kingdom for her dowry!  I’m better satisfied with the one I have.  Now then! what do you look so sulky for? don’t you believe me?’

‘Yes, I believe you,’ murmured she, in a tone of half sad, half sullen resignation, as she turned away to stroke the hair of her sleeping infant, that she had laid on the sofa beside her.

‘Well, then, what makes you so cross?  Come here, Milly, and tell me why you can’t be satisfied with my assurance.’

She went, and putting her little hand within his arm, looked up in his face, and said softly,—

‘What does it amount to, Ralph?  Only to this, that though you admire Annabella so much, and for qualities that I don’t possess, you would still rather have me than her for your wife, which merely proves that you don’t think it necessary to love your wife; you are satisfied if she can keep your house, and take care of your child.  But I’m not cross; I’m only sorry; for,’ added she, in a low, tremulous accent, withdrawing her hand from his arm, and bending her looks on the rug, ‘if you don’t love me, you don’t, and it can’t be helped.’

‘Very true; but who told you I didn’t?  Did I say I loved Annabella?’

‘You said you adored her.’

‘True, but adoration isn’t love.  I adore Annabella, but I don’t love her; and I love thee, Milicent, but I don’t adore thee.’  In proof of his affection, he clutched a handful of her light brown ringlets, and appeared to twist them unmercifully.

‘Do you really, Ralph?’ murmured she, with a faint smile beaming through her tears, just putting up her hand to his, in token that he pulled rather too hard.

‘To be sure I do,’ responded he: ‘only you bother me rather, sometimes.’

‘I bother you!’ cried she, in very natural surprise.

‘Yes, you—but only by your exceeding goodness.  When a boy has been eating raisins and sugar-plums all day, he longs for a squeeze of sour orange by way of a change.  And did you never, Milly, observe the sands on the sea-shore; how nice and smooth they look, and how soft and easy they feel to the foot?  But if you plod along, for half an hour, over this soft, easy carpet—giving way at every step, yielding the more the harder you press,—you’ll find it rather wearisome work, and be glad enough to come to a bit of good, firm rock, that won’t budge an inch whether you stand, walk, or stamp upon it; and, though it be hard as the nether millstone, you’ll find it the easier footing after all.’

‘I know what you mean, Ralph,’ said she, nervously playing with her watchguard and tracing the figure on the rug with the point of her tiny foot—‘I know what you mean: but I thought you always liked to be yielded to, and I can’t alter now.’

‘I do like it,’ replied he, bringing her to him by another tug at her hair.  ‘You mustn’t mind my talk, Milly.  A man must have something to grumble about; and if he can’t complain that his wife harries him to death with her perversity and ill-humour, he must complain that she wears him out with her kindness and gentleness.’

‘But why complain at all, unless because you are tired and dissatisfied?’

‘To excuse my own failings, to be sure.  Do you think I’ll bear all the burden of my sins on my own shoulders, as long as there’s another ready to help me, with none of her own to carry?’

‘There is no such one on earth,’ said she seriously; and then, taking his hand from her head, she kissed it with an air of genuine devotion, and tripped away to the door.

‘What now?’ said he.  ‘Where are you going?’

‘To tidy my hair,’ she answered, smiling through her disordered locks; ‘you’ve made it all come down.’

‘Off with you then!—An excellent little woman,’ he remarked when she was gone, ‘but a thought too soft—she almost melts in one’s hands.  I positively think I ill-use her sometimes, when I’ve taken too much—but I can’t help it, for she never complains, either at the time or after.  I suppose she doesn’t mind it.’

‘I can enlighten you on that subject, Mr. Hattersley,’ said I: ‘she does mind it; and some other things she minds still more, which yet you may never hear her complain of.’

‘How do you know?—does she complain to you?’ demanded he, with a sudden spark of fury ready to burst into a flame if I should answer “yes.”

‘No,’ I replied; ‘but I have known her longer and studied her more closely than you have done.—And I can tell you, Mr. Hattersley, that Milicent loves you more than you deserve, and that you have it in your power to make her very happy, instead of which you are her evil genius, and, I will venture to say, there is not a single day passes in which you do not inflict upon her some pang that you might spare her if you would.’

‘Well—it’s not my fault,’ said he, gazing carelessly up at the ceiling and plunging his hands into his pockets: ‘if my ongoings don’t suit her, she should tell me so.’

‘Is she not exactly the wife you wanted?  Did you not tell Mr. Huntingdon you must have one that would submit to anything without a murmur, and never blame you, whatever you did?’

‘True, but we shouldn’t always have what we want: it spoils the best of us, doesn’t it?  How can I help playing the deuce when I see it’s all one to her whether I behave like a Christian or like a scoundrel, such as nature made me? and how can I help teasing her when she’s so invitingly meek and mim, when she lies down like a spaniel at my feet and never so much as squeaks to tell me that’s enough?’

