The Tenant of Wildfell Hall Deluxe Edition Anne Bronte chapter 25

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.



The Tenant of Wildfell Hall Deluxe Edition Anne Bronte chapter 26



Sept. 23rd. - Our guests arrived about three weeks ago.  Lord and
Lady Lowborough have now been married above eight months; and I
will do the lady the credit to say that her husband is quite an
altered man; his looks, his spirits, and his temper, are all
perceptibly changed for the better since I last saw him.  But there
is room for improvement still.  He is not always cheerful, nor
always contented, and she often complains of his ill-humour, which,
however, of all persons, she ought to be the last to accuse him of,
as he never displays it against her, except for such conduct as
would provoke a saint.  He adores her still, and would go to the
world's end to please her.  She knows her power, and she uses it
too; but well knowing that to wheedle and coax is safer than to
command, she judiciously tempers her despotism with flattery and
blandishments enough to make him deem himself a favoured and a
happy man.

But she has a way of tormenting him, in which I am a fellow-
sufferer, or might be, if I chose to regard myself as such.  This
is by openly, but not too glaringly, coquetting with Mr.
Huntingdon, who is quite willing to be her partner in the game; but
I don't care for it, because, with him, I know there is nothing but
personal vanity, and a mischievous desire to excite my jealousy,
and, perhaps, to torment his friend; and she, no doubt, is actuated
by much the same motives; only, there is more of malice and less of
playfulness in her manoeuvres.  It is obviously, therefore, my
interest to disappoint them both, as far as I am concerned, by
preserving a cheerful, undisturbed serenity throughout; and,
accordingly, I endeavour to show the fullest confidence in my
husband, and the greatest indifference to the arts of my attractive
guest.  I have never reproached the former but once, and that was
for laughing at Lord Lowborough's depressed and anxious countenance
one evening, when they had both been particularly provoking; and
then, indeed, I said a good deal on the subject, and rebuked him
sternly enough; but he only laughed, and said, - 'You can feel for
him, Helen, can't you?'

'I can feel for anyone that is unjustly treated,' I replied, 'and I
can feel for those that injure them too.'

'Why, Helen, you are as jealous as he is!' cried he, laughing still
more; and I found it impossible to convince him of his mistake.
So, from that time, I have carefully refrained from any notice of
the subject whatever, and left Lord Lowborough to take care of
himself.  He either has not the sense or the power to follow my
example, though he does try to conceal his uneasiness as well as he
can; but still, it will appear in his face, and his ill-humour will
peep out at intervals, though not in the expression of open
resentment - they never go far enough for that.  But I confess I do
feel jealous at times, most painfully, bitterly so; when she sings
and plays to him, and he hangs over the instrument, and dwells upon
her voice with no affected interest; for then I know he is really
delighted, and I have no power to awaken similar fervour.  I can
amuse and please him with my simple songs, but not delight him
thus.

28th. - Yesterday, we all went to the Grove, Mr. Hargrave's much-
neglected home.  His mother frequently asks us over, that she may
have the pleasure of her dear Walter's company; and this time she
had invited us to a dinner-party, and got together as many of the
country gentry as were within reach to meet us.  The entertainment
was very well got up; but I could not help thinking about the cost
of it all the time.  I don't like Mrs. Hargrave; she is a hard,
pretentious, worldly-minded woman.  She has money enough to live
very comfortably, if she only knew how to use it judiciously, and
had taught her son to do the same; but she is ever straining to
keep up appearances, with that despicable pride that shuns the
semblance of poverty as of a shameful crime.  She grinds her
dependents, pinches her servants, and deprives even her daughters
and herself of the real comforts of life, because she will not
consent to yield the palm in outward show to those who have three
times her wealth; and, above all, because she is determined her
cherished son shall be enabled to 'hold up his head with the
highest gentlemen in the land.'  This same son, I imagine, is a man
of expensive habits, no reckless spendthrift and no abandoned
sensualist, but one who likes to have 'everything handsome about
him,' and to go to a certain length in youthful indulgences, not so
much to gratify his own tastes as to maintain his reputation as a
man of fashion in the world, and a respectable fellow among his own
lawless companions; while he is too selfish to consider how many
comforts might be obtained for his fond mother and sisters with the
money he thus wastes upon himself:  as long as they can contrive to
make a respectable appearance once a year, when they come to town,
he gives himself little concern about their private stintings and
struggles at home.  This is a harsh judgment to form of 'dear,
noble-minded, generous-hearted Walter,' but I fear it is too just.

