August 25th. - I am now quite
settled down to my usual routine
of steady occupations and quiet
amusements - tolerably contented
and cheerful, but still looking
forward to spring with the hope
of returning to town, not for
its gaieties and dissipations,
but for the chance of meeting
Mr. Huntingdon once again; for
still he is always in my thoughts
and in my dreams. In all my employments,
whatever I do, or see, or hear,
has an ultimate reference to
him; whatever skill or knowledge
I acquire is some day to be turned
to his advantage or amusement;
whatever new beauties in nature
or art I discover are to be depicted
to meet his eye, or stored in
my memory to be told him at some
future period. This, at least,
is the hope that I cherish, the
fancy that lights me on my lonely
way. It may be only an ignis
fatuus, after all, but it can
do no harm to follow it with
my eyes and rejoice in its lustre,
as long as it does not lure me
from the path I ought to keep;
and I think it will not, for
I have thought deeply on my aunt's
advice, and I see clearly, now,
the folly of throwing myself
away on one that is unworthy
of all the love I have to give,
and incapable of responding to
the best and deepest feelings
of my inmost heart - so clearly,
that even if I should see him
again, and if he should remember
me and love me still (which,
alas! is too little probable,
considering how he is situated,
and by whom surrounded), and
if he should ask me to marry
him - I am determined not to
consent until I know for certain
whether my aunt's opinion of
him or mine is nearest the truth;
for if mine is altogether wrong,
it is not he that I love; it
is a creature of my own imagination.
But I think it is not wrong -
no, no - there is a secret something
- an inward instinct that assures
me I am right. There is essential
goodness in him; - and what delight
to unfold it! If he has wandered,
what bliss to recall him! If
he is now exposed to the baneful
influence of corrupting and wicked
companions, what glory to deliver
him from them! Oh! if I could
but believe that Heaven has designed
me for
this!
* * * * *
To-day is the first of September;
but my uncle has ordered the
gamekeeper to spare the partridges
till the gentlemen come. 'What
gentlemen?' I asked when I heard
it. A small party he had invited
to shoot. His friend Mr. Wilmot
was one, and my aunt's friend,
Mr. Boarham, another. This struck
me as terrible news at the moment;
but all regret and apprehension
vanished like a dream when I
heard that Mr. Huntingdon was
actually to be a third! My aunt
is greatly against his coming,
of course: she earnestly endeavoured
to dissuade my uncle from asking
him; but he, laughing at her
objections, told her it was no
use talking, for the mischief
was already done: he had invited
Huntingdon and his friend Lord
Lowborough before we left London,
and nothing now remained but
to fix the day for their coming.
So he is safe, and I am sure
of seeing him. I cannot express
my joy. I find it very difficult
to conceal it from my aunt; but
I don't wish to trouble her with
my feelings till I know whether
I ought to indulge them or not.
If I find it my absolute duty
to suppress them, they shall
trouble no one but myself; and
if I can really feel myself justified
in indulging this attachment,
I can dare anything, even the
anger and grief of my best friend,
for its object - surely, I shall
soon know. But they are not coming
till about the middle of the
month.
We are to have two lady visitors
also: Mr. Wilmot is to bring
his niece and her cousin Milicent.
I suppose my aunt thinks the
latter will benefit me by her
society, and the salutary example
of her gentle deportment and
lowly and tractable spirit; and
the former I suspect she intends
as a species of counter-attraction
to win Mr. Huntingdon's attention
from me. I don't thank her for
this; but I shall be glad of
Milicent's company: she is a
sweet, good girl, and I wish
I were like her - more like her,
at least, than I am.
* * * * *
19th. - They are come. They
came the day before yesterday.
The gentlemen are all gone out
to shoot, and the ladies are
with my aunt, at work in the
drawing-room. I have retired
to the library, for I am very
unhappy, and I want to be alone.
