THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL


By Anne Bronte


Chapter 1

You must go back with me to the autumn of 1827. My father, as you know, was 
a sort of gentleman farmer in --shire; and I, by his express desire, 
succeeded him in the same quiet occupation, not very willingly, for 
ambition urged me to higher aims, and self-conceit assured me that, in 
disregarding its voice, I was burying my talent in the earth, and hiding my 
light under a bushel. My mother had done her utmost to persuade me that I 
was capable of great achievements; but my father, who thought ambition was 
the surest road to ruin, and change but another word for destruction, would 
listen to no scheme for bettering either my own condition, or that of my 
fellow mortals. He assured me it was all rubbish, and exhorted me, with his 
dying breath, to continue in the good old way, to follow his steps, and 
those of his father before him, and let my highest ambition be, to walk 
honestly through the world, looking neither to the right hand nor to the 
left, and to transmit the paternal acres to my children in, at least, as 
flourishing a condition as he left them to me.
'Well! an honest and industrious farmer is one of the most useful members 
of society; and if I devote my talents to the cultivation of my farm, and 
the improvement of agriculture in general, I shall thereby benefit, not 
only my own immediate connections and dependants, but, in some degree, 
mankind at large: hence I shall not have lived in vain.'
With such reflections as these, I was endeavouring to console myself, as I 
plodded home from the fields, one cold, damp, cloudy evening towards the 
close of October. But the gleam of a bright red fire through the parlour 
window had more effect in cheering my spirits, and rebuking my thankless 
repinings, than all the sage reflections and good resolutions I had forced 
my mind to frame; for I was young then, remember - only four and twenty - 
and had not acquired half the rule over my own spirit, that I now possess - 
trifling as that may be.
However, that haven of bliss must not be entered till I had exchanged my 
miry boots for a clean pair of shoes, and my rough surtout for a 
respectable coat, and made myself generally presentable before decent 
society; for my mother, with all her kindness, was vastly particular on 
certain points.
In ascending to my room, I was met upon the stairs by a smart, pretty girl 
of nineteen, with a tidy, dumpy figure, a round face, bright, blooming 
cheeks, glossy, clustering curls, and little merry brown eyes. I need not 
tell you this was my sister Rose. She is, I know, a comely matron still, 
and, doubtless, no less lovely - in your eyes - than on the happy day you 
first beheld her. Nothing told me then, that she, a few years hence, would 
be the wife of one entirely unknown to me as yet, but destined, hereafter, 
to become a closer friend than even herself, more intimate than that 
unmannerly lad of seventeen, by whom I was collared in the passage, on 
coming down, and well-nigh jerked off my equilibrium, and who, in 
correction for his impudence, received a resounding whack over the sconce, 
which, however, sustained no serious injury from the infliction; as, 
besides being more than commonly thick, it was protected by a redundant 
shock of short, reddish curls, that my mother called auburn.
On entering the parlour, we found that honoured lady seated in her arm-
chair at the fireside, working away at her knitting, according to her usual 
custom, when she had nothing else to do. She had swept the hearth, and made 
a bright blazing fire for our reception; the servant had just brought in 
the tea-tray; and Rose was producing the sugar-basin and tea-caddy, from 
the cupboard in the black, oak sideboard, that shone like polished ebony, 
in the cheerful parlour twilight.
'Well! here they both are,' cried my mother, looking round upon us without 
retarding the motion of her nimble fingers, and glittering needles. 'Now 
shut the door, and come to the fire, while Rose gets the tea ready; I'm 
sure you must be starved; and tell me what you've been about all day; I 
like to know what my children have been about.'
'I've been breaking in the grey colt - no easy business that directing the 
ploughing of the last wheat stubble - for the ploughboy has not the sense 
to direct himself - and carrying out a plan for the extensive and efficient 
draining of the low meadow-lands.'
'That's my brave boy! - and Fergus - what have you been doing?'
'Badger-baiting.'
And here he proceeded to give a particular account of his sport, and the 
respective traits of prowess evinced by the badger and the dogs; my mother 
pretending to listen with deep attention, and watching his animated 
countenance with a degree of maternal admiration I thought highly 
disproportioned to its object.
'It's time you should be doing something else, Fergus,' said I, as soon as 
a momentary pause in his narration allowed me to get in a word.
'What can I do?' replied he; 'my mother won't let me go to sea or enter the 
army; and I'm determined to do nothing else - except make myself such a 
nuisance to you all, that you will be thankful to get rid of me on any 
terms.' 
Our parent soothingly stroked his stiff, short curls. He growled, and tried 
to look sulky, and then we all took our seats at the table, in obedience to 
the thrice-repeated summons of Rose.
'Now take your tea,' said she; 'and I'll tell you what I've been doing. 
I've been to call on the Wilsons; and it's a thousand pities you didn't go 
with me, Gilbert, for Eliza Millward was there!'
'Well! what of her?'
'Oh, nothing! I'm not going to tell you about her; only that she's a nice, 
amusing little thing, when she is in a merry humour, and I shouldn't mind 
calling her -'
'Hush, hush, my dear! your brother has no such idea!' whispered my mother 
earnestly, holding up her finger.
'Well,' resumed Rose; 'I was going to tell you an important piece of news I 
heard there - I've been bursting with it ever since. You know it was 
reported over a month ago, that somebody was going to take Wildfell Hall - 
and - what do you think? It has actually been inhabited above a week! and 
we never knew!'
'Impossible!' cried my mother.
'Preposterous!!!' shrieked Fergus.
'It has indeed! and by a single lady!'
'Good gracious, my dear! The place is in ruins!'
'She has had two or three rooms made habitable; and there she lives, all 
alone - except an old woman for a servant!'
'Oh dear! - that spoils it - I'd hoped she was a witch,' observed Fergus, 
while carving his inch-thick slice of bread and butter.
'Nonsense, Fergus! But isn't it strange, mamma?'
'Strange! I can hardly believe it.'
'But you may believe it; for Jane Wilson has seen her. She went with her 
mother, who, of course, when she heard of a stranger being in the 
neighbourhood, would be on pins and needles till she had seen her and got 
all she could out of her. She is called Mrs Graham, and she is in mourning 
- not widow's weeds, but slightish mourning - and she is quite young, they 
say - not above five or six and twenty - but so reserved! They tried all 
they could to find out who she was, and where she came from, and all about 
her, but neither Mrs Wilson, with her pertinacious and impertinent home-
thrusts, nor Miss Wilson, with her skilful manoeuvring, could manage to 
elicit a single satisfactory answer, or even a casual remark, or chance 
expression calculated to allay their curiosity, or throw the faintest ray 
of light upon her history, circumstances, or connections. Moreover, she was 
barely civil to them, and evidently better pleased to say "good-bye", than 
"how do you do". But Eliza Millward says her father intends to call upon 
her soon, to offer some pastoral advice, which he fears she needs, as, 
though she is known to have entered the neighbourhood early last week, she 
did not make her appearance at church on Sunday; and she - Eliza, that is - 
will beg to accompany him, and is sure she can succeed in wheedling 
something out of her - you know, Gilbert, she can do anything. And we 
should call some time, mamma; it's only proper, you know.'
'Of course, my dear. Poor thing! how lonely she must feel!'
'And pray, be quick about it; and mind you bring me word how much sugar she 
puts in her tea, and what sort of caps and aprons she wears, and all about 
it; for I don't know how I can live till I know,' said Fergus, very 
gravely.
But if he intended the speech to be hailed as a master-stroke of wit, he 
signally failed, for nobody laughed. However, he was not much disconcerted 
at that; for when he had taken a mouthful of bread and butter, and was 
about to swallow a gulp of tea, the humour of the thing burst upon him with 
such irresistible force, that he was obliged to jump up from the table, and 
rush snorting and choking from the room: and a minute after, was heard 
screaming in fearful agony in the garden.
As for me, I was hungry, and contented myself with silently demolishing the 
tea, ham, and toast, while my mother and sister went on talking, and 
continued to discuss the apparent or non-apparent circumstances, and 
probable or improbable history of the mysterious lady; but I must confess 
that, after my brother's misadventure, I once or twice raised the cup to my 
lips, and put it down again without daring to taste the contents, lest I 
should injure my dignity by a similar explosion.
The next day, my mother and Rose hastened to pay their compliments to the 
fair recluse; and came back but little wiser than they went; though my 
mother declared she did not regret the journey, for if she had not gained 
much good, she flattered herself she had imparted some, and that was 
better: she had given some useful advice, which, she hoped, would not be 
thrown away; for Mrs Graham, though she said little to any purpose, and 
appeared somewhat self-opinionated, seemed not incapable of reflection - 
though she did not know where she had been all her life, poor thing, for 
she betrayed a lamentable ignorance on certain points, and had not even the 
sense to be ashamed of it.
'On what points, mother?' asked I.
'On household matters, and all the little niceties of cookery, and such 
things, that every lady ought to be familiar with, whether she be required 
to make a practical use of her knowledge or not. I gave her some useful 
pieces of information, however, and several excellent receipts, the value 
of which she evidently could not appreciate, for she begged I would not 
trouble myself, as she lived in such a plain, quiet way, that she was sure 
she should never make use of them - "No matter, my dear," said I; "it is 
what every respectable female ought to know; and besides, though you are 
alone now, you will not be always so; you have been married, and probably - 
I might say almost certainly - will be again." "You are mistaken there, 
ma'am," said she, almost haughtily; "I am certain I never shall." But I 
told her I knew better.'
'Some romantic young widow, I suppose,' said I, 'come there to end her days 
in solitude, and mourn in secret for the dear departed - but it won't last 
long.'
'No, I think not,' observed Rose; 'for she didn't seem very disconsolate 
after all; and she's excessively pretty - handsome rather - you must see 
her, Gilbert; you will call her a perfect beauty, though you could hardly 
pretend to discover a resemblance between her and Eliza Millward.'
'Well, I can imagine many faces more beautiful than Eliza's, though not 
more charming. I allow she has small claims to perfection; but then, I 
maintain, that, if she were more perfect, she would be less interesting.'
'And so you prefer her faults to other people's perfections?'
'Just so - saving my mother's presence.'
'Oh, my dear Gilbert, what nonsense you talk! I know you don't mean it; 
it's quite out of the question,' said my mother, getting up, and bustling 
out of the room, under pretence of household business, in order to escape 
the contradiction that was trembling on my tongue.
After that, Rose favoured me with further particulars respecting Mrs 
Graham. Her appearance, manners, and dress, and the very furniture of the 
room she inhabited, were all set before me, with rather more clearness and 
precision than I cared to see them; but, as I was not a very attentive 
listener, I could not repeat the description if I would.
The next day was Saturday; and, on Sunday, everybody wondered whether or 
not the fair unknown would profit by the vicar's remonstrance, and come to 
church. I confess, I looked with some interest myself towards the old 
family pew, appertaining to Wildfell Hall, where the faded crimson cushions 
and lining had been unpressed and unrenewed so many years, and the grim 
escutcheons, with their lugubrious borders of rusty black cloth, frowned so 
sternly from the wall above.
And there I beheld a tall, lady-like figure, clad in black. Her face was 
towards me, and there was something in it, which, once seen, invited me to 
look again. Her hair was raven black, and disposed in long glossy ringlets, 
a style of coiffure rather unusual in those days, but always graceful and 
becoming; her complexion was clear and pale; her eyes I could not see, for 
being bent upon her prayer-book they were concealed by their drooping lids 
and long black lashes, but the brows above were expressive and well 
defined; the forehead was lofty and intellectual, the nose a perfect 
aquiline, and the features in general unexceptionable - only there was a 
slight hollowness about the cheeks and eyes, and the lips, though finely 
formed, were a little too thin, a little too firmly compressed, and had 
something about them that betokened, I thought, no very soft or amiable 
temper; and I said in my heart -
'I would rather admire you from this distance, fair lady, than be the 
partner of your home.'
Just then, she happened to raise her eyes, and they met mine; I did not 
choose to withdraw my gaze, and she turned again to her book, but with a 
momentary, indefinable expression of quiet scorn, that was inexpressibly 
provoking to me.
'She thinks me an impudent puppy,' thought I. 'Humph! she shall change her 
mind before long, if I think it worth while.'
But then it flashed upon me that these were very improper thoughts for a 
place of worship, and that my behaviour, on the present occasion, was 
anything but what it ought to be. Previous, however, to directing my mind 
to the service, I glanced round the church to see if any one had been 
observing me; but no - all, who were not attending to their prayer-books, 
were attending to the strange lady - my good mother and sister among the 
rest, and Mrs Wilson and her daughter; and even Eliza Millward was slyly 
glancing from the corners of her eyes towards the object of general 
attraction. Then, she glanced at me, simpered a little, and blushed, 
modestly looked at her prayer-book, and endeavoured to compose her 
features.
Here I was transgressing again; and this time I was made sensible of it by 
a sudden dig in the ribs, from the elbow of my pert brother. For the 
present, I could only resent the insult by pressing my foot upon his toes, 
deferring further vengeance till we got out of church.
Now, Halford, before I close this letter, I'll tell you who Eliza Millward 
was; she was the vicar's younger daughter, and a very engaging little 
creature, for whom I felt no small degree of partiality; and she knew it, 
though I had never come to any direct explanation, and had no definite 
intention of so doing, for my mother, who maintained there was no one good 
enough for me within twenty miles round, could not bear the thoughts of my 
marrying that insignificant little thing, who, in addition to her numerous 
other disqualifications, had not twenty pounds to call her own. Eliza's 
figure was at once slight and plump, her face small, and nearly as round as 
my sister's-complexion something similar to hers, but more delicate and 
less decidedly blooming-nose, retrousse - features, generally irregular - 
and, altogether, she was rather charming than pretty. But her eyes - I must 
not forget those remarkable features, for therein her chief attraction lay 
- Fin outward aspect at least; they were long and narrow in shape, the 
irids black, or very dark brown, the expression various, and ever changing, 
but always either preternaturally - I had almost said diabolically-wicked, 
or irresistibly bewitching - often both. Her voice was gentle and childish, 
her tread light and soft as that of a cat; but her manners more frequently 
resembled those of a pretty playful kitten, that is now pert and roguish, 
now timid and demure, according to its own sweet will.
Her sister, Mary, was several years older, several inches taller, and of a 
larger, coarser build - a plain, quiet, sensible girl, who had patiently 
nursed their mother through her last long, tedious illness, and been the 
housekeeper, and family drudge, from thence to the present time. She was 
trusted and valued by her father, loved and courted by all dogs, cats, 
children, and poor people, and slighted and neglected by everybody else.
The Reverend Michael Millward, himself, was a tall, ponderous, elderly 
gentleman, who placed a shovel-hat above his large, square, massive-
featured face, carried a stout walking-stick in his hand, and encased his 
still powerful limbs in knee-breeches and gaiters - or black silk stockings 
on state occasions. He was a man of fixed principles, strong prejudices, 
and regular habits, intolerant of dissent in any shape, acting under a firm 
conviction that his opinions were always right, and whoever differed from 
them must be either most deplorably ignorant, or wilfully blind.
In childhood, I had always been accustomed to regard him with a feeling of 
reverential awe - but lately, even now, surmounted, for, though he had a 
fatherly kindness for the well-behaved, he was a strict disciplinarian, and 
had often sternly reproved our juvenile failings and peccadilloes; and 
moreover, in those days whenever he called upon our parents, we had to 
stand up before him, and say our catechism, or repeat 'How doth the little 
busy bee,' or some other hymn, or - worse than all - be questioned about 
his last text, and the heads of the discourse, which we never could 
remember. Sometimes, the worthy gentleman would reprove my mother for being 
over-indulgent to her sons, with a reference to old Eli, or David and 
Absalom, which was particularly galling to her feelings; and, very highly 
as she respected him, and all his sayings, I once heard her exclaim, 'I 
wish to goodness he had a son himself! He wouldn't be so ready with his 
advice to other people then; he'd see what it is to have a couple of boys 
to keep in order.'
He had a laudable care for his own bodily health - kept very early hours, 
regularly took a walk before breakfast, was vastly particular about warm 
and dry clothing, had never been known to preach a sermon without 
previously swallowing a raw egg - albeit he was gifted with good lungs and 
a powerful voice - and was, generally, extremely particular about what he 
ate and drank, though by no means abstemious, and having a mode of dietary 
peculiar to himself - being a great despiser of tea and such slops, and a 
patron of malt liquors, bacon and eggs, ham, hung beef, and other strong 
meats, which agreed well enough with his digestive organs, and therefore 
were maintained by him to be good and wholesome for everybody, and 
confidently recommended to the most delicate convalescents or dyspeptics, 
who, if they failed to derive the promised benefit from his prescriptions, 
were told it was because they had not persevered, and if they complained of 
inconvenient results therefrom, were assured it was all fancy.
I will just touch upon two other persons whom I have mentioned, and then 
bring this long letter to a close. These are Mrs Wilson and her daughter. 
The former was the widow of a substantial farmer, a narrow-minded, tattling 
old gossip, whose character is not worth describing. She had two sons, 
Robert, a rough countrified farmer, and Richard, a retiring, studious young 
man, who was studying the classics with the vicar's assistance, preparing 
for college, with a view to enter the Church.
Their sister Jane was a young lady of some talents, and more ambition. She 
had, at her own desire, received a regular boarding-school education, 
superior to what any member of the family had obtained before. She had 
taken the polish well, acquired considerable elegance of manners, quite 
lost her provincial accent, and could boast of more accomplishments than 
the vicar's daughters. She was considered a beauty besides; but never for a 
moment could she number me amongst her admirers. She was about six and 
twenty, rather tall, and very slender, her hair was neither chestnut nor 
auburn, but a most decided, bright, light red, her complexion was 
remarkably fair and brilliant, her head small, neck long, chin well turned, 
but very short, lips thin and red, eyes clear hazel, quick and penetrating, 
but entirely destitute of poetry or feeling. She had, or might have had, 
many suitors in her own rank of life, but scornfully repulsed or rejected 
them all; for none but a gentleman could please her refined taste, and none 
but a rich one could satisfy her soaring ambition. One gentleman there was, 
from whom she had lately received some rather pointed attentions, and upon 
whose heart, name, and fortune, it was whispered, she had serious designs. 
This was Mr Lawrence, the young squire, whose family had formerly occupied 
Wildfell Hall, but had deserted it, some fifteen years ago, for a more 
modern and commodious mansion in the neighbouring parish.
Now, Halford, I bid you adieu for the present. This is the first instalment 
of my debt. If the coin suits you, tell me so, and I'll send you the rest 
at my leisure: if you would rather remain my creditor than stuff your purse 
with such ungainly heavy pieces - tell me still, and I'll pardon your bad 
taste, and willingly keep the treasure to myself. - Yours, immutably, 
Gilbert Markham.



Chapter 2

I perceive with joy, my most valued friend, that the cloud of your 
displeasure has passed away; the light of your countenance blesses me once 
more, and you desire the continuation of my story; therefore, without more 
ado, you shall have it.
I think the day I last mentioned was a certain Sunday, the latest in the 
October of 1827. On the following Tuesday I was out with my dog and gun, in 
pursuit of such game as I could find within the territory of Linden-Car; 
but finding none at all, I turned my arms against the hawks and carrion-
crows, whose depredations, as I suspected, had deprived me of better prey. 
To this end I left the more frequented regions, the wooded valleys, the 
corn-fields and the meadow-lands, and proceeded to mount the steep 
acclivity of Wildfell, the wildest and the loftiest eminence in our 
neighbourhood, where, as you ascend, the hedges, as well as the trees, 
become scanty and stunted, the former, at length, giving place to rough 
stone fences, partly greened over with ivy and moss, the latter to larches 
and Scotch fir-trees, or isolated blackthorns. The fields, being rough and 
stony, and wholly unfit for the plough, were mostly devoted to the 
pasturing of sheep and cattle; the soil was thin and poor: bits of grey 
rock here and there peeped out from the grassy hillocks; bilberry plants 
and heather - relics of more savage wildness - grew under the walls; and in 
many of the enclosures, ragweeds and rushes usurped supremacy over the 
scanty herbage; but these were not my property.
Near the top of this hill, about two miles from Linden-Car, stood Wildfell 
Hall, a superannuated mansion of the Elizabethan era, built of dark grey 
stone - venerable and picturesque to look at, but, doubtless, cold and 
gloomy enough to inhabit, with its thick stone mullions and little latticed 
panes, its time-eaten air-holes, and its too lonely, too unsheltered 
situation - only shielded from the war of wind and weather by a group of 
Scotch firs, themselves half blighted with storms, and looking as stern and 
gloomy as the Hall itself. Behind it lay a few desolate fields, and then, 
the brown heath-clad summit of the hill; before it (enclosed by stone 
walls, and entered by an iron gate with large balls of grey granite - 
similar to those which decorated the roof and gables - surmounting the 
gateposts) was a garden - once stocked with such hardy plants and flowers 
as could best brook the soil and climate, and such trees and shrubs as 
could best endure the gardener's torturing shears, and most readily assume 
the shapes he chose to give them - now, having been left so many years, 
untilled and untrimmed, abandoned to the weeds and the grass, to the frost 
and the wind, the rain and the drought, it presented a very singular 
appearance indeed. The close green walls of privet, that had bordered the 
principal walk, were two-thirds withered away, and the rest grown beyond 
all reasonable bounds; the old boxwood swan, that sat beside the scraper, 
had lost its neck and half its body: the castellated towers of laurel in 
the middle of the garden, the gigantic warrior that stood on one side of 
the gateway, and the lion that guarded the other, were sprouted into such 
fantastic shapes as resembled nothing either in heaven or earth, or in the 
waters under the earth; but, to my young imagination, they presented all of 
them a goblinish appearance, that harmonised well with the ghostly legends 
and dark traditions our old nurse had told us respecting the haunted hall 
and its departed occupants.
I had succeeded in killing a hawk and two crows when I came within sight of 
the mansion; and then, relinquishing further depredations, I sauntered on, 
to have a look at the old place, and see what changes had been wrought in 
it by its new inhabitant. I did not like to go quite to the front and stare 
in at the gate; but I paused beside the garden wall, and looked, and saw no 
change - except in one wing, where the broken windows and dilapidated roof 
had evidently been repaired, and where a thin wreath of smoke was curling 
up from the stack of chimneys.
While I thus stood, leaning on my gun, and looking up at the dark gables, 
sunk in an idle reverie, weaving a tissue of wayward fancies, in which old 
associations and the fair young hermit, now within those walls, bore a 
nearly equal part, I heard a slight rustling and scrambling just within the 
garden; and, glancing in the direction whence the sound proceeded, I beheld 
a tiny hand elevated above the wall: it clung to the topmost stone, and 
then another little hand was raised to take a firmer hold, and then 
appeared a small white forehead, surmounted with wreaths of light brown 
hair, with a pair of deep blue eyes beneath, and the upper portion of a 
diminutive ivory nose.
The eyes did not notice me, but sparkled with glee on beholding Sancho, my 
beautiful black and white setter, that was coursing about the field with 
its muzzle to the ground. The little creature raised its face and called 
aloud to the dog. The good-natured animal paused, looked up, and wagged its 
tail, but made no further advances. The child (a little boy, apparently 
about five years old) scrambled up to the top of the wall and called again 
and again; but finding this of no avail, apparently made up his mind, like 
Mahomet, to go to the mountain, since the mountain would not come to him, 
and attempted to get over; but a crabbed old cherry tree, that grew hard 
by, caught him by the frock in one of its crooked scraggy arms that 
stretched over the wall. In attempting to disengage himself, his foot 
slipped, and down he tumbled - but not to the earth - the tree still kept 
him suspended. There was a silent struggle, and then a piercing shriek; 
but, in an instant, I had dropped my gun on the grass, and caught the 
little fellow in my arms.
I wiped his eyes with his frock, told him he was all right, and called 
Sancho to pacify him. He was just putting his little hand on the dog's neck 
and beginning to smile through his tears, when I heard, behind me, a click 
of the iron gate, and a rustle of female garments, and lo! Mrs Graham 
darted upon me - her neck uncovered, her black locks streaming in the wind.
'Give me the child!' she said, in a voice scarce louder than a whisper, but 
with a tone of startling vehemence, and, seizing the boy, she snatched him 
from me, as if some dire contamination were in my touch, and then stood 
with one hand firmly clasping his, the other on his shoulder, fixing upon 
me her large, luminous, dark eyes - pale, breathless, quivering with 
agitation.
'I was not harming the child, madam,' said I, scarce knowing whether to be 
most astonished or displeased; 'he was tumbling off the wall there; and I 
was so fortunate as to catch him, while he hung suspended headlong from 
that tree, and prevent I know not what catastrophe.'
 'I beg your pardon, sir,' stammered she; suddenly calming down - the light 
of reason seeming to break upon her beclouded spirit, and a faint blush 
mantling on her cheek - 'I did not know you; and I thought -'
She stooped to kiss the child, and fondly clasped her arm round his neck.
'You thought I was going to kidnap your son, I suppose?'
She stroked his head with a half-embarrassed laugh, and replied -
'I did not know he had attempted to climb the wall. I have the pleasure of 
addressing Mr Markham, I believe?' she added, somewhat abruptly.
I bowed, but ventured to ask her how she knew me.
'Your sister called here, a few days ago, with Mrs Markham.'
'Is the resemblance so strong then?' I asked, in some surprise, and not so 
greatly flattered at the idea as I ought to have been.
'There is a likeness about the eyes and complexion, I think,' replied she, 
somewhat dubiously surveying my face: 'and I think I saw you at church on 
Sunday.'
I smiled. There was something either in that smile or the recollections it 
awakened that was particularly displeasing to her, for she suddenly assumed 
again that proud, chilly look that had so unspeakably roused my corruption 
at church - a look of repellent scorn, so easily assumed, and so entirely 
without the least distortion of a single feature, that, while there, it 
seemed like the natural expression of the face, and was the more provoking 
to me, because I could not think it affected.
'Good morning, Mr Markham,' said she; and without another word or glance, 
she withdrew, with her child, into the garden; and I returned home, angry 
and dissatisfied - I could scarcely tell you why - and therefore will not 
attempt it.
I only stayed to put away my gun and powder-horn, and give some requisite 
directions to one of the farming-men, and then repaired to the vicarage, to 
solace my spirit and soothe my ruffled temper with the company and 
conversation of Eliza Millward.
I found her, as usual, busy with some piece of soft embroidery (the mania 
for Berlin wools had not yet commenced), while her sister was seated at the 
chimney corner, with the cat on her knee, mending a heap of stockings.
'Mary - Mary, put them away!' Eliza was hastily saying just as I entered 
the room.
'Not I, indeed!' was the phlegmatic reply; and my appearance prevented 
further discussion.
'You're so unfortunate, Mr Markham!' observed the younger sister, with one 
of her arch, sidelong glances. 'Papa's just gone out into the parish, and 
not likely to be back for an hour!'
'Never mind; I can manage to spend a few minutes with his daughters, if 
they'll allow - me,' said I, bringing a chair to the fire, and seating 
myself therein, without waiting to be asked.
'Well, if you'll be very good and amusing, we shall not object.'
'Let your permission be unconditional, pray; for I came not to give 
pleasure, but to seek it,' I answered.
However, I thought it but reasonable to make some slight exertion to render 
my company agreeable; and what little effort I made, was apparently pretty 
successful, for Miss Eliza was never in a better humour. We seemed, indeed, 
to be mutually pleased with each other, and managed to maintain between us 
a cheerful and animated, though not very profound conversation. It was 
little better than a tete-a-tete, for Miss Millward never opened her lips, 
except occasionally to correct some random assertion or exaggerated 
expression of her sister's, and once to ask her to pick up the ball of 
cotton, that had rolled under the table. I did this myself, however, as in 
duty bound.
'Thank you, Mr Markham,' said she, as I presented it to her. 'I would have 
picked it up myself; only I did not want to disturb the cat.'
'Mary, dear, that won't excuse you in Mr Markham's eyes,' said Eliza; 'he 
hates cats, I dare say, as cordially as he does old maids - like all other 
gentlemen. Don't you, Mr Markham?'
'I believe it is natural for our unamiable sex to dislike the creatures,' 
replied I: 'for you ladies lavish so many caresses upon them.'
'Bless them - little darlings!' cried she, in a sudden burst of enthusiasm, 
turning round, and overwhelming her sister's pet with a shower of kisses.
'Don't, Eliza!' said Miss Millward, somewhat gruffly, as she impatiently 
pushed her away.
But it was time for me to be going: make what haste I would, I should still 
be too late for tea; and my mother was the soul of order and punctuality.
My fair friend was evidently unwilling to bid me adieu. I tenderly squeezed 
her little hand at parting; and she repaid me with one of her softest 
smiles and most bewitching glances. I went home, very happy, with a heart 
brimful of complacency for myself and overflowing with love for Eliza.



Chapter 3

Two days after, Mrs Graham called at Linden-Car, contrary to the 
expectation of Rose, who entertained an idea that the mysterious occupant 
of Wildfell Hall would wholly disregard the common observances of civilised 
life - in which opinion she was supported by the Wilsons, who testified 
that neither their call nor the Millwards' had been returned as yet. Now, 
however, the cause of that omission was explained, though not entirely to 
the satisfaction of Rose. Mrs Graham had brought her child with her, and on 
my mother's expressing surprise that he could walk so far, she replied -
'It is a long walk for him; but I must have either taken him with me, or 
relinquished the visit altogether; for I never leave him alone; and I 
think, Mrs Markham, I must beg you to make my excuses to the Millwards and 
Mrs Wilson, when you see them, as I fear I cannot do myself the pleasure of 
calling upon them till my little Arthur is able to accompany me.'
'But you have a servant,' said Rose; 'could you not leave him with her?'
'She has her own occupations to attend to; and, besides, she is too old to 
run after a child, and he is too mercurial to be tied to an elderly woman.'
'But you left him to come to church.'
'Yes, once; but I would not have left him for any other purpose; and I 
think, in future, I must contrive to bring him with me, or stay at home.'
'Is he so mischievous?' asked my mother, considerably shocked.
'No,' replied the lady, sadly smiling, as she stroked the wavy locks of her 
son, who was seated on a low stool at her feet, 'but he is my only 
treasure; and I am his only friend, so we don't like to be separated.'
'But, my dear, I call that doting,' said my plain-spoken parent. 'You 
should try to suppress such foolish fondness, as well to save your son from 
ruin as yourself from ridicule.'
'Ruin! Mrs Markham?'
'Yes; it is spoiling the child. Even at his age, he ought not to be always 
tied to his mother's apron-string; he should learn to be ashamed of it.'
'Mrs Markham, I beg you will not say such things in his presence at least. 
I trust my son will never be ashamed to love his mother!' said Mrs Graham, 
with a serious energy that startled the company.
My mother attempted to appease her by an explanation; but she seemed to 
think enough had been said on the subject, and abruptly turned the 
conversation.
'Just as I thought,' said I to myself: 'the lady's temper is none of the 
mildest, notwithstanding her sweet, pale face and lofty brow, where thought 
and suffering seem equally to have stamped their impress.'
All this time, I was seated at a table on the other side of the room, 
apparently immersed in the perusal of a volume of the Farmer's Magazine, 
which I happened to have been reading at the moment of our visitor's 
arrival; and, not choosing to be over civil, I had merely bowed as she 
entered, and continued my occupation as before.
In a little while, however, I was sensible that some one was approaching 
me, with a light, but slow and hesitating tread. It was little Arthur, 
irresistibly attracted by my dog Sancho, that was lying at my feet. On 
looking up, I beheld him standing about two yards off, with his clear blue 
eyes wistfully gazing on the dog, transfixed to the spot, not by fear of 
the animal, but by a timid disinclination to approach its master. A little 
encouragement, however, induced him to come forward. The child, though shy, 
was not sullen. In a minute he was kneeling on the carpet, with his arms 
round Sancho's neck, and in a minute or two more, the little fellow was 
seated on my knee, surveying with eager interest the various specimens of 
horses, cattle, pigs, and model farms portrayed in the volume before me. I 
glanced at his mother now and then, to see how she relished the new-sprung 
intimacy; and I saw, by the unquiet aspect of her eye, that for some reason 
∞F other she was uneasy at the child's position.
'Arthur,' she said, at length, 'come here. You are troublesome to Mr 
Markham: he wishes to read.'
'By no means, Mrs Graham; pray let him stay. I am as much amused as he is,' 
pleaded I. But still, with hand and eye, she silently called him to her 
side.
'No, mamma,' said the child; 'let me look at these pictures first; and then 
I'll come, and tell you all about them.'
'We are going to have a small party on Monday, the 5th of November,' said 
my mother; 'and I hope you will not refuse to make one, Mrs Graham. You can 
bring your little boy with you, you know - I dare say we shall be able to 
amuse him; and then you can make your own apologies to the Millwards and 
Wilsons - they will all be here, I expect.'
'Thank you, I never go to parties.'
'Oh! but this will be quite a family concern - early hours, and nobody here 
but ourselves, and just the Millwards and Wilsons, most of whom you already 
know, and Mr Lawrence, your landlord, with whom you ought to make 
acquaintance.'
 'I do know something of him - but you must excuse me this time; for the 
evenings, now, are dark and damp, and Arthur, I fear, is too delicate to 
risk exposure to their influence with impunity. We must defer the enjoyment 
of your hospitality, till the return of longer days and warmer nights.'
Rose, now, at a hint from my mother, produced a decanter of wine, with 
accompaniments of glasses and cake, from the cupboard and the oak 
sideboard, and the refreshment was duly presented to the guests. They both 
partook of the cake, but obstinately refused the wine, in spite of their 
hostess's hospitable attempts to force it upon them. Arthur, especially, 
shrank from the ruby nectar as if in terror and disgust, and was ready to 
cry when urged to take it.
'Never mind, Arthur,' said his mamma, 'Mrs Markham thinks it will do you 
good, as you were tired with your walk; but she will not oblige you to take 
it! I dare say you will do very well without. He detests the very sight of 
wine,' she added, 'and the smell of it almost makes him sick. I have been 
accustomed to make him swallow a little wine or weak spirits-and-water, by 
way of medicine when he was sick, and, in fact, I have done what I could to 
make him hate them.'
Everybody laughed except the young widow and her son.
'Well, Mrs Graham,' said my mother, wiping the tears of merriment from her 
bright blue eyes - 'well, you surprise me! I really gave you credit for 
having more sense. The poor child will be the veriest milksop that ever was 
sopped! Only think what a man you will make of him, if you persist in -'
'I think it a very excellent plan,' interrupted Mrs Graham with 
imperturbable gravity. 'By that means I hope to save him from one degrading 
vice at least. I wish I could render the incentives to every other equally 
innoxious in his case.'
'But by such means,' said I, 'you will never render him virtuous. What is 
it that constitutes virtue, Mrs Graham! Is it the circumstance of being 
able and willing to resist temptation; or that of having no temptations to 
resist? Is he a strong man that overcomes great obstacles and performs 
surprising achievements, though by dint of great muscular exertion, and at 
the risk of some subsequent fatigue, or he that sits in his chair all day, 
with nothing to do more laborious than stirring the fire, and carrying his 
food to his mouth? If you would have your son to walk honourably through 
the world, you must not attempt to clear the stones from his path, but 
teach him to walk firmly over them - not insist upon leading him by the 
hand, but let him learn to go alone.'
'I will lead him by the hand, Mr Markham, till he has strength to go alone; 
and I will clear as many stones from his path as I can, and teach him to 
avoid the rest - or walk firmly over them, as you ,ay - for when I have 
done my utmost, in the way of clearance, there will still be plenty left to 
exercise all the agility, steadiness, and circumspection he will ever have. 
It is all very well to talk about noble resistance, and trials of virtue; 
but for fifty - or five hundred men that have yielded to temptation, show 
me one that has had virtue to resist. And why should I take it for granted 
that my son will be one in a thousand - and not rather prepare for the 
worst, and suppose he will be like his - like the rest of mankind, unless I 
take care to prevent it?'
'You are very complimentary to us all,' I observed.
'I know nothing about you - I speak of those I do know - and when I see the 
whole race of mankind (with a few rare exceptions) stumbling and blundering 
along the path of life, sinking into every pitfall, and breaking their 
shins over every impediment that lies in their way, shall I not use all the 
means in my power to insure for him a smoother and a safer passage?'
'Yes, but the surest means will be to endeavour to fortify him against 
temptation, not to remove it out of his way.'
'I will do both, Mr Markham. God knows he will have temptations enough to 
assail him, both from within and without, when I have done all I can to 
render vice as uninviting to him, as it is abominable in its own nature - I 
myself have had, indeed, but few incentives to what the world calls vice, 
but yet I have experienced temptations and trials of another kind, that 
have required, on many occasions, more watchfulness and firmness to resist, 
than I have hitherto been able to muster against them. And this, I believe, 
is what most others would acknowledge, who are accustomed to reflection, 
and wishful to strive against their natural corruptions.'
'Yes,' said my mother, but half apprehending her drift; 'but you would not 
judge of a boy by yourself - and my dear Mrs Graham, let me warn you in 
good time against the error - the fatal error, I may call it - of taking 
that boy's education upon yourself. Because you are clever in some things, 
and well-informed, you may fancy yourself equal to the task; but indeed you 
are not; and if you persist in the attempt, believe me you will bitterly 
repent it when the mischief is done.'
'I am to send him to school, I suppose, to learn to despise his mother's 
authority and affection!' said the lady, with rather a bitter smile.
Oh, no! But if you would have a boy despise his mother, let her keep him at 
home, and spend her life in petting him up, and slaving to indulge his 
follies and caprices.'
'I perfectly agree with you, Mrs Markham; but nothing can be further from 
my principles and practice than such criminal weakness as that.'
'Well, but you will treat him like a girl - you'll spoil his spirit, and 
make a mere Miss Nancy of him - you will, indeed, Mrs Graham, whatever you 
may think. But I'll get Mr Millward to talk to you about it: he'll tell you 
the consequences; he'll set it before you as plain as the day; and tell you 
what you ought to do, and all about it; and, I don't doubt, he'll be able 
to convince you in a minute.'
'No occasion to trouble the vicar,' said Mrs Graham, glancing at me - I 
suppose I was smiling at my mother's unbounded confidence in that worthy 
gentleman - 'Mr Markham here, thinks his powers of conviction at least 
equal to Mr Millward's. If I hear not him, neither should I be convinced 
though one rose from the dead, he would tell you. Well, Mr Markham, you 
that maintain that a boy should not be shielded from evil, but sent out to 
battle against it, alone and unassisted - not taught to avoid the snares of 
life, but boldly to rush into them, or over them, as he may - to seek 
danger rather than shun it, and feed his virtue by temptation - would you 
-'
'I beg your pardon, Mrs Graham - but you get on too fast. I have not yet 
said that a boy should be taught to rush into the snares of life - or even 
wilfully to seek temptation for the sake of exercising his virtue by 
overcoming it - I only say that it is better to arm and strengthen your 
hero, than to disarm and enfeeble the foe; and if you were to rear an oak 
sapling in a hot-house, tending it carefully night and day, and shielding 
it from every breath of wind, you could not expect it to become a hardy 
tree, like that which has grown up on the mountain-side, exposed to all the 
action of the elements, and not even sheltered from the shock of the 
tempest.'
'Granted; but would you use the same arguments with regard to a girl?'
'Certainly not.'
'No; you would have her to be tenderly and delicately nurtured, like a hot-
house plant - taught to cling to others for direction and support, and 
guarded, as much as possible, from the very knowledge of evil. But will you 
be so good as to inform me why you make this distinction? Is it that you 
think she has no virtue?'
'Assuredly not.'
'Well, but you affirm that virtue is only elicited by temptation; and you 
think that a woman cannot be too little exposed to temptation, or too 
little acquainted with vice, or anything connected therewith - It must be, 
either, that you think she is essentially so vicious, or so feeble-minded 
that she cannot withstand temptation - and though she may be pure and 
innocent as long as she is kept in ignorance and restraint, yet, being 
destitute of real virtue, to teach her how to sin, is at once to make her a 
sinner, and the greater her knowledge, the wider her liberty, the deeper 
will be her depravity - whereas, in the nobler sex, there is a natural 
tendency to goodness, guarded by a superior fortitude, which, the more it 
is exercised by trials and dangers, is only the further developed -'
'Heaven forbid that I should think so!' I interrupted her at last.
'Well then, it must be that you think they are both weak and prone to err, 
and the slightest error, the nearest shadow of pollution, will ruin the 
one, while the character of the other will be strengthened and embellished 
- his education properly finished by a little practical acquaintance with 
forbidden things. Such experience, to him (to use a trite simile), will be 
like the storm to the oak, which, though it may scatter the leaves, and 
snap the smaller branches, serves but to rivet the roots, and to harden and 
condense the fibres of the tree. You would have us encourage our sons to 
prove all things by their own experience, while our daughters must not even 
profit by the experience of others. Now I would have both so to benefit by 
the experience of others, and the precepts of a higher authority, that they 
should know beforehand to refuse the evil and choose the good, and require 
no experimental proofs to teach them the evil of transgression. I would not 
send a poor girl into the world, unarmed against her foes, and ignorant of 
the snares that beset her path; nor would I watch and guard her, till, 
deprived of self-respect and self-reliance, she lost the power or the will 
to watch and guard herself; and as for my son - if I thought he would grow 
up to be what you call a man of the world - one that has "seen life", and 
glories in his experience, even though he should so far profit by it as to 
sober down, at length, into a useful and respected member of society - I 
would rather that he died tomorrow! rather a thousand times!' she earnestly 
repeated, pressing her darling to her side and kissing his forehead with 
intense affection. He had, already, left his new companion, and been 
standing for some time beside his mother's knee, looking up into her face, 
and listening in silent wonder to her - incomprehensible discourse.
'Well! you ladies must always have the last word, I suppose,' said I, 
observing her rise, and begin to take leave of my mother.
'You may have as many words as you please - only I can't stay to hear 
them.'
 'No: that is the way: you hear just as much of an argument as you please; 
and the rest may be spoken to the wind.'
'If you are anxious to say anything more on the subject,' replied she, as 
she shook hands with Rose, 'you must bring your sister to see me some fine 
day, and I'll listen, as patiently as you could wish, to whatever you 
please to say. I would rather be lectured by you than the vicar, because I 
should have less remorse in telling you, at the end of the discourse, that 
I preserve my own opinion precisely the same as at the beginning - as would 
be the case, I am persuaded, with regard to either logician.'
'Yes, of course,' replied I, determined to be as provoking as herself; 'for 
when a lady does consent to listen to an argument against her own opinions, 
she is always predetermined to withstand it - to listen only with her 
bodily ears, keeping the mental organs resolutely closed against the 
strongest reasoning.'
'Good morning, Mr Markham,' said my fair antagonist, with a pitying smile; 
and deigning no further rejoinder, she slightly bowed, and was about to 
withdraw; but her son, with childish impertinence, arrested her by 
exclaiming -
'Mamma, you have not shaken hands with Mr Markham!'
She laughingly turned round, and held out her hand. I gave it a spiteful 
squeeze; for I was annoyed at the continual injustice she had done me from 
the very dawn of our acquaintance. Without knowing anything about my real 
disposition and principles, she was evidently prejudiced against me, and 
seemed bent upon showing me that her opinions respecting me, on every 
particular, fell far below those I entertained of myself. I was naturally 
touchy, or it would not have vexed me so much. Perhaps, too, I was a little 
spoiled by my mother and sister, and some other ladies of my acquaintance; 
and yet I was by no means a fop - of that I am fully convinced, whether you 
are or not.



