The Tenant of Wildfell Hall Deluxe Edition Anne Bronte chapter 40

January 10th, 1827. - While writing the above, yesterday evening, I
sat in the drawing-room.  Mr. Huntingdon was present, but, as I
thought, asleep on the sofa behind me.  He had risen, however,
unknown to me, and, actuated by some base spirit of curiosity, been
looking over my shoulder for I know not how long; for when I had
laid aside my pen, and was about to close the book, he suddenly
placed his hand upon it, and saying, - 'With your leave, my dear,
I'll have a look at this,' forcibly wrested it from me, and,
drawing a chair to the table, composedly sat down to examine it:
turning back leaf after leaf to find an explanation of what he had
read.  Unluckily for me, he was more sober that night than he
usually is at such an hour.

Of course I did not leave him to pursue this occupation in quiet:
I made several attempts to snatch the book from his hands, but he
held it too firmly for that; I upbraided him in bitterness and
scorn for his mean and dishonourable conduct, but that had no
effect upon him; and, finally, I extinguished both the candles, but
he only wheeled round to the fire, and raising a blaze sufficient
for his purposes, calmly continued the investigation.  I had
serious thoughts of getting a pitcher of water and extinguishing
that light too; but it was evident his curiosity was too keenly
excited to be quenched by that, and the more I manifested my
anxiety to baffle his scrutiny, the greater would be his
determination to persist in it besides it was too late.

'It seems very interesting, love,' said he, lifting his head and
turning to where I stood, wringing my hands in silent rage and
anguish; 'but it's rather long; I'll look at it some other time;
and meanwhile I'll trouble you for your keys, my dear.'

'What keys?'

'The keys of your cabinet, desk, drawers, and whatever else you
possess,' said he, rising and holding out his hand.

'I've not got them,' I replied.  The key of my desk, in fact, was
at that moment in the lock, and the others were attached to it.

'Then you must send for them,' said he; 'and if that old devil,
Rachel, doesn't immediately deliver them up, she tramps bag and
baggage tomorrow.'

'She doesn't know where they are,' I answered, quietly placing my
hand upon them, and taking them from the desk, as I thought,
unobserved.  'I know, but I shall not give them up without a
reason.'

'And I know, too,' said he, suddenly seizing my closed hand and
rudely abstracting them from it.  He then took up one of the
candles and relighted it by thrusting it into the fire.

'Now, then,' sneered he, 'we must have a confiscation of property.
But, first, let us take a peep into the studio.'

And putting the keys into his pocket, he walked into the library.
I followed, whether with the dim idea of preventing mischief, or
only to know the worst, I can hardly tell.  My painting materials
were laid together on the corner table, ready for to-morrow's use,
and only covered with a cloth.  He soon spied them out, and putting
down the candle, deliberately proceeded to cast them into the fire:
palette, paints, bladders, pencils, brushes, varnish:  I saw them
all consumed:  the palette-knives snapped in two, the oil and
turpentine sent hissing and roaring up the chimney.  He then rang
the bell.

'Benson, take those things away,' said he, pointing to the easel,
canvas, and stretcher; 'and tell the housemaid she may kindle the
fire with them:  your mistress won't want them any more.'

Benson paused aghast and looked at me.

'Take them away, Benson,' said I; and his master muttered an oath.

'And this and all, sir?' said the astonished servant, referring to
the half-finished picture.

'That and all,' replied the master; and the things were cleared
away.

Mr. Huntingdon then went up-stairs.  I did not attempt to follow
him, but remained seated in the arm-chair, speechless, tearless,
and almost motionless, till he returned about half-an-hour after,
and walking up to me, held the candle in my face and peered into my
eyes with looks and laughter too insulting to be borne.  With a
sudden stroke of my hand I dashed the candle to the floor.

'Hal-lo!' muttered he, starting back; 'she's the very devil for
spite.  Did ever any mortal see such eyes? - they shine in the dark
like a cat's.  Oh, you're a sweet one!'  So saying, he gathered up
the candle and the candlestick.  The former being broken as well as
extinguished, he rang for another.

'Benson, your mistress has broken the candle; bring another.'

'You expose yourself finely,' observed I, as the man departed.

'I didn't say I'd broken it, did I?' returned he.  He then threw my
keys into my lap, saying, - 'There! you'll find nothing gone but
your money, and the jewels, and a few little trifles I thought it
advisable to take into my own possession, lest your mercantile
spirit should be tempted to turn them into gold.  I've left you a
few sovereigns in your purse, which I expect to last you through
the month; at all events, when you want more you will be so good as
to give me an account of how that's spent.  I shall put you upon a
small monthly allowance, in future, for your own private expenses;
and you needn't trouble yourself any more about my concerns; I
shall look out for a steward, my dear - I won't expose you to the
temptation.  And as for the household matters, Mrs. Greaves must be
very particular in keeping her accounts; we must go upon an
entirely new plan - '

'What great discovery have you made now, Mr. Huntingdon?  Have I
attempted to defraud you?'

'Not in money matters, exactly, it seems; but it's best to keep out
of the way of temptation.'

Here Benson entered with the candles, and there followed a brief
interval of silence; I sitting still in my chair, and he standing
with his back to the fire, silently triumphing in my despair.

'And so,' said he at length, 'you thought to disgrace me, did you,
by running away and turning artist, and supporting yourself by the
labour of your hands, forsooth?  And you thought to rob me of my
son, too, and bring him up to be a dirty Yankee tradesman, or a
low, beggarly painter?'

'Yes, to obviate his becoming such a gentleman as his father.'

'It's well you couldn't keep your own secret - ha, ha!  It's well
these women must be blabbing.  If they haven't a friend to talk to,
they must whisper their secrets to the fishes, or write them on the
sand, or something; and it's well, too, I wasn't over full to-
night, now I think of it, or I might have snoozed away and never
dreamt of looking what my sweet lady was about; or I might have
lacked the sense or the power to carry my point like a man, as I
have done.'

Leaving him to his self-congratulations, I rose to secure my
manuscript, for I now remembered it had been left upon the drawing-
room table, and I determined, if possible, to save myself the
humiliation of seeing it in his hands again.  I could not bear the
idea of his amusing himself over my secret thoughts and
recollections; though, to be sure, he would find little good of
himself therein indited, except in the former part; and oh, I would
sooner burn it all than he should read what I had written when I
was such a fool as to love him!

'And by-the-by,' cried he, as I was leaving the room, 'you'd better
tell that d-d old sneak of a nurse to keep out of my way for a day
or two; I'd pay her her wages and send her packing to-morrow, but I
know she'd do more mischief out of the house than in it.'