Books cannot divert me; so having
opened my desk, I will try what
may be done by detailing the
cause of my uneasiness. This
paper will serve instead of a
confidential friend into whose
ear I might pour forth the overflowings
of my heart. It will not sympathise
with my distresses, but then
it will not laugh at them, and,
if I keep it close, it cannot
tell again; so it is, perhaps,
the best friend I could have
for the purpose.
First, let me speak of his
arrival - how I sat at my window,
and watched for nearly two hours,
before his carriage entered the
park- gates - for they all came
before him, - and how deeply
I was disappointed at every arrival,
because it was not his. First
came Mr. Wilmot and the ladies.
When Milicent had got into her
room, I quitted my post a few
minutes to look in upon her and
have a little private conversation,
for she was now my intimate friend,
several long epistles having
passed between us since our parting.
On returning to my window, I
beheld another carriage at the
door. Was it his? No; it was
Mr. Boarham's plain dark chariot;
and there stood he upon the steps,
carefully superintending the
dislodging of his various boxes
and packages. What a collection!
One would have thought he projected
a visit of six months at least.
A considerable time after, came
Lord Lowborough in his barouche.
Is he one of the profligate friends,
I wonder? I should think not;
for no one could call him a jolly
companion, I'm sure, - and, besides,
he appears too sober and gentlemanly
in his demeanour to merit such
suspicions. He is a tall, thin,
gloomy-looking man, apparently
between thirty and forty, and
of a somewhat sickly, careworn
aspect.
At last, Mr. Huntingdon's light
phaeton came bowling merrily
up the lawn. I had but a transient
glimpse of him: for the moment
it stopped, he sprang out over
the side on to the portico steps,
and disappeared into the house.
I now submitted to be dressed
for dinner - a duty which Rachel
had been urging upon me for the
last twenty minutes; and when
that important business was completed,
I repaired to the drawing-room,
where I found Mr. and Miss Wilmot
and Milicent Hargrave already
assembled. Shortly after, Lord
Lowborough entered, and then
Mr. Boarham, who seemed quite
willing to forget and forgive
my former conduct, and to hope
that a little conciliation and
steady perseverance on his part
might yet succeed in bringing
me to reason. While I stood at
the window, conversing with Milicent,
he came up to me, and was beginning
to talk in nearly his usual strain,
when Mr. Huntingdon entered the
room.
'How will he greet me, I wonder?'
said my bounding heart; and,
instead of advancing to meet
him, I turned to the window to
hide or subdue my emotion. But
having saluted his host and hostess,
and the rest of the company,
he came to me, ardently squeezed
my hand, and murmured he was
glad to see me once again. At
that moment dinner was announced:
my aunt desired him to take Miss
Hargrave into the dining-room,
and odious Mr. Wilmot, with unspeakable
grimaces, offered his arm to
me; and I was condemned to sit
between himself and Mr. Boarham.
But afterwards, when we were
all again assembled in the drawing-room,
I was indemnified for so much
suffering by a few delightful
minutes of conversation with
Mr. Huntingdon.
In the course of the evening,
Miss Wilmot was called upon to
sing and play for the amusement
of the company, and I to exhibit
my drawings, and, though he likes
music, and she is an accomplished
musician, I think I am right
in affirming, that he paid more
attention to my drawings than
to her music.
So far so good; - but hearing
him pronounce, sotto voce, but
with peculiar emphasis, concerning
one of the pieces, 'This is better
than all!' - I looked up, curious
to see which it was, and, to
my horror, beheld him complacently
gazing at the back of the picture:-
it was his own face that I had
sketched there and forgotten
to rub out! To make matters worse,
in the agony of the moment, I
attempted to snatch it from his
hand; but he prevented me, and
exclaiming, 'No - by George,
I'll keep it!' placed it against
his waistcoat and buttoned his
coat upon it with a delighted
chuckle.
