December 20th, 1825. - Another
year is past; and I am weary
of this life. And yet I cannot
wish to leave it: whatever afflictions
assail me here, I cannot wish
to go and leave my darling in
this dark and wicked world alone,
without a friend to guide him
through its weary mazes, to warn
him of its thousand snares, and
guard him from the perils that
beset him on every hand. I am
not well fitted to be his only
companion, I know; but there
is no other to supply my place.
I am too grave to minister to
his amusements and enter into
his infantile sports as a nurse
or a mother ought to do, and
often his bursts of gleeful merriment
trouble and alarm me; I see in
them his father's spirit and
temperament, and I tremble for
the consequences; and too often
damp the innocent mirth I ought
to share. That father, on the
contrary, has no weight of sadness
on his mind; is troubled with
no fears, no scruples concerning
his son's future welfare; and
at evenings especially, the times
when the child sees him the most
and the oftenest, he is always
particularly jocund and open-hearted:
ready to laugh and to jest with
anything or anybody but me, and
I am particularly silent and
sad: therefore, of course, the
child dotes upon his seemingly
joyous amusing, ever-indulgent
papa, and will at any time gladly
exchange my company for his.
This disturbs me greatly; not
so much for the sake of my son's
affection (though I do prize
that highly, and though I feel
it is my right, and know I have
done much to earn it) as for
that influence over him which,
for his own advantage, I would
strive to purchase and retain,
and which for very spite his
father delights to rob me of,
and, from motives of mere idle
egotism, is pleased to win to
himself; making no use of it
but to torment me and ruin the
child. My only consolation is,
that he spends comparatively
little of his time at home, and,
during the months he passes in
London or elsewhere, I have a
chance of recovering the ground
I had lost, and overcoming with
good the evil he has wrought
by his wilful mismanagement.
But then it is a bitter trial
to behold him, on his return,
doing his utmost to subvert my
labours and transform my innocent,
affectionate, tractable darling
into a selfish, disobedient,
and mischievous boy; thereby
preparing the soil for those
vices he has so successfully
cultivated in his own perverted
nature.
Happily, there were none of
Arthur's 'friends' invited to
Grassdale last autumn: he took
himself off to visit some of
them instead. I wish he would
always do so, and I wish his
friends were numerous and loving
enough to keep him amongst them
all the year round. Mr. Hargrave,
considerably to my annoyance,
did not go with him; but I think
I have done with that gentleman
at last.
For seven or eight months he
behaved so remarkably well, and
managed so skilfully too, that
I was almost completely off my
guard, and was really beginning
to look upon him as a friend,
and even to treat him as such,
with certain prudent restrictions
(which I deemed scarcely necessary);
when, presuming upon my unsuspecting
kindness, he thought he might
venture to overstep the bounds
of decent moderation and propriety
that had so long restrained him.
It was on a pleasant evening
at the close of May: I was wandering
in the park, and he, on seeing
me there as he rode past, made
bold to enter and approach me,
dismounting and leaving his horse
at the gate. This was the first
time he had ventured to come
within its inclosure since I
had been left alone, without
the sanction of his mother's
or sister's company, or at least
the excuse of a message from
them. But he managed to appear
so calm and easy, so respectful
and self-possessed in his friendliness,
that, though a little surprised,
I was neither alarmed nor offended
at the unusual liberty, and he
walked with me under the ash-trees
and by the water-side, and talked,
with considerable animation,
good taste, and intelligence,
on many subjects, before I began
to think about getting rid of
him. Then, after a pause, during
which we both stood gazing on
the calm, blue water - I revolving
in my mind the best means of
politely dismissing my companion,
he, no doubt, pondering other
matters equally alien to the
sweet sights and sounds that
alone were present to his senses,
- he suddenly electrified me
by beginning, in a peculiar tone,
low, soft, but perfectly distinct,
to pour forth the most unequivocal
expressions of earnest and passionate
love; pleading his cause with
all the bold yet artful eloquence
he could summon to his aid. But
I cut short his appeal, and repulsed
him so determinately, so decidedly,
and with such a mixture of scornful
indignation, tempered with cool,
dispassionate sorrow and pity
for his benighted mind, that
he withdrew, astonished, mortified,
and discomforted; and, a few
days after, I heard that he had
departed for London. He returned,
however, in eight or nine weeks,
and did not entirely keep aloof
from me, but comported himself
in so remarkable a manner that
his quick-sighted sister could
not fail to notice the change.