‘If you are a tyrant by nature, the temptation is strong, I allow; but no generous mind delights to oppress the weak, but rather to cherish and protect.’

‘I don’t oppress her; but it’s so confounded flat to be always cherishing and protecting; and then, how can I tell that I am oppressing her when she “melts away and makes no sign”?  I sometimes think she has no feeling at all; and then I go on till she cries, and that satisfies me.’

‘Then you do delight to oppress her?’

‘I don’t, I tell you! only when I’m in a bad humour, or a particularly good one, and want to afflict for the pleasure of comforting; or when she looks flat and wants shaking up a bit.  And sometimes she provokes me by crying for nothing, and won’t tell me what it’s for; and then, I allow, it enrages me past bearing, especially when I’m not my own man.’

‘As is no doubt generally the case on such occasions,’ said I.  ‘But in future, Mr. Hattersley, when you see her looking flat, or crying for “nothing” (as you call it), ascribe it all to yourself: be assured it is something you have done amiss, or your general misconduct, that distresses her.’

‘I don’t believe it.  If it were, she should tell me so: I don’t like that way of moping and fretting in silence, and saying nothing: it’s not honest.  How can she expect me to mend my ways at that rate?’

‘Perhaps she gives you credit for having more sense than you possess, and deludes herself with the hope that you will one day see your own errors and repair them, if left to your own reflection.’

‘None of your sneers, Mrs. Huntingdon.  I have the sense to see that I’m not always quite correct, but sometimes I think that’s no great matter, as long as I injure nobody but myself—’

‘It is a great matter,’ interrupted I, ‘both to yourself (as you will hereafter find to your cost) and to all connected with you, most especially your wife.  But, indeed, it is nonsense to talk about injuring no one but yourself: it is impossible to injure yourself, especially by such acts as we allude to, without injuring hundreds, if not thousands, besides, in a greater or less, degree, either by the evil you do or the good you leave undone.’  ‘And as I was saying,’ continued he, ‘or would have said if you hadn’t taken me up so short, I sometimes think I should do better if I were joined to one that would always remind me when I was wrong, and give me a motive for doing good and eschewing evil, by decidedly showing her approval of the one and disapproval of the other.’

‘If you had no higher motive than the approval of your fellow-mortal, it would do you little good.’

‘Well, but if I had a mate that would not always be yielding, and always equally kind, but that would have the spirit to stand at bay now and then, and honestly tell me her mind at all times, such a one as yourself for instance.  Now, if I went on with you as I do with her when I’m in London, you’d make the house too hot to hold me at times, I’ll be sworn.’

‘You mistake me: I’m no termagant.’

‘Well, all the better for that, for I can’t stand contradiction, in a general way, and I’m as fond of my own will as another; only I think too much of it doesn’t answer for any man.’

‘Well, I would never contradict you without a cause, but certainly I would always let you know what I thought of your conduct; and if you oppressed me, in body, mind, or estate, you should at least have no reason to suppose “I didn’t mind it.”’

‘I know that, my lady; and I think if my little wife were to follow the same plan, it would be better for us both.’

‘I’ll tell her.’

‘No, no, let her be; there’s much to be said on both sides, and, now I think upon it, Huntingdon often regrets that you are not more like her, scoundrelly dog that he is, and you see, after all, you can’t reform him: he’s ten times worse than I.  He’s afraid of you, to be sure; that is, he’s always on his best behaviour in your presence—but—’

‘I wonder what his worst behaviour is like, then?’ I could not forbear observing.

‘Why, to tell you the truth, it’s very bad indeed—isn’t it, Hargrave?’ said he, addressing that gentleman, who had entered the room unperceived by me, for I was now standing near the fire, with my back to the door.  ‘Isn’t Huntingdon,’ he continued, ‘as great a reprobate as ever was d—d?’

‘His lady will not hear him censured with impunity,’ replied Mr. Hargrave, coming forward; ‘but I must say, I thank God I am not such another.’

‘Perhaps it would become you better,’ said I, ‘to look at what you are, and say, “God be merciful to me a sinner.”’

‘You are severe,’ returned he, bowing slightly and drawing himself up with a proud yet injured air.  Hattersley laughed, and clapped him on the shoulder.  Moving from under his hand with a gesture of insulted dignity, Mr. Hargrave took himself away to the other end of the rug.

‘Isn’t it a shame, Mrs. Huntingdon?’ cried his brother-in-law; ‘I struck Walter Hargrave when I was drunk, the second night after we came, and he’s turned a cold shoulder on me ever since; though I asked his pardon the very morning after it was done!’

