THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL
PART 16
CHAPTER XXXIV
Evening.—Breakfast
passed well over: I was calm and cool throughout. I answered composedly
all inquiries respecting my health; and whatever was unusual in my look or
manner was generally attributed to the trifling indisposition that had
occasioned my early retirement last night. But how am I to get over the
ten or twelve days that must yet elapse before they go? Yet why so long
for their departure? When they are gone, how shall I get through the
months or years of my future life in company with that man—my greatest enemy?
for none could injure me as he has done. Oh! when I think how fondly, how
foolishly I have loved him, how madly I have trusted him, how constantly I have
laboured, and studied, and prayed, and struggled for his advantage; and how
cruelly he has trampled on my love, betrayed my trust, scorned my prayers and
tears, and efforts for his preservation, crushed my hopes, destroyed my youth’s
best feelings, and doomed me to a life of hopeless misery, as far as man can do
it, it is not enough to say that I no longer love my husband—I hate him! The word stares me in the face like a guilty confession,
but it is true: I hate him—I hate him! But God have mercy on his
miserable soul! and make him see and feel his guilt—I ask no other
vengeance! If he could but fully know and truly feel my wrongs I should
be well avenged, and I could freely pardon all; but he is so lost, so hardened
in his heartless depravity, that in this life I believe he never will.
But it is useless dwelling on this theme: let me seek once more to dissipate
reflection in the minor details of passing events.
Mr.
Hargrave has annoyed me all day long with his serious, sympathising, and (as he
thinks) unobtrusive politeness. If it were more obtrusive it would
trouble me less, for then I could snub him; but, as it is, he contrives to
appear so really kind and thoughtful that I cannot do so without rudeness and
seeming ingratitude. I sometimes think I ought to give him credit for the
good feeling he simulates so well; and then again, I think it is my duty to
suspect him under the peculiar circumstances in which I am placed. His
kindness may not all be feigned; but still, let not the purest impulse of
gratitude to him induce me to forget myself: let me remember the game of chess,
the expressions he used on the occasion, and those indescribable looks of his,
that so justly roused my indignation, and I think I shall be safe enough.
I have done well to record them so minutely.
I think he
wishes to find an opportunity of speaking to me alone: he has seemed to be on
the watch all day; but I have taken care to disappoint him—not that I fear
anything he could say, but I have trouble enough without the addition of his
insulting consolations, condolences, or whatever else he might attempt; and,
for Milicent’s sake, I do not wish to quarrel with him. He excused
himself from going out to shoot with the other gentlemen in the morning, under
the pretext of having letters to write; and instead of retiring for that
purpose into the library, he sent for his desk into the morning-room, where I
was seated with Milicent and Lady Lowborough. They had betaken themselves
to their work; I, less to divert my mind than to deprecate conversation, had
provided myself with a book. Milicent saw that I wished to be quiet, and
accordingly let me alone. Annabella, doubtless, saw it too: but that was
no reason why she should restrain her tongue, or curb her cheerful spirits: she
accordingly chatted away, addressing herself almost exclusively to me, and with
the utmost assurance and familiarity, growing the more animated and friendly
the colder and briefer my answers became. Mr. Hargrave saw that I could
ill endure it, and, looking up from his desk, he answered her questions and
observations for me, as far as he could, and attempted to transfer her social
attentions from me to himself; but it would not do. Perhaps she thought I
had a headache, and could not bear to talk; at any rate, she saw that her
loquacious vivacity annoyed me, as I could tell by the malicious pertinacity
with which she persisted. But I checked it effectually by putting into
her hand the book I had been trying to read, on the fly-leaf of which I had
hastily scribbled,—
‘I am too
well acquainted with your character and conduct to feel any real friendship for
you, and as I am without your talent for dissimulation, I cannot assume the
appearance of it. I must, therefore, beg that hereafter all familiar
intercourse may cease between us; and if I still continue to treat you with
civility, as if you were a woman worthy of consideration and respect,
understand that it is out of regard for your cousin Milicent’s feelings, not
for yours.’