'What have you done to Walter,
Mrs. Huntingdon?' said she one
morning, when I had called at
the Grove, and he had just left
the room after exchanging a few
words of the coldest civility.
'He has been so extremely ceremonious
and stately of late, I can't
imagine what it is all about,
unless you have desperately offended
him. Tell me what it is, that
I may be your mediator, and make
you friends again.'
'I have done nothing willingly
to offend him,' said I. 'If he
is offended, he can best tell
you himself what it is about.'
'I'll ask him,' cried the giddy
girl, springing up and putting
her head out of the window: 'he's
only in the garden - Walter!'
'No, no, Esther! you will seriously
displease me if you do; and I
shall leave you immediately,
and not come again for months
- perhaps years.'
'Did you call, Esther?' said
her brother, approaching the
window from without.
'Yes; I wanted to ask you -
'
'Good-morning, Esther,' said
I, talking her hand and giving
it a severe squeeze.
'To ask you,' continued she,
'to get me a rose for Mrs. Huntingdon.'
He departed. 'Mrs. Huntingdon,'
she exclaimed, turning to me
and still holding me fast by
the hand, 'I'm quite shocked
at you - you're just as angry,
and distant, and cold as he is:
and I'm determined you shall
be as good friends as ever before
you go.'
'Esther, how can you be so
rude!' cried Mrs. Hargrave, who
was seated gravely knitting in
her easy-chair. 'Surely, you
never will learn to conduct yourself
like a lady!'
'Well, mamma, you said yourself
- ' But the young lady was silenced
by the uplifted finger of her
mamma, accompanied with a very
stern shake of the head.
'Isn't she cross?' whispered
she to me; but, before I could
add my share of reproof, Mr.
Hargrave reappeared at the window
with a beautiful moss-rose in
his hand.
'Here, Esther, I've brought
you the rose,' said he, extending
it towards her.
'Give it her yourself, you
blockhead!' cried she, recoiling
with a spring from between us.
'Mrs. Huntingdon would rather
receive it from you,' replied
he, in a very serious tone, but
lowering his voice that his mother
might not hear. His sister took
the rose and gave it to me.
'My brother's compliments,
Mrs. Huntingdon, and he hopes
you and he will come to a better
understanding by-and-by. Will
that do, Walter?' added the saucy
girl, turning to him and putting
her arm round his neck, as he
stood leaning upon the sill of
the window - 'or should I have
said that you are sorry you were
so touchy? or that you hope she
will pardon your offence?'
'You silly girl! you don't
know what you are talking about,'
replied he gravely.
'Indeed I don't: for I'm quite
in the dark!'
'Now, Esther,' interposed Mrs.
Hargrave, who, if equally benighted
on the subject of our estrangement,
saw at least that her daughter
was behaving very improperly,
'I must insist upon your leaving
the room!'
'Pray don't, Mrs. Hargrave,
for I'm going to leave it myself,'
said I, and immediately made
my adieux.
About a week after Mr. Hargrave
brought his sister to see me.
He conducted himself, at first,
with his usual cold, distant,
half- stately, half-melancholy,
altogether injured air; but Esther
made no remark upon it this time:
she had evidently been schooled
into better manners. She talked
to me, and laughed and romped
with little Arthur, her loved
and loving playmate. He, somewhat
to my discomfort, enticed her
from the room to have a run in
the hall, and thence into the
garden. I got up to stir the
fire. Mr. Hargrave asked if I
felt cold, and shut the door
- a very unseasonable piece of
officiousness, for I had meditated
following the noisy playfellows
if they did not speedily return.