‘Your manner of asking it,’ returned the other, ‘and the clearness with which you remembered the whole transaction, showed you were not too drunk to be fully conscious of what you were about, and quite responsible for the deed.’

‘You wanted to interfere between me and my wife,’ grumbled Hattersley, ‘and that is enough to provoke any man.’

‘You justify it, then?’ said his opponent, darting upon him a most vindictive glance.

‘No, I tell you I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t been under excitement; and if you choose to bear malice for it after all the handsome things I’ve said, do so and be d—d!’

‘I would refrain from such language in a lady’s presence, at least,’ said Mr. Hargrave, hiding his anger under a mask of disgust.

‘What have I said?’ returned Hattersley: ‘nothing but heaven’s truth.  He will be damned, won’t he, Mrs. Huntingdon, if he doesn’t forgive his brother’s trespasses?’

‘You ought to forgive him, Mr. Hargrave, since he asks you,’ said I.

‘Do you say so?  Then I will!’  And, smiling almost frankly, he stepped forward and offered his hand.  It was immediately clasped in that of his relative, and the reconciliation was apparently cordial on both sides.

‘The affront,’ continued Hargrave, turning to me, ‘owed half its bitterness to the fact of its being offered in your presence; and since you bid me forgive it, I will, and forget it too.’

‘I guess the best return I can make will be to take myself off,’ muttered Hattersley, with a broad grin.  His companion smiled, and he left the room.  This put me on my guard.  Mr. Hargrave turned seriously to me, and earnestly began,—

‘Dear Mrs. Huntingdon, how I have longed for, yet dreaded, this hour!  Do not be alarmed,’ he added, for my face was crimson with anger: ‘I am not about to offend you with any useless entreaties or complaints.  I am not going to presume to trouble you with the mention of my own feelings or your perfections, but I have something to reveal to you which you ought to know, and which, yet, it pains me inexpressibly—’

‘Then don’t trouble yourself to reveal it!’

‘But it is of importance—’

‘If so I shall hear it soon enough, especially if it is bad news, as you seem to consider it.  At present I am going to take the children to the nursery.’

‘But can’t you ring and send them?’

‘No; I want the exercise of a run to the top of the house.  Come, Arthur.’

‘But you will return?’

‘Not yet; don’t wait.’

‘Then when may I see you again?’

‘At lunch,’ said I, departing with little Helen in one arm and leading Arthur by the hand.

He turned away, muttering some sentence of impatient censure or complaint, in which ‘heartless’ was the only distinguishable word.

‘What nonsense is this, Mr. Hargrave?’ said I, pausing in the doorway.  ‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, nothing; I did not intend you should hear my soliloquy.  But the fact is, Mrs. Huntingdon, I have a disclosure to make, painful for me to offer as for you to hear; and I want you to give me a few minutes of your attention in private at any time and place you like to appoint.  It is from no selfish motive that I ask it, and not for any cause that could alarm your superhuman purity: therefore you need not kill me with that look of cold and pitiless disdain.  I know too well the feelings with which the bearers of bad tidings are commonly regarded not to—’

‘What is this wonderful piece of intelligence?’ said I, impatiently interrupting him.  ‘If it is anything of real importance, speak it in three words before I go.’

‘In three words I cannot.  Send those children away and stay with me.’

‘No; keep your bad tidings to yourself.  I know it is something I don’t want to hear, and something you would displease me by telling.’

‘You have divined too truly, I fear; but still, since I know it, I feel it my duty to disclose it to you.’

‘Oh, spare us both the infliction, and I will exonerate you from the duty.  You have offered to tell; I have refused to hear: my ignorance will not be charged on you.’

‘Be it so: you shall not hear it from me.  But if the blow fall too suddenly upon you when it comes, remember I wished to soften it!’

I left him.  I was determined his words should not alarm me.  What could he, of all men, have to reveal that was of importance for me to hear?  It was no doubt some exaggerated tale about my unfortunate husband that he wished to make the most of to serve his own bad purposes.

6th.—He has not alluded to this momentous mystery since, and I have seen no reason to repent of my unwillingness to hear it.  The threatened blow has not been struck yet, and I do not greatly fear it.  At present I am pleased with Arthur: he has not positively disgraced himself for upwards of a fortnight, and all this last week has been so very moderate in his indulgence at table that I can perceive a marked difference in his general temper and appearance.  Dare I hope this will continue?

CHAPTER XXXIII

 

Seventh.—Yes, I will hope!  To-night I heard Grimsby and Hattersley grumbling together about the inhospitality of their host.  They did not know I was near, for I happened to be standing behind the curtain in the bow of the window, watching the moon rising over the clump of tall dark elm-trees below the lawn, and wondering why Arthur was so sentimental as to stand without, leaning against the outer pillar of the portico, apparently watching it too.