Upon
perusing this she turned scarlet, and bit her lip. Covertly tearing away
the leaf, she crumpled it up and put it in the fire, and then employed herself
in turning over the pages of the book, and, really or apparently, perusing its
contents. In a little while Milicent announced it her intention to repair
to the nursery, and asked if I would accompany her.
‘Annabella
will excuse us,’ said she; ‘she’s busy reading.’
‘No, I
won’t,’ cried Annabella, suddenly looking up, and throwing her book on the
table; ‘I want to speak to Helen a minute. You may go, Milicent, and
she’ll follow in a while.’ (Milicent went.) ‘Will you oblige me, Helen?’
continued she.
Her
impudence astounded me; but I complied, and followed her into the
library. She closed the door, and walked up to the fire.
‘Who told
you this?’ said she.
‘No one: I
am not incapable of seeing for myself.’
‘Ah, you
are suspicious!’ cried she, smiling, with a gleam of hope. Hitherto there
had been a kind of desperation in her hardihood; now she was evidently
relieved.
‘If I were
suspicious,’ I replied, ‘I should have discovered your infamy long
before. No, Lady Lowborough, I do not found my charge upon suspicion.’
‘On what
do you found it, then?’ said she, throwing herself into an arm-chair, and
stretching out her feet to the fender, with an obvious effort to appear
composed.
‘I enjoy a
moonlight ramble as well as you,’ I answered, steadily fixing my eyes upon her;
‘and the shrubbery happens to be one of my favourite resorts.’
She
coloured again excessively, and remained silent, pressing her finger against
her teeth, and gazing into the fire. I watched her a few moments with a
feeling of malevolent gratification; then, moving towards the door, I calmly
asked if she had anything more to say.
‘Yes,
yes!’ cried she eagerly, starting up from her reclining posture. ‘I want
to know if you will tell Lord Lowborough?’
‘Suppose I
do?’
‘Well, if
you are disposed to publish the matter, I cannot dissuade you, of course—but
there will be terrible work if you do—and if you don’t, I shall think you the
most generous of mortal beings—and if there is anything in the world I can do
for you—anything short of—‘ she hesitated.
‘Short of
renouncing your guilty connection with my husband, I suppose you mean?’ said I.
She
paused, in evident disconcertion and perplexity, mingled with anger she dared
not show.
‘I cannot
renounce what is dearer than life,’ she muttered, in a low, hurried tone.
Then, suddenly raising her head and fixing her gleaming eyes upon me, she
continued earnestly: ‘But, Helen—or Mrs. Huntingdon, or whatever you would have
me call you—will you tell him? If you are generous, here is a fitting
opportunity for the exercise of your magnanimity: if you are proud, here am
I—your rival—ready to acknowledge myself your debtor for an act of the most
noble forbearance.’
‘I shall
not tell him.’
‘You will
not!’ cried she, delightedly. ‘Accept my sincere thanks, then!’
She sprang
up, and offered me her hand. I drew back.
‘Give me
no thanks; it is not for your sake that I refrain. Neither is it an act
of any forbearance: I have no wish to publish your shame. I should be
sorry to distress your husband with the knowledge of it.’
‘And
Milicent? will you tell her?’
‘No: on
the contrary, I shall do my utmost to conceal it from her. I would not
for much that she should know the infamy and disgrace of her relation!’
‘You use
hard words, Mrs. Huntingdon, but I can pardon you.’
‘And now,
Lady Lowborough,’ continued I, ‘let me counsel you to leave this house as soon
as possible. You must be aware that your continuance here is excessively
disagreeable to me—not for Mr. Huntingdon’s sake,’ said I, observing the dawn
of a malicious smile of triumph on her face—‘you are welcome to him, if you
like him, as far as I am concerned—but because it is painful to be always
disguising my true sentiments respecting you, and straining to keep up an
appearance of civility and respect towards one for whom I have not the most
distant shadow of esteem; and because, if you stay, your conduct cannot
possibly remain concealed much longer from the only two persons in the house
who do not know it already. And, for your husband’s sake, Annabella, and
even for your own, I wish—I earnestly advise and entreat you to break off this
unlawful connection at once, and return to your duty while you may, before the
dreadful consequences—’
‘Yes, yes,
of course,’ said she, interrupting me with a gesture of impatience. ‘But
I cannot go, Helen, before the time appointed for our departure. What
possible pretext could I frame for such a thing? Whether I proposed going
back alone—which Lowborough would not hear of—or taking him with me, the very
circumstance itself would be certain to excite suspicion—and when our visit is
so nearly at an end too—little more than a week—surely you can endure my
presence so long! I will not annoy you with any more of my friendly
impertinences.’