He then took the liberty of walking
up to the fire himself, and asking
me if I were aware that Mr. Huntingdon
was now at the seat of Lord Lowborough,
and likely to continue there
some time.
'No; but it's no matter,' I
answered carelessly; and if my
cheek glowed like fire, it was
rather at the question than the
information it conveyed.
'You don't object to it?' he
said.
'Not at all, if Lord Lowborough
likes his company.'
'You have no love left for
him, then?'
'Not the least.'
'I knew that - I knew you were
too high-minded and pure in your
own nature to continue to regard
one so utterly false and polluted
with any feelings but those of
indignation and scornful abhorrence!'
'Is he not your friend?' said
I, turning my eyes from the fire
to his face, with perhaps a slight
touch of those feelings he assigned
to another.
'He was,' replied he, with
the same calm gravity as before;
'but do not wrong me by supposing
that I could continue my friendship
and esteem to a man who could
so infamously, so impiously forsake
and injure one so transcendently
- well, I won't speak of it.
But tell me, do you never think
of revenge?'
'Revenge! No - what good would
that do? - it would make him
no better, and me no happier.'
'I don't know how to talk to
you, Mrs. Huntingdon,' said he,
smiling; 'you are only half a
woman - your nature must be half
human, half angelic. Such goodness
overawes me; I don't know what
to make of it.'
'Then, sir, I fear you must
be very much worse than you should
be, if I, a mere ordinary mortal,
am, by your own confession, so
vastly your superior; and since
there exists so little sympathy
between us, I think we had better
each look out for some more congenial
companion.' And forthwith moving
to the window, I began to look
out for my little son and his
gay young friend.
'No, I am the ordinary mortal,
I maintain,' replied Mr. Hargrave.
'I will not allow myself to be
worse than my fellows; but you,
Madam - I equally maintain there
is nobody like you. But are you
happy?' he asked in a serious
tone.
'As happy as some others, I
suppose.'
'Are you as happy as you desire
to be?'
'No one is so blest as that
comes to on this side eternity.'
'One thing I know,' returned
he, with a deep sad sigh; 'you
are immeasurably happier than
I am.'
'I am very sorry for you, then,'
I could not help replying.
'Are you, indeed? No, for if
you were you would be glad to
relieve me.'
'And so I should if I could
do so without injuring myself
or any other.'
'And can you suppose that I
should wish you to injure yourself?
No: on the contrary, it is your
own happiness I long for more
than mine. You are miserable
now, Mrs. Huntingdon,' continued
he, looking me boldly in the
face. 'You do not complain, but
I see - and feel - and know that
you are miserable - and must
remain so as long as you keep
those walls of impenetrable ice
about your still warm and palpitating
heart; and I am miserable, too.
Deign to smile on me and I am
happy: trust me, and you shall
be happy also, for if you are
a woman I can make you so - and
I will do it in spite of yourself!'
he muttered between his teeth;
'and as for others, the question
is between ourselves alone: you
cannot injure your husband, you
know, and no one else has any
concern in the matter.'
'I have a son, Mr. Hargrave,
and you have a mother,' said
I, retiring from the window,
whither he had followed me.
'They need not know,' he began;
but before anything more could
be said on either side, Esther
and Arthur re-entered the room.
The former glanced at Walter's
flushed, excited countenance,
and then at mine - a little flushed
and excited too, I daresay, though
from far different causes. She
must have thought we had been
quarrelling desperately, and
was evidently perplexed and disturbed
at the circumstance; but she
was too polite or too much afraid
of her brother's anger to refer
to it. She seated herself on
the sofa, and putting back her
bright, golden ringlets, that
were scattered in wild profusion
over her face, she immediately
began to talk about the garden
and her little playfellow, and
continued to chatter away in
her usual strain till her brother
summoned her to depart.
'If I have spoken too warmly,
forgive me,' he murmured on taking
his leave, 'or I shall never
forgive myself.' Esther smiled
and glanced at me: I merely bowed,
and her countenance fell. She
thought it a poor return for
Walter's generous concession,
and was disappointed in her friend.
Poor child, she little knows
the world she lives in!