Chapter 4

Our party, on the 5th of November, passed off very well, in spite of Mrs 
Graham's refusal to grace it with her presence. Indeed, it is probable 
that, had she been there, there would have been less cordiality, freedom, 
and frolic amongst us than there was without her.
My mother, as usual, was cheerful and chatty, full of activity and good 
nature, and only faulty in being too anxious to make her guests happy, 
thereby forcing several of them to do what their soul abhorred, in the way 
of eating or drinking, sitting opposite the blazing fire, or talking when 
they would be silent. Nevertheless, they bore it very well, being all in 
their holiday humours.
Mr Millward was mighty in important dogmas and sententious jokes, pompous 
anecdotes and oracular discourses, dealt out for the edification of the 
whole assembly in general, and of the admiring Mrs Markham, the polite Mr 
Lawrence, the sedate Mary Millward, the quiet Richard Wilson, and the 
matter-of-fact Robert, in particular - as being the most attentive 
listeners.
Mrs Wilson was more brilliant than ever, with her budgets of fresh news and 
old scandal, strung together with trivial questions and remarks, and oft - 
repeated observations, uttered apparently for the sole purpose of denying a 
moment's rest to her inexhaustible organs of speech. She had brought her 
knitting with her, and it seemed as if her tongue had laid a wager with her 
fingers, to outdo them in swift and ceaseless motion.
Her daughter Jane was, of course, as graceful and elegant, as witty and 
seductive, as she could possibly manage to be; for here were all the ladies 
to outshine, and all the gentlemen to charm - and Mr Lawrence, especially, 
to capture and subdue. Her little arts to effect his subjugation were too 
subtle and impalpable to attract my observation; but I thought there was a 
certain refined affectation of superiority, and an ungenial self-
consciousness about her, that negatived all her advantages; and after she 
was gone, Rose interpreted to me her various looks, words, and actions with 
a mingled acuteness and asperity that made me wonder, equally, at the 
lady's artifice and my sister's penetration, and ask myself if she too had 
an eye to the squire - but never mind, Halford; she had not.
Richard Wilson, Jane's younger brother, sat in a corner, apparently good-
tempered, but silent and shy, desirous to escape observation, but willing 
enough to listen and observe; and although somewhat out of his element, he 
would have been happy enough in his own quiet way, if my mother could only 
have let him alone; but in her mistaken kindness, she would keep 
persecuting him with her attentions - pressing upon him all manner of 
viands, under the notion that he was too bashful to help himself, and 
obliging him to shout across the room his monosyllabic replies to the 
numerous questions and observations by which she vainly attempted to draw 
him into conversation.
Rose informed me that he never would have favoured us with his company, but 
for the importunities of his sister Jane, who was most anxious to show Mr 
Lawrence that she had at least one brother more gentlemanly and refined 
than Robert. That worthy individual she had been equally solicitous to keep 
away; but he affirmed that he saw no reason why he should not enjoy a crack 
with Markham and the old lady (my mother was not old, really), and bonny 
Miss Rose and the parson, as well as the best; and he was in the right of 
it too. So he talked commonplace with my mother and Rose, and discussed 
parish affairs with the vicar, farming matters with me, and politics with 
us both.
Mary Millward was another mute - not so much tormented with cruel kindness 
as Dick Wilson, because she had a certain short, decided way of answering 
and refusing, and was supposed to be rather sullen than diffident. However 
that might be, she certainly did not give much pleasure to the company; nor 
did she appear to derive much from it. Eliza told me she had only come 
because her father insisted upon it, having taken it into his head that she 
devoted herself too exclusively to her household duties, to the neglect of 
such relaxations and innocent enjoyments as were proper to her age and sex. 
She seemed to be good-humoured enough on the whole. Once or twice she was 
provoked to laughter by the wit or the merriment of some favoured 
individual amongst us; and then I observed she sought the eye of Richard 
Wilson, who sat over against her. As he studied with her father, she had 
some acquaintance with him, in spite of the retiring habits of both, and I 
suppose there was a kind of fellow-feeling established between them.
My Eliza was charming beyond description, coquettish without affectation, 
and evidently more desirous to engage my attention than that of all the 
room besides. Her delight in having me near her, seated or standing by her 
side, whispering in her ear, or pressing her hand in the dance, was plainly 
legible in her glowing face and heaving bosom, however belied by saucy 
words and gestures. But I had better hold my tongue: if I boast of these 
things now, I shall have to blush hereafter.
To proceed, then, with the various individuals of our party; Rose was 
simple and natural as usual, and full of mirth and vivacity.
Fergus was impertinent and absurd; but his impertinence and folly served to 
make others laugh, if they did not raise himself in their estimation.
And finally (for I omit myself), Mr Lawrence was gentlemanly and 
inoffensive to all, and polite to the vicar and the ladies, especially his 
hostess and her daughter, and Miss Wilson - misguided man; he had not the 
taste to prefer Eliza Millward. Mr Lawrence and I were on tolerably 
intimate terms. Essentially of reserved habits, and but seldom quitting the 
secluded place of his birth, where he had lived in solitary state since the 
death of his father, he had neither the opportunity nor the inclination for 
forming many acquaintances; and, of all he had ever known, I (judging by 
the results) was the companion most agreeable to his taste. I liked the man 
well enough, but he was too cold, and shy, and self-contained, to obtain my 
cordial sympathies. A spirit of candour and frankness, when wholly 
unaccompanied with coarseness, he admired in others, but he could not 
acquire it himself. His excessive reserve upon all his own concerns was, 
indeed, provoking and chilly enough; but I forgave it, from a conviction 
that it originated less in pride and want of confidence in his friends, 
than in a certain morbid feeling of delicacy, and a peculiar diffidence, 
that he was sensible of, but wanted energy to overcome. His heart was like 
a sensitive plant, that opens for a moment in the sunshine, but curls up 
and shrinks into itself at the slightest touch of the finger, or the 
lightest breath of wind. And, upon the whole, our intimacy was rather a 
mutual predilection than a deep and solid friendship, such as has since 
arisen between myself and you, Halford, whom, in spite of your occasional 
crustiness, I can liken to nothing so well as an old coat, unimpeachable in 
texture, but easy and loose - that has conformed itself to the shape of the 
wearer, and which he may use as he pleases, without being bothered with the 
fear of spoiling it; whereas Mr Lawrence was like a new garment, all very 
neat and trim to look at, but so tight in the elbows, that you would fear 
to split the seams by the unrestricted motion of your arms, and so smooth 
and fine in surface that you scruple to expose it to a single drop of rain.
Soon after the arrival of the guests, my mother mentioned Mrs Graham, 
regretted she was not there to meet them, and explained to the Millwards 
and Wilsons the reasons she had given for neglecting to return their calls, 
hoping they would excuse her, as she was sure she did not mean to be 
uncivil, and would be glad to see them at any time -
'But she is a very singular lady, Mr Lawrence,' added she; 'we don't know 
what to make of her - but I dare say you can tell us something about her, 
for she is your tenant, you know - and she said she knew you a little.'
All eyes were turned to Mr Lawrence. I thought he looked unnecessarily 
confused at being so appealed to.
'I, Mrs Markham!' said he; 'you are mistaken - I don't - that is -'
I have seen her, certainly; but I am the last person you should apply to 
for information respecting Mrs Graham.'
He then immediately turned to Rose, and asked her to favour the company 
with a song, or a tune on the piano.
'No,' said she, 'you must ask Miss Wilson: she outshines us all in singing 
and music too.'
Miss Wilson demurred.
'She'll sing readily enough,' said Fergus, 'if you'll undertake to stand by 
her, Mr Lawrence, and turn over the leaves for her.'
'I shall be most happy to do so, Miss Wilson; will you allow me?'
She bridled her long neck and smiled, and suffered him to lead her to the 
instrument, where she played and sang, in her very best style, one piece 
after another, while he stood patiently by, leaning one hand on the back of 
her chair, and turning over the leaves of her book with the other. Perhaps 
he was as much charmed with her performance as she was. It was all very 
fine in its way; but I cannot say that it moved me very deeply. There was 
plenty of skill and execution, but precious little feeling.
But we had not done with Mrs Graham yet.
'I don't take wine, Mrs Markham,' said Mr Millward, upon the introduction 
of that beverage; 'I'll take a little of your home-brewed ale. I always 
prefer your home-brewed to anything else.'
Flattered at this compliment, my mother rang the bell, and a china jug of 
our best ale was presently brought and set before the worthy gentleman who 
so well knew how to appreciate its excellences.
'Now THIS is the thing!' cried he, pouring out a glass of the same in a 
long stream, skilfully directed from the jug to the tumbler, so as to 
produce much foam without spilling a drop; and, having surveyed it for a 
moment opposite the candle, he took a deep draught, and then smacked his 
lips, drew a long breath, and refilled his glass, my mother looking on with 
the greatest satisfaction.
'There's nothing like this, Mrs Markham!' said he. 'I always maintain that 
there's nothing to compare with your home-brewed ale.'
'I'm sure I'm glad you like it, sir. I always look after the brewing 
myself, as well as the cheese and the butter - I like to have things well 
done, while we're about it.'
'Quite right, Mrs Markham!'
'But then, Mr Millward, you don't think it wrong to take a little wine now 
and then - or a little spirits either!' said my mother, as she handed a 
smoking tumbler of gin-and-water to Mrs Wilson, who affirmed that wine sat 
heavy on her stomach, and whose son Robert was at that moment helping 
himself to a pretty stiff glass of the same.
'By no means!' replied the oracle, with a Jove-like nod; 'these things are 
all blessings and mercies, if we only knew how to make use of them.'
'But Mrs Graham doesn't think so. You shall just hear now what she told us 
the other day - I told her I'd tell you.'
And my mother favoured the company with a particular account of that lady's 
mistaken ideas and conduct regarding the matter in hand, concluding with, 
'Now, don't you think it is wrong?'
'Wrong!' repeated the vicar, with more than common solemnity - 'criminal, I 
should say - criminal! Not only is it making a fool of the boy, but it is 
despising the gifts of Providence, and teaching him to trample them under 
his feet.'
He then entered more fully into the question, and explained at large the 
folly and impiety of such a proceeding. My mother heard him with 
profoundest reverence; and even Mrs Wilson vouchsafed to rest her tongue 
for a moment, and listen in silence, while she complacently sipped her gin-
and-water. Mr Lawrence sat with his elbow on the table, carelessly playing 
with his half-empty wineglass, and covertly smiling to himself.
'But don't you think, Mr Millward,' suggested he, when at length that 
gentleman paused in his discourse, 'that when a child may be naturally 
prone to intemperance - by the fault of its parents or ancestors, for 
instance - some precautions are advisable?' (Now it was generally believed 
that Mr Lawrence's father had shortened his days by intemperance.)
'Some precautions, it may be; but temperance, sir, is one thing, and 
abstinence another.'
'But I have heard that, with some persons, temperance - that is, moderation 
- is almost impossible; and if abstinence be an evil (which some have 
doubted), no one will deny that excess is a greater. Some parents have 
entirely prohibited their children from tasting intoxicating liquors; but a 
parent's authority cannot last for ever: children are naturally prone to 
hanker after forbidden things; and a child, in such a case, would be likely 
to have a strong curiosity to taste, and try the effect of what has been so 
lauded and enjoyed by others, so strictly forbidden to himself - which 
curiosity would generally be gratified on the first convenient opportunity; 
and the restraint once broken, serious consequences might ensue. I don't 
pretend to be a judge of such matters, but it seems to me, that this plan 
of Mrs Graham's, as you describe it, Mrs Markham, extraordinary as it may 
be, is not without its advantages; for here you see the child is delivered 
at once from temptation; he has no secret curiosity, no hankering desire; 
he is as well acquainted with the tempting liquors as he ever wishes to be; 
and is thoroughly disgusted with them, without having suffered from their 
effects.'
'And is that right, sir? Have I not proven to you how wrong it is - how 
contrary to Scripture and to reason to teach a child to look with contempt 
and disgust upon the blessings of Providence, instead of to use them 
aright?'
'You may consider laudanum a blessing of Providence, sir,' replied Mr 
Lawrence, smiling; 'and yet, you will allow that most of us had better 
abstain from it, even in moderation, but,' added he, 'I would not desire 
you to follow out my simile too closely - in witness whereof I finish my 
glass.'
'And take another, I hope, Mr Lawrence,' said my mother, pushing the bottle 
towards him.
He politely declined, and pushing his chair a little away from the table, 
leant back towards me - I was seated a trifle behind, on the sofa beside 
Eliza Millward - and carelessly asked me if I knew Mrs Graham.
'I have met her once or twice,' I replied.
'What do you think of her?'
'I cannot say that I like her much. She is handsome - or rather I should 
say distinguished and interesting - in her appearance, but by no means 
amiable - a woman liable to take strong prejudices, I should fancy, and 
stick to them through thick and thin, twisting everything into conformity 
with her own preconceived opinions - too hard, too sharp, too bitter for my 
taste.'
He made no reply, but looked down and bit his lip, and shortly after rose 
and sauntered up to Miss Wilson, as much repelled by me, I fancy, as 
attracted by her. I scarcely noticed it at the time, but afterwards, I was 
led to recall this and other trifling facts, of a similar nature, to my 
resemblance, when - but I must not anticipate.
We wound up the evening with dancing - our worthy pastor thinking it no 
scandal to be present on the occasion, though one of the village musicians 
was engaged to direct our evolutions with his violin. But Mary Millward 
obstinately refused to join us; and so did Richard Wilson, though my mother 
earnestly entreated him to do so, and even offered to be his partner.
We managed very well without them, however. With a single set of 
quadrilles, and several country dances, we carried it on to a pretty late 
hour; and at length, having called upon our musician to strike up a waltz, 
I was just about to whirl Eliza round in that delightful dance, accompanied 
by Lawrence and Jane Wilson, and Fergus and Rose, when Mr Millward 
interposed with -
'No, no, I don't allow that! Come, it's time to be going home.'
'Oh, no, papa!' pleaded Eliza.
'High time, my girl - high time! Moderation in all things, remember! That's 
the plan - "Let your moderation be known unto all men!" '
But in revenge, I followed Eliza into the dimly-lighted passage, where, 
under pretence of helping her on with her shawl, I fear I must plead guilty 
to snatching a kiss behind her father's back, while he was enveloping his 
throat and chin in the folds of a mighty comforter. But alas! in turning 
round, there was my mother close beside me. The consequence was, that no 
sooner were the guests departed, than I was doomed to a very serious 
remonstrance, which unpleasantly checked the galloping course of my 
spirits, and made a disagreeable close to the evening.
''My dear Gilbert,' said she, 'I wish you wouldn't do so! You know how 
deeply I have your advantage at heart, how I love you and prize you above 
everything else in the world, and how much I long to see you well settled 
in life - and how bitterly it would grieve me to see you married to that 
girl - or any other in the neighbourhood. What you see in her I don't know. 
It isn't only the want of money that I think about - nothing of the kind - 
but there's neither beauty, nor cleverness, nor goodness, nor anything else 
that's desirable. If you knew your own value, as I do, you wouldn't dream 
of it. Do wait awhile and see! If you bind yourself to her, you'll repent 
it all your lifetime when you look round and see how many better there are. 
Take my word for it, you will.'
'Well, mother, do be quiet! I hate to be lectured! I'm not going to marry 
yet, I tell you! but - dear me! mayn't I enjoy myself at all?'
'Yes, my dear boy, but not in that way. Indeed, you shouldn't do such 
things. You would be wronging the girl, if she were what she ought to be; 
but I assure you she is as artful a little hussy as anybody need wish to 
see; and you'll get entangled in her snares before you know where you are. 
And if you marry her, Gilbert, you'll break my heart! so there's an end of 
it.'
'Well, don't cry about it, mother,' said I, for the tears were gushing from 
her eyes; 'there, let that kiss efface the one I gave Eliza; don't abuse 
her any more, and set your mind at rest; for I'll promise never - that is, 
I'll promise to think twice before I take any important step you seriously 
disapprove of.'
So saying, I lighted my candle, and went to bed, considerably quenched in 
spirit.



Chapter 5

It was about the close of the month, that, yielding at length to the urgent 
importunities of Rose, I accompanied her in a visit to Wildfell Hall. To 
our surprise we were ushered into a room where the first object that met 
the eye was a painter's easel, with a table beside it covered with rolls of 
canvas, bottles of oil and varnish, palette, brushes, paints, etc. Leaning 
against the wall were several sketches in various stages of progression, 
and a few finished paintings - mostly of landscapes and figures.
'I must make you welcome to my studio,' said Mrs Graham, 'there is no fire 
in the sitting-room to-day, and it is rather too cold to show you into a 
place with an empty grate.'
And disengaging a couple of chairs from the artistical lumber that usurped 
them, she bid us be seated, and resumed her place beside the easel - not 
facing it exactly, but now and then glancing at the picture upon it while 
she conversed, and giving it an occasional touch with her brush, as if she 
found it impossible to wean her attention entirely from her occupation to 
fix it upon her guests. It was a view of Wildfell Hall, as seen at early 
morning from the field below, rising in dark relief against a sky of clear 
silvery blue, with a few red streaks on the horizon, faithfully drawn and 
coloured, and very elegantly and artistically handled.
'I see your heart is in your work, Mrs Graham,' observed I: 'I must beg you 
to go on with it; for if you suffer our presence to interrupt you, we shall 
be constrained to regard ourselves as unwelcome intruders.'
'Oh, no!' replied she, throwing her brush on to the table, as if startled 
into politeness. 'I am not so beset with visitors, but that I can readily 
spare a few minutes to the few that do favour me with their company.'
'You have almost completed your painting,' said I, approaching to observe 
it more closely, and surveying it with a greater degree of admiration and 
delight than I cared to express. 'A few more touches in the foreground will 
finish it, I should think. But why have you called it Fernley Manor, 
Cumberland, instead of Wildfell Hall, --shire?' I asked, alluding to the 
name she had traced in small characters at the bottom of the canvas.
But immediately I was sensible of having committed an act of impertinence 
in so doing; for she coloured and hesitated; but after a moment's pause, 
with a kind of desperate frankness, she replied -
'Because I have friends - acquaintances at least - in the world from whom I 
desire my present abode to be concealed; and as they might see the picture, 
and might possibly recognise the style, in spite of the false initials I 
have put in the corner, I take the precaution to give a false name to the 
place also, in order to put them on a wrong scent, if they should attempt 
to trace me out by it.'
'Then you don't intend to keep the picture?' said I, anxious to say 
anything to change the subject.
'No; I cannot afford to paint for my own amusement.'
'Mamma sends all her pictures to London,' said Arthur; 'and somebody sells 
them for her there, and sends us the money.'
In looking round upon the other pieces, I remarked a pretty sketch of 
Lindenhope from the top of the hill; another view of the old hall, basking 
in the sunny haze of a quiet summer afternoon; and a simple but striking 
little picture of a child brooding with looks of silent but deep and 
sorrowful regret, over a handful of withered flowers, with glimpses of dark 
low hills and autumnal fields behind it, and a dull beclouded sky above.
'You see there is a sad dearth of subjects,' observed the fair artist. 'I 
took the old hall once on a moonlight night, and I suppose I must take it 
again on a snowy winter's day, and then again on a dark cloudy evening; for 
I really have nothing else to paint. I have been told that you have a fine 
view of the sea, somewhere in the neighbourhood - Is it true? - and is it 
within walking distance?'
'Yes, if you don't object to walking four miles - or nearly so - little 
short of eight miles, there and back - and over a somewhat rough, fatiguing 
road.'
'In what direction does it lie?'
I described the situation as well as I could, and was entering upon an 
explanation of the various roads, lanes, and fields to be traversed in 
order to reach it, the goings straight on, and turnings to the right and to 
the left, when she checked me with -
'Oh, stop! don't tell me now: I shall forget every word of your directions 
before I require them. I shall not think about going till next spring; and 
then, perhaps, I may trouble you. At present we have the winter before us, 
and -'
She suddenly paused, with a suppressed exclamation, started up from her 
seat, and saying, 'Excuse me one moment,' hurried from the room, and shut 
the door behind her.
Curious to see what had startled her so, I looked towards the window - for 
her eyes had been carelessly fixed upon it the moment before - and just 
beheld the skirts of a man's coat vanishing behind a large holly-bush that 
stood between the window and the porch.
'It's mamma's friend,' said Arthur.
Rose and I looked at each other.
'I don't know what to make of her at all,' whispered Rose.
The child looked at her in grave surprise. She straightway began to talk to 
him on indifferent matters, while I amused myself with looking at the 
pictures. There was one in an obscure corner that I had not before 
observed. It was a little child, seated on the grass with its lap full of 
flowers. The tiny features and large blue eyes, smiling through a shock of 
light brown curls, shaken over the forehead as it bent over its treasure, 
bore sufficient resemblance to those of the young gentleman before me, to 
proclaim it a portrait of Arthur Graham in his early infancy.
In taking this up to bring it to the light, I discovered another behind it, 
with its face to the wall. I ventured to take that up too. It was the 
portrait of a gentleman in the full prime of youthful manhood - handsome 
enough, and not badly executed, but, if done by the same hand as the 
others, it was evidently some years before; for there was far more careful 
minuteness of detail, and less of that freshness of colouring and freedom 
of handling, that delighted and surprised me in them. Nevertheless, I 
surveyed it with considerable interest. There was a certain individuality 
in the features and expression that stamped it, at once, a successful 
likeness. The bright blue eyes regarded the spectator with a kind of 
lurking drollery - you almost expected to see them wink; the lips - a 
little too voluptuously full - seemed ready to break into a smile; the 
warmly-tinted cheeks were embellished with a luxuriant growth of reddish 
whiskers; while the bright chestnut hair, clustering in abundant, wavy 
curls, trespassed too much upon the forehead, and seemed to intimate that 
the owner thereof was prouder of his beauty than his intellect - as, 
perhaps, he had reason to be; and yet he looked no fool.
I had not had the portrait in my hands two minutes before the fair artist 
returned.
'Only someone come about the pictures,' said she, in apology for her abrupt 
departure. 'I told him to wait.'
'I fear it will be considered an act of impertinence,' said I, 'to presume 
to look at a picture that the artist has turned to the wall; but may I ask 
-'
'It is an act of very great impertinence, sir; and therefore I beg you will 
ask nothing about it, for your curiosity will not be gratified,' replied 
she, attempting to cover the tartness of her rebuke with a smile; but I 
could see, by her flushed cheek and kindling eye, that she was seriously 
annoyed.
'I was only going to ask if you had painted it yourself,' said I, sulkily 
resigning the picture into her hands; for without a grain of ceremony she 
took it from me; and quickly restoring it to the dark corner, with its face 
to the wall, placed the other against it as before, and then turned to me 
and laughed.
But I was in no humour for jesting. I carelessly turned to the window, and 
stood looking out upon the desolate garden, leaving her to talk to Rose for 
a minute or two; and then, telling my sister it was time to go, shook hands 
with the little gentleman, coolly bowed to the lady, and moved towards the 
door. But, having bid adieu to Rose, Mrs Graham presented her hand to me, 
saying, with a soft voice, and by no means a disagreeable smile -
'Let not the sun go down upon your wrath, Mr Markham. I'm sorry I offended 
you by my abruptness.'
When a lady condescends to apologise, there is no keeping one's anger of 
course; so we parted good friends for once; and this time I squeezed her 
hand with a cordial, not a spiteful pressure.



Chapter 6

During the next four months I did not enter Mrs Graham's house, nor she 
mine; but still the ladies continued to talk about her, and still our 
acquaintance continued, though slowly, to advance. As for their talk, I 
paid but little attention to that (when it related to the fair hermit, I 
mean), and the only information I derived from it was, that, one fine 
frosty day, she had ventured to take her little boy as far as the vicarage, 
and that, unfortunately, nobody was at home but Miss Millward; 
nevertheless, she had sat a long time, and, by all accounts, they had found 
a good deal to say to each other, and parted with a mutual desire to meet 
again. But Mary liked children, and fond mammas like those who can duly 
appreciate their treasures.
But sometimes I saw her myself, not only when she came to church, but when 
she was out on the hills with her son, whether taking a long, purpose-like 
walk, or - on special fine days - leisurely rambling over the moor or the 
bleak pasture-lands surrounding the old hall, herself with a book in her 
hand, her son gambolling about her; and on any of these occasions, when I 
caught sight of her in my solitary walks or rides, or while following my 
agricultural pursuits, I generally contrived to meet or overtake her, for I 
rather liked to see Mrs Graham, and to talk to her, and I decidedly liked 
to talk to her little companion, whom, when once the ice of his shyness was 
fairly broken, I found to be a very amiable, intelligent, and entertaining 
little fellow; and we soon became excellent friends - how much to the 
gratification of his mamma I cannot undertake to say. I suspected at first 
that she was desirous of throwing cold water on this growing intimacy - to 
quench, as it were, the kindling flame of our friendship - but discovering, 
at length, in spite of her prejudice against me, that I was perfectly 
harmless, and even well-intentioned, and that, between myself and my dog, 
her son derived a great deal of pleasure from the acquaintance that he 
would not otherwise have known, she ceased to object, and even welcomed my 
coming with a smile.
As for Arthur, he would shout his welcome from afar, and run to meet me 
fifty yards from his mother's side. If I happened to be on horseback, he 
was sure to get a canter or a gallop; or, if there was one of the draught 
horses within an available distance, he was treated to a steady ride upon 
that, which served his turn almost as well; but his mother would always 
follow and trudge beside him - not so much, I believe, to ensure his safe 
conduct, as to see that I instilled no objectionable notions into his 
infant mind, for she was ever on the watch, and never would allow him to be 
taken out of her sight. What pleased her best of all was to see him romping 
and racing with Sancho, while I walked by her side - not, I fear, for love 
of my company (though I sometimes deluded myself with that idea), so much 
as for the delight she took in seeing her son thus happily engaged in the 
enjoyment of those active sports so invigorating to his tender frame, yet 
so seldom exercised for want of playmates suited to his years; and, 
perhaps, her pleasure was sweetened not a little by the fact of my being 
with her instead of with him, and therefore incapable of doing him any 
injury directly or indirectly, designedly or otherwise, small thanks to her 
for that same.
But sometimes, I believe, she really had some little gratification in 
conversing with me; and one bright February morning, during twenty minutes' 
stroll along the moor, she laid aside her usual asperity and reserve, and 
fairly entered into conversation with me, discoursing with so much 
eloquence and depth of thought and feeling on a subject happily coinciding 
with my own ideas, and looking so beautiful withal, that I went home 
enchanted; and on the way (morally) started to find myself thinking that, 
after all, it would, perhaps, be better to spend one's days with such a 
woman than with Eliza Millward; and then, I (figuratively) blushed for my 
inconstancy.
On entering the parlour I found Eliza there with Rose, and no one else. The 
surprise was not altogether so agreeable as it ought to have been. We 
chatted together a long time, but I found her rather frivolous, and even a 
little insipid, compared with the more matured and earnest Mrs Graham. Alas 
for human constancy!
'However,' thought I, 'I ought not to marry Eliza, since my mother so 
strongly objects to it, and I ought not to delude the girl with the idea 
that I intended to do so. Now, if this mood continue, I shall have less 
difficulty in emancipating my affections from her soft yet unrelenting 
sway; and, though Mrs Graham might be equally objectionable, I may be 
permitted, like the doctors, to cure a greater evil by a less, for I shall 
not fall seriously in love with the young widow, I think, nor she with me - 
that's certain - but if I find a little pleasure in her society I may 
surely be allowed to seek it; and if the star of her divinity be bright 
enough to dim the lustre of Eliza's, so much the better, but I scarcely can 
think it.'
And thereafter I seldom suffered a fine day to pass without paying a visit 
to Wildfell about the time my new acquaintance usually left her hermitage; 
but so frequently was I balked in my expectations of another interview, so 
changeable was she in her times of coming forth and in her places of 
resort, so transient were the occasional glimpses I was able to obtain, 
that I felt half inclined to think she took as much pains to avoid my 
company as I to seek hers; but this was too disagreeable a supposition to 
be entertained a moment after it could conveniently be dismissed.
One calm, clear afternoon, however, in March, as I was superntending the 
rolling of the meadow-land, and the repairing of a hedge in the valley, I 
saw Mrs Graham down by the brook, with a sketch-book in her hand, absorbed 
in the exercise of her favourite art, while Arthur was putting on the time 
with constructing dams and breakwaters in the shallow, stony stream. I was 
rather in want of amusement, and so rare an opportunity was not to be 
neglected; so, leaving both meadow and hedge, I quickly repaired to the 
spot, but not before Sancho, who, immediately upon perceiving his young 
friend, scoured at full gallop the intervening space, and pounced upon him 
with an impetuous mirth that precipitated the child almost into the middle 
of the beck; but, happily, the stones preserved him from any serious 
wetting, while their smoothness prevented his being too much hurt to laugh 
at the untoward event.
Mrs Graham was studying the distinctive characters of the different 
varieties of trees in their winter nakedness, and copying, with a spirited, 
though delicate touch, their various ramifications. She did not talk much, 
but I stood and watched the progress of her pencil: it was a pleasure to 
behold it so dextrously guided by those fair and graceful fingers. But ere 
long their dexterity became impaired, they began to hesitate, to tremble 
slightly, and make false strokes, and then suddenly came to a pause, while 
their owner laughingly raised her face to mine, and told me that her sketch 
did not profit by my superintendence.
'Then,' said I, 'I'll talk to Arthur till you've done.'
'I should like to have a ride, Mr Markham, if mamma will let me,' said the 
child.
'What on, my boy?'
'I think there's a horse in that field,' replied he, pointing to where the 
strong black mare was pulling the roller.
'No, no, Arthur; it's too far,' objected his mother.
But I promised to bring him safe back after a turn or two up and down the 
meadow; and when she looked at his eager face she smiled and let him go. It 
was the first time she had even allowed me to take him so much as half a 
field's length from her side.
Enthroned upon his monstrous steed, and solemnly proceeding up and down the 
wide, steep field, he looked the very incarnation of quiet, gleeful 
satisfaction and delight. The rolling, however, was soon completed; but 
when I dismounted the gallant horseman, and restored him to his mother, she 
seemed rather displeased at my keeping him so long. She had shut up her 
sketch-book, and been, probably, for some minutes impatiently waiting his 
return.
It was now high time to go home, she said, and would have bid me good 
evening, but I was not going to leave her yet: I accompanied her half way 
up the hill. She became more sociable, and I was beginning to be very 
happy; but, on coming within sight of the grim old hall, she stood still 
and turned towards me while she spoke, as if expecting I should go no 
further, that the conversation would end here, and I should now take leave 
and depart - as, indeed, it was time to do, for 'the clear, cold eve' was 
fast 'declining', the sun had set, and the gibbous moon was visibly 
brightening in the pale grey sky; but a feeling almost of compassion 
riveted me to the spot. It seemed hard to leave her to such a lonely, 
comfortless home. I looked up at it. Silent and grim it frowned before us. 
A faint, red light was gleaming from the lower windows of one wing, but all 
the other windows were in darkness, and many exhibited their black, 
cavernous gulfs, entirely destitute of glazing or framework.
'Do you not find it a desolate place to live in?' said I, after a moment of 
silent contemplation.
'I do, sometimes,' replied she. 'On winter evenings, when Arthur is in bed, 
and I am sitting there alone, hearing the bleak wind moaning round me and 
howling through the ruinous old chambers, no books or occupations can 
repress the dismal thoughts and apprehensions that come crowding in - but 
it is folly to give way to such weakness, I know. If Rachel is satisfied 
with such a life, why should not I? Indeed I cannot be too thankful for 
such an asylum, while it is left me.'
The closing sentence was uttered in an undertone, as if spoken rather to 
herself than to me. She then bid me good evening and withdrew.
I had not proceeded many steps on my way homewards, when I perceived Mr 
Lawrence, on his pretty grey pony, coming up the rugged lane that crossed 
over the hill-top. I went a little out of my way to speak to him; for we 
had not met for some time.
'Was that Mrs Graham you were speaking to just now?' said he, after the 
first few words of greeting had passed between us.
'Yes.'
'Humph! I thought so.' He looked contemplatively at his horse's mane, as if 
he had some serious cause of dissatisfaction with it, or something else.
'Well! what then?'
'Oh, nothing!' replied he. 'Only, I thought you disliked her,' he quietly 
added, curling his classic lip with a slightly sarcastic smile.
'Suppose I did; mayn't a man change his mind on further acquaintance?'
'Yes, of course,' returned he, nicely reducing an entanglement in the 
pony's redundant hoary mane. Then suddenly turning to me, and fixing his 
shy, hazel eyes upon me with a steady, penetrating gaze, he added, 'Then 
you have changed your mind?'
'I can't say that I have exactly. No; I think I hold the same opinion 
respecting her as before - but slightly ameliorated.'
'Oh!' He looked round for something else to talk about; and glancing up at 
the moon, made some remark upon the beauty of the evening, which I did not 
answer, as being irrelevant to the subject.
'Lawrence,' said I, calmly looking him in the face, 'are you in love with 
Mrs Graham?'
Instead of his being deeply offended at this, as I more than half expected 
he would, the first start of surprise at the audacious question was 
followed by a tittering laugh, as if he was highly amused at the idea.
'I in love with her!' repeated he. 'What makes you dream of such a thing?'
'From the interest you take in the progress of my acquaintance with the 
lady, and the changes of my opinion concerning her. I thought you might be 
jealous.'
He laughed again. 'Jealous! no - but I thought you were going to marry 
Eliza Millward?'
'You thought wrong, then; I am not going to marry either one or the other - 
that I know of.'
'Then I think you'd better let them alone.'
'Are you going to marry Jane Wilson?'
He coloured, and played with the mane again, but answered:
'No, I think not.'
'Then you had better let her alone.'
She won't let me alone - he might have said; but he only looked silly and 
said nothing for the space of half a minute, and then made another attempt 
to turn the conversation; and this time, I let it pass; for he had borne 
enough: another word on the subject would have been like the last atom that 
breaks the camel's back.
I was too late for tea; but my mother had kindly kept the tea-pot and 
muffin warm upon the hob, and, though she scolded me a little, readily 
admitted my excuses; and when I complained of the flavour of the overdrawn 
tea, she poured the remainder into the slop-basin, and bade Rose put some 
fresh into the pot, and reboil the kettle, which offices were performed 
with great commotion, and certain remarkable comments.
'Well! if it had been me now, I should have had no tea at all - if it had 
been Fergus, even, he would have to put up with such as there was, and been 
told to be thankful, for it was far too good for him; but you, we can't do 
too much for you. It's always so - if there's anything particularly nice at 
table, mamma winks and nods at me, to abstain from it, and if I don't 
attend to that, she whispers, "Don't eat so much of that, Rose; Gilbert 
will like it for his supper" - I'm nothing at all. In the parlour, it's 
"Come, Rose, put away your things, and let's have the room nice and tidy 
against they come in; and keep up a good fire; Gilbert likes a cheerful 
fire." In the kitchen - "Make that pie a large one, Rose; I dare say the 
boys'll be hungry; and don't put so much pepper in, they'll not like it, 
I'm sure" - or, "Rose, don't put so many spices in the pudding, Gilbert 
likes it plain," - or, "Mind you put plenty of currants in the cake, Fergus 
likes plenty." If I say, "Well, mamma, I don't," I'm told I ought not to 
think of myself - "You know, Rose, in all household matters, we have only 
two things to consider, first, what's proper to be done, and, secondly, 
what's most agreeable to the gentlemen of the house - anything will do for 
the ladies." '
'And very good doctrine too,' said my mother. 'Gilbert thinks so, I'm 
sure.'
'Very convenient doctrine for us, at all events,' said I; 'but if you would 
really study my pleasure, mother, you must consider your own comfort and 
convenience a little more than you do - as for Rose, I have no doubt she'll 
take care of herself; and whenever she does make a sacrifice or perform a 
remarkable act of devotedness, she'll take good care to let me know the 
extent of it. But for you, I might sink into the grossest condition of self-
indulgence and carelessness about the wants of others, from the mere habit 
of being constantly cared for myself, and having all my wants anticipated 
or immediately supplied, while left in total ignorance of what is done for 
me - if Rose did not enlighten me now and then; and I should receive all 
your kindness as a matter of course, and never know how much I owe you.'
'Ah! and you never will know, Gilbert, till you're married. Then, when 
you've got some trifling, self-conceited girl like Eliza Millward, careless 
of everything but her own immediate pleasure and advantage, or some 
misguided, obstinate woman like Mrs Graham, ignorant of her principal 
duties, and clever only in what concerns her least to know - then you'll 
find the difference.'
'It will do me good, mother; I was not sent into the world merely to 
exercise the good capacities and good feelings of others - was I? - but to 
exert my own towards them; and when I marry, I shall expect to find more 
pleasure in making my wife happy and comfortable, than in being made so by 
her: I would rather give than receive.'
'Oh! that's all nonsense, my dear. It's mere boy's talk that! You'll soon 
tire of petting and humouring your wife, be she ever so charming, and then 
comes the trial.'
'Well, then, we must bear one another's burdens.'
'Then you must fall each into your proper place. You'll do your business, 
and she, if she's worthy of you, will do hers; but it's your business to 
please yourself, and hers to please you. I'm sure your poor, dear father 
was as good a husband as ever lived, and after the first six months or so 
were over, I should as soon have expected him to fly, as to put himself out 
of his way to pleasure me. He always said I was a good wife, and did my 
duty; and he always did his - bless him! - he was steady and punctual, 
seldom found fault without a reason, always did justice to my good dinners, 
and hardly ever spoiled my cookery by delay - and that's as much as any 
woman can expect of any man.'
Is it so, Halford? Is that the extent of your domestic virtues; and does 
your happy wife exact no more?