Mrs. Hargrave's anxiety to make good matches for her daughters is
partly the cause, and partly the result, of these errors:  by
making a figure in the world, and showing them off to advantage,
she hopes to obtain better chances for them; and by thus living
beyond her legitimate means, and lavishing so much on their
brother, she renders them portionless, and makes them burdens on
her hands.  Poor Milicent, I fear, has already fallen a sacrifice
to the manoeuvrings of this mistaken mother, who congratulates
herself on having so satisfactorily discharged her maternal duty,
and hopes to do as well for Esther.  But Esther is a child as yet,
a little merry romp of fourteen:  as honest-hearted, and as
guileless and simple as her sister, but with a fearless spirit of
her own, that I fancy her mother will find some difficulty in
bending to her purposes.



The Tenant of Wildfell Hall Deluxe Edition Anne Bronte chapter 27



October 9th. - It was on the night of the 4th, a little after tea,
that Annabella had been singing and playing, with Arthur as usual
at her side:  she had ended her song, but still she sat at the
instrument; and he stood leaning on the back of her chair,
conversing in scarcely audible tones, with his face in very close
proximity with hers.  I looked at Lord Lowborough.  He was at the
other end of the room, talking with Messrs. Hargrave and Grimsby;
but I saw him dart towards his lady and his host a quick, impatient
glance, expressive of intense disquietude, at which Grimsby smiled.
Determined to interrupt the TETE-E-TETE, I rose, and, selecting a
piece of music from the music stand, stepped up to the piano,
intending to ask the lady to play it; but I stood transfixed and
speechless on seeing her seated there, listening, with what seemed
an exultant smile on her flushed face to his soft murmurings, with
her hand quietly surrendered to his clasp.  The blood rushed first
to my heart, and then to my head; for there was more than this:
almost at the moment of my approach, he cast a hurried glance over
his shoulder towards the other occupants of the room, and then
ardently pressed the unresisting hand to his lips.  On raising his
eyes, he beheld me, and dropped them again, confounded and
dismayed.  She saw me too, and confronted me with a look of hard
defiance.  I laid the music on the piano, and retired.  I felt ill;
but I did not leave the room:  happily, it was getting late, and
could not be long before the company dispersed.

I went to the fire, and leant my head against the chimney-piece.
In a minute or two, some one asked me if I felt unwell.  I did not
answer; indeed, at the time, I knew not what was said; but I
mechanically looked up, and saw Mr. Hargrave standing beside me on
the rug.

'Shall I get you a glass of wine?' said he.

'No, thank you,' I replied; and, turning from him, I looked round.
Lady Lowborough was beside her husband, bending over him as he sat,
with her hand on his shoulder, softly talking and smiling in his
face; and Arthur was at the table, turning over a book of
engravings.  I seated myself in the nearest chair; and Mr.
Hargrave, finding his services were not desired, judiciously
withdrew.  Shortly after, the company broke up, and, as the guests
were retiring to their rooms, Arthur approached me, smiling with
the utmost assurance.

'Are you very angry, Helen?' murmured he.

'This is no jest, Arthur,' said I, seriously, but as calmly as I
could - 'unless you think it a jest to lose my affection for ever.'

'What! so bitter?' he exclaimed, laughingly, clasping my hand
between both his; but I snatched it away, in indignation - almost
in disgust, for he was obviously affected with wine.

'Then I must go down on my knees,' said he; and kneeling before me,
with clasped hands, uplifted in mock humiliation, he continued
imploringly - 'Forgive me, Helen - dear Helen, forgive me, and I'll
never do it again!' and, burying his face in his handkerchief, he
affected to sob aloud.

Leaving him thus employed, I took my candle, and, slipping quietly
from the room, hastened up-stairs as fast as I could.  But he soon
discovered that I had left him, and, rushing up after me, caught me
in his arms, just as I had entered the chamber, and was about to
shut the door in his face.