Mr. Hargrave had not an opportunity
of meeting me again in private
for several weeks after this;
but when he did meet me there
was less of pride and more of
touching melancholy in his manner
than before. Oh, how he annoyed
me! I was obliged at last almost
entirely to remit my visits to
the Grove, at the expense of
deeply offending Mrs. Hargrave
and seriously afflicting poor
Esther, who really values my
society for want of better, and
who ought not to suffer for the
fault of her brother. But that
indefatigable foe was not yet
vanquished: he seemed to be always
on the watch. I frequently saw
him riding lingeringly past the
premises, looking searchingly
round him as he went - or, if
I did not, Rachel did. That sharp-sighted
woman soon guessed how matters
stood between us, and descrying
the enemy's movements from her
elevation at the nursery-window,
she would give me a quiet intimation
if she saw me preparing for a
walk when she had reason to believe
he was about, or to think it
likely that he would meet or
overtake me in the way I meant
to traverse. I would then defer
my ramble, or confine myself
for that day to the park and
gardens, or, if the proposed
excursion was a matter of importance,
such as a visit to the sick or
afflicted, I would take Rachel
with me, and then I was never
molested.
But one mild, sunshiny day,
early in November, I had ventured
forth alone to visit the village
school and a few of the poor
tenants, and on my return I was
alarmed at the clatter of a horse's
feet behind me, approaching at
a rapid, steady trot. There was
no stile or gap at hand by which
I could escape into the fields,
so I walked quietly on, saying
to myself, 'It may not be he
after all; and if it is, and
if he do annoy me, it shall be
for the last time, I am determined,
if there be power in words and
looks against cool impudence
and mawkish sentimentality so
inexhaustible as his.'
The horse soon overtook me,
and was reined up close beside
me. It was Mr. Hargrave. He greeted
me with a smile intended to be
soft and melancholy, but his
triumphant satisfaction at having
caught me at last so shone through
that it was quite a failure.
After briefly answering his salutation
and inquiring after the ladies
at the Grove, I turned away and
walked on; but he followed and
kept his horse at my side: it
was evident he intended to be
my companion all the way.
'Well! I don't much care. If
you want another rebuff, take
it - and welcome,' was my inward
remark. 'Now, sir, what next?'
This question, though unspoken,
was not long unanswered; after
a few passing observations upon
indifferent subjects, he began
in solemn tones the following
appeal to my humanity:-
'It will be four years next
April since I first saw you,
Mrs. Huntingdon - you may have
forgotten the circumstance, but
I never can. I admired you then
most deeply, but I dared not
love you. In the following autumn
I saw so much of your perfections
that I could not fail to love
you, though I dared not show
it. For upwards of three years
I have endured a perfect martyrdom.
From the anguish of suppressed
emotions, intense and fruitless
longings, silent sorrow, crushed
hopes, and trampled affections,
I have suffered more than I can
tell, or you imagine - and you
were the cause of it, and not
altogether the innocent cause.
My youth is wasting away; my
prospects are darkened; my life
is a desolate blank; I have no
rest day or night: I am become
a burden to myself and others,
and you might save me by a word
- a glance, and will not do it
- is this right?'
'In the first place, I don't
believe you,' answered I; 'in
the second, if you will be such
a fool, I can't hinder it.'
'If you affect,' replied he,
earnestly, 'to regard as folly
the best, the strongest, the
most godlike impulses of our
nature, I don't believe you.
I know you are not the heartless,
icy being you pretend to be -
you had a heart once, and gave
it to your husband. When you
found him utterly unworthy of
the treasure, you reclaimed it;
and you will not pretend that
you loved that sensual, earthly-
minded profligate so deeply,
so devotedly, that you can never
love another? I know that there
are feelings in your nature that
have never yet been called forth;
I know, too, that in your present
neglected lonely state you are
and must be miserable. You have
it in your power to raise two
human beings from a state of
actual suffering to such unspeakable
beatitude as only generous, noble,
self-forgetting love can give
(for you can love me if you will);
you may tell me that you scorn
and detest me, but, since you
have set me the example of plain
speaking, I will answer that
I do not believe you. But you
will not do it! you choose rather
to leave us miserable; and you
coolly tell me it is the will
of God that we should remain
so. You may call this religion,
but I call it wild fanaticism!'
