The Tenant of Wildfell Hall Deluxe Edition Anne Bronte chapter 15

That day was rainy like its predecessor; but towards evening it
began to clear up a little, and the next morning was fair and
promising.  I was out on the hill with the reapers.  A light wind
swept over the corn, and all nature laughed in the sunshine.  The
lark was rejoicing among the silvery floating clouds.  The late
rain had so sweetly freshened and cleared the air, and washed the
sky, and left such glittering gems on branch and blade, that not
even the farmers could have the heart to blame it.  But no ray of
sunshine could reach my heart, no breeze could freshen it; nothing
could fill the void my faith, and hope, and joy in Helen Graham had
left, or drive away the keen regrets and bitter dregs of lingering
love that still oppressed it.

While I stood with folded arms abstractedly gazing on the
undulating swell of the corn, not yet disturbed by the reapers,
something gently pulled my skirts, and a small voice, no longer
welcome to my ears, aroused me with the startling words, - 'Mr.
Markham, mamma wants you.'

'Wants me, Arthur?'

'Yes.  Why do you look so queer?' said he, half laughing, half
frightened at the unexpected aspect of my face in suddenly turning
towards him, - 'and why have you kept so long away?  Come!  Won't
you come?'

'I'm busy just now,' I replied, scarce knowing what to answer.

He looked up in childish bewilderment; but before I could speak
again the lady herself was at my side.

'Gilbert, I must speak with you!' said she, in a tone of suppressed
vehemence.

I looked at her pale cheek and glittering eye, but answered
nothing.

'Only for a moment,' pleaded she.  'Just step aside into this other
field.'  She glanced at the reapers, some of whom were directing
looks of impertinent curiosity towards her.  'I won't keep you a
minute.'

I accompanied her through the gap.

'Arthur, darling, run and gather those bluebells,' said she,
pointing to some that were gleaming at some distance under the
hedge along which we walked.  The child hesitated, as if unwilling
to quit my side.  'Go, love!' repeated she more urgently, and in a
tone which, though not unkind, demanded prompt obedience, and
obtained it.

'Well, Mrs. Graham?' said I, calmly and coldly; for, though I saw
she was miserable, and pitied her, I felt glad to have it in my
power to torment her.

She fixed her eyes upon me with a look that pierced me to the
heart; and yet it made me smile.

'I don't ask the reason of this change, Gilbert,' said she, with
bitter calmness:  'I know it too well; but though I could see
myself suspected and condemned by every one else, and bear it with
calmness, I cannot endure it from you. - Why did you not come to
hear my explanation on the day I appointed to give it?'

'Because I happened, in the interim, to learn all you would have
told me - and a trifle more, I imagine.'

'Impossible, for I would have told you all!' cried she,
passionately - 'but I won't now, for I see you are not worthy of
it!'

And her pale lips quivered with agitation.

'Why not, may I ask?'

She repelled my mocking smile with a glance of scornful
indignation.

'Because you never understood me, or you would not soon have
listened to my traducers - my confidence would be misplaced in you
- you are not the man I thought you.  Go!  I won't care what you
think of me.'

She turned away, and I went; for I thought that would torment her
as much as anything; and I believe I was right; for, looking back a
minute after, I saw her turn half round, as if hoping or expecting
to find me still beside her; and then she stood still, and cast one
look behind.  It was a look less expressive of anger than of bitter
anguish and despair; but I immediately assumed an aspect of
indifference, and affected to be gazing carelessly around me, and I
suppose she went on; for after lingering awhile to see if she would
come back or call, I ventured one more glance, and saw her a good
way off, moving rapidly up the field, with little Arthur running by
her side and apparently talking as he went; but she kept her face
averted from him, as if to hide some uncontrollable emotion.  And I
returned to my business.

But I soon began to regret my precipitancy in leaving her so soon.
It was evident she loved me - probably she was tired of Mr.
Lawrence, and wished to exchange him for me; and if I had loved and
reverenced her less to begin with, the preference might have
gratified and amused me; but now the contrast between her outward
seeming and her inward mind, as I supposed, - between my former and
my present opinion of her, was so harrowing - so distressing to my
feelings, that it swallowed up every lighter consideration.

But still I was curious to know what sort of an explanation she
would have given me - or would give now, if I pressed her for it -
how much she would confess, and how she would endeavour to excuse
herself.  I longed to know what to despise, and what to admire in
her; how much to pity, and how much to hate; - and, what was more,
I would know.  I would see her once more, and fairly satisfy myself
in what light to regard her, before we parted.  Lost to me she was,
for ever, of course; but still I could not bear to think that we
had parted, for the last time, with so much unkindness and misery
on both sides.  That last look of hers had sunk into my heart; I
could not forget it.  But what a fool I was!  Had she not deceived
me, injured me - blighted my happiness for life?  'Well, I'll see
her, however,' was my concluding resolve, 'but not to-day:  to-day
and to-night she may think upon her sins, and be as miserable as
she will:  to-morrow I will see her once again, and know something
more about her.  The interview may be serviceable to her, or it may
not.  At any rate, it will give a breath of excitement to the life
she has doomed to stagnation, and may calm with certainty some
agitating thoughts.'

I did go on the morrow, but not till towards evening, after the
business of the day was concluded, that is, between six and seven;
and the westering sun was gleaming redly on the old Hall, and
flaming in the latticed windows, as I reached it, imparting to the
place a cheerfulness not its own.  I need not dilate upon the
feelings with which I approached the shrine of my former divinity -
that spot teeming with a thousand delightful recollections and
glorious dreams - all darkened now by one disastrous truth

Rachel admitted me into the parlour, and went to call her mistress,
for she was not there:  but there was her desk left open on the
little round table beside the high-backed chair, with a book laid
upon it.  Her limited but choice collection of books was almost as
familiar to me as my own; but this volume I had not seen before.  I
took it up.  It was Sir Humphry Davy's 'Last Days of a
Philosopher,' and on the first leaf was written, 'Frederick
Lawrence.'  I closed the book, but kept it in my hand, and stood
facing the door, with my back to the fire-place, calmly waiting her
arrival; for I did not doubt she would come.  And soon I heard her
step in the hall.  My heart was beginning to throb, but I checked
it with an internal rebuke, and maintained my composure - outwardly
at least.  She entered, calm, pale, collected.

'To what am I indebted for this favour, Mr. Markham?' said she,
with such severe but quiet dignity as almost disconcerted me; but I
answered with a smile, and impudently enough, -

'Well, I am come to hear your explanation.'

'I told you I would not give it,' said she.  'I said you were
unworthy of my confidence.'

'Oh, very well,' replied I, moving to the door.

'Stay a moment,' said she.  'This is the last time I shall see you:
don't go just yet.'

I remained, awaiting her further commands.

'Tell me,' resumed she, 'on what grounds you believe these things
against me; who told you; and what did they say?'

I paused a moment.  She met my eye as unflinchingly as if her bosom
had been steeled with conscious innocence.  She was resolved to
know the worst, and determined to dare it too.  'I can crush that
bold spirit,' thought I.  But while I secretly exulted in my power,
I felt disposed to dally with my victim like a cat.  Showing her
the book that I still held, in my hand, and pointing to the name on
the fly-leaf, but fixing my eye upon her face, I asked, - 'Do you
know that gentleman?'

'Of course I do,' replied she; and a sudden flush suffused her
features - whether of shame or anger I could not tell:  it rather
resembled the latter.  'What next, sir?'

'How long is it since you saw him?'

'Who gave you the right to catechize me on this or any other
subject?'

'Oh, no one! - it's quite at your option whether to answer or not.
And now, let me ask - have you heard what has lately befallen this
friend of yours? - because, if you have not - '

'I will not be insulted, Mr. Markham!' cried she, almost infuriated
at my manner.  'So you had better leave the house at once, if you
came only for that.'

'I did not come to insult you:  I came to hear your explanation.'

'And I tell you I won't give it!' retorted she, pacing the room in
a state of strong excitement, with her hands clasped tightly
together, breathing short, and flashing fires of indignation from
her eyes.  'I will not condescend to explain myself to one that can
make a jest of such horrible suspicions, and be so easily led to
entertain them.'

'I do not make a jest of them, Mrs. Graham,' returned I, dropping
at once my tone of taunting sarcasm.  'I heartily wish I could find
them a jesting matter.  And as to being easily led to suspect, God
only knows what a blind, incredulous fool I have hitherto been,
perseveringly shutting my eyes and stopping my ears against
everything that threatened to shake my confidence in you, till
proof itself confounded my infatuation!'

'What proof, sir?'

'Well, I'll tell you.  You remember that evening when I was here
last?'

'I do.'

'Even then you dropped some hints that might have opened the eyes
of a wiser man; but they had no such effect upon me:  I went on
trusting and believing, hoping against hope, and adoring where I
could not comprehend.  It so happened, however, that after I left
you I turned back - drawn by pure depth of sympathy and ardour of
affection - not daring to intrude my presence openly upon you, but
unable to resist the temptation of catching one glimpse through the
window, just to see how you were:  for I had left you apparently in
great affliction, and I partly blamed my own want of forbearance
and discretion as the cause of it.  If I did wrong, love alone was
my incentive, and the punishment was severe enough; for it was just
as I had reached that tree, that you came out into the garden with
your friend.  Not choosing to show myself, under the circumstances,
I stood still, in the shadow, till you had both passed by.'

'And how much of our conversation did you hear?'

'I heard quite enough, Helen.  And it was well for me that I did
hear it; for nothing less could have cured my infatuation.  I
always said and thought, that I would never believe a word against
you, unless I heard it from your own lips.  All the hints and
affirmations of others I treated as malignant, baseless slanders;
your own self-accusations I believed to be overstrained; and all
that seemed unaccountable in your position I trusted that you could
account for if you chose.'

Mrs. Graham had discontinued her walk.  She leant against one end
of the chimney-piece, opposite that near which I was standing, with
her chin resting on her closed hand, her eyes - no longer burning
with anger, but gleaming with restless excitement - sometimes
glancing at me while I spoke, then coursing the opposite wall, or
fixed upon the carpet.

'You should have come to me after all,' said she, 'and heard what I
had to say in my own justification.  It was ungenerous and wrong to
withdraw yourself so secretly and suddenly, immediately after such
ardent protestations of attachment, without ever assigning a reason
for the change.  You should have told me all-no matter how
bitterly.  It would have been better than this silence.'