'No, no, by heaven, you sha'n't escape me so!' he cried.  Then,
alarmed at my agitation, he begged me not to put myself in such a
passion, telling me I was white in the face, and should kill myself
if I did so.

'Let me go, then,' I murmured; and immediately he released me - and
it was well he did, for I was really in a passion.  I sank into the
easy-chair and endeavoured to compose myself, for I wanted to speak
to him calmly.  He stood beside me, but did not venture to touch me
or to speak for a few seconds; then, approaching a little nearer,
he dropped on one knee - not in mock humility, but to bring himself
nearer my level, and leaning his hand on the arm of the chair, he
began in a low voice:  'It is all nonsense, Helen - a jest, a mere
nothing - not worth a thought.  Will you never learn,' he continued
more boldly, 'that you have nothing to fear from me? that I love
you wholly and entirely? - or if,' he added with a lurking smile,
'I ever give a thought to another, you may well spare it, for those
fancies are here and gone like a flash of lightning, while my love
for you burns on steadily, and for ever, like the sun.  You little
exorbitant tyrant, will not that -?'

'Be quiet a moment, will you, Arthur?' said I, 'and listen to me -
and don't think I'm in a jealous fury:  I am perfectly calm.  Feel
my hand.'  And I gravely extended it towards him - but closed it
upon his with an energy that seemed to disprove the assertion, and
made him smile.  'You needn't smile, sir,' said I, still tightening
my grasp, and looking steadfastly on him till he almost quailed
before me.  'You may think it all very fine, Mr. Huntingdon, to
amuse yourself with rousing my jealousy; but take care you don't
rouse my hate instead.  And when you have once extinguished my
love, you will find it no easy matter to kindle it again.'

'Well, Helen, I won't repeat the offence.  But I meant nothing by
it, I assure you.  I had taken too much wine, and I was scarcely
myself at the time.'

'You often take too much; and that is another practice I detest.'
He looked up astonished at my warmth.  'Yes,' I continued; 'I never
mentioned it before, because I was ashamed to do so; but now I'll
tell you that it distresses me, and may disgust me, if you go on
and suffer the habit to grow upon you, as it will if you don't
check it in time.  But the whole system of your conduct to Lady
Lowborough is not referable to wine; and this night you knew
perfectly well what you were doing.'

'Well, I'm sorry for it,' replied he, with more of sulkiness than
contrition:  'what more would you have?'

'You are sorry that I saw you, no doubt,' I answered coldly.

'If you had not seen me,' he muttered, fixing his eyes on the
carpet, 'it would have done no harm.'

My heart felt ready to burst; but I resolutely swallowed back my
emotion, and answered calmly,

'You think not?'

'No,' replied he, boldly.  'After all, what have I done?  It's
nothing - except as you choose to make it a subject of accusation
and distress.'

'What would Lord Lowborough, your friend, think, if he knew all? or
what would you yourself think, if he or any other had acted the
same part to me, throughout, as you have to Annabella?'

'I would blow his brains out.'

'Well, then, Arthur, how can you call it nothing - an offence for
which you would think yourself justified in blowing another man's
brains out?  Is it nothing to trifle with your friend's feelings
and mine - to endeavour to steal a woman's affections from her
husband - what he values more than his gold, and therefore what it
is more dishonest to take?  Are the marriage vows a jest; and is it
nothing to make it your sport to break them, and to tempt another
to do the same?  Can I love a man that does such things, and coolly
maintains it is nothing?'

'You are breaking your marriage vows yourself,' said he,
indignantly rising and pacing to and fro.  'You promised to honour
and obey me, and now you attempt to hector over me, and threaten
and accuse me, and call me worse than a highwayman.  If it were not
for your situation, Helen, I would not submit to it so tamely.  I
won't be dictated to by a woman, though she be my wife.'

'What will you do then?  Will you go on till I hate you, and then
accuse me of breaking my vows?'

He was silent a. moment, and then replied:  'You never will hate
me.'  Returning and resuming his former position at my feet, he
repeated more vehemently - 'You cannot hate me as long as I love
you.'