‘Well, I
have nothing more to say to you.’
‘Have you
mentioned this affair to Huntingdon?’ asked she, as I was leaving the room.
‘How dare
you mention his name to me!’ was the only answer I gave.
No words
have passed between us since, but such as outward decency or pure necessity
demanded.
CHAPTER XXXV
Nineteenth.—In
proportion as Lady Lowborough finds she has nothing to fear from me, and as the
time of departure draws nigh, the more audacious and insolent she
becomes. She does not scruple to speak to my husband with affectionate
familiarity in my presence, when no one else is by, and is particularly fond of
displaying her interest in his health and welfare, or in anything that concerns
him, as if for the purpose of contrasting her kind solicitude with my cold
indifference. And he rewards her by such smiles and glances, such
whispered words, or boldly-spoken insinuations, indicative of his sense of her
goodness and my neglect, as make the blood rush into my face, in spite of myself—for
I would be utterly regardless of it all—deaf and blind to everything that
passes between them, since the more I show myself sensible of their wickedness
the more she triumphs in her victory, and the more he flatters himself that I
love him devotedly still, in spite of my pretended indifference. On such
occasions I have sometimes been startled by a subtle, fiendish suggestion
inciting me to show him the contrary by a seeming encouragement of Hargrave’s
advances; but such ideas are banished in a moment with horror and
self-abasement; and then I hate him tenfold more than ever for having brought
me to this!—God pardon me for it and all my sinful thoughts! Instead of
being humbled and purified by my afflictions, I feel that they are turning my
nature into gall. This must be my fault as much as theirs that wrong
me. No true Christian could cherish such bitter feelings as I do against
him and her, especially the latter: him, I still feel that I could
pardon—freely, gladly—on the slightest token of repentance; but she—words
cannot utter my abhorrence. Reason forbids, but passion urges strongly;
and I must pray and struggle long ere I subdue it.
It is well
that she is leaving to-morrow, for I could not well endure her presence for
another day. This morning she rose earlier than usual. I found her
in the room alone, when I went down to breakfast.
‘Oh,
Helen! is it you?’ said she, turning as I entered.
I gave an
involuntary start back on seeing her, at which she uttered a short laugh,
observing, ‘I think we are both disappointed.’
I came
forward and busied myself with the breakfast things.
‘This is
the last day I shall burden your hospitality,’ said she, as she seated herself
at the table. ‘Ah, here comes one that will not rejoice at it!’ she
murmured, half to herself, as Arthur entered the room.
He shook
hands with her and wished her good-morning: then, looking lovingly in her face,
and still retaining her hand in his, murmured pathetically, ‘The last—last
day!’
‘Yes,’
said she with some asperity; ‘and I rose early to make the best of it—I have
been here alone this half-hour, and you—you lazy creature—’
‘Well, I
thought I was early too,’ said he; ‘but,’ dropping his voice almost to a
whisper, ‘you see we are not alone.’
‘We never
are,’ returned she. But they were almost as good as alone, for I was now
standing at the window, watching the clouds, and struggling to suppress my
wrath.
Some more
words passed between them, which, happily, I did not overhear; but Annabella
had the audacity to come and place herself beside me, and even to put her hand
upon my shoulder and say softly, ‘You need not grudge him to me, Helen, for I
love him more than ever you could do.’
This put
me beside myself. I took her hand and violently dashed it from me, with
an expression of abhorrence and indignation that could not be suppressed.