'To what end should I have done so?  You could not have enlightened
me further, on the subject which alone concerned me; nor could you
have made me discredit the evidence of my senses.  I desired our
intimacy to be discontinued at once, as you yourself had
acknowledged would probably be the case if I knew all; but I did
not wish to upbraid you, - though (as you also acknowledged) you
had deeply wronged me.  Yes, you have done me an injury you can
never repair - or any other either - you have blighted the
freshness and promise of youth, and made my life a wilderness!  I
might live a hundred years, but I could never recover from the
effects of this withering blow - and never forget it!  Hereafter -
You smile, Mrs. Graham,' said I, suddenly stopping short, checked
in my passionate declamation by unutterable feelings to behold her
actually smiling at the picture of the ruin she had wrought.

'Did I?' replied she, looking seriously up; 'I was not aware of it.
If I did, it was not for pleasure at the thoughts of the harm I had
done you.  Heaven knows I have had torment enough at the bare
possibility of that; it was for joy to find that you had some depth
of soul and feeling after all, and to hope that I had not been
utterly mistaken in your worth.  But smiles and tears are so alike
with me, they are neither of them confined to any particular
feelings:  I often cry when I am happy, and smile when I am sad.'

She looked at me again, and seemed to expect a reply; but I
continued silent.

'Would you be very glad,' resumed she, 'to find that you were
mistaken in your conclusions?'

'How can you ask it, Helen?'

'I don't say I can clear myself altogether,' said she, speaking low
and fast, while her heart beat visibly and her bosom heaved with
excitement, - 'but would you be glad to discover I was better than
you think me?'

'Anything that could in the least degree tend to restore my former
opinion of you, to excuse the regard I still feel for you, and
alleviate the pangs of unutterable regret that accompany it, would
be only too gladly, too eagerly received!'  Her cheeks burned, and
her whole frame trembled, now, with excess of agitation.  She did
not speak, but flew to her desk, and snatching thence what seemed a
thick album or manuscript volume, hastily tore away a few leaves
from the end, and thrust the rest into my hand, saying, 'You
needn't read it all; but take it home with you,' and hurried from
the room.  But when I had left the house, and was proceeding down
the walk, she opened the window and called me back.  It was only to
say, - 'Bring it back when you have read it; and don't breathe a
word of what it tells you to any living being.  I trust to your
honour.'

Before I could answer she had closed the casement and turned away.
I saw her cast herself back in the old oak chair, and cover her
face with her hands.  Her feelings had been wrought to a pitch that
rendered it necessary to seek relief in tears.

Panting with eagerness, and struggling to suppress my hopes, I
hurried home, and rushed up-stairs to my room, having first
provided myself with a candle, though it was scarcely twilight yet
- then, shut and bolted the door, determined to tolerate no
interruption; and sitting down before the table, opened out my
prize and delivered myself up to its perusal - first hastily
turning over the leaves and snatching a sentence here and there,
and then setting myself steadily to read it through.

I have it now before me; and though you could not, of course,
peruse it with half the interest that I did, I know you would not
be satisfied with an abbreviation of its contents, and you shall
have the whole, save, perhaps, a few passages here and there of
merely temporary interest to the writer, or such as would serve to
encumber the story rather than elucidate it.  It begins somewhat
abruptly, thus - but we will reserve its commencement for another
chapter.



The Tenant of Wildfell Hall Deluxe Edition Anne Bronte chapter 16



June 1st, 1821. - We have just returned to Staningley - that is, we
returned some days ago, and I am not yet settled, and feel as if I
never should be.  We left town sooner than was intended, in
consequence of my uncle's indisposition; - I wonder what would have
been the result if we had stayed the full time.  I am quite ashamed
of my new-sprung distaste for country life.  All my former
occupations seem so tedious and dull, my former amusements so
insipid and unprofitable.  I cannot enjoy my music, because there
is no one to hear it.  I cannot enjoy my walks, because there is no
one to meet.  I cannot enjoy my books, because they have not power
to arrest my attention:  my head is so haunted with the
recollections of the last few weeks, that I cannot attend to them.
My drawing suits me best, for I can draw and think at the same
time; and if my productions cannot now be seen by any one but
myself, and those who do not care about them, they, possibly, may
be, hereafter.  But, then, there is one face I am always trying to
paint or to sketch, and always without success; and that vexes me.
As for the owner of that face, I cannot get him out of my mind -
and, indeed, I never try.  I wonder whether he ever thinks of me;
and I wonder whether I shall ever see him again.  And then might
follow a train of other wonderments - questions for time and fate
to answer - concluding with - Supposing all the rest be answered in
the affirmative, I wonder whether I shall ever repent it? as my
aunt would tell me I should, if she knew what I was thinking about.

How distinctly I remember our conversation that evening before our
departure for town, when we were sitting together over the fire, my
uncle having gone to bed with a slight attack of the gout.

'Helen,' said she, after a thoughtful silence, 'do you ever think
about marriage?'

'Yes, aunt, often.'

'And do you ever contemplate the possibility of being married
yourself, or engaged, before the season is over?'

'Sometimes; but I don't think it at all likely that I ever shall.'

'Why so?'

'Because, I imagine, there must be only a very, very few men in the
world that I should like to marry; and of those few, it is ten to
one I may never be acquainted with one; or if I should, it is
twenty to one he may not happen to be single, or to take a fancy to
me.'

'That is no argument at all.  It may be very true - and I hope is
true, that there are very few men whom you would choose to marry,
of yourself.  It is not, indeed, to be supposed that you would wish
to marry any one till you were asked:  a girl's affections should
never be won unsought.  But when they are sought - when the citadel
of the heart is fairly besieged - it is apt to surrender sooner
than the owner is aware of, and often against her better judgment,
and in opposition to all her preconceived ideas of what she could
have loved, unless she be extremely careful and discreet.  Now, I
want to warn you, Helen, of these things, and to exhort you to be
watchful and circumspect from the very commencement of your career,
and not to suffer your heart to be stolen from you by the first
foolish or unprincipled person that covets the possession of it. -
You know, my dear, you are only just eighteen; there is plenty of
time before you, and neither your uncle nor I are in any hurry to
get you off our hands, and I may venture to say, there will be no
lack of suitors; for you can boast a good family, a pretty
considerable fortune and expectations, and, I may as well tell you
likewise - for, if I don't, others will - that you have a fair
share of beauty besides - and I hope you may never have cause to
regret it!'

'I hope not, aunt; but why should you fear it?'

'Because, my dear, beauty is that quality which, next to money, is
generally the most attractive to the worst kinds of men; and,
therefore, it is likely to entail a great deal of trouble on the
possessor.'

'Have you been troubled in that way, aunt?'

'No, Helen,' said she, with reproachful gravity, 'but I know many
that have; and some, through carelessness, have been the wretched
victims of deceit; and some, through weakness, have fallen into
snares and temptations terrible to relate.'

'Well, I shall be neither careless nor weak.'

'Remember Peter, Helen!  Don't boast, but watch.  Keep a guard over
your eyes and ears as the inlets of your heart, and over your lips
as the outlet, lest they betray you in a moment of unwariness.
Receive, coldly and dispassionately, every attention, till you have
ascertained and duly considered the worth of the aspirant; and let
your affections be consequent upon approbation alone.  First study;
then approve; then love.  Let your eyes be blind to all external
attractions, your ears deaf to all the fascinations of flattery and
light discourse. - These are nothing - and worse than nothing -
snares and wiles of the tempter, to lure the thoughtless to their
own destruction.  Principle is the first thing, after all; and next
to that, good sense, respectability, and moderate wealth.  If you
should marry the handsomest, and most accomplished and
superficially agreeable man in the world, you little know the
misery that would overwhelm you if, after all, you should find him
to be a worthless reprobate, or even an impracticable fool.'

'But what are all the poor fools and reprobates to do, aunt?  If
everybody followed your advice, the world would soon come to an
end.'

'Never fear, my dear! the male fools and reprobates will never want
for partners, while there are so many of the other sex to match
them; but do you follow my advice.  And this is no subject for
jesting, Helen - I am sorry to see you treat the matter in that
light way.  Believe me, matrimony is a serious thing.' And she
spoke it so seriously, that one might have fancied she had known it
to her cost; but I asked no more impertinent questions, and merely
answered, - 'I know it is; and I know there is truth and sense in
what you say; but you need not fear me, for I not only should think
it wrong to marry a man that was deficient in sense or in
principle, but I should never be tempted to do it; for I could not
like him, if he were ever so handsome, and ever so charming, in
other respects; I should hate him - despise him - pity him -
anything but love him.  My affections not only ought to be founded
on approbation, but they will and must be so:  for, without
approving, I cannot love.  It is needless to say, I ought to be
able to respect and honour the man I marry, as well as love him,
for I cannot love him without.  So set your mind at rest.'

'I hope it may be so,' answered she.

'I know it is so,' persisted I.

'You have not been tried yet, Helen - we can but hope,' said she in
her cold, cautious way.

'I was vexed at her incredulity; but I am not sure her doubts were
entirely without sagacity; I fear I have found it much easier to
remember her advice than to profit by it; - indeed, I have
sometimes been led to question the soundness of her doctrines on
those subjects.  Her counsels may be good, as far as they go - in
the main points at least; - but there are some things she has
overlooked in her calculations.  I wonder if she was ever in love.

I commenced my career - or my first campaign, as my uncle calls it
- kindling with bright hopes and fancies - chiefly raised by this
conversation - and full of confidence in my own discretion.  At
first, I was delighted with the novelty and excitement of our
London life; but soon I began to weary of its mingled turbulence
and constraint, and sigh for the freshness and freedom of home.  My
new acquaintances, both male and female, disappointed my
expectations, and vexed and depressed me by turns; I for I soon
grew tired of studying their peculiarities, and laughing at their
foibles - particularly as I was obliged to keep my criticisms to
myself, for my aunt would not hear them - and they - the ladies
especially - appeared so provokingly mindless, and heartless, and
artificial.  The gentlemen scorned better, but, perhaps, it was
because I knew them less - perhaps, because they flattered me; but
I did not fall in love with any of them; and, if their attentions
pleased me one moment, they provoked me the next, because they put
me out of humour with myself, by revealing my vanity and making me
fear I was becoming like some of the ladies I so heartily despised.