'But how can I believe that you love me, if you continue to act in
this way?  Just imagine yourself in my place:  would you think I
loved you, if I did so?  Would you believe my protestations, and
honour and trust me under such circumstances? '

'The cases are different,' he replied.  'It is a woman's nature to
be constant - to love one and one only, blindly, tenderly, and for
ever - bless them, dear creatures! and you above them all; but you
must have some commiseration for us, Helen; you must give us a
little more licence, for, as Shakespeare has it -


However we do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won
Than women's are.'


'Do you mean by that, that your fancies are lost to me, and won by
Lady Lowborough?'

'No! heaven is my witness that I think her mere dust and ashes in
comparison with you, and shall continue to think so, unless you
drive me from you by too much severity.  She is a daughter of
earth; you are an angel of heaven; only be not too austere in your
divinity, and remember that I am a poor, fallible mortal.  Come
now, Helen; won't you forgive me?' he said, gently taking my hand,
and looking up with an innocent smile.

'If I do, you will repeat the offence.'

'I swear by - '

'Don't swear; I'll believe your word as well as your oath.  I wish
I could have confidence in either.'

'Try me, then, Helen:  only trust and pardon me this once, and you
shall see!  Come, I am in hell's torments till you speak the word.'

I did not speak it, but I put my hand on his shoulder and kissed
his forehead, and then burst into tears.  He embraced me tenderly;
and we have been good friends ever since.  He has been decently
temperate at table, and well-conducted towards Lady Lowborough.
The first day he held himself aloof from her, as far as he could
without any flagrant breach of hospitality:  since that he has been
friendly and civil, but nothing more - in my presence, at least,
nor, I think, at any other time; for she seems haughty and
displeased, and Lord Lowborough is manifestly more cheerful, and
more cordial towards his host than before.  But I shall be glad
when they are gone, for I have so little love for Annabella that it
is quite a task to be civil to her, and as she is the only woman
here besides myself, we are necessarily thrown so much together.
Next time Mrs. Hargrave calls I shall hail her advent as quite a
relief.  I have a good mind to ask Arthur's leave to invite the old
lady to stay with us till our guests depart.  I think I will.  She
will take it as a kind attention, and, though I have little relish
for her society, she will be truly welcome as a third to stand
between Lady Lowborough and me.

The first time the latter and I were alone together, after that
unhappy evening, was an hour or two after breakfast on the
following day, when the gentlemen were gone out, after the usual
time spent in the writing of letters, the reading of newspapers,
and desultory conversation.  We sat silent for two or three
minutes.  She was busy with her work, and I was running over the
columns of a paper from which I had extracted all the pith some
twenty minutes before.  It was a moment of painful embarrassment to
me, and I thought it must be infinitely more so to her; but it
seems I was mistaken.  She was the first to speak; and, smiling
with the coolest assurance, she began, -

'Your husband was merry last night, Helen:  is he often so?'

My blood boiled in my face; but it was better she should seem to
attribute his conduct to this than to anything else.

'No,' replied I, 'and never will be so again, I trust.'

'You gave him a curtain lecture, did you?'

'No! but I told him I disliked such conduct, and he promised me not
to repeat it.'

'I thought he looked rather subdued this morning,' she continued;
'and you, Helen? you've been weeping, I see - that's our grand
resource, you know.  But doesn't it make your eyes smart? and do
you always find it to answer?'

'I never cry for effect; nor can I conceive how any one can.'

'Well, I don't know:  I never had occasion to try it; but I think
if Lowborough were to commit such improprieties, I'd make him cry.
I don't wonder at your being angry, for I'm sure I'd give my
husband a lesson he would not soon forget for a lighter offence
than that.  But then he never will do anything of the kind; for I
keep him in too good order for that.'

'Are you sure you don't arrogate too much of the credit to
yourself.  Lord Lowborough was quite as remarkable for his
abstemiousness for some time before you married him, as he is now,
I have heard.'

'Oh, about the wine you mean - yes, he's safe enough for that.  And
as to looking askance to another woman, he's safe enough for that
too, while I live, for he worships the very ground I tread on.'

'Indeed! and are you sure you deserve it?'

'Why, as to that, I can't say:  you know we're all fallible
creatures, Helen; we none of us deserve to be worshipped.  But are
you sure your darling Huntingdon deserves all the love you give to
him?'