‘So, I suppose we’ve seen the last of our merry carousals in this house,’ said Mr. Hattersley; ‘I thought his good-fellowship wouldn’t last long.  But,’ added he, laughing, ‘I didn’t expect it would meet its end this way.  I rather thought our pretty hostess would be setting up her porcupine quills, and threatening to turn us out of the house if we didn’t mind our manners.’

‘You didn’t foresee this, then?’ answered Grimsby, with a guttural chuckle.  ‘But he’ll change again when he’s sick of her.  If we come here a year or two hence, we shall have all our own way, you’ll see.’

‘I don’t know,’ replied the other: ‘she’s not the style of woman you soon tire of.  But be that as it may, it’s devilish provoking now that we can’t be jolly, because he chooses to be on his good behaviour.’

‘It’s all these cursed women!’ muttered Grimsby: ‘they’re the very bane of the world!  They bring trouble and discomfort wherever they come, with their false, fair faces and their deceitful tongues.’

At this juncture I issued from my retreat, and smiling on Mr. Grimsby as I passed, left the room and went out in search of Arthur.  Having seen him bend his course towards the shrubbery, I followed him thither, and found him just entering the shadowy walk.  I was so light of heart, so overflowing with affection, that I sprang upon him and clasped him in my arms.  This startling conduct had a singular effect upon him: first, he murmured, ‘Bless you, darling!’ and returned my close embrace with a fervour like old times, and then he started, and, in a tone of absolute terror, exclaimed, ‘Helen! what the devil is this?’ and I saw, by the faint light gleaming through the overshadowing tree, that he was positively pale with the shock.

How strange that the instinctive impulse of affection should come first, and then the shock of the surprise!  It shows, at least, that the affection is genuine: he is not sick of me yet.

‘I startled you, Arthur,’ said I, laughing in my glee.  ‘How nervous you are!’

‘What the deuce did you do it for?’ cried he, quite testily, extricating himself from my arms, and wiping his forehead with his handkerchief.  ‘Go back, Helen—go back directly!  You’ll get your death of cold!’

‘I won’t, till I’ve told you what I came for.  They are blaming you, Arthur, for your temperance and sobriety, and I’m come to thank you for it.  They say it is all “these cursed women,” and that we are the bane of the world; but don’t let them laugh or grumble you out of your good resolutions, or your affection for me.’

He laughed.  I squeezed him in my arms again, and cried in tearful earnest, ‘Do, do persevere! and I’ll love you better than ever I did before!’

‘Well, well, I will!’ said he, hastily kissing me.  ‘There, now, go.  You mad creature, how could you come out in your light evening dress this chill autumn night?’

‘It is a glorious night,’ said I.

‘It is a night that will give you your death, in another minute.  Run away, do!’

‘Do you see my death among those trees, Arthur?’ said I, for he was gazing intently at the shrubs, as if he saw it coming, and I was reluctant to leave him, in my new-found happiness and revival of hope and love.  But he grew angry at my delay, so I kissed him and ran back to the house.

I was in such a good humour that night: Milicent told me I was the life of the party, and whispered she had never seen me so brilliant.  Certainly, I talked enough for twenty, and smiled upon them all.  Grimsby, Hattersley, Hargrave, Lady Lowborough, all shared my sisterly kindness.  Grimsby stared and wondered; Hattersley laughed and jested (in spite of the little wine he had been suffered to imbibe), but still behaved as well as he knew how.  Hargrave and Annabella, from different motives and in different ways, emulated me, and doubtless both surpassed me, the former in his discursive versatility and eloquence, the latter in boldness and animation at least.  Milicent, delighted to see her husband, her brother, and her over-estimated friend acquitting themselves so well, was lively and gay too, in her quiet way.  Even Lord Lowborough caught the general contagion: his dark greenish eyes were lighted up beneath their moody brows; his sombre countenance was beautified by smiles; all traces of gloom and proud or cold reserve had vanished for the time; and he astonished us all, not only by his general cheerfulness and animation, but by the positive flashes of true force and brilliance he emitted from time to time.  Arthur did not talk much, but he laughed, and listened to the rest, and was in perfect good-humour, though not excited by wine.  So that, altogether, we made a very merry, innocent, and entertaining party.

9th.—Yesterday, when Rachel came to dress me for dinner, I saw that she had been crying.  I wanted to know the cause of it, but she seemed reluctant to tell.  Was she unwell?  No.  Had she heard bad news from her friends?  No.  Had any of the servants vexed her?

‘Oh, no, ma’am!’ she answered; ‘it’s not for myself.’

‘What then, Rachel?  Have you been reading novels?’