Then, drawing a candle close
to his elbow, he gathered all
the drawings to himself, as well
what he had seen as the others,
and muttering, 'I must look at
both sides now,' he eagerly commenced
an examination, which I watched,
at first, with tolerable composure,
in the confidence that his vanity
would not be gratified by any
further discoveries; for, though
I must plead guilty to having
disfigured the backs of several
with abortive attempts to delineate
that too fascinating physiognomy,
I was sure that, with that one
unfortunate exception, I had
carefully obliterated all such
witnesses of my infatuation.
But the pencil frequently leaves
an impression upon cardboard
that no amount of rubbing can
efface. Such, it seems, was the
case with most of these; and,
I confess, I trembled when I
saw him holding them so close
to the candle, and poring so
intently over the seeming blanks;
but still, I trusted, he would
not be able to make out these
dim traces to his own satisfaction.
I was mistaken, however. Having
ended his scrutiny, he quietly
remarked, - 'I perceive the backs
of young ladies' drawings, like
the postscripts of their letters,
are the most important and interesting
part of the concern.'
Then, leaning back in his chair,
he reflected a few minutes in
silence, complacently smiling
to himself, and while I was concocting
some cutting speech wherewith
to check his gratification, he
rose, and passing over to where
Annabella Wilmot sat vehemently
coquetting with Lord Lowborough,
seated himself on the sofa beside
her, and attached himself to
her for the rest of the evening.
'So then,' thought I, 'he despises
me, because he knows I love him.'
And the reflection made me
so miserable I knew not what
to do. Milicent came and began
to admire my drawings, and make
remarks upon them; but I could
not talk to her - I could talk
to no one, and, upon the introduction
of tea, I took advantage of the
open door and the slight diversion
caused by its entrance to slip
out - for I was sure I could
not take any - and take refuge
in the library. My aunt sent
Thomas in quest of me, to ask
if I were not coming to tea;
but I bade him say I should not
take any to-night, and, happily,
she was too much occupied with
her guests to make any further
inquiries at the time.
As most of the company had
travelled far that day, they
retired early to rest; and having
heard them all, as I thought,
go up- stairs, I ventured out,
to get my candlestick from the
drawing-room sideboard. But Mr.
Huntingdon had lingered behind
the rest. He was just at the
foot of the stairs when I opened
the door, and hearing my step
in the hall - though I could
hardly hear it myself - he instantly
turned back.
'Helen, is that you?' said
he. 'Why did you run away from
us?'
'Good-night, Mr. Huntingdon,'
said I, coldly, not choosing
to answer the question. And I
turned away to enter the drawing-room.
'But you'll shake hands, won't
you?' said he, placing himself
in the doorway before me. And
he seized my hand and held it,
much against my will.
'Let me go, Mr. Huntingdon,'
said I. 'I want to get a candle.'
'The candle will keep,' returned
he.
I made a desperate effort to
free my hand from his grasp.
'Why are you in such a hurry
to leave me, Helen?' he said,
with a smile of the most provoking
self-sufficiency. 'You don't
hate me, you know.'
'Yes, I do - at this moment.'
'Not you. It is Annabella Wilmot
you hate, not me.'
'I have nothing to do with
Annabella Wilmot,' said I, burning
with indignation.
'But I have, you know,' returned
he, with peculiar emphasis.
'That is nothing to me, sir,'
I retorted.
'Is it nothing to you, Helen?
Will you swear it? Will you?'
'No I won't, Mr. Huntingdon!
and I will go,' cried I, not
knowing whether to laugh, or
to cry, or to break out into
a tempest of fury.
'Go, then, you vixen!' he said;
but the instant he released my
hand he had the audacity to put
his arm round my neck, and kiss
me.
Trembling with anger and agitation,
and I don't know what besides,
I broke away, and got my candle,
and rushed up-stairs to my room.
He would not have done so but
for that hateful picture. And
there he had it still in his
possession, an eternal monument
to his pride and my humiliation.