I knew not what to answer to this.  I was burning with anger; but I
suppressed all outward manifestations of it, and only bit my lip
and pretended to arrange my work.

'At any rate,' resumed she, pursuing her advantage, 'you can
console yourself with the assurance that you are worthy of all the
love he gives to you.'

'You flatter me,' said I; 'but, at least, I can try to be worthy of
it.'  And then I turned the conversation.



The Tenant of Wildfell Hall Deluxe Edition Anne Bronte chapter 28



December 25th. - Last Christmas I was a bride, with a heart
overflowing with present bliss, and full of ardent hopes for the
future, though not unmingled with foreboding fears.  Now I am a
wife:  my bliss is sobered, but not destroyed; my hopes diminished,
but not departed; my fears increased, but not yet thoroughly
confirmed; and, thank heaven, I am a mother too.  God has sent me a
soul to educate for heaven, and give me a new and calmer bliss, and
stronger hopes to comfort me.

Dec. 25th, 1823. - Another year is gone.  My little Arthur lives
and thrives.  He is healthy, but not robust, full of gentle
playfulness and vivacity, already affectionate, and susceptible of
passions and emotions it will be long ere he can find words to
express.  He has won his father's heart at last; and now my
constant terror is, lest he should be ruined by that father's
thoughtless indulgence.  But I must beware of my own weakness too,
for I never knew till now how strong are a parent's temptations to
spoil an only child.

I have need of consolation in my son, for (to this silent paper I
may confess it) I have but little in my husband.  I love him still;
and he loves me, in his own way - but oh, how different from the
love I could have given, and once had hoped to receive!  How little
real sympathy there exists between us; how many of my thoughts and
feelings are gloomily cloistered within my own mind; how much of my
higher and better self is indeed unmarried - doomed either to
harden and sour in the sunless shade of solitude, or to quite
degenerate and fall away for lack of nutriment in this unwholesome
soil!  But, I repeat, I have no right to complain; only let me
state the truth - some of the truth, at least, - and see hereafter
if any darker truths will blot these pages.  We have now been full
two years united; the 'romance' of our attachment must be worn
away.  Surely I have now got down to the lowest gradation in
Arthur's affection, and discovered all the evils of his nature:  if
there be any further change, it must be for the better, as we
become still more accustomed to each other; surely we shall find no
lower depth than this.  And, if so, I can bear it well - as well,
at least, as I have borne it hitherto.

Arthur is not what is commonly called a bad man:  he has many good
qualities; but he is a man without self-restraint or lofty
aspirations, a lover of pleasure, given up to animal enjoyments:
he is not a bad husband, but his notions of matrimonial duties and
comforts are not my notions.  Judging from appearances, his idea of
a wife is a thing to love one devotedly, and to stay at home to
wait upon her husband, and amuse him and minister to his comfort in
every possible way, while he chooses to stay with her; and, when he
is absent, to attend to his interests, domestic or otherwise, and
patiently wait his return, no matter how he may be occupied in the
meantime.

Early in spring he announced his intention of going to London:  his
affairs there demanded his attendance, he said, and he could refuse
it no longer.  He expressed his regret at having to leave me, but
hoped I would amuse myself with the baby till he returned.

'But why leave me?' I said.  'I can go with you:  I can be ready at
any time.'

'You would not take that child to town?'

'Yes; why not?'

The thing was absurd:  the air of the town would be certain to
disagree with him, and with me as a nurse; the late hours and
London habits would not suit me under such circumstances; and
altogether he assured me that it would be excessively troublesome,
injurious, and unsafe.  I over-ruled his objections as well as I
could, for I trembled at the thoughts of his going alone, and would
sacrifice almost anything for myself, much even for my child, to
prevent it; but at length he told me, plainly, and somewhat
testily, that he could not do with me:  he was worn out with the
baby's restless nights, and must have some repose.  I proposed
separate apartments; but it would not do.

'The truth is, Arthur,' I said at last, 'you are weary of my
company, and determined not to have me with you.  You might as well
have said so at once.'

He denied it; but I immediately left the room, and flew to the
nursery, to hide my feelings, if I could not soothe them, there.