And as I departed, he went on cursing and abusing my faithful
friend and servant with epithets I will not defile this paper with
repeating.  I went to her as soon as I had put away my book, and
told her how our project was defeated.  She was as much distressed
and horrified as I was - and more so than I was that night, for I
was partly stunned by the blow, and partly excited and supported
against it by the bitterness of my wrath.  But in the morning, when
I woke without that cheering hope that had been my secret comfort
and support so long, and all this day, when I have wandered about
restless and objectless, shunning my husband, shrinking even from
my child, knowing that I am unfit to be his teacher or companion,
hoping nothing for his future life, and fervently wishing he had
never been born, - I felt the full extent of my calamity, and I
feel it now.  I know that day after day such feelings will return
upon me.  I am a slave - a prisoner - but that is nothing; if it
were myself alone I would not complain, but I am forbidden to
rescue my son from ruin, and what was once my only consolation is
become the crowning source of my despair.

Have I no faith in God?  I try to look to Him and raise my heart to
heaven, but it will cleave to the dust.  I can only say, 'He hath
hedged me about, that I cannot get out:  He hath made my chain
heavy.  He hath filled me with bitterness - He hath made me drunken
with wormwood.'  I forget to add, 'But though He cause grief, yet
will He have compassion according to the multitude of His mercies.
For He doth not afflict willingly nor grieve the children of men.'
I ought to think of this; and if there be nothing but sorrow for me
in this world, what is the longest life of misery to a whole
eternity of peace?  And for my little Arthur - has he no friend but
me?  Who was it said, 'It is not the will of your Father which is
in heaven that one of these little ones should perish?'



The Tenant of Wildfell Hall Deluxe Edition Anne Bronte chapter 41



March 20th. - Having now got rid of Mr. Huntingdon for a season, my
spirits begin to revive.  He left me early in February; and the
moment he was gone, I breathed again, and felt my vital energy
return; not with the hope of escape - he has taken care to leave me
no visible chance of that - but with a determination to make the
best of existing circumstances.  Here was Arthur left to me at
last; and rousing from my despondent apathy, I exerted all my
powers to eradicate the weeds that had been fostered in his infant
mind, and sow again the good seed they had rendered unproductive.
Thank heaven, it is not a barren or a stony soil; if weeds spring
fast there, so do better plants.  His apprehensions are more quick,
his heart more overflowing with affection than ever his father's
could have been, and it is no hopeless task to bend him to
obedience and win him to love and know his own true friend, as long
as there is no one to counteract my efforts.

I had much trouble at first in breaking him of those evil habits
his father had taught him to acquire, but already that difficulty
is nearly vanquished now:  bad language seldom defiles his mouth,
and I have succeeded in giving him an absolute disgust for all
intoxicating liquors, which I hope not even his father or his
father's friends will be able to overcome.  He was inordinately
fond of them for so young a creature, and, remembering my
unfortunate father as well as his, I dreaded the consequences of
such a taste.  But if I had stinted him, in his usual quantity of
wine, or forbidden him to taste it altogether, that would only have
increased his partiality for it, and made him regard it as a
greater treat than ever.  I therefore gave him quite as much as his
father was accustomed to allow him; as much, indeed, as he desired
to have - but into every glass I surreptitiously introduced a small
quantity of tartar-emetic, just enough to produce inevitable nausea
and depression without positive sickness.  Finding such
disagreeable consequences invariably to result from this
indulgence, he soon grew weary of it, but the more he shrank from
the daily treat the more I pressed it upon him, till his reluctance
was strengthened to perfect abhorrence.  When he was thoroughly
disgusted with every kind of wine, I allowed him, at his own
request, to try brandy-and-water, and then gin-and-water, for the
little toper was familiar with them all, and I was determined that
all should be equally hateful to him.  This I have now effected;
and since he declares that the taste, the smell, the sight of any
one of them is sufficient to make him sick, I have given up teasing
him about them, except now and then as objects of terror in cases
of misbehaviour.  'Arthur, if you're not a good boy I shall give
you a glass of wine,' or 'Now, Arthur, if you say that again you
shall have some brandy-and-water,' is as good as any other threat;
and once or twice, when he was sick, I have obliged the poor child
to swallow a little wine-and-water without the tartar-emetic, by
way of medicine; and this practice I intend to continue for some
time to come; not that I think it of any real service in a physical
sense, but because I am determined to enlist all the powers of
association in my service; I wish this aversion to be so deeply
grounded in his nature that nothing in after-life may be able to
overcome it.

Thus, I flatter myself, I shall secure him from this one vice; and
for the rest, if on his father's return I find reason to apprehend
that my good lessons will be all destroyed - if Mr. Huntingdon
commence again the game of teaching the child to hate and despise
his mother, and emulate his father's wickedness - I will yet
deliver my son from his hands.  I have devised another scheme that
might be resorted to in such a case; and if I could but obtain my
brother's consent and assistance, I should not doubt of its
success.  The old hall where he and I were born, and where our
mother died, is not now inhabited, nor yet quite sunk into decay,
as I believe.  Now, if I could persuade him to have one or two
rooms made habitable, and to let them to me as a stranger, I might
live there, with my child, under an assumed name, and still support
myself by my favourite art.  He should lend me the money to begin
with, and I would pay him back, and live in lowly independence and
strict seclusion, for the house stands in a lonely place, and the
neighbourhood is thinly inhabited, and he himself should negotiate
the sale of my pictures for me.  I have arranged the whole plan in
my head:  and all I want is to persuade Frederick to be of the same
mind as myself.  He is coming to see me soon, and then I will make
the proposal to him, having first enlightened him upon my
circumstances sufficiently to excuse the project.

Already, I believe, he knows much more of my situation than I have
told him.  I can tell this by the air of tender sadness pervading
his letters; and by the fact of his so seldom mentioning my
husband, and generally evincing a kind of covert bitterness when he
does refer to him; as well as by the circumstance of his never
coming to see me when Mr. Huntingdon is at home.  But he has never
openly expressed any disapprobation of him or sympathy for me; he
has never asked any questions, or said anything to invite my
confidence.  Had he done so, I should probably have had but few
concealments from him.  Perhaps he feels hurt at my reserve.  He is
a strange being; I wish we knew each other better.  He used to
spend a month at Staningley every year, before I was married; but,
since our father's death, I have only seen him once, when he came
for a few days while Mr. Huntingdon was away.  He shall stay many
days this time, and there shall be more candour and cordiality
between us than ever there was before, since our early childhood.
My heart clings to him more than ever; and my soul is sick of
solitude.

April 16th. - He is come and gone.  He would not stay above a
fortnight.  The time passed quickly, but very, very happily, and it
has done me good.  I must have a bad disposition, for my
misfortunes have soured and embittered me exceedingly:  I was
beginning insensibly to cherish very unamiable feelings against my
fellow-mortals, the male part of them especially; but it is a
comfort to see there is at least one among them worthy to be
trusted and esteemed; and doubtless there are more, though I have
never known them, unless I except poor Lord Lowborough, and he was
bad enough in his day.  But what would Frederick have been, if he
had lived in the world, and mingled from his childhood with such
men as these of my acquaintance? and what will Arthur be, with all
his natural sweetness of disposition, if I do not save him from
that world and those companions?  I mentioned my fears to
Frederick, and introduced the subject of my plan of rescue on the
evening after his arrival, when I presented my little son to his
uncle.