It was but little sleep I got
that night, and in the morning
I rose perplexed and troubled
with the thoughts of meeting
him at breakfast. I knew not
how it was to be done. An assumption
of dignified, cold indifference
would hardly do, after what he
knew of my devotion - to his
face, at least. Yet something
must be done to check his presumption
- I would not submit to be tyrannised
over by those bright, laughing
eyes. And, accordingly, I received
his cheerful morning salutation
as calmly and coldly as my aunt
could have wished, and defeated
with brief answers his one or
two attempts to draw me into
conversation, while I comported
myself with unusual cheerfulness
and complaisance towards every
other member of the party, especially
Annabella Wilmot, and even her
uncle and Mr. Boarham were treated
with an extra amount of civility
on the occasion, not from any
motives of coquetry, but just
to show him that my particular
coolness and reserve arose from
no general ill-humour or depression
of spirits.
He was not, however, to be
repelled by such acting as this.
He did not talk much to me, but
when he did speak it was with
a degree of freedom and openness,
and kindliness too, that plainly
seemed to intimate he knew his
words were music to my ears;
and when his looks met mine it
was with a smile - presumptuous,
it might be - but oh! so sweet,
so bright, so genial, that I
could not possibly retain my
anger; every vestige of displeasure
soon melted away beneath it like
morning clouds before the summer
sun.
Soon after breakfast all the
gentlemen save one, with boyish
eagerness, set out on their expedition
against the hapless partridges;
my uncle and Mr. Wilmot on their
shooting ponies, Mr. Huntingdon
and Lord Lowborough on their
legs: the one exception being
Mr. Boarham, who, in consideration
of the rain that had fallen during
the night, thought it prudent
to remain behind a little and
join them in a while when the
sun had dried the grass. And
he favoured us all with a long
and minute disquisition upon
the evils and dangers attendant
upon damp feet, delivered with
the most imperturbable gravity,
amid the jeers and laughter of
Mr. Huntingdon and my uncle,
who, leaving the prudent sportsman
to entertain the ladies with
his medical discussions, sallied
forth with their guns, bending
their steps to the stables first,
to have a look at the horses
and let out the dogs.
Not desirous of sharing Mr.
Boarham's company for the whole
of the morning, I betook myself
to the library, and there brought
forth my easel and began to paint.
The easel and the painting apparatus
would serve as an excuse for
abandoning the drawing-room if
my aunt should come to complain
of the desertion, and besides
I wanted to finish the picture.
It was one I had taken great
pains with, and I intended it
to be my masterpiece, though
it was somewhat presumptuous
in the design. By the bright
azure of the sky, and by the
warm and brilliant lights and
deep long shadows, I had endeavoured
to convey the idea of a sunny
morning. I had ventured to give
more of the bright verdure of
spring or early summer to the
grass and foliage than is commonly
attempted in painting. The scene
represented was an open glade
in a wood. A group of dark Scotch
firs was introduced in the middle
distance to relieve the prevailing
freshness of the rest; but in
the foreground was part of the
gnarled trunk and of the spreading
boughs of a large forest- tree,
whose foliage was of a brilliant
golden green - not golden from
autumnal mellowness, but from
the sunshine and the very immaturity
of the scarce expanded leaves.
Upon this bough, that stood out
in bold relief against the sombre
firs, were seated an amorous
pair of turtle doves, whose soft
sad-coloured plumage afforded
a contrast of another nature;
and beneath it a young girl was
kneeling on the daisy-spangled
turf, with head thrown back and
masses of fair hair falling on
her shoulders, her hands clasped,
lips parted, and eyes intently
gazing upward in pleased yet
earnest contemplation of those
feathered lovers - too deeply
absorbed in each other to notice
her.
I had scarcely settled to my
work, which, however, wanted
but a few touches to the finishing,
when the sportsmen passed the
window on their return from the
stables. It was partly open,
and Mr. Huntingdon must have
seen me as he went by, for in
half a minute he came back, and
setting his gun against the wall,
threw up the sash and sprang
in, and set himself before my
picture.