‘Bless you, no!’ said she, with a sorrowful shake of the head; and then she sighed and continued: ‘But to tell you the truth, ma’am, I don’t like master’s ways of going on.’

‘What do you mean, Rachel?  He’s going on very properly at present.’

‘Well, ma’am, if you think so, it’s right.’

And she went on dressing my hair, in a hurried way, quite unlike her usual calm, collected manner, murmuring, half to herself, she was sure it was beautiful hair: she ‘could like to see ’em match it.’  When it was done, she fondly stroked it, and gently patted my head.

‘Is that affectionate ebullition intended for my hair, or myself, nurse?’ said I, laughingly turning round upon her; but a tear was even now in her eye.

‘What do you mean, Rachel?’ I exclaimed.

‘Well, ma’am, I don’t know; but if—’

‘If what?’

‘Well, if I was you, I wouldn’t have that Lady Lowborough in the house another minute—not another minute I wouldn’t!

I was thunderstruck; but before I could recover from the shock sufficiently to demand an explanation, Milicent entered my room, as she frequently does when she is dressed before me; and she stayed with me till it was time to go down.  She must have found me a very unsociable companion this time, for Rachel’s last words rang in my ears.  But still I hoped, I trusted they had no foundation but in some idle rumour of the servants from what they had seen in Lady Lowborough’s manner last month; or perhaps from something that had passed between their master and her during her former visit.  At dinner I narrowly observed both her and Arthur, and saw nothing extraordinary in the conduct of either, nothing calculated to excite suspicion, except in distrustful minds, which mine was not, and therefore I would not suspect.

Almost immediately after dinner Annabella went out with her husband to share his moonlight ramble, for it was a splendid evening like the last.  Mr. Hargrave entered the drawing-room a little before the others, and challenged me to a game of chess.  He did it without any of that sad but proud humility he usually assumes in addressing me, unless he is excited with wine.  I looked at his face to see if that was the case now.  His eye met mine keenly, but steadily: there was something about him I did not understand, but he seemed sober enough.  Not choosing to engage with him, I referred him to Milicent.

‘She plays badly,’ said he, ‘I want to match my skill with yours.  Come now! you can’t pretend you are reluctant to lay down your work.  I know you never take it up except to pass an idle hour, when there is nothing better you can do.’

‘But chess-players are so unsociable,’ I objected; ‘they are no company for any but themselves.’

‘There is no one here but Milicent, and she—’

‘Oh, I shall be delighted to watch you!’ cried our mutual friend.  ‘Two such players—it will be quite a treat!  I wonder which will conquer.’

I consented.

‘Now, Mrs. Huntingdon,’ said Hargrave, as he arranged the men on the board, speaking distinctly, and with a peculiar emphasis, as if he had a double meaning to all his words, ‘you are a good player, but I am a better: we shall have a long game, and you will give me some trouble; but I can be as patient as you, and in the end I shall certainly win.’  He fixed his eyes upon me with a glance I did not like, keen, crafty, bold, and almost impudent;—already half triumphant in his anticipated success.

‘I hope not, Mr. Hargrave!’ returned I, with vehemence that must have startled Milicent at least; but he only smiled and murmured, ‘Time will show.’

We set to work: he sufficiently interested in the game, but calm and fearless in the consciousness of superior skill: I, intensely eager to disappoint his expectations, for I considered this the type of a more serious contest, as I imagined he did, and I felt an almost superstitious dread of being beaten: at all events, I could ill endure that present success should add one tittle to his conscious power (his insolent self-confidence I ought to say), or encourage for a moment his dream of future conquest.  His play was cautious and deep, but I struggled hard against him.  For some time the combat was doubtful: at length, to my joy, the victory seemed inclining to my side: I had taken several of his best pieces, and manifestly baffled his projects.  He put his hand to his brow and paused, in evident perplexity.  I rejoiced in my advantage, but dared not glory in it yet.  At length, he lifted his head, and quietly making his move, looked at me and said, calmly, ‘Now you think you will win, don’t you?’

‘I hope so,’ replied I, taking his pawn that he had pushed into the way of my bishop with so careless an air that I thought it was an oversight, but was not generous enough, under the circumstances, to direct his attention to it, and too heedless, at the moment, to foresee the after-consequences of my move.  ‘It is those bishops that trouble me,’ said he; ‘but the bold knight can overleap the reverend gentlemen,’ taking my last bishop with his knight; ‘and now, those sacred persons once removed, I shall carry all before me.’

‘Oh, Walter, how you talk!’ cried Milicent; ‘she has far more pieces than you still.’

‘I intend to give you some trouble yet,’ said I; ‘and perhaps, sir, you will find yourself checkmated before you are aware.  Look to your queen.’