'He is like you, Frederick,' said I, 'in some of his moods:  I
sometimes think he resembles you more than his father; and I am
glad of it.'

'You flatter me, Helen,' replied he, stroking the child's soft,
wavy locks.

'No, you will think it no compliment when I tell you I would rather
have him to resemble Benson than his father.'

He slightly elevated his eyebrows, but said nothing.

'Do you know what sort of man Mr. Huntingdon is?' said I.

'I think I have an idea.'

'Have you so clear an idea that you can hear, without surprise or
disapproval, that I meditate escaping with that child to some
secret asylum, where we can live in peace, and never see him
again?'

'Is it really so?'

'If you have not,' continued I, 'I'll tell you something more about
him'; and I gave a sketch of his general conduct, and a more
particular account of his behaviour with regard to his child, and
explained my apprehensions on the latter's account, and my
determination to deliver him from his father's influence.

Frederick was exceedingly indignant against Mr. Huntingdon, and
very much grieved for me; but still he looked upon my project as
wild and impracticable.  He deemed my fears for Arthur
disproportioned to the circumstances, and opposed so many
objections to my plan, and devised so many milder methods for
ameliorating my condition, that I was obliged to enter into further
details to convince him that my husband was utterly incorrigible,
and that nothing could persuade him to give up his son, whatever
became of me, he being as fully determined the child should not
leave him, as I was not to leave the child; and that, in fact,
nothing would answer but this, unless I fled the country, as I had
intended before.  To obviate that, he at length consented to have
one wing of the old hall put into a habitable condition, as a place
of refuge against a time of need; but hoped I would not take
advantage of it unless circumstances should render it really
necessary, which I was ready enough to promise:  for though, for my
own sake, such a hermitage appears like paradise itself, compared
with my present situation, yet for my friends' sakes, for Milicent
and Esther, my sisters in heart and affection, for the poor tenants
of Grassdale, and, above all, for my aunt, I will stay if I
possibly can.

July 29th. - Mrs. Hargrave and her daughter are come back from
London.  Esther is full of her first season in town; but she is
still heart-whole and unengaged.  Her mother sought out an
excellent match for her, and even brought the gentleman to lay his
heart and fortune at her feet; but Esther had the audacity to
refuse the noble gifts.  He was a man of good family and large
possessions, but the naughty girl maintained he was old as Adam,
ugly as sin, and hateful as - one who shall be nameless.

'But, indeed, I had a hard time of it,' said she:  'mamma was very
greatly disappointed at the failure of her darling project, and
very, very angry at my obstinate resistance to her will, and is so
still; but I can't help it.  And Walter, too, is so seriously
displeased at my perversity and absurd caprice, as he calls it,
that I fear he will never forgive me - I did not think he could be
so unkind as he has lately shown himself.  But Milicent begged me
not to yield, and I'm sure, Mrs. Huntingdon, if you had seen the
man they wanted to palm upon me, you would have advised me not to
take him too.'

'I should have done so whether I had seen him or not,' said I; 'it
is enough that you dislike him.'

'I knew you would say so; though mamma affirmed you would be quite
shocked at my undutiful conduct.  You can't imagine how she
lectures me:  I am disobedient and ungrateful; I am thwarting her
wishes, wronging my brother, and making myself a burden on her
hands.  I sometimes fear she'll overcome me after all.  I have a
strong will, but so has she, and when she says such bitter things,
it provokes me to such a pass that I feel inclined to do as she
bids me, and then break my heart and say, "There, mamma, it's all
your fault!"'

'Pray don't!' said I.  'Obedience from such a motive would be
positive wickedness, and certain to bring the punishment it
deserves.  Stand firm, and your mamma will soon relinquish her
persecution; and the gentleman himself will cease to pester you
with his addresses if he finds them steadily rejected.'

'Oh, no! mamma will weary all about her before she tires herself
with her exertions; and as for Mr. Oldfield, she has given him to
understand that I have refused his offer, not from any dislike of
his person, but merely because I am giddy and young, and cannot at
present reconcile myself to the thoughts of marriage under any
circumstances:  but by next season, she has no doubt, I shall have
more sense, and hopes my girlish fancies will be worn away.  So she
has brought me home, to school me into a proper sense of my duty,
against the time comes round again.  Indeed, I believe she will not
put herself to the expense of taking me up to London again, unless
I surrender:  she cannot afford to take me to town for pleasure and
nonsense, she says, and it is not every rich gentleman that will
consent to take me without a fortune, whatever exalted ideas I may
have of my own attractions.'

'Well, Esther, I pity you; but still, I repeat, stand firm.  You
might as well sell yourself to slavery at once, as marry a man you
dislike.  If your mother and brother are unkind to you, you may
leave them, but remember you are bound to your husband for life.'

'But I cannot leave them unless I get married, and I cannot get
married if nobody sees me.  I saw one or two gentlemen in London
that I might have liked, but they were younger sons, and mamma
would not let me get to know them - one especially, who I believe
rather liked me - but she threw every possible obstacle in the way
of our better acquaintance.  Wasn't it provoking?'

'I have no doubt you would feel it so, but it is possible that if
you married him, you might have more reason to regret it hereafter
than if you married Mr. Oldfield.  When I tell you not to marry
without love, I do not advise you to marry for love alone:  there
are many, many other things to be considered.  Keep both heart and
hand in your own possession, till you see good reason to part with
them; and if such an occasion should never present itself, comfort
your mind with this reflection, that though in single life your
joys may not be very many, your sorrows, at least, will not be more
than you can bear.  Marriage may change your circumstances for the
better, but, in my private opinion, it is far more likely to
produce a contrary result.'

'So thinks Milicent; but allow me to say I think otherwise.  If I
thought myself doomed to old-maidenhood, I should cease to value my
life.  The thoughts of living on, year after year, at the Grove - a
hanger-on upon mamma and Walter, a mere cumberer of the ground (now
that I know in what light they would regard it), is perfectly
intolerable; I would rather run away with the butler.'

'Your circumstances are peculiar, I allow; but have patience, love;
do nothing rashly.  Remember you are not yet nineteen, and many
years are yet to pass before any one can set you down as an old
maid:  you cannot tell what Providence may have in store for you.
And meantime, remember you have a right to the protection and
support of your mother and brother, however they may seem to grudge
it.'

'You are so grave, Mrs. Huntingdon,' said Esther, after a pause.
'When Milicent uttered the same discouraging sentiments concerning
marriage, I asked if she was happy:  she said she was; but I only
half believed her; and now I must put the same question to you.'

'It is a very impertinent question,' laughed I, 'from a young girl
to a married woman so many years her senior, and I shall not answer
it.'

'Pardon me, dear madam,' said she, laughingly throwing herself into
my arms, and kissing me with playful affection; but I felt a tear
on my neck, as she dropped her head on my bosom and continued, with
an odd mixture of sadness and levity, timidity and audacity, - 'I
know you are not so happy as I mean to be, for you spend half your
life alone at Grassdale, while Mr. Huntingdon goes about enjoying
himself where and how he pleases.  I shall expect my husband to
have no pleasures but what he shares with me; and if his greatest
pleasure of all is not the enjoyment of my company, why, it will be
the worse for him, that's all.'

