On the eighth of April we went
to London, on the eighth of May
I returned, in obedience to Arthur's
wish; very much against my own,
because I left him behind. If
he had come with me, I should
have been very glad to get home
again, for he led me such a round
of restless dissipation while
there, that, in that short space
of time, I was quite tired out.
He seemed bent upon displaying
me to his friends and acquaintances
in particular, and the public
in general, on every possible
occasion, and to the greatest
possible advantage. It was something
to feel that he considered me
a worthy object of pride; but
I paid dear for the gratification:
for, in the first place, to please
him I had to violate my cherished
predilections, my almost rooted
principles in favour of a plain,
dark, sober style of dress -
I must sparkle in costly jewels
and deck myself out like a painted
butterfly, just as I had, long
since, determined I would never
do - and this was no trifling
sacrifice; in the second place,
I was continually straining to
satisfy his sanguine expectations
and do honour to his choice by
my general conduct and deportment,
and fearing to disappoint him
by some awkward misdemeanour,
or some trait of inexperienced
ignorance about the customs of
society, especially when I acted
the part of hostess, which I
was not unfrequently called upon
to do; and, in the third place,
as I intimated before, I was
wearied of the throng and bustle,
the restless hurry and ceaseless
change of a life so alien to
all my previous habits. At last,
he suddenly discovered that the
London air did not agree with
me, and I was languishing for
my country home, and must immediately
return to Grassdale.
I laughingly assured him that
the case was not so urgent as
he appeared to think it, but
I was quite willing to go home
if he was. He replied that he
should be obliged to remain a
week or two longer, as he had
business that required his presence.
'Then I will stay with you,'
said I.
'But I can't do with you, Helen,'
was his answer: 'as long as you
stay I shall attend to you and
neglect my business.'
'But I won't let you,' I returned;
'now that I know you have business
to attend to, I shall insist
upon your attending to it, and
letting me alone; and, to tell
the truth, I shall be glad of
a little rest. I can take my
rides and walks in the Park as
usual; and your business cannot
occupy all your time: I shall
see you at meal-times, and in
the evenings at least, and that
will be better than being leagues
away and never seeing you at
all.'
'But, my love, I cannot let
you stay. How can I settle my
affairs when I know that you
are here, neglected -?'
'I shall not feel myself neglected:
while you are doing your duty,
Arthur, I shall never complain
of neglect. If you had told me
before, that you had anything
to do, it would have been half
done before this; and now you
must make up for lost time by
redoubled exertions. Tell me
what it is; and I will be your
taskmaster, instead of being
a hindrance.'
'No, no,' persisted the impracticable
creature; 'you must go home,
Helen; I must have the satisfaction
of knowing that you are safe
and well, though far away. Your
bright eyes are faded, and that
tender, delicate bloom has quite
deserted your cheek.'
'That is only with too much
gaiety and fatigue.'
'It is not, I tell you; it
is the London air: you are pining
for the fresh breezes of your
country home, and you shall feel
them before you are two days
older. And remember your situation,
dearest Helen; on your health,
you know, depends the health,
if not the life, of our future
hope.'
'Then you really wish to get
rid of me?'
'Positively, I do; and I will
take you down myself to Grassdale,
and then return. I shall not
be absent above a week or fortnight
at most.'
'But if I must go, I will go
alone: if you must stay, it is
needless to waste your time in
the journey there and back.'
But he did not like the idea
of sending me alone.
'Why, what helpless creature
do you take me for,' I replied,
'that you cannot trust me to
go a hundred miles in our own
carriage, with our own footman
and a maid to attend me? If you
come with me I shall assuredly
keep you. But tell me, Arthur,
what is this tiresome business;
and why did you never mention
it before?'
'It is only a little business
with my lawyer,' said he; and
he told me something about a
piece of property he wanted to
sell, in order to pay off a part
of the incumbrances on his estate;
but either the account was a
little confused, or I was rather
dull of comprehension, for I
could not clearly understand
how that should keep him in town
a fortnight after me. Still less
can I now comprehend how it should
keep him a month, for it is nearly
that time since I left him, and
no signs of his return as yet.