There was one elderly gentleman that annoyed me very much; a rich
old friend of my uncle's, who, I believe, thought I could not do
better than marry him; but, besides being old, he was ugly and
disagreeable, - and wicked, I am sure, though my aunt scolded me
for saying so; but she allowed he was no saint.  And there was
another, less hateful, but still more tiresome, because she
favoured him, and was always thrusting him upon me, and sounding
his praises in my ears - Mr. Boarham by name, Bore'em, as I prefer
spelling it, for a terrible bore he was:  I shudder still at the
remembrance of his voice - drone, drone, drone, in my ear - while
he sat beside me, prosing away by the half-hour together, and
beguiling himself with the notion that he was improving my mind by
useful information, or impressing his dogmas upon me and reforming
my errors of judgment, or perhaps that he was talking down to my
level, and amusing me with entertaining discourse.  Yet he was a
decent man enough in the main, I daresay; and if he had kept his
distance, I never would have hated him.  As it was, it was almost
impossible to help it, for he not only bothered me with the
infliction of his own presence, but he kept me from the enjoyment
of more agreeable society.

One night, however, at a ball, he had been more than usually
tormenting, and my patience was quite exhausted.  It appeared as if
the whole evening was fated to be insupportable:  I had just had
one dance with an empty-headed coxcomb, and then Mr. Boarham had
come upon me and seemed determined to cling to me for the rest of
the night.  He never danced himself, and there he sat, poking his
head in my face, and impressing all beholders with the idea that he
was a confirmed, acknowledged lover; my aunt looking complacently
on all the time, and wishing him God-speed.  In vain I attempted to
drive him away by giving a loose to my exasperated feelings, even
to positive rudeness:  nothing could convince him that his presence
was disagreeable.  Sullen silence was taken for rapt attention, and
gave him greater room to talk; sharp answers were received as smart
sallies of girlish vivacity, that only required an indulgent
rebuke; and flat contradictions were but as oil to the flames,
calling forth new strains of argument to support his dogmas, and
bringing down upon me endless floods of reasoning to overwhelm me
with conviction.

But there was one present who seemed to have a better appreciation
of my frame of mind.  A gentleman stood by, who had been watching
our conference for some time, evidently much amused at my
companion's remorseless pertinacity and my manifest annoyance, and
laughing to himself at the asperity and uncompromising spirit of my
replies.  At length, however, he withdrew, and went to the lady of
the house, apparently for the purpose of asking an introduction to
me, for, shortly after, they both came up, and she introduced him
as Mr. Huntingdon, the son of a late friend of my uncle's.  He
asked me to dance.  I gladly consented, of course; and he was my
companion during the remainder of my stay, which was not long, for
my aunt, as usual, insisted upon an early departure.

I was sorry to go, for I had found my new acquaintance a very
lively and entertaining companion.  There was a certain graceful
ease and freedom about all he said and did, that gave a sense of
repose and expansion to the mind, after so much constraint and
formality as I had been doomed to suffer.  There might be, it is
true, a little too much careless boldness in his manner and
address, but I was in so good a humour, and so grateful for my late
deliverance from Mr. Boarham, that it did not anger me.

'Well, Helen, how do you like Mr. Boarham now?' said my aunt, as we
took our seats in the carriage and drove away.

'Worse than ever,' I replied.

She looked displeased, but said no more on that subject.

'Who was the gentleman you danced with last,' resumed she, after a
pause - 'that was so officious in helping you on with your shawl?'

'He was not officious at all, aunt:  he never attempted to help me
till he saw Mr. Boarham coming to do so; and then he stepped
laughingly forward and said, "Come, I'll preserve you from that
infliction."'

'Who was it, I ask?' said she, with frigid gravity.

'It was Mr. Huntingdon, the son of uncle's old friend.'

'I have heard your uncle speak of young Mr. Huntingdon.  I've heard
him say, "He's a fine lad, that young Huntingdon, but a bit
wildish, I fancy."  So I'd have you beware.'

'What does "a bit wildish" mean?' I inquired.

'It means destitute of principle, and prone to every vice that is
common to youth.'

'But I've heard uncle say he was a sad wild fellow himself, when he
was young.'

She sternly shook her head.

'He was jesting then, I suppose,' said I, 'and here he was speaking
at random - at least, I cannot believe there is any harm in those
laughing blue eyes.'

'False reasoning, Helen!' said she, with a sigh.

'Well, we ought to be charitable, you know, aunt - besides, I don't
think it is false:  I am an excellent physiognomist, and I always
judge of people's characters by their looks - not by whether they
are handsome or ugly, but by the general cast of the countenance.
For instance, I should know by your countenance that you were not
of a cheerful, sanguine disposition; and I should know by Mr.
Wilmot's, that he was a worthless old reprobate; and by Mr.
Boarham's, that he was not an agreeable companion; and by Mr.
Huntingdon's, that he was neither a fool nor a knave, though,
possibly, neither a sage nor a saint - but that is no matter to me,
as I am not likely to meet him again - unless as an occasional
partner in the ball-room.'

It was not so, however, for I met him again next morning.  He came
to call upon my uncle, apologising for not having done so before,
by saying he was only lately returned from the Continent, and had
not heard, till the previous night, of my uncle's arrival in town;
and after that I often met him; sometimes in public, sometimes at
home; for he was very assiduous in paying his respects to his old
friend, who did not, however, consider himself greatly obliged by
the attention.

'I wonder what the deuce the lad means by coming so often,' he
would say, - 'can you tell, Helen? - Hey?  He wants none o' my
company, nor I his - that's certain.'

'I wish you'd tell him so, then,' said my aunt.

'Why, what for?  If I don't want him, somebody does, mayhap'
(winking at me).  'Besides, he's a pretty tidy fortune, Peggy, you
know - not such a catch as Wilmot; but then Helen won't hear of
that match:  for, somehow, these old chaps don't go down with the
girls - with all their money, and their experience to boot.  I'll
bet anything she'd rather have this young fellow without a penny,
than Wilmot with his house full of gold.  Wouldn't you, Nell?'

'Yes, uncle; but that's not saying much for Mr. Huntingdon; for I'd
rather be an old maid and a pauper than Mrs. Wilmot.'

'And Mrs. Huntingdon?  What would you rather be than Mrs.
Huntingdon - eh?'

'I'll tell you when I've considered the matter.'

'Ah! it needs consideration, then?  But come, now - would you
rather be an old maid - let alone the pauper?'

'I can't tell till I'm asked.'

And I left the room immediately, to escape further examination.
But five minutes after, in looking from my window, I beheld Mr.
Boarham coming up to the door.  I waited nearly half-an-hour in
uncomfortable suspense, expecting every minute to be called, and
vainly longing to hear him go.  Then footsteps were heard on the
stairs, and my aunt entered the room with a solemn countenance, and
closed the door behind her.

'Here is Mr. Boarham, Helen,' said she.  'He wishes to see you.'

'Oh, aunt! - Can't you tell him I'm indisposed? - I'm sure I am -
to see him.'

'Nonsense, my dear! this is no trifling matter.  He is come on a
very important errand - to ask your hand in marriage of your uncle
and me.'

'I hope my uncle and you told him it was not in your power to give
it.  What right had he to ask any one before me?'

'Helen!'

'What did my uncle say?'

'He said he would not interfere in the matter; if you liked to
accept Mr. Boarham's obliging offer, you - '

'Did he say obliging offer?'

'No; he said if you liked to take him you might; and if not, you
might please yourself.'

'He said right; and what did you say?'

'It is no matter what I said.  What will you say? - that is the
question.  He is now waiting to ask you himself; but consider well
before you go; and if you intend to refuse him, give me your
reasons.'

'I shall refuse him, of course; but you must tell me how, for I
want to be civil and yet decided - and when I've got rid of him,
I'll give you my reasons afterwards.'

'But stay, Helen; sit down a little and compose yourself.  Mr.
Boarham is in no particular hurry, for he has little doubt of your
acceptance; and I want to speak with you.  Tell me, my dear, what
are your objections to him?  Do you deny that he is an upright,
honourable man?'

'No.'

'Do you deny that he is sensible, sober, respectable?'

'No; he may be all this, but - '

'But, Helen!  How many such men do you expect to meet with in the
world?  Upright, honourable, sensible, sober, respectable!  Is this
such an every-day character that you should reject the possessor of
such noble qualities without a moment's hesitation?  Yes, noble I
may call them; for think of the full meaning of each, and how many
inestimable virtues they include (and I might add many more to the
list), and consider that all this is laid at your feet.  It is in
your power to secure this inestimable blessing for life - a worthy
and excellent husband, who loves you tenderly, but not too fondly
so as to blind him to your faults, and will be your guide
throughout life's pilgrimage, and your partner in eternal bliss.
Think how - '

'But I hate him, aunt,' said I, interrupting this unusual flow of
eloquence.

'Hate him, Helen!  Is this a Christian spirit? - you hate him? and
he so good a man!'

'I don't hate him as a man, but as a husband.  As a man, I love him
so much that I wish him a better wife than I - one as good as
himself, or better - if you think that possible - provided she
could like him; but I never could, and therefore - '

'But why not?  What objection do you find?'

'Firstly, he is at least forty years old - considerably more, I
should think - and I am but eighteen; secondly, he is narrow-minded
and bigoted in the extreme; thirdly, his tastes and feelings are
wholly dissimilar to mine; fourthly, his looks, voice, and manner
are particularly displeasing to me; and, finally, I have an
aversion to his whole person that I never can surmount.'

'Then you ought to surmount it.  And please to compare him for a
moment with Mr. Huntingdon, and, good looks apart (which contribute
nothing to the merit of the man, or to the happiness of married
life, and which you have so often professed to hold in light
esteem), tell me which is the better man.'

'I have no doubt Mr. Huntingdon is a much better man than you think
him; but we are not talking about him now, but about Mr. Boarham;
and as I would rather grow, live, and die in single blessedness -
than be his wife, it is but right that I should tell him so at
once, and put him out of suspense - so let me go.'

'But don't give him a flat denial; he has no idea of such a thing,
and it would offend him greatly:  say you have no thoughts of
matrimony at present - '

'But I have thoughts of it.'

'Or that you desire a further acquaintance.'

'But I don't desire a further acquaintance - quite the contrary.'

And without waiting for further admonitions I left the room and
went to seek Mr. Boarham.  He was walking up and down the drawing-
room, humming snatches of tunes and nibbling the end of his cane.