The combat deepened.  The game was a long one, and I did give him some trouble: but he was a better player than I.

‘What keen gamesters you are!’ said Mr. Hattersley, who had now entered, and been watching us for some time.  ‘Why, Mrs. Huntingdon, your hand trembles as if you had staked your all upon it! and, Walter, you dog, you look as deep and cool as if you were certain of success, and as keen and cruel as if you would drain her heart’s blood!  But if I were you, I wouldn’t beat her, for very fear: she’ll hate you if you do—she will, by heaven!  I see it in her eye.’

‘Hold your tongue, will you?’ said I: his talk distracted me, for I was driven to extremities.  A few more moves, and I was inextricably entangled in the snare of my antagonist.

‘Check,’ cried he: I sought in agony some means of escape.  ‘Mate!’ he added, quietly, but with evident delight.  He had suspended the utterance of that last fatal syllable the better to enjoy my dismay.  I was foolishly disconcerted by the event.  Hattersley laughed; Milicent was troubled to see me so disturbed.  Hargrave placed his hand on mine that rested on the table, and squeezing it with a firm but gentle pressure, murmured, ‘Beaten, beaten!’ and gazed into my face with a look where exultation was blended with an expression of ardour and tenderness yet more insulting.

‘No, never, Mr. Hargrave!’ exclaimed I, quickly withdrawing my hand.

‘Do you deny?’ replied he, smilingly pointing to the board.  ‘No, no,’ I answered, recollecting how strange my conduct must appear: ‘you have beaten me in that game.’

‘Will you try another, then?’

‘No.’

‘You acknowledge my superiority?’

‘Yes, as a chess-player.’

I rose to resume my work.

‘Where is Annabella?’ said Hargrave, gravely, after glancing round the room.

‘Gone out with Lord Lowborough,’ answered I, for he looked at me for a reply.

‘And not yet returned!’ he said, seriously.

‘I suppose not.’

‘Where is Huntingdon?’ looking round again.

‘Gone out with Grimsby, as you know,’ said Hattersley, suppressing a laugh, which broke forth as he concluded the sentence.  Why did he laugh?  Why did Hargrave connect them thus together?  Was it true, then?  And was this the dreadful secret he had wished to reveal to me?  I must know, and that quickly.  I instantly rose and left the room to go in search of Rachel and demand an explanation of her words; but Mr. Hargrave followed me into the anteroom, and before I could open its outer door, gently laid his hand upon the lock.  ‘May I tell you something, Mrs. Huntingdon?’ said he, in a subdued tone, with serious, downcast eyes.

‘If it be anything worth hearing,’ replied I, struggling to be composed, for I trembled in every limb.

He quietly pushed a chair towards me.  I merely leant my hand upon it, and bid him go on.

‘Do not be alarmed,’ said he: ‘what I wish to say is nothing in itself; and I will leave you to draw your own inferences from it.  You say that Annabella is not yet returned?’

‘Yes, yes—go on!’ said I, impatiently; for I feared my forced calmness would leave me before the end of his disclosure, whatever it might be.

‘And you hear,’ continued he, ‘that Huntingdon is gone out with Grimsby?’

‘Well?’

‘I heard the latter say to your husband—or the man who calls himself so—’

‘Go on, sir!’

He bowed submissively, and continued: ‘I heard him say,—“I shall manage it, you’ll see!  They’re gone down by the water; I shall meet them there, and tell him I want a bit of talk with him about some things that we needn’t trouble the lady with; and she’ll say she can be walking back to the house; and then I shall apologise, you know, and all that, and tip her a wink to take the way of the shrubbery.  I’ll keep him talking there, about those matters I mentioned, and anything else I can think of, as long as I can, and then bring him round the other way, stopping to look at the trees, the fields, and anything else I can find to discourse of.”’  Mr. Hargrave paused, and looked at me.

Without a word of comment or further questioning, I rose, and darted from the room and out of the house.  The torment of suspense was not to be endured: I would not suspect my husband falsely, on this man’s accusation, and I would not trust him unworthily—I must know the truth at once.  I flew to the shrubbery.  Scarcely had I reached it, when a sound of voices arrested my breathless speed.

‘We have lingered too long; he will be back,’ said Lady Lowborough’s voice.

‘Surely not, dearest!’ was his reply; ‘but you can run across the lawn, and get in as quietly as you can; I’ll follow in a while.’

My knees trembled under me; my brain swam round.  I was ready to faint.  She must not see me thus.  I shrunk among the bushes, and leant against the trunk of a tree to let her pass.