In every letter he promises to
be with me in a few days, and
every time deceives me, or deceives
himself. His excuses are vague
and insufficient. I cannot doubt
that he has got among his former
companions again. Oh, why did
I leave him! I wish - I do intensely
wish he would return!
June 29th. - No Arthur yet;
and for many days I have been
looking and longing in vain for
a letter. His letters, when they
come, are kind, if fair words
and endearing epithets can give
them a claim to the title - but
very short, and full of trivial
excuses and promises that I cannot
trust; and yet how anxiously
I look forward to them I how
eagerly I open and devour one
of those little, hastily-scribbled
returns for the three or four
long letters, hitherto unanswered,
he has had from me!
Oh, it is cruel to leave me
so long alone! He knows I have
no one but Rachel to speak to,
for we have no neighbours here,
except the Hargraves, whose residence
I can dimly descry from these
upper windows embosomed among
those low, woody hills beyond
the Dale. I was glad when I learnt
that Milicent was so near us;
and her company would be a soothing
solace to me now; but she is
still in town with her mother;
there is no one at the Grove
but little Esther and her French
governess, for Walter is always
away. I saw that paragon of manly
perfections in London: he seemed
scarcely to merit the eulogiums
of his mother and sister, though
he certainly appeared more conversable
and agreeable than Lord Lowborough,
more candid and high-minded than
Mr. Grimsby, and more polished
and gentlemanly than Mr. Hattersley,
Arthur's only other friend whom
he judged fit to introduce to
me. - Oh, Arthur, why won't you
come? why won't you write to
me at least? You talked about
my health: how can you expect
me to gather bloom and vigour
here, pining in solitude and
restless anxiety from day to
day? - It would serve you right
to come back and find my good
looks entirely wasted away. I
would beg my uncle and aunt,
or my brother, to come and see
me, but I do not like to complain
of my loneliness to them, and
indeed loneliness is the least
of my sufferings. But what is
he, doing - what is it that keeps
him away? It is this ever-recurring
question, and the horrible suggestions
it raises, that distract me.
July 3rd. - My last bitter
letter has wrung from him an
answer at last, and a rather
longer one than usual; but still
I don't know what to make of
it. He playfully abuses me for
the gall and vinegar of my latest
effusion, tells me I can have
no conception of the multitudinous
engagements that keep him away,
but avers that, in spite of them
all, he will assuredly be with
me before the close of next week;
though it is impossible for a
man so circumstanced as he is
to fix the precise day of his
return: meantime he exhorts me
to the exercise of patience,
'that first of woman's virtues,'
and desires me to remember the
saying, 'Absence makes the heart
grow fonder,' and comfort myself
with the assurance that the longer
he stays away the better he shall
love me when he returns; and
till he does return, he begs
I will continue to write to him
constantly, for, though he is
sometimes too idle and often
too busy to answer my letters
as they come, he likes to receive
them daily; and if I fulfil my
threat of punishing his seeming
neglect by ceasing to write,
he shall be so angry that he
will do his utmost to forget
me. He adds this piece of intelligence
respecting poor Milicent Hargrave:
'Your
little friend
Milicent is
likely, before
long, to follow
your example, and take upon her
the yoke of matrimony in conjunction
with a friend of mine. Hattersley,
you know, has not yet fulfilled
his direful threat of throwing
his precious person away on the
first old maid that chose to
evince a tenderness for him;
but he still preserves a resolute
determination to see himself
a married man before the year
is out. "Only," said he to me, "I
must have somebody that will
let me have my own way in everything
- not like your wife, Huntingdon:
she is a charming creature, but
she looks as if she had a will
of her own, and could play the
vixen upon occasion" (I thought "you're
right there, man," but I didn't
say so). "I must have some good,
quiet soul that will let me just
do what I like and go where I
like, keep at home or stay away,
without a word of reproach or
complaint; for I can't do with
being bothered." "Well," said
I, "I know somebody that will
suit you to a tee, if you don't
care for money, and that's Hargrave's
sister, Milicent." He desired
to be introduced to her forthwith,
for he said he had plenty of
the needful himself, or should
have when his old governor chose
to quit the stage. So you see,
Helen, I have managed pretty
well, both for your friend and
mine.'