'My dear young lady,' said he, bowing and smirking with great
complacency, 'I have your kind guardian's permission - '

'I know, sir,' said I, wishing to shorten the scene as much as
possible, 'and I am greatly obliged for your preference, but must
beg to decline the honour you wish to confer, for I think we were
not made for each other, as you yourself would shortly discover if
the experiment were tried.'

My aunt was right.  It was quite evident he had had little doubt of
my acceptance, and no idea of a positive denial.  He was amazed,
astounded at such an answer, but too incredulous to be much
offended; and after a little humming and hawing, he returned to the
attack.

'I know, my dear, that there exists a considerable disparity
between us in years, in temperament, and perhaps some other things;
but let me assure you, I shall not be severe to mark the faults and
foibles of a young and ardent nature such as yours, and while I
acknowledge them to myself, and even rebuke them with all a
father's care, believe me, no youthful lover could be more tenderly
indulgent towards the object of his affections than I to you; and,
on the other hand, let me hope that my more experienced years and
graver habits of reflection will be no disparagement in your eyes,
as I shall endeavour to make them all conducive to your happiness.
Come, now!  What do you say?  Let us have no young lady's
affectations and caprices, but speak out at once.'

'I will, but only to repeat what I said before, that I am certain
we were not made for each other.'

'You really think so?'

'I do.'

'But you don't know me - you wish for a further acquaintance - a
longer time to - '

'No, I don't.  I know you as well as I ever shall, and better than
you know me, or you would never dream of uniting yourself to one so
incongruous - so utterly unsuitable to you in every way.'

'But, my dear young lady, I don't look for perfection; I can excuse
- '

'Thank you, Mr. Boarham, but I won't trespass upon your goodness.
You may save your indulgence and consideration for some more worthy
object, that won't tax them so heavily.'

'But let me beg you to consult your aunt; that excellent lady, I am
sure, will - '

'I have consulted her; and I know her wishes coincide with yours;
but in such important matters, I take the liberty of judging for
myself; and no persuasion can alter my inclinations, or induce me
to believe that such a step would be conducive to my happiness or
yours - and I wonder that a man of your experience and discretion
should think of choosing such a wife.'

'Ah, well!' said he, 'I have sometimes wondered at that myself.  I
have sometimes said to myself, "Now Boarham, what is this you're
after?  Take care, man - look before you leap!  This is a sweet,
bewitching creature, but remember, the brightest attractions to the
lover too often prove the husband's greatest torments!"  I assure
you my choice has not been made without much reasoning and
reflection.  The seeming imprudence of the match has cost me many
an anxious thought by day, and many a sleepless hour by night; but
at length I satisfied myself that it was not, in very deed,
imprudent.  I saw my sweet girl was not without her faults, but of
these her youth, I trusted, was not one, but rather an earnest of
virtues yet unblown - a strong ground of presumption that her
little defects of temper and errors of judgment, opinion, or manner
were not irremediable, but might easily be removed or mitigated by
the patient efforts of a watchful and judicious adviser, and where
I failed to enlighten and control, I thought I might safely
undertake to pardon, for the sake of her many excellences.
Therefore, my dearest girl, since I am satisfied, why should you
object - on my account, at least?'

'But to tell you the truth, Mr. Boarham, it is on my own account I
principally object; so let us - drop the subject,' I would have
said, 'for it is worse than useless to pursue it any further,' but
he pertinaciously interrupted me with, - 'But why so?  I would love
you, cherish you, protect you,' &c., &c.

I shall not trouble myself to put down all that passed between us.
Suffice it to say, that I found him very troublesome, and very hard
to convince that I really meant what I said, and really was so
obstinate and blind to my own interests, that there was no shadow
of a chance that either he or my aunt would ever be able to
overcome my objections.  Indeed, I am not sure that I succeeded
after all; though wearied with his so pertinaciously returning to
the same point and repeating the same arguments over and over
again, forcing me to reiterate the same replies, I at length turned
short and sharp upon him, and my last words were, - 'I tell you
plainly, that it cannot be.  No consideration can induce me to
marry against my inclinations.  I respect you - at least, I would
respect you, if you would behave like a sensible man - but I cannot
love you, and never could - and the more you talk the further you
repel me; so pray don't say any more about it.'

Whereupon he wished me a good-morning, and withdrew, disconcerted
and offended, no doubt; but surely it was not my fault.



The Tenant of Wildfell Hall Deluxe Edition Anne Bronte chapter 17



The next day I accompanied my uncle and aunt to a dinner-party at
Mr. Wilmot's.  He had two ladies staying with him:  his niece
Annabella, a fine dashing girl, or rather young woman, - of some
five-and-twenty, too great a flirt to be married, according to her
own assertion, but greatly admired by the gentlemen, who
universally pronounced her a splendid woman; and her gentle cousin,
Milicent Hargrave, who had taken a violent fancy to me, mistaking
me for something vastly better than I was.  And I, in return, was
very fond of her.  I should entirely exclude poor Milicent in my
general animadversions against the ladies of my acquaintance.  But
it was not on her account, or her cousin's, that I have mentioned
the party:  it was for the sake of another of Mr. Wilmot's guests,
to wit Mr. Huntingdon.  I have good reason to remember his presence
there, for this was the last time I saw him.

He did not sit near me at dinner; for it was his fate to hand in a
capacious old dowager, and mine to be handed in by Mr. Grimsby, a
friend of his, but a man I very greatly disliked:  there was a
sinister cast in his countenance, and a mixture of lurking ferocity
and fulsome insincerity in his demeanour, that I could not away
with.  What a tiresome custom that is, by-the-by - one among the
many sources of factitious annoyance of this ultra-civilised life.
If the gentlemen must lead the ladies into the dining-room, why
cannot they take those they like best?

I am not sure, however, that Mr. Huntingdon would have taken me, if
he had been at liberty to make his own selection.  It is quite
possible he might have chosen Miss Wilmot; for she seemed bent upon
engrossing his attention to herself, and he seemed nothing loth to
pay the homage she demanded.  I thought so, at least, when I saw
how they talked and laughed, and glanced across the table, to the
neglect and evident umbrage of their respective neighbours - and
afterwards, as the gentlemen joined us in the drawing-room, when
she, immediately upon his entrance, loudly called upon him to be
the arbiter of a dispute between herself and another lady, and he
answered the summons with alacrity, and decided the question
without a moment's hesitation in her favour - though, to my
thinking, she was obviously in the wrong - and then stood chatting
familiarly with her and a group of other ladies; while I sat with
Milicent Hargrave at the opposite end of the room, looking over the
latter's drawings, and aiding her with my critical observations and
advice, at her particular desire.  But in spite of my efforts to
remain composed, my attention wandered from the drawings to the
merry group, and against my better judgment my wrath rose, and
doubtless my countenance lowered; for Milicent, observing that I
must be tired of her daubs and scratches, begged I would join the
company now, and defer the examination of the remainder to another
opportunity.  But while I was assuring her that I had no wish to
join them, and was not tired, Mr. Huntingdon himself came up to the
little round table at which we sat.

'Are these yours?' said he, carelessly taking up one of the
drawings.

'No, they are Miss Hargrave's.'

'Oh! well, let's have a look at them.'

And, regardless of Miss Hargrave's protestations that they were not
worth looking at, he drew a chair to my side, and receiving the
drawings, one by one from my hand, successively scanned them over,
and threw them on the table, but said not a word about them, though
he was talking all the time.  I don't know what Milicent Hargrave
thought of such conduct, but I found his conversation extremely
interesting; though, as I afterwards discovered, when I came to
analyse it, it was chiefly confined to quizzing the different
members of the company present; and albeit he made some clever
remarks, and some excessively droll ones, I do not think the whole
would appear anything very particular, if written here, without the
adventitious aids of look, and tone, and gesture, and that
ineffable but indefinite charm, which cast a halo over all he did
and said, and which would have made it a delight to look in his
face, and hear the music of his voice, if he had been talking
positive nonsense - and which, moreover, made me feel so bitter
against my aunt when she put a stop to this enjoyment, by coming
composedly forward, under pretence of wishing to see the drawings,
that she cared and knew nothing about, and while making believe to
examine them, addressing herself to Mr. Huntingdon, with one of her
coldest and most repellent aspects, and beginning a series of the
most common-place and formidably formal questions and observations,
on purpose to wrest his attention from me - on purpose to vex me,
as I thought:  and having now looked through the portfolio, I left
them to their TETE-E-TETE, and seated myself on a sofa, quite apart
from the company - never thinking how strange such conduct would
appear, but merely to indulge, at first, the vexation of the
moment, and subsequently to enjoy my private thoughts.

But I was not left long alone, for Mr. Wilmot, of all men the least
welcome, took advantage of my isolated position to come and plant
himself beside me.  I had flattered myself that I had so
effectually repulsed his advances on all former occasions, that I
had nothing more to apprehend from his unfortunate predilection;
but it seems I was mistaken:  so great was his confidence, either
in his wealth or his remaining powers of attraction, and so firm
his conviction of feminine weakness, that he thought himself
warranted to return to the siege, which he did with renovated
ardour, enkindled by the quantity of wine he had drunk - a
circumstance that rendered him infinitely the more disgusting; but
greatly as I abhorred him at that moment, I did not like to treat
him with rudeness, as I was now his guest, and had just been
enjoying his hospitality; and I was no hand at a polite but
determined rejection, nor would it have greatly availed me if I
had, for he was too coarse-minded to take any repulse that was not
as plain and positive as his own effrontery.  The consequence was,
that he waxed more fulsomely tender, and more repulsively warm, and
I was driven to the very verge of desperation, and about to say I
know not what, when I felt my hand, that hung over the arm of the
sofa, suddenly taken by another and gently but fervently pressed.
Instinctively, I guessed who it was, and, on looking up, was less
surprised than delighted to see Mr. Huntingdon smiling upon me.  It
was like turning from some purgatorial fiend to an angel of light,
come to announce that the season of torment was past.

'Helen,' said he (he frequently called me Helen, and I never
resented the freedom), 'I want you to look at this picture.  Mr.
Wilmot will excuse you a moment, I'm sure.'