'If such are your expectations of matrimony, Esther, you must,
indeed, be careful whom you marry - or rather, you must avoid it
altogether.'



The Tenant of Wildfell Hall Deluxe Edition Anne Bronte chapter 42



September 1st. - No Mr. Huntingdon yet.  Perhaps he will stay among
his friends till Christmas; and then, next spring, he will be off
again.  If he continue this plan, I shall be able to stay at
Grassdale well enough - that is, I shall be able to stay, and that
is enough; even an occasional bevy of friends at the shooting
season may be borne, if Arthur get so firmly attached to me, so
well established in good sense and principles before they come that
I shall be able, by reason and affection, to keep him pure from
their contaminations.  Vain hope, I fear! but still, till such a
time of trial comes I will forbear to think of my quiet asylum in
the beloved old hall.

Mr. and Mrs. Hattersley have been staying at the Grove a fortnight:
and as Mr. Hargrave is still absent, and the weather was remarkably
fine, I never passed a day without seeing my two friends, Milicent
and Esther, either there or here.  On one occasion, when Mr.
Hattersley had driven them over to Grassdale in the phaeton, with
little Helen and Ralph, and we were all enjoying ourselves in the
garden - I had a few minutes' conversation with that gentleman,
while the ladies were amusing themselves with the children.

'Do you want to hear anything of your husband, Mrs. Huntingdon?'
said he.

'No, unless you can tell me when to expect him home.'

'I can't. - You don't want him, do you?' said he, with a broad
grin.

'No.'

'Well, I think you're better without him, sure enough - for my
part, I'm downright weary of him.  I told him I'd leave him if he
didn't mend his manners, and he wouldn't; so I left him.  You see,
I'm a better man than you think me; and, what's more, I have
serious thoughts of washing my hands of him entirely, and the whole
set of 'em, and comporting myself from this day forward with all
decency and sobriety, as a Christian and the father of a family
should do.  What do you think of that?'

'It is a resolution you ought to have formed long ago.'

'Well, I'm not thirty yet; it isn't too late, is it?'

'No; it is never too late to reform, as long as you have the sense
to desire it, and the strength to execute your purpose.'

'Well, to tell you the truth, I've thought of it often and often
before; but he's such devilish good company, is Huntingdon, after
all.  You can't imagine what a jovial good fellow he is when he's
not fairly drunk, only just primed or half-seas-over.  We all have
a bit of a liking for him at the bottom of our hearts, though we
can't respect him.'

'But should you wish yourself to be like him?'

'No, I'd rather be like myself, bad as I am.'

'You can't continue as bad as you are without getting worse and
more brutalised every day, and therefore more like him.'

I could not help smiling at the comical, half-angry, half-
confounded look he put on at this rather unusual mode of address.

'Never mind my plain speaking,' said I; 'it is from the best of
motives.  But tell me, should you wish your sons to be like Mr.
Huntingdon - or even like yourself?'

'Hang it! no.'

'Should you wish your daughter to despise you - or, at least, to
feel no vestige of respect for you, and no affection but what is
mingled with the bitterest regret?'

'Oh, no!  I couldn't stand that.'

'And, finally, should you wish your wife to be ready to sink into
the earth when she hears you mentioned; and to loathe the very
sound of your voice, and shudder at your approach?'

'She never will; she likes me all the same, whatever I do.'

'Impossible, Mr. Hattersley! you mistake her quiet submission for
affection.'

'Fire and fury - '

'Now don't burst into a tempest at that.  I don't mean to say she
does not love you - she does, I know, a great deal better than you
deserve; but I am quite sure, that if you behave better, she will
love you more, and if you behave worse, she will love you less and
less, till all is lost in fear, aversion, and bitterness of soul,
if not in secret hatred and contempt.  But, dropping the subject of
affection, should you wish to be the tyrant of her life - to take
away all the sunshine from her existence, and make her thoroughly
miserable?'

'Of course not; and I don't, and I'm not going to.'

'You have done more towards it than you suppose.'

'Pooh, pooh! she's not the susceptible, anxious, worriting creature
you imagine:  she's a little meek, peaceable, affectionate body;
apt to be rather sulky at times, but quiet and cool in the main,
and ready to take things as they come.'

'Think of what she was five years ago, when you married her, and
what she is now.'

'I know she was a little plump lassie then, with a pretty pink and
white face:  now she's a poor little bit of a creature, fading and
melting away like a snow-wreath.  But hang it! - that's not my
fault.'

'What is the cause of it then?  Not years, for she's only five-and-
twenty.'

'It's her own delicate health, and confound it, madam! what would
you make of me? - and the children, to be sure, that worry her to
death between them.'

'No, Mr. Hattersley, the children give her more pleasure than pain:
they are fine, well-dispositioned children - '

'I know they are - bless them!'

'Then why lay the blame on them? - I'll tell you what it is:  it's
silent fretting and constant anxiety on your account, mingled, I
suspect, with something of bodily fear on her own.  When you behave
well, she can only rejoice with trembling; she has no security, no
confidence in your judgment or principles; but is continually
dreading the close of such short-lived felicity; when you behave
ill, her causes of terror and misery are more than any one can tell
but herself.  In patient endurance of evil, she forgets it is our
duty to admonish our neighbours of their transgressions.  Since you
will mistake her silence for indifference, come with me, and I'll
show you one or two of her letters - no breach of confidence, I
hope, since you are her other half.'

He followed me into the library.  I sought out and put into his
hands two of Milicent's letters:  one dated from London, and
written during one of his wildest seasons of reckless dissipation;
the other in the country, during a lucid interval.  The former was
full of trouble and anguish; not accusing him, but deeply
regretting his connection with his profligate companions, abusing
Mr. Grimsby and others, insinuating bitter things against Mr.
Huntingdon, and most ingeniously throwing the blame of her
husband's misconduct on to other men's shoulders.  The latter was
full of hope and joy, yet with a trembling consciousness that this
happiness would not last; praising his goodness to the skies, but
with an evident, though but half-expressed wish, that it were based
on a surer foundation than the natural impulses of the heart, and a
half-prophetic dread of the fall of that house so founded on the
sand, - which fall had shortly after taken place, as Hattersley
must have been conscious while he read.

Almost at the commencement of the first letter I had the unexpected
pleasure of seeing him blush; but he immediately turned his back to
me, and finished the perusal at the window.  At the second, I saw
him, once or twice, raise his hand, and hurriedly pass it across
his face.  Could it be to dash away a tear?  When he had done,
there was an interval spent in clearing his throat and staring out
of the window, and then, after whistling a few bars of a favourite
air, he turned round, gave me back the letters, and silently shook
me by the hand.

'I've been a cursed rascal, God knows,' said he, as he gave it a
hearty squeeze, 'but you see if I don't make amends for it - d-n me
if I don't!'