Chapter 7

Not many days after this, on a mild sunny morning - rather soft under foot; 
for the last fall of snow was only just wasted away, leaving yet a thin 
ridge, here and there, lingering on the fresh green grass beneath the 
hedges; but beside them already, the young primroses were peeping from 
among their moist, dark foliage, and the lark above was singing of summer, 
and hope, and love, and every heavenly thing - I was out on the hillside, 
enjoying these delights, and looking after the well-being of my young lambs 
and their mothers, when, on glancing round me, I beheld three persons 
ascending from the vale below. They were Eliza Millward, Fergus, and Rose; 
so I crossed the field to meet them; and, being told they were going to 
Wildfell Hall, I declared myself willing to go with them, and offering my 
arm to Eliza, who readily accepted it in lieu of my brother's, told the 
latter he might go back, for I would accompany the ladies.
'I beg your pardon!' exclaimed he. 'It's the ladies that are accompanying 
me, not I them. You had all had a peep at this wonderful stranger but me, 
and I could endure my wretched ignorance no longer - come what would, I 
must be satisfied; so I begged Rose to go with me to the hall, and 
introduce me to her at once. She swore she would not, unless Miss Eliza 
would go too; so I ran to the vicarage and fetched her; and we've come 
hooked all the way, as fond as a pair of lovers - and now you've taken her 
from me; and you want to deprive me of my walk and my visit besides. Go 
back to your fields and your cattle, you lubberly fellow; you're not fit to 
associate with ladies and gentlemen, like us, that have nothing to do but 
to run snooking about to our neighbours' houses, peeping into their private 
corners, and scenting out their secrets, and picking holes in their coats, 
when we don't find them ready-made to our hands - you don't understand such 
refined sources of enjoyment.'
'Can't you both go?' suggested Eliza, disregarding the latter half of the 
speech.
'Yes, both, to be sure!' cried Rose; 'the more the merrier - and I'm sure 
we shall want all the cheerfulness we can carry with us to that great, 
dark, gloomy room, with its narrow latticed windows, and its dismal old 
furniture - unless she shows us into her studio again.'
So we went all in a body; and the meagre old maid-servant that opened the 
door, ushered us into an apartment, such as Rose had described to me as the 
scene of her first introduction to Mrs Graham, a tolerably spacious and 
lofty room, but obscurely lighted by the old-fashioned windows, the 
ceiling, panels, and chimney-piece of grim black oak - the latter 
elaborately but not very tastefully carved - with tables and chairs to 
match, an old bookcase on one side of the fireplace, stocked with a motley 
assemblage of books, and an elderly cabinet piano on the other.
The lady was seated in a stiff, high-backed, arm-chair, with a small, round 
table, containing a desk and a work-basket, on one side of her, and her 
little boy on the other, who stood leaning his elbow on her knee, and 
reading to her, with wonderful fluency, from a small volume that lay in her 
lap; while she rested her hand on his shoulder, and abstractedly played 
with the long, wavy curls that fell on his ivory neck. They struck me as 
forming a pleasing contrast to all the surrounding objects; but of course 
their position was immediately changed on our entrance. I could only 
observe the picture during the few brief seconds that Rachel held the door 
for our admittance.
I do not think Mrs Graham was particularly delighted to see us: there was 
something indescribably chilly in her quiet, calm civility, but I did not 
talk much to her. Seating myself near the window, a little back from the 
circle, I called Arthur to me, and he and I and Sancho amused ourselves 
very pleasantly together, while the two young ladies baited his mother with 
small talk, and Fergus sat opposite, with his legs crossed, and his hands 
in his breeches' pockets, leaning back in his chair, and staring now up at 
the ceiling, now straight forward at his hostess (in a manner that made me 
strongly inclined to kick him out of the room), now whistling sotto voce to 
himself a snatch of a favourite air, now interrupting the conversation, or 
filling up a pause (as the case might be) with some most impertinent 
question or remark. At one time it was -
'It amazes me, Mrs Graham, how you could choose such a dilapidated, rickety 
old place as this to live in. If you couldn't afford to occupy the whole 
house, and have it mended up, why couldn't you take a neat little cottage?'
'Perhaps I was too proud, Mr Fergus,' replied she, smiling; 'perhaps I took 
a particular fancy for this romantic, old-fashioned place - but, indeed, it 
has many advantages over a cottage. In the first place, you see, the rooms 
are larger and more airy; in the second place, the unoccupied apartments, 
which I don't pay for, may serve as lumber-rooms, if I have anything to put 
in them; and they are very useful for my little boy to run about in on 
rainy days when he can't go out; and then there is the garden for him to 
play in, and for me to work in. You see I have effected some little 
improvement already,' continued she, turning to the window. 'There is a bed 
of young vegetables in that corner, and here are some snowdrops and 
primroses already in bloom - and there, too, is a yellow crocus just 
opening in the sunshine.'
'But then how can you bear such a situation - your nearest neighbours two 
miles distant, and nobody looking in or passing by? - Rose would go stark 
mad in such a place. She can't put on life unless she sees half-a-dozen 
fresh gowns and bonnets a day - not to speak of the faces within; but you 
might sit watching at these windows all day long, and never see so much as 
an old woman carrying her eggs to market.'
'I am not sure the loneliness of the place was not one of its chief 
recommendations. I take no pleasure in watching people pass the windows; 
and I like to be quiet.'
'Oh! as good as to say, you wish we would all of us mind our own business, 
and let you alone.'
'No, I dislike an extensive acquaintance; but if I have a few friends, of 
course I am glad to see them occasionally. No one can be happy in eternal 
solitude. Therefore, Mr Fergus, if you choose to enter my house as a 
friend, I will make you welcome; if not, I must confess, I would rather you 
kept away.' She then turned and addressed some observation to Rose or 
Eliza.
'And Mrs Graham,' said he again, five minutes after, 'we were disputing, as 
we came along, a question that you can readily decide for us, as it mainly 
regarded yourself - and, indeed, we often hold discussions about our 
neighbours' concerns, and we, the indigenous plants of the soil, have known 
each other so long, and talked each other over so often, that we are quite 
sick of that game; so that a stranger coming amongst us makes an invaluable 
addition to our exhausted sources of amusement. Well, the question, or 
questions, you are requested to solve -'
'Hold your tongue, Fergus!' cried Rose, in a fever of apprehension and 
wrath.
'I won't, I tell you. The questions you are requested to solve are these: 
First, concerning your birth, extraction, and previous residence. Some will 
have it that you are a foreigner, and some an Englishwoman; some a native 
of the north country, and some of the south; some say -'
'Well, Mr Fergus, I'll tell you. I'm an Englishwoman - and I don't see why 
any one should doubt it - and I was born in the country neither in the 
extreme north nor south of our happy isle; and in the country I have 
chiefly passed my life, and now, I hope, you are satisfied; for I am not 
disposed to answer any more questions at present.'
'Except this -'
'No, not one more!' laughed she, and, instantly quitting her seat, she 
sought refuge at the window by which I was seated, and, in very 
desperation, to escape my brother's persecutions, endeavoured to draw me 
into conversation.
'Mr Markham,' said she, her rapid utterance and heightened colour too 
plainly evincing her disquietude; 'have you forgotten the fine sea-view we 
were speaking of some time ago? I think I must trouble you, now, to tell me 
the nearest way to it; for if this beautiful weather continue, I shall, 
perhaps, be able to walk there, and take my sketch; I have exhausted every 
other subject for painting; and I long to see it.'
I was about to comply with her request, but Rose would not suffer me to 
proceed.
'Oh, don't tell her, Gilbert!' cried she; 'she shall go with us. It's-Bay 
you are thinking about, I suppose, Mrs Graham? It is a very long walk, too 
far for you, and out of the question for Arthur. But we were thinking about 
making a picnic to see it, some fine day; and, if you will wait till the 
settled fine weather comes, I'm sure we shall all be delighted to have you 
amongst us.'
Poor Mrs Graham looked dismayed, and attempted to make excuses, but Rose, 
either compassionating her lonely life, or anxious to cultivate her 
acquaintance, was determined to have her; and every objection was 
overruled. She was told it would only be a small party, and all friends, 
and that the best view of all was from Cliffs, full five miles distant.
'Just a nice walk for the gentlemen,' continued Rose; 'but the ladies will 
drive and walk by turns; for we shall have our ponycarriage, which will be 
plenty large enough to contain little Arthur and three ladies, together 
with your sketching apparatus, and our provisions.'
So the proposal was finally acceded to; and, after some further discussion 
respecting the time and manner of the projected excursion, we rose, and 
took our leave.
But this was only March: a cold, wet April, and two weeks of May passed 
over before we could venture forth on our expedition with the reasonable 
hope of obtaining that pleasure we sought in pleasant prospects, cheerful 
society, fresh air, good cheer and exercise, without the alloy of bad 
roads, cold winds, or threatening clouds. Then, on a glorious morning, we 
gathered our forces and set forth. The company consisted of Mrs and Master 
Graham, Mary and Eliza Millward, Jane and Richard Wilson, and Rose, Fergus, 
and Gilbert Markham.
Mr Lawrence had been invited to join us, but, for some reason best known to 
himself, had refused to give us his company. I had solicited the favour 
myself. When I did so, he hesitated, and asked who were going. Upon my 
naming Miss Wilson among the rest, he seemed half inclined to go, but when 
I mentioned Mrs Graham, thinking it might be a further inducement, it 
appeared to have a contrary effect, and he declined it altogether, and, to 
confess the truth, the decision was not displeasing to me, though I could 
scarcely tell you why.
It was about mid-day when we reached the place of our destination. Mrs 
Graham walked all the way to the cliffs; and little Arthur walked the 
greater part of it too; for he was now much more hardy and active than when 
he first entered the neighbourhood, and he did not like being in the 
carriage with strangers, while all his four friends, mamma, and Sancho, and 
Mr Markham, and Miss Millward, were on foot, journeying far behind, or 
passing through distant fields and lanes.
I have a very pleasant recollection of that walk, along the hard, white, 
sunny road, shaded here and there with bright green trees, and adorned with 
flowery banks, and blossoming hedges of delicious fragrance; or through 
pleasant fields and lanes, all glorious in the sweet flowers and brilliant 
verdure of delightful May. It was true, Eliza was not beside me: but she 
was with her friends in the ponycarriage, as happy, I trusted, as I was; 
and even when we pedestrians, having forsaken the highway for a short cut 
across the fields, beheld the little carriage far away, disappearing amid 
the green, embowering trees, I did not hate those trees for snatching the 
dear little bonnet and shawl from my sight, nor did I feel that all those 
intervening objects lay between my happiness and me; for, to confess the 
truth, I was too happy in the company of Mrs Graham to regret the absence 
of Eliza Millward.
The former, it is true, was most provokingly unsociable at first - 
seemingly bent upon talking to no one but Mary Millward and Arthur. She and 
Mary journeyed along together, generally with the child between them; but 
where the road permitted, I always walked on the other side of her, Richard 
Wilson taking the other side of Miss Millward, and Fergus roving here and 
there according to his fancy; and after a while she became more friendly, 
and at length I succeeded in securing her attention almost entirely to 
myself - and then I was happy indeed; for whenever she did condescend to 
converse, I liked to listen. Where her opinions and sentiments tallied with 
mine, it was her extreme good sense, her exquisite taste and feeling, that 
delighted me, where they differed, it was still her uncompromising boldness 
in the avowal or defence of that difference, her earnestness and keenness, 
that piqued my fancy: and even when she angered me by her unkind words or 
looks, and her uncharitable conclusions respecting me, it only made me the 
more dissatisfied with myself for having so unfavourably impressed her, and 
the more desirous to vindicate my character and disposition in her eyes, 
and, if possible, to win her esteem.
At length our walk was ended. The increasing height and boldness of the 
hills had for some time intercepted the prospect; but, on gaining the 
summit of a steep acclivity, and looking downward, an opening lay before us 
- and the blue sea burst upon our sight! - deep violet blue - not deadly 
calm, but covered with glinting breakers - diminutive white specks 
twinkling on its bosom, and scarcely to be distinguished, by the keenest 
vision, from the little sea-mews that sported above, their white wings 
glittering in the sunshine: only one or two vessels were visible: and those 
were far away.
I looked at my companion to see what she thought of this glorious scene. 
She said nothing: but she stood still, and fixed her eyes upon it with a 
gaze that assured me she was not disappointed. She had very fine eyes, by-
the-bye - I don't know whether I've told before, but they u-ere full of 
soul, large, clear, and nearly black - not brown, but very dark grey. A 
cool, reviving breeze blew from the sea-soft, pure, salubrious: it waved 
her drooping ringlets, and imparted a livelier colour to her usually too 
pallid lip and cheek. She felt its exhilarating influence, and so did I - I 
felt it tingling through my frame, but dared not give way to it while she 
remained so quiet. There was an aspect of subdued exhilaration in her face, 
that kindled into almost a smile of exalted, glad intelligence as her eye 
met mine. Never had she looked so lovely: never had my heart so warmly 
cleaved to her as now. Had we been left two minutes longer, standing there 
alone, I cannot answer for the consequences. Happily for my discretion, 
perhaps for my enjoyment during the remainder of the day, we were speedily 
summoned to the repast - a very respectable collation, which Rose, assisted 
by Miss Wilson and Eliza, who, having shared her seat in the carriage, had 
arrived with her a little before the rest, had set out upon an elevated 
platform overlooking the sea, and sheltered from the hot sun by a shelving 
rock and overhanging trees.
Mrs Graham seated herself at a distance from me. Eliza was my nearest 
neighbour. She exerted herself to be agreeable, in her gentle, unobtrusive 
way, and was, no doubt, as fascinating and charming as ever, if I could 
only have felt it. But soon, my heart began to warm towards her once again; 
and we were all very merry and happy together - as far as I could see - 
throughout the protracted, social meal.
When that was over, Rose summoned Fergus to help her to gather up the 
fragments, and the knives, dishes, etc., and restore them to the baskets; 
and Mrs Graham took her camp-stool and drawing materials; and having begged 
Miss Millward to take charge of her precious son, and strictly enjoined him 
not to wander from his new guardian's side, she left us, and proceeded 
along the steep, stony hill, to a loftier, more precipitous eminence at 
some distance, whence a still finer prospect was to be had, where she 
preferred taking her sketch, though some of the ladies told her it was a 
frightful place, and advised her not to attempt it.
When she was gone, I felt as if there was to be no more fun - though it was 
difficult to say what she had contributed to the hilarity of the party. No 
jests, and little laughter, had escaped her lips; but her smile had 
animated my mirth, a keen observation or a cheerful word from her had 
insensibly sharpened my wits, and thrown an interest over all that was done 
and said by the rest. Even my conversation with Eliza had been enlivened by 
her presence, though I knew it not; and now that she was gone, Eliza's 
playful nonsense ceased to amuse me - nay, grew wearisome to my soul, and I 
grew weary of amusing her: I felt myself drawn by an irresistible 
attraction to that distant point where the fair artist sat and plied her 
solitary task - and not long did I attempt to resist it: while my little 
neighbour was exchanging a few words with Miss Wilson, I rose and cannily 
slipped away. A few rapid strides, and a little active clambering, soon 
brought me to the place where she was seated - a narrow ledge of rock at 
the very verge of the cliff, which descended with a steep, precipitous 
slant, quite down to the rocky shore.
She did not hear me coming: the falling of my shadow across her paper gave 
her an electric start; and she looked hastily round - any other lady of my 
acquaintance would have screamed under such a sudden alarm.
'Oh! I didn't know it was you. Why did you startle me so?' said she, 
somewhat testily. 'I hate anybody to come upon me so unexpectedly.'
'Why, what did you take me for?' said I: 'if I had known you were so 
nervous, I would have been more cautious; but -'
'Well, never mind. What did you come for? are they all coming?'
'No; this little ledge could scarcely contain them all.'
'I'm glad, for I'm tired of talking.'
'Well, then, I won't talk. I'll only sit and watch your drawing.'
'Oh, but you know I don't like that.'
'Then I'll content myself with admiring this magnificent prospect.'
She made no objection to this; and, for some time, sketched away in 
silence. But I could not help stealing a glance, now and then, from the 
splendid view at our feet to the elegant white hands that held the pencil, 
and the graceful neck and glossy raven curls that drooped over the paper.
'Now,' thought I, 'if I had but a pencil and a morsel of paper, I could 
make a lovelier sketch than hers, admitting I had the power to delineate 
faithfully what is before me.'
But though this satisfaction was denied me, I was very well content to sit 
beside her there, and say nothing.
'Are you there still, Mr Markham?' said she at length, looking round upon 
me - for I was seated a little behind on a mossy projection of the cliff. 
'Why don't you go and amuse yourself with your friends?'
'Because I am tired of them, like you; and I shall have enough of them 
tomorrow - or at any time hence; but you I may not have the pleasure of 
seeing again for I know not how long.'
'What was Arthur doing when you came away?'
'He was with Miss Millward where you left him - all right, but hoping mamma 
would not be long away. You didn't entrust him to me, by-the-bye,' I 
grumbled, 'though I had the honour of a much longer acquaintance; but Miss 
Millward has the art of conciliating and amusing children,' I carelessly 
added, 'if she is good for nothing else.'
'Miss Millward has many estimable qualities, which such as you cannot be 
expected to perceive or appreciate. Will you tell Arthur that I shall come 
in a few minutes?'
'If that be the case, I will wait, with your permission, till those few 
minutes are past; and then I can assist you to descend this difficult 
path.'
'Thank you - I always manage best, on such occasions, without assistance.'
'But, at least, I can carry your stool and sketch-book.'
She did not deny me this favour; but I was rather offended at her evident 
desire to be rid of me, and was beginning to repent of my pertinacity, when 
she somewhat appeased me by consulting my taste and judgement about some 
doubtful matter in her drawing. My opinion, happily, met her approbation, 
and the improvement I suggested was adopted without hesitation.
'I have often wished in vain,' said she, 'for another's judgement to appeal 
to when I could scarcely trust the direction of my own eye and head, they 
having been so long occupied with the contemplation of a single object, as 
to become almost incapable of forming a proper idea respecting it.'
'That,' replied I, 'is only one of many evils to which a solitary life 
exposes us.'
'True,' said she; and again we relapsed into silence.
About two minutes after, however, she declared her sketch complete, and 
closed the book.
On returning to the scene of our repast, we found all the company had 
deserted it, with the exception of three - Mary Millward, Richard Wilson, 
and Arthur Graham. The younger gentleman lay fast asleep with his head 
pillowed on the lady's lap; the other was seated beside her with a pocket 
edition of some classic author in his hand. He never went anywhere without 
such a companion wherewith to improve his leisure moments: all time seemed 
lost that was not devoted to study, or exacted, by his physical nature, for 
the bare support of life. Even now, he could not abandon himself to the 
enjoyment of that pure air and balmy sunshine - that splendid prospect, and 
those soothing sounds, the music of the waves and of the soft wind in the 
sheltering trees above him - not even with a lady by his side (though not a 
very charming one, I will allow) - he must pull out his book and make the 
most of his time while digesting his temperate meal, and reposing his weary 
limbs, unused to so much exercise.
Perhaps, however, he spared a moment to exchange a word or a glance with 
his companion now and then - at any rate, she did not appear at all 
resentful of his conduct; for her homely features wore an expression of 
unusual cheerfulness and serenity, and she was studying his pale, 
thoughtful face with great complacency when we arrived.
The journey homeward was by no means so agreeable, to me, as the former 
part of the day; for now Mrs Graham was in the carriage, and Eliza Millward 
was the companion of my walk. She had observed my preference for the young 
widow, and evidently felt herself neglected. She did not manifest her 
chagrin by keen reproaches, bitter sarcasms, or pouting sullen silence - 
any or all of these I could easily have endured, or lightly laughed away; 
but she showed it by a kind of gentle melancholy, a mild, reproachful 
sadness that cut me to the heart. I tried to cheer her up, and apparently 
succeeded in some degree, before the walk was over; but in the very act my 
conscience reproved me, knowing, as I did, that, sooner or later, the tie 
must be broken, and this was only nourishing false hopes, and putting off 
the evil day.
When the pony-carriage had approached as near Wildfell Hall as the road 
would permit - unless, indeed, it proceeded up the long rough lane, which 
Mrs Graham would not allow - the young widow and her son alighted, 
relinquishing the latter's seat to Rose; and I persuaded Eliza to take the 
driver's place. Having put her comfortably in, bid her take care of the 
evening air, and wished her a kind good night, I felt considerably 
relieved, and hastened to offer my services to Mrs Graham to carry her 
apparatus up the fields, but she had already hung her camp-stool on her arm 
and taken her sketch-book in her hand; and insisted upon bidding me adieu 
then and there, with the rest of the company. But this time, she declined 
my proffered aid in so kind and friendly a manner that I almost forgave 
her.



Chapter 8

Six weeks had passed away. It was a splendid morning about O the close of 
June. Most of the hay was cut, but the last week had been very 
unfavourable; and now that fine weather was come at last, being determined 
to make the most of it, I had gathered all hands together into the 
hayfield, and u as working away myself, in the midst of them, in my 
shirtsleeves, with a light, shady straw hat on my head, catching up armfuls 
of moist, reeking grass, and shaking it out to the four winds of heaven, at 
the head of a goodly file of servants and hirelings - intending so to 
labour, from morning to night, with as much zeal and assiduity as I could 
look for from any of them, as well to prosper the work by my own exertion 
as to animate the workers by my example - when lo! my resolutions were 
overthrown in a moment, by the simple fact of my brother's running up to me 
and putting into my hand a small parcel, just arrived from London, which I 
had been for some time expecting. I tore off the cover, and disclosed an 
elegant and portable edition of Marmion.
'I guess I know who that's for,' said Fergus, who stood looking on while I 
complacently examined the volume. 'That's for Miss Eliza, now.'
He pronounced this with a tone and look so prodigiously knowing, that I was 
glad to contradict him.
'You're wrong, my lad,' said I; and taking up my coat, I deposited the book 
in one of its pockets, and then put it on (i.e., the coat) 'Now come here, 
you idle dog, and make yourself useful for once,' I continued - 'Pull off 
your coat, and take my place in the field till I come back.'
 'Till you come back? and where are you going, pray?'
'No matter where - the when is all that concerns you; and I shall be back 
by dinner, at least.'
'Oh, ho! and I'm to labour away till then, am I? and to keep all these 
fellows hard at it besides? Well, well! I'll submit - for once in a way. 
Come, my lads, you must look sharp: I'm come to help you now: and woe be to 
that man, or woman either, that pauses for a moment amongst you - whether 
to stare about him, to scratch his head, or blow his nose - no pretext will 
serve - nothing but work, work, work in the sweat of your face,' etc., etc.
Leaving him thus haranguing the people, more to their amusement than 
edification, I returned to the house, and having made some alteration in my 
toilet, hastened away to Wildfell Hall with the book in my pocket; for it 
was destined for the shelves of Mrs Graham.
'What, then, had she and you got on so well together as to come to the 
giving and receiving of presents?' Not precisely, old buck; this was my 
first experiment in that line; and I was very anxious to see the result of 
it.
We had met several times since the Bay excursion, and I had found she was 
not averse to my company, provided I confined my conversation to the 
discussion of abstract matters or topics of common interest; the moment I 
touched upon the sentimental or the complimentary, or made the slightest 
approach to tenderness in word or look, I was not only punished by an 
immediate change in her manner at the time, but doomed to find her more 
cold and distant, if not entirely inaccessible, when next I sought her 
company. This circumstance did not greatly disconcert me, however, because 
I attributed it, not so much to any dislike of my person, as to some 
absolute resolution against a second marriage formed prior to the time of 
our acquaintance, whether from excess of affection for her late husband, or 
because she had had enough of him and the matrimonial state together. At 
first, indeed, she had seemed to take a pleasure in mortifying my vanity 
and crushing my presumption - relentlessly nipping off bud by bud as they 
ventured to appear; and then, I confess, I was deeply wounded, though, at 
the same time, stimulated to seek revenge; but latterly, finding, beyond a 
doubt, that I was not that empty-headed coxcomb she had at first supposed 
me, she had repulsed my modest advances in quite a different spirit. It was 
a kind of serious, almost sorrowful displeasure, which I soon learnt 
carefully to avoid awakening.
'Let me first establish my position as a friend,' thought I - 'the patron 
and playfellow of her son, the sober, solid, plain-dealing friend of 
herself, and then, when I have made myself fairly necessary to her comfort 
and enjoyment in life (as I believe I can), we'll see what next may be 
effected.'
So we talked about painting, poetry, and music, theology, geology, and 
philosophy: once or twice I lent her a book, and once she lent me one in 
return: I met her in her walks as often as I could; I came to her house as 
often as I dared. My first pretext for invading the sanctum was to bring 
Arthur a little waddling puppy of which Sancho was the father, and which 
delighted the child beyond expression, and, consequently, could not fail to 
please his mamma. My second was to bring him a book, which, knowing his 
mother's particularity, I had carefully selected, and which I submitted for 
her approbation before presenting it to him. Then, I brought her some 
plants for her garden, in my sister's name - having previously persuaded 
Rose to send them. Each of these times I inquired after the picture she was 
painting from the sketch taken on the cliff, and was admitted into the 
studio, and asked my opinion or advice respecting its progress.
My last visit had been to return the book she had lent me; and then it was, 
that, in casually discussing the poetry of Sir Walter Scott, she had 
expressed a wish to see Marmion, and I had conceived the presumptuous idea 
of making her a present of it, and, on my return home, instantly sent for 
the smart little volume I had this morning received. But an apology for 
invading the hermitage was still necessary; so I had furnished myself with 
a blue morocco collar for Arthur's little dog; and that being given and 
received, with much more joy and gratitude, on the part of the receiver, 
than the worth of the gift or the selfish motive of the giver deserved, I 
ventured to ask Mrs Graham for one more look at the picture, if it was 
still there.
'Oh, yes! come in,' said she (for I had met them in the garden). 'It is 
finished and framed, all ready for sending away; but give me your last 
opinion, and, if you can suggest any further improvement, it shall be - 
duly considered, at least.'
The picture was strikingly beautiful: it was the very scene itself, 
transferred as if by magic to the canvas; but I expressed my approbation in 
guarded terms, and few words, for fear of displeasing her. She, however, 
attentively watched my looks, and her artist's pride was gratified, no 
doubt, to read my heartfelt admiration in my eyes. But, while I gazed, I 
thought upon the book, and wondered how it was to be presented. My heart 
failed me; but I determined not to be such a fool as to come away without 
having made the attempt. It was useless waiting for an opportunity, and 
useless trying to concoct a speech for the occasion. The more plainly and 
naturally the thing was done, the better, I thought; so I just looked out 
of the window to screw up my courage, and then pulled out the book, turned 
round, and put it into her hand, with this short explanation -
'You were wishing to see Marmion, Mrs Graham; and here it is, if you will 
be so kind as to take it.'
A momentary blush suffused her face - perhaps a blush of sympathetic shame 
for such an awkward style of presentation: she gravely examined the volume 
on both sides; then silently turned over the leaves, knitting her brows the 
while, in serious cogitation; then closed the book, and turning from it to 
me, quietly asked the price of it - I felt the hot blood rush to my face.
'I'm sorry to offend you, Mr Markham,' said she, 'but unless I pay for the 
book, I cannot take it.' And she laid it on the table.
'Why cannot you?'
'Because' - she paused, and looked at the carpet.
'Why cannot you?' I repeated, with a degree of irascibility that roused her 
to lift her eyes, and look me steadily in the face.
'Because I don't like to put myself under obligations that I can never 
repay - I am obliged to you already for your kindness to my son; but his 
grateful affection and your own good feelings must reward you for that.'
'Nonsense!' ejaculated I.
She turned her eyes on me again, with a look of quiet, grave surprise, that 
had the effect of a rebuke, whether intended for such or not.
'Then you won't take the book?' I asked, more mildly than I had yet spoken.
'I will gladly take it, if you will let me pay for it.'
I told her the exact price, and the cost of the carriage besides, in as 
calm a tone as I could command - for, in fact, I was ready to weep with 
disappointment and vexation.
She produced her purse, and coolly counted out the money, but hesitated to 
put it into my hand. Attentively regarding me, in a tone of soothing 
softness, she observed -
'You think yourself insulted, Mr Markham - I wish I could make you 
understand that - that I
'I do understand you, perfectly,' I said. 'You think that if you were to 
accept that trifle from me now, I should presume upon it hereafter; but you 
are mistaken: if you will only oblige me by taking it, believe me, I shall 
build no hopes upon it, and consider this no precedent for future favours: 
and it is nonsense to talk about putting yourself under obligations to me 
when you must know that in such a case the obligation is entirely on my 
side, the favour on yours.'
- 'Well, then, I'll take you at your word,' she answered, with a most 
angelic smile, returning the odious money to her purse - 'but remember!'
'I will remember - what I have said; but do not you punish my presumption 
by withdrawing your friendship entirely from me - or expect me to atone for 
it by being more distant than before,' said I, extending my hand to take 
leave, for I was too much excited to remain.
'Well then! let us be as we were,' replied she, frankly placing her hand in 
mine; and while I held it there, I had much difficulty to refrain from 
pressing it to my lips; but that would be suicidal madness; I had been bold 
enough already, and this premature offering had well-nigh given the death-
blow to my hopes.
It was with an agitated burning heart and brain that I hurried homewards, 
regardless of that scorching noonday sun - forgetful of everything but her 
I had just left - regretting nothing but her impenetrability, and my own 
precipitancy and want of tact - fearing nothing but her hateful resolution, 
and my inability to overcome it - hoping nothing But halt - I will not bore 
you with my conflicting hopes and fears - my serious cogitations and 
resolves.



Chapter 9

Though my affections might now be said to be fairly weaned from Eliza 
Millward, I did not yet entirely relinquish my visits to the vicarage, 
because I wanted, as it were, to let her down easy; without raising much 
sorrow, or incurring much resentment - or making myself the talk of the 
parish; and besides, if I had wholly kept away, the vicar, who looked upon 
my visits as paid chiefly, if not entirely, to himself, would have felt 
himself decidedly affronted by the neglect. But when I called there the day 
after my interview with Mrs Graham, he happened to be from home - a 
circumstance by no means so agreeable to me now as it had been on former 
occasions. Miss Millward was there, it is true, but she, of course, would 
be little better than a nonentity. However, I resolved to make my visit a 
short one, and to talk to Eliza in a brotherly, friendly sort of way, such 
as our long acquaintance might warrant me in assuming, and which, I 
thought, could neither give offence nor serve to encourage false hopes.
It was never my custom to talk about Mrs Graham either to her or to any one 
else; but I had not been seated three minutes, before she brought that lady 
on to the carpet herself, in a rather remarkable manner.
'Oh, Mr Markham!' said she, with a shocked expression and voice subdued 
almost to a whisper, 'what do you think of these shocking reports about Mrs 
Graham? can you encourage us to disbelieve them?'
'What reports?'
'Ah, now! you know!' she slyly smiled and shook her head.
'I know nothing about them. What in the world do you mean, Eliza?'
'Oh, don't ask me! I can't explain it.' She took up the cambric 
handkerchief which she had been beautifying with a deep lace border, and 
began to be very busy.
'What is it, Miss Millward? what does she mean?' said I, appealing to her 
sister, who seemed to be absorbed in the hemming of a large, coarse sheet.
'I don't know,' replied she. 'Some idle slander somebody has been 
inventing, I suppose. I never heard it till Eliza told me the other day - 
but if all the parish dinned it in my ears, I shouldn't believe a word of 
it - I know Mrs Graham too well!'
'Quite right, Miss Millward! - and so do I - whatever it may be.'
'Well!' observed Eliza, with a gentle sigh, 'it's well to have such a 
comfortable assurance regarding the worth of those we love. I only wish you 
may not find your confidence misplaced.'
And she raised her face, and gave me such a look of sorrowful tenderness as 
might have melted my heart, but within those eyes there lurked a something 
that I did not like; and I wondered how I ever could have admired them; her 
sister's honest face and small grey optics appeared far more agreeable; but 
I was out of temper with Eliza, at that moment, for her insinuations 
against Mrs Graham, which were false, I was certain, whether she knew it or 
not.
I said nothing more on the subject, however, at the time, and but little on 
any other; for, finding I could not well recover my equanimity, I presently 
rose and took leave, excusing myself under the plea of business at the 
farm; and to the farm I went, not troubling my mind one whit about the 
possible truth of these mysterious reports, but only wondering what they 
were, by whom originated, and on what foundations raised, and how they 
could the most effectually be silenced or disproved.
A few days after this, we had another of our quiet little parties, to which 
the usual company of friends and neighbours had been invited, and Mrs 
Graham among the number. She could not now absent herself under the plea of 
dark evenings or inclement weather, and, greatly to my relief, she came. 
Without her I should have found the whole affair an intolerable bore; but 
the moment of her arrival brought new life to the house, and though I must 
not neglect the other guests for her, or expect to engross much of her 
attention and conversation to myself alone, I anticipated an evening of no 
common enjoyment.
Mr Lawrence came too. He did not arrive till some time after the rest were 
assembled. I was curious to see how he would comport himself to Mrs Graham. 
A slight bow was all that passed between them on his entrance; and having 
politely greeted the other members of the company, he seated himself quite 
aloof from the young widow, between my mother and Rose.
'Did you ever see such art?' whispered Eliza, who was my nearest neighbour. 
'Would you not say they w ere perfect strangers?'
'Almost; but what then?'
'What then! why, you can't pretend to be ignorant?'
'Ignorant of what?' demanded I, so sharply that she started and replied -
'Oh, hush! don't speak so loud.'
'Well, tell me then,' I answered in a lower tone, 'what is it you mean? I 
hate enigmas.'
'Well, you know, I don't vouch for the truth of it - indeed, far from it - 
but haven't you heard -'
'I've heard nothing, except from you.'
'You must be wilfully deaf then, for any one will tell you that; but I 
shall only anger you by repeating it, I see, so I had better hold my 
tongue.'
She closed her lips and folded her hands before her with an air of injured 
meekness.
'If you had wished not to anger me, you should have held your tongue from 
the beginning; or else spoken out plainly and honestly all you had to say.'
She turned aside her face, pulled out her handkerchief, rose and went to 
the window, where she stood for some time, evidently dissolved in tears. I 
was astounded, provoked, ashamed - not so much of my harshness as for her 
childish weakness. However, no one seemed to notice her, and shortly after 
we were summoned to the tea-table; in those parts it was customary to sit 
to the table at tea-time, on all occasions, and make a meal of it, for we 
dined early. On taking my seat, I had Rose on one side of me, and an empty 
chair on the other.
'May I sit by you?' said a soft voice at my elbow.
'If you like,' was the reply; and Eliza slipped into the vacant chair; then 
looking up into my face with a half-sad, half-playful smile, she whispered 
-
'You're so stern, Gilbert.'
I handed down her tea with a slightly contemptuous smile, and said nothing, 
for I had nothing to say.
'What have I done to offend you?' said she, more plaintively. 'I wish I 
knew.'
'Come, take your tea, Eliza, and don't be foolish,' responded I, handing 
her the sugar and cream.
Just then, there arose a slight commotion on the other side of me, 
occasioned by Miss Wilson's coming to negotiate an exchange of seats with 
Rose.
'Will you be so good as to exchange places with me, Miss Markham?' said 
she, 'for I don't like to sit by Mrs Graham. If your mamma thinks proper to 
invite such persons to her house, she cannot object to her daughter's 
keeping company with them.'
This latter clause was added in a sort of soliloquy when Rose was gone; but 
I was not polite enough to let it pass.
'Will you be so good as to tell me what you mean, Miss Wilson?' said I.
The question startled her a little, but not much.
'Why, Mr Markham,' replied she coolly, having quickly recovered her self-
possession, 'it surprises me rather that Mrs Markham should invite such a 
person as Mrs Graham to her house; but, perhaps, she is not aware that the 
lady's character is considered scarcely respectable.'
'She is not, nor am I; and therefore you will oblige me by explaining your 
meaning a little further.'
'This is scarcely the time or the place for such explanations; but I think 
you can hardly be so ignorant as you pretend, you must know her as well as 
I do.'
'I think I do, perhaps a little better; and therefore, if you will inform 
me what you have heard or imagined against her, I shall perhaps be able to 
set you right.'
'Can you tell me, then, who was her husband, or if she ever had any?
Indignation kept me silent. At such a time and place I could not trust 
myself to answer.
'Have you never observed,' said Eliza, 'what a striking likeness there is 
between that child of hers and -'
'And whom?' demanded Miss Wilson, with an air of cold, but keen severity.
Eliza was startled; the timidly spoken suggestion had been intended for my 
ear alone.
'Oh, I beg your pardon!' pleaded she, 'I may be mistaken - perhaps I was 
mistaken.' But she accompanied the words with a sly glance of derision 
directed to me from the corner of her disingenuous eye.
'There's no need to ask my pardon,' replied her friend, 'but I see no one 
here that at all resembles that child, except his mother; and when you hear 
ill-natured reports, Miss Eliza, I will thank you, that is, I think you 
will do well, to refrain from repeating them. I presume the person you 
allude to is Mr Lawrence; but I think I can assure you that your 
suspicions, in that respect, are utterly misplaced; and if he has any 
particular connexion with the lady at all (which no one has a right to 
assert), at least he has (what cannot be said of some others) sufficient 
sense of propriety to withhold him from acknowledging anything more than a 
bowing acquaintance in the presence of respectable persons; he was 
evidently both surprised and annoyed to find her here.'
'Go it!' cried Fergus, who sat on the other side of Eliza, and was the only 
individual who shared that side of the table with us, 'go it like bricks! 
mind you don't leave her one stone upon another.'
Miss Wilson drew herself up with a look of freezing scorn, but said 
nothing. Eliza would have replied, but I interrupted her by saying as 
calmly as I could, though in a tone which betrayed, no doubt, some little 
of what I felt within -
'We have had enough of this subject; if we can only speak to slander our 
betters, let us hold our tongues.'
'I think you'd better,' observed Fergus, 'and so does our good parson; he 
has been addressing the company in his richest vein all the while, and 
eyeing you from time to time, with looks of stern distaste, while you sat 
there, irreverently whispering and muttering together; and once he paused 
in the middle of a story or a sermon, I don't know which, and fixed his 
eyes upon you, Gilbert, as much as to say, "When Mr Markham has done 
flirting with those two ladies I will proceed." '
What more was said at the tea-table I cannot tell, nor how I found patience 
to sit till the meal was over. I remember, however, that I swallowed with 
difficulty the remainder of the tea that was in my cup and ate nothing: and 
that the first thing I did was to stare at Arthur Graham, who sat beside 
his mother on the opposite side of the table, and the second to stare at Mr 
Lawrence, who sat below; and, first, it struck me that there was a 
likeness; but, on further contemplation, I concluded it was only in 
imagination. Both, it is true, had more delicate features and smaller bones 
than commonly fall to the lot of individuals of the rougher sex, and 
Lawrence's complexion was pale and clear, and Arthur's delicately fair; but 
Arthur's tiny, somewhat snubby nose could never become so long and straight 
as Mr Lawrence's; and the outline of his face, though not full enough to be 
round, and too finely converging to the small, dimpled chin to be square, 
could never be drawn out to the long oval of the other's, while the child's 
hair was evidently of a lighter, warmer tint than the elder gentleman's had 
ever been, and his large, clear, blue eyes, though prematurely serious at 
times, were utterly dissimilar to the shy hazel eyes of Mr Lawrence, whence 
the sensitive soul looked so distrustfully forth, as ever ready to retire 
within, from the offences of a too rude, too uncongenial world. Wretch that 
I was to harbour that detestable idea for a moment! Did I not know Mrs 
Graham? Had I not seen her, conversed with her time after time? Was I not 
certain that she, in intellect, in purity and elevation of soul, was 
immeasurably superior to any of her detractors; that she was, in fact, the 
noblest, the most adorable, of her sex I had ever beheld, or even imagined 
to exist? Yes, and I would say with Mary Millward (sensible girl as she 
was), that if all the parish, ay, or all the world, should din these 
horrible lies in my ears, I would not believe them, for I knew her better 
than they.
Meantime my brain was on fire with indignation, and my heart seemed ready 
to burst from its prison with conflicting passions. I regarded my two fair 
neighbours with a feeling of abhorrence and loathing I scarcely endeavoured 
to conceal. I was rallied from several quarters for my abstraction and 
ungallant neglect of the ladies; but I cared little for that: all I cared 
about, besides that one grand subject of my thoughts, was to see the cups 
travel up to the tea-tray, and not come down again. I thought Mr Millward 
never would cease telling us that he was no tea-drinker, and that it was 
highly injurious to keep loading the stomach with slops to the exclusion of 
more wholesome sustenance, and so give himself time to finish his fourth 
cup.
At length it was over; and I rose and left the table and the guests without 
a word of apology - I could endure their company no longer. I rushed out to 
cool my brain in the balmy evening air, and to compose my mind or indulge 
my passionate thoughts in the solitude of the garden.
To avoid being seen from the windows I went down a quiet little avenue that 
skirted one side of the inclosure, at the bottom of which was a seat 
embowered in roses and honeysuckles. Here I sat down to think over the 
virtues and wrongs of the lady of Wildfell Hall; but I had not been so 
occupied two minutes, before voices and laughter, and glimpses of moving 
objects through the trees, informed me that the whole company had turned 
out to take an airing in the garden too. However, I nestled up in a corner 
of the bower, and hoped to retain possession of it, secure alike from 
observation and intrusion. But no confound it - there was someone coming 
down the avenue! Why couldn't they enjoy the flowers and sunshine of the 
open garden, and leave that sunless nook to me, and the gnats and midges.
But, peeping through my fragrant screen of the interwoven branches to 
discover who the intruders were (for a murmur of voices told me it was more 
than one), my vexation instantly subsided, and far other feelings agitated 
my still unquiet soul; for there was Mrs Graham, slowly moving down the 
walk with Arthur by her side, and no one else. Why were they alone? Had the 
poison of detracting tongues already spread through all; and had they all 
turned their backs upon her? I now recollected having seen Mrs Wilson, in 
the early part of the evening, edging her chair close up to my mother, and 
bending forward, evidently in the delivery of some important, confidential 
intelligence; and from the incessant wagging of her head, the frequent 
distortions of her wrinkled physiognomy, and the winking and malicious 
twinkle of her little ugly eyes, I judged it was some spicy piece of 
scandal that engaged her powers; and from the cautious privacy of the 
communication I supposed some person then present was the luckless object 
of her calumnies; and from all these tokens, together with my mother's 
looks and gestures of mingled horror and incredulity, I now concluded that 
object to have been Mrs Graham. I did not emerge from my place of 
concealment till she had nearly reached the bottom of the walk, lest my 
appearance should drive her away; and when I did step forward she stood 
still and seemed inclined to turn back as it was.
'Oh, don't let us disturb you, Mr Markham!' said she. 'We came here to seek 
retirement ourselves, not to intrude on your seclusion.'
'I am no hermit, Mrs Graham - though I own it looks rather like it to 
absent myself in this uncourteous fashion from my guests.'
'I feared you were unwell,' said she, with a look of real concern.
'I was rather, but it's over now. Do sit here a little and rest, and tell 
me how you like this arbour,' said I, and lifting Arthur by the shoulders, 
I planted him in the middle of the seat by way of securing his mamma, who, 
acknowledging it to be a tempting place of refuge, threw herself back in 
one corner while I took possession of the other.
But that word refuge disturbed me. Had their unkindness then really driven 
her to seek for peace in solitude?
'Why have they left you alone?' I asked.
'It is I who have left them,' was the smiling rejoinder. 'I was wearied to 
death with small talk - nothing wears me out like that. I cannot imagine 
how they go on as they do.'
I could not help smiling at the serious depth of her wonderment.
'Is it that they think it a duty to be continually talking,' pursued she, 
'and so never pause to think, but fill up with aimless trifles and vain 
repetitions when subjects of real interest fail to present themselves? or 
do they really take a pleasure in such discourse?'
'Very likely they do,' said I: 'their shallow minds can hold no great 
ideas, and their light heads are carried away by trivialities that would 
not move a better-furnished skull: and their only alternative to such 
discourse is to plunge over head and ears into the slough of scandal - 
which is their chief delight.'
'Not all of them, surely?' cried the lady, astonished at the bitterness of 
my remark.
'No, certainly; I exonerate my sister from such degraded tastes, and my 
mother, too, if you included her in your animadversions.'
'I meant no animadversions against any one, and certainly intended no 
disrespectful allusions to your mother. I have known some sensible persons 
adepts in that style of conversation when circumstances impelled them to 
it, but it is a gift I cannot boast the possession of. I kept up my 
attention on this occasion as long as I could, but when my powers were 
exhausted I stole away to seek a few minutes' repose in this quiet walk. I 
hate talking where there is no exchange of ideas or sentiments, and no good 
given or received.'
'Well,' said I, 'if ever I trouble you with my loquacity tell me so at 
once, and I promise not to be offended; for I possess the faculty of 
enjoying the company of those I - of my friends as well in silence as in 
conversation.'
'I don't quite believe you; but if it were so you would exactly suit me for 
a companion.'
'I am all you wish, then, in other respects?'
'No, I don't mean that. How beautiful those little clusters of foliage 
look, where the sun comes through behind them!' said she, on purpose to 
change the subject.
And they did look beautiful, where at intervals the level rays of the sun 
penetrating the thickness of trees and shrubs on the opposite side of the 
path before us, relieved their dusky verdure by displaying patches of semi-
transparent leaves of resplendent golden green.
'I almost wish I were not a painter,' observed my companion.
'Why so! one would think at such a time you would most exult in your 
privilege of being able to imitate the various brilliant and delightful 
touches of nature.'
'No; for instead of delivering myself up to the full enjoyment of them as 
others do, I am always troubling my head about how I could produce the same 
effect upon canvas; and as that can never be done, it is mere vanity and 
vexation of spirit.'
'Perhaps you cannot do it to satisfy yourself, but you may and do succeed 
in delighting others with the result of your endeavours.'
'Well, after all I should not complain: perhaps few people gain their 
livelihood with so much pleasure in their toil as I do. Here is someone 
coming.'
She seemed vexed at the interruption.
'It is only Mr Lawrence and Miss Wilson,' said I, 'coming to enjoy a quiet 
stroll. They will not disturb us.'
I could not quite decipher the expression on her face; but I was satisfied 
there was no jealousy therein. What business had I to look for it?
'What sort of a person is Miss Wilson?' she asked.
'She is elegant and accomplished above the generality of her birth and 
station; and some say she is lady-like and agreeable.'
'I thought her somewhat frigid, and rather supercilious in her manner 
today.'
'Very likely she might be so to you. She has possibly taken a prejudice 
against you, for I think she regards you in the light of a rival.'
'Me! Impossible, Mr Markham!' said she, evidently astonished and annoyed.
'Well, I know nothing about it,' returned I, rather doggedly; for I thought 
her annoyance was chiefly against myself.
The pair had now approached within a few paces of us. Our arbour was set 
snugly back in a corner before which the avenue at its termination turned 
off into the more airy walk along the bottom of the garden. As they 
approached this, I saw, by the aspect of Jane Wilson, that she was 
directing her companion's attention to us; and, as well by her cold, 
sarcastic smile as by the few isolated words of her discourse that reached 
me, I knew full well that she was impressing him with the idea that we were 
strongly attached to each other. I noticed that he coloured up to the 
temples, gave us one furtive glance in passing, and walked on, looking 
grave, but seemingly offering no reply to her remarks.
It was true, then, that he had some designs upon Mrs Graham; and, were they 
honourable, he would not be so anxious to conceal them. She was blameless, 
of course, but he was detestable beyond all count.
While these thoughts flashed through my mind, my companion abruptly rose, 
and calling her son, said they would now go in quest of the company, and 
departed up the avenue. Doubtless she had heard or guessed something of 
Miss Wilson's remarks, and therefore it was natural enough she should 
choose to continue the tete-a-tete no longer, especially as at that moment 
my cheeks were burning with indignation against my former friend, the token 
of which she might mistake for a blush of stupid embarrassment. For this I 
owed Miss Wilson yet another grudge; and still the more I thought upon her 
conduct the more I hated her.
It was late in the evening before I joined the company. I found Mrs Graham 
already equipped for departure, and taking leave of the rest, who were now 
returned to the house. I offered, nay, begged to accompany her home. Mr 
Lawrence was standing by at the time conversing with someone else. He did 
not look at us, but, on hearing my earnest request, he paused in the middle 
of a sentence to listen for her reply, and went on, with a look of quiet 
satisfaction, the moment he found it was to be a denial.
A denial it was, decided, though not unkind. She could not be persuaded to 
think there was danger for herself or her child in traversing those lonely 
lanes and fields without attendance. It was daylight still, and she should 
meet no one; or if she did, the people were quiet and harmless she was well 
assured. In fact, she would not hear of any one's putting himself out of 
the way to accompany her, though Fergus vouchsafed to offer his services in 
case they should be more acceptable than mine, and my mother begged she 
might send one of the farming - men to escort her.
When she was gone the rest was all a blank or worse. Lawrence attempted to 
draw me into conversation, but I snubbed him and went to another part of 
the room. Shortly after the party broke up and he himself took leave. When 
he came to me I was blind to his extended hand, and deaf to his good night 
till he repeated it a second time; and then, to get rid of him, I muttered 
an inarticulate reply accompanied by a sulky nod.
'What is the matter, Markham?' whispered he.
I replied by a wrafthful and contemptuous stare.
'Are you angry because Mrs Graham would not let you go home with her?' he 
asked, with a faint smile that nearly exasperated me beyond control.
But, swallowing down all fierce answers, I merely demanded -
'What business is it of yours?'
'Why, none,' replied he, with provoking quietness; 'only,' and he raised 
his eyes to my face, and spoke with unusual solemnity, 'only let me tell 
you, Markham, that if you have any designs in that quarter they will 
certainly fail; and it grieves me to see you cherishing false hopes, and 
wasting your strength in useless efforts, for -'
'Hypocrite!' I exclaimed; and he held his breath, and looked very blank, 
turned white about the gills, and went away without another word.
I had wounded him to the quick; and I was glad of it.