I rose with alacrity.  He drew my arm within his, and led me across
the room to a splendid painting of Vandyke's that I had noticed
before, but not sufficiently examined.  After a moment of silent
contemplation, I was beginning to comment on its beauties and
peculiarities, when, playfully pressing the hand he still retained
within his arm, he interrupted me with, - 'Never mind the picture:
it was not for that I brought you here; it was to get you away from
that scoundrelly old profligate yonder, who is looking as if he
would like to challenge me for the affront.'

'I am very much obliged to you,' said I.  'This is twice you have
delivered me from such unpleasant companionship.'

'Don't be too thankful,' he answered:  'it is not all kindness to
you; it is partly from a feeling of spite to your tormentors that
makes me delighted to do the old fellows a bad turn, though I don't
think I have any great reason to dread them as rivals.  Have I,
Helen?'

'You know I detest them both.'

'And me?'

'I have no reason to detest you.'

'But what are your sentiments towards me?  Helen - Speak!  How do
you regard me?'

And again he pressed my hand; but I feared there was more of
conscious power than tenderness in his demeanour, and I felt he had
no right to extort a confession of attachment from me when he had
made no correspondent avowal himself, and knew not what to answer.
At last I said, - 'How do you regard me?'

'Sweet angel, I adore you!  I - '

'Helen, I want you a moment,' said the distinct, low voice of my
aunt, close beside us.  And I left him, muttering maledictions
against his evil angel.

'Well, aunt, what is it?  What do you want?' said I, following her
to the embrasure of the window.

'I want you to join the company, when you are fit to be seen,'
returned she, severely regarding me; 'but please to stay here a
little, till that shocking colour is somewhat abated, and your eyes
have recovered something of their natural expression.  I should be
ashamed for anyone to see you in your present state.'

Of course, such a remark had no effect in reducing the 'shocking
colour'; on the contrary, I felt my face glow with redoubled fires
kindled by a complication of emotions, of which indignant, swelling
anger was the chief.  I offered no reply, however, but pushed aside
the curtain and looked into the night - or rather into the lamp-lit
square.

'Was Mr. Huntingdon proposing to you, Helen?' inquired my too
watchful relative.

'No.'

'What was he saying then?  I heard something very like it.'

'I don't know what he would have said, if you hadn't interrupted
him.'

'And would you have accepted him, Helen, if he had proposed?'

'Of course not - without consulting uncle and you.'

'Oh!  I'm glad, my dear, you have so much prudence left.  Well,
now,' she added, after a moment's pause, 'you have made yourself
conspicuous enough for one evening.  The ladies are directing
inquiring glances towards us at this moment, I see:  I shall join
them.  Do you come too, when you are sufficiently composed to
appear as usual.'

'I am so now.'

'Speak gently then, and don't look so malicious,' said my calm, but
provoking aunt.  'We shall return home shortly, and then,' she
added with solemn significance, 'I have much to say to you.'

So I went home prepared for a formidable lecture.  Little was said
by either party in the carriage during our short transit homewards;
but when I had entered my room and thrown myself into an easy-
chair, to reflect on the events of the day, my aunt followed me
thither, and having dismissed Rachel, who was carefully stowing
away my ornaments, closed the door; and placing a chair beside me,
or rather at right angles with mine, sat down.  With due deference
I offered her my more commodious seat.  She declined it, and thus
opened the conference:  'Do you remember, Helen, our conversation
the night but one before we left Staningley?'

'Yes, aunt.'

'And do you remember how I warned you against letting your heart be
stolen from you by those unworthy of its possession, and fixing
your affections where approbation did not go before, and where
reason and judgment withheld their sanction?'

'Yes; but my reason - '

'Pardon me - and do you remember assuring me that there was no
occasion for uneasiness on your account; for you should never be
tempted to marry a man who was deficient in sense or principle,
however handsome or charming in other respects he might be, for you
could not love him; you should hate - despise - pity - anything but
love him - were not those your words?'

'Yes; but - '

'And did you not say that your affection must be founded on
approbation; and that, unless you could approve and honour and
respect, you could not love?'

'Yes; but I do approve, and honour, and respect - '

'How so, my dear?  Is Mr. Huntingdon a good man?'

'He is a much better man than you think him.'

'That is nothing to the purpose.  Is he a good man?'

'Yes - in some respects.  He has a good disposition.'

'Is he a man of principle?'

'Perhaps not, exactly; but it is only for want of thought.  If he
had some one to advise him, and remind him of what is right - '

'He would soon learn, you think - and you yourself would willingly
undertake to be his teacher?  But, my dear, he is, I believe, full
ten years older than you - how is it that you are so beforehand in
moral acquirements?'

'Thanks to you, aunt, I have been well brought up, and had good
examples always before me, which he, most likely, has not; and,
besides, he is of a sanguine temperament, and a gay, thoughtless
temper, and I am naturally inclined to reflection.'

'Well, now you have made him out to be deficient in both sense and
principle, by your own confession - '

'Then, my sense and my principle are at his service.'

'That sounds presumptuous, Helen.  Do you think you have enough for
both; and do you imagine your merry, thoughtless profligate would
allow himself to be guided by a young girl like you?'

'No; I should not wish to guide him; but I think I might have
influence sufficient to save him from some errors, and I should
think my life well spent in the effort to preserve so noble a
nature from destruction.  He always listens attentively now when I
speak seriously to him (and I often venture to reprove his random
way of talking), and sometimes he says that if he had me always by
his side he should never do or say a wicked thing, and that a
little daily talk with me would make him quite a saint.  It may he
partly jest and partly flattery, but still - '

'But still you think it may be truth?'

'If I do think there is any mixture of truth in it, it is not from
confidence in my own powers, but in his natural goodness.  And you
have no right to call him a profligate, aunt; he is nothing of the
kind.'

'Who told you so, my dear?  What was that story about his intrigue
with a married lady - Lady who was it? - Miss Wilmot herself was
telling you the other day?'

'It was false - false!' I cried.  'I don't believe a word of it.'

'You think, then, that he is a virtuous, well-conducted young man?'

'I know nothing positive respecting his character.  I only know
that I have heard nothing definite against it - nothing that could
be proved, at least; and till people can prove their slanderous
accusations, I will not believe them.  And I know this, that if he
has committed errors, they are only such as are common to youth,
and such as nobody thinks anything about; for I see that everybody
likes him, and all the mammas smile upon him, and their daughters -
and Miss Wilmot herself - are only too glad to attract his
attention.'

'Helen, the world may look upon such offences as venial; a few
unprincipled mothers may be anxious to catch a young man of fortune
without reference to his character; and thoughtless girls may be
glad to win the smiles of so handsome a gentleman, without seeking
to penetrate beyond the surface; but you, I trusted, were better
informed than to see with their eyes, and judge with their
perverted judgment.  I did not think you would call these venial
errors!'

'Nor do I, aunt; but if I hate the sins, I love the sinner, and
would do much for his salvation, even supposing your suspicions to
be mainly true, which I do not and will not believe.'

'Well, my dear, ask your uncle what sort of company he keeps, and
if he is not banded with a set of loose, profligate young men, whom
he calls his friends, his jolly companions, and whose chief delight
is to wallow in vice, and vie with each other who can run fastest
and furthest down the headlong road to the place prepared for the
devil and his angels.'

'Then I will save him from them.'

'Oh, Helen, Helen! you little know the misery of uniting your
fortunes to such a man!'

'I have such confidence in him, aunt, notwithstanding all you say,
that I would willingly risk my happiness for the chance of securing
his.  I will leave better men to those who only consider their own
advantage.  If he has done amiss, I shall consider my life well
spent in saving him from the consequences of his early errors, and
striving to recall him to the path of virtue.  God grant me
success!'

Here the conversation ended, for at this juncture my uncle's voice
was heard from his chamber, loudly calling upon my aunt to come to
bed.  He was in a bad humour that night; for his gout was worse.
It had been gradually increasing upon him ever since we came to
town; and my aunt took advantage of the circumstance next morning
to persuade him to return to the country immediately, without
waiting for the close of the season.  His physician supported and
enforced her arguments; and contrary to her usual habits, she so
hurried the preparations for removal (as much for my sake as my
uncle's, I think), that in a very few days we departed; and I saw
no more of Mr. Huntingdon.  My aunt flatters herself I shall soon
forget him - perhaps she thinks I have forgotten him already, for I
never mention his name; and she may continue to think so, till we
meet again - if ever that should be.  I wonder if it will?



The Tenant of Wildfell Hall Deluxe Edition Anne Bronte chapter 18



August 25th. - I am now quite settled down to my usual routine of
steady occupations and quiet amusements - tolerably contented and
cheerful, but still looking forward to spring with the hope of
returning to town, not for its gaieties and dissipations, but for
the chance of meeting Mr. Huntingdon once again; for still he is
always in my thoughts and in my dreams.  In all my employments,
whatever I do, or see, or hear, has an ultimate reference to him;
whatever skill or knowledge I acquire is some day to be turned to
his advantage or amusement; whatever new beauties in nature or art
I discover are to be depicted to meet his eye, or stored in my
memory to be told him at some future period.  This, at least, is
the hope that I cherish, the fancy that lights me on my lonely way.
It may be only an ignis fatuus, after all, but it can do no harm to
follow it with my eyes and rejoice in its lustre, as long as it
does not lure me from the path I ought to keep; and I think it will
not, for I have thought deeply on my aunt's advice, and I see
clearly, now, the folly of throwing myself away on one that is
unworthy of all the love I have to give, and incapable of
responding to the best and deepest feelings of my inmost heart - so
clearly, that even if I should see him again, and if he should
remember me and love me still (which, alas! is too little probable,
considering how he is situated, and by whom surrounded), and if he
should ask me to marry him - I am determined not to consent until I
know for certain whether my aunt's opinion of him or mine is
nearest the truth; for if mine is altogether wrong, it is not he
that I love; it is a creature of my own imagination.  But I think
it is not wrong - no, no - there is a secret something - an inward
instinct that assures me I am right.  There is essential goodness
in him; - and what delight to unfold it!  If he has wandered, what
bliss to recall him!  If he is now exposed to the baneful influence
of corrupting and wicked companions, what glory to deliver him from
them!  Oh! if I could but believe that Heaven has designed me for
this!