'Don't curse yourself, Mr. Hattersley; if God had heard half your
invocations of that kind, you would have been in hell long before
now - and you cannot make amends for the past by doing your duty
for the future, inasmuch as your duty is only what you owe to your
Maker, and you cannot do more than fulfil it:  another must make
amends for your past delinquencies.  If you intend to reform,
invoke God's blessing, His mercy, and His aid; not His curse.'

'God help me, then - for I'm sure I need it.  Where's Milicent?'

'She's there, just coming in with her sister.'

He stepped out at the glass door, and went to meet them.  I
followed at a little distance.  Somewhat to his wife's
astonishment, he lifted her off from the ground, and saluted her
with a hearty kiss and a strong embrace; then placing his two hands
on her shoulders, he gave her, I suppose, a sketch of the great
things he meant to do, for she suddenly threw her arms round him,
and burst into tears, exclaiming, - 'Do, do, Ralph - we shall be so
happy!  How very, very good you are!'

'Nay, not I,' said he, turning her round, and pushing her towards
me.  'Thank her; it's her doing.'

Milicent flew to thank me, overflowing with gratitude.  I
disclaimed all title to it, telling her her husband was predisposed
to amendment before I added my mite of exhortation and
encouragement, and that I had only done what she might, and ought
to have done herself.

'Oh, no!' cried she; 'I couldn't have influenced him, I'm sure, by
anything that I could have said.  I should only have bothered him
by my clumsy efforts at persuasion, if I had made the attempt.'

'You never tried me, Milly,' said he.

Shortly after they took their leave.  They are now gone on a visit
to Hattersley's father.  After that they will repair to their
country home.  I hope his good resolutions will not fall through,
and poor Milicent will not be again disappointed.  Her last letter
was full of present bliss, and pleasing anticipations for the
future; but no particular temptation has yet occurred to put his
virtue to the test.  Henceforth, however, she will doubtless be
somewhat less timid and reserved, and he more kind and thoughtful.
- Surely, then, her hopes are not unfounded; and I have one bright
spot, at least, whereon to rest my thoughts.



The Tenant of Wildfell Hall Deluxe Edition Anne Bronte chapter 43



October 10th. - Mr. Huntingdon returned about three weeks ago.  His
appearance, his demeanour and conversation, and my feelings with
regard to him, I shall not trouble myself to describe.  The day
after his arrival, however, he surprised me by the announcement of
an intention to procure a governess for little Arthur:  I told him
it was quite unnecessary, not to say ridiculous, at the present
season:  I thought I was fully competent to the task of teaching
him myself - for some years to come, at least:  the child's
education was the only pleasure and business of my life; and since
he had deprived me of every other occupation, he might surely leave
me that.

He said I was not fit to teach children, or to be with them:  I had
already reduced the boy to little better than an automaton; I had
broken his fine spirit with my rigid severity; and I should freeze
all the sunshine out of his heart, and make him as gloomy an
ascetic as myself, if I had the handling of him much longer.  And
poor Rachel, too, came in for her share of abuse, as usual; he
cannot endure Rachel, because he knows she has a proper
appreciation of him.

I calmly defended our several qualifications as nurse and
governess, and still resisted the proposed addition to our family;
but he cut me short by saying it was no use bothering about the
matter, for he had engaged a governess already, and she was coming
next week; so that all I had to do was to get things ready for her
reception.  This was a rather startling piece of intelligence.  I
ventured to inquire her name and address, by whom she had been
recommended, or how he had been led to make choice of her.

'She is a very estimable, pious young person,' said he; 'you
needn't be afraid.  Her name is Myers, I believe; and she was
recommended to me by a respectable old dowager:  a lady of high
repute in the religious world.  I have not seen her myself, and
therefore cannot give you a particular account of her person and
conversation, and so forth; but, if the old lady's eulogies are
correct, you will find her to possess all desirable qualifications
for her position:  an inordinate love of children among the rest.'

All this was gravely and quietly spoken, but there was a laughing
demon in his half-averted eye that boded no good, I imagined.
However, I thought of my asylum in -shire, and made no further
objections.

When Miss Myers arrived, I was not prepared to give her a very
cordial reception.  Her appearance was not particularly calculated
to produce a favourable impression at first sight, nor did her
manners and subsequent conduct, in any degree, remove the prejudice
I had already conceived against her.  Her attainments were limited,
her intellect noways above mediocrity.  She had a fine voice, and
could sing like a nightingale, and accompany herself sufficiently
well on the piano; but these were her only accomplishments.  There
was a look of guile and subtlety in her face, a sound of it in her
voice.  She seemed afraid of me, and would start if I suddenly
approached her.  In her behaviour she was respectful and
complaisant, even to servility:  she attempted to flatter and fawn
upon me at first, but I soon checked that.  Her fondness for her
little pupil was overstrained, and I was obliged to remonstrate
with her on the subject of over-indulgence and injudicious praise;
but she could not gain his heart.  Her piety consisted in an
occasional heaving of sighs, and uplifting of eyes to the ceiling,
and the utterance of a few cant phrases.  She told me she was a
clergyman's daughter, and had been left an orphan from her
childhood, but had had the good fortune to obtain a situation in a
very pious family; and then she spoke so gratefully of the kindness
she had experienced from its different members, that I reproached
myself for my uncharitable thoughts and unfriendly conduct, and
relented for a time, but not for long:  my causes of dislike were
too rational, my suspicions too well founded for that; and I knew
it was my duty to watch and scrutinize till those suspicions were
either satisfactorily removed or confirmed.

I asked the name and residence of the kind and pious family.  She
mentioned a common name, and an unknown and distant place of abode,
but told me they were now on the Continent, and their present
address was unknown to her.  I never saw her speak much to Mr.
Huntingdon; but he would frequently look into the school-room to
see how little Arthur got on with his new companion, when I was not
there.  In the evening, she sat with us in the drawing-room, and
would sing and play to amuse him or us, as she pretended, and was
very attentive to his wants, and watchful to anticipate them,
though she only talked to me; indeed, he was seldom in a condition
to be talked to.  Had she been other than she was, I should have
felt her presence a great relief to come between us thus, except,
indeed, that I should have been thoroughly ashamed for any decent
person to see him as he often was.

I did not mention my suspicions to Rachel; but she, having
sojourned for half a century in this land of sin and sorrow, has
learned to be suspicious herself.  She told me from the first she
was 'down of that new governess,' and I soon found she watched her
quite as narrowly as I did; and I was glad of it, for I longed to
know the truth:  the atmosphere of Grassdale seemed to stifle me,
and I could only live by thinking of Wildfell Hall.

At last, one morning, she entered my chamber with such intelligence
that my resolution was taken before she had ceased to speak.  While
she dressed me I explained to her my intentions and what assistance
I should require from her, and told her which of my things she was
to pack up, and what she was to leave behind for herself, as I had
no other means of recompensing her for this sudden dismissal after
her long and faithful service:  a circumstance I most deeply
regretted, but could not avoid.

'And what will you do, Rachel?' said I; 'will you go home, or seek
another place?'

'I have no home, ma'am, but with you,' she replied; 'and if I leave
you I'll never go into place again as long as I live.'