Chapter 10

When all were gone, I learned that the vile slander had indeed been 
circulated throughout the company, in the very presence of the victim. 
Rose, however, vowed she did not and would not believe it, and my mother 
made the same declaration, though not, I fear, with the same amount of 
real, unwavering incredulity. It seemed to dwell continually on her mind, 
and she kept irritating me from time to time by such expressions as - 
'Dear, dear, who would have thought it! Well! I always thought there was 
something odd about her. You see what it is for women to affect to be 
different to other people.' And once it was -
'I misdoubted that appearance of mystery from the very first - I thought 
there would no good come of it; but this is a sad, sad business to be 
sure!'
'Why, mother, you said you didn't believe these tales,' said Fergus.
'No more I do, my dear; but then, you know, there must be some foundation.'
'The foundation is in the wickedness and falsehood of the world,' said I, 
'and in the fact that Mr Lawrence has been seen to go that way once or 
twice of an evening - and the village gossips say he goes to pay his 
addresses to the strange lady, and the scandalmongers have greedily seized 
the rumour, to make it the basis of their own infernal structure.'
'Well, but Gilbert, there must be something in her manner to countenance 
such reports.'
'Did you see anything in her manner?' 'No, certainly; but then you know, I 
always said there was something strange about her.'
I believe it was on that very evening that I ventured on another invasion 
of Wildfell Hall. From the time of our party, which was upwards of a week 
ago, I had been making daily efforts to meet its mistress in her walks; and 
always disappointed (she must have managed it so on purpose), had nightly 
kept revolving in my mind some pretext for another call. At length, I 
concluded that the separation could be endured no longer (by this time, you 
will see, I was pretty far gone); and, taking from the book-case an old 
volume that I thought she might be interested in, though, from its 
unsightly and somewhat dilapidated condition, I had not yet ventured to 
offer it for perusal, I hastened away - but not without sundry misgivings 
as to how she would receive me, or how I could summon courage to present 
myself with so slight an excuse. But, perhaps, I might see her in the field 
or the garden, and then there would be no great difficulty: it was the 
formal knocking at the door, with the prospect of being gravely ushered in 
by Rachel, to the presence of a surprised, uncordial mistress, that so 
greatly disturbed me.
My wish, however, was not gratified. Mrs Graham, herself, was not to be 
seen; but there was Arthur playing with his frolicsome little dog in the 
garden. I looked over the gate and called him to me. He wanted me to come 
in; but I told him I could not without his mother's leave.
'I'll go and ask her,' said the child.
'No, no, Arthur, you mustn't do that - but if she's not engaged, just ask 
her to come here a minute: tell her I want to speak to her.'
He ran to perform my bidding, and quickly returned with his mother. How 
lovely she looked with her dark ringlets streaming in the light summer 
breeze, her fair cheek slightly flushed and her countenance radiant with 
smiles! Dear Arthur! what did I not owe to you for this and every other 
happy meeting? Through him, I was at once delivered from all formality, and 
terror, and constraint. In love affairs, there is no mediator like a merry, 
simple-hearted child - ever ready to cement divided hearts, to span the 
unfriendly gulf of custom, to melt the ice of cold reserve, and overthrow 
the separating walls of dread formality and pride.
'Well, Mr Markham, what is it?' said the young mother, accosting me with a 
pleasant smile.
'I want you to look at this book, and, if you please, to take it, and 
peruse it at your leisure. I make no apology for calling you out on such a 
lovely evening, though it be for a matter of no greater importance.'
'Tell him to come in, mamma,' said Arthur.
'Would you like to come in?' asked the lady.
'Yes; I should like to see your improvements in the garden.'
'And how your sister's roots have prospered in my charge,' added she, as 
she opened the gate.
And we sauntered through the garden, and talked of the flowers, the trees, 
and the book - and then of other things. The evening was kind and genial, 
and so was my companion. By degrees, I waxed more warm and tender than, 
perhaps, I had ever been before; but still, I said nothing tangible, and 
she attempted no repulse; until, in passing a moss rose-tree that I had 
brought her some weeks since, in my sister's name, she plucked a beautiful 
half-open bud and bade me give it to Rose.
'May I not keep it myself?' I asked.
'No; but here is another for you.'
Instead of taking it quietly, I likewise took the hand that offered it, and 
looked into her face. She let me hold it for a moment, and I saw a flash of 
ecstatic brilliance in her eye, a glow of glad excitement on her face - I 
thought my hour of victory was come - but instantly a painful recollection 
seemed to flush upon her; a cloud of anguish darkened her brow, a marble 
paleness blanched her cheek and lip; there seemed a moment of inward 
conflict - and with a sudden effort, she withdrew her hand, and retreated a 
step or two back.
'Now, Mr Markham,' said she, with a kind of desperate calmness, 'I must 
tell you plainly, that I cannot do with this. I like your company, because 
I am alone here, and your conversation pleases me more than that of any 
other person; but if you cannot be content to regard me as a friend - a 
plain, cold, motherly, or sisterly friend, I must beg you to leave me now, 
and let me alone hereafter - in fact, we must be strangers for the future.'
'I will, then - be your friend - or brother, or anything you wish, if you 
will only let me continue to see you; but tell me why I cannot be anything 
more.'
There was a perplexed and thoughtful pause.
'Is it in consequence of some rash vow?'
'It is something of the kind,' she answered - 'some day I may tell you, but 
at present you had better leave me; and never, Gilbert, put me to the 
painful necessity of repeating what I have just now said to you!' - she 
earnestly added, giving me her hand in serious kindness. How sweet, how 
musical my own name sounded in her mouth!
'I will not,' I replied. 'But you pardon this offence?'
 'On condition that you never repeat it.'
'And may I come to see you now and then?'
'Perhaps - occasionally; provided you never abuse the privilege.
'I make no empty promises, but you shall see.'
'The moment you do, our intimacy is at an end, that's all.'
'And will you always call me Gilbert? it sounds more sisterly, and it will 
serve to remind me of our contract.'
She smiled, and once more bid me go - and, at length, I judged it prudent 
to obey; and she re-entered the house, and I went down the hill. But as I 
went, the tramp of horses' hoofs fell on my ear, and broke the stillness of 
the dewy evening; and, looking towards the lane, I saw a solitary 
equestrian coming up. Inclining to dusk as it was, I knew him at a glance: 
it was Mr Lawrence on his grey pony. I flew across the field - leaped the 
stone fence - and then walked down the lane to meet him. On seeing me, he 
suddenly drew in his little steed, and seemed inclined to turn back, but on 
second thought, apparently judged it better to continue his course as 
before. He accosted me with a slight bow, and, edging close to the wall, 
endeavoured to pass on - but I was not so minded: seizing his horse by the 
bridle, I exclaimed -
'Now, Lawrence, I will have this mystery explained! Tell me where you are 
going, and what you mean to do - at once, and distinctly!'
'Will you take your hand off the bridle?' said he quietly - 'you're hurting 
my pony's mouth.'
'You and your pony be -'
'What makes you so coarse and brutal, Markham? I'm quite ashamed of you.'
'You answer my questions - before you leave this spot! I will know what you 
mean by this perfidious duplicity!'
'I shall answer no questions till you let go the bridle - if you stand till 
morning.'
'Now then,' said I, unclosing my hand, but still standing before him.
'Ask me some other time, when you can speak like a gentleman,' returned he, 
and he made an effort to pass me again; but I quickly re-captured the pony, 
scarce less astonished than its master at such uncivil usage.
'Really, Mr Markham, this is too much!' said the latter. 'Can I not go to 
see my tenant on matters of business, without being assaulted in this 
manner by -'
'This is no time for business, sir! I'll tell you, now, what I think of 
your conduct.'
'You'd better defer your opinion to a more convenient season,' interrupted 
he in a low, tone - 'here's the vicar.'
And in truth, the vicar was just behind me, plodding homeward from some 
remote corner of his parish. I immediately released the squire; and he went 
on his way, saluting Mr Millward as he passed.
'What, quarrelling, Markham?' cried the latter, addressing himself to me - 
'and about that young widow I doubt,' he added, reproachfully shaking his 
head. 'But let me tell you, young man' (here he put his face into mine with 
an important, confidential air), 'she's not worth it!' and he confirmed the 
assertion by a solemn nod.
'MR MILLWARD! I exclaimed, in a tone of wrathful menace that made the 
reverend gentleman look round - aghast - astounded at such unwonted 
insolence, and stare me in the face with a look that plainly said: 'What, 
this to me?' But I was too indignant to apologise, or to speak another word 
to him: I turned away, and hastened homewards, descending with rapid 
strides the steep, rough lane, and leaving him to follow as he pleased.



Chapter 11

You must suppose about three weeks past over. Mrs Graham and I were now 
established friends - or brother and sister as we rather chose to consider 
ourselves. She called me Gilbert, by my express desire, and I called her 
Helen, for I had seen that name written in her books. I seldom attempted to 
see her above twice a week; and still I made our meetings appear the result 
of accident as often as I could - for I found it necessary to be extremely 
careful - and, altogether, I behaved with such exceeding propriety that she 
never had occasion to reprove me once. Yet I could not but perceive that 
she was at times unhappy and dissatisfied with herself or her position, and 
truly I myself was not quite contented with the latter: this assumption of 
brotherly nonchalance was very hard to sustain, and I often felt myself a 
most confounded hypocrite with it all: I saw too, or rather I felt, that, 
in spite of herself, 'I was not indifferent to her,' as the novel heroes 
modestly express it, and while I thankfully enjoyed my present good 
fortune, I could not fail to wish and hope for something better in future; 
but, of course, I kept such dreams entirely to myself.
'Where are you going, Gilbert?' said Rose, one evening, shortly after tea, 
when I had been busy with the farm all day.
'To take a walk,' was the reply.
'Do you always brush your hat so carefully, and do your hair so nicely, and 
put on such smart new gloves when you take a walk?'
 'Not always!'
'You're going to Wildfell Hall, aren't you?'
'What makes you think so?'
'Because you look as if you were - but I wish you wouldn't go so often.'
'Nonsense, child! I don't go once in six weeks - what do you mean?'
'Well, but if I were you, I wouldn't have so much to do with Mrs Graham.'
'Why, Rose, are you, too, giving in to the prevailing opinion?'
'No,' returned she hesitatingly - 'but I've heard so much about her lately, 
both at the Wilsons' and the vicarage; and besides, mamma says, if she were 
a proper person she would not be living there by herself - and don't you 
remember last winter, Gilbert, all that about the false name to the 
picture; and how she explained it - saying she had friends or acquaintances 
from whom she wished her present residence to be concealed, and that she 
was afraid of their tracing her out; and then, how suddenly she started up 
and left the room when that person came - whom she took good care not to 
let us catch a glimpse of, and who Arthur, with such an air of mystery, 
told us was his mamma's friend?'
'Yes, Rose, I remember it all; and I can forgive your uncharitable 
conclusions; for perhaps, if I did not know her myself, I should put all 
these things together, and believe the same as you do; but thank God, I do 
know her; and I should be unworthy the name of a man, if I could believe 
anything that was said against her, unless I heard it from her own lips. I 
should as soon believe such things of you, Rose.'
'Oh, Gilbert!'
'Well, do you think I could believe anything of the kind - whatever the 
Wilsons and Millwards dared to whisper?'
'I should hope not indeed!'
'And why not? Because I know you. Well, and I know her just as well?'
'Oh, no; you know nothing of her former life; and last year at this time, 
you did not know that such a person existed.'
'No matter. There is such a thing as looking through a person's eyes into 
the heart, and learning more of the height, and breadth, and depth of 
another's soul in one hour, than it might take you a lifetime to discover, 
if he or she were not disposed to reveal it, or if you had not the sense to 
understand it.'
'Then you are going to see her this evening?'
'To be sure I am!'
 'But what would mamma say, Gilbert?'
'Mamma needn't know.'
'But she must know some time, if you go on.'
'Go on! there's no going on in the matter. Mrs Graham and I are two friends 
- and will be; and no man breathing shall hinder it - or has a right to 
interfere between us.'
'But if you knew how they talk, you would be more careful, for her sake as 
well as for your own. Jane Wilson thinks your visits to the old hall but 
another proof of her depravity.'
'Confound Jane Wilson!'
'And Eliza Millward is quite grieved about you.'
'I hope she is.'
'But I wouldn't, if I were you.'
'Wouldn't what? How do they know that I go there?'
'There's nothing hid from them: they spy out everything.'
'Oh, I never thought of this! and so they dare to turn my friendship into 
food for further scandal against her! That proves the falsehood of their 
other lies, at all events, if any proof were wanting. Mind you contradict 
them, Rose, whenever you can.'
'But they don't speak openly to me about such things: it is only by hints 
and innuendos, and by what I hear others say, that I knew what they think.'
'Well then, I won't go today, as it's getting latish. But oh, deuce take 
their cursed envenomed tongues!' I muttered, in the bitterness of my soul.
And just at that moment the vicar entered the room: we had been too much 
absorbed in our conversation to observe his knock. After his customary, 
cheerful, and fatherly greeting of Rose, who was rather a favourite with 
the old gentleman, he turned somewhat sternly to me -
'Well, sir,' said he, 'you're quite a stranger. It is - let - me - see,' he 
continued slowly, as he deposited his ponderous bulk in the arm-chair that 
Rose officiously brought towards him, 'it is just - six-weeks - by my 
reckoning, since you darkened - my - door!' He spoke it with emphasis, and 
struck his stick on the floor.
'Is it, sir?' said I.
'Ay! It is so!' He added an affirmatory nod, and continued to gaze upon me 
with a kind of irate solemnity, holding his substantial stick between his 
knees, with his hands clasped upon his head.
'I have been busy,' I said, for an apology was evidently demanded.
'Busy,' repeated he derisively.
 'Yes, you know I've been getting in my hay; and now the harvest is 
beginning.'
'Humph.'
Just then my mother came in, and created a diversion in my favour by her 
loquacious and animated welcome of the reverend guest. She regretted deeply 
that he had not come a little earlier, in time for tea, but offered to have 
some immediately prepared, if he would do her the favour to partake of it.
'Not any for me, I thank you,' replied he; 'I shall be at home in a few 
minutes.'
'Oh, but do stay and take a little! it will be ready in five minutes.'
But he rejected the offer, with a majestic wave of his hand.
'I'll tell you what I'll take, Mrs Markham,' said he: 'I'll take a glass of 
your excellent ale.'
'With pleasure!' cried my mother, proceeding with alacrity to pull the bell 
and order the favoured beverage.
'I thought,' continued he, 'I'd just look in upon you as I passed, and 
taste your home-brewed ale. I've been to call on Mrs Graham.'
'Have you, indeed?'
He nodded gravely, and added with awful emphasis -
'I thought it incumbent upon me to do so.'
'Really!' ejaculated my mother.
'Why so, Mr Millward?' asked I. He looked at me with some severity, and 
turning again to my mother, repeated -
'I thought it incumbent upon me!' and struck his stick on the floor again. 
My mother sat opposite, an awe-struck but admiring auditor.
' "Mrs Graham," said I,' he continued, shaking his head as he spoke, ' 
"these are terrible reports!" "What, sir?" says she, affecting to be 
ignorant of my meaning. "It is my - duty - as - your pastor," said I, "to 
tell you both everything that I myself see reprehensible in your conduct, 
and all I have reason to suspect, and what others tell me concerning you." 
So I told her!'
'You did, sir?' cried I, starting from my seat, and striking my fist on the 
table. He merely glanced towards me, and continued, addressing his hostess 
- 'It was a painful duty, Mrs Markham - but I told her!'
'And how did she take it?' asked my mother.
'Hardened, I fear - hardened!' he replied, with a despondent shake of the 
head; 'and, at the same time, there was a strong display of unchastened, 
misdirected passions. She turned white in the face, and drew her breath 
through her teeth in a savage sort of way; but she offered no extenuation 
or defence; and with a kind of shameless calmness - shocking indeed to 
witness in one so young - as good as told me that my remonstrance was 
unavailing, and my pastoral advice quite thrown away upon her - nay, that 
my very presence was displeasing while I spoke such things. And I withdrew 
at length, too plainly seeing that nothing could be done - and sadly 
grieved to find her case so hopeless. But I am fully determined, Mrs 
Markham, that my daughters - shall - not - consort with her. Do you adopt 
the same resolution with regard to yours! - As for your sons - as for you, 
young man,' he continued, sternly turning to me -
'As for ME, sir,' I began, but checked by some impediment in my utterance, 
and finding that my whole frame trembled with fury, I said no more, but 
took the wiser part of snatching up my hat and bolting from the room, 
slamming the door behind me, with a bang that shook the house to its 
foundations, and made my mother scream, and give a momentary relief to my 
excited feelings.
The next minute saw me hurrying with rapid strides in the direction of 
Wildfell Hall - to what intent or purpose I could scarcely tell, but I must 
be moving somewhere, and no other goal would do - I must see her too, and 
speak to her - that was certain; but what to say, or how to act, I had no 
definite idea. Such stormy thoughts - so many different resolutions crowded 
in upon me, that my mind was little better than a chaos of conflicting 
passions.



Chapter 12

In little more than twenty minutes, the journey was accomplished. I paused 
at the gate to wipe my streaming forehead, and recover my breath and some 
degree of composure. Already the rapid walking had somewhat mitigated my 
excitement; and with a firm and steady tread, I paced the garden walk. In 
passing the inhabited wing of the building, I caught sight of Mrs Graham, 
through the open window, slowly pacing up and down her lonely room.
She seemed agitated, and even dismayed at my arrival, as if she thought I 
too was coming to accuse her. I had entered her presence intending to 
condole with her upon the wickedness of the world, and help her to abuse 
the vicar and his vile informants, but now I felt positively ashamed to 
mention the subject, and determined not to refer to it, unless she led the 
way.
'I am come at an unseasonable hour,' said I, assuming a cheerfulness I did 
not feel, in order to reassure her; 'but I won't stay many minutes.'
She smiled upon me, faintly it is true, but most kindly - I had almost said 
thankfully, as her apprehensions were removed.
'How dismal you are, Helen! Why have you no fire?' I said, looking round on 
the gloomy apartment.
'It is summer yet,' she replied.
'But we always have a fire in the evenings, if we can bear it; and you 
especially require one in this cold house and dreary room.'
'You should have come a little sooner, and I would have had one lighted for 
you; but it is not worth while now, you won't stay many minutes, you say, 
and Arthur is gone to bed.'
'But I have a fancy for a fire, nevertheless. Will you order one, if I 
ring?'
'Why, Gilbert, you don't look cold?' said she smilingly regarding my face, 
which no doubt seemed warm enough.
'No,' replied I, 'but I want to see you comfortable before I go.'
'Me comfortable!' repeated she, with a bitter laugh, as if there were 
something amusingly absurd in the idea. 'It suits me better as it is,' she 
added, in a tone of mournful resignation.
But determined to have my own way, I pulled the bell.
'There now, Helen!' I said, as the approaching steps of Rachel were heard 
in answer to the summons. There was nothing for it but to turn round and 
desire the maid to light the fire.
I owe Rachel a grudge to this day, for the look she cast upon me ere she 
departed on her mission, the sour, suspicious, inquisitorial look that 
plainly demanded, 'What are you here for, I wonder?' Her mistress did not 
fail to notice it, and a shade of uneasiness darkened her brow.
'You must not stay long, Gilbert,' said she, when the door was closed upon 
us.
'I'm not going to,' said I, somewhat testily, though without a grain of 
anger in my heart against any one but the meddling old woman. 'But, Helen, 
I've got something to say to you before I go.'
'What is it?'
'No, not now - I don't know yet precisely what it is, or how to say it,' 
replied I, with more truth than wisdom; and then, fearing lest she should 
turn me out of the house, I began talking about indifferent matters in 
order to gain time. Meanwhile Rachel came in to kindle the fire, which was 
soon effected by thrusting a red-hot poker between the bars of the grate, 
where the fuel was already disposed for ignition. She honoured me with 
another of her hard, inhospitable looks in departing, but, little moved 
thereby, I went on talking; and setting a chair for Mrs Graham on one side 
of the hearth, and one for myself on the other, I ventured to sit down, 
though half suspecting she would rather see me go.
In a little while we both relapsed into silence, and continued for several 
minutes gazing abstractedly into the fire - she intent upon her own sad 
thoughts, and I reflecting how delightful it would be to be seated thus 
beside her with no other presence to restrain our intercourse - not even 
that of Arthur, our mutual friend, without whom we had never met before - 
if only I could venture to speak my mind, and disburden my full heart of 
the feelings that had so long oppressed it, and which it now struggled to 
retain, with an effort that it seemed impossible to continue much longer - 
and revolving the pros and cons for opening my heart to her there and then, 
and imploring a return of affection, the permission to regard her 
thenceforth as my own, and the right and the power to defend her from the 
calumnies of malicious tongues. On the one hand, I felt a new-born 
confidence in my powers of persuasion - a strong conviction that my own 
fervour of spirit would grant me eloquence - that my very determination - 
the absolute necessity for succeeding, that I felt must win me what I 
sought; while on the other, I feared to lose the ground I had already 
gained with so much toil and skill, and destroy all future hope by one rash 
effort, when time and patience might have won success. It was like setting 
my life upon the cast of a die; and yet I was ready to resolve upon the 
attempt. At any rate, I would entreat the explanation she had half promised 
to give me before; I would demand the reason of this hateful barrier, this 
mysterious impediment to my happiness, and, as I trusted, to her own.
But while I considered in what manner I could best frame my request, my 
companion wakened from her reverie with a scarcely audible sigh, and 
looking towards the window where the blood-red harvest moon, just rising 
over one of the grim, fantastic evergreens, was shining in upon us, said -
'Gilbert, it is getting late.'
'I see,' said I. 'You want me to go, I suppose.'
'I think you ought. If my kind neighbours get to know of this visit - as no 
doubt they will - they will not turn it much to my advantage.'
It was with what the vicar would doubtless have called a savage sort of 
smile that she said this.
'Let them turn it as they will,' said I. 'What are their thoughts to you or 
me, so long as we are satisfied with ourselves - and each other. Let them 
go to the deuce with their vile constructions, and their lying inventions!'
This outburst brought a flush of colour to her face.
'You have heard, then, what they say of me?'
'I heard some detestable falsehoods; but none but fools would credit them 
for a moment, Helen, so don't let them trouble you.'
'I did not think Mr Millward a fool, and he believes it all; but however 
little you may value the opinions of those about you - however little you 
may esteem them as individuals, it is not pleasant to be looked upon as a 
liar and a hypocrite, to be thought to practise what you abhor, and to 
encourage the vices you would discountenance, to find your good intentions 
frustrated, and your hands crippled by your supposed unworthiness, and to 
bring disgrace on the principles you profess.'
'True; and if I, by my thoughtlessness and selfish disregard to 
appearances, have at all assisted to expose you to these evils, let me 
entreat you not only to pardon me, but to enable me to make reparation; 
authorise me to clear your name from every imputation: give me the right to 
identify your honour with my own, and to defend your reputation as more 
precious than my life!'
'Are you hero enough to unite yourself to one whom you know to be suspected 
and despised by all around you, and identify your interests and your honour 
with hers? Think! it is a serious thing.'
'I should be proud to do it, Helen! - most happy - delighted beyond 
expression! - and if that be all the obstacle to our union, it is 
demolished, and you must - you shall be mine!'
And starting from my seat in a frenzy of ardour, I seized her hand and 
would have pressed it to my lips, but she as suddenly caught it away, 
exclaiming in the bitterness of intense affliction:
'No, no, it is not all!'
'What is it then? You promised I should know some time, and -'
'You shall know some time - but not now - my head aches terribly,' she 
said, pressing her hand to her forehead, 'and I must have some repose - and 
surely, I have had misery enough to-day!' she added, almost wildly.
'But it could not harm you to tell it,' I persisted: 'it would ease your 
mind; and I should then know how to comfort you.'
She shook her head despondingly. 'If you knew all, you, too, would blame me 
- perhaps even more than I deserve - though I have cruelly wronged you,' 
she added in a low murmur, as if she mused aloud.
'You, Helen? Impossible!'
'Yes, not willingly; for I did not know the strength and depth of your 
attachment. I thought - at least I endeavoured to think - your regard for 
me was as cold and fraternal as you professed it to be.'
'Or as yours?'
'Or as mine - ought to have been - of such a light and selfish, superficial 
nature that -'
'There, indeed, you wronged me.'
'I know I did; and sometimes, I suspected it then; but I thought, upon the 
whole, there could be no great harm in leaving your fancies and your hopes 
to dream themselves to nothing - or flutter away to some more fitting 
object, while your friendly sympathies remained with me; but if I had known 
the depth of your regard, the generous disinterested affection you seem to 
feel -'
'Seem, Helen?'
'That you do feel, then, I would have acted differently.'
'How? You could not have given me less encouragement, or treated me with 
greater severity than you did! And if you think you have wronged me by 
giving me your friendship, and occasionally admitting to me to the 
enjoyment of your company and conversation, when all hopes of close 
intimacy were vain - as indeed you always gave me to understand - if you 
think you have wronged me by this, you are mistaken; for such favours, in 
themselves alone, are not only delightful to my heart, but purifying, 
exalting, ennobling to my soul; and I would rather have your friendship 
than the love of any other woman in the world!'
Little comforted by this, she clasped her hands upon her knee, and glancing 
upward, seemed, in silent anguish, to implore divine assistance; then 
turning to me, she calmly said -
'Tomorrow, if you meet me on the moor about mid-day, I will tell you all 
you seek to know; and perhaps you will then see the necessity of 
discontinuing our intimacy - if, indeed, you do not willingly resign me as 
one no longer worthy of regard.'
'I can safely answer no, to that: you cannot have such grave confessions to 
make - you must be trying my faith, Helen.'
'No, no, no,' she earnestly repeated - 'I wish it were so! Thank heaven!' 
she added, 'I have no great crime to confess: but I have more than you will 
like to hear, or, perhaps, can readily excuse - and more than I can tell 
you now; so let me entreat you to leave me!'
'I will; but answer me this one question first; do you love me?'
'I will not answer it!'
'Then I will conclude you do; and so good night.'
She turned from me to hide the emotion she could not quite control; but I 
took her hand and fervently kissed it.
'Gilbert, do leave me!' she cried, in a tone of such thrilling anguish that 
I felt it would be cruel to disobey.
But I gave one look back before I closed the door, and saw her leaning 
forward on the table, with her hands pressed against her eyes, sobbing 
convulsively; yet I withdrew in silence. I felt that to obtrude my 
consolations on her then would only serve to aggravate her sufferings.
To tell you all the questionings and conjectures - the fears, and hopes, 
and wild emotions that jostled and chased each other through my mind as I 
descended the hill, would almost fill a volume in itself. But before I was 
half way down a sentiment of strong sympathy for her I had left behind me 
had displaced all other feelings, and seemed imperatively to draw me back: 
I began to think, 'Why am I hurrying so fast in this direction? Can I find 
comfort or consolation - peace, certainty, contentment, all - or anything 
that I want at home? and can I leave all perturbation, sorrow, and anxiety 
behind me there?'
And I turned round to look at the old hall. There was little besides the 
chimneys visible above my contracted horizon. I walked back to get a better 
view of it. When it rose in sight, I stood still a moment to look, and then 
continued moving towards the gloomy object of attraction. Something called 
me nearer - nearer still - and why not, pray? Might I not find more benefit 
in the contemplation of that venerable pile with the full moon in the 
cloudless heaven shining so calmly above it - with that warm yellow lustre 
peculiar to an August night - and the mistress of my soul within, than in 
returning to my home where all comparatively was light, and life, and 
cheerfulness, and therefore inimical to me in my present frame of mind, and 
the more so that its inmates all were more or less imbued with that 
detestable belief the very thought of which made my blood boil in my veins 
- and how could I endure to hear it openly declared - or cautiously 
insinuated - which was worse? I had had trouble enough already, with some 
babbling fiend that would keep whispering in my ear, 'It may be true, ' 
till I had shouted aloud, 'It is false! I defy you to make me suppose it!'
I could see the red firelight dimly gleaming from her parlour window. I 
went up to the garden wall, and stood leaning over it, with my eyes fixed 
upon the lattice, wondering what she was doing, thinking, or suffering now, 
and wishing I could speak to her but one word, or even catch one glimpse of 
her, before I went.
I had not thus looked, and wished, and wondered long, before I vaulted over 
the barrier, unable to resist the temptation of taking one glance through 
the window, just to see if she were more composed than when we parted; and 
if I found her still in deep distress, perhaps I might venture to attempt a 
word of comfort - to utter one of the many things I should have said 
before, instead of aggravating her sufferings by my stupid impetuosity. I 
looked. Her chair was vacant: so was the room. But at that moment someone 
opened the outer door, and a voice - her voice - said -
'Come out - I want to see the moon, and breathe the evening air: they will 
do me good - if anything will.'
Here, then, were she and Rachel coming to take a walk in the garden. I 
wished myself back over the wall. I stood, however, in the shadow of the 
tall holly-bush, which, standing between the window and the porch, at 
present screened me from observation, but did not prevent me from seeing 
two figures come forth into the moonlight: Mrs Graham followed by another - 
not Rachel, but a young man, slender and rather tall. Oh, heavens, how my 
temples throbbed! Intense anxiety darkened my sight; but I thought - yes, 
and the voice confirmed it - it was Mr Lawrence.
'You should not let it worry you so much, Helen,' said he; 'I will be more 
cautious in future; and in time -'
I did not hear the rest of the sentence; for he walked close beside her and 
spoke so gently that I could not catch the words. My heart was splitting 
with hatred; but I listened intently for her reply. I heard it plainly 
enough.
'But I must leave this place, Frederick,' she said - 'I never can be happy 
here - nor anywhere else, indeed,' she added, with a mirthless laugh - 'but 
I cannot rest here.'
'But where could you find a better place?' replied he, 'so secluded - so 
near me, if you think anything of that.'
'Yes,' interrupted she, 'it is all I could wish, if they could only have 
left me alone.'
'But wherever you go, Helen, there will be the same sources of annoyance. I 
cannot consent to lose you: I must go with you, or come to you; and there 
are meddling fools elsewhere, as well as here.'
While thus conversing, they had sauntered slowly past me, down the walk, 
and I heard no more of their discourse; but I saw him put his arm round her 
waist, while she lovingly rested her hand on his shoulder; and then, a 
tremulous darkness obscured my sight, my heart sickened and my head burned 
like fire. I half rushed, half staggered from the spot where horror had 
kept me rooted, and leaped or tumbled over the wall - I hardly know which - 
but I know that, afterwards, like a passionate child, I dashed myself on 
the ground and lay there in a paroxysm of anger and despair - how long, I 
cannot undertake to say; but it must have been a considerable time; for 
when, having partially relieved myself by a torrent of tears, and looked up 
at the moon, shining so calmly and carelessly on, as little influenced by 
my misery as I was by its peaceful radiance, and earnestly prayed for death 
or forgetfulness, I had risen and journeyed homewards - little regarding 
the way, but carried instinctively by my feet to the door, I found it 
bolted against me, and every one in bed except my mother, who hastened to 
answer my impatient knocking, and received me with a shower of questions 
and rebukes.
'Oh, Gilbert, how could you do so? Where have you been? Do come in and take 
your supper - I've got it all ready, though you don't deserve it, for 
keeping me in such a fright, after the strange manner you left the house 
this evening. Mr Millward was quite - Bless the boy! how ill he looks! Oh, 
gracious! what is the matter?'
'Nothing, nothing - give me a candle.'
'But won't you take some supper?'
'No, I want to go to bed,' said I, taking a candle and lighting it at the 
one she held in her hand.
'Oh, Gilbert, how you tremble!' exclaimed my anxious parent. 'How white you 
look! Do tell me what it is? Has anything happened?'
'It's nothing!' cried I, ready to stamp with vexation because the candle 
would not light. Then, suppressing my irritation, I added, 'I've been 
walking too fast, that's all. Good night,' and marched off to bed, 
regardless of the 'Walking too fast! where have you been?' that was called 
after me from below.
My mother followed me to the very door of my room, with her questionings 
and advice concerning my health and my conduct; but I implored her to let 
me alone till morning; and she withdrew, and at length I had the 
satisfaction to hear her close her own door. There was no sleep for me, 
however, that night, as I thought; and instead of attempting to solicit it, 
I employed myself in rapidly pacing the chamber - having first removed my 
boots lest my mother should hear me. But the boards creaked, and she was 
watchful. I had not walked above a quarter of an hour before she was at the 
door again.
'Gilbert, why are you not in bed - you said you wanted to go?'
'Confound it! I'm going,' said I.
'But why are you so long about it? you must have something on your mind -'
'For heaven's sake, let me alone, and get to bed yourself!'
'Can it be that Mrs Graham that distresses you so?'
'No, no, I tell you - it's nothing!'
'I wish to goodness it mayn't!' murmured she, with a sigh, as she returned 
to her own apartment, while I threw myself on the bed, feeling most 
undutifully disaffected towards her for having deprived me of what seemed 
the only shadow of a consolation that remained, and chained me to that 
wretched couch of thorns.
Never did I endure so long, so miserable a night as that. And yet, it was 
not wholly sleepless: towards morning my distracting thoughts began to lose 
all pretensions to coherency, and shape themselves into confused and 
feverish dreams, and, at length, there followed an interval of unconscious 
slumber. But then the dawn of bitter recollection that succeeded - the 
waking to find life a blank, and worse than a blank - teeming with torment 
and misery - not a mere barren wilderness, but full of thorns and briars - 
to find myself deceived, duped, hopeless, my affections trampled upon, my 
angel not an angel, and my friend a fiend incarnate - it was worse than if 
I had not slept at all.
It was a dull, gloomy morning, the weather had changed like my prospects, 
and the rain was pattering against the window. I rose, nevertheless, and 
went out; not to look after the farm, though that would serve as my excuse, 
but to cool my brain, and regain, if possible, a sufficient degree of 
composure to meet the family at the morning meal without exciting 
inconvenient remarks. If I got a wetting, that, in conjunction with a 
pretended over-exertion before breakfast, might excuse my sudden loss of 
appetite; and if a cold ensued, the severer the better, it would help to 
account for the sullen moods and moping melancholy likely to cloud my brow 
for long enough.



Chapter 13

'my dear Gilbert! I wish you would try to be a little more amiable,' said 
my mother, one morning after some display of unjustifiable ill-humour on my 
part. 'You say there is nothing the matter with you, and nothing has 
happened to grieve you, and yet, I never saw any one so altered as you 
within these last few days: you haven't a good word for anybody - friends 
and strangers, equals and inferiors - it's all the same. I do wish you'd 
try to check it.'
'Check what?'
'Why, your strange temper. You don't know how it spoils you. I'm sure a 
finer disposition than yours by nature, could not be, if you'd let it have 
fair play; so you've no excuse that way.'
While she thus remonstrated, I took up a book, and laying it open on the 
table before me, pretended to be deeply absorbed in its perusal; for I was 
equally unable to justify myself, and unwilling to acknowledge my errors; 
and I wished to have nothing to say on the matter. But my excellent parent 
went on lecturing, and then came to coaxing, and began to stroke my hair; 
and I was getting to feel quite a good boy, but my mischievous brother, who 
was idling about the room, revived my corruption by suddenly calling out -
'Don't touch him, mother! he'll bite! He's a very tiger in human form. I've 
given him up for my part - fairly disowned him - cast him off, root and 
branch. It's as much as my life is worth to come within six yards of him. 
The other day he nearly fractured my skull for singing a pretty, 
inoffensive love song, on purpose to amuse him.'
'Oh, Gilbert! how could you?' exclaimed my mother.
'I told you to hold your noise first, you know, Fergus,' said I.
'Yes, but when I assured you it was no trouble, and went on with the next 
verse, thinking you might like it better, you clutched me by the shoulder 
and dashed me away, right against the wall there, with such force, that I 
thought I had bitten my tongue in two, and expected to see the place 
plastered with my brains; and when I put my hand to my head and found my 
skull not broken, I thought it was a miracle and no mistake. But poor 
fellow!' added he, with a sentimental sigh - 'his heart's broken - that's 
the truth of it - and his head's -'
'Will you be silent Now?' cried I, starting up, and eyeing the fellow so 
fiercely that my mother, thinking I meant to inflict some grievous bodily 
injury, laid her hand on my arm, and besought me to let him alone, and he 
walked leisurely out, with his hands in his pockets, singing provokingly - 
'Shall I, because a woman's fair,' etc.
'I'm not going to defile my fingers with him,' said I, in answer to the 
maternal intercession. 'I wouldn't touch him with the tongs.'
I now recollected that I had business with Robert Wilson, concerning the 
purchase of a certain field adjoining my farm - a business I had been 
putting off from day to day; for I had no interest in anything now; and 
besides, I was misanthropically inclined, and, moreover, had a particular 
objection to meeting Jane Wilson or her mother; for though I had too good 
reason, now, to credit their reports concerning Mrs Graham, I did not like 
them a bit the better for it or Eliza Millward either - and the thought of 
meeting them was the more repugnant to me, that I could not, now, defy 
their seeming calumnies and triumph in my own convictions as before. But 
today, I determined to make an effort to return to my duty. Though I found 
no pleasure in it, it would be less irksome than idleness - at all events 
it would be more profitable. If life promised no enjoyment within my 
vocation, at least it offered no allurements out of it; and henceforth, I 
would put my shoulder to the wheel and toil away, like any poor drudge of a 
cart-horse that was fairly broken in to its labour, and plod through life, 
not wholly useless if not agreeable, and uncomplaining if not contented 
with my lot.
Thus resolving, with a kind of sullen resignation, if such a term may be 
allowed, I wended my way to Ryecote Farm scarcely expecting to find its 
owner within at this time of day, but hoping to learn in what part of the 
premises he was most likely to be found.
Absent he was, but expected home in a few minutes; and I was desired to 
step into the parlour and wait. Mrs Wilson was busy in the kitchen, but the 
room was not empty; and I scarcely checked an involuntary recoil as I 
entered it; for there sat Miss Wilson chattering with Eliza Millward. 
However, I determined to be cool and civil. Eliza seemed to have made the 
same resolution on her part. We had not met since the evening of the tea-
party; but there was no visible emotion either of pleasure or pain, no 
attempt at pathos, no display of injured pride: she was cool in temper, 
civil in demeanour. There was even an ease and cheerfulness about her air 
and manner that I made no pretension to: but there was a depth of malice in 
her too expressive eye, that plainly told me I was not forgiven; for, 
though she no longer hoped to win me to herself, she still hated her rival, 
and evidently delighted to wreak her spite on me. On the other hand, Miss 
Wilson was as affable and courteous as heart could wish, and though I was 
in no very conversible humour myself, the two ladies between them managed 
to keep up a pretty continuous fire of small talk. But Eliza took advantage 
of the first convenient pause to ask if I had lately seen Mrs Graham, in a 
tone of merely casual inquiry, but with a sidelong glance - intended to be 
playfully mischievous - really, brimful and running over with malice.
'Not lately,' I replied, in a careless tone, but sternly repelling her 
odious glances with my eyes; for I was vexed to feel the colour mounting to 
my forehead, despite my strenuous efforts to appear unmoved.
'What! are you beginning to tire already? I thought so noble a creature 
would have power to attach you for a year at least!'
'I would rather not speak of her, now.'
'Ah! then you are convinced, at last, of your mistake - you have at length 
discovered that your divinity is not quite the immaculate 'I desired you 
not to speak of her, Miss Eliza.'
'Oh, I beg your pardon! I perceive Cupid's arrows have been too sharp for 
you: the wounds being more than skin deep, are not yet healed, and bleed 
afresh at every mention of the loved one's name.'
'Say, rather,' interposed Miss Wilson, 'that Mr Markham feels that name is 
unworthy to be mentioned in the presence of right-minded females. I wonder, 
Eliza, you should think of referring to that unfortunate person - you might 
know the mention of her would be anything but agreeable to any one here 
present.'
How could this be borne? I rose and was about to clap my hat upon my head 
and burst away, in wrathful indignation, from the house; but recollecting - 
just in time to save my dignity - the folly of such a proceeding, and how 
it would only give my fair tormentors a merry laugh at my expense, for the 
sake of one I acknowledged in my own heart to be unworthy of the slightest 
sacrifice - though the ghost of my former reverence and love so hung about 
me still, that I could not bear to hear her name aspersed by others - I 
merely walked to the window, and having spent a few seconds in vengibly 
biting my lips, and sternly repressing the passionate heavings of my chest, 
I observed to Miss Wilson that I could see nothing of her brother, and 
added that, as my time was precious, it would perhaps be better to call 
again tomorrow, at some time when I should be sure to find him at home.
'Oh, no!' said she, 'if you wait a minute, he will be sure to come; for he 
has business at L--' (that was our market town) 'and will require a little 
refreshment before he goes.'
I submitted accordingly, with the best grace I could; and, happily, I had 
not long to wait. Mr Wilson soon arrived, and, indisposed for business as I 
was at that moment, and little as I cared for the field or its owner, I 
forced my attention to the matter in hand, with very creditable 
determination, and quickly concluded the bargain - perhaps more to the 
thrifty farmer's satisfaction than he cared to acknowledge. Then, leaving 
him to the discussion of his substantial 'refreshment', I gladly quitted 
the house, and went to look after my reapers.
Leaving them busy at work on the side of the valley, I ascended the hill, 
intending to visit a cornfield in the more elevated regions, and see when 
it would be ripe for the sickle. But I did not visit it that day; for, as I 
approached, I beheld at no great distance Mrs Graham and her son coming 
down in the opposite direction. They saw me; and Arthur already was running 
to meet me; but I immediately turned back and walked steadily homeward; for 
I had fully determined never to encounter his mother again; and regardless 
of the shrill voice in my ear, calling upon me to 'wait a moment', I 
pursued the even tenor of my way; and he soon relinquished the pursuit as 
hopeless, or was called away by his mother. At all events, when I looked 
back, five minutes after, not a trace of either was to be seen.
This incident agitated and disturbed me most unaccountably - unless you 
would account for it by saying that Cupid's arrows not only had been too 
sharp for me, but they were barbed and deeply rooted, and I had not yet 
been able to wrench them from my heart. However that be, I was rendered 
doubly miserable for the remainder of the day.