Startled, almost appalled, by this sudden outbreak, she recoiled in
silence. I would have given way to my fury and said more, but Arthur’s
low laugh recalled me to myself. I checked the half-uttered invective,
and scornfully turned away, regretting that I had given him so much
amusement. He was still laughing when Mr. Hargrave made his
appearance. How much of the scene he had witnessed I do not know, for the
door was ajar when he entered. He greeted his host and his cousin both
coldly, and me with a glance intended to express the deepest sympathy mingled
with high admiration and esteem.
‘How much
allegiance do you owe to that man?’ he asked below his breath, as he stood
beside me at the window, affecting to be making observations on the weather.
‘None,’ I
answered. And immediately returning to the table, I employed myself in
making the tea. He followed, and would have entered into some kind of
conversation with me, but the other guests were now beginning to assemble, and
I took no more notice of him, except to give him his coffee.
After
breakfast, determined to pass as little of the day as possible in company with
Lady Lowborough, I quietly stole away from the company and retired to the
library. Mr. Hargrave followed me thither, under pretence of coming for a
book; and first, turning to the shelves, he selected a volume, and then
quietly, but by no means timidly, approaching me, he stood beside me, resting
his hand on the back of my chair, and said softly, ‘And so you consider
yourself free at last?’
‘Yes,’
said I, without moving, or raising my eyes from my book, ‘free to do anything
but offend God and my conscience.’
There was
a momentary pause.
‘Very
right,’ said he, ‘provided your conscience be not too morbidly tender, and your
ideas of God not too erroneously severe; but can you suppose it would offend
that benevolent Being to make the happiness of one who would die for yours?—to
raise a devoted heart from purgatorial torments to a state of heavenly bliss,
when you could do it without the slightest injury to yourself or any other?’
This was
spoken in a low, earnest, melting tone, as he bent over me. I now raised
my head; and steadily confronting his gaze, I answered calmly, ‘Mr. Hargrave,
do you mean to insult me?’
He was not
prepared for this. He paused a moment to recover the shock; then, drawing
himself up and removing his hand from my chair, he answered, with proud
sadness,—‘That was not my intention.’
I just
glanced towards the door, with a slight movement of the head, and then returned
to my book. He immediately withdrew. This was better than if I had
answered with more words, and in the passionate spirit to which my first
impulse would have prompted. What a good thing it is to be able to
command one’s temper! I must labour to cultivate this inestimable
quality: God only knows how often I shall need it in this rough, dark road that
lies before me.
In the
course of the morning I drove over to the Grove with the two ladies, to give
Milicent an opportunity for bidding farewell to her mother and sister.
They persuaded her to stay with them the rest of the day, Mrs. Hargrave
promising to bring her back in the evening and remain till the party broke up
on the morrow. Consequently, Lady Lowborough and I had the pleasure of
returning tête-à-tête in the carriage together. For the first mile
or two we kept silence, I looking out of my window, and she leaning back in her
corner. But I was not going to restrict myself to any particular position
for her; when I was tired of leaning forward, with the cold, raw wind in my
face, and surveying the russet hedges and the damp, tangled grass of their
banks, I gave it up and leant back too. With her usual impudence, my
companion then made some attempts to get up a conversation; but the
monosyllables ‘yes,’ or ‘no’ or ‘humph,’ were the utmost her several remarks
could elicit from me. At last, on her asking my opinion upon some
immaterial point of discussion, I answered,—‘Why do you wish to talk to me,
Lady Lowborough? You must know what I think of you.’
‘Well, if
you will be so bitter against me,’ replied she, ‘I can’t help it; but I’m not
going to sulk for anybody.’ Our short drive was now at an end. As
soon as the carriage door was opened, she sprang out, and went down the park to
meet the gentlemen, who were just returning from the woods. Of course I
did not follow.
But I had
not done with her impudence yet: after dinner, I retired to the drawing-room,
as usual, and she accompanied me, but I had the two children with me, and I
gave them my whole attention, and determined to keep them till the gentlemen
came, or till Milicent arrived with her mother. Little Helen, however,
was soon tired of playing, and insisted upon going to sleep; and while I sat on
the sofa with her on my knee, and Arthur seated beside me, gently playing with
her soft, flaxen hair, Lady Lowborough composedly came and placed herself on
the other side.