'Very pretty, i'faith,' said
he, after attentively regarding
it for a few seconds; 'and a
very fitting study for a young
lady. Spring just opening into
summer - morning just approaching
noon - girlhood just ripening
into womanhood, and hope just
verging on fruition. She's a
sweet creature! but why didn't
you make her black hair?'
'I thought light hair would
suit her better. You see I have
made her blue-eyed and plump,
and fair and rosy.'
'Upon my word - a very Hebe!
I should fall in love with her
if I hadn't the artist before
me. Sweet innocent! she's thinking
there will come a time when she
will be wooed and won like that
pretty hen-dove by as fond and
fervent a lover; and she's thinking
how pleasant it will be, and
how tender and faithful he will
find her.'
'And perhaps,' suggested I,
'how tender and faithful she
shall find him.'
'Perhaps, for there is no limit
to the wild extravagance of Hope's
imaginings at such an age.'
'Do you call that, then, one
of her wild, extravagant delusions?'
'No; my heart tells me it is
not. I might have thought so
once, but now, I say, give me
the girl I love, and I will swear
eternal constancy to her and
her alone, through summer and
winter, through youth and age,
and life and death! if age and
death must come.'
He spoke this in such serious
earnest that my heart bounded
with delight; but the minute
after he changed his tone, and
asked, with a significant smile,
if I had 'any more portraits.'
'No,' replied I, reddening
with confusion and wrath.
But my portfolio was on the
table: he took it up, and coolly
sat down to examine its contents.
'Mr. Huntingdon, those are
my unfinished sketches,' cried
I, 'and I never let any one see
them.'
And I placed my hand on the
portfolio to wrest it from him,
but he maintained his hold, assuring
me that he 'liked unfinished
sketches of all things.'
'But I hate them to be seen,'
returned I. 'I can't let you
have it, indeed!'
'Let me have its bowels then,'
said he; and just as I wrenched
the portfolio from his hand,
he deftly abstracted the greater
part of its contents, and after
turning them over a moment he
cried out, - 'Bless my stars,
here's another;' and slipped
a small oval of ivory paper into
his waistcoat pocket - a complete
miniature portrait that I had
sketched with such tolerable
success as to be induced to colour
it with great pains and care.
But I was determined he should
not keep it.
'Mr. Huntingdon,' cried I,
'I insist upon having that back!
It is mine, and you have no right
to take it. Give it me directly
- I'll never forgive you if you
don't!'
But the more vehemently I insisted,
the more he aggravated my distress
by his insulting, gleeful laugh.
At length, however, he restored
it to me, saying, - 'Well, well,
since you value it so much, I'll
not deprive you of it.'
To show him how I valued it,
I tore it in two and threw it
into the fire. He was not prepared
for this. His merriment suddenly
ceasing, he stared in mute amazement
at the consuming treasure; and
then, with a careless 'Humph!
I'll go and shoot now,' he turned
on his heel and vacated the apartment
by the window as he came, and
setting on his hat with an air,
took up his gun and walked away,
whistling as he went - and leaving
me not too much agitated to finish
my picture, for I was glad, at
the moment, that I had vexed
him.
When I returned to the drawing-room,
I found Mr. Boarham had ventured
to follow his comrades to the
field; and shortly after lunch,
to which they did not think of
returning, I volunteered to accompany
the ladies in a walk, and show
Annabella and Milicent the beauties
of the country. We took a long
ramble, and re-entered the park
just as the sportsmen were returning
from their expedition. Toil-spent
and travel-stained, the main
body of them crossed over the
grass to avoid us, but Mr. Huntingdon,
all spattered and splashed as
he was, and stained with the
blood of his prey - to the no
small offence of my aunt's strict
sense of propriety - came out
of his way to meet us, with cheerful
smiles and words for all but
me, and placing himself between
Annabella Wilmot and myself,
walked up the road and began
to relate the various exploits
and disasters of the day, in
a manner that would have convulsed
me with laughter if I had been
on good terms with him; but he
addressed himself entirely to
Annabella, and I, of course,
left all the laughter and all
the badinage to her, and affecting
the utmost indifference to whatever
passed between them, walked along
a few paces apart, and looking
every way but theirs, while my
aunt and Milicent went before,
linked arm in arm and gravely
discoursing together. At length
Mr. Huntingdon turned to me,
and addressing me in a confidential
whisper, said, - 'Helen, why
did you burn my picture?'