Chapter 14

Next morning, I bethought me, I, too, had business at L--; so I mounted my 
horse and set forth on the expedition, soon after breakfast. It was a dull, 
drizzly day; but that was no matter: it was all the more suitable to my 
frame of mind. It was likely to be a lonely journey; for it was no market-
day, and the road I traversed was little frequented at any other time; but 
that suited me all the better too.
As I trotted along, however, chewing the cud of bitter fancies, I heard 
another horse at no great distance behind me; but I never conjectured who 
the rider might be, or troubled my head about him, till, on slackening my 
pace to ascend a gentle acclivity - or rather suffering my horse to slacken 
his pace into a lazy walk; for, lost in my own reflections, I was letting 
it jog on as leisurely as it thought proper - I lost ground and my fellow 
traveller overtook me. He accosted me by name; for it was no stranger - it 
was Mr Lawrence! Instinctively the fingers of my whip hand tingled, and 
grasped their charge with convulsive energy; but I restrained the impulse, 
and answering his salutation with a nod, attempted to push on; but he 
pushed on beside me and began to talk about the weather and the crops. I 
gave the briefest possible answers to his queries and observations, and 
fell back. He fell back, too, and asked if my horse was lame. I replied 
with a look - at which he placidly smiled.
I was as much astonished as exasperated at this singular pertinacity and 
imperturbable assurance on his part. I had thought the circumstances of our 
last meeting would have left such an impression on his mind as to render 
him cold and distant ever after: instead of that, he appeared not only to 
have forgotten all former offences, but to be impenetrable to all present 
incivilities. Formerly, the slightest hint, or mere fancied coldness in 
tone or glance, had sufficed to repulse him: now, positive rudeness could 
not drive him away. Had he heard of my disappointment; and was he come to 
witness the result, and triumph in my despair? I grasped my whip with more 
determined energy than before - but still forbore to raise it, and rode on 
in silence, waiting for some tangible cause of offence, before I opened the 
flood-gates of my soul, and poured out the dammed-up fury that was foaming 
and swelling within.
'Markham,' said he, in his usual quiet tone, 'why do you quarrel with your 
friends, because you have been disappointed in one quarter? You have found 
your hopes defeated; but how am I to blame for it? I warned you beforehand, 
you know, but you would not -'
He said no more; for, impelled by some fiend at my elbow, I had seized my 
whip by the small end, and - swift and sudden as a flash of lightning - 
brought the other down upon his head. It was not without a feeling of 
savage satisfaction that I beheld the instant, deadly pallor that 
overspread his face, and the few red drops that trickled down his forehead, 
while he reeled a moment in the saddle, and then fell backward to the 
ground. The pony, surprised to be so strangely relieved of its burden, 
started and capered, and kicked a little, and then made use of its freedom 
to go and crop the grass of the hedge bank; while its master lay as still 
and silent as a corpse. Had I killed him? - an icy hand seemed to grasp my 
heart and check its pulsation, as I bent over him, gazing with breathless 
intensity upon the ghastly, upturned face. But no; he moved his eyelids and 
uttered a slight groan. I breathed again - he was only stunned by the fall. 
It served him right - it would teach him better manners in future. Should I 
help him to his horse! No. For any other combination of offences I would; 
but his were too unpardonable. He might mount it himself, if he liked - in 
a while: already he was beginning to stir and look around him - and there 
it was for him, quietly browsing on the roadside.
So with a muttered execration I left the fellow to his fate, and clapping 
spurs to my own horse, galloped away, excited by a combination of feelings 
it would not be easy to analyse; and perhaps, if I did so, the result would 
not be very creditable to my disposition; for I am not sure that a species 
of exultation in what I had done was not one principal concomitant.
Shortly, however, the effervescence began to abate, and not many minutes 
elapsed before I had turned and gone back to look after the fate of my 
victim. It was no generous impulse - no kind relentings that led me to this 
- nor even the fear of what might be the consequences to myself, if I 
finished my assault upon the squire by leaving him thus neglected, and 
exposed to further injury; it was, simply, the voice of conscience; and I 
took great credit to myself for attending so promptly to its dictates - and 
judging the merit of the deed by the sacrifice it cost, I was not far 
wrong.
Lawrence and his pony had both altered their positions in some degree. The 
pony had wandered eight or ten yards further away; and he had managed, 
somehow, to remove himself from the middle of the road: I found him seated 
in a recumbent position on the bank - looking very white and sickly still, 
and holding his cambric handkerchief (now more red than white) to his head. 
It must have been a powerful blow; but half the credit - or the blame of it 
(which you please) must be attributed to the whip, which was garnished with 
a massive horse's head of plated metal. The grass, being sodden with rain, 
afforded the young gentleman a rather inhospitable couch; his clothes were 
considerably bemired; and his hat was rolling in the mud, on the other side 
of the road. But his thoughts seemed chiefly bent upon his pony, on which 
he was wistfully gazing - half in helpless anxiety, and half in hopeless 
abandonment to his fate.
I dismounted, however, and having fastened my own animal to the nearest 
tree, first picked up his hat, intending to clap it on his head; but either 
he considered his head unfit for a hat, or the hat, in its present 
condition, unfit for his head; for shrinking away the one, he took the 
other from my hand, and scornfully cast it aside.
'It's good enough for you,' I muttered.
My next good office was to catch his pony and bring it to him, which was 
soon accomplished; for the beast was quiet enough in the main, and only 
winced and flirted a trifle till I got hold of the bridle - but then, I 
must see him in the saddle.
'Here, you fellow-scoundrel-dog - give me your hand, and I'll help you to 
mount.'
No; he turned from me in disgust. I attempted to take him by the arm. He 
shrank away as if there had been contamination in my touch.
'What, you won't? Well! you may sit there till doomsday, for what I care. 
But I suppose you don't want to lose all the blood in your body - I'll just 
condescend to bind that up for you.'
'Let me alone, if you please.'
'Humph! with all my heart. You may go to the d-l, if you choose - and say I 
sent you.'
But before I abandoned him to his fate, I flung his pony's bridle over a 
stake in the hedge, and threw him my handkerchief, as his own was now 
saturated with blood. He took it and cast it back to me, in abhorrence and 
contempt, with all the strength he could muster. It wanted but this to fill 
the measure of his offences. With execrations not loud but deep, I left him 
to live or die as he could, well satisfied that I had done my duty in 
attempting to save him - but forgetting how I had erred in bringing him 
into such a condition, and how insultingly my after services had been 
offered - and sullenly prepared to meet the consequences if he should 
choose to say I had attempted to murder him - which I thought not unlikely, 
as it seemed probable he was actuated by such spiteful motives in so 
perseveringly refusing my assistance.
Having remounted my horse, I just looked back to see how he was getting on, 
before I rode away. He had risen from the ground, and grasping his pony's 
mane, was attempting to resume his seat in the saddle; but scarcely had he 
put his foot in the stirrup, when a sickness or dizziness seemed to 
overpower him: he leant forward a moment, with his head drooped on the 
animal's back, and then made one more effort, which proving ineffectual, he 
sank back on the bank where I left him, reposing his head on the oozy turf, 
and, to all appearance, as calmly reclining as if he had been taking his 
rest on his sofa at home.
I ought to have helped him in spite of himself - to have bound up the wound 
he was unable to staunch, and insisted upon getting him on his horse and 
seeing him safe home; but, besides my bitter indignation against himself, 
there was the question what to say to his servants - and what to my own 
family. Either I should have to acknowledge the deed, which would set me 
down as a madman, unless I acknowledged the motive too - and that seemed 
impossible - or I must get up a lie, which seemed equally out of the 
question - especially as Mr Lawrence would probably reveal the whole truth, 
and thereby bring me to tenfold disgrace - unless I were villain enough, 
presuming on the absence of witnesses, to persist in my own version of the 
case, and make him out a still greater scoundrel than he was. No; he had 
only received a cut above the temple, and perhaps, a few bruises from the 
fall, or the hoofs of his own pony: that could not kill him if he lay there 
half the day - and, if he could not help himself, surely someone would be 
coming by: it would be impossible that a whole day should pass and no one 
traverse the road but ourselves. As for what he might choose to say 
hereafter, I would take my chance about it: if he told lies, I would 
contradict him; if he told the truth, I would bear it as best I could. I 
was not obliged to enter into explanations, further than I thought proper. 
Perhaps, he might choose to be silent on the subject, for fear of raising 
inquiries as to the cause of the quarrel, and drawing the public attention 
to his connexion with Mrs Graham, which, whether for her sake or his own, 
he seemed so very desirous to conceal.
Thus reasoning, I trotted away to the town, where I duly transacted my 
business, and performed various little commissions for my mother and Rose, 
with very laudable exactitude, considering the different circumstances of 
the case. In returning home, I was troubled with sundry misgivings about 
the unfortunate Lawrence. The question, what if I should find him lying 
still on the damp earth, fairly dying of cold and exhaustion - or already 
stark and chill? thrust itself most unpleasantly upon my mind, and the 
appalling possibility pictured itself with painful vividness to my 
imagination as I approached the spot where I had left him. But no; thank 
Heaven, both man and horse were gone, and nothing was left to witness 
against me but two objects - unpleasant enough in themselves, to be sure, 
and presenting a very ugly, not to say murderous, appearance - in one 
place, the hat saturated with rain and coated with mud, indented and broken 
above the brim by that villanous whip-handle: in another, the crimson 
handkerchief, soaking in a deeply tinctured pool of water - for much rain 
had fallen in the interim.
Bad news fly fast: it was hardly four o'clock when I got home, but my 
mother gravely accosted me with -
'Oh, Gilbert! such an accident! Rose has been shopping in the village, and 
she's heard that Mr Lawrence has been thrown from his horse and brought 
home dying!'
This shocked me a trifle, as you may suppose; but I was comforted to hear 
that he had frightfully fractured his skull and broken a leg; for, assured 
of the falsehood of this, I trusted the rest of the story was equally 
exaggerated; and when I heard my mother and sister so feelingly deploring 
his condition, I had considerable difficulty in preventing myself from 
telling them the real extent of the injuries, as far as I knew them.
'You must go and see him tomorrow,' said my mother.
'Or today,' suggested Rose; 'there's plenty of time; and you can have the 
pony, as your horse is tired. Won't you, Gilbert - as soon as you've had 
something to eat?'
'No, no - How can we tell that it isn't all a false report? It's highly im 
-'
'Oh, I'm sure it isn't; for the village is all alive about it; and I saw 
two people that had seen others that had seen the man that found him. That 
sounds far-fetched; but it isn't so, when you think of it.'
'Well, but Lawrence is a good rider; it is not likely he would fall from 
his horse at all; and if he did, it is highly improbable he would break his 
bones in that way. It must be a gross exaggeration at least.'
'No, but the horse kicked him - or something.'
'What, his quiet little pony?'
'How do you know it was that?'
'He seldom rides any other.'
'At any rate,' said my mother, 'you will call tomorrow. Whether it be true 
or false, exaggerated or otherwise, we shall like to know how he is.'
'Fergus may go.'
'Why not you?'
'He has more time: I am busy just now.'
'Oh! but Gilbert, how can you be so composed about it! You won't mind 
business, for an hour or two, in a case of this sort - when your friend is 
at the point of death!'
'He is not, I tell you!'
'For anything you know, he may be! you can't tell till you have seen him. 
At all events, he must have met with some terrible accident, and you ought 
to see him: he'll take it very unkind if you don't.'
'Confound it! I can't. He and I have not been on good terms of late.'
'Oh, my dear boy! Surely, surely, you are not so unforgiving as to carry 
your little differences to such a length as -'
'Little differences, indeed!' I muttered.
'Well, but only remember the occasion! Think how -'
'Well, well, don't bother me now-I'll see about it,' I replied.
And my seeing about it, was to send Fergus next morning, with my mother's 
compliments, to make the requisite inquiries; for, of course, my going was 
out of the question - or sending a message either. He brought back 
intelligence that the young squire was laid up with the complicated evils 
of a broken head and certain contusions (occasioned by a fall - of which he 
did not trouble to relate the particulars - and the subsequent misconduct 
of his horse), and a severe cold, the consequence of lying on the wet 
ground in the rain; but there were no broken bones, and no immediate 
prospects of dissolution.
It was evident then, that, for Mrs Graham's sake, it was not his intention 
to criminate me.



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 blue-bells,' 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 everyone 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 
round 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 today: today and tonight, she may think upon 
her sins, and be as miserable as she will: tomorrow, 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 fireplace, 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 catechise 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 
over-strained; 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 upstairs 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 temporal 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, and call it -



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, wllen 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 judgement, 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; 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 seemed 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 judgement, 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 dare 
say; 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 did 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 a 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 everyday 
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 w-hole 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 his 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 anxious thoughts 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 judgement, 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,' etc., etc.
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.



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-bye - 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 loath 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 judgement 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 commonplace 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-a-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 been; 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 
for 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 in spite of 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 any one 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 
Staningly?'
'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 judgement 
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 
someone 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 before-hand 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 
be 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 judgement. 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.



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 u 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!
Today is the 1st 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.
l9th. - 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 over-flowings 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 card-board, 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 made 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 tonight; 
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 upstairs, 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 upstairs 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 were 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 the 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 the 
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 easy conquest.
Messrs Wilmot and Boarnam 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.



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 tonight, and see what I shall think 
of it tomorrow.
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 tonight?' 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.

Oh, 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! whose joyous gleam
	No mortal language 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 tomorrow, 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, tomorrow.'
'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.



Chapter 20

September 24th. In the morning I rose, light and cheerful, nay, intensely 
happy. The hovering cloud cast over me by my aunt's views, and by the fear 
of not obtaining her consent, was lost in the bright effulgence of my own 
hopes, and the too delightful consciousness of requited love. It was a 
splendid morning; and I went out to enjoy it, in a quiet ramble in company 
with my own blissful thoughts. The dew was on the grass, and ten thousand 
gossamers were waving in the breeze; the happy red-breast was pouring out 
its little soul in song, and my heart overflowed with silent hymns of 
gratitude and praise to Heaven.
But I had not wandered far before my solitude was interrupted by the only 
person that could have disturbed my musings, at that moment, without being 
looked upon as an unwelcome intruder: Mr Huntingdon came suddenly upon me. 
So unexpected was the apparition, that I might have thought it the creation 
of an over-excited imagination, had the sense of sight alone borne witness 
to his presence; but immediately I felt his strong arm round my waist and 
his warm kiss on my cheek, while his keen and gleeful salutation, 'My own 
Helen!' was ringing in my ear.
'Not yours yet,' said I, hastily swerving aside from this too presumptuous 
greeting - 'remember my guardians. You will not easily obtain my aunt's 
consent. Don't you see she is prejudiced against you?' 'I do, dearest; and 
you must tell me why, that I may best know how to combat her objections. I 
suppose she thinks I am a prodigal,' pursued he, observing that I was 
unwilling to reply, 'and concludes that I shall have but little worldly 
goods wherewith to endow my better half? If so, you must tell her that my 
property is mostly entailed, and I cannot get rid of it. There may be a few 
mortgages on the rest - a few trifling debts and encumbrances here and 
there, but nothing to speak of; and though I acknowledge I am not so rich 
as I might be - or have been - still, I think, we could manage pretty 
comfortably on what's left. My father, you know, was something of a miser, 
and, in his latter days especially, saw no pleasure in life but to amass 
riches; and so it is no wonder that his son should make it his chief 
delight to spend them, which was accordingly the case, until my 
acquaintance with you, dear Helen, taught me other views and nobler aims. 
And the very idea of having you to care for under my roof, would force me 
to moderate my expenses and live like a Christian - not to speak of all the 
prudence and virtue you would instil into my mind by your wise counsels and 
sweet, attractive goodness.'
'But it is not that,' said I, 'it is not money my aunt thinks about. She 
knows better than to value worldly wealth above its price.'
'What is it then?'
'She wishes me to - to marry none but a really good man.'
'What, a man of "decided piety"? - ahem! - Well, come, I'll manage that 
too! It's Sunday today, isn't it? I'll go to church morning, afternoon, and 
evening, and comport myself in such a godly sort that she shall regard me 
with admiration and sisterly love, as a brand plucked from the burning. 
I'll come home sighing like a furnace, and full of the savour and unction 
of dear Mr Blatant's discourse -'
'Mr Leighton,' said I dryly.
'Is Mr Leighton a "sweet preacher", Helen - a "dear, delightful, heavenly - 
minded man"?'
'He is a good man, Mr Huntingdon. I wish I could say half as much for you.'
'Oh, I forgot, you are a saint, too. I crave your pardon, dearest - but 
don't call me Mr Huntingdon, my name is Arthur.'
'I'll call you nothing - for I'll have nothing at all to do with you if you 
talk in that way any more. If you really mean to deceive my aunt as you 
say, you are very wicked; and if not, you are very wrong to jest on such a 
subject.'
'I stand corrected,' said he, concluding his laugh with a sorrowful sigh. 
'Now,' resumed he, after a momentary pause, 'let us talk about something 
else. And come nearer to me, Helen, and take my arm; and then I'll let you 
alone. I can't be quiet while I see you walking there.'
I complied; but said we must soon return to the house.
'No one will be down to breakfast yet, for long enough,' he answered. 'You 
spoke of your guardians, just now, Helen, but is not your father still 
living?'
'Yes, but I always look upon my uncle and aunt as my guardians, for they 
are so, in deed, though not in name. My father has entirely given me up to 
their care. I have never seen him since dear mamma died when I was a very 
little girl, and my aunt, at her request, offered to take charge of me, and 
took me away to Staningley, where I have remained ever since; and I don't 
think he would object to anything for me, that she thought proper to 
sanction.'
'But would he sanction anything to which she thought proper to object?'
'No, I don't think he cares enough about me.'
'He is very much to blame but he doesn't know what an angel he has for his 
daughter - which is all the better for me, as, if he did, he would not be 
willing to part with such a treasure.'
'And Mr Huntingdon,' said I; 'I suppose you know I am not an heiress?'
He protested he had never given it a thought, and begged I would not 
disturb his present enjoyment by the mention of such uninteresting 
subjects. I was glad of this proof of disinterested affection; for 
Annabella Wilmot is the probable heiress to all her uncle's wealth, in 
addition to her late father's property, which she has already in 
possession.
I now insisted upon retracing our steps to the house; but we walked slowly, 
and went on talking as we proceeded. I need not repeat all we said: let me 
rather refer to what passed between my aunt and me, after breakfast, when 
Mr Huntingdon called my uncle aside, no doubt to make his proposals, and 
she beckoned me into another room, where she once more commenced a solemn 
remonstrance, which, however, entirely failed to convince me that her view 
of the case was preferable to my own.
'You judge him uncharitably, aunt, I know,' said I. 'His very friends are 
not half so bad as you represent them. There is Walter Hargrave, Milicent's 
brother, for one; he is but a little lower than the angels, if half she 
says of him is true. She is continually talking to me about him, and 
lauding his many virtues to the skies.'
'You will form a very inadequate estimate of a man's character,' replied 
she, 'if you judge by what a fond sister says of him. The worst of them 
generally know how to hide their misdeeds from their sisters' eyes, and 
their mothers' too.'
'And there is Lord Lowborough,' continued I, 'quite a decent man.'
'Who told you so? Lord Lowborough is a desperate man. He has dissipated his 
fortune in gambling and other things, and is now seeking an heiress to 
retrieve it. I told Miss Wilmot so; but you're all alike: she haughtily 
answered she was very much obliged to me, but she believed she knew when a 
man was seeking her for her fortune, and when for herself; she flattered 
herself she had had experience enough in those matters, to be justified in 
trusting to her own judgement - and as for his lordship's lack of fortune, 
she cared nothing about that, as she hoped her own would suffice for both; 
and as for his wildness, she supposed he was no worse than others - 
besides, he was reformed now. Yes, they can all play the hypocrite when 
they want to take in a fond, misguided woman!'
'Well, I think he's about as good as she is,' said I. 'But when Mr 
Huntingdon is married, he won't have many opportunities of consorting with 
his bachelor friends; and the worse they are, the more I long to deliver 
him from them.'
'To be sure, my dear; and the worse he is, I suppose, the more you long to 
deliver him from himself.'
'Yes, provided he is not incorrigible - that is, the more I long to deliver 
him from his faults - to give him an opportunity of shaking off the 
adventitious evil got from contact with others worse than himself, and 
shining out in the unclouded light of his own genuine goodness - to do my 
utmost to help his better self against his worse, and make him what he 
would have been if he had not, from the beginning, had a bad, selfish, 
miserly father, who, to gratify his own sordid passions, restricted him in 
the most innocent enjoyments of childhood and youth, and so disgusted him 
with every kind of restraint; and a foolish mother who indulged him to the 
top of his bent, deceiving her husband for him, and doing her utmost to 
encourage those germs of folly and vice it was her duty to suppress - and 
then, such a set of companions as you represent his friends to be -'
'Poor man!' said she sarcastically, 'his kind have greatly wronged him!'
'They have,' cried I - 'and they shall wrong him no more - his wife shall 
undo what his mother did!'
'Well,' said she, after a short pause, 'I must say, Helen, I thought better 
of your judgement than this - and your taste too. How you can love such a 
man I cannot tell, or what pleasure you can find in his company; for "What 
fellowship hath light with darkness; or he that believeth with an infidel?" 
'
'He is not an infidel; and I am not light, and he is not darkness; his 
worst and only vice is thoughtlessness.'
'And thoughtlessness,' pursued my aunt, 'may lead to every crime, and will 
but poorly excuse our errors in the sight of God. Mr Huntingdon, I suppose, 
is not without the common faculties of men; he is not so light-headed as to 
be irresponsible: his Maker has endowed him with reason and conscience as 
well as the rest of us; the Scriptures are open to him as well as to 
others; and "If he hear not them, neither will he hear though one rose from 
the dead." And, remember, Helen,' continued she solemnly, ' "The wicked 
shall be turned into hell, and they that forget God!" And suppose, even, 
that he should continue to love you, and you him, and that you should pass 
through life together with tolerable comfort - how will it be in the end, 
when you see yourselves parted for ever; you, perhaps, taken into eternal 
bliss, and he cast into the lake that burneth with unquenchable fire - 
there for ever to -'
'Not for ever,' I exclaimed, 'only "till he has paid the uttermost 
farthing"; for "if any man's work abide not the fire, he shall suffer loss, 
yet himself shall be saved, but so as by fire"; and He that "is able to 
subdue all things to Himself will have all men to be saved," and "will in 
the fulness of time, gather together in one all things in Christ Jesus, who 
tasted death for every man, and in whom God will reconcile all things to 
Himself, whether they be things in earth or things in heaven".'
'Oh, Helen! where did you learn all this?'
'In the Bible, aunt. I have searched it through, and found nearly thirty 
passages, all tending to support the same theory.'
'And is that the use you make of your Bible? And did you find no passages 
tending to prove the danger and falsity of such a belief?'
'No: I found, indeed, some passages that, taken by themselves, might seem 
to contradict that opinion; but they will all bear a different construction 
to that which is commonly given, and in most the only difficulty is in the 
word which we translate "everlasting" or "eternal". I don't know the Greek, 
but I believe it strictly means for ages, and might signify either endless 
or long-enduring. And as for the danger of the belief, I would not publish 
it abroad, if I thought any poor wretch would be likely to presume upon it 
to his own destruction, but it is a glorious thought to cherish in one's 
own heart, and I would not part with it for all the world can give!'
Here our conference ended, for it was now high time to prepare for church. 
Every one attended the morning service, except my uncle, who hardly ever 
goes, and Mr Wilmot, who stayed at home with him to enjoy a quiet game of 
cribbage. In the afternoon Miss Wilmot and Lord Lowborough likewise excused 
themselves from attending; but Mr Huntingdon vouchsafed to accompany us 
again. Whether it was to ingratiate himself with my aunt I cannot tell, 
but, if so, he certainly should have behaved better. I must confess, I did 
not like his conduct during service at all. Holding his prayer-book upside 
down, or open at any place but the right, he did nothing but stare about 
him, unless he happened to catch my aunt's eye or mine, and then he would 
drop his own on his book, with a puritanical air of mock solemnity that 
would have been ludicrous, if it had not been too provoking. Once, during 
the sermon, after attentively regarding Mr Leighton for a few minutes, he 
suddenly produced his gold pencil - case and snatched up a Bible. 
Perceiving that I observed the movement, he whispered that he was going to 
make a note of the sermon; but instead of that - as I sat next him I could 
not help seeing that he was making a caricature of the preacher, giving to 
the respectable, pious, elderly gentleman, the air and aspect of a most 
absurd old hypocrite. And yet, upon his return, he talked to my aunt about 
the sermon with a degree of modest, serious discrimination that tempted me 
to believe he had really attended and profited by the discourse.
Just before dinner my uncle called me into the library for the discussion 
of a very important matter, which was dismissed in few words.
'Now, Nell,' said he, 'this young Huntingdon has been asking for you: what 
must I say about it? Your aunt would answer "No" - but what say you?'
'I say yes, uncle,' replied I, without a moment's hesitation; for I had 
thoroughly made up my mind on the subject.
'Very good!' cried he. 'Now that's a good honest answer - wonderful for a 
girl! Well, I'll write to your father tomorrow. He's sure to give his 
consent; so you may look on the matter as settled. You'd have done a deal 
better if you'd taken Wilmot, I can tell you; but that you won't believe. 
At your time of life, it's love that rules the roost: at mine, it's solid, 
serviceable gold. I suppose now, you'd never dream of looking into the 
state of your husband's finances, or troubling your head about settlements, 
or anything of that sort?'
'I don't think I should.'
'Well, be thankful, then, that you've wiser heads to think for you. I 
haven't had time, yet, to examine thoroughly into this young rascal's 
affairs, but I see that a great part of his father's fine property has been 
squandered away; but still, I think there's a pretty fair share of it left, 
and a little careful nursing may make a handsome thing of it yet; and then 
we must persuade your father to give you a decent fortune, as he has only 
one besides yourself to care for; and, if you behave well, who knows but 
what I may be induced to remember you in my will?' continued he, putting 
his fingers to his nose, with a knowing wink.
'Thanks, uncle, for that and all your kindness,' replied I.
'Well, and I questioned this young spark on the matter of settlements,' 
continued he; 'and he seemed disposed to be generous enough on that point 
-'
'I knew he would!' said I. 'But pray don't trouble your head - or his, or 
mine about that; for all I have will be his, and all he has will be mine; 
and what more could either of us require?' And I was about to make my exit, 
but he called me back.
'Stop, stop!' cried he - 'We haven't mentioned the time yet. When must it 
be? Your aunt would put it off till the Lord knows when, but he is anxious 
to be bound as soon as may be: he won't hear of waiting beyond next month; 
and you, I guess, will be of the same mind, so -'
'Not at all, uncle; on the contrary, I should like to wait till after 
Christmas, at least.'
'Oh! pooh, pooh! never tell me that tale - I know better,' cried he; and he 
persisted in his incredulity. Nevertheless, it is quite true. I am in no 
hurry at all. How can I be, when I think of the momentous change that 
awaits me, and of all I have to leave? It is happiness enough, to know that 
we are to be united; and that he really loves me, and I may love him as 
devotedly, and think of him as often as I please. However, I insisted upon 
consulting my aunt about the time of the wedding, for I determined her 
counsels should not be utterly disregarded; and no conclusions on that 
particular are come to yet.



Chapter 21

October 1st. All is settled now. My father has given his consent, and the 
time is fixed for Christmas, by a sort of compromise between the respective 
advocates for hurry and delay. Milicent Hargrave is to be one bridesmaid, 
and Annabella Wilmot the other - not that I am particularly fond of the 
latter, but she is an intimate of the family, and I have not another 
friend.
When I told Milicent of my engagement, she rather provoked me by her manner 
of taking it. After staring a moment in mute surprise, she said -
'Well, Helen, I suppose I ought to congratulate you - and I am glad to see 
you so happy; but I did not think you would take him; and I can't help 
feeling surprised that you should like him so much.'
'Why so?'
'Because you are so superior to him in every way, and there's something so 
bold - and reckless about him - so, I don't know how - but I always feel a 
wish to get out of his way, when I see him approach.'
'You are timid, Milicent, but that's no fault of his.'
'And then his look,' continued she. 'People say he's handsome, and of 
course he is, but I don't like that kind of beauty; and I wonder that you 
should.'
'Why so?'
'Well, you know, I think there's nothing noble or lofty in his appearance.'
'In fact you wonder that I can like any one so unlike the stilted heroes of 
romance! Well! give me my flesh and blood lover, and I'll leave all the Sir 
Herberts and Valentines to you - if you can find them.'
'I don't want them,' said she. 'I'll be satisfied with flesh and blood too 
- only the spirit must shine through and predominate. But don't you think 
Mr Huntingdon's face is too red?'
'No!' cried I indignantly. 'It is not red at all. There is just a pleasant 
glow - a healthy freshness in his complexion, the warm, pinky tint of the 
whole harmonising with the deeper colour of the cheeks, exactly as it ought 
to do. I hate a man to be red and white, like a painted doll - or all 
sickly white, or smoky black, or cadaverous yellow!'
'Well, tastes differ - but I like pale or dark,' replied she. 'But to tell 
you the truth, Helen, I had been deluding myself with the hope, that you 
would one day be my sister. I expected Walter would be introduced to you 
next season; and I thought you would like him, and was certain he would 
like you; and I flattered myself I should thus have the felicity of seeing 
the two persons I liked best in the world - except mamma - united in one. 
He mayn't be exactly what you would call handsome, but he's far more 
distinguished - looking, and nicer and better than Mr Huntingdon; and I'm 
sure you would say so, if you knew him.'
'Impossible, Milicent! You think so, because you're his sister; and, on 
that account, I'll forgive you; but nobody else should so disparage Arthur 
Huntingdon to me, with impunity.'
Miss Wilmot expressed her feelings on the subject, almost as openly.
'And so, Helen,' said she, coming up to me with a smile of no amiable 
import, 'you are to be Mrs Huntingdon, I suppose?'
'Yes,' replied I. 'Don't you envy me?'
'Oh, dear, no!' she exclaimed. 'I shall probably be Lady Lowborough some 
day, and then you know, dear, I shall be in a capacity to inquire, "Don't 
you envy me?" '
'Henceforth, I shall envy no one,' returned I.
'Indeed! Are you so happy then?' said she thoughtfully; and something very 
like a cloud of disappointment shadowed her face. 'And does he love you - I 
mean, does he idolise you as much as you do him?' she added, fixing her 
eyes upon me with ill-disguised anxiety for the reply.
'I don't want to be idolised,' I answered, 'but I am well assured that he 
loves me more than anybody else in the world - as I do him.'
'Exactly,' said she, with a nod. 'I wish ' she paused.
'What do you wish?' asked I, annoyed at the vindictive expression of her 
countenance.
'I wish,' returned she, with a short laugh, 'that all the attractive points 
and desirable qualifications of the two gentlemen were united in one - that 
Lord Lowborough had Huntingdon's handsome face and good temper, and all his 
wit, and mirth, and charm, or else that Huntingdon had Lowborough's 
pedigree, and title, and delightful old family seat, and I had him; and you 
might have the other and welcome.'
'Thank you, dear Annabella, I am better satisfied with things as they are, 
for my own part; and for you, I wish you were as well content with your 
intended as I am with mine,' said I; and it was true enough; for, though 
vexed at first at her unamiable spirit, her frankness touched me, and the 
contrast between our situations was such, that I could well afford to pity 
her and wish her well.
Mr Huntingdon's acquaintances appear to be no better pleased with our 
approaching union than mine. This morning's post brought him letters from 
several of his friends, during the perusal of which, at the breakfast-
table, he excited the attention of the company, by the singular variety of 
his grimaces. But he crushed them all into his pocket, with a private 
laugh, and said nothing till the meal was concluded. Then, while the 
company were hanging over the fire or loitering through the room, previous 
to settling to their various morning's avocations, he came and leant over 
the back of my chair, with his face in contact with my curls, and 
commencing with a quiet little kiss, poured forth the following complaints 
into my ear -
'Helen, you witch, do you know that you've entailed upon me the curses of 
all my friends? I wrote to them the other day, to tell them of my happy 
prospects, and now, instead of a bundle of congratulations, I've got a 
pocketful of bitter execrations and reproaches. There's not one kind wish 
for me, or one good word for you, among them all. They say there'll be no 
more fun now, no more merry days and glorious nights - and all my fault - I 
am the first to break up the jovial band, and others, in pure despair, will 
follow my example. I was the very life and prop of the community, they do 
me the honour to say, and I have shamefully betrayed my trust -'
'You may join them again, if you like,' said I, somewhat piqued at the 
sorrowful tone of his discourse. 'I should be sorry to stand between any 
man - or body of men, and so much happiness; and perhaps I can manage to do 
without you, as well as your poor deserted friends.'
'Bless you; no,' murmured he. 'It's "all for love or the world well lost," 
with me. Let them go to - where they belong, to speak politely. But if you 
saw how they abuse me, Helen, you would love me all the more, for having 
ventured so much for your sake.'
He pulled out his crumpled letters. I thought he was going to show them to 
me, and told him I did not wish to see them.
'I'm not going to show them to you, love,' said he. 'They're hardly fit for 
a lady's eyes - the most part of them. But look here. This is Grimsby's 
scrawl - only three lines, the sulky dog! He doesn't say much, to be sure, 
but his very silence implies more than all the others' words, and the less 
he says, the more he thinks - and this is Hargrave's missive. He is 
particularly grieved at me, because, forsooth, he had fallen in love with 
you from his sister's reports, and meant to have married you himself, as 
soon as he had sown his wild oats.'
'I'm vastly obliged to him,' observed I.
'And so am I,' said he. 'And look at this. This is Hattersley's - every 
page stuffed full of railing accusations, bitter curses, and lamentable 
complaints, ending up with swearing that he'll get married himself in 
revenge; he'll throw himself away on the first old maid that chooses to set 
her cap at him - as if I cared what he did with himself.'
'Well,' said I, 'if you do give up your intimacy with these men, I don't 
think you will have much cause to regret the loss of their society; for 
it's my belief they never did you much good.'
 'Maybe not; but we'd a merry time of it, too, though mingled with sorrow 
and pain, as Lowborough knows to his cost - Ha! ha!' and while he was 
laughing at the recollections of Lowborough's troubles, my uncle came and 
slapped him on the shoulder.
'Come, my lad!' said he. 'Are you too busy making love to my niece to make 
war with the pheasants? First of October, remember! Sun shines out - rain 
ceased - even Boarham's not afraid to venture in his waterproof boots; and 
Wilmot and I are going to beat you all. I declare, we old 'uns are the 
keenest sportsmen of the lot!'
'I'll show you what I can do today, however,' said my companion. 'I'll 
murder your birds by wholesale, just for keeping me away from better 
company than either you or them.'
And so saying he departed; and I saw no more of him till dinner. It seemed 
a weary time; I wonder what I shall do without him.
It is very true that the three elder gentlemen have proved themselves much 
keener sportsmen than the two younger ones; for both Lord Lowborough and 
Arthur Huntingdon have of late almost daily neglected the shooting 
excursions, to accompany us in our various rides and rambles. But these 
merry times are fast drawing to a close. In less than a fortnight the party 
break up, much to my sorrow, for every day I enjoy it more and more - now 
that Messrs Boarham and Wilmot have ceased to tease me, and my aunt has 
ceased to lecture me, and I have ceased to be jealous of Annabella - and 
even to dislike her - and now that Mr Huntingdon is become my Arthur, and I 
may enjoy his society without restraint - What shall I do without him, I 
repeat?