‘To-morrow,
Mrs. Huntingdon,’ said she, ‘you will be delivered from my presence, which, no
doubt, you will be very glad of—it is natural you should; but do you know I
have rendered you a great service? Shall I tell you what it is?’
‘I shall
be glad to hear of any service you have rendered me,’ said I, determined to be
calm, for I knew by the tone of her voice she wanted to provoke me.
‘Well,’
resumed she, ‘have you not observed the salutary change in Mr.
Huntingdon? Don’t you see what a sober, temperate man he is become?
You saw with regret the sad habits he was contracting, I know: and I know you
did your utmost to deliver him from them, but without success, until I came to
your assistance. I told him in few words that I could not bear to see him
degrade himself so, and that I should cease to—no matter what I told him, but
you see the reformation I have wrought; and you ought to thank me for it.’
I rose and
rang for the nurse.
‘But I
desire no thanks,’ she continued; ‘all the return I ask is, that you will take
care of him when I am gone, and not, by harshness and neglect, drive him back
to his old courses.’
I was
almost sick with passion, but Rachel was now at the door. I pointed to
the children, for I could not trust myself to speak: she took them away, and I
followed.
‘Will you,
Helen?’ continued the speaker.
I gave her
a look that blighted the malicious smile on her face, or checked it, at least
for a moment, and departed. In the ante-room I met Mr. Hargrave. He
saw I was in no humour to be spoken to, and suffered me to pass without a word;
but when, after a few minutes’ seclusion in the library, I had regained my
composure, and was returning to join Mrs. Hargrave and Milicent, whom I had
just heard come downstairs and go into the drawing-room, I found him there
still lingering in the dimly-lighted apartment, and evidently waiting for me.
‘Mrs.
Huntingdon,’ said he as I passed, ‘will you allow me one word?’
‘What is
it then? be quick, if you please.’
‘I
offended you this morning; and I cannot live under your displeasure.’
‘Then go,
and sin no more,’ replied I, turning away.
‘No, no!’
said he, hastily, setting himself before me. ‘Pardon me, but I must have
your forgiveness. I leave you to-morrow, and I may not have an
opportunity of speaking to you again. I was wrong to forget myself and
you, as I did; but let me implore you to forget and forgive my rash
presumption, and think of me as if those words had never been spoken; for,
believe me, I regret them deeply, and the loss of your esteem is too severe a
penalty: I cannot bear it.’
‘Forgetfulness
is not to be purchased with a wish; and I cannot bestow my esteem on all who
desire it, unless they deserve it too.’
‘I shall
think my life well spent in labouring to deserve it, if you will but pardon
this offence—will you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes! but
that is coldly spoken. Give me your hand and I’ll believe you. You
won’t? Then, Mrs. Huntingdon, you do not forgive me!’
‘Yes; here
it is, and my forgiveness with it: only, sin no more.’
He pressed
my cold hand with sentimental fervour, but said nothing, and stood aside to let
me pass into the room, where all the company were now assembled. Mr.
Grimsby was seated near the door: on seeing me enter, almost immediately
followed by Hargrave, he leered at me with a glance of intolerable
significance, as I passed. I looked him in the face, till he sullenly
turned away, if not ashamed, at least confounded for the moment. Meantime
Hattersley had seized Hargrave by the arm, and was whispering something in his
ear—some coarse joke, no doubt, for the latter neither laughed nor spoke in
answer, but, turning from him with a slight curl of the lip, disengaged himself
and went to his mother, who was telling Lord Lowborough how many reasons she
had to be proud of her son.
Thank
heaven, they are all going to-morrow.
CHAPTER XXXVI
December
20th, 1824.—This is the third anniversary of our felicitous union. It is
now two months since our guests left us to the enjoyment of each other’s
society; and I have had nine weeks’ experience of this new phase of conjugal
life—two persons living together, as master and mistress of the house, and
father and mother of a winsome, merry little child, with the mutual
understanding that there is no love, friendship, or sympathy between
them. As far as in me lies, I endeavour to live peaceably with him: I
treat him with unimpeachable civility, give up my convenience to his, wherever
it may reasonably be done, and consult him in a business-like way on household
affairs, deferring to his pleasure and judgment, even when I know the latter to
be inferior to my own.