Poor Milicent! But I cannot
imagine she will ever be led
to accept such a suitor - one
so repugnant to all her ideas
of a man to be honoured and loved.
5th. - Alas! I was mistaken.
I have got a long letter from
her this morning, telling me
she is already engaged, and expects
to be married before the close
of the month.
'I
hardly know
what to say
about it,' she writes, 'or what
to think. To tell you the truth,
Helen, I don't like the thoughts
of it at all. If I am to be Mr.
Hattersley's wife, I must try
to love him; and I do try with
all my might; but I have made
very little progress yet; and
the worst symptom of the case
is, that the further he is from
me the better I like him: he
frightens me with his abrupt
manners and strange hectoring
ways, and I dread the thoughts
of marrying him. "Then why have
you accepted him?" you will ask;
and I didn't know I had accepted
him; but mamma tells me I have,
and he seems to think so too.
I certainly didn't mean to do
so; but I did not like to give
him a flat refusal, for fear
mamma should be grieved and angry
(for I knew she wished me to
marry him), and I wanted to talk
to her first about it: So I gave
him what I thought was an evasive,
half negative answer; but she
says it was as good as an acceptance,
and he would think me very capricious
if I were to attempt to draw
back - and indeed I was so confused
and frightened at the moment,
I can hardly tell what I said.
And next time I saw him, he accosted
me in all confidence as his affianced
bride, and immediately began
to settle matters with mamma.
I had not courage to contradict
them then, and how can I do it
now? I cannot; they would think
me mad. Besides, mamma is so
delighted with the idea of the
match; she thinks she has managed
so well for me; and I cannot
bear to disappoint her. I do
object sometimes, and tell her
what I feel, but you don't know
how she talks. Mr. Hattersley,
you know, is the son of a rich
banker, and as Esther and I have
no fortunes, and Walter very
little, our dear mamma is very
anxious to see us all well married,
that is, united to rich partners.
It is not my idea of being well
married, but she means it all
for the best. She says when I
am safe off her hands it will
be such a relief to her mind;
and she assures me it will be
a good thing for the family as
well as for me. Even Walter is
pleased at the prospect, and
when I confessed my reluctance
to him, he said it was all childish
nonsense. Do you think it nonsense,
Helen? I should not care if I
could see any prospect of being
able to love and admire him,
but I can't. There is nothing
about him to hang one's esteem
and affection upon; he is so
diametrically opposite to what
I imagined my husband should
be. Do write to me, and say all
you can to encourage me. Don't
attempt to dissuade me, for my
fate is fixed: preparations for
the important event are already
going on around me; and don't
say a word against Mr. Hattersley,
for I want to think well of him;
and though I have spoken against
him myself, it is for the last
time: hereafter, I shall never
permit myself to utter a word
in his dispraise, however he
may seem to deserve it; and whoever
ventures to speak slightingly
of the man I have promised to
love, to honour, and obey, must
expect my serious displeasure.
After all, I think he is quite
as good as Mr. Huntingdon, if
not better; and yet you love
him, and seem to be happy and
contented; and perhaps I may
manage as well. You must tell
me, if you can, that Mr. Hattersley
is better than he seems - that
he is upright, honourable, and
open- hearted - in fact, a perfect
diamond in the rough. He may
be all this, but I don't know
him. I know only the exterior,
and what, I trust, is the worst
part of him.'
She concludes with 'Good-by,
dear Helen. I am waiting anxiously
for your advice - but mind you
let it be all on the right side.'
Alas! poor Milicent, what encouragement
can I give you? or what advice
- except that it is better to
make a bold stand now, though
at the expense of disappointing
and angering both mother and
brother and lover, than to devote
your whole life, hereafter, to
misery and vain regret?
Saturday, 13th. - The week
is over, and he is not come.