Chapter 22

October 5th. My cup of sweets is not unmingled: it is dashed with a 
bitterness that I cannot hide from myself, disguise it as I will. I may try 
to persuade myself that the sweetness overpowers it; I may call it a 
pleasant aromatic flavour; but say what I will, it is still there, and I 
cannot but taste it. I cannot shut my eyes to Arthur's faults; and the more 
I love him the more they trouble me. His very heart, that I trusted so, is, 
I fear, less warm and generous than I thought it. At least, he gave me a 
specimen of his character today, that seemed to merit a harder name than 
thoughtlessness. He and Lord Lowborough were accompanying Annabella and me 
in a long, delightful ride; he was riding by my side, as usual, and 
Annabella and Lord Lowborough were a little before us, the latter bending 
towards his companion as if in tender and confidential discourse. 'Those 
two will get the start of us, Helen, if we don't look sharp,' observed 
Huntingdon. 'They'll make a match of it, as sure as can be. That 
Lowborough's fairly besotted. But he'll find himself in a fix when he's got 
her, I doubt.'
'And she'll find herself in a fix when she's got him,' said I, 'if what I 
have heard of him is true.'
'Not a bit of it. She knows what she's about; but he, poor fool, deludes 
himself with the notion that she'll make him a good wife, and because she 
has amused him with some rodomontade about despising rank and wealth in 
matters of love and marriage, he flatters himself that she's devotedly 
attached to him; that she will not refuse him for his poverty, and does not 
court him for his rank, but loves him for himself alone.'
'But is not he courting her for her fortune?'
'No, not he. That was the first attraction, certainly; but now he has quite 
lost sight of it: it never enters his calculations, except merely as an 
essential without which, for the lady's own sake, he could not think of 
marrying her. No; he's fairly in love. He thought he never could be again, 
but he's in for it once more. He was to have been married before, some two 
or three years ago; but he lost his bride by losing his fortune. He got 
into a bad way among us in London: he had an unfortunate taste for 
gambling; and surely the fellow was born under an unlucky star, for he 
always lost thrice where he gained once. That's a mode of self-torment I 
never was much addicted to. When I spend my money I like to enjoy the full 
value of it: I see no fun in wasting it on thieves and blacklegs; and as 
for gaining money, hitherto, I have always had sufficient; it's time enough 
to be clutching for more, I think, when you begin to see the end of what 
you have. But I have sometimes frequented the gaming-houses just to watch 
the on-goings of those mad votaries of chance - a very interesting study, I 
assure you, Helen, and sometimes very diverting: I've had many a laugh at 
the boobies and bedlamites. Lowborough was quite infatuated - not 
willingly, but of necessity - he was always resolving to give it up, and 
always breaking his resolutions. Every venture was the "just once more": if 
he gained a little, he hoped to gain a little more next time, and if he 
lost, it would not do to leave off at that juncture; he must go on till he 
had retrieved that last misfortune, at least: bad luck could not last for 
ever; and every lucky hit was looked upon as the dawn of better times, till 
experience proved the contrary. At length he grew desperate, and we were 
daily on the look-out for a case of felo de se - no great matter, some of 
us whispered, as his existence had ceased to be an acquisition to our club. 
At last, however, he came to a check. He made a large stake which he 
determined should be the last, whether he lost or won. He had often so 
determined before, to be sure, and as often broken his determination; and 
so it was this time. He lost; and while his antagonist smilingly swept away 
the stakes, he turned chalky white, drew back in silence, and wiped his 
forehead. I was present at the time; and while he stood with folded arms 
and eyes fixed on the ground, I knew well enough what was passing in his 
mind.
' "Is it to be the last, Lowborough?" said I, stepping up to him.
' "The last but one," he answered, with a grim smile; and then, rushing 
back to the table, he struck his hand upon it, and, raising his voice high 
above all the confusion of jingling coins and muttered oaths and curses in 
the room, he swore a deep and solemn oath, that, come what would, this 
trial should be the last, and imprecated unspeakable curses on his head, if 
ever he should shuffle a card, or rattle a dice-box again. He then doubled 
his former stake, and challenged any one present to play against him. 
Grimsby instantly presented himself. Lowborough glared fiercely at him, for 
Grimsby was almost as celebrated for his luck as he was for his ill-
fortune. However, they fell to work. But Grimsby had much skill and little 
scruple, and whether he took advantage of the other's trembling, blinded 
eagerness to deal unfairly by him, I cannot undertake to say; but 
Lowborough lost again, and fell dead sick.
' "You'd better try once more," said Grimsby, leaning across the table. And 
then he winked at me.
' "I've nothing to try with," said the poor devil, with a ghastly smile.
' "Oh, Huntingdon will lend you what you want," said the other.
' "No; you heard my oath," answered Lowborough, turning away in quiet 
despair. And I took him by the arm, and led him out.
' "Is it to be the last, Lowborough?" I asked, when I got him into the 
street.
' "The last," he answered, somewhat against my expectation. And I took him 
home - that is, to our club - for he was as submissive as a child, and 
plied him with brandy-and-water till he began to look rather brighter - 
rather more alive, at least.
' "Huntingdon, I'm ruined!" said he, taking the third glass from my hand - 
he had drunk the others in dead silence.
' "Not you!" said I. "You'll find a man can live without his money as 
merrily as a tortoise without its head, or a wasp without its body."
' "But I'm in debt," said he - "deep in debt! And I can never, never get 
out of it!" ' "Well, what of that? many a better man than you has lived and 
died in debt, and they can't put you in prison, you know, because you're a 
peer." And I handed him his fourth tumbler.
' "But I hate to be in debt!" he shouted. "I wasn't born for it, and I 
cannot bear it!"
' "What can't be cured must be endured," said I, beginning to mix the 
fifth.
' "And then, I've lost my Caroline." And he began to snivel then, for the 
brandy had softened his heart.
' "No matter," I answered, "there are more Carolines in the world than 
one."
' "There's only one for me," he replied, with a dolorous sigh. "And if 
there were fifty more, who's to get them, I wonder, without money?"
' "Oh, somebody will take you for your title; and then you've your family 
estate yet; that's entailed, you know."
' "I wish to God I could sell it to pay my debts," he muttered.
' "And then," said Grimsby, who had just come in, "you can try again, you 
know. I would have more than one chance, if I were you. I'd never stop 
here."
' "I won't, I tell you!" shouted he. And he started up, and left the room-
walking rather unsteadily, for the liquor had got into his head. He was not 
so much used to it then, but after that, he took to it kindly to solace his 
cares.
'He kept his oath about gambling (not a little to the surprise of us all), 
though Grimsby did his utmost to tempt him to break it; but now he had got 
hold of another habit that bothered him nearly as much, for he soon 
discovered that the demon of drink was as black as the demon of play, and 
nearly as hard to get rid of - especially as his kind friends did all they 
could to second the promptings of his own insatiable cravings.'
'Then, they were demons themselves,' cried I, unable to contain my 
indignation. 'And you, Mr Huntingdon, it seems, were the first to tempt 
him.'
'Well, what could we do?' replied he deprecatingly. 'We meant it in 
kindness - we couldn't bear to see the poor fellow so miserable: and 
besides, he was such a damper upon us, sitting there, silent and glum, when 
he was under the threefold influence of the loss of his sweetheart, the 
loss of his fortune, and the reaction of the last night's debauch; whereas, 
when he had something in him, if he was not merry himself, he was an 
unfailing source of merriment to us. Even Grimsby could chuckle over his 
odd sayings: they delighted him far more than my merry jests, or 
Hattersley's riotous mirth. But, one evening, when we were sitting over our 
wine, after one of our club dinners, and all had been hearty together - 
Lowborough giving us mad toasts, and hearing our wild songs, and bearing a 
hand in the applause, if he did not help us to sing them himself - he 
suddenly relapsed into silence, sinking his head on his hand, and never 
lifting his glass to his lips; but this was nothing new; so we let him 
alone, and went on with our jollification, till, suddenly raising his head, 
he interrupted us in the middle of a roar of laughter, by exclaiming -
' "Gentlemen, where is all this to end? Will you just tell me that now? 
Where is it all to end?" He rose.
' "A speech, a speech!' shouted we. "Hear, hear! Lowborough's going to give 
us a speech!"
'He waited calmly till the thunders of applause and jingling of glasses had 
ceased, and then proceeded -
' "It's only this gentlemen - that I think we'd better go no further. We'd 
better stop while we can."
' "Just so," cried Hattersley -

Stop, poor sinner, stop and think
	Before you further go,
No longer sport upon the brink
	Of everlasting woe.

' "Exactly!" replied his lordship, with the utmost gravity. "And if you 
choose to visit the bottomless pit, I won't go with you - we must part 
company, for I swear I'll not move another step towards it! What's this?" 
he said, taking up his glass of wine.
' "Taste it," suggested I.
' "This is hell broth!" he exclaimed. "I renounce it for ever!" And he 
threw it out into the middle of the table.
' "Fill again!" said I, handing him the bottle - "and let us drink to your 
renunciation."
' "It's rank poison," said he, grasping the bottle by the neck, "and I 
forswear it! I've given up gambling, and I'll give up this too.' He u as on 
the point of deliberately pouring the whole contents of the bottle on to 
the table, but Hargrave u rested it from him. "On you be the curse then!" 
said he. And, backing from the room, he shouted, "Farewell, ye tempters!" 
and vanished amid shouts of laughter and applause.
'We expected him back among us the next day; but, to our surprise, the 
place remained vacant; we saw nothing of him for a whole week; and we 
really began to think he was going to keep his word. At last, one evening, 
when we were most of us assembled together again, he entered, silent and 
grim as a ghost, and would have quietly slipped into his usual seat at my 
elbow, but we all rose to welcome him, and several voices were raised to 
ask what he would have, and several hands were busy with bottle and glass 
to serve him; but I knew a smoking tumbler of brandy-and-water would 
comfort him best, and had nearly prepared it, when he peevishly pushed it 
away, saying -
' "Do let me alone, Huntingdon! Do be quiet, all of you! I'm not come to 
join you: I'm only come to be with you awhile, because I can't bear my own 
thoughts." And he folded his arms, and leant back in his chair; so we let 
him be. But I left the glass by him; and, after a while, Grimsby directed 
my attention towards it, by a significant wink; and, on turning my head, I 
saw it was drained to the bottom. He made me a sign to replenish, and 
quietly pushed up the bottle. I willingly complied: but Lowborough detected 
the pantomime, and, nettled at the intelligent grins that were passing 
between us, snatched the glass from my hand, dashed the contents of it in 
Grimsby's face, threw the empty tumbler at me, and then bolted from the 
room.'
'I hope he broke your head,' said I.
'No, love,' replied he, laughing immoderately at the recollection of the 
whole affair, 'he would have done so - and, perhaps, spoilt my face, too, 
but, providentially, this forest of curls' (taking off his hat, and showing 
his luxuriant chestnut locks) 'saved my skull, and prevented the glass from 
breaking, till it reached the table.'
'After that,' he continued, 'Lowborough kept aloof from us a week or two 
longer. I used to meet him occasionally in the town; and then, as I was too 
good-natured to resent his unmannerly conduct, and he bore no malice 
against me - he was never unwilling to talk to me; on the contrary, he 
would cling to me, and follow me anywhere - but to the club, and the gaming-
 houses, and such like dangerous places of resort - he was so ueary of his 
own moping, melancholy mind. At last, I got him to come in with me to the 
club, on condition that I would not tempt him to drink; and, for some time, 
he continued to look in upon us pretty regularly of an evening - still 
abstaining, with wonderful perseverance, from the "rank poison" he had so 
bravely forsworn. But some of our members protested against this conduct. 
They did not like to have him sitting there like a skeleton at a feast, 
instead of contributing his quota to the general amusement, casting a cloud 
over all, and watching, with greedy eyes, every drop they carried to their 
lips - they vowed it was not fair; and some of them maintained, that he 
should either be compelled to do as others did, or expelled from the 
society; and swore that, next time he showed himself, they would tell him 
as much, and, if he did not take the warning, proceed to active measures. 
However, I befriended him on this occasion, and recommended them to let him 
be for a while, intimating that, with a little patience on our parts, he 
would soon come round again. But, to be sure, it was rather provoking; for, 
though he refused to drink like an honest Christian, it was well known to 
me that he kept a private bottle of laudanum about him, which he was 
continually soaking at - or rather, holding off and on with, abstaining one 
day, and exceeding the next - just like the spirits.
'One night, however, during one of our orgies - one of our high festivals, 
I mean - he glided in, like the ghost in Macbeth, and seated himself, as 
usual, a little back from the table, in the chair we always placed for "the 
spectre", whether it chose to fill it or not. I saw by his face that he was 
suffering from the effects of an overdose of his insidious comforter; but 
nobody spoke to him, and he spoke to nobody. A few sidelong glances, and a 
whispered observation, that "the ghost was come", was all the notice he 
drew by his appearance, and we went on with our merry carousals as before, 
till he startled us all, by suddenly drawing in his chair, and leaning 
forward with his elbows on the table, and exclaiming with portentous 
solemnity -
' "Well! it puzzles me what you can find to be so merry about. What you see 
in life I don't know - I see only the blackness of darkness, and a fearful 
looking for of judgement and fiery indignation!"
'All the company simultaneously pushed up their glasses to him, and I set 
them before him in a semicircle, and, tenderly patting him on the back, bid 
him drink, and he would soon see as bright a prospect as any of us; but he 
pushed them back, muttering -
' "Take them away! I won't taste it, I tell you. I won't - I won't! " So I 
handed them down again to the owners; but I saw that he followed them with 
a glare of hungry regret as they departed. Then, he clasped his hands 
before his eyes to shut out the sight, and two minutes after, lifted his 
head again, and said, in a hoarse but vehement whisper -
' "And yet I must! Huntingdon, get me a glass!"
' "Take the bottle, man!" said I, thrusting the brandy-bottle into his hand 
- but stop, I'm telling too much,' muttered the narrator, startled at the 
look I turned upon him. 'But no matter,' he recklessly added, and thus 
continued his relation. 'In his desperate eagerness, he seized the bottle 
and sucked away, till he suddenly dropped from his chair, disappearing 
under the table amid a tempest of applause. The consequence of this 
imprudence was something like an apoplectic fit, followed by a rather 
severe brain fever -'
'And what did you think of yourself, sir?' said I quickly.
'Of course I was very penitent,' he replied. 'I went to see him once or 
twice - nay, twice or thrice - or by'r lady, some four times - and when he 
got better, I tenderly brought him back to the fold.'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean, I restored him to the bosom of the club, and compassionating the 
feebleness of his health and extreme lowness of his spirits, I recommended 
him to "take a little wine for his stomach's sake", and, when he was 
sufficiently re-established, to embrace the media-via, ni-jamais-ni-
toujours plan - not to kill himself like a fool, and not to abstain like a 
ninny - in a word, to enjoy himself like a rational creature, and do as I 
did; for don't think, Helen, that I'm a tippler; I'm nothing at all of the 
kind, and never was, and never shall be. I value my comfort far too much. I 
see that a man cannot give himself up to drinking without being miserable 
one half his days and mad the other; besides, I like to enjoy my life at 
all sides and ends, which cannot be done by one that suffers himself to be 
the slave of a single propensity - and, moreover, drinking spoil's one's 
good looks,' he concluded, with a most conceited smile that ought to have 
provoked me more than it did.
'And did Lord Lowborough profit by your advice!' I asked.
'Why, yes, in a manner. For a while, he managed very well: indeed he was a 
model of moderation and prudence - something too much so for the tastes of 
our wild community; but, somehow, Lowborough had not the gift of 
moderation: if he stumbled a little to one side, he must go down before he 
could right himself: if he overshot the mark one night, the effects of it 
rendered him so miserable the next day that he must repeat the offence to 
mend it; and so on from day to day, till his clamorous conscience brought 
him to a stand. And then, in his sober moments, he so bothered his friends 
with his remorse and his terrors and woes, that they were obliged, in self-
defence, to get him to drown his sorrows in wine, or any more potent 
beverage that came to hand; and when his first scruples of conscience were 
overcome, he would need no more persuading, he would often grow desperate, 
and be as great a blackguard as any of them could desire - but only to 
lament his own unutterable wickedness and degradation the more when the fit 
was over.
'At last, one day, when he and I were alone together, after pondering 
awhile in one of his gloomy, abstracted moods, with his arms folded and his 
head sunk on his breast, he suddenly woke up, and vehemently grasping my 
arm, said -
' "Huntingdon, this won't do! I'm resolved to have done with it."
' "What, are you going to shoot yourself?" said I.
' "No; I'm going to reform."
' "Oh, that's nothing new! You've been going to reform these twelve months 
and more."
' "Yes, but you wouldn't let me; and I was such a fool I couldn't live 
without you. But now I see what it is that keeps me back, and what's wanted 
to save me; and I'd compass sea and land to get it - only I'm afraid 
there's no chance." And he sighed as if his heart would break.
' "What is it, Lowborough?" said I, thinking he was fairly cracked at last.
' "A wife," he answered; "for I can't live alone, because my own mind 
distracts me, and I can't live with you, because you take the devil's part 
against me."
' "Who - I?"
' "Yes - all of you do - and you more than any of them, you know. But if I 
could get a wife, with fortune enough to pay off my debts and set me 
straight in the world "
' "To be sure," said I.
' "And sweetness and goodness enough," he continued, "to make home 
tolerable, and to reconcile me to myself, I think I should do, yet. I shall 
never be in love again, that's certain; but perhaps that would be no great 
matter, it would enable me to choose with my eyes open - and I should make 
a good husband in spite of it; but could any one be in love with me? that's 
the question. With your good looks and powers of fascination" (he was 
pleased to say), "I might hope; but as it is, Huntingdon, do you think 
anybody would take me - ruined and wretched as I am?"
' "Yes, certainly."
' "Who?"
' "Why, any neglected old maid, fast sinking in despair, would be delighted 
to "
' "No, no," said he - "it must be somebody that I can love."
' "Why, you just said you never could be in love again!"
' "Well, love is not the word - but somebody that I can like. I'll search 
all England through, at all events!" he cried, with a sudden burst of hope, 
or desperation. "Succeed or fail, it will be better than rushing headlong 
to destruction at that d-d club: so farewell to it and you. Whenever I meet 
you on honest ground or under a Christian roof, I shall be glad to see you; 
but never more shall you entice me to that devil's den!"
'This was shameful language, but I shook hands with him, and we parted. He 
kept his word; and from that time forward, he has been a pattern of 
propriety, as far as I can tell; but, till lately, I have not had very much 
to do with him. He occasionally sought my company, but as frequently shrunk 
from it, fearing lest I should wile him back to destruction, and I found 
his not very entertaining, especially, as he sometimes attempted to awaken 
my conscience and draw me from the perdition he considered himself to have 
escaped; but when I did happen to meet him, I seldom failed to ask after 
the progress of his matrimonial efforts and researches, and, in general, he 
could give me but a poor account. The mothers were repelled by his empty 
coffers and his reputation for gambling, and the daughters by his cloudy 
brow and melancholy temper-besides, he didn't understand them, he wanted 
the spirit and assurance to carry his point.
'I left him at it when I went to the Continent; and on my return, at the 
year's end, I found him still a disconsolate bachelor - though, certainly, 
looking somewhat less like an unblest exile from the tomb than before. The 
young ladies had ceased to be afraid of him, and were beginning to think 
him quite interesting; but the mammas were still unrelenting. It was about 
this time, Helen, that my good angel brought me into conjunction with you; 
and then I had eyes and ears for nobody else. But, meantime, Lowborough 
became acquainted with our charming friend Miss Wilmot - through the 
intervention of his good angel, no doubt he would tell you, though he did 
not dare to fix his hopes on one so courted and admired, till after they 
were brought into closer contact here at Staningley, and she, in the 
absence of her other admirers, indubitably courted his notice and held out 
every encouragement to his timid advances. Then, indeed, he began to hope 
for a dawn of brighter days; and if, for a while, I darkened his prospects 
by standing between him and his sun - and so, nearly plunged him again into 
the abyss of despair - it only intensified his ardour and strengthened his 
hopes when I chose to abandon the field in the pursuit of a brighter 
treasure. In a word, as I told you, he is fairly besotted. At first, he 
could dimly perceive her faults, and they gave him considerable uneasiness; 
but now his passion and her art together have blinded him to everything but 
her perfections and his amazing good fortune. Last night, he came to me 
brimful of his new-found felicity -
' "Huntingdon, I am not a cast-away!" said he, seizing my hand and 
squeezing it like a vice. "There is happiness in store for me, yet - even 
in this life - she loves me!"
' "Indeed!" said I. "Has she told you so?"
' "No, but I can no longer doubt it. Do you not see how pointedly kind and 
affectionate she is? And she knows the utmost extent of my poverty, and 
cares nothing about it! She knows all the folly and all the wickedness of 
my former life, and is not afraid to trust me - and my rank and title are 
no allurements to her; for them she utterly disregards. She is the most 
generous, high-minded being that can be conceived of. She will save me, 
body and soul, from destruction. Already, she has ennobled me in my own 
estimation, and made me three times better, wiser, greater than I was. Oh! 
if I had but known her before, how much degradation and misery I should 
have been spared! But what have I done to deserve so magnificent a 
creature?"
'And the cream of the jest,' continued Mr Huntingdon, laughing, 'is, that 
the artful minx loves nothing about him but his title and pedigree, and 
"that delightful old family seat".'
'How do you know?' said I.
'She told me so herself; she said, "As for the man himself, I thoroughly 
despise him; but then, I suppose, it is time to be making my choice, and if 
I waited for someone capable of eliciting my esteem and affection, I should 
have to pass my life in single blessedness, for I detest you all!" Ha, ha! 
I suspect she was wrong there; but, however, it is evident she has no love 
for him, poor fellow.'
'Then you ought to tell him so.'
'What! and spoil all her plans and prospects, poor girl? No, no: that would 
be a breach of confidence, wouldn't it, Helen? Ha, ha! Besides, it would 
break his heart.' And he laughed again.
'Well, Mr Huntingdon, I don't know what you see so amazingly diverting in 
the matter; I see nothing to laugh at.'
'I'm laughing at you, just now, love,' said he, redoubling his 
cachinnations.
And leaving him to enjoy his merriment alone, I touched Ruby with the whip 
and cantered on to rejoin our companions; for we had been walking our 
horses all this time, and w ere consequently a long way behind. Arthur was 
soon at my side again; but not disposed to talk to him, I broke into a 
gallop. He did the same; and we did not slacken our pace till we came up 
with Miss Wilmot and Lord Lowborough, which was within half a mile of the 
park gates. I avoided all further conversation with him, till we came to 
the end of our ride, when I meant to jump off my horse and vanish into the 
house, before he could offer his assistance; but while I was disengaging my 
habit from the crutch, he lifted me off, and held me by both hands, 
asserting that he would not let me go till I had forgiven him.
'I have nothing to forgive,' said I. 'You have not injured me.'
'No, darling - God forbid that I should! but you are angry, because it was 
to me that Annabella confessed her lack of esteem for her lover.'
'No, Arthur, it is not that that displeases me: it is the whole system of 
your conduct towards your friend; and if you wish me to forget it, go, now, 
and tell him what sort of a woman it is that he adores so madly, and on 
whom he has hung his hopes of future happiness.'
'I tell you, Helen, it would break his heart - it would be the death of him 
- besides being a scandalous trick to poor Annabella. There is no help for 
him now; he is past praying for. Besides, she may keep up the deception to 
the end of the chapter; and then he will be just as happy in the illusion 
as if it were reality; or perhaps, he will only discover his mistake when 
he has ceased to love her; and if not, it is much better that the truth 
should dawn gradually upon him. So now, my angel, I hope I have made out a 
clear case, and fully convinced you that I cannot make the atonement you 
require. What other requisitions have you to make? Speak, and I will gladly 
obey.'
'I have none but this,' said I, as gravely as before; 'that, in future, you 
will never make a jest of the sufferings of others, and always use your 
influence with your friends for their own advantage against their evil 
propensities, instead of seconding their evil propensities against 
themselves.'
'I will do my utmost,' said he, 'to remember and perform the injunctions of 
my angel monitress'; and after kissing both my gloved hands, he let me go.
When I entered my room, I was surprised to see Annabella Wilmot standing 
before my toilet table, composedly surveying her features in the glass, 
with one hand flirting her gold-mounted whip, and the other holding up her 
long habit.
'She certainly is a magnificent creature!' thought I, as I beheld that 
tall, finely-developed figure, and the reflection of the handsome face in 
the mirror before me, with glossy dark hair, slightly and not ungracefully 
disordered by the breezy ride, the rich brown complexion glowing with 
exercise, and the black eyes sparkling with unwonted brilliance. On 
perceiving me, she turned round, exclaiming, with a laugh that savoured 
more of malice than of mirth -
'Why, Helen! what have you been doing so long? I came to tell you my good 
fortune,' she continued, regardless of Rachel's presence. 'Lord Lowborough 
has proposed, and I have been graciously pleased to accept him. Don't you 
envy me, dear?'
'No, love,' said I - 'or him either,' I mentally added. 'And do you like 
him, Annabella?'
'Like him! yes, to be sure - over head and ears in love!'
'Well, I hope you'll make him a good wife.'
'Thank you, my dear. And what besides do you hope?'
'I hope you will both love each other, and both be happy.'
'Thanks; and I hope you will make a very good wife to Mr Huntingdon!' said 
she, with a queenly bow, and retired.
'Oh, miss! how could you say so to her!' cried Rachel.
'Say what?' replied I.
'Why, that you hoped she would make him a good wife. I never heard such a 
thing!'
'Because, I do hope it - or rather, I wish it - she's almost past hope.'
'Well!' said she. 'I'm sure I hope he'll make her a good husband. They tell 
queer things about him downstairs. They were saying -'
'I know, Rachel. I've heard all about him; but he's reformed now. And they 
have no business to tell tales about their masters.'
'No, mum - or else, they have said some things about Mr Huntingdon, too.'
'I won't hear them, Rachel; they tell lies.'
'Yes, mum,' said she quietly, as she went on arranging my hair.
'Do you believe them, Rachel?' I asked, after a short pause.
'No, miss, not all. You know when a lot of servants gets together they like 
to talk about their betters; and some, for a bit of swagger, likes to make 
it appear as though they knew more than they do, and to throw out hints and 
things just to astonish the others. But I think if I was you, Miss Helen, 
I'd look very well before I leaped. I do believe a young lady can't be too 
careful who she marries.'
'Of course not,' said I; 'but be quick, will you, Rachel; I want to be 
dressed.'
And, indeed, I was anxious to be rid of the good woman, for I was in such a 
melancholy frame I could hardly keep the tears out of my eyes while she 
dressed me. It was not for Lord Lowborough - it was not for Annabella - it 
was not for myself - it was for Arthur Huntingdon that they rose.
13th. - They are gone - and he is gone. We are to be parted for more than 
two months - above ten weeks! a long, long time to live and not to see him. 
But he has promised to write often, and made me promise to write still 
oftener, because he will be busy settling his affairs, and I shall have 
nothing better to do. Well, I think I shall always have plenty to say. But 
oh! for the time when we shall be always together, and can exchange our 
thoughts without the intervention of these cold go-betweens, pen, ink, and 
paper!
22nd. - I have had several letters from Arthur, already. They are not long, 
but passing sweet, and just like himself - full of ardent affection, and 
playful lively humour; but - there is always a 'but' in this imperfect 
world - and I do wish he would sometimes be serious. I cannot get him to 
write or speak in real, solid earnest. I don't much mind it now, but if it 
be always so, what shall I do with the serious part of myself?



Chapter 23

February 18th, 1822. Early this morning, Arthur mounted his hunter and set 
off in high glee to meet the hounds. He will be away all day, and so I will 
amuse myself with my neglected diary, if I can give that name to such an 
irregular composition. It is exactly four months since I opened it last.
I am married now, and settled down as Mrs Huntingdon of Grassdale Manor. I 
have had eight weeks' experience of matrimony. And do I regret the step I 
have taken? No, though I must confess, in my secret heart, that Arthur is 
not what I thought him at first, and if I had known him in the beginning as 
thoroughly as I do now, I probably never should have loved him, and if I 
loved him first, and then made the discovery, I fear I should have thought 
it my duty not to have married him. To be sure I might have known him, for 
every one was willing enough to tell me about him, and he himself was no 
accomplished hypocrite, but I was wilfully blind, and now, instead of 
regretting that I did not discern his full character before I was 
indissolubly bound to him, I am glad, for it has saved me a great deal of 
battling with my conscience, and a great deal of consequent trouble and 
pain; and, whatever I ought to have done, my duty now is plainly to love 
him and to cleave to him, and this just tallies with my inclination.
He is very fond of me - almost too fond. I could do with less caressing and 
more rationality. I should like to be less of a pet and more of a friend if 
I might choose, but I won't complain of that! I am only afraid his 
affection loses in depth where it gains in ardour. I sometimes liken it to 
a fire of dry twigs and branches compared with one of solid coal - very 
bright and hot; but if it should burn itself out and leave nothing but 
ashes behind, what shall I do? But it won't - it shan't, I am determined - 
and surely I have power to keep it alive. So let me dismiss that thought at 
once. But Arthur is selfish; I am constrained to acknowledge that; and, 
indeed, the admission gives me less pain than might be expected, for, since 
I love him so much, I can easily forgive him for loving himself: he likes 
to be pleased, and it is my delight to please him, and when I regret this 
tendency of his it is for his own sake, not for mine.
The first instance he gave was on the occasion of our bridal tour. He 
wanted to hurry it over, for all the Continental scenes were already 
familiar to him: many had lost their interest in his eyes, and others had 
never had anything to lose. The consequence was, that after a flying 
transit, through part of France and part of Italy, I came back nearly as 
ignorant as I went, having made no acquaintance with persons and manners, 
and very little with things, my head swarming with a motley confusion of 
objects and scenes - some, it is true, leaving a deeper and more pleasing 
impression than others, but these embittered by the recollection that my 
emotions had not been shared by my companion, but that, on the contrary, 
when I had expressed a particular interest in anything that I saw or 
desired to see, it had been displeasing to him, inasmuch as it proved that 
I could take delight in anything disconnected with himself.
As for Paris, we only just touched at that, and he would not give me time 
to see one-tenth of the beauties and interesting objects of Rome. He wanted 
to get me home, he said, to have me all to himself, and to see me safely 
installed as the mistress of Grassdale Manor, just as single-minded, as 
naive, and piquant as I was; and, as if I had been some frail butterfly, he 
expressed himself fearful of rubbing the silver off my wings by bringing me 
into contact with society, especially that of Paris and Rome; and, 
moreover, he did not scruple to tell me that there were ladies in both 
places that would tear his eyes out if they happened to meet him with me.
Of course I was vexed at all this; but, still, it was less the 
disappointment to myself that annoyed me, than the disappointment in him, 
and the trouble I was at to frame excuses to my friends for having seen and 
observed so little, without imputing one particle of blame to my companion. 
But when we got home - to my new, delightful home - I was so happy and he 
was so kind that I freely forgave him all; and I was beginning to think my 
lot too happy, and my husband actually too good for me, if not too good for 
this world, when, on the second Sunday after our arrival, he shocked and 
horrified me by all other instance of his unreasonable exaction. We were 
walking home from the morning service, for it was a fine frosty day, and, 
as we are so near the church, I had requested the carriage should not be 
used.
'Helen,' said he, with unusual gravity, 'I am not quite satisfied with 
you.'
I desired to know what was wrong.
'But will you promise to reform if I tell you?'
'Yes, if I can, and without offending a higher authority.'
'Ah! there it is, you see, you don't love me with all your heart.'
'I don't understand you, Arthur (at least I hope I don't): pray tell me 
what I have done or said amiss?'
'It is nothing you have done or said; it is something that you are - you 
are too religious. Now I like a woman to be religious, and I think your 
piety one of your greatest charms, but then, like all other good things, it 
may be carried too far. To my thinking, a woman's religion ought not to 
lessen her devotion to her earthly lord. She should have enough to purify 
and etherealize her soul, but not enough to refine away her heart, and 
raise her above all human sympathies.'
'And am I above all human sympathies?' said I.
'No, darling; but you are making more progress towards that saintly 
condition than I like; for all these two hours I have been thinking of you 
and wanting to catch your eye, and you were so absorbed in your devotions 
that you had not even a glance to spare for me - I declare it is enough to 
make one jealous of one's Maker - which is very wrong, you know; so don't 
excite such wicked passions again for my soul's sake.'
'I will give my whole heart and soul to my Maker if I can,' I answered, 
'and not one atom more of it to you than He allows. What are you, sir, that 
you should set yourself up as a god, and presume to dispute possession of 
my heart with Him to whom I owe all I have and all I am, every blessing I 
ever did or ever can enjoy - and yourself among the rest - if you are a 
blessing, which I am half inclined to doubt.'
'Don't be so hard upon me, Helen; and don't pinch my arm so, you're 
squeezing your fingers into the bone.'
'Arthur,' continued I, relaxing my hold of his arm, 'you don't love me half 
as much as I do you; and yet, if you loved me far less than you do I would 
not complain, provided you loved your Maker more. I should rejoice to see 
you at any time so deeply absorbed in your devotions that you had not a 
single thought to spare for me. But, indeed, I should lose nothing by the 
change, for the more you loved your God the more deep and pure and true 
would be your love to me.'
At this he only laughed and kissed my hand, calling me a sweet enthusiast. 
Then taking off his hat, he added -
'But look here, Helen - what can a man do with such a head as this?'
The head looked right enough, but when he placed my hand on the top of it, 
it sunk in a bed of curls, rather alarmingly low, especially in the middle.
'You see I was not made to be a saint,' said he, laughing. 'If God meant me 
to be religious, why didn't He give me a proper organ of veneration?'
'You are like the servant,' I replied, 'who, instead of employing his one 
talent in his master's service, restored it to him unimproved, alleging, as 
an excuse, that he knew him "to be a hard man, reaping where he had not 
sown, and gathering where he had not strawed". Of him to whom less is 
given, less will be required, but our utmost exertions are required of us 
all. You are not without the capacity of veneration, and faith and hope, 
and conscience and reason, and every other requisite to a Christian's 
character if you choose to employ them; but all our talents increase in the 
using, and every faculty, both good and bad, strengthens by exercise: 
therefore, if you choose to use the bad, or those which tend to evil, till 
they become your masters, and neglect the good till they dwindle away, you 
have only yourself to blame. But you have talents, Arthur, natural 
endowments both of heart and mind and temper, such as many a better 
Christian would be glad to possess, if you would only employ them in God's 
service. I should never expect to see you a devotee, but it is quite 
possible to be a good Christian without ceasing to be a happy, merry - 
hearted man.'
'You speak like an oracle, Helen, and all you say is indisputably true; but 
listen here: I am hungry, and I see before me a good substantial dinner; I 
am told that if I abstain from this today I shall have a sumptuous feast 
tomorrow, consisting of all manner of dainties and delicacies. Now in the 
first place, I should be loath to wait till tomorrow when I have the means 
of appeasing my hunger already before me: in the second place, the solid 
viands of today are more to my taste than the dainties that are promised 
me; in the third place, I don't see tomorrow's banquet, and how can I tell 
that it is not all a fable, got up by the greasy-faced fellow that is 
advising me to abstain in order that he may have all the good victuals to 
himself? in the fourth place, this table must be spread for somebody, and, 
as Solomon says, "Who can eat, or who else can hasten hereunto more than 
I?" and finally, with your leave, I'll sit down and satisfy my cravings 
today, and leave tomorrow to shift for itself - who knows but what I may 
secure both this and that?'
'But you are not required to abstain from the substantial dinner of today: 
you are only advised to partake of these coarser viands in such moderation 
as not to incapacitate you from enjoying the choicer banquet of tomorrow. 
If, regardless of that counsel, you choose to make a beast of yourself now, 
and over-eat and over-drink yourself till you turn the good victuals into 
poison, who is to blame, if, hereafter, while you are suffering the 
torments of yesterday's gluttony and drunkenness, you see more temperate 
men sitting down to enjoy themselves at that splendid entertainment which 
you are unable to taste?'
'Most true, my patron saint; but again, our friend Solomon says, "There is 
nothing better for a man than to eat and to drink and to be merry." '
'And again,' returned I, 'he says, "Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth; and 
walk in the ways of thine heart, and in the sight of thine eyes: but know 
thou, that for all these things, God will bring thee into judgement." '
'Well but, Helen, I'm sure I've been very good these last few weeks. What 
have you seen amiss in me, and what would you have me to do?'
'Nothing more than you do, Arthur: your actions are all right so far; but I 
would have your thoughts changed: I would have you to fortify yourself 
against temptation, and not to call evil good, and good evil; I should wish 
you to think more deeply, to look further, and aim higher than you do.'



Chapter 24

March 25th. Arthur is getting tired - not of me, I trust, but of the idle, 
quiet life he leads - and no wonder, for he has so few sources of 
amusement: he never reads anything but newspapers and sporting magazines; 
and when he sees me occupied with a book he won't let me rest till I close 
it. In fine weather he generally manages to get through the time pretty 
well, but on rainy days, of which we have had a good many of late, it is 
quite painful to witness his ennui. I do all I can to amuse him, but it is 
impossible to get him to feel interested in what I most like to talk about, 
while, on the other hand, he likes to talk about things that cannot 
interest me or even that annoy me - and these please him the most of all; 
for his favourite amusement is to sit or loll beside me on the sofa, and 
tell me stories of his former amours, always turning upon the ruin of some 
confiding girl or the cozening of some unsuspecting husband; and when I 
express my horror and indignation he lays it all to the charge of jealousy, 
and laughs till the tears run down his cheeks. I used to fly into passions 
or melt into tears at first, but seeing that his delight increased in 
proportion to my anger and agitation, I have since endeavoured to suppress 
my feelings and receive his revelations in the silence of calm contempt; 
but still he reads the inward struggle in my face, and misconstrues my 
bitterness of soul for his unworthiness into the pangs of wounded jealousy; 
and when he has sufficiently diverted himself with that, or fears my 
displeasure will become too serious for his comfort, he tries to kiss and 
soothe me into smiles again - never were his caresses so little welcome as 
then! This is double selfishness displayed to me and to the victims of his 
former love. There are times when, with a momentary pang - a flash of wild 
dismay, I ask myself, 'Helen, what have you done?' But I rebuke the inward 
questioner, and repel the obtrusive thoughts that crowd upon me; for were 
he ten times as sensual and impenetrable to good and lofty thoughts, I well 
know I have no right to complain. And I don't and won't complain. I do and 
will love him still; and I do not and will not regret that I have linked my 
fate with his.
April 4th. - We have had a downright quarrel. The particulars are as 
follows: Arthur had told me, at different intervals, the whole story of his 
intrigue with Lady F - , which I would not believe before. It was some 
consolation, however, to find that in this instance the lady had been more 
to blame than he, for he was very young at the time, and she had decidedly 
made the first advances, if what he said was true. I hated her for it, for 
it seemed as if she had chiefly contributed to his corruption, and when he 
was beginning to talk about her the other day, I begged he would not 
mention her, for I detested the very sound of her name.
'Not because you loved her, Arthur, mind, but because she injured you and 
deceived her husband, and was altogether a very abominable woman, whom you 
ought to be ashamed to mention.'
But he defended her by saying that she had a doting old husband, whom it 
was impossible to love.
'Then why did she marry him?' said I.
'For his money,' was the reply.
'Then that was another crime, and her solemn promise to love and honour him 
was another, that only increased the enormity of the last.'
'You are too severe upon the poor lady,' laughed he. 'But never mind, 
Helen, I don't care for her now; and I never loved any of them half as much 
as I do you, so you needn't fear to be forsaken like them.'
'If you had told me these things before, Arthur, I never should have given 
you the chance.'
'Wouldn't you, my darling?'
'Most certainly not!'
He laughed incredulously.
'I wish I could convince you of it now!' cried I, starting up from beside 
him; and for the first time in my life, and I hope the last, I wished I had 
not married him.
'Helen,' said he, more gravely, 'do you know that if I believed you now I 
should be very angry? but thank Heaven I don't. Though you stand there with 
your white face and flashing eyes, looking at me like a very tigress, I 
know the heart within you perhaps a trifle better than you know it 
yourself.'
Without another word I left the room and locked myself up in my own 
chamber. In about half-an-hour he came to the door, and first he tried the 
handle, then he knocked.
'Won't you let me in, Helen?' said he.
'No; you have displeased me,' I replied, 'and I don't want to see your face 
or hear your voice again till the morning.'
He paused a moment as if dumbfounded or uncertain how to answer such a 
speech, and then turned and walked away. This was only an hour after 
dinner: I knew he would find it very dull to sit alone all the evening; and 
this considerably softened my resentment, though it did not make me relent. 
I was determined to show him that my heart was not his slave, and I could 
live without him if I chose; and I sat down and wrote a long letter to my 
aunt - of course telling her nothing of all this. Soon after ten o'clock I 
heard him come up again, but he passed my door and went straight to his own 
dressing-room, where he shut himself in for the night.
I was rather anxious to see how he would meet me in the morning, and not a 
little disappointed to behold him enter the breakfast-room with a careless 
smile.
'Are you still cross, Helen?' said he, approaching as if to salute me. I 
coldly turned to the table, and began to pour out the coffee, observing 
that he was rather late.
He uttered a low whistle and sauntered away to the window, where he stood 
for some minutes looking out upon the pleasing prospect of sullen, grey 
clouds, streaming rain, soaking lawn, and dripping, leafless trees, and 
muttering execrations on the weather, and then sat down to breakfast. While 
taking his coffee he muttered it was 'd d cold'.
'You should not have left it so long,' said I.
He made no answer, and the meal was concluded in silence. It was a relief 
to both when the letter-bag was brought in. It contained upon examination a 
newspaper and one or two letters for him, and a couple of letters for me, 
which he tossed across the table without a remark. One was from my brother, 
the other from Milicent Hargrave, who is now in London with her mother. 
His, I think, were business letters, and apparently not much to his mind, 
for he crushed them into his pocket with some muttered expletives that I 
should have reproved him for at any other time. The paper, he set before 
him, and pretended to be deeply absorbed in its contents during the 
remainder of breakfast, and a considerable time after.
The reading and answering of my letters, and the direction of household 
concerns, afforded me ample employment for the morning: after lunch I got 
my drawing, and from dinner till bed-time I read. Meanwhile, poor Arthur 
was sadly at a loss for something to amuse him or to occupy his time. He 
wanted to appear as busy and as unconcerned as I did: had the weather at 
all permitted he would doubtless have ordered his horse and set off to some 
distant region - no matter where - immediately after breakfast, and not 
returned till night: had there been a lady anywhere within reach, of any 
age between fifteen and forty-five, he would have sought revenge and found 
employment in getting up, or trying to get up, a desperate flirtation with 
her; but being, to my private satisfaction, entirely cut off from both 
these sources of diversion, his sufferings were truly deplorable. When he 
had done yawning over his paper and scribbling short answers to his shorter 
letters, he spent the remainder of the morning and the whole of the 
afternoon in fidgeting about from room to room, watching the clouds, 
cursing the rain, alternately petting and teasing and abusing his dogs, 
sometimes lounging on the sofa with a book that he could not force himself 
to read, and very often fixedly gazing at me when he thought I did not 
perceive it, with the vain hope of detecting some traces of tears, or some 
tokens of remorseful anguish in my face. But I managed to preserve an 
undisturbed though grave serenity throughout the day. I was not really 
angry: I felt for him all the time, and longed to be reconciled; but I 
determined he should make the first advances, or at least show some signs 
of an humble and contrite spirit first; for, if I began, it would only 
minister to his self-conceit, increase his arrogance, and quite destroy the 
lesson I wanted to give him.
He made a long stay in the dining-room after dinner, and, I fear, took an 
unusual quantity of wine, but not enough to loosen his tongue, for when he 
came in and found me quietly occupied with my book, too busy to lift my 
head on his entrance, he merely murmured an expression of suppressed 
disapprobation, and, shutting the door with a bang, went and stretched 
himself at full length on the sofa, and composed himself to sleep. But his 
favourite cocker, Dash, that had been lying at my feet, took the liberty of 
jumping upon him and beginning to lick his face. He struck it off with a 
smart blow, and the poor dog squeaked, and ran cowering back to me. When he 
woke up, about half-an-hour after, he called it to him again, but Dash only 
looked sheepish and wagged the tip of his tail. He called again more 
sharply, but Dash only clung the closer to me, and licked my hand as if 
imploring protection. Enraged at this, his master snatched up a heavy book 
and hurled it at his head. The poor dog set up a piteous outcry and ran to 
the door. I let him out, and then quietly took up the book.
'Give that book to me,' said Arthur, in no very courteous tone. I gave it 
to him.
'Why did you let the dog out?' he asked. 'You knew I wanted him.'
'By what token?' I replied; 'by your throwing the book at him? but, 
perhaps, it was intended for me?'
'No; but I see you've got a taste of it,' said he, looking at my hand, that 
had also been struck, and was rather severely grazed.
I returned to my reading, and he endeavoured to occupy himself in the same 
manner; but, in a little while, after several portentous yawns, he 
pronounced his book to be 'cursed trash', and threw it on the table. Then 
followed eight or ten minutes of silence, during the greater part of which, 
I believe, he was staring at me. At last his patience was tired out.
'What is that book, Helen?' he exclaimed.
I told him.
'Is it interesting?'
'Yes, very.'
I went on reading, or pretending to read, at least - I cannot say there was 
much communication between my eyes and my brain; for, while the former ran 
over the pages, the latter was earnestly wondering when Arthur would speak 
next, and what he would say, and what I should answer. But he did not speak 
again till I rose to make the tea, and then it was only to say he should 
not take any. He continued lounging on the sofa, and alternately closing 
his eyes and looking at his watch and at me, till bed-time, when I rose, 
and took my candle and retired.
'Helen!' cried he, the moment I had left the room. I turned back, and stood 
awaiting his commands.
'What do you want, Arthur?' I said at length.
'Nothing,' replied he. 'Go!'
I went, but hearing him mutter something as I was closing the door, I 
turned again. It sounded very like 'confounded slut', but I was quite 
willing it should be something else.
'Were you speaking, Arthur?' I asked.
'No,' was the answer, and I shut the door and departed. I saw nothing more 
of him till the following morning at breakfast, when he came down a full 
hour after his usual time.
'You're very late,' was my morning's salutation.
'You needn't have waited for me,' was his; and he walked up to the window 
again. It was just such weather as yesterday.
'Oh, this confounded rain!' he muttered. But, after studiously regarding it 
for a minute or two, a bright idea seemed to strike him, for he suddenly 
exclaimed, 'But I know what I'll do!' and then returned and took his seat 
at the table. The letter-bag was already there, waiting to be opened. He 
unlocked it and examined the contents, but said nothing about them.
'Is there anything for me?' I asked.
'No.'
He opened the newspaper and began to read.
'You'd better take your coffee,' suggested I; 'it will be cold again.'
'You may go,' said he, 'if you've done. I don't want you.'
I rose and withdrew to the next room, wondering if we were to have another 
such miserable day as yesterday, and wishing intensely for an end of these 
mutually inflicted torments. Shortly after I heard him ring the bell and 
give some orders about his wardrobe that sounded as if he meditated a long 
journey. He then sent for the coachman, and I heard something about the 
carriage and the horses, and London, and seven o'clock tomorrow morning, 
that startled and disturbed me not a little.
'I must not let him go to London, whatever comes of it,' said I to myself; 
'he will run into all kinds of mischief, and I shall be the cause of it. 
But the question is, how am I to alter his purpose? Well, I will wait 
awhile, and see if he mentions it.'
I waited most anxiously, from hour to hour; but not a word was spoken, on 
that or any other subject, to me. He whistled and talked to his dogs, and 
wandered from room to room, much the same as on the previous day. At last I 
began to think I must introduce the subject myself, and was pondering how 
to bring it about, when John unwittingly came to my relief with the 
following message from the coachman -
'Please, sir, Richard says one of the horses has got a very bad cold, and 
he thinks, sir, if you could make it convenient to go the day after 
tomorrow, instead of tomorrow, he could physic it today so as -'
'Confound his impudence!' interjected the master.
'Please, sir, he says it would be a deal better if you could,' persisted 
John, 'for he hopes there'll be a change in the weather shortly, and he 
says it's not likely, when a horse is so bad with a cold, and physicked and 
all -'
'Devil take the horse!' cried the gentleman - 'Well, tell him I'll think 
about it,' he added, after a moment's reflection. He cast a searching 
glance at me, as the servant withdrew, expecting to see some token of deep 
astonishment and alarm; but, being previously prepared, I preserved an 
aspect of stoical indifference. His countenance fell as he met my steady 
gaze, and he turned away in very obvious disappointment, and walked up to 
the fireplace, where he stood in an attitude of undisguised dejection, 
leaning against the chimney-piece with his forehead sunk upon his arm.
'Where do you want to go, Arthur?' said I.
'To London,' replied he gravely.
'What for?' I asked.
'Because I cannot be happy here.'
'Why not?'
'Because my wife doesn't love me.'
'She would love you with all her heart, if you deserved it.'
'What must I do to deserve it?'
This seemed humble and earnest enough; and I was so much affected, between 
sorrow and joy, that I was obliged to pause a few seconds before I could 
steady my voice to reply.
'If she gives you her heart,' said I, 'you must take it thankfully, and use 
it well, and not pull it in pieces, and laugh in her face, because she 
cannot snatch it away.'
He now turned round and stood facing me, with his back to the fire.
'Come then, Helen, are you going to be a good girl?' said he.
This sounded rather too arrogant, and the smile that accompanied it did not 
please me. I therefore hesitated to reply. Perhaps my former answer had 
implied too much: he had heard my voice falter, and might have seen me 
brush away a tear.
'Are you going to forgive me, Helen?' he resumed, more humbly.
'Are you penitent?' I replied, stepping up to him and smiling in his face.
'Heart-broken!' he answered, with a rueful countenance, yet with a merry 
smile just lurking within his eyes and about the corners of his mouth; but 
this could not repulse me, and I flew into his arms. He fervently embraced 
me, and though I shed a torrent of tears, I think I never was happier in my 
life than at that moment.
'Then you won't go to London, Arthur?' I said, when the first transport of 
tears and kisses had subsided.
'No, love - unless you will go with me.'
'I will, gladly,' I answered, 'if you think the change will amuse you, and 
if you will put off the journey till next week.'
He readily consented, but said there was no need of much preparation, as he 
should not be staying long, for he did not wish me to be Londonized, and to 
lose my country freshness and originality by too much intercourse with the 
ladies of the world. I thought this folly; but I did not wish to contradict 
him now: I merely said that I was of very domestic habits, as he well knew, 
and had no particular wish to mingle with the world.
So we are to go to London on Monday, the day after tomorrow. It is now four 
days since the termination of our quarrel, and I'm sure it has done us both 
good: it has made me like Arthur a great deal better, and made him behave a 
great deal better to me. He has never once attempted to annoy me since, by 
the most distant allusion to Lady F - , or any of those disagreeable 
reminiscences of his former life - I wish I could blot them from my memory, 
or else get him to regard such matters in the same light as I do. Well! it 
is something, however, to have made him see that they are not fit subjects 
for a conjugal jest. He may see further some time - I will put no limits to 
my hopes; and, in spite of my aunt's forebodings and my own unspoken fears, 
I trust we shall be happy yet.