'But I can't afford to live like a lady now,' returned I:  'I must
be my own maid and my child's nurse.'

'What signifies!' replied she, in some excitement.  'You'll want
somebody to clean and wash, and cook, won't you?  I can do all
that; and never mind the wages:  I've my bits o' savings yet, and
if you wouldn't take me I should have to find my own board and
lodging out of 'em somewhere, or else work among strangers:  and
it's what I'm not used to:  so you can please yourself, ma'am.'
Her voice quavered as she spoke, and the tears stood in her eyes.

'I should like it above all things, Rachel, and I'd give you such
wages as I could afford:  such as I should give to any servant-of-
all-work I might employ:  but don't you see I should be dragging
you down with me when you have done nothing to deserve it?'

'Oh, fiddle!' ejaculated she.

'And, besides, my future way of living will be so widely different
to the past:  so different to all you have been accustomed to - '

'Do you think, ma'am, I can't bear what my missis can? surely I'm
not so proud and so dainty as that comes to; and my little master,
too, God bless him!'

'But I'm young, Rachel; I sha'n't mind it; and Arthur is young too:
it will be nothing to him.'

'Nor me either:  I'm not so old but what I can stand hard fare and
hard work, if it's only to help and comfort them as I've loved like
my own bairns:  for all I'm too old to bide the thoughts o' leaving
'em in trouble and danger, and going amongst strangers myself.'

'Then you sha'n't, Rachel!' cried I, embracing my faithful friend.
'We'll all go together, and you shall see how the new life suits
you.'

'Bless you, honey!' cried she, affectionately returning my embrace.
'Only let us get shut of this wicked house, and we'll do right
enough, you'll see.'

'So think I,' was my answer; and so that point was settled.

By that morning's post I despatched a few hasty lines to Frederick,
beseeching him to prepare my asylum for my immediate reception:
for I should probably come to claim it within a day after the
receipt of that note:  and telling him, in few words, the cause of
my sudden resolution.  I then wrote three letters of adieu:  the
first to Esther Hargrave, in which I told her that I found it
impossible to stay any longer at Grassdale, or to leave my son
under his father's protection; and, as it was of the last
importance that our future abode should be unknown to him and his
acquaintance, I should disclose it to no one but my brother,
through the medium of whom I hoped still to correspond with my
friends.  I then gave her his address, exhorted her to write
frequently, reiterated some of my former admonitions regarding her
own concerns, and bade her a fond farewell.

The second was to Milicent; much to the same effect, but a little
more confidential, as befitted our longer intimacy, and her greater
experience and better acquaintance with my circumstances.

The third was to my aunt:  a much more difficult and painful
undertaking, and therefore I had left it to the last; but I must
give her some explanation of that extraordinary step I had taken:
and that quickly, for she and my uncle would no doubt hear of it
within a day or two after my disappearance, as it was probable that
Mr. Huntingdon would speedily apply to them to know what was become
of me.  At last, however, I told her I was sensible of my error:  I
did not complain of its punishment, and I was sorry to trouble my
friends with its consequences; but in duty to my son I must submit
no longer; it was absolutely necessary that he should be delivered
from his father's corrupting influence.  I should not disclose my
place of refuge even to her, in order that she and my uncle might
be able, with truth, to deny all knowledge concerning it; but any
communications addressed to me under cover to my brother would be
certain to reach me.  I hoped she and my uncle would pardon the
step I had taken, for if they knew all, I was sure they would not
blame me; and I trusted they would not afflict themselves on my
account, for if I could only reach my retreat in safety and keep it
unmolested, I should be very happy, but for the thoughts of them;
and should be quite contented to spend my life in obscurity,
devoting myself to the training up of my child, and teaching him to
avoid the errors of both his parents.

These things were done yesterday:  I have given two whole days to
the preparation for our departure, that Frederick may have more
time to prepare the rooms, and Rachel to pack up the things:  for
the latter task must be done with the utmost caution and secrecy,
and there is no one but me to assist her.  I can help to get the
articles together, but I do not understand the art of stowing them
into the boxes, so as to take up the smallest possible space; and
there are her own things to do, as well as mine and Arthur's.  I
can ill afford to leave anything behind, since I have no money,
except a few guineas in my purse; and besides, as Rachel observed,
whatever I left would most likely become the property of Miss
Myers, and I should not relish that.

But what trouble I have had throughout these two days, struggling
to appear calm and collected, to meet him and her as usual, when I
was obliged to meet them, and forcing myself to leave my little
Arthur in her hands for hours together!  But I trust these trials
are over now:  I have laid him in my bed for better security, and
never more, I trust, shall his innocent lips be defiled by their
contaminating kisses, or his young ears polluted by their words.
But shall we escape in safety?  Oh, that the morning were come, and
we were on our way at least!  This evening, when I had given Rachel
all the assistance I could, and had nothing left me but to wait,
and wish and tremble, I became so greatly agitated that I knew not
what to do.  I went down to dinner, but I could not force myself to
eat.  Mr. Huntingdon remarked the circumstance.

'What's to do with you now?' said he, when the removal of the
second course gave him time to look about him.

'I am not well,' I replied:  'I think I must lie down a little; you
won't miss me much?'

'Not the least:  if you leave your chair, it'll do just as well -
better, a trifle,' he muttered, as I left the room, 'for I can
fancy somebody else fills it.'

'Somebody else may fill it to-morrow,' I thought, but did not say.
'There!  I've seen the last of you, I hope,' I muttered, as I
closed the door upon him.

Rachel urged me to seek repose at once, to recruit my strength for
to-morrow's journey, as we must be gone before the dawn; but in my
present state of nervous excitement that was entirely out of the
question.  It was equally out of the question to sit, or wander
about my room, counting the hours and the minutes between me and
the appointed time of action, straining my ears and trembling at
every sound, lest someone should discover and betray us after all.
I took up a book and tried to read:  my eyes wandered over the
pages, but it was impossible to bind my thoughts to their contents.
Why not have recourse to the old expedient, and add this last event
to my chronicle?  I opened its pages once more, and wrote the above
account - with difficulty, at first, but gradually my mind became
more calm and steady.  Thus several hours have passed away:  the
time is drawing near; and now my eyes feel heavy and my frame
exhausted.  I will commend my cause to God, and then lie down and
gain an hour or two of sleep; and then! -

Little Arthur sleeps soundly.  All the house is still:  there can
be no one watching.  The boxes were all corded by Benson, and
quietly conveyed down the back stairs after dusk, and sent away in
a cart to the M- coach-office.  The name upon the cards was Mrs.
Graham, which appellation I mean henceforth to adopt.  My mother's
maiden name was Graham, and therefore I fancy I have some claim to
it, and prefer it to any other, except my own, which I dare not
resume.