'Because I wished to destroy
it,' I answered, with an asperity
it is useless now to lament.
'Oh, very good!' was the reply;
'if you don't value me, I must
turn to somebody that will.'
I thought it was partly in
jest - a half-playful mixture
of mock resignation and pretended
indifference: but immediately
he resumed his place beside Miss
Wilmot, and from that hour to
this - during all that evening,
and all the next day, and the
next, and the next, and all this
morning (the 22nd), he has never
given me one kind word or one
pleasant look - never spoken
to me, but from pure necessity
- never glanced towards me but
with a cold, unfriendly look
I thought him quite incapable
of assuming.
My aunt observes the change,
and though she has not inquired
the cause or made any remark
to me on the subject, I see it
gives her pleasure. Miss Wilmot
observes it, too, and triumphantly
ascribes it to her own superior
charms and blandishments; but
I am truly miserable - more so
than I like to acknowledge to
myself. Pride refuses to aid
me. It has brought me into the
scrape, and will not help me
out of it.
He meant no harm - it was only
his joyous, playful spirit; and
I, by my acrimonious resentment
- so serious, so disproportioned
to the offence - have so wounded
his feelings, so deeply offended
him, that I fear he will never
forgive me - and all for a mere
jest! He thinks I dislike him,
and he must continue to think
so. I must lose him for ever,
and Annabella may win him, and
triumph as she will.
But it is not my loss nor her
triumph that I deplore so greatly
as the wreck of my fond hopes
for his advantage, and her unworthiness
of his affection, and the injury
he will do himself by trusting
his happiness to her. She does
not love him: she thinks only
of herself. She cannot appreciate
the good that is in him: she
will neither see it, nor value
it, nor cherish it. She will
neither deplore his faults nor
attempt their amendment, but
rather aggravate them by her
own. And I doubt whether she
will not deceive him after all.
I see she is playing double between
him and Lord Lowborough, and
while she amuses herself with
the lively Huntingdon, she tries
her utmost to enslave his moody
friend; and should she succeed
in bringing both to her feet,
the fascinating commoner will
have but little chance against
the lordly peer. If he observes
her artful by-play, it gives
him no uneasiness, but rather
adds new zest to his diversion
by opposing a stimulating check
to his otherwise too easy conquest.
Messrs. Wilmot and Boarham
have severally taken occasion
by his neglect of me to renew
their advances; and if I were
like Annabella and some others
I should take advantage of their
perseverance to endeavour to
pique him into a revival of affection;
but, justice and honesty apart,
I could not bear to do it. I
am annoyed enough by their present
persecutions without encouraging
them further; and even if I did
it would have precious little
effect upon him. He sees me suffering
under the condescending attentions
and prosaic discourses of the
one, and the repulsive obtrusions
of the other, without so much
as a shadow of commiseration
for me, or resentment against
my tormentors. He never could
have loved me, or he would not
have resigned me so willingly,
and he would not go on talking
to everybody else so cheerfully
as he does - laughing and jesting
with Lord Lowborough and my uncle,
teasing Milicent Hargrave, and
flirting with Annabella Wilmot
- as if nothing were on his mind.
Oh! why can't I hate him? I must
be infatuated, or I should scorn
to regret him as I do. But I
must rally all the powers I have
remaining, and try to tear him
from my heart. There goes the
dinner-bell, and here comes my
aunt to scold me for sitting
here at my desk all day, instead
of staying with the company:
wish the company were - gone.
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