Chapter 25

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



Chapter 26

September 23rd. Our guests arrived three weeks ago. Lord and Lady 
Lowborough have now been married above eight months; and I will do the lady 
the credit to say that her husband is quite an altered man; his looks, his 
spirits, and his temper, are all perceptibly changed for the better since I 
last saw him. But there is room for improvement still. He is not always 
cheerful, nor always contented, and she often complains of his ill-humour, 
which, however, of all persons, she ought to be the last to accuse him of, 
as he never displays it against her, except for such conduct as would 
provoke a saint. He adores her still, and would go to the world's end to 
please her. She knows her power, and she uses it too; but well knowing, 
that to wheedle and coax is safer than to command, she judiciously tempers 
her despotism with flattery and blandishments enough to make him deem 
himself a favoured and happy man.
But she has a way of tormenting him, in which I am a fellow-sufferer, or 
might be, if I chose to regard myself as such. This is by openly, but not 
too glaringly, coquetting with Mr Huntingdon, who is quite willing to be 
her partner in the game; but I don't care for it, because, with him, I know 
there is nothing but personal vanity, and a mischievous desire to excite my 
jealousy, and, perhaps, to torment his friend; and she, no doubt, is 
actuated by much the same motives; only there is more of malice, and less 
of playfulness, in her manoeuvres. It is, obviously, therefore, my interest 
to disappoint them both, as far as I am concerned, by preserving a 
cheerful, undisturbed serenity throughout; and, accordingly, I endeavour to 
show the fullest confidence in my husband, and the greatest indifference to 
the arts of my attractive guest. I have never reproached the former but 
once, and that was for laughing at Lord Lowborough's depressed and anxious 
countenance one evening, when they had both been particularly provoking; 
and then, indeed, I said a good deal on the subject, and rebuked him 
sternly enough; but he only laughed, and said -
'You can feel for him, Helen - can't you?'
'I can feel for any one that is unjustly treated,' I replied, 'and I can 
feel for those that injure them too.'
'Why Helen, you are as jealous as he is!' cried he, laughing still more; 
and I found it impossible to convince him of his mistake. So, from that 
time, I have carefully refrained from any notice of the subject whatever, 
and left Lord Lowborough to take care of himself. He either has not the 
sense or the power to follow my example, though he does try to conceal his 
uneasiness as well as he can; but still, it will appear in his face, and 
his ill-humour will peep out at intervals, though not in the expression of 
open resentment - they never go far enough for that. But, I confess, I do 
feel jealous at times - most painfully, bitterly so - when she sings and 
plays to him, and he hangs over the instrument, and dwells upon her voice 
with no affected interest; for then, I know he is really delighted, and I 
have no power to awaken similar fervour. I can amuse and please him with my 
simple songs, but not delight him thus.
28th. - Yesterday, we all went to the Grove, Mr Hargrave's much- neglected 
home. His mother frequently asks us over, that she may have the pleasure of 
her dear Walter's company; and this time she had invited us to a dinner-
party, and got together as many of the country gentry as were within reach 
to meet us. The entertainment was very well got up; but I could not help 
thinking about the cost of it all the time. I don't like Mrs Hargrave; she 
is a hard, pretentious, worldly-minded woman. She has money enough to live 
very comfortably, if she only knew how to use it judiciously, and had 
taught her son to do the same; but she is ever straining to keep up 
appearances, with that despicable pride that shuns the semblance of poverty 
as a shameful crime. She grinds her dependants, pinches her servants, and 
deprives even her daughters and herself of the real comforts of life, 
because she will not consent to yield the palm in outward show to those who 
have three times her wealth; and, above all, because she is determined her 
cherished son shall be enabled to 'hold up his head with the highest 
gentleman in the land'. This same son, I imagine, is a man of expensive 
habits - no reckless spendthrift, and no abandoned sensualist, but one who 
likes to have 'everything handsome about him', and to go to a certain 
length in youthful indulgences - not so much to gratify his own tastes as 
to maintain his reputation as a man of fashion in the world, and a 
respectable fellow among his own lawless companions; while he is too 
selfish to consider how many comforts might be obtained for his fond mother 
and sisters with the money he thus wastes upon himself: as long as they can 
contrive to make a respectable appearance once a year, when they come to 
town, he gives himself little concern about their private stintings and 
struggles at home. This is a harsh judgement to form of 'dear, noble-
minded, generous-hearted Walter', but I fear it is too just.
Mrs Hargrave's anxiety to make good matches for her daughters is partly the 
cause, and partly the result, of these errors: by making a figure in the 
world, and showing them off to advantage, she hopes to obtain better 
chances for them; and by thus living beyond her legitimate means, and 
lavishing so much on their brother, she renders them portionless, and makes 
them burdens on her hands. Poor Milicent, I fear, has already fallen a 
sacrifice to the manoeuvrings of this mistaken mother, w ho congratulates 
herself on having so satisfactorily discharged her maternal duty, and hopes 
to do as well for Esther. But Esther is a child as yet - a little merry 
romp of fourteen: as honest-hearted, and as guileless and simple as her 
sister; but with a fearless spirit of her own, that I fancy her mother will 
find some difficulty in bending to her purposes.



Chapter 27

October 9th. It was on the night of the 4th, a little after tea, that 
Annabella had been singing and playing, with Arthur as usual at her side: 
she had ended her song, but still she sat at the instrument; and he stood 
leaning on the back of her chair, conversing in scarcely audible tones, 
with his face in very close proximity with hers. I looked at Lord 
Lowborough. He was at the other end of the room, talking with Messrs 
Hargrave and Grimsby; but I saw him dart towards his lady and his host a 
quick, impatient glance, expressive of intense disquietude, at which 
Grimsby smiled. Determined to interrupt the tete-a-tete, I rose, and, 
selecting a piece of music from the music-stand, stepped up to the piano, 
intending to ask the lady to play it; but I stood transfixed and speechless 
on seeing her seated there, listening, with what seemed an exultant smile 
on her flushed face, to his soft murmurings, with her hand quietly 
surrendered to his clasp. The blood rushed first to my heart, and then to 
my head; for there was more than this; almost at the moment of my approach, 
he cast a hurried glance over his shoulder towards the other occupants of 
the room, and then ardently pressed the unresisting hand to his lips. On 
raising his eyes, he beheld me, and dropped them again, confounded and 
dismayed. She saw me too, and confronted me with a look of hard defiance. I 
laid the music on the piano, and retired. I felt ill; but I did not leave 
the room: happily, it was getting late, and could not be long before the 
company dispersed. I went to the fire, and leant my head against the 
chimney-piece. In a minute or two, someone asked me if I felt unwell. I did 
not answer; indeed, at the time, I knew not what was said; but I 
mechanically looked up, and saw Mr Hargrave standing beside me on the rug.
'Shall I get you a glass of wine?' said he.
'No, thank you,' I replied; and, turning from him, I looked round. Lady 
Lowborough was beside her husband, bending over him as he sat, with her 
hand on his shoulder, softly talking and smiling in his face; and Arthur 
was at the table, turning over a book of engravings. I seated myself in the 
nearest chair; and Mr Hargrave, finding his services were not desired, 
judiciously withdrew. Shortly after, the company broke up, and, as the 
guests were retiring to their rooms, Arthur approached me, smiling with the 
utmost assurance.
'Are you very angry, Helen?' murmured he.
'This is no jest, Arthur,' said I seriously, but as calmly as I could - 
'unless you think it a jest to lose my affection for ever.'
'What! so bitter?' he exclaimed laughingly, clasping my hand between both 
his; but I snatched it away, in indignation - almost in disgust, for he was 
obviously affected with wine.
'Then I must go down on my knees,' said he; and kneeling before me, with 
clasped hands, uplifted in mock humiliation, he continued imploringly - 
'Forgive me, Helen! dear Helen, forgive me, and I'll never do it again!' 
and, burying his face in his handkerchief, he affected to sob aloud.
Leaving him thus employed, I took my candle, and, slipping quietly from the 
room, hastened upstairs as fast as I could. But he soon discovered that I 
had left him, and, rushing up after me, caught me in his arms, just as I 
had entered the chamber and was about to shut the door in his face.
'No, no, by heaven, you shan't escape me so!' he cried. Then, alarmed at my 
agitation, he begged me not to put myself in such a passion, telling me I 
was white in the face, and should kill myself if I did so.
'Let me go, then,' I murmured; and immediately he released me - and it was 
well he did, for I was really in a passion. I sank into the easy-chair and 
endeavoured to compose myself, for I wanted to speak to him calmly. He 
stood beside me, but did not venture to touch me or to speak, for a few 
seconds; then approaching a little nearer, he dropped on one knee - not in 
mock humility, but to bring himself nearer my level, and leaning his hand 
on the arm of the chair, he began in a low voice -
'It is all nonsense, Helen - a jest, a mere nothing - not worth a thought. 
Will you never learn,' he continued more boldly, 'that you have nothing to 
fear from me? that I love you wholly and entirely? or if,' he added with a 
lurking smile, 'I ever give a thought to another you may well spare it, for 
those fancies are here and gone like a flash of lightning, while my love 
for you burns on steadily, and for ever like the sun. You little exorbitant 
tyrant, will not that -'
'Be quiet a moment, will you, Arthur,' said I, 'and listen to me - and 
don't think I'm in a jealous fury: I am perfectly calm. Feel my hand.' And 
I gravely extended it towards him - but closed it upon his with an energy 
that seemed to disprove the assertion, and made him smile. 'You needn't 
smile, sir,' said I, still tightening my grasp, and looking steadfastly on 
him till he almost quailed before me. 'You may think it all very fine, Mr 
Huntingdon, to amuse yourself with rousing my jealousy; but take care you 
don't rouse my hate instead. And when you have once extinguished my love, 
you will find it no easy matter to kindle it again.'
'Well, Helen, I won't repeat the offence. But I meant nothing by it, I 
assure you. I had taken too much wine, and I was scarcely myself at the 
time.'
'You often take too much wine; and that is another practice I detest.' He 
looked up astonished at my warmth. 'Yes,' I continued. 'I never mentioned 
it before, because I was ashamed to do so; but now I'll tell you that it 
distresses me, and may disgust me, if you go on and suffer the habit to 
grow upon you, as it will if you don't check it in time. But the whole 
system of your conduct to Lady Lowborough is not referable to wine; and 
this night you knew perfectly well what you were doing.'
'Well, I am sorry for it,' replied he, with more of sulkiness than 
contrition: 'what more would you have?'
'You are sorry that I saw you, no doubt,' I answered coldly.
'If you had not seen me,' he muttered, fixing his eyes on the carpet, 'it 
would have done no harm.'
My heart felt ready to burst; but I resolutely swallowed back my emotion, 
and answered calmly, 'You think not?'
'No,' replied he boldly. 'After all, what have I done? It's nothing - 
except as you choose to make it a subject of accusation and distress.'
'What would Lord Lowborough, your friend, think, if he knew all? or what 
would you yourself think, if he or any other had acted the same part to me, 
throughout, as you have to Annabella?' - 'I would blow his brains out.'

'Well, then, Arthur, how can you call it nothing - an offence for which you 
would think yourself justified in blowing another man's brains out? Is it 
nothing to trifle with your friend's feelings and mine - to endeavour to 
steal a woman's affections from her husband - what he values more than his 
gold, and therefore what it is more dishonest to take? Are the marriage 
vows a jest; and is it nothing to make it your sport to break them, and to 
tempt another to do the same? Can I love a man that does such things, and 
coolly maintains it is nothing?'
'You are breaking your marriage vows yourself,' said he, indignantly rising 
and pacing to and fro. 'You promised to honour and obey me, and now you 
attempt to hector over me, and threaten and accuse me and call me worse 
than a highwayman. If it were not for your situation, Helen, I would not 
submit to it so tamely. I won't be dictated to by a woman, though she be my 
wife.'
'What will you do then? Will you go on till I hate you; and then accuse me 
of breaking my vows?'
He was silent a moment, and then replied -
'You never will hate me.' Returning and resuming his former position at my 
feet, he repeated more vehemently - 'You cannot hate me, as long as I love 
you.'
'But how can I believe that you love me, if you continue to act in this 
way? Just imagine yourself in my place: would you think I loved you, if I 
did so? Would you believe my protestations, and honour and trust me under 
such circumstances?'
'The cases are different,' he replied. 'It is a woman's nature to be 
constant - to love one and one only, blindly, tenderly, and for ever - 
bless them, dear creatures! and you above them all - but you must have some 
commiseration for us, Helen; you must give us a little more licence, for as 
Shakespeare has it -

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

'Do you mean by that, that your fancies are lost to me, and won by Lady 
Lowborough?'
'No; Heaven is my witness that I think her mere dust and ashes in 
comparison with you - and shall continue to think so, unless you drive me 
from you by too much severity. She is a daughter of earth; you are an angel 
of heaven; only be not too austere in your divinity, and remember that I am 
a poor, fallible mortal. Come now, Helen; won't you forgive me?' he said, 
gently taking my hand, and looking up with an innocent smile.
'If I do, you will repeat the offence.'
'I swear by -'
'Don't swear; I'll believe your word as well as your oath. I wish I could 
have confidence in either.'
'Try me, then, Helen: only trust and pardon me this once, and you shall 
see! Come, I am in hell's torments till you speak the word.'
I did not speak it, but I put my hand on his shoulder and kissed his 
forehead, and then burst into tears. He embraced me tenderly; and we have 
been good friends ever since. He has been decently temperate at table, and 
well conducted towards Lady Lowborough. The first day, he held himself 
aloof from her, as far as he could without any flagrant breach of 
hospitality: since that, he has been friendly and civil, but nothing more - 
in my presence, at least, nor, I think, at any other time; for she seems 
haughty and displeased, and Lord Lowborough is manifestly more cheerful, 
and more cordial towards his host than before. But I shall be glad when 
they are gone, for I have so little love for Annabella that it is quite a 
task to be civil to her, and as she is the only woman here besides myself, 
we are necessarily thrown so much together. Next time Mrs Hargrave calls, I 
shall hail her advent as quite a relief. I have a good mind to ask Arthur's 
leave to invite the old lady to stay with us till our guests depart. I 
think I will. She will take it as a kind attention, and, though I have 
little relish for her society, she will be truly welcome as a third to 
stand between Lady Lowborough and me.
The first time the latter and I were alone together, after that unhappy 
evening, was an hour or two after breakfast on the following day, when the 
gentlemen were gone out after the usual time spent in the writing of 
letters, the reading of newspapers, and desultory conversation. We sat 
silent for two or three minutes. She was busy with her work, and I was 
running over the columns of a paper from which I had extracted all the pith 
some twenty minutes before. It was a moment of painful embarrassment to me, 
and I thought it must be infinitely more so to her; but it seems I was 
mistaken. She was the first to speak; and, smiling with the coolest 
assurance, she began -
'Your husband was merry last night, Helen: is he often so?'
My blood boiled in my face; but it was better she should seem to attribute 
his conduct to this than to anything else. 'No,' replied I, 'and never will 
be so again, I trust.'
'You gave him a curtain lecture, did you?'
'No; but I told him I disliked such conduct, and he promised me not to 
repeat it.'
'I thought he looked rather subdued this morning,' she continued: 'and you, 
Helen; you've been weeping I see - that's our grand resource, you know - 
but doesn't it make your eyes smart? and do you always find it to answer?'
'I never cry for effect; nor can I conceive how any one can.'
'Well, I don't know: I never had occasion to try it; but I think if 
Lowborough were to commit such improprieties, I'd make him cry. I don't 
wonder at your being angry, for I'm sure I'd give my husband a lesson he 
would not soon forget for a lighter offence than that. But then he never 
will do anything of the kind; for I keep him in too good order for that.'
'Are you sure you don't arrogate too much of the credit to yourself? Lord 
Lowborough was quite remarkable for his abstemiousness for some time before 
you married him, as he is now, I have heard.'
'Oh, about the wine you mean - yes, he's safe enough for that. And as to 
looking askance to another woman - he's safe enough for that too, while I 
live, for he worships the very ground I tread on.'
'Indeed - and are you sure you deserve it?'
'Why, as to that, I can't say: you know we're all fallible creatures, 
Helen; we none of us deserve to be worshipped. But are you sure your 
darling Huntingdon deserves all the love you give to him ?'
I knew not what to answer to this. I was burning with anger; but I 
suppressed all outward manifestations of it, and only bit my lip and 
pretended to arrange my work.
'At any rate,' resumed she, pursuing her advantage, 'you can console 
yourself with the assurance that you are worthy of all the love he gives to 
you.'
'You flatter me,' said I; 'but, at least, I can try to be worthy of it.' 
And then I turned the conversation.



Chapter 28

December 25th. Last Christmas I was a bride, with a heart overflowing with 
present bliss, and full of ardent hopes for the future - though not 
unmingled with foreboding fears. Now I am a wife: my bliss is sobered, but 
not destroyed; my hopes diminished, but not departed; my fears increased, 
but not yet thoroughly confirmed; and, thank Heaven, I am a mother too. God 
has sent me a soul to educate for heaven, and given me a new and calmer 
bliss, and stronger hopes to comfort me.
December 25th, 1823. - Another year is gone. My little Arthur lives and 
thrives. He is healthy but not robust, full of gentle playfulness and 
vivacity, already affectionate, and susceptible of passions and emotions it 
will be long ere he can find words to express. He has won his father's 
heart at last; and now my constant terror is, lest he should be ruined by 
that father's thoughtless indulgence. But I must beware of my own weakness 
too, for I never knew till now how strong are a parent's temptations to 
spoil an only child.
I have need of consolation in my son, for (to this silent paper I may 
confess it) I have but little in my husband. I love him still; and he loves 
me, in his own way - but oh, how different from the love I could have 
given, and once had hoped to receive! how little real sympathy there exists 
between us; how many of my thoughts and feelings are gloomily cloistered 
within my own mind; how much of my higher and better self is indeed 
unmarried - doomed either to harden and sour in the sunless shade of 
solitude, or to quite degenerate and fall away for lack of nutriment in 
this unwholesome soil! But, I repeat, I have no right to complain; only let 
me state the truth - some of the truth at least - and see hereafter if any 
darker truths will blot these pages. We have now been full two years united 
- the 'romance' of our attachment must be worn away. Surely I have now got 
down to the lowest gradation in Arthur's affection, and discovered all the 
evils of his nature: if there be any further change, it must be for the 
better, as we become still more accustomed to each other: surely we shall 
find no lower depth than this. And, if so, I can bear it well - as well, at 
least, as I have borne it hitherto.
Arthur is not what is commonly called a bad man: he has many good 
qualities; but he is a man without self-restraint or lofty aspirations - a 
lover of pleasure, given up to animal enjoyments: he is not a bad husband, 
but his notions of matrimonial duties and comforts are not my notions. 
Judging from appearances, his idea of a wife is a thing to love one 
devotedly and to - stay at home - to wait upon her husband, and amuse him 
and minister to his comfort in every possible way, while he chooses to stay 
with her; and, when he is absent, to attend to his interests, domestic or 
otherwise, and patiently wait his return; no matter how he may be occupied 
in the meantime.
Early in spring, he announced his intention of going to London: his affairs 
there demanded his attendance, he said, and he could refuse it no longer. 
He expressed his regret at having to leave me, but hoped I would amuse 
myself with the baby till he returned.
'But why leave me?' I said. 'I can go with you: I can be ready at any 
time.'
'You would not take that child to town?'
'Yes - why not?'
The thing was absurd: the air of the town would be certain to disagree with 
him, and with me as a nurse; the late hours and London habits would not 
suit me under such circumstances; and altogether he assured me that it 
would be excessively troublesome, injurious, and unsafe. I overruled his 
objections as well as I could, for I trembled at the thoughts of his going 
alone, and would sacrifice almost anything for myself, much even for my 
child, to prevent it; but at length he told me plainly, and somewhat 
testily, that he could not do with me: he was worn out with the baby's 
restless nights, and must have some repose. I proposed separate apartments; 
but it would not do.
'The truth is, Arthur,' I said at last, 'you are weary of my company, and 
determined not to have me with you. You might as well have said so at 
once.'
He denied it; but I immediately left the room, and flew to the nursery to 
hide my feelings, if I could not soothe them, there.
I was too much hurt to express any further dissatisfaction with his plans, 
or at all to refer to the subject again, except for the necessary 
arrangements concerning his departure and the conduct of affairs during his 
absence, till the day before he went, when I earnestly exhorted him to take 
care of himself and keep out of the way of temptation. He laughed at my 
anxiety, but assured me there was no cause for it, and promised to attend 
to my advice.
'I suppose it is no use asking you to fix a day for your return?' said I.
'Why, no; I hardly can, under the circumstances; but be assured, love, I 
shall not be long away.'
'I don't wish to keep you a prisoner at home,' I replied. 'I should not 
grumble at your staying whole months away - if you can be happy so long 
without me - provided I knew you were safe; but I don't like the idea of 
your being there among your friends, as you call them.'
'Pooh, pooh, you silly girl! Do you think I can't take care of myself?'
'You didn't last time. But THIS time, Arthur,' I added earnestly, 'show me 
that you can, and teach me that I need not fear to trust you!'
 He promised fair, but in such a manner as we seek to soothe a child. And 
did he keep his promise? No; and, henceforth, I can never trust his word. 
Bitter, bitter confession! Tears blind me while I write. It was early in 
March that he went, and he did not return till July. This time he did not 
trouble himself to make excuses as before, and his letters were less 
frequent, and shorter, and less affectionate, especially after the first 
few weeks: they came slower and slower, and more terse and careless every 
time. But still, when I omitted writing he complained of my neglect. When I 
wrote sternly and coldly, as I confess I frequently did at the last, he 
blamed my harshness, and said it was enough to scare him from his home; 
when I tried mild persuasion, he was a little more gentle in his replies, 
and promised to return; but I had learnt, at last, to disregard his 
promises.



Chapter 29

Those were four miserable months, alternating between intense anxiety, 
despair, and indignation; pity for him, and pity for myself. And yet, 
through all, I was not wholly comfortless; I had my darling, sinless, 
inoffensive little one to console me, but even this consolation was 
embittered by the constantly recurring thought, 'How shall I teach him 
hereafter to respect his father, and yet to avoid his example?'
But I remembered that I had brought all these afflictions in a manner, 
wilfully, upon myself; and I determined to bear them without a murmur. At 
the same time I resolved not to give myself up to misery for the 
transgressions of another, and endeavoured to divert myself as much as I 
could; and besides the companionship of my child, and my dear, faithful 
Rachel, who evidently guessed my sorrows and felt for them, though she was 
too discreet to allude to them - I had my books and pencil, my domestic 
affairs, and the welfare and comfort of Arthur's poor tenants and labourers 
to attend to; and I sometimes sought and obtained amusement in the company 
of my young friend Esther Hargrave: occasionally I rode over to see her, 
and once or twice I had her to spend the day with me at the manor. Mrs 
Hargrave did not visit London that season; having no daughter to marry, she 
thought it as well to stay at home and economise; and, for a wonder, Walter 
came down to join her in the beginning of June and stayed till near the 
close of August.
The first time I saw him was on a sweet, warm evening, when I was 
sauntering in the park with little Arthur and Rachel, who is head-nurse and 
lady's-maid in one - for, with my secluded life and tolerably active 
habits, I require but little attendance, and as she had nursed me and 
coveted to nurse my child, and was moreover so very trustworthy, I 
preferred committing the important charge to her, with a young nursery-maid 
under her directions, to engaging any one else: besides, it saves money; 
and since I have made acquaintance with Arthur's affairs, I have learnt to 
regard that as no trifling recommendation; for, by my own desire, nearly 
the whole of the income of my fortune is devoted, for years to come, to the 
paying off of his debts, and the money he contrives to squander away in 
London is incomprehensible. But to return to Mr Hargrave: I was standing 
with Rachel beside the water, amusing the laughing baby in her arms with a 
twig of willow laden with golden catkins, when, greatly to my surprise, he 
entered the park, mounted on his costly black hunter, and crossed over the 
grass to meet me. He saluted me with a very fine compliment, delicately 
worded, and modestly delivered withal, which he had doubtless concocted as 
he rode along. He told me he had brought a message from his mother, who, as 
he was riding that way, had desired him to call at the manor and beg the 
pleasure of my company to a friendly family dinner tomorrow.
'There is no one to meet but ourselves,' said he; 'but Esther is very 
anxious to see you; and my mother fears you will feel solitary in this 
great house so much alone, and wishes she could persuade you to give her 
the pleasure of your company more frequently, and make yourself at home in 
our more humble dwelling, till Mr Huntingdon's return shall render this a 
little more conducive to your comfort.'
'She is very kind,' I answered, 'but I am not alone, you see; and those, 
whose time is fully occupied seldom complain of solitude.'
'Will you not come tomorrow, then? She will be sadly disappointed if you 
refuse.'
I did not relish being thus compassionated for my loneliness; but, however, 
I promised to come.
'What a sweet evening this is!' observed he, looking round upon the sunny 
park, with its imposing swell and slope, its placid water, and majestic 
clumps of trees. 'And what a paradise you live in!'
'It is a lovely evening,' answered I; and I sighed to think how little I 
had felt its loveliness, and how little of a paradise sweet Grassdale was 
to me - how still less to the voluntary exile from its scenes. Whether Mr 
Hargrave divined my thoughts, I cannot tell, but with a half-hesitating, 
sympathising seriousness of tone and manner, he asked if I had lately heard 
from Mr Huntingdon.
'Not lately,' I replied. 'I thought not,' he muttered, as if to himself, 
looking thoughtfully on the ground.
'Are you not lately returned from London?' I asked.
'Only yesterday.'
'And did you see him there?'
'Yes - I saw him.'
'Was he well?'
'Yes - that is,' said he, with increasing hesitation and an appearance of 
suppressed indignation, 'he was as well as - as he deserved to be, but 
under circumstances I should have deemed incredible for a man so favoured 
as he is.' He here looked up and pointed the sentence with a serious bow to 
me. I suppose my face was crimson.
'Pardon me, Mrs Huntingdon,' he continued, 'but I cannot suppress my 
indignation when I behold such infatuated blindness and perversion of 
taste, but, perhaps you are not aware ' He paused.
'I am aware of nothing, sir - except that he delays his coming longer than 
I expected; and if, at present, he prefers the society of his friends to 
that of his wife, and the dissipations of the town to the quiet of country 
life, I suppose I have those friends to thank for it. Their tastes and 
occupations are similar to his, and I don't see why his conduct should 
awaken either their indignation or surprise.'
'You wrong me cruelly,' answered he. 'I have shared but little of Mr 
Huntingdon's society for the last few weeks; and as for his tastes and 
occupations, they are quite beyond me - lonely wanderer as I am. Where I 
have but sipped and tasted, he drains the cup to the dregs; and if ever for 
a moment I have sought to drown the voice of reflection in madness and 
folly, or if I have wasted too much of my time and talents among reckless 
and dissipated companions, God knows I would gladly renounce them entirely 
and for ever, if I had but half the blessings that man so thanklessly casts 
behind his back - but half the inducements to virtue and domestic orderly 
habits that he despises - but such a home, and such a partner to share it! 
It is infamous!' he muttered, between his teeth. 'And don't think, Mrs 
Huntingdon,' he added aloud, 'that I could be guilty of inciting him to 
persevere in his present pursuits: on the contrary, I have remonstrated 
with him again and again, I have frequently expressed my surprise at his 
conduct, and reminded him of his duties and his privileges - but to no 
purpose; he only -'
'Enough, Mr Hargrave; you ought to be aware that whatever my husband's 
faults may be, it can only aggravate the evil for me to hear them from a 
stranger's lips.'
 'Am I then a stranger?' said he in a sorrowful tone. 'I am your nearest 
neighbour, your son's godfather, and your husband's friend; may I not be 
yours also?'
'Intimate acquaintance must precede real friendship; I know but little of 
you, Mr Hargrave, except from report.'
'Have you then forgotten the six or seven weeks I spent under your roof 
last autumn? I have not forgotten them. And I know enough of you, Mrs 
Huntingdon, to think that your husband is the most enviable man in the 
world, and I should be the next if you would deem me worthy of your 
friendship.'
'If you knew more of me, you would not think it, or if you did you would 
not say it, and expect me to be flattered by the compliment.'
I stepped backward as I spoke. He saw that I wished the conversation to 
end; and immediately taking the hint, he gravely bowed, wished me good 
evening, and turned his horse towards the road. He appeared grieved and 
hurt at my unkind reception of his sympathising overtures. I was not sure 
that I had done right in speaking so harshly to him; but at the time, I had 
felt irritated - almost insulted by his conduct; it seemed as if he was 
presuming upon the absence and neglect of my husband, and insinuating even 
more than the truth against him.
Rachel had moved on, during our conversation, to some yards distance. He 
rode up to her, and asked to see the child. He took it carefully into his 
arms, looked upon it with an almost paternal smile, and I heard him say, as 
I approached -
'And this, too, he has forsaken!'
He then tenderly kissed it, and restored it to the gratified nurse.
'Are you fond of children, Mr Hargrave?' said I, a little softened towards 
him.
'Not in general,' he replied, 'but that is such a sweet child, and so like 
its mother,' he added in a lower tone.
'You are mistaken there; it is its father it resembles.'
'Am I not right, nurse?' said he, appealing to Rachel.
'I think, sir, there's a bit of both,' she replied.
He departed; and Rachel pronounced him a very nice gentleman. I had still 
my doubts on the subject.
In the course of the following six weeks, I met him several times, but 
always, save once, in company with his mother, or his sister, or both. When 
I called on them, he always happened to be at home, and, when they called 
on me, it was always he that drove them over in the phaeton. His mother, 
evidently, was quite delighted with his dutiful attentions, and newly-
acquired domestic habits.
 The time that I met him alone was on a bright, but not oppressively hot, 
day, in the beginning of July: I had taken little Arthur into the wood that 
skirts the park, and there seated him on the moss-cushioned roots of an old 
oak; and, having gathered a handful of bluebells and wild roses, I was 
kneeling before him, and presenting them, one by one, to the grasp of his 
tiny fingers; enjoying the heavenly beauty of the flowers, through the 
medium of his smiling eyes; forgetting, for the moment, all my cares, 
laughing at his gleeful laughter, and delighting myself with his delight - 
when a shadow suddenly eclipsed the little space of sunshine on the grass 
before us; and looking up, I beheld Walter Hargrave standing and gazing 
upon us.
'Excuse me, Mrs Huntingdon,' said he, 'but I was spellbound; I had neither 
the power to come forward, and interrupt you, nor to withdraw from the 
contemplation of such a scene. How vigorous my little godson grows! and how 
merry he is this morning!' He approached the child, and stooped to take his 
hand; but, on seeing that his caresses were likely to produce tears and 
lamentations, instead of a reciprocation of friendly demonstrations, he 
prudently drew back.
'What a pleasure and comfort that little creature must be to you, Mrs 
Huntingdon!' he observed, with a touch of sadness in his intonation, as he 
admiringly contemplated the infant.
'It is,' replied I; and then I asked after his mother and sister.
He politely answered my inquiries, and then returned again to the subject I 
wished to avoid; though with a degree of timidity that witnessed his fear 
to offend.
'You have not heard from Huntingdon lately?' he said.
'Not this week,' I replied. Not this three weeks, I might have said.
'I had a letter from him this morning. I wish it were such a one as I could 
show to his lady.' He half drew from his waistcoat pocket a letter with 
Arthur's still-beloved hand on the address, scowled at it, and put it back 
again, adding - 'But he tells me he is about to return next week.'
'He tells me so every time he writes.'
'Indeed! Well, it is like him. But to me he always avowed it his intention 
to stay till the present month.'
It struck me like a blow, this proof of premeditated transgression and 
systematic disregard of truth.
'It is only of a piece with the rest of his conduct,' observed Mr Hargrave, 
thoughtfully regarding me, and reading, I suppose, my feelings in my face.
'Then he is really coming next week?' said I, after a pause. 'You may rely 
upon it, if the assurance can give you any pleasure. And is it possible, 
Mrs Huntingdon, that you can rejoice at his return?' he exclaimed, 
attentively perusing my features again.
'Of course, Mr Hargrave; is he not my husband?'
'Oh, Huntingdon; you know not u hat you slight!' he passionately murmured.
I took up my baby, and, wishing him good morning, departed to indulge my 
thoughts unscrutinized, within the sanctum of my home.
And was I glad? Yes, delighted; though I was angered by Arthur's conduct, 
and though I felt that he had wronged me, and was determined he should feel 
it too.