'There is another life both
for you and for me,' said I.
'If it be the will of God that
we should sow in tears now, it
is only that we may reap in joy
hereafter. It is His will that
we should not injure others by
the gratification of our own
earthly passions; and you have
a mother, and sisters, and friends
who would be seriously injured
by your disgrace; and I, too,
have friends, whose peace of
mind shall never be sacrificed
to my enjoyment, or yours either,
with my consent; and if I were
alone in the world, I have still
my God and my religion, and I
would sooner die than disgrace
my calling and break my faith
with heaven to obtain a few brief
years of false and fleeting happiness
- happiness sure to end in misery
even here - for myself or any
other!'
'There need be no disgrace,
no misery or sacrifice in any
quarter,' persisted he. 'I do
not ask you to leave your home
or defy the world's opinion.'
But I need not repeat all his
arguments. I refuted them to
the best of my power; but that
power was provokingly small,
at the moment, for I was too
much flurried with indignation
- and even shame - that he should
thus dare to address me, to retain
sufficient command of thought
and language to enable me adequately
to contend against his powerful
sophistries. Finding, however,
that he could not be silenced
by reason, and even covertly
exulted in his seeming advantage,
and ventured to deride those
assertions I had not the coolness
to prove, I changed my course
and tried another plan.
'Do you really love me?' said
I, seriously, pausing and looking
him calmly in the face.
'Do I love you!' cried he.
'Truly?' I demanded.
His countenance brightened;
he thought his triumph was at
hand. He commenced a passionate
protestation of the truth and
fervour of his attachment, which
I cut short by another question:-
'But is it not a selfish love?
Have you enough disinterested
affection to enable you to sacrifice
your own pleasure to mine?'
'I would give my life to serve
you.'
'I don't want your life; but
have you enough real sympathy
for my afflictions to induce
you to make an effort to relieve
them, at the risk of a little
discomfort to yourself?'
'Try me, and see.'
'If you have, never mention
this subject again. You cannot
recur to it in any way without
doubling the weight of those
sufferings you so feelingly deplore.
I have nothing left me but the
solace of a good conscience and
a hopeful trust in heaven, and
you labour continually to rob
me of these. If you persist,
I must regard you as my deadliest
foe.'
'But hear me a moment - '
'No, sir! You said you would
give your life to serve me; I
only ask your silence on one
particular point. I have spoken
plainly; and what I say I mean.
If you torment me in this way
any more, I must conclude that
your protestations are entirely
false, and that you hate me in
your heart as fervently as you
profess to love me!'
He bit his lip, and bent his
eyes upon the ground in silence
for a while.
'Then I must leave you,' said
he at length, looking steadily
upon me, as if with the last
hope of detecting some token
of irrepressible anguish or dismay
awakened by those solemn words.
'I must leave you. I cannot live
here, and be for ever silent
on the all-absorbing subject
of my thoughts and wishes.'
'Formerly, I believe, you spent
but little of your time at home,'
I answered; 'it will do you no
harm to absent yourself again,
for a while - if that be really
necessary.'
'If that be really possible,'
he muttered; 'and can you bid
me go so coolly? Do you really
wish it?'
'Most certainly I do. If you
cannot see me without tormenting
me as you have lately done, I
would gladly say farewell and
never see you more.'
He made no answer, but, bending
from his horse, held out his
hand towards me. I looked up
at his face, and saw therein
such a look of genuine agony
of soul, that, whether bitter
disappointment, or wounded pride,
or lingering love, or burning
wrath were uppermost, I could
not hesitate to put my hand in
his as frankly as if I bade a
friend farewell. He grasped it
very hard, and immediately put
spurs to his horse and galloped
away. Very soon after, I learned
that he was gone to Paris, where
he still is; and the longer he
stays there the better for me.
I thank God for this deliverance!
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