I was too much hurt to express any further dissatisfaction with his
plans, or at all to refer to the subject again, except for the
necessary arrangements concerning his departure and the conduct of
affairs during his absence, till the day before he went, when I
earnestly exhorted him to take care of himself and keep out of the
way of temptation.  He laughed at my anxiety, but assured me there
was no cause for it, and promised to attend to my advice.

'I suppose it is no use asking you to fix a day for your return?'
said I.

'Why, no; I hardly can, under the circumstances; but be assured,
love, I shall not be long away.'

'I don't wish to keep you a prisoner at home,' I replied; 'I should
not grumble at your staying whole months away - if you can be happy
so long without me - provided I knew you were safe; but I don't
like the idea of your being there among your friends, as you call
them.'

'Pooh, pooh, you silly girl!  Do you think I can't take care of
myself?'

'You didn't last time.  But THIS time, Arthur,' I added, earnestly,
'show me that you can, and teach me that I need not fear to trust
you!'

He promised fair, but in such a manner as we seek to soothe a
child.  And did he keep his promise?  No; and henceforth I can
never trust his word.  Bitter, bitter confession!  Tears blind me
while I write.  It was early in March that he went, and he did not
return till July.  This time he did not trouble himself to make
excuses as before, and his letters were less frequent, and shorter
and less affectionate, especially after the first few weeks:  they
came slower and slower, and more terse and careless every time.
But still, when I omitted writing, he complained of my neglect.
When I wrote sternly and coldly, as I confess I frequently did at
the last, he blamed my harshness, and said it was enough to scare
him from his home:  when I tried mild persuasion, he was a little
more gentle in his replies, and promised to return; but I had
learnt, at last, to disregard his promises.



The Tenant of Wildfell Hall Deluxe Edition Anne Bronte chapter 29



Those were four miserable months, alternating between intense
anxiety, despair, and indignation, pity for him and pity for
myself.  And yet, through all, I was not wholly comfortless:  I had
my darling, sinless, inoffensive little one to console me; but even
this consolation was embittered by the constantly-recurring
thought, 'How shall I teach him hereafter to respect his father,
and yet to avoid his example?'

But I remembered that I had brought all these afflictions, in a
manner wilfully, upon myself; and I determined to bear them without
a murmur.  At the same time I resolved not to give myself up to
misery for the transgressions of another, and endeavoured to divert
myself as much as I could; and besides the companionship of my
child, and my dear, faithful Rachel, who evidently guessed my
sorrows and felt for them, though she was too discreet to allude to
them, I had my books and pencil, my domestic affairs, and the
welfare and comfort of Arthur's poor tenants and labourers to
attend to:  and I sometimes sought and obtained amusement in the
company of my young friend Esther Hargrave:  occasionally I rode
over to see her, and once or twice I had her to spend the day with
me at the Manor.  Mrs. Hargrave did not visit London that season:
having no daughter to marry, she thought it as well to stay at home
and economise; and, for a wonder, Walter came down to join her in
the beginning of June, and stayed till near the close of August.

The first time I saw him was on a sweet, warm evening, when I was
sauntering in the park with little Arthur and Rachel, who is head-
nurse and lady's-maid in one - for, with my secluded life and
tolerably active habits, I require but little attendance, and as
she had nursed me and coveted to nurse my child, and was moreover
so very trustworthy, I preferred committing the important charge to
her, with a young nursery-maid under her directions, to engaging
any one else:  besides, it saves money; and since I have made
acquaintance with Arthur's affairs, I have learnt to regard that as
no trifling recommendation; for, by my own desire, nearly the whole
of the income of my fortune is devoted, for years to come, to the
paying off of his debts, and the money he contrives to squander
away in London is incomprehensible.  But to return to Mr. Hargrave.
I was standing with Rachel beside the water, amusing the laughing
baby in her arms with a twig of willow laden with golden catkins,
when, greatly to my surprise, he entered the park, mounted on his
costly black hunter, and crossed over the grass to meet me.  He
saluted me with a very fine compliment, delicately worded, and
modestly delivered withal, which he had doubtless concocted as he
rode along.  He told me he had brought a message from his mother,
who, as he was riding that way, had desired him to call at the
Manor and beg the pleasure of my company to a friendly family
dinner to-morrow.