To-day is the first of September; but my uncle has ordered the
gamekeeper to spare the partridges till the gentlemen come.  'What
gentlemen?' I asked when I heard it.  A small party he had invited
to shoot.  His friend Mr. Wilmot was one, and my aunt's friend, Mr.
Boarham, another.  This struck me as terrible news at the moment;
but all regret and apprehension vanished like a dream when I heard
that Mr. Huntingdon was actually to be a third!  My aunt is greatly
against his coming, of course:  she earnestly endeavoured to
dissuade my uncle from asking him; but he, laughing at her
objections, told her it was no use talking, for the mischief was
already done:  he had invited Huntingdon and his friend Lord
Lowborough before we left London, and nothing now remained but to
fix the day for their coming.  So he is safe, and I am sure of
seeing him.  I cannot express my joy.  I find it very difficult to
conceal it from my aunt; but I don't wish to trouble her with my
feelings till I know whether I ought to indulge them or not.  If I
find it my absolute duty to suppress them, they shall trouble no
one but myself; and if I can really feel myself justified in
indulging this attachment, I can dare anything, even the anger and
grief of my best friend, for its object - surely, I shall soon
know.  But they are not coming till about the middle of the month.

We are to have two lady visitors also:  Mr. Wilmot is to bring his
niece and her cousin Milicent.  I suppose my aunt thinks the latter
will benefit me by her society, and the salutary example of her
gentle deportment and lowly and tractable spirit; and the former I
suspect she intends as a species of counter-attraction to win Mr.
Huntingdon's attention from me.  I don't thank her for this; but I
shall be glad of Milicent's company:  she is a sweet, good girl,
and I wish I were like her - more like her, at least, than I am.



19th. - They are come.  They came the day before yesterday.  The
gentlemen are all gone out to shoot, and the ladies are with my
aunt, at work in the drawing-room.  I have retired to the library,
for I am very unhappy, and I want to be alone.  Books cannot divert
me; so having opened my desk, I will try what may be done by
detailing the cause of my uneasiness.  This paper will serve
instead of a confidential friend into whose ear I might pour forth
the overflowings of my heart.  It will not sympathise with my
distresses, but then it will not laugh at them, and, if I keep it
close, it cannot tell again; so it is, perhaps, the best friend I
could have for the purpose.

First, let me speak of his arrival - how I sat at my window, and
watched for nearly two hours, before his carriage entered the park-
gates - for they all came before him, - and how deeply I was
disappointed at every arrival, because it was not his.  First came
Mr. Wilmot and the ladies.  When Milicent had got into her room, I
quitted my post a few minutes to look in upon her and have a little
private conversation, for she was now my intimate friend, several
long epistles having passed between us since our parting.  On
returning to my window, I beheld another carriage at the door.  Was
it his?  No; it was Mr. Boarham's plain dark chariot; and there
stood he upon the steps, carefully superintending the dislodging of
his various boxes and packages.  What a collection!  One would have
thought he projected a visit of six months at least.  A
considerable time after, came Lord Lowborough in his barouche.  Is
he one of the profligate friends, I wonder?  I should think not;
for no one could call him a jolly companion, I'm sure, - and,
besides, he appears too sober and gentlemanly in his demeanour to
merit such suspicions.  He is a tall, thin, gloomy-looking man,
apparently between thirty and forty, and of a somewhat sickly,
careworn aspect.

At last, Mr. Huntingdon's light phaeton came bowling merrily up the
lawn.  I had but a transient glimpse of him:  for the moment it
stopped, he sprang out over the side on to the portico steps, and
disappeared into the house.

I now submitted to be dressed for dinner - a duty which Rachel had
been urging upon me for the last twenty minutes; and when that
important business was completed, I repaired to the drawing-room,
where I found Mr. and Miss Wilmot and Milicent Hargrave already
assembled.  Shortly after, Lord Lowborough entered, and then Mr.
Boarham, who seemed quite willing to forget and forgive my former
conduct, and to hope that a little conciliation and steady
perseverance on his part might yet succeed in bringing me to
reason.  While I stood at the window, conversing with Milicent, he
came up to me, and was beginning to talk in nearly his usual
strain, when Mr. Huntingdon entered the room.

'How will he greet me, I wonder?' said my bounding heart; and,
instead of advancing to meet him, I turned to the window to hide or
subdue my emotion.  But having saluted his host and hostess, and
the rest of the company, he came to me, ardently squeezed my hand,
and murmured he was glad to see me once again.  At that moment
dinner was announced:  my aunt desired him to take Miss Hargrave
into the dining-room, and odious Mr. Wilmot, with unspeakable
grimaces, offered his arm to me; and I was condemned to sit between
himself and Mr. Boarham.  But afterwards, when we were all again
assembled in the drawing-room, I was indemnified for so much
suffering by a few delightful minutes of conversation with Mr.
Huntingdon.

In the course of the evening, Miss Wilmot was called upon to sing
and play for the amusement of the company, and I to exhibit my
drawings, and, though he likes music, and she is an accomplished
musician, I think I am right in affirming, that he paid more
attention to my drawings than to her music.

So far so good; - but hearing him pronounce, sotto voce, but with
peculiar emphasis, concerning one of the pieces, 'This is better
than all!' - I looked up, curious to see which it was, and, to my
horror, beheld him complacently gazing at the back of the picture:-
it was his own face that I had sketched there and forgotten to rub
out!  To make matters worse, in the agony of the moment, I
attempted to snatch it from his hand; but he prevented me, and
exclaiming, 'No - by George, I'll keep it!' placed it against his
waistcoat and buttoned his coat upon it with a delighted chuckle.

Then, drawing a candle close to his elbow, he gathered all the
drawings to himself, as well what he had seen as the others, and
muttering, 'I must look at both sides now,' he eagerly commenced an
examination, which I watched, at first, with tolerable composure,
in the confidence that his vanity would not be gratified by any
further discoveries; for, though I must plead guilty to having
disfigured the backs of several with abortive attempts to delineate
that too fascinating physiognomy, I was sure that, with that one
unfortunate exception, I had carefully obliterated all such
witnesses of my infatuation.  But the pencil frequently leaves an
impression upon cardboard that no amount of rubbing can efface.
Such, it seems, was the case with most of these; and, I confess, I
trembled when I saw him holding them so close to the candle, and
poring so intently over the seeming blanks; but still, I trusted,
he would not be able to make out these dim traces to his own
satisfaction.  I was mistaken, however.  Having ended his scrutiny,
he quietly remarked, - 'I perceive the backs of young ladies'
drawings, like the postscripts of their letters, are the most
important and interesting part of the concern.'

Then, leaning back in his chair, he reflected a few minutes in
silence, complacently smiling to himself, and while I was
concocting some cutting speech wherewith to check his
gratification, he rose, and passing over to where Annabella Wilmot
sat vehemently coquetting with Lord Lowborough, seated himself on
the sofa beside her, and attached himself to her for the rest of
the evening.

'So then,' thought I, 'he despises me, because he knows I love
him.'

And the reflection made me so miserable I knew not what to do.
Milicent came and began to admire my drawings, and make remarks
upon them; but I could not talk to her - I could talk to no one,
and, upon the introduction of tea, I took advantage of the open
door and the slight diversion caused by its entrance to slip out -
for I was sure I could not take any - and take refuge in the
library.  My aunt sent Thomas in quest of me, to ask if I were not
coming to tea; but I bade him say I should not take any to-night,
and, happily, she was too much occupied with her guests to make any
further inquiries at the time.

As most of the company had travelled far that day, they retired
early to rest; and having heard them all, as I thought, go up-
stairs, I ventured out, to get my candlestick from the drawing-room
sideboard.  But Mr. Huntingdon had lingered behind the rest.  He
was just at the foot of the stairs when I opened the door, and
hearing my step in the hall - though I could hardly hear it myself
- he instantly turned back.

'Helen, is that you?' said he.  'Why did you run away from us?'

'Good-night, Mr. Huntingdon,' said I, coldly, not choosing to
answer the question.  And I turned away to enter the drawing-room.

'But you'll shake hands, won't you?' said he, placing himself in
the doorway before me.  And he seized my hand and held it, much
against my will.

'Let me go, Mr. Huntingdon,' said I.  'I want to get a candle.'

'The candle will keep,' returned he.

I made a desperate effort to free my hand from his grasp.

'Why are you in such a hurry to leave me, Helen?' he said, with a
smile of the most provoking self-sufficiency.  'You don't hate me,
you know.'

'Yes, I do - at this moment.'

'Not you.  It is Annabella Wilmot you hate, not me.'

'I have nothing to do with Annabella Wilmot,' said I, burning with
indignation.

'But I have, you know,' returned he, with peculiar emphasis.

'That is nothing to me, sir,' I retorted.

'Is it nothing to you, Helen?  Will you swear it?  Will you?'

'No I won't, Mr. Huntingdon! and I will go,' cried I, not knowing
whether to laugh, or to cry, or to break out into a tempest of
fury.

'Go, then, you vixen!' he said; but the instant he released my hand
he had the audacity to put his arm round my neck, and kiss me.

Trembling with anger and agitation, and I don't know what besides,
I broke away, and got my candle, and rushed up-stairs to my room.
He would not have done so but for that hateful picture.  And there
he had it still in his possession, an eternal monument to his pride
and my humiliation.

It was but little sleep I got that night, and in the morning I rose
perplexed and troubled with the thoughts of meeting him at
breakfast.  I knew not how it was to be done.  An assumption of
dignified, cold indifference would hardly do, after what he knew of
my devotion - to his face, at least.  Yet something must be done to
check his presumption - I would not submit to be tyrannised over by
those bright, laughing eyes.  And, accordingly, I received his
cheerful morning salutation as calmly and coldly as my aunt could
have wished, and defeated with brief answers his one or two
attempts to draw me into conversation, while I comported myself
with unusual cheerfulness and complaisance towards every other
member of the party, especially Annabella Wilmot, and even her
uncle and Mr. Boarham were treated with an extra amount of civility
on the occasion, not from any motives of coquetry, but just to show
him that my particular coolness and reserve arose from no general
ill-humour or depression of spirits.

He was not, however, to be repelled by such acting as this.  He did
not talk much to me, but when he did speak it was with a degree of
freedom and openness, and kindliness too, that plainly seemed to
intimate he knew his words were music to my ears; and when his
looks met mine it was with a smile - presumptuous, it might be -
but oh! so sweet, so bright, so genial, that I could not possibly
retain my anger; every vestige of displeasure soon melted away
beneath it like morning clouds before the summer sun.