The Tenant of Wildfell Hall Deluxe Edition Anne Bronte chapter 44



October 24th. - Thank heaven, I am free and safe at last.  Early we
rose, swiftly and quietly dressed, slowly and stealthily descended
to the hall, where Benson stood ready with a light, to open the
door and fasten it after us.  We were obliged to let one man into
our secret on account of the boxes, &c.  All the servants were but
too well acquainted with their master's conduct, and either Benson
or John would have been willing to serve me; but as the former was
more staid and elderly, and a crony of Rachel's besides, I of
course directed her to make choice of him as her assistant and
confidant on the occasion, as far as necessity demanded, I only
hope he may not be brought into trouble thereby, and only wish I
could reward him for the perilous service he was so ready to
undertake.  I slipped two guineas into his hand, by way of
remembrance, as he stood in the doorway, holding the candle to
light our departure, with a tear in his honest grey eye, and a host
of good wishes depicted on his solemn countenance.  Alas!  I could
offer no more:  I had barely sufficient remaining for the probable
expenses of the journey.

What trembling joy it was when the little wicket closed behind us,
as we issued from the park!  Then, for one moment, I paused, to
inhale one draught of that cool, bracing air, and venture one look
back upon the house.  All was dark and still:  no light glimmered
in the windows, no wreath of smoke obscured the stars that sparkled
above it in the frosty sky.  As I bade farewell for ever to that
place, the scene of so much guilt and misery, I felt glad that I
had not left it before, for now there was no doubt about the
propriety of such a step - no shadow of remorse for him I left
behind.  There was nothing to disturb my joy but the fear of
detection; and every step removed us further from the chance of
that.

We had left Grassdale many miles behind us before the round red sun
arose to welcome our deliverance; and if any inhabitant of its
vicinity had chanced to see us then, as we bowled along on the top
of the coach, I scarcely think they would have suspected our
identity.  As I intend to be taken for a widow, I thought it
advisable to enter my new abode in mourning:  I was, therefore,
attired in a plain black silk dress and mantle, a black veil (which
I kept carefully over my face for the first twenty or thirty miles
of the journey), and a black silk bonnet, which I had been
constrained to borrow of Rachel, for want of such an article
myself.  It was not in the newest fashion, of course; but none the
worse for that, under present circumstances.  Arthur was clad in
his plainest clothes, and wrapped in a coarse woollen shawl; and
Rachel was muffled in a grey cloak and hood that had seen better
days, and gave her more the appearance of an ordinary though decent
old woman, than of a lady's-maid.

Oh, what delight it was to be thus seated aloft, rumbling along the
broad, sunshiny road, with the fresh morning breeze in my face,
surrounded by an unknown country, all smiling - cheerfully,
gloriously smiling in the yellow lustre of those early beams; with
my darling child in my arms, almost as happy as myself, and my
faithful friend beside me:  a prison and despair behind me,
receding further, further back at every clatter of the horses'
feet; and liberty and hope before!  I could hardly refrain from
praising God aloud for my deliverance, or astonishing my fellow-
passengers by some surprising outburst of hilarity.

But the journey was a very long one, and we were all weary enough
before the close of it.  It was far into the night when we reached
the town of L-, and still we were seven miles from our journey's
end; and there was no more coaching, nor any conveyance to be had,
except a common cart, and that with the greatest difficulty, for
half the town was in bed.  And a dreary ride we had of it, that
last stage of the journey, cold and weary as we were; sitting on
our boxes, with nothing to cling to, nothing to lean against,
slowly dragged and cruelly shaken over the rough, hilly roads.  But
Arthur was asleep in Rachel's lap, and between us we managed pretty
well to shield him from the cold night air.

At last we began to ascend a terribly steep and stony lane, which,
in spite of the darkness, Rachel said she remembered well:  she had
often walked there with me in her arms, and little thought to come
again so many years after, under such circumstances as the present.
Arthur being now awakened by the jolting and the stoppages, we all
got out and walked.  We had not far to go; but what if Frederick
should not have received my letter? or if he should not have had
time to prepare the rooms for our reception, and we should find
them all dark, damp, and comfortless, destitute of food, fire, and
furniture, after all our toil?

At length the grim, dark pile appeared before us.  The lane
conducted us round by the back way.  We entered the desolate court,
and in breathless anxiety surveyed the ruinous mass.  Was it all
blackness and desolation?  No; one faint red glimmer cheered us
from a window where the lattice was in good repair.  The door was
fastened, but after due knocking and waiting, and some parleying
with a voice from an upper window, we were admitted by an old woman
who had been commissioned to air and keep the house till our
arrival, into a tolerably snug little apartment, formerly the
scullery of the mansion, which Frederick had now fitted up as a
kitchen.  Here she procured us a light, roused the fire to a
cheerful blaze, and soon prepared a simple repast for our
refreshment; while we disencumbered ourselves of our travelling-
gear, and took a hasty survey of our new abode.  Besides the
kitchen, there were two bedrooms, a good-sized parlour, and another
smaller one, which I destined for my studio, all well aired and
seemingly in good repair, but only partly furnished with a few old
articles, chiefly of ponderous black oak, the veritable ones that
had been there before, and which had been kept as antiquarian
relics in my brother's present residence, and now, in all haste,
transported back again.

The old woman brought my supper and Arthur's into the parlour, and
told me, with all due formality, that 'the master desired his
compliments to Mrs. Graham, and he had prepared the rooms as well
as he could upon so short a notice; but he would do himself the
pleasure of calling upon her to-morrow, to receive her further
commands.'

I was glad to ascend the stern-looking stone staircase, and lie
down in the gloomy, old-fashioned bed, beside my little Arthur.  He
was asleep in a minute; but, weary as I was, my excited feelings
and restless cogitations kept me awake till dawn began to struggle
with the darkness; but sleep was sweet and refreshing when it came,
and the waking was delightful beyond expression.  It was little
Arthur that roused me, with his gentle kisses.  He was here, then,
safely clasped in my arms, and many leagues away from his unworthy
father!  Broad daylight illumined the apartment, for the sun was
high in heaven, though obscured by rolling masses of autumnal
vapour.

The scene, indeed, was not remarkably cheerful in itself, either
within or without.  The large bare room, with its grim old
furniture, the narrow, latticed windows, revealing the dull, grey
sky above and the desolate wilderness below, where the dark stone
walls and iron gate, the rank growth of grass and weeds, and the
hardy evergreens of preternatural forms, alone remained to tell
that there had been once a garden, - and the bleak and barren
fields beyond might have struck me as gloomy enough at another
time; but now, each separate object seemed to echo back my own
exhilarating sense of hope and freedom:  indefinite dreams of the
far past and bright anticipations of the future seemed to greet me
at every turn.  I should rejoice with more security, to be sure,
had the broad sea rolled between my present and my former homes;
but surely in this lonely spot I might remain unknown; and then I
had my brother here to cheer my solitude with his occasional
visits.

He came that morning; and I have had several interviews with him
since; but he is obliged to be very cautious when and how he comes;
not even his servants or his best friends must know of his visits
to Wildfell - except on such occasions as a landlord might be
expected to call upon a stranger tenant - lest suspicion should be
excited against me, whether of the truth or of some slanderous
falsehood.