As for
him, for the first week or two, he was peevish and low, fretting, I suppose,
over his dear Annabella’s departure, and particularly ill-tempered to me:
everything I did was wrong; I was cold-hearted, hard, insensate; my sour, pale
face was perfectly repulsive; my voice made him shudder; he knew not how he
could live through the winter with me; I should kill him by inches. Again
I proposed a separation, but it would not do: he was not going to be the talk
of all the old gossips in the neighbourhood: he would not have it said that he
was such a brute his wife could not live with him. No; he must contrive
to bear with me.
‘I must
contrive to bear with you, you mean,’ said I; ‘for so long as I discharge my
functions of steward and house-keeper, so conscientiously and well, without pay
and without thanks, you cannot afford to part with me. I shall therefore
remit these duties when my bondage becomes intolerable.’ This threat, I
thought, would serve to keep him in check, if anything would.
I believe
he was much disappointed that I did not feel his offensive sayings more
acutely, for when he had said anything particularly well calculated to hurt my
feelings, he would stare me searchingly in the face, and then grumble against
my ‘marble heart’ or my ‘brutal insensibility.’ If I had bitterly wept
and deplored his lost affection, he would, perhaps, have condescended to pity
me, and taken me into favour for a while, just to comfort his solitude and
console him for the absence of his beloved Annabella, until he could meet her
again, or some more fitting substitute. Thank heaven, I am not so weak as
that! I was infatuated once with a foolish, besotted affection, that
clung to him in spite of his unworthiness, but it is fairly gone now—wholly crushed
and withered away; and he has none but himself and his vices to thank for it.
At first
(in compliance with his sweet lady’s injunctions, I suppose), he abstained
wonderfully well from seeking to solace his cares in wine; but at length he
began to relax his virtuous efforts, and now and then exceeded a little, and
still continues to do so; nay, sometimes, not a little. When he is under
the exciting influence of these excesses, he sometimes fires up and attempts to
play the brute; and then I take little pains to suppress my scorn and
disgust. When he is under the depressing influence of the
after-consequences, he bemoans his sufferings and his errors, and charges them
both upon me; he knows such indulgence injures his health, and does him more harm
than good; but he says I drive him to it by my unnatural, unwomanly conduct; it
will be the ruin of him in the end, but it is all my fault; and then I am
roused to defend myself, sometimes with bitter recrimination. This is a
kind of injustice I cannot patiently endure. Have I not laboured long and
hard to save him from this very vice? Would I not labour still to deliver
him from it if I could? but could I do so by fawning upon him and caressing him
when I know that he scorns me? Is it my fault that I have lost my
influence with him, or that he has forfeited every claim to my regard?
And should I seek a reconciliation with him, when I feel that I abhor him, and
that he despises me? and while he continues still to correspond with Lady
Lowborough, as I know he does? No, never, never, never! he may drink
himself dead, but it is not my fault!
Yet I do
my part to save him still: I give him to understand that drinking makes his
eyes dull, and his face red and bloated; and that it tends to render him
imbecile in body and mind; and if Annabella were to see him as often as I do,
she would speedily be disenchanted; and that she certainly will withdraw her
favour from him, if he continues such courses. Such a mode of admonition
wins only coarse abuse for me—and, indeed, I almost feel as if I deserved it,
for I hate to use such arguments; but they sink into his stupefied heart, and
make him pause, and ponder, and abstain, more than anything else I could say.
At present
I am enjoying a temporary relief from his presence: he is gone with Hargrave to
join a distant hunt, and will probably not be back before to-morrow
evening. How differently I used to feel his absence!
Mr.