All the sweet summer is passing
away without one breath of pleasure
to me or benefit to him. And
I had all along been looking
forward to this season with the
fond, delusive hope that we should
enjoy it so sweetly together;
and that, with God's help and
my exertions, it would be the
means of elevating his mind,
and refining his taste to a due
appreciation of the salutary
and pure delights of nature,
and peace, and holy love. But
now - at evening, when I see
the round red sun sink quietly
down behind those woody hills,
leaving them sleeping in a warm,
red, golden haze, I only think
another lovely day is lost to
him and me; and at morning, when
roused by the flutter and chirp
of the sparrows, and the gleeful
twitter of the swallows - all
intent upon feeding their young,
and full of life and joy in their
own little frames - I open the
window to inhale the balmy, soul-reviving
air, and look out upon the lovely
landscape, laughing in dew and
sunshine - I too often shame
that glorious scene with tears
of thankless misery, because
he cannot feel its freshening
influence; and when I wander
in the ancient woods, and meet
the little wild flowers smiling
in my path, or sit in the shadow
of our noble ash-trees by the
water-side, with their branches
gently swaying in the light summer
breeze that murmurs through their
feathery foliage - my ears full
of that low music mingled with
the dreamy hum of insects, my
eyes abstractedly gazing on the
glassy surface of the little
lake before me, with the trees
that crowd about its bank, some
gracefully bending to kiss its
waters, some rearing their stately
heads high above, but stretching
their wide arms over its margin,
all faithfully mirrored far,
far down in its glassy depth
- though sometimes the images
are partially broken by the sport
of aquatic insects, and sometimes,
for a moment, the whole is shivered
into trembling fragments by a
transient breeze that sweeps
the surface too roughly - still
I have no pleasure; for the greater
the happiness that nature sets
before me, the more I lament
that he is not here to taste
it: the greater the bliss we
might enjoy together, the more
I feel our present wretchedness
apart (yes, ours; he must be
wretched, though he may not know
it); and the more my senses are
pleased, the more my heart is
oppressed; for he keeps it with
him confined amid the dust and
smoke of London - perhaps shut
up within the walls of his own
abominable club.
But most of all, at night,
when I enter my lonely chamber,
and look out upon the summer
moon, 'sweet regent of the sky,'
floating above me in the 'black
blue vault of heaven,' shedding
a flood of silver radiance over
park, and wood, and water, so
pure, so peaceful, so divine
- and think, Where is he now?
- what is he doing at this moment?
wholly unconscious of this heavenly
scene - perhaps revelling with
his boon companions, perhaps
- God help me, it is too - too
much!
23rd. - Thank heaven, he is
come at last! But how altered!
flushed and feverish, listless
and languid, his beauty strangely
diminished, his vigour and vivacity
quite departed. I have not upbraided
him by word or look; I have not
even asked him what he has been
doing. I have not the heart to
do it, for I think he is ashamed
of himself-he must be so indeed,
and such inquiries could not
fail to be painful to both. My
forbearance pleases him - touches
him even, I am inclined to think.
He says he is glad to be home
again, and God knows how glad
I am to get him back, even as
he is. He lies on the sofa, nearly
all day long; and I play and
sing to him for hours together.
I write his letters for him,
and get him everything he wants;
and sometimes I read to him,
and sometimes I talk, and sometimes
only sit by him and soothe him
with silent caresses. I know
he does not deserve it; and I
fear I am spoiling him; but this
once, I will forgive him, freely
and entirely. I will shame him
into virtue if I can, and I will
never let him leave me again.
He is pleased with my attentions
- it may be, grateful for them.
He likes to have me near him:
and though he is peevish and
testy with his servants and his
dogs, he is gentle and kind to
me. What he would be, if I did
not so watchfully anticipate
his wants, and so carefully avoid,
or immediately desist from doing
anything that has a tendency
to irritate or disturb him, with
however little reason, I cannot
tell. How intensely I wish he
were worthy of all this care!
Last night, as I sat beside him,
with his head in my lap, passing
my fingers through his beautiful
curls, this thought made my eyes
overflow with sorrowful tears
- as it often does; but this
time, a tear fell on his face
and made him look up. He smiled,
but not insultingly.
'Dear Helen!' he said - 'why
do you cry? you know that I love
you' (and he pressed my hand
to his feverish lips), 'and what
more could you desire?'