'There is no one to meet but ourselves,' said he; 'but Esther is
very anxious to see you; and my mother fears you will feel solitary
in this great house so much alone, and wishes she could persuade
you to give her the pleasure of your company more frequently, and
make yourself at home in our more humble dwelling, till Mr.
Huntingdon's return shall render this a little more conducive to
your comfort.'

'She is very kind,' I answered, 'but I am not alone, you see; - and
those whose time is fully occupied seldom complain of solitude.'

'Will you not come to-morrow, then?  She will be sadly disappointed
if you refuse.'

I did not relish being thus compassionated for my loneliness; but,
however, I promised to come.

'What a sweet evening this is!' observed he, looking round upon the
sunny park, with its imposing swell and slope, its placid water,
and majestic clumps of trees.  'And what a paradise you live in!'

'It is a lovely evening,' answered I; and I sighed to think how
little I had felt its loveliness, and how little of a paradise
sweet Grassdale was to me - how still less to the voluntary exile
from its scenes.  Whether Mr. Hargrave divined my thoughts, I
cannot tell, but, with a half-hesitating, sympathising seriousness
of tone and manner, he asked if I had lately heard from Mr.
Huntingdon.

'Not lately,' I replied.

'I thought not,' he muttered, as if to himself, looking
thoughtfully on the ground.

'Are you not lately returned from London?' I asked.

'Only yesterday.'

'And did you see him there?'

'Yes - I saw him.'

'Was he well?'

'Yes - that is,' said he, with increasing hesitation and an
appearance of suppressed indignation, 'he was as well as - as he
deserved to be, but under circumstances I should have deemed
incredible for a man so favoured as he is.'  He here looked up and
pointed the sentence with a serious bow to me.  I suppose my face
was crimson.

'Pardon me, Mrs. Huntingdon,' he continued, 'but I cannot suppress
my indignation when I behold such infatuated blindness and
perversion of taste; - but, perhaps, you are not aware - '  He
paused.

'I am aware of nothing, sir - except that he delays his coming
longer than I expected; and if, at present, he prefers the society
of his friends to that of his wife, and the dissipations of the
town to the quiet of country life, I suppose I have those friends
to thank for it.  Their tastes and occupations are similar to his,
and I don't see why his conduct should awaken either their
indignation or surprise.'

'You wrong me cruelly,' answered he.  'I have shared but little of
Mr. Huntingdon's society for the last few weeks; and as for his
tastes and occupations, they are quite beyond me - lonely wanderer
as I am.  Where I have but sipped and tasted, he drains the cup to
the dregs; and if ever for a moment I have sought to drown the
voice of reflection in madness and folly, or if I have wasted too
much of my time and talents among reckless and dissipated
companions, God knows I would gladly renounce them entirely and for
ever, if I had but half the blessings that man so thanklessly casts
behind his back - but half the inducements to virtue and domestic,
orderly habits that he despises - but such a home, and such a
partner to share it!  It is infamous!' he muttered, between his
teeth.  'And don't think, Mrs. Huntingdon,' he added aloud, 'that I
could be guilty of inciting him to persevere in his present
pursuits:  on the contrary, I have remonstrated with him again and
again; I have frequently expressed my surprise at his conduct, and
reminded him of his duties and his privileges - but to no purpose;
he only - '

'Enough, Mr. Hargrave; you ought to be aware that whatever my
husband's faults may be, it can only aggravate the evil for me to
hear them from a stranger's lips.'

'Am I then a stranger?' said he in a sorrowful tone.  'I am your
nearest neighbour, your son's godfather, and your husband's friend;
may I not be yours also?'

'Intimate acquaintance must precede real friendship; I know but
little of you, Mr. Hargrave, except from report.'

'Have you then forgotten the six or seven weeks I spent under your
roof last autumn?  I have not forgotten them.  And I know enough of
you, Mrs. Huntingdon, to think that your husband is the most
enviable man in the world, and I should be the next if you would
deem me worthy of your friendship.'

'If you knew more of me, you would not think it, or if you did you
would not say it, and expect me to be flattered by the compliment.'