‘Ah, Huntingdon!’ said she reproachfully, pausing where I had stood with him the night before—‘it was here you kissed that woman!’ she looked back into the leafy shade.  Advancing thence, he answered, with a careless laugh,—

‘Well, dearest, I couldn’t help it.  You know I must keep straight with her as long as I can.  Haven’t I seen you kiss your dolt of a husband scores of times?—and do I ever complain?’

‘But tell me, don’t you love her still—a little?’ said she, placing her hand on his arm, looking earnestly in his face—for I could see them, plainly, the moon shining full upon them from between the branches of the tree that sheltered me.

‘Not one bit, by all that’s sacred!’ he replied, kissing her glowing cheek.

‘Good heavens, I must be gone!’ cried she, suddenly breaking from him, and away she flew.

There he stood before me; but I had not strength to confront him now: my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth; I was well-nigh sinking to the earth, and I almost wondered he did not hear the beating of my heart above the low sighing of the wind and the fitful rustle of the falling leaves.  My senses seemed to fail me, but still I saw his shadowy form pass before me, and through the rushing sound in my ears I distinctly heard him say, as he stood looking up the lawn,—‘There goes the fool!  Run, Annabella, run!  There—in with you!  Ah,—he didn’t see!  That’s right, Grimsby, keep him back!’  And even his low laugh reached me as he walked away.

‘God help me now!’ I murmured, sinking on my knees among the damp weeds and brushwood that surrounded me, and looking up at the moonlit sky, through the scant foliage above.  It seemed all dim and quivering now to my darkened sight.  My burning, bursting heart strove to pour forth its agony to God, but could not frame its anguish into prayer; until a gust of wind swept over me, which, while it scattered the dead leaves, like blighted hopes, around, cooled my forehead, and seemed a little to revive my sinking frame.  Then, while I lifted up my soul in speechless, earnest supplication, some heavenly influence seemed to strengthen me within: I breathed more freely; my vision cleared; I saw distinctly the pure moon shining on, and the light clouds skimming the clear, dark sky; and then I saw the eternal stars twinkling down upon me; I knew their God was mine, and He was strong to save and swift to hear.  ‘I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee,’ seemed whispered from above their myriad orbs.  No, no; I felt He would not leave me comfortless: in spite of earth and hell I should have strength for all my trials, and win a glorious rest at last!

Refreshed, invigorated, if not composed, I rose and returned to the house.  Much of my new-born strength and courage forsook me, I confess, as I entered it, and shut out the fresh wind and the glorious sky: everything I saw and heard seemed to sicken my heart—the hall, the lamp, the staircase, the doors of the different apartments, the social sound of talk and laughter from the drawing-room.  How could I bear my future life!  In this house, among those people—oh, how could I endure to live!  John just then entered the hall, and seeing me, told me he had been sent in search of me, adding that he had taken in the tea, and master wished to know if I were coming.

‘Ask Mrs. Hattersley to be so kind as to make the tea, John,’ said I.  ‘Say I am not well to-night, and wish to be excused.’

I retired into the large, empty dining-room, where all was silence and darkness, but for the soft sighing of the wind without, and the faint gleam of moonlight that pierced the blinds and curtains; and there I walked rapidly up and down, thinking of my bitter thoughts alone.  How different was this from the evening of yesterday!  That, it seems, was the last expiring flash of my life’s happiness.  Poor, blinded fool that I was to be so happy!  I could now see the reason of Arthur’s strange reception of me in the shrubbery; the burst of kindness was for his paramour, the start of horror for his wife.  Now, too, I could better understand the conversation between Hattersley and Grimsby; it was doubtless of his love for her they spoke, not for me.

I heard the drawing-room door open: a light quick step came out of the ante-room, crossed the hall, and ascended the stairs.  It was Milicent, poor Milicent, gone to see how I was—no one else cared for me; but she still was kind.  I shed no tears before, but now they came, fast and free.  Thus she did me good, without approaching me.  Disappointed in her search, I heard her come down, more slowly than she had ascended.  Would she come in there, and find me out?  No, she turned in the opposite direction and re-entered the drawing-room.  I was glad, for I knew not how to meet her, or what to say.  I wanted no confidante in my distress.  I deserved none, and I wanted none.  I had taken the burden upon myself; let me bear it alone.

As the usual hour of retirement approached I dried my eyes, and tried to clear my voice and calm my mind.  I must see Arthur to-night, and speak to him; but I would do it calmly: there should be no scene—nothing to complain or to boast of to his companions—nothing to laugh at with his lady-love.  When the company were retiring to their chambers I gently opened the door, and just as he passed, beckoned him in.

‘What’s to do with you, Helen?’ said he.  ‘Why couldn’t you come to make tea for us? and what the deuce are you here for, in the dark?  What ails you, young woman: you look like a ghost!’ he continued, surveying me by the light of his candle.