Soon after breakfast all the gentlemen save one, with boyish
eagerness, set out on their expedition against the hapless
partridges; my uncle and Mr. Wilmot on their shooting ponies, Mr.
Huntingdon and Lord Lowborough on their legs:  the one exception
being Mr. Boarham, who, in consideration of the rain that had
fallen during the night, thought it prudent to remain behind a
little and join them in a while when the sun had dried the grass.
And he favoured us all with a long and minute disquisition upon the
evils and dangers attendant upon damp feet, delivered with the most
imperturbable gravity, amid the jeers and laughter of Mr.
Huntingdon and my uncle, who, leaving the prudent sportsman to
entertain the ladies with his medical discussions, sallied forth
with their guns, bending their steps to the stables first, to have
a look at the horses and let out the dogs.

Not desirous of sharing Mr. Boarham's company for the whole of the
morning, I betook myself to the library, and there brought forth my
easel and began to paint.  The easel and the painting apparatus
would serve as an excuse for abandoning the drawing-room if my aunt
should come to complain of the desertion, and besides I wanted to
finish the picture.  It was one I had taken great pains with, and I
intended it to be my masterpiece, though it was somewhat
presumptuous in the design.  By the bright azure of the sky, and by
the warm and brilliant lights and deep long shadows, I had
endeavoured to convey the idea of a sunny morning.  I had ventured
to give more of the bright verdure of spring or early summer to the
grass and foliage than is commonly attempted in painting.  The
scene represented was an open glade in a wood.  A group of dark
Scotch firs was introduced in the middle distance to relieve the
prevailing freshness of the rest; but in the foreground was part of
the gnarled trunk and of the spreading boughs of a large forest-
tree, whose foliage was of a brilliant golden green - not golden
from autumnal mellowness, but from the sunshine and the very
immaturity of the scarce expanded leaves.  Upon this bough, that
stood out in bold relief against the sombre firs, were seated an
amorous pair of turtle doves, whose soft sad-coloured plumage
afforded a contrast of another nature; and beneath it a young girl
was kneeling on the daisy-spangled turf, with head thrown back and
masses of fair hair falling on her shoulders, her hands clasped,
lips parted, and eyes intently gazing upward in pleased yet earnest
contemplation of those feathered lovers - too deeply absorbed in
each other to notice her.

I had scarcely settled to my work, which, however, wanted but a few
touches to the finishing, when the sportsmen passed the window on
their return from the stables.  It was partly open, and Mr.
Huntingdon must have seen me as he went by, for in half a minute he
came back, and setting his gun against the wall, threw up the sash
and sprang in, and set himself before my picture.

'Very pretty, i'faith,' said he, after attentively regarding it for
a few seconds; 'and a very fitting study for a young lady.  Spring
just opening into summer - morning just approaching noon - girlhood
just ripening into womanhood, and hope just verging on fruition.
She's a sweet creature! but why didn't you make her black hair?'

'I thought light hair would suit her better.  You see I have made
her blue-eyed and plump, and fair and rosy.'

'Upon my word - a very Hebe!  I should fall in love with her if I
hadn't the artist before me.  Sweet innocent! she's thinking there
will come a time when she will be wooed and won like that pretty
hen-dove by as fond and fervent a lover; and she's thinking how
pleasant it will be, and how tender and faithful he will find her.'

'And perhaps,' suggested I, 'how tender and faithful she shall find
him.'

'Perhaps, for there is no limit to the wild extravagance of Hope's
imaginings at such an age.'

'Do you call that, then, one of her wild, extravagant delusions?'

'No; my heart tells me it is not.  I might have thought so once,
but now, I say, give me the girl I love, and I will swear eternal
constancy to her and her alone, through summer and winter, through
youth and age, and life and death! if age and death must come.'

He spoke this in such serious earnest that my heart bounded with
delight; but the minute after he changed his tone, and asked, with
a significant smile, if I had 'any more portraits.'

'No,' replied I, reddening with confusion and wrath.

But my portfolio was on the table:  he took it up, and coolly sat
down to examine its contents.

'Mr. Huntingdon, those are my unfinished sketches,' cried I, 'and I
never let any one see them.'

And I placed my hand on the portfolio to wrest it from him, but he
maintained his hold, assuring me that he 'liked unfinished sketches
of all things.'

'But I hate them to be seen,' returned I.  'I can't let you have
it, indeed!'

'Let me have its bowels then,' said he; and just as I wrenched the
portfolio from his hand, he deftly abstracted the greater part of
its contents, and after turning them over a moment he cried out, -
'Bless my stars, here's another;' and slipped a small oval of ivory
paper into his waistcoat pocket - a complete miniature portrait
that I had sketched with such tolerable success as to be induced to
colour it with great pains and care.  But I was determined he
should not keep it.

'Mr. Huntingdon,' cried I, 'I insist upon having that back!  It is
mine, and you have no right to take it.  Give it me directly - I'll
never forgive you if you don't!'

But the more vehemently I insisted, the more he aggravated my
distress by his insulting, gleeful laugh.  At length, however, he
restored it to me, saying, - 'Well, well, since you value it so
much, I'll not deprive you of it.'

To show him how I valued it, I tore it in two and threw it into the
fire.  He was not prepared for this.  His merriment suddenly
ceasing, he stared in mute amazement at the consuming treasure; and
then, with a careless 'Humph! I'll go and shoot now,' he turned on
his heel and vacated the apartment by the window as he came, and
setting on his hat with an air, took up his gun and walked away,
whistling as he went - and leaving me not too much agitated to
finish my picture, for I was glad, at the moment, that I had vexed
him.

When I returned to the drawing-room, I found Mr. Boarham had
ventured to follow his comrades to the field; and shortly after
lunch, to which they did not think of returning, I volunteered to
accompany the ladies in a walk, and show Annabella and Milicent the
beauties of the country.  We took a long ramble, and re-entered the
park just as the sportsmen were returning from their expedition.
Toil-spent and travel-stained, the main body of them crossed over
the grass to avoid us, but Mr. Huntingdon, all spattered and
splashed as he was, and stained with the blood of his prey - to the
no small offence of my aunt's strict sense of propriety - came out
of his way to meet us, with cheerful smiles and words for all but
me, and placing himself between Annabella Wilmot and myself, walked
up the road and began to relate the various exploits and disasters
of the day, in a manner that would have convulsed me with laughter
if I had been on good terms with him; but he addressed himself
entirely to Annabella, and I, of course, left all the laughter and
all the badinage to her, and affecting the utmost indifference to
whatever passed between them, walked along a few paces apart, and
looking every way but theirs, while my aunt and Milicent went
before, linked arm in arm and gravely discoursing together.  At
length Mr. Huntingdon turned to me, and addressing me in a
confidential whisper, said, - 'Helen, why did you burn my picture?'

'Because I wished to destroy it,' I answered, with an asperity it
is useless now to lament.

'Oh, very good!' was the reply; 'if you don't value me, I must turn
to somebody that will.'

I thought it was partly in jest - a half-playful mixture of mock
resignation and pretended indifference:  but immediately he resumed
his place beside Miss Wilmot, and from that hour to this - during
all that evening, and all the next day, and the next, and the next,
and all this morning (the 22nd), he has never given me one kind
word or one pleasant look - never spoken to me, but from pure
necessity - never glanced towards me but with a cold, unfriendly
look I thought him quite incapable of assuming.

My aunt observes the change, and though she has not inquired the
cause or made any remark to me on the subject, I see it gives her
pleasure.  Miss Wilmot observes it, too, and triumphantly ascribes
it to her own superior charms and blandishments; but I am truly
miserable - more so than I like to acknowledge to myself.  Pride
refuses to aid me.  It has brought me into the scrape, and will not
help me out of it.

He meant no harm - it was only his joyous, playful spirit; and I,
by my acrimonious resentment - so serious, so disproportioned to
the offence - have so wounded his feelings, so deeply offended him,
that I fear he will never forgive me - and all for a mere jest!  He
thinks I dislike him, and he must continue to think so.  I must
lose him for ever, and Annabella may win him, and triumph as she
will.

But it is not my loss nor her triumph that I deplore so greatly as
the wreck of my fond hopes for his advantage, and her unworthiness
of his affection, and the injury he will do himself by trusting his
happiness to her.  She does not love him:  she thinks only of
herself.  She cannot appreciate the good that is in him:  she will
neither see it, nor value it, nor cherish it.  She will neither
deplore his faults nor attempt their amendment, but rather
aggravate them by her own.  And I doubt whether she will not
deceive him after all.  I see she is playing double between him and
Lord Lowborough, and while she amuses herself with the lively
Huntingdon, she tries her utmost to enslave his moody friend; and
should she succeed in bringing both to her feet, the fascinating
commoner will have but little chance against the lordly peer.  If
he observes her artful by-play, it gives him no uneasiness, but
rather adds new zest to his diversion by opposing a stimulating
check to his otherwise too easy conquest.

Messrs. Wilmot and Boarham have severally taken occasion by his
neglect of me to renew their advances; and if I were like Annabella
and some others I should take advantage of their perseverance to
endeavour to pique him into a revival of affection; but, justice
and honesty apart, I could not bear to do it.  I am annoyed enough
by their present persecutions without encouraging them further; and
even if I did it would have precious little effect upon him.  He
sees me suffering under the condescending attentions and prosaic
discourses of the one, and the repulsive obtrusions of the other,
without so much as a shadow of commiseration for me, or resentment
against my tormentors.  He never could have loved me, or he would
not have resigned me so willingly, and he would not go on talking
to everybody else so cheerfully as he does - laughing and jesting
with Lord Lowborough and my uncle, teasing Milicent Hargrave, and
flirting with Annabella Wilmot - as if nothing were on his mind.
Oh! why can't I hate him?  I must be infatuated, or I should scorn
to regret him as I do.  But I must rally all the powers I have
remaining, and try to tear him from my heart.  There goes the
dinner-bell, and here comes my aunt to scold me for sitting here at
my desk all day, instead of staying with the company:  wish the
company were - gone.



The Tenant of Wildfell Hall Deluxe Edition Anne Bronte chapter 19



Twenty Second:  Night. - What have I done? and what will be the end
of it?  I cannot calmly reflect upon it; I cannot sleep.  I must
have recourse to my diary again; I will commit it to paper to-
night, and see what I shall think of it to-morrow.