I stepped backward as I spoke.  He saw that I wished the
conversation to end; and immediately taking the hint, he gravely
bowed, wished me good-evening, and turned his horse towards the
road.  He appeared grieved and hurt at my unkind reception of his
sympathising overtures.  I was not sure that I had done right in
speaking so harshly to him; but, at the time, I had felt irritated
- almost insulted by his conduct; it seemed as if he was presuming
upon the absence and neglect of my husband, and insinuating even
more than the truth against him.

Rachel had moved on, during our conversation, to some yards'
distance.  He rode up to her, and asked to see the child.  He took
it carefully into his arms, looked upon it with an almost paternal
smile, and I heard him say, as I approached, -

'And this, too, he has forsaken!'

He then tenderly kissed it, and restored it to the gratified nurse.

'Are you fond of children, Mr. Hargrave?' said I, a little softened
towards him.

'Not in general,' he replied, 'but that is such a sweet child, and
so like its mother,' he added in a lower tone.

'You are mistaken there; it is its father it resembles.'

'Am I not right, nurse?' said he, appealing to Rachel.

'I think, sir, there's a bit of both,' she replied.

He departed; and Rachel pronounced him a very nice gentleman.  I
had still my doubts on the subject.

In the course of the following six weeks I met him several times,
but always, save once, in company with his mother, or his sister,
or both.  When I called on them, he always happened to be at home,
and, when they called on me, it was always he that drove them over
in the phaeton.  His mother, evidently, was quite delighted with
his dutiful attentions and newly-acquired domestic habits.

The time that I met him alone was on a bright, but not oppressively
hot day, in the beginning of July:  I had taken little Arthur into
the wood that skirts the park, and there seated him on the moss-
cushioned roots of an old oak; and, having gathered a handful of
bluebells and wild-roses, I was kneeling before him, and presenting
them, one by one, to the grasp of his tiny fingers; enjoying the
heavenly beauty of the flowers, through the medium of his smiling
eyes:  forgetting, for the moment, all my cares, laughing at his
gleeful laughter, and delighting myself with his delight, - when a
shadow suddenly eclipsed the little space of sunshine on the grass
before us; and looking up, I beheld Walter Hargrave standing and
gazing upon us.

'Excuse me, Mrs. Huntingdon,' said he, 'but I was spell-bound; I
had neither the power to come forward and interrupt you, nor to
withdraw from the contemplation of such a scene.  How vigorous my
little godson grows! and how merry he is this morning!'  He
approached the child, and stooped to take his hand; but, on seeing
that his caresses were likely to produce tears and lamentations,
instead of a reciprocation of friendly demonstrations, he prudently
drew back.

'What a pleasure and comfort that little creature must be to you,
Mrs. Huntingdon!' he observed, with a touch of sadness in his
intonation, as he admiringly contemplated the infant.

'It is,' replied I; and then I asked after his mother and sister.

He politely answered my inquiries, and then returned again to the
subject I wished to avoid; though with a degree of timidity that
witnessed his fear to offend.

'You have not heard from Huntingdon lately?' he said.

'Not this week,' I replied.  Not these three weeks, I might have
said.

'I had a letter from him this morning.  I wish it were such a one
as I could show to his lady.'  He half drew from his waistcoat-
pocket a letter with Arthur's still beloved hand on the address,
scowled at it, and put it back again, adding - 'But he tells me he
is about to return next week.'

'He tells me so every time he writes.'

'Indeed! well, it is like him.  But to me he always avowed it his
intention to stay till the present month.'

It struck me like a blow, this proof of premeditated transgression
and systematic disregard of truth.

'It is only of a piece with the rest of his conduct,' observed Mr.
Hargrave, thoughtfully regarding me, and reading, I suppose, my
feelings in my face.

'Then he is really coming next week?' said I, after a pause.

'You may rely upon it, if the assurance can give you any pleasure.
And is it possible, Mrs. Huntingdon, that you can rejoice at his
return?' he exclaimed, attentively perusing my features again.

'Of course, Mr. Hargrave; is he not my husband?'

'Oh, Huntingdon; you know not what you slight!' he passionately
murmured.

I took up my baby, and, wishing him good-morning, departed, to
indulge my thoughts unscrutinized, within the sanctum of my home.

And was I glad?  Yes, delighted; though I was angered by Arthur's
conduct, and though I felt that he had wronged me, and was
determined he should feel it too.