'Only, Arthur, that you would
love yourself as truly and as
faithfully as you are loved by
me.'
'That would be hard, indeed!'
he replied, tenderly squeezing
my hand.
August 24th. - Arthur is himself
again, as lusty and reckless,
as light of heart and head as
ever, and as restless and hard
to amuse as a spoilt child, and
almost as full of mischief too,
especially when wet weather keeps
him within doors. I wish he had
something to do, some useful
trade, or profession, or employment
- anything to occupy his head
or his hands for a few hours
a day, and give him something
besides his own pleasure to think
about. If he would play the country
gentleman and attend to the farm
- but that he knows nothing about,
and won't give his mind to consider,
- or if he would take up with
some literary study, or learn
to draw or to play - as he is
so fond of music, I often try
to persuade him to learn the
piano, but he is far too idle
for such an undertaking: he has
no more idea of exerting himself
to overcome obstacles than he
has of restraining his natural
appetites; and these two things
are the ruin of him. I lay them
both to the charge of his harsh
yet careless father, and his
madly indulgent mother. - If
ever I am a mother I will zealously
strive against this crime of
over- indulgence. I can hardly
give it a milder name when I
think of the evils it brings.
Happily, it will soon be the
shooting season, and then, if
the weather permit, he will find
occupation enough in the pursuit
and destruction of the partridges
and pheasants: we have no grouse,
or he might have been similarly
occupied at this moment, instead
of lying under the acacia-tree
pulling poor Dash's ears. But
he says it is dull work shooting
alone; he must have a friend
or two to help him.
'Let them be tolerably decent
then, Arthur,' said I. The word
'friend' in his mouth makes me
shudder: I know it was some of
his 'friends' that induced him
to stay behind me in London,
and kept him away so long: indeed,
from what he has unguardedly
told me, or hinted from time
to time, I cannot doubt that
he frequently showed them my
letters, to let them see how
fondly his wife watched over
his interests, and how keenly
she regretted his absence; and
that they induced him to remain
week after week, and to plunge
into all manner of excesses,
to avoid being laughed at for
a wife-ridden fool, and, perhaps,
to show how far he could venture
to go without danger of shaking
the fond creature's devoted attachment.
It is a hateful idea, but I cannot
believe it is a false one.
'Well,' replied he, 'I thought
of Lord Lowborough for one; but
there is no possibility of getting
him without his better half,
our mutual friend, Annabella;
so we must ask them both. You're
not afraid of her, are you, Helen?'
he asked, with a mischievous
twinkle in his eyes.
'Of course not,' I answered:
'why should I? And who besides?'
'Hargrave for one. He will
be glad to come, though his own
place is so near, for he has
little enough land of his own
to shoot over, and we can extend
our depredations into it, if
we like; and he is thoroughly
respectable, you know, Helen
- quite a lady's man: and I think,
Grimsby for another: he's a decent,
quiet fellow enough. You'll not
object to Grimsby?'
'I hate him: but, however,
if you wish it, I'll try to endure
his presence for a while.'
'All a prejudice, Helen, a
mere woman's antipathy.'
'No; I have solid grounds for
my dislike. And is that all?'
'Why, yes, I think so. Hattersley
will be too busy billing and
cooing, with his bride to have
much time to spare for guns and
dogs at present,' he replied.
And that reminds me, that I have
had several letters from Milicent
since her marriage, and that
she either is, or pretends to
be, quite reconciled to her lot.
She professes to have discovered
numberless virtues and perfections
in her husband, some of which,
I fear, less partial eyes would
fail to distinguish, though they
sought them carefully with tears;
and now that she is accustomed
to his loud voice, and abrupt,
uncourteous manners, she affirms
she finds no difficulty in loving
him as a wife should do, and
begs I will burn that letter
wherein she spoke so unadvisedly
against him. So that I trust
she may yet be happy; but, if
she is, it will be entirely the
reward of her own goodness of
heart; for had she chosen to
consider herself the victim of
fate, or of her mother's worldly
wisdom, she might have been thoroughly
miserable; and if, for duty's
sake, she had not made every
effort to love her husband, she
would, doubtless, have hated
him to the end of her days.
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