I have now been here nearly a fortnight, and, but for one
disturbing care, the haunting dread of discovery, I am comfortably
settled in my new home:  Frederick has supplied me with all
requisite furniture and painting materials:  Rachel has sold most
of my clothes for me, in a distant town, and procured me a wardrobe
more suitable to my present position:  I have a second-hand piano,
and a tolerably well-stocked bookcase in my parlour; and my other
room has assumed quite a professional, business-like appearance
already.  I am working hard to repay my brother for all his
expenses on my account; not that there is the slightest necessity
for anything of the kind, but it pleases me to do so:  I shall have
so much more pleasure in my labour, my earnings, my frugal fare,
and household economy, when I know that I am paying my way
honestly, and that what little I possess is legitimately all my
own; and that no one suffers for my folly - in a pecuniary way at
least.  I shall make him take the last penny I owe him, if I can
possibly effect it without offending him too deeply.  I have a few
pictures already done, for I told Rachel to pack up all I had; and
she executed her commission but too well - for among the rest, she
put up a portrait of Mr. Huntingdon that I had painted in the first
year of my marriage.  It struck me with dismay, at the moment, when
I took it from the box and beheld those eyes fixed upon me in their
mocking mirth, as if exulting still in his power to control my
fate, and deriding my efforts to escape.

How widely different had been my feelings in painting that portrait
to what they now were in looking upon it!  How I had studied and
toiled to produce something, as I thought, worthy of the original!
what mingled pleasure and dissatisfaction I had had in the result
of my labours! - pleasure for the likeness I had caught;
dissatisfaction, because I had not made it handsome enough.  Now, I
see no beauty in it - nothing pleasing in any part of its
expression; and yet it is far handsomer and far more agreeable -
far less repulsive I should rather say - than he is now:  for these
six years have wrought almost as great a change upon himself as on
my feelings regarding him.  The frame, however, is handsome enough;
it will serve for another painting.  The picture itself I have not
destroyed, as I had first intended; I have put it aside; not, I
think, from any lurking tenderness for the memory of past
affection, nor yet to remind me of my former folly, but chiefly
that I may compare my son's features and countenance with this, as
he grows up, and thus be enabled to judge how much or how little he
resembles his father - if I may be allowed to keep him with me
still, and never to behold that father's face again - a blessing I
hardly dare reckon upon.

It seems Mr. Huntingdon is making every exertion to discover the
place of my retreat.  He has been in person to Staningley, seeking
redress for his grievances - expecting to hear of his victims, if
not to find them there - and has told so many lies, and with such
unblushing coolness, that my uncle more than half believes him, and
strongly advocates my going back to him and being friends again.
But my aunt knows better:  she is too cool and cautious, and too
well acquainted with both my husband's character and my own to be
imposed upon by any specious falsehoods the former could invent.
But he does not want me back; he wants my child; and gives my
friends to understand that if I prefer living apart from him, he
will indulge the whim and let me do so unmolested, and even settle
a reasonable allowance on me, provided I will immediately deliver
up his son.  But heaven help me!  I am not going to sell my child
for gold, though it were to save both him and me from starving:  it
would be better that he should die with me than that he should live
with his father.

Frederick showed me a letter he had received from that gentleman,
full of cool impudence such as would astonish any one who did not
know him, but such as, I am convinced, none would know better how
to answer than my brother.  He gave me no account of his reply,
except to tell me that he had not acknowledged his acquaintance
with my place of refuge, but rather left it to be inferred that it
was quite unknown to him, by saying it was useless to apply to him,
or any other of my relations, for information on the subject, as it
appeared I had been driven to such extremity that I had concealed
my retreat even from my best friends; but that if he had known it,
or should at any time be made aware of it, most certainly Mr.
Huntingdon would be the last person to whom he should communicate
the intelligence; and that he need not trouble himself to bargain
for the child, for he (Frederick) fancied he knew enough of his
sister to enable him to declare, that wherever she might be, or
however situated, no consideration would induce her to deliver him
up.

30th. - Alas! my kind neighbours will not let me alone.  By some
means they have ferreted me out, and I have had to sustain visits
from three different families, all more or less bent upon
discovering who and what I am, whence I came, and why I have chosen
such a home as this.  Their society is unnecessary to me, to say
the least, and their curiosity annoys and alarms me:  if I gratify
it, it may lead to the ruin of my son, and if I am too mysterious
it will only excite their suspicions, invite conjecture, and rouse
them to greater exertions - and perhaps be the means of spreading
my fame from parish to parish, till it reach the ears of some one
who will carry it to the Lord of Grassdale Manor.

I shall be expected to return their calls, but if, upon inquiry, I
find that any of them live too far away for Arthur to accompany me,
they must expect in vain for a while, for I cannot bear to leave
him, unless it be to go to church, and I have not attempted that
yet:  for - it may be foolish weakness, but I am under such
constant dread of his being snatched away, that I am never easy
when he is not by my side; and I fear these nervous terrors would
so entirely disturb my devotions, that I should obtain no benefit
from the attendance.  I mean, however, to make the experiment next
Sunday, and oblige myself to leave him in charge of Rachel for a
few hours.  It will be a hard task, but surely no imprudence; and
the vicar has been to scold me for my neglect of the ordinances of
religion.  I had no sufficient excuse to offer, and I promised, if
all were well, he should see me in my pew next Sunday; for I do not
wish to be set down as an infidel; and, besides, I know I should
derive great comfort and benefit from an occasional attendance at
public worship, if I could only have faith and fortitude to compose
my thoughts in conformity with the solemn occasion, and forbid them
to be for ever dwelling on my absent child, and on the dreadful
possibility of finding him gone when I return; and surely God in
His mercy will preserve me from so severe a trial:  for my child's
own sake, if not for mine, He will not suffer him to be torn away.

November 3rd. - I have made some further acquaintance with my
neighbours.  The fine gentleman and beau of the parish and its
vicinity (in his own estimation, at least) is a young . . . .

* * * * *

Here it ended.  The rest was torn away.  How cruel, just when she
was going to mention me! for I could not doubt it was your humble
servant she was about to mention, though not very favourably, of
course.  I could tell that, as well by those few words as by the
recollection of her whole aspect and demeanour towards me in the
commencement of our acquaintance.  Well!  I could readily forgive
her prejudice against me, and her hard thoughts of our sex in
general, when I saw to what brilliant specimens her experience had
been limited.

Respecting me, however, she had long since seen her error, and
perhaps fallen into another in the opposite extreme:  for if, at
first, her opinion of me had been lower than I deserved, I was
convinced that now my deserts were lower than her opinion; and if
the former part of this continuation had been torn away to avoid
wounding my feelings, perhaps the latter portion had been removed
for fear of ministering too much to my self-conceit.  At any rate,
I would have given much to have seen it all - to have witnessed the
gradual change, and watched the progress of her esteem and
friendship for me, and whatever warmer feeling she might have; to
have seen how much of love there was in her regard, and how it had
grown upon her in spite of her virtuous resolutions and strenuous
exertions to - but no, I had no right to see it:  all this was too
sacred for any eyes but her own, and she had done well to keep it
from me.