‘No matter,’ I answered, ‘to you; you have no longer any regard for me it appears; and I have no longer any for you.’

‘Hal-lo! what the devil is this?’ he muttered.  ‘I would leave you to-morrow,’ continued I, ‘and never again come under this roof, but for my child’—I paused a moment to steady, my voice.

‘What in the devil’s name is this, Helen?’ cried he.  ‘What can you be driving at?’

‘You know perfectly well.  Let us waste no time in useless explanation, but tell me, will you—?’

He vehemently swore he knew nothing about it, and insisted upon hearing what poisonous old woman had been blackening his name, and what infamous lies I had been fool enough to believe.

‘Spare yourself the trouble of forswearing yourself and racking your brains to stifle truth with falsehood,’ I coldly replied.  ‘I have trusted to the testimony of no third person.  I was in the shrubbery this evening, and I saw and heard for myself.’

This was enough.  He uttered a suppressed exclamation of consternation and dismay, and muttering, ‘I shall catch it now!’ set down his candle on the nearest chair, and rearing his back against the wall, stood confronting me with folded arms.

‘Well, what then?’ said he, with the calm insolence of mingled shamelessness and desperation.

‘Only this,’ returned I; ‘will you let me take our child and what remains of my fortune, and go?’

‘Go where?’

‘Anywhere, where he will be safe from your contaminating influence, and I shall be delivered from your presence, and you from mine.’

‘No.’

‘Will you let me have the child then, without the money?’

‘No, nor yourself without the child.  Do you think I’m going to be made the talk of the country for your fastidious caprices?’

‘Then I must stay here, to be hated and despised.  But henceforth we are husband and wife only in the name.’

‘Very good.’

‘I am your child’s mother, and your housekeeper, nothing more.  So you need not trouble yourself any longer to feign the love you cannot feel: I will exact no more heartless caresses from you, nor offer nor endure them either.  I will not be mocked with the empty husk of conjugal endearments, when you have given the substance to another!’

‘Very good, if you please.  We shall see who will tire first, my lady.’

‘If I tire, it will be of living in the world with you: not of living without your mockery of love.  When you tire of your sinful ways, and show yourself truly repentant, I will forgive you, and, perhaps, try to love you again, though that will be hard indeed.’

‘Humph! and meantime you will go and talk me over to Mrs. Hargrave, and write long letters to aunt Maxwell to complain of the wicked wretch you have married?’

‘I shall complain to no one.  Hitherto I have struggled hard to hide your vices from every eye, and invest you with virtues you never possessed; but now you must look to yourself.’

I left him muttering bad language to himself, and went up-stairs.

‘You are poorly, ma’am,’ said Rachel, surveying me with deep anxiety.

‘It is too true, Rachel,’ said I, answering her sad looks rather than her words.

‘I knew it, or I wouldn’t have mentioned such a thing.’

‘But don’t you trouble yourself about it,’ said I, kissing her pale, time-wasted cheek.  ‘I can bear it better than you imagine.’

‘Yes, you were always for “bearing.”  But if I was you I wouldn’t bear it; I’d give way to it, and cry right hard! and I’d talk too, I just would—I’d let him know what it was to—’

‘I have talked,’ said I; ‘I’ve said enough.’

‘Then I’d cry,’ persisted she.  ‘I wouldn’t look so white and so calm, and burst my heart with keeping it in.’

‘I have cried,’ said I, smiling, in spite of my misery; ‘and I am calm now, really: so don’t discompose me again, nurse: let us say no more about it, and don’t mention it to the servants.  There, you may go now.  Good-night; and don’t disturb your rest for me: I shall sleep well—if I can.’

Notwithstanding this resolution, I found my bed so intolerable that, before two o’clock, I rose, and lighting my candle by the rushlight that was still burning, I got my desk and sat down in my dressing-gown to recount the events of the past evening.  It was better to be so occupied than to be lying in bed torturing my brain with recollections of the far past and anticipations of the dreadful future.  I have found relief in describing the very circumstances that have destroyed my peace, as well as the little trivial details attendant upon their discovery.  No sleep I could have got this night would have done so much towards composing my mind, and preparing me to meet the trials of the day.  I fancy so, at least; and yet, when I cease writing, I find my head aches terribly; and when I look into the glass, I am startled at my haggard, worn appearance.

Rachel has been to dress me, and says I have had a sad night of it, she can see.  Milicent has just looked in to ask me how I was.  I told her I was better, but to excuse my appearance admitted I had had a restless night.  I wish this day were over!  I shudder at the thoughts of going down to breakfast.  How shall I encounter them all?  Yet let me remember it is not I that am guilty: I have no cause to fear; and if they scorn me as a victim of their guilt, I can pity their folly and despise their scorn.

To be continued

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