I went down to dinner resolving to be cheerful and well-conducted,
and kept my resolution very creditably, considering how my head
ached and how internally wretched I felt.  I don't know what is
come over me of late; my very energies, both mental and physical,
must be strangely impaired, or I should not have acted so weakly in
many respects as I have done; but I have not been well this last
day or two.  I suppose it is with sleeping and eating so little,
and thinking so much, and being so continually out of humour.  But
to return.  I was exerting myself to sing and play for the
amusement, and at the request, of my aunt and Milicent, before the
gentlemen came into the drawing-room (Miss Wilmot never likes to
waste her musical efforts on ladies' ears alone).  Milicent had
asked for a little Scotch song, and I was just in the middle of it
when they entered.  The first thing Mr. Huntingdon did was to walk
up to Annabella.

'Now, Miss Wilmot, won't you give us some music to-night?' said he.
'Do now!  I know you will, when I tell you that I have been
hungering and thirsting all day for the sound of your voice.  Come!
the piano's vacant.'

It was, for I had quitted it immediately upon hearing his petition.
Had I been endowed with a proper degree of self-possession, I
should have turned to the lady myself, and cheerfully joined my
entreaties to his, whereby I should have disappointed his
expectations, if the affront had been purposely given, or made him
sensible of the wrong, if it had only arisen from thoughtlessness;
but I felt it too deeply to do anything but rise from the music-
stool, and throw myself back on the sofa, suppressing with
difficulty the audible expression of the bitterness I felt within.
I knew Annabella's musical talents were superior to mine, but that
was no reason why I should be treated as a perfect nonentity.  The
time and the manner of his asking her appeared like a gratuitous
insult to me; and I could have wept with pure vexation.

Meantime, she exultingly seated herself at the piano, and favoured
him with two of his favourite songs, in such superior style that
even I soon lost my anger in admiration, and listened with a sort
of gloomy pleasure to the skilful modulations of her full-toned and
powerful voice, so judiciously aided by her rounded and spirited
touch; and while my ears drank in the sound, my eyes rested on the
face of her principal auditor, and derived an equal or superior
delight from the contemplation of his speaking countenance, as he
stood beside her - that eye and brow lighted up with keen
enthusiasm, and that sweet smile passing and appearing like gleams
of sunshine on an April day.  No wonder he should hunger and thirst
to hear her sing.  I now forgave him from my heart his reckless
slight of me, and I felt ashamed at my pettish resentment of such a
trifle - ashamed too of those bitter envious pangs that gnawed my
inmost heart, in spite of all this admiration and delight.

'There now,' said she, playfully running her fingers over the keys
when she had concluded the second song.  'What shall I give you
next?'

But in saying this she looked back at Lord Lowborough, who was
standing a little behind, leaning against the back of a chair, an
attentive listener, too, experiencing, to judge by his countenance,
much the same feelings of mingled pleasure and sadness as I did.
But the look she gave him plainly said, 'Do you choose for me now:
I have done enough for him, and will gladly exert myself to gratify
you;' and thus encouraged, his lordship came forward, and turning
over the music, presently set before her a little song that I had
noticed before, and read more than once, with an interest arising
from the circumstance of my connecting it in my mind with the
reigning tyrant of my thoughts.  And now, with my nerves already
excited and half unstrung, I could not hear those words so sweetly
warbled forth without some symptoms of emotion I was not able to
suppress.  Tears rose unbidden to my eyes, and I buried my face in
the sofa-pillow that they might flow unseen while I listened.  The
air was simple, sweet, and sad.  It is still running in my head,
and so are the words:-


Farewell to thee! but not farewell
To all my fondest thoughts of thee:
Within my heart they still shall dwell;
And they shall cheer and comfort me.

O beautiful, and full of grace!
If thou hadst never met mine eye,
I had not dreamed a living face
Could fancied charms so far outvie.

If I may ne'er behold again
That form and face so dear to me,
Nor hear thy voice, still would I fain
Preserve, for aye, their memory.

That voice, the magic of whose tone
Can wake an echo in my breast,
Creating feelings that, alone,
Can make my tranced spirit blest.

That laughing eye, whose sunny beam
My memory would not cherish less; -
And oh, that smile!  I whose joyous gleam
No mortal languish can express.

Adieu! but let me cherish, still,
The hope with which I cannot part.
Contempt may wound, and coldness chill,
But still it lingers in my heart.

And who can tell but Heaven, at last,
May answer all my thousand prayers,
And bid the future pay the past
With joy for anguish, smiles for tears.


When it ceased, I longed for nothing so much as to be out of the
room.  The sofa was not far from the door, but I did not dare to
raise my head, for I knew Mr. Huntingdon was standing near me, and
I knew by the sound of his voice, as he spoke in answer to some
remark of Lord Lowborough's, that his face was turned towards me.
Perhaps a half-suppressed sob had caught his ear, and caused him to
look round - heaven forbid!  But with a violent effort, I checked
all further signs of weakness, dried my tears, and, when I thought
he had turned away again, rose, and instantly left the apartment,
taking refuge in my favourite resort, the library.

There was no light there but the faint red glow of the neglected
fire; - but I did not want a light; I only wanted to indulge my
thoughts, unnoticed and undisturbed; and sitting down on a low
stool before the easy-chair, I sunk my head upon its cushioned
seat, and thought, and thought, until the tears gushed out again,
and I wept like any child.  Presently, however, the door was gently
opened and someone entered the room.  I trusted it was only a
servant, and did not stir.  The door was closed again - but I was
not alone; a hand gently touched my shoulder, and a voice said,
softly, - 'Helen, what is the matter?'

I could not answer at the moment.

'You must, and shall tell me,' was added, more vehemently, and the
speaker threw himself on his knees beside me on the rug, and
forcibly possessed himself of my hand; but I hastily caught it
away, and replied, - 'It is nothing to you, Mr. Huntingdon.'

'Are you sure it is nothing to me?' he returned; 'can you swear
that you were not thinking of me while you wept?'  This was
unendurable.  I made an effort to rise, but he was kneeling on my
dress.

'Tell me,' continued he - 'I want to know, - because if you were, I
have something to say to you, - and if not, I'll go.'

'Go then!' I cried; but, fearing he would obey too well, and never
come again, I hastily added - 'Or say what you have to say, and
have done with it!'

'But which?' said he - 'for I shall only say it if you really were
thinking of me.  So tell me, Helen.'

'You're excessively impertinent, Mr. Huntingdon!'

'Not at all - too pertinent, you mean.  So you won't tell me? -
Well, I'll spare your woman's pride, and, construing your silence
into "Yes," I'll take it for granted that I was the subject of your
thoughts, and the cause of your affliction - '

'Indeed, sir - '

'If you deny it, I won't tell you my secret,' threatened he; and I
did not interrupt him again, or even attempt to repulse him:
though he had taken my hand once more, and half embraced me with
his other arm, I was scarcely conscious of it at the time.

'It is this,' resumed he:  'that Annabella Wilmot, in comparison
with you, is like a flaunting peony compared with a sweet, wild
rosebud gemmed with dew - and I love you to distraction! - Now,
tell me if that intelligence gives you any pleasure.  Silence
again?  That means yes.  Then let me add, that I cannot live
without you, and if you answer No to this last question, you will
drive me mad. - Will you bestow yourself upon me? - you will!' he
cried, nearly squeezing me to death in his arms.

'No, no!' I exclaimed, struggling to free myself from him - 'you
must ask my uncle and aunt.'

'They won't refuse me, if you don't.'

'I'm not so sure of that - my aunt dislikes you.'

'But you don't, Helen - say you love me, and I'll go.'

'I wish you would go!' I replied.

'I will, this instant, - if you'll only say you love me.'

'You know I do,' I answered.  And again he caught me in his arms,
and smothered me with kisses.

At that moment my aunt opened wide the door, and stood before us,
candle in hand, in shocked and horrified amazement, gazing
alternately at Mr. Huntingdon and me - for we had both started up,
and now stood wide enough asunder.  But his confusion was only for
a moment.  Rallying in an instant, with the most enviable
assurance, he began, - 'I beg ten thousand pardons, Mrs. Maxwell!
Don't be too severe upon me.  I've been asking your sweet niece to
take me for better, for worse; and she, like a good girl, informs
me she cannot think of it without her uncle's and aunt's consent.
So let me implore you not to condemn me to eternal wretchedness:
if you favour my cause, I am safe; for Mr. Maxwell, I am certain,
can refuse you nothing.'

'We will talk of this to-morrow, sir,' said my aunt, coldly.  'It
is a subject that demands mature and serious deliberation.  At
present, you had better return to the drawing-room.'

'But meantime,' pleaded he, 'let me commend my cause to your most
indulgent - '

'No indulgence for you, Mr. Huntingdon, must come between me and
the consideration of my niece's happiness.'

'Ah, true!  I know she is an angel, and I am a presumptuous dog to
dream of possessing such a treasure; but, nevertheless, I would
sooner die than relinquish her in favour of the best man that ever
went to heaven - and as for her happiness, I would sacrifice my
body and soul - '

'Body and soul, Mr. Huntingdon - sacrifice your soul?'

'Well, I would lay down life - '

'You would not be required to lay it down.'

'I would spend it, then - devote my life - and all its powers to
the promotion and preservation - '

'Another time, sir, we will talk of this - and I should have felt
disposed to judge more favourably of your pretensions, if you too
had chosen another time and place, and let me add - another manner
for your declaration.'

'Why, you see, Mrs. Maxwell,' he began -

'Pardon me, sir,' said she, with dignity - 'The company are
inquiring for you in the other room.'  And she turned to me.

'Then you must plead for me, Helen,' said he, and at length
withdrew.

'You had better retire to your room, Helen,' said my aunt, gravely.
'I will discuss this matter with you, too, to-morrow.'

'Don't be angry, aunt,' said I.

'My dear, I am not angry,' she replied:  'I am surprised.  If it is
true that you told him you could not accept his offer without our
consent - '

'It is true,' interrupted I.

'Then how could you permit -?'

'I couldn't help it, aunt,' I cried, bursting into tears.  They
were not altogether the tears of sorrow, or of fear for her
displeasure, but rather the outbreak of the general tumultuous
excitement of my feelings.  But my good aunt was touched at my
agitation.  In a softer tone, she repeated her recommendation to
retire, and, gently kissing my forehead, bade me good-night, and
put her candle in my hand; and I went; but my brain worked so, I
could not think of sleeping.  I feel calmer now that I have written
all this; and I will go to bed, and try to win tired nature's sweet
restorer.