Hargrave is still at the Grove. He and Arthur frequently meet to pursue
their rural sports together: he often calls upon us here, and Arthur not
unfrequently rides over to him. I do not think either of these soi-disant
friends is overflowing with love for the other; but such intercourse serves to
get the time on, and I am very willing it should continue, as it saves me some
hours of discomfort in Arthur’s society, and gives him some better employment
than the sottish indulgence of his sensual appetites. The only objection
I have to Mr. Hargrave’s being in the neighbourhood, is that the fear of meeting
him at the Grove prevents me from seeing his sister so often as I otherwise
should; for, of late, he has conducted himself towards me with such unerring
propriety, that I have almost forgotten his former conduct. I suppose he
is striving to ‘win my esteem.’ If he continue to act in this way, he may
win it; but what then? The moment he attempts to demand anything more, he
will lose it again.
February
10th.—It is a hard, embittering thing to have one’s kind feelings and good
intentions cast back in one’s teeth. I was beginning to relent towards my
wretched partner; to pity his forlorn, comfortless condition, unalleviated as
it is by the consolations of intellectual resources and the answer of a good
conscience towards God; and to think I ought to sacrifice my pride, and renew
my efforts once again to make his home agreeable and lead him back to the path
of virtue; not by false professions of love, and not by pretended remorse, but
by mitigating my habitual coldness of manner, and commuting my frigid civility
into kindness wherever an opportunity occurred; and not only was I beginning to
think so, but I had already begun to act upon the thought—and what was the
result? No answering spark of kindness, no awakening penitence, but an
unappeasable ill-humour, and a spirit of tyrannous exaction that increased with
indulgence, and a lurking gleam of self-complacent triumph at every detection
of relenting softness in my manner, that congealed me to marble again as often
as it recurred; and this morning he finished the business:—I think the
petrifaction is so completely effected at last that nothing can melt me
again. Among his letters was one which he perused with symptoms of
unusual gratification, and then threw it across the table to me, with the admonition,—
‘There!
read that, and take a lesson by it!’
It was in
the free, dashing hand of Lady Lowborough. I glanced at the first page;
it seemed full of extravagant protestations of affection; impetuous longings
for a speedy reunion—and impious defiance of God’s mandates, and railings
against His providence for having cast their lot asunder, and doomed them both
to the hateful bondage of alliance with those they could not love. He
gave a slight titter on seeing me change colour. I folded up the letter,
rose, and returned it to him, with no remark, but—
‘Thank
you, I will take a lesson by it!’
My little
Arthur was standing between his knees, delightedly playing with the bright,
ruby ring on his finger. Urged by a sudden, imperative impulse to deliver
my son from that contaminating influence, I caught him up in my arms and
carried him with me out of the room. Not liking this abrupt removal, the
child began to pout and cry. This was a new stab to my already tortured
heart. I would not let him go; but, taking him with me into the library,
I shut the door, and, kneeling on the floor beside him, I embraced him, kissed
him, wept over with him with passionate fondness. Rather frightened than
consoled by this, he turned struggling from me, and cried out aloud for his
papa. I released him from my arms, and never were more bitter tears than
those that now concealed him from my blinded, burning eyes. Hearing his
cries, the father came to the room. I instantly turned away, lest he
should see and misconstrue my emotion. He swore at me, and took the now
pacified child away.
It is hard
that my little darling should love him more than me; and that, when the
well-being and culture of my son is all I have to live for, I should see my
influence destroyed by one whose selfish affection is more injurious than the
coldest indifference or the harshest tyranny could be. If I, for his
good, deny him some trifling indulgence, he goes to his father, and the latter,
in spite of his selfish indolence, will even give himself some trouble to meet
the child’s desires: if I attempt to curb his will, or look gravely on him for
some act of childish disobedience, he knows his other parent will smile and
take his part against me. Thus, not only have I the father’s spirit in
the son to contend against, the germs of his evil tendencies to search out and
eradicate, and his corrupting intercourse and example in after-life to
counteract, but already he counteracts my arduous labour for the child’s
advantage, destroys my influence over his tender mind, and robs me of his very
love; I had no earthly hope but this, and he seems to take a diabolical delight
in tearing it away.
But it is
wrong to despair; I will remember the counsel of the inspired writer to him
‘that feareth the Lord and obeyeth the voice of his servant, that sitteth in
darkness and hath no light; let him trust in the name of the Lord, and stay
upon his God!’
To be continued