Chapter 30

On the following morning, I received a few lines from him myself, 
confirming Hargrave's intimations respecting his approaching return. And he 
did come next week, but in a condition of body and mind even worse than 
before. I did not, however, intend to pass over his derelictions this time 
without a remark: I found it would not do. But the first day he was weary 
with his journey, and I was glad to get him back; I would not upbraid him 
then; I would wait till tomorrow. Next morning he was weary still; I would 
wait a little longer. But at dinner, when, after breakfasting at twelve 
o'clock on a bottle of soda-water and a cup of strong coffee, and lunching 
at two on another bottle of soda-water mingled with brandy, he u as finding 
fault with everything on the table, and declaring we must change our cook - 
I thought the time was come.
'It is the same cook as we had before you went, Arthur,' said I. 'You were 
generally pretty well satisfied with her then.'
'You must have been letting her get into slovenly habits then, while I was 
away. It is enough to poison one, eating such a disgusting mess!' And he 
pettishly pushed away his plate, and leant back despairingly in his chair.
'I think it is you that are changed, not she,' said I, but with the utmost 
gentleness, for I did not wish to irritate him.
'It may be so,' he replied carelessly, as he seized a tumbler of wine and 
water, adding, when he had tossed it off, 'for I have an infernal fire in 
my veins, that all the waters of the ocean cannot quench!'
'What kindled it?' I was about to ask, but at that moment the butler 
entered, and began to take away the things.
'Be quick, Benson; do have done with that infernal clatter!' cried his 
master. 'And don't bring the cheese, unless you want to make me sick 
outright!'
Benson, in some surprise, removed the cheese, and did his best to effect a 
quiet and speedy clearance of the rest, but, unfortunately, there was a 
rumple in the carpet, caused by the hasty pushing back of his master's 
chair, at which he tripped and stumbled, causing a rather alarming 
concussion with the tray full of crockery in his hands, but no positive 
damage, save the falling and breaking of a sauce tureen; but, to my 
unspeakable shame and dismay, Arthur turned furiously around upon him, and 
swore at him with savage coarseness. The poor man turned pale, and visibly 
trembled as he stooped to pick up the fragments.
'He couldn't help it, Arthur,' said I; 'the carpet caught his foot, and 
there's no great harm done. Never mind the pieces now Benson, you can clear 
them away afterwards.'
Glad to be released, Benson expeditiously set out the dessert and withdrew.
'What could you mean, Helen, by taking the servant's part against me,' said 
Arthur, as soon as the door was closed, 'when you knew I was distracted!'
'I did not know you were distracted, Arthur, and the poor man was quite 
frightened and hurt at your sudden explosion.'
'Poor man, indeed! and do you think I could stop to consider the feelings 
of an insensate brute like that, when my own nerves were racked and torn to 
pieces by his confounded blunders?'
'I never heard you complain of your nerves before.'
'And why shouldn't I have nerves as well as you?'
'Oh, I don't dispute your claim to their possession, but I never complain 
of mine.'
'No - how should you, when you never do anything to try them?'
'Then why do you try yours, Arthur?'
'Do you think I have nothing to do but to stay at home and take care of 
myself like a woman?'
'Is it impossible, then, to take care of yourself like a man when you go 
abroad? You told me that you could - and would too; and you promised -'
'Come, come, Helen, don't begin with t ,hat nonsense now; I can't bear it.'
'Can't bear what? to be reminded of the promises you have broken?'
'Helen, you are cruel. If you knew how my heart throbbed, and how every 
nerve thrilled through me while you spoke, you would spare me. You can pity 
a dolt of a servant for breaking a dish; but you have no compassion for me, 
when my head is split in two and all on fire with this consuming fever.'
He leant his head on his hand and sighed. I went to him and put my hand on 
his forehead. It was burning indeed.
'Then come with me into the drawing-room, Arthur; and don't take any more 
wine; you have taken several glasses since dinner, and eaten next to 
nothing all the day. How can that make you better?'
With some coaxing and persuasion, I got him to leave the table. When the 
baby was brought I tried to amuse him with that; but poor little Arthur was 
cutting his teeth, and his father could not bear his complaints; sentence 
of immediate banishment was passed upon him on the first indication of 
fretfulness; and because, in the course of the evening, I went to share his 
exile for a little while, I was reproached, on my return, for preferring my 
child to my husband. I found the latter reclining on the sofa just as I had 
left him.
'Well!' exclaimed the injured man, in a tone of pseudo-resignation. 'I 
thought I wouldn't send for you, I thought I'd just see - how long it would 
please you to leave me alone.'
'I have not been very long, have I, Arthur? I have not been an hour, I'm 
sure.'
'Oh, of course, an hour is nothing to you, so pleasantly employed; but to 
me -'
'It has not been pleasantly employed,' interrupted I. 'I have been nursing 
our poor little baby, who is very far from well, and I could not leave him 
till I got him to sleep.'
'Oh, to be sure, you're overflowing with kindness and pity for everything 
but me.'
'And why should I pity you? what is the matter with you?'
'Well! that passes everything! After all the wear and tear that I've had, 
when I come home sick and weary, longing for comfort, and expecting to find 
attention and kindness, at least, from my wife - she calmly asks what is 
the matter with me!'
'There is nothing the matter with you,' returned I, 'except what you have 
wilfully brought upon yourself against my earnest exhortation - and 
entreaty.'
'Now, Helen,' said he emphatically, half rising from his recumbent posture, 
'if you bother me with another word, I'll ring the bell and order six 
bottles of wine - and, by Heaven, I'll drink them dry before I stir from 
this place!'
I said no more, but sat down before the table and drew a book towards me.
'Do let me have quietness at least!' continued he, 'if you deny me every 
other comfort,' and sinking back into his former position, with an 
impatient expiration between a sigh and a groan, he languidly closed his 
eyes as if to sleep.
What the book was, that lay open on the table before me, I cannot tell, for 
I never looked at it. With an elbow on each side of it, and my hands 
clasped before my eyes, I delivered myself up to silent weeping. But Arthur 
was not asleep: at the first slight sob, he raised his head and looked 
round, impatiently exclaiming -
'What are you crying for, Helen? What the deuce is the matter now?'
'I'm crying for you, Arthur,' I replied, speedily drying my tears; and 
starting up, I threw myself on my knees before him, and, clasping his 
nerveless hand between my own, continued: 'Don't you know that you are a 
part of myself? And do you think you can injure and degrade yourself, and I 
not feel it?'
'Degrade myself, Helen?'
'Yes, degrade! What have you been doing all this time?'
'You'd better not ask,' said he, with a faint smile.
'And you had better not tell; but you cannot deny that you have degraded 
yourself miserably. You have shamefully wronged yourself, body and soul, 
and me too; and I can't endure it quietly - and I won't!'
'Well, don't squeeze my hand so frantically, and don't agitate me so, for 
Heaven's sake! Oh, Hattersley! you were right; this woman will be the death 
of me, with her keen feelings and her interesting force of character. 
There, there, do spare me a little.'
'Arthur, you must repent!' cried I, in a frenzy of desperation, throwing my 
arms around him and burying my face in his bosom. 'You shall say you are 
sorry for what you have done!'
'Well, well, I am.'
'You are not! you'll do it again.'
'I shall never live to do it again, if you treat me so savagely,' replied 
he, pushing me from him. 'You've nearly squeezed the breath out of my 
body.' He pressed his hand to his heart, and looked really agitated and 
ill.
'Now get me a glass of wine,' said he, 'to remedy what you've done, you she-
tiger! I'm almost ready to faint.'
I flew to get the required remedy. It seemed to revive him considerably.
'What a shame it is,' said I, as I took the empty glass from his hand, 'for 
a strong young man like you to reduce yourself to such a state!'
'If you knew all, my girl, you'd say rather, "What a wonder it is you can 
bear it so well as you do!" I've lived more in these four months, Helen, 
than you have in the whole course of your existence, or will to the end of 
your days, if they numbered a hundred years; so I must expect to pay for it 
in some shape.'
'You will have to pay a higher price than you anticipate, if you don't take 
care: there will be the total loss of your own health, and of my affection 
too, if that is of any value to you.'
'What, you're at that game of threatening me with the loss of your 
affection again, are you? I think it couldn't have been very genuine stuff 
to begin with, if it's so easily demolished. If you don't mind, my pretty 
tyrant, you'll make me regret my choice in good earnest, and envy my friend 
Hattersley his meek little wife; she's quite a pattern to her sex, Helen. 
He had her with him in London all the season, and she was no trouble at 
all. He might amuse himself just as he pleased, in regular bachelor style, 
and she never complained of neglect; he might come home at any hour of the 
night or morning, or not come home at all; be sullen, sober, or glorious 
drunk; and play the fool or the madman to his own heart's desire without 
any fear or botheration. She never gives him a word of reproach or 
complaint, do what he will. He says there's not such a jewel in all 
England, and swears he wouldn't take a kingdom for her.'
'But he makes her life a curse to her.'
'Not he! She has no will but his, and is always contented and happy as long 
as he is enjoying himself.'
'In that case she is as great a fool as he is; but it is not so. I have 
several letters from her, expressing the greatest anxiety about his 
proceedings, and complaining that you incite him to commit those 
extravagances - one especially, in which she implores me to use my 
influence with you to get you away from London, and affirms that her 
husband never did such things before you came, and would certainly 
discontinue them as soon as you departed and left him to the guidance of 
his own good sense.'
'The detestable little traitor! Give me the letter, and he shall see it as 
sure as I'm a living man.'
'No, he shall not see it without her consent; but if he did, there is 
nothing there to anger him - nor in any of the others. She never speaks a 
word against him; it is only anxiety for him that she expresses. She only 
alludes to his conduct in the most delicate terms, and makes every excuse 
for him that she can possibly think of - and as for her own misery, I 
rather feel it than see it expressed in her letters.'
'But she abuses me; and no doubt you helped her.'
 'No; I told her she over-rated my influence with you, that I would gladly 
draw you away from the temptations of the town if I could, but had little 
hope of success, and that I thought she was wrong in supposing that you 
enticed Mr Hattersley or any one else into error. I had myself held the 
contrary opinion at one time, but I now believed that you mutually 
corrupted each other; and, perhaps, if she used a little gentle but serious 
remonstrance with her husband, it might be of some service; as, though he 
was more rough-hewn than mine, I believed he was of a less impenetrable 
material.'
'And so that is the way you go on - heartening each other up to mutiny, and 
abusing each other's partners, and throwing out implications against your 
own, to the mutual gratification of both!'
'According to your own account,' said I, 'my evil counsel has had but 
little effect upon her. And as to abuse and aspersions, we are both of us 
far too deeply ashamed of the errors and vices of our other halves, to make 
them the common subjects of our correspondence. Friends as we are, we would 
willingly keep your failings to ourselves - even from ourselves if we 
could, unless by knowing them we could deliver you from them.'
'Well, well! don't worry me about them: you'll never effect any good by 
that. Have patience with me, and bear with my languor and crossness a 
little while, till I get this cursed low fever out of my veins, and then 
you'll find me cheerful and kind as ever. Why can't you be gentle and good 
as you were last time? I'm sure I was very grateful for it.'
'And what good did your gratitude do? I deluded myself with the idea that 
you were ashamed of your transgressions, and hoped you would never repeat 
them again; but now, you have left me nothing to hope!'
'My case is quite desperate, is it? A very blessed consideration, if it 
will only secure me from the pain and worry of my dear anxious wife's 
efforts to convert me, and her from the toil and trouble of such exertions, 
and her sweet face and silver accents from the ruinous effects of the same. 
A burst of passion is a fine rousing thing upon occasion, Helen, and a 
flood of tears is marvellously affecting, but, when indulged too often, 
they are both deuced plaguy things for spoiling one's beauty and tiring out 
one's friends.'
Thenceforth, I restrained my tears and passions as much as I could. I 
spared him my exhortations and fruitless efforts at conversion too, for I 
saw it was all in vain: God might awaken that heart, supine and stupefied 
with self-indulgence, and remove the film of sensual darkness from his 
eyes, but I could not. His injustice and ill-humour towards his inferiors, 
who could not defend themselves, I still resented and withstood; but when I 
alone was their object, as was frequently the case, I endured it with calm 
forbearance, except at times when my temper, worn out by repeated 
annoyances, or stung to distraction by some new instance of irrationality, 
gave way in spite of myself, and exposed me to the imputations of 
fierceness, cruelty, and impatience. I attended carefully to his wants and 
amusements, but not, I own, with the same devoted fondness as before, 
because I could not feel it; besides, I had another claimant on my time and 
care - my ailing infant, for whose sake I frequently braved and suffered 
the reproaches and complaints of his unreasonably exacting father.
But Arthur is not naturally a peevish or irritable man - so far from it, 
that there was something almost ludicrous in the incongruity of this 
adventitious fretfulness and nervous irritability, rather calculated to 
excite laughter than anger, if it were not for the intensely painful 
considerations attendant upon those symptoms of a disordered frame - and 
his temper gradually improved as his bodily health was restored, which was 
much sooner than would have been the case, but for my strenuous exertions; 
for there was still one thing about him that I did not give up in despair, 
and one effort for his preservation that I would not remit. His appetite 
for the stimulus of wine had increased upon him, as I had too well 
foreseen. It was now something more to him than an accessory to social 
enjoyment: it was an important source of enjoyment in itself. In this time 
of weakness and depression he would have made it his medicine and support, 
his comforter, his recreation, and his friend - and thereby sunk deeper and 
deeper - and bound himself down for ever in the bathos whereinto he had 
fallen. But I determined this should never be, as long as I had any 
influence left; and though I could not prevent him from taking more than 
was good for him, still, by incessant perseverance, by kindness, and 
firmness, and vigilance, by coaxing, and daring, and determination - I 
succeeded in preserving him from absolute bondage to that detestable 
propensity, so insidious in its advances, so inexorable in its tyranny, so 
disastrous in its effects.
And here, I must not forget that I am not a little indebted to his friend, 
Mr Hargrave. About that time he frequently called at Grassdale, and often 
dined with us, on which occasions, I fear, Arthur would willingly have cast 
prudence and decorum to the winds, and made 'a night of it', as often as 
his friend would have consented to join him in that exalted pastime; and if 
the latter had chosen to comply, he might, in a night or two, have ruined 
the labour of weeks, and overthrown with a touch the frail bulwark it had 
cost me such trouble and toil to construct. I was so fearful of this at 
first, that I humbled myself to intimate to him in private, my 
apprehensions of Arthur's proneness to these excesses, and to express a 
hope that he would not encourage it. He was pleased with this mark of 
confidence, and certainly did not betray it. On that and every subsequent 
occasion, his presence served rather as a check upon his host, than an 
incitement to further acts of intemperance; and he always succeeded in 
bringing him from the dining-room in good time, and in tolerably good 
condition; for if Arthur disregarded such intimations, as 'Well, I must not 
detain you from your lady,' or, 'We must not forget that Mrs Huntingdon is 
alone,' he would insist upon leaving the table himself, to join me, and his 
host, however unwillingly, was obliged to follow.
Hence, I learned to welcome Mr Hargrave as a real friend to the family, a 
harmless companion for Arthur, to cheer his spirits and preserve him from 
the tedium of absolute idleness, and a total isolation from all society but 
mine, and a useful ally to me. I could not but feel grateful to him under 
such circumstances; and I did not scruple to acknowledge my obligation on 
the first convenient opportunity; yet, as I did so, my heart whispered all 
was not right, and brought a glow to my face, which he heightened by his 
steady, serious gaze, while, by his manner of receiving those 
acknowledgements, he more than doubled my misgivings. His high delight at 
being able to serve me, was chastened by sympathy for me and commiseration 
for himself - about, I know not what, for I would not stay to inquire, or 
suffer him to unburden his sorrows to me. His sighs and intimations of 
suppressed afflictions seemed to come from a full heart; but either he must 
contrive to retain them within it, or breathe them forth in other ears than 
mine: there was enough of confidence between us already. It seemed wrong 
that there should exist a secret understanding between my husband's friend 
and me, unknown to him, of which he was the subject. But my afterthought 
was, 'If it is wrong, surely Arthur's is the fault, not mine.'
And indeed, I know not whether, at the time, it was not for him rather than 
myself that I blushed? for, since he and I are one, I so identify myself 
with him, that I feel his degradation, his failings, and transgressions, as 
my own; I blush for him, I fear for him; I repent for him, weep, pray, and 
feel for him as for myself; but I cannot act for him; and hence, I must be, 
and I am, debased, contaminated by the union, both in my own eyes, and in 
the actual truth. I am so determined to love him - so intensely anxious to 
excuse his errors, that I am continually dwelling upon them, and labouring 
to extenuate the loosest of his principles, and the worst of his practices, 
till I am familiarised with vice, and almost a partaker in his sins. Things 
that formerly shocked and disgusted me, now seem only natural. I know them 
to be wrong, because reason and God's Word declare them to be so; but I am 
gradually losing that instinctive horror and repulsion which were given me 
by nature, or instilled into me by the precepts and example of my aunt. 
Perhaps, then, I was too severe in my judgements, for I abhorred the sinner 
as well as the sin; now, I flatter myself I am more charitable and 
considerate; but am I not becoming more indifferent and insensate too? Fool 
that I was, to dream that I had strength and purity enough to save myself 
and him! Such vain presumption would be rightly served, if I should perish 
with him in the gulf from which I sought to save him! Yet, God preserve me 
from it! and him too. Yes, poor Arthur, I will still hope and pray for you; 
and though I write as if you were some abandoned wretch, past hope, and 
past reprieve, it is only my anxious fears - my strong desires that make me 
do so; one who loved you less would be less bitter - less dissatisfied.
His conduct has, of late, been what the world calls irreproachable; but 
then I know his heart is still unchanged; and I know that spring is 
approaching, and deeply dread the consequences.
As he began to recover the tone and vigour of his exhausted frame, and with 
it something of his former impatience of retirement and repose, I suggested 
a short residence by the seaside, for his recreation and further 
restoration, and for the benefit of our little one as well. But no; 
watering - places were so intolerably dull - besides, he had been invited 
by one of his friends to spend a month or two in Scotland for the better 
recreation of grouse-shooting and deer-stalking, and had promised to go.
'Then you will leave me again, Arthur?' said I.
'Yes, dearest, but only to love you the better when I come back, and make 
up for all past offences and shortcomings; and you needn't fear me this 
time; there are no temptations on the mountains. And during my absence you 
may pay a visit to Staningley, if you like: your uncle and aunt have long 
been wanting us to go there, you know; but somehow, there's such a 
repulsion between the good lady and me, that I never could bring myself up 
to the scratch.'
About the third week in August, Arthur set out for Scotland, and Mr 
Hargrave accompanied him thither, to my private satisfaction. Shortly 
after, I, with little Arthur and Rachel, went to Staningley, my dear old 
home, which, as well as my dear old friends its inhabitants, I saw again 
with mingled feelings of pleasure and pain so intimately blended that I 
could scarcely distinguish the one from the other, or tell to which to 
attribute the various tears, and smiles, and sighs awakened by those old 
familiar scenes, and tones, and faces.
Arthur did not come home till several weeks after my return to Grassdale; 
but I did not feel so anxious about him now: to think of him engaged in 
active sports among the wild hills of Scotland, was very different from 
knowing him to be immersed amid the corruptions and temptations of London. 
His letters now, though neither long nor lover - like, were more regular 
than ever they had been before; and when he did return, to my great joy, 
instead of being worse than when he went, he was more cheerful and 
vigorous, and better in every respect. Since that time, I have had little 
cause to complain. He still has an unfortunate predilection for the 
pleasures of the table, against which I have to struggle and watch; but he 
has begun to notice his boy, and that is an increasing source of amusement 
to him within doors, while his fox-hunting and coursing are a sufficient 
occupation for him without, when the ground is not hardened by frost; so 
that he is not wholly dependent on me for entertainment. But it is now 
January: spring is approaching; and I repeat, I dread the consequences of 
its arrival. That sweet season, I once so joyously welcomed as the time of 
hope and gladness, awakens, now, far other anticipations by its return.



Chapter 31

March 20th, 1824. The dreaded time is come, and Arthur is gone, as I 
expected. This time he announced it his intention to make but a short stay 
in London, and pass over to the Continent, where he should probably stay a 
few weeks; but I shall not expect him till after the lapse of many weeks: I 
now know that, with him, days signify weeks, and weeks months.
July 30th. - He returned about three weeks ago, rather better in health, 
certainly, than before, but still worse in temper. And yet, perhaps, I am 
wrong: it is I that am less patient and forbearing. I am tired out with his 
injustice, his selfishness, and hopeless depravity. I wish a milder word 
would do: I am no angel, and my corruption rises against it. My poor father 
died last week: Arthur was vexed to hear of it, because he saw that I was 
shocked and grieved, and he feared the circumstance would mar his comfort. 
When I spoke of ordering my mourning, he exclaimed -
'Oh, I hate black! But, however, I suppose you must wear it awhile, for 
form's sake; but I hope, Helen, you won't think it your bounden duty to 
compose your face and manners into conformity with your funereal garb. Why 
should you sigh and groan, and I be made uncomfortable because an old 
gentleman in --shire, a perfect stranger to us both, has thought proper to 
drink himself to death? There, now, I declare you're crying! Well, it must 
be affectation.'
He would not hear of my attending the funeral, or going for a day or two to 
cheer poor Frederick's solitude. It was quite unnecessary, he said, and I 
was unreasonable to wish it. What was my father to me? I had never seen 
him, but once since I was a baby, and I well knew he had never cared a 
stiver about me; and my brother, too, was little better than a stranger. 
'Besides, dear Helen,' said he, embracing me with flattering fondness, 'I 
cannot spare you for ,a single day.'
'Then how have you managed without me these many days?' said I.
'Ah! then I was knocking about the world, now I am at home; and home 
without you, my household deity, would be intolerable.'
'Yes, as long as I am necessary to your comfort; but you did not say so 
before, when you urged me to leave you, in order that you might get away 
from your home without me,' retorted I; but before the words were well out 
of my mouth, I regretted having uttered them. It seemed so heavy a charge: 
if false, too gross an insult: if true, too humiliating a fact to be thus 
openly cast in his teeth. But I might have spared myself that momentary 
pang of self-reproach. The accusation awoke neither shame nor indignation 
in him: he attempted neither denial nor excuse, but only answered with a 
long, low, chuckling laugh, as if he viewed the whole transaction as a 
clever, merry jest from beginning to end. Surely that man will make me 
dislike him at last!

Sine as ye brew, my maiden fair,
Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill.

Yes; and I will drink it to the very dregs: and none but myself shall know 
how bitter I find it!
August 20th. - We are shaken down again to about our usual position. Arthur 
has returned to nearly his former condition and habits; and I have found it 
my wisest plan to shut my eyes against the past and future, as far as he, 
at least, is concerned, and live only for the present; to love him when I 
can; to smile (if possible) when he smiles, be cheerful when he is 
cheerful, and pleased when he is agreeable; and when he is not, to try to 
make him so - and if that won't answer, to bear with him, to excuse him, 
and forgive him as well as I can, and restrain my own evil passions from 
aggravating his; and yet, while I thus yield and minister to his more 
harmless propensities to self-indulgence, to do all in my power to save him 
from the worse.
But we shall not be long alone together. I shall shortly be called upon to 
entertain the same select body of friends as we had the autumn before last, 
with the addition of Mr Hattersley, and, at my special request, his wife 
and child. I long to see Milicent - and her little girl too. The latter is 
now above a year old; she will be a charming playmate for my little Arthur.
September 30th. - Our guests have been here a week or two; but I have had 
no leisure to pass any comments upon them till now. I cannot get over my 
dislike to Lady Lowborough. It is not founded on mere personal pique; it is 
the woman herself that I dislike, because I so thoroughly disapprove of 
her. I always avoid her company as much as I can without violating the laws 
of hospitality; but when w e do speak or converse together, it is with the 
utmost civility - even apparent cordiality on her part; but preserve me 
from such cordiality! It is like handling briar-roses and may-blossoms - 
bright enough to the eye, and outwardly soft to the touch, but you know 
there are thorns beneath, and every now and then you feel them too; and 
perhaps resent the injury by crushing them in till you have destroyed their 
power, though somewhat to the detriment of your own fingers.
Of late, however, I have seen nothing in her conduct towards Arthur to 
anger or alarm me. During the first few days I thought she seemed very 
solicitous to win his admiration. Her efforts were not unnoticed by him; I 
frequently saw him smiling to himself at her artful manoeuvres: but, to his 
praise be it spoken, her shafts fell powerless by his side. Her most 
bewitching smiles, her haughtiest frowns were ever received with the same 
immutable, careless good-humour; till, finding he was indeed impenetrable, 
she suddenly remitted her efforts, and became, to all appearance, as 
perfectly indifferent as himself. Nor have I since witnessed any symptom of 
pique on his part, or renewed attempts at conquest upon hers.
This is as it should be; but Arthur never will let me be satisfied with 
him. I have never, for a single hour since I married him, known what it is 
to realise that sweet idea, 'In quietness and confidence shall be your 
rest.' Those two detestable men, Grimsby and Hattersley, have destroyed all 
my labour against his love of wine. They encourage him daily to overstep 
the bounds of moderation, and, not unfrequently, to disgrace himself by 
positive excess. I shall not soon forget the second night after their 
arrival. Just as I had retired from the dining-room, with the ladies, 
before the door was closed upon us, Arthur exclaimed -
'Now then, my lads, what say you to a regular jollification?'
Milicent glanced at me with a half-reproachful look, as if I could hinder 
it; but her countenance changed when she heard Hattersley's voice shouting 
through door and wall -
'I'm your man! Send for more wine: here isn't half enough!'
We had scarcely entered the drawing-room before we were joined by Lord 
Lowborough.
'What can induce you to come so soon?' exclaimed his lady, with a most 
ungracious air of dissatisfaction.
'You know I never drink, Annabella,' replied he seriously.
'Well, but you might stay with them a little: it looks so silly to be 
always dangling after the women; I wonder you can!'
He reproached her with a look of mingled bitterness and surprise, and, 
sinking into a chair, suppressed a heavy sigh, bit his pale lips, and fixed 
his eyes upon the floor.
'You did right to leave them, Lord Lowborough,' said I. 'I trust you will 
always continue to honour us so early with your company. And if Annabella 
knew the value of true wisdom, and the misery of folly and - and 
intemperance, she would not talk such nonsense - even in jest.'
He raised his eyes while I spoke, and gravely turned them upon me, with a 
half-surprised, half-abstracted look, and then bent them on his wife.
- 'At least,' said she, 'I know the value of a warm heart, and a bold, 
manly spirit.'
'Well, Annabella,' said he, in a deep and hollow tone, 'since my presence 
is disagreeable to you, I will relieve you of it.'
'Are you going back to them, then?' said she carelessly.
'No,' exclaimed he, with harsh and startling emphasis; 'I will not go back 
to them! And I will never stay with them one moment longer than I think 
right, for you or any other tempter! But you needn't mind that; I shall 
never trouble you again, by intruding my company upon you so unreasonably.'
He left the room, I heard the hall door open and shut, and, immediately 
after, on putting aside the curtain, I saw him pacing down the park, in the 
comfortless gloom of the damp, cloudy twilight.
'It would serve you right, Annabella,' said I, at length, 'if Lord 
Lowborough were to return to his old habits, which had so nearly effected 
his ruin, and which it cost him such an effort to break: you would then see 
cause to repent such conduct as this.'
'Not at all, my dear! I should not mind, if his lordship were to see fit to 
intoxicate himself every day: I should only the sooner be rid of him.'
'Oh, Annabella!' cried Milicent. 'How can you say such wicked things! It 
would, indeed, be a just punishment, as far as you are concerned, if 
Providence should take you at your word, and make you feel what others feel 
that ' She paused as a sudden burst of loud talking and laughter reached us 
from the dining-room, in which the voice of Hattersley was pre-eminently 
conspicuous, even to my unpractised ear.
'What you feel at this moment, I suppose?' said Lady Lowborough, with a 
malicious smile, fixing her eyes upon her cousin's distressed countenance.
The latter offered no reply, but averted her face and brushed away a tear. 
At that moment the door opened and admitted Mr Hargrave; just a little 
flushed, his dark eyes sparkling with unwonted vivacity.
'Oh, I'm glad you're come, Walter!' cried his sister - 'But I wish you 
could have got Ralph to come too.'
'Utterly impossible, dear Milicent,' replied he gaily. 'I had much ado to 
get away myself. Ralph attempted to keep me by violence; Huntingdon 
threatened me with the eternal loss of his friendship; and Grimsby, worse 
than all, endeavoured to make me ashamed of my virtue, by such galling 
sarcasms and innuendos as he knew would wound me the most. So you see, 
ladies, you ought to make me welcome when I have braved and suffered so 
much for the favour of your sweet society.' He smilingly turned to me and 
bowed as he finished the sentence.
'Isn't he handsome now, Helen?' whispered Milicent, her sisterly pride 
overcoming, for the moment, all other considerations.
'He would be,' I returned, 'if that brilliance of eye, and lip, and cheek 
were natural to him; but look again, a few hours hence.'
Here the gentleman took a seat near me at the table, and petitioned for a 
cup of coffee.
'I consider this an apt illustration of Heaven taken by storm,' said he, as 
I handed one to him. 'I am in paradise now; but I have fought my way 
through flood and fire to win it. Ralph Hattersley's last resource was to 
set his back against the door, and swear I should find no passage but 
through his body (a pretty substantial one too). Happily, however, that was 
not the only door, and I effected my escape by the side entrance, through 
the butler's pantry, to the infinite amazement of Benson, who was cleaning 
the plate.'
 Mr Hargrave laughed, and so did his cousin; but his sister and I remained 
silent and grave.
'Pardon my levity, Mrs Huntingdon,' murmured he, more seriously, as he 
raised his eyes to my face. 'You are not used to these things: you suffer 
them to affect your delicate mind too sensibly. But I thought of you in the 
midst of those lawless roisterers; and I endeavoured to persuade Mr 
Huntingdon to think of you too; but to no purpose: I fear he is fully 
determined to enjoy himself this night; and it will be no use keeping the 
coffee waiting for him or his companions; it will be much if they join us 
at tea. Meantime, I earnestly wish I could banish the thoughts of them from 
your mind - and my own too, for I hate to think of them - yes - even of my 
dear friend Huntingdon, when I consider the power he possesses over the 
happiness of one so immeasurably superior to himself, and the use he makes 
of it - I positively detest the man!'
'You had better not say so to me, then,' said I; 'for, bad as he is, he is 
part of myself, and you cannot abuse him without offending me.'
'Pardon me, then, for I would sooner die than offend you. But let us say no 
more of him for the present, if you please.'
At last they came; but not till after ten, when tea, which had been delayed 
for more than half an hour, was nearly over. Much as I had longed for their 
coming, my heart failed me at the riotous uproar of their approach; and 
Milicent turned pale and almost started from her seat as Mr Hattersley 
burst into the room with a clamorous volley of oaths in his mouth, which 
Hargrave endeavoured to check by entreating him to remember the ladies.
'Ah! you do well to remind me of the ladies, you dastardly deserter,' cried 
he, shaking his formidable fist at his brother-in-law; 'If it were not for 
them, you well know, I'd demolish you in the twinkling of an eye, and give 
your body to the fowls of heaven and the lilies of the field!' Then, 
planting a chair by Lady Lowborough's side, he stationed himself in it, and 
began to talk to her, with a mixture of absurdity and impudence that seemed 
rather to amuse than to offend her; though she affected to resent his 
insolence, and to keep him at bay with sallies of smart and spirited 
repartee.
Meantime, Mr Grimsby seated himself by me, in the chair vacated by Hargrave 
as they entered, and gravely stated that he would thank me for a cup of 
tea; and Arthur placed himself beside poor Milicent, confidentially pushing 
his head into her face, and drawing in closer to her as she shrunk away 
from him. He was not so noisy as Hattersley, but his face was exceedingly 
flushed, he laughed incessantly, and while I blushed for all I saw and 
heard of him, I was glad that he chose to talk to his companion in so low a 
tone that no one could hear what he said but herself.
'What fools they are!' drawled Mr Grimsby, who had been talking away, at my 
elbow, with sententious gravity all the time; but I had been too much 
absorbed in contemplating the deplorable state of the other two - 
especially Arthur - to attend to him.
'Did you ever hear such nonsense as they talk, Mrs Huntingdon?' he 
continued. 'I'm quite ashamed of them, for my part: they can't take so much 
as a bottle between them without its getting into their heads -'
'You are pouring the cream into your saucer, Mr Grimsby.'
'Ah! yes, I see, but we're almost in darkness here. Hargrave, snuff those 
candles, will you?'
'They're wax: they don't require snuffing,' said I.
' "The light of the body is the eye," ' observed Hargrave, with a sarcastic 
smile. ' "If thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light." '
Grimsby repulsed him with a solemn wave of the hand, and then, turning to 
me, continued, with the same drawling tones and strange uncertainty of 
utterance and heavy gravity of aspect as before, 'But, as I was saying, Mrs 
Huntingdon, they have no head at all: they can't take half a bottle without 
- being affected some way; whereas I - well, I've taken three times as much 
as they have tonight, and you see I'm perfectly steady. Now that may strike 
you as very singular, but I think I can explain it: you see their brains - 
I mention no names, but you'll understand to whom I allude - their brains 
are light to begin with, and the fumes of the fermented liquor render them 
lighter still, and produce an entire light-headedness, or giddiness, 
resulting in intoxication; whereas my brains being composed of more solid 
materials, will absorb a considerable quantity of this alcoholic vapour 
without the production of any sensible result -'
'I think you will find a sensible result produced on that tea,' interrupted 
Mr Hargrave, 'by the quantity of sugar you have put into it. Instead of 
your usual complement of one lump, you have put in six.'
'Have I so?' replied the philosopher, diving with his spoon into the cup, 
and bringing up several half-dissolved pieces in confirmation of the 
assertion. 'Um! I perceive. Thus, madam, you see the evil of absence of 
mind - of thinking too much while engaged in the common concerns of life. 
Now, if I had had my wits about me, like ordinary men, instead of within me 
like a philosopher, I should not have spoiled this cup of tea, and been 
constrained to trouble you for another.'
'That is the sugar-basin, Mr Grimsby. Now you have spoiled the sugar too; 
and I'll thank you to ring for some more - for here is Lord Lowborough, at 
last; and I hope his Lordship will condescend to sit down with us, such as 
we are, and allow me to give him some tea.'
His lordship gravely bowed in answer to my appeal, but said nothing. 
Meantime, Hargrave volunteered to ring for the sugar, while Grimsby 
lamented his mistake, and attempted to prove that it was owing to the 
shadow - of the urn and the badness of the lights.
Lord Lowborough had entered a minute or two before, unobserved by any one 
but me, and had been standing before the door, grimly surveying the 
company. He now stepped up to Annabella, who sat with her back towards him, 
with Hattersley still beside her, though not now attending to her, being 
occupied in vociferously abusing and bullying his host.
'Well, Annabella,' said her husband, as he leant over the back of her 
chair, 'which of these three "bold, manly spirits" would you have me to 
resemble?'
'By heaven and earth, you shall resemble us all!' cried Hattersley, 
starting up and rudely seizing him by the arm. 'Hallo, Huntingdon!' he 
shouted - 'I've got him! Come, man, and help me! And d n me if I don't make 
him drunk before I let him go! He shall make up for all past delinquencies, 
as sure as I'm a living soul?'
- There followed a disgraceful contest; Lord Lowborough, in desperate 
earnest, and pale with anger, silently struggling to release himself from 
the powerful madman that was striving to drag him from the room. I 
attempted to urge Arthur to interfere in behalf of his outraged guest, but 
he could do nothing but laugh.
'Huntingdon, you fool, come and help me, can't you!' cried Hattersley, 
himself somewhat weakened by his excesses.
'I'm wishing you God-speed, Hattersley,' cried Arthur, 'and aiding you with 
my prayers: I can't do anything else if my life depended on it! I'm quite 
used up. Oh, ho!' and leaning back in his seat, he clapped his hands on his 
sides and groaned aloud.
'Annabella, give me a candle!' said Lowborough, whose antagonist had now 
got him round the waist and was endeavouring to root him from the door-
post, to which he madly clung with all the energy of desperation.
'I shall take no part in your rude sports!' replied the lady, coldly 
drawing back; 'I wonder you can expect it.'
 But I snatched up a candle and brought it to him. He took it and held the 
flame to Hattersley's hands, till, roaring like a wild beast, the latter 
unclasped them and let him go. He vanished, I suppose to his own apartment, 
for nothing more was seen of him till the morning. Swearing and cursing 
like a maniac, Hattersley threw himself on to the ottoman beside the 
window. The door being now free, Milicent attempted to make her escape from 
the scene of her husband's disgrace; but he called her back, and insisted 
upon her coming to him.
'What do you want, Ralph?' murmured she, reluctantly approaching him.
'I want to know what's the matter with you,' said he, pulling her on to his 
knee like a child. 'What are you crying for, Milicent? Tell me!'
'I'm not crying.'
'You are,' persisted he, rudely pulling her hands from her face. 'How dare 
you tell such a lie?'
'I'm not crying now,' pleaded she.
'But you have been - and just this minute too; and I will know what for. 
Come now, you shall tell me!'
'Do let me alone, Ralph! remember, we are not at home.'
'No matter: you shall answer my question!' exclaimed her tormentor; and he 
attempted to extort the confession by shaking her, and remorselessly 
crushing her slight arms in the grip of his powerful fingers.
'Don't let him treat your sister in that way,' said I to Mr Hargrave.
'Come now, Hattersley, I can't allow that,' said that gentleman, stepping 
up to the ill-assorted couple. 'Let my sister alone, if you please.' And he 
made an effort to unclasp the ruffian's fingers from her arm, but was 
suddenly driven backward, and nearly laid upon the floor by a violent blow 
in the chest accompanied with the admonition -
'Take that for your insolence! and learn to interfere between me and mine 
again.'
'If you were not drunk, I'd have satisfaction for that!' gasped Hargrave, 
white and breathless as much from passion as from the immediate effects of 
the blow.
'Go to the devil!' responded his brother-in-law. 'Now, Milicent, tell me 
what you were crying for.'
'I'll tell you some other time,' murmured she, 'when we are alone.'
'Tell me now!' said he, with another shake and a squeeze that made her draw 
in her breath and bite her lip to suppress a cry of pain.
'I'll tell you, Mr Hattersley,' said I. 'She was crying from pure shame and 
humiliation for you! because she could not bear to see you conduct yourself 
so disgracefully.'
'Confound you, madam!' muttered he, with a stare of stupid amazement at my 
'impudence'. 'It was not that - was it, Milicent?'
She was silent.
'Come, speak up, child!'
'I can't tell now,' sobbed she.
'But you can say "yes" or "no" as well as "I can't tell". Come!'
'Yes,' she whispered, hanging her head, and blushing at the awful 
acknowledgement.
'Curse you for an impertinent hussy, then!' cried he, throwing her from him 
with such violence that she fell on her side; but she was up again before 
either I or her brother could come to her assistance, and made the best of 
her way out of the room, and I suppose, upstairs, without loss of time.
The next object of assault was Arthur, who sat opposite, and had, no doubt, 
richly enjoyed the whole scene.
'Now, Huntingdon!' exclaimed his irascible friend, 'I will not have you 
sitting there and laughing like an idiot!'
'Oh, Hattersley!' cried he, wiping his swimming eyes - 'you'll be the death 
of me.'
'Yes, I will, but not as you suppose: I'll have the heart out of your body, 
man, if you irritate me with any more of that imbecile laughter! - What! - 
are you at it yet? - There! see if that'll settle you!' cried Hattersley, 
snatching up a footstool and hurling it at the head of his host; but he 
missed his aim, and the latter still sat collapsed and quaking with feeble 
laughter, with the tears running down his face; a deplorable spectacle 
indeed.
Hattersley tried cursing and swearing, but it would not do; he then took a 
number of books from the table beside him, and threw them, one by one, at 
the object of his wrath, but Arthur only laughed the more; and, finally, 
Hattersley rushed upon him in a frenzy, and, seizing him by the shoulders, 
gave him a violent shaking, under which he laughed, and shrieked 
alarmingly. But I saw no more: I thought I had witnessed enough of my 
husband's degradation; and, leaving Annabella and the rest to follow when 
they pleased, I withdrew, but not to bed. Dismissing Rachel to her rest, I 
walked up and down my room, in an agony of misery, for what had been done, 
and suspense, not knowing what might further happen, or how, or when, that 
unhappy creature would come up to bed.
At last he came slowly, and stumblingly, ascending the stairs, supported by 
Grimsby and Hattersley, who neither of them walked quite steadily 
themselves, but were both laughing and joking at him, and making noise 
enough for all the servants to hear. He himself was no longer laughing now, 
but sick and stupid. I will write no more about that.
Such disgraceful scenes (or nearly such) have been repeated more than once. 
I don't say much to Arthur about it, for, if I did, it would do more harm 
than good; but I let him know that I intensely dislike such exhibitions: 
and each time he has promised they should never again be repeated; but I 
fear he is losing the little self-command and self-respect he once 
possessed; formerly, he would have been ashamed to act thus - at least, 
before any other witnesses than his boon companions, or such as they. His 
friend, Hargrave, with a prudence and self-government that I envy for him, 
never disgraced himself by taking more than sufficient to render him a 
little 'elevated', and is always the first to leave the table, after Lord 
Lowborough, who, wiser still, perseveres in vacating the dining-room 
immediately after us: but never once, since Annabella offended him so 
deeply, has he entered the drawing-room before the rest; always spending 
the interim in the library, which I take care to have lighted for his 
accommodation; or, on fine moonlight nights, in roaming about the grounds. 
But I think she regrets her misconduct, for she has never repeated it 
since, and of late she has comported herself with wonderful propriety 
towards him, treating him with more uniform kindness and consideration than 
ever I have observed her do before. I date the time of this improvement 
from the period when she ceased to hope and strive for Arthur's admiration.



Chapter 32

October 5th. Esther Hargrave is getting a fine girl. She is not out of the 
school-room yet, but her mother frequently brings her over to call in the 
mornings when the gentlemen are out, and sometimes she spends an hour or 
two in company with her sister and me and the children; and when we go to 
the Grove, I always contrive to see her, and talk more to her than to any 
one else, for I am very much attached to my little friend, and so is she to 
me. I wonder what she can see to like in me though, for I am no longer the 
happy, lively girl I used to be; but she has no other society - save that 
of her uncongenial mother, and her governess (as artificial and 
conventional a person as that prudent mother could procure to rectify the 
pupil's natural qualities), and, now and then, her subdued, quiet sister. I 
often wonder what will be her lot in life - and so does she; but her 
speculations on the future are full of buoyant hope - so were mine once. I 
shudder to think of her being awakened, like me, to a sense of their 
delusive vanity. It seems as if I should feel her disappointment, even more 
deeply than my own. I feel, almost as if I were born for such a fate, but 
she is so joyous and fresh, so light of heart and free of spirit, and so 
guileless and unsuspecting too. Oh, it would be cruel to make her feel as I 
feel now, and know what I have known!
Her sister trembles for her too. Yesterday morning, one of October's 
brightest, loveliest days, Milicent and I were in the garden enjoying a 
brief half hour together with our children, while Annabella was lying on 
the drawing-room sofa, deep in the last new novel. We had been romping with 
the little creatures, almost as merry and wild as themselves, and now 
paused in the shade of the tall copper beech, to recover breath, and 
rectify our hair, disordered by the rough play and the frolicsome breeze - 
while they toddled together along the broad, sunny walk; my Arthur 
supporting the feebler steps of her little Helen, and sagaciously pointing 
out to her the brightest beauties of the border as they passed, with semi-
articulate prattle, that did as well for her as any other mode of 
discourse. From laughing at the pretty sight, we began to talk of the 
children's future life; and that made us thoughtful. We both relapsed into 
silent musing as we slowly proceeded up the walk; and I suppose Milicent, 
by a train of associations, was led to think of her sister.
'Helen,' said she, 'you often see Esther, don't you?'
'Not very often.'
'But you have more frequent opportunities of meeting her than I have; and 
she loves you, I know, and reverences you too; there is nobody's opinion 
she thinks so much of; and she says you have more sense than mamma.'
'That is because she is self-willed, and my opinions more generally 
coincide with her own than your mamma's. But what then, Milicent?'
'Well, since you have so much influence with her, I wish you would 
seriously impress it upon her, never, on any account, or for anybody's 
persuasion, to marry for the sake of money, or rank, or establishment, or 
any earthly thing but true affection and well-grounded esteem.'
 'There is no necessity for that,' said I, 'for we have had some discourse 
on that subject already, and I assure you her ideas of love and matrimony 
are as romantic as any one could desire.'
'But romantic notions will not do: I want her to have true notions.'
'Very right; but in my judgement, what the world stigmatises as romantic, 
is often more nearly allied to the truth than is commonly supposed; for, if 
the generous ideas of youth are too often overclouded by the sordid views 
of after-life, that scarcely proves them to be false.'
'Well, but if you think her ideas are what they ought to be, strengthen 
them, will you? and confirm them, as far as you can; for I had romantic 
notions once - I don't mean to say that I regret my lot, for I am quite 
sure I don't - but -'
'I understand you,' said I; 'you are contented for yourself, but would not 
have your sister to suffer the same as you.'
'No - or worse. She might have far worse to suffer than I - for I am really 
contented, Helen, though you mayn't think it: I speak the solemn truth in 
saying that I would not exchange my husband for any man on earth, if I 
might do it by the plucking of this leaf.'
'Well, I believe you: now that you have him, you would not exchange him for 
another; but then you would gladly exchange some of his qualities for those 
of better men.'
'Yes; just as I would gladly exchange some of my own qualities for those of 
better women; for neither he nor I are perfect, and I desire his 
improvement as earnestly as my own. And he will improve - don't you think 
so, Helen? - he's only six-and-twenty yet.'
'He may,' I answered.
'He will - he will!' repeated she.
'Excuse the faintness of my acquiescence, Milicent; I would not discourage 
your hopes for the world, but mine have been so often disappointed, that I 
am become as cold and doubtful in my expectations as the flattest of 
octogenarians.'
'And yet you do hope, still - even for Mr Huntingdon?'
'I do, I confess - "even" for him; for it seems as if life and hope must 
cease together. And is he so much worse, Milicent, than Mr Hattersley?'
'Well, to give you my candid opinion, I think there is no comparison 
between them. But you mustn't be offended, Helen, for you know I always 
speak my mind, and you may speak yours too; I shan't care.'
'I am not offended, love; and my opinion is, that if there be a comparison 
made between the two, the difference, for the most part, is certainly in 
Hattersley's favour.'
Milicent's own heart told her how much it cost me to make this 
acknowledgement; and, with a childlike impulse, she expressed her sympathy 
by suddenly kissing my cheek, without a word of reply, and then turning 
quickly away, caught up her baby, and hid her face in its frock. How odd it 
is that we so often weep for each other's distresses, when we shed not a 
tear for our own! Her heart had been full enough of her own sorrows, but it 
overflowed at the idea of mine; and I, too, shed tears, at the sight of her 
sympathetic emotion, though I had not wept for myself for many a week.
It was one rainy day last week; most of the company were killing time in 
the billiard-room, but Milicent and I were with little Arthur and Helen in 
the library, and between our books, our children, and each other, we 
expected to make out a very agreeable morning. We had not been thus 
secluded above two hours, however, when Mr Hattersley came in, attracted, I 
suppose, by the voice of his child, as he was crossing the hall, for he is 
prodigiously fond of her, and she of him.
He was redolent of the stables, where he had been regaling himself with the 
company of his fellow-creatures, the horses, ever since breakfast. But that 
was no matter to my little namesake: as soon as the colossal person of her 
father darkened the door, she uttered a shrill scream of delight, and, 
quitting her mother's side, ran crowing towards him - balancing her course 
with outstretched arms - and embracing his knee, threw back her head and 
laughed in his face. He might well look smilingly down upon those small, 
fair features, radiant with innocent mirth, those clear, blue shining eyes, 
and that soft flaxen hair cast back upon the little ivory neck and 
shoulders. Did he not think how unworthy he was of such a possession? I 
fear no such idea crossed his mind. He caught her up, and there followed 
some minutes of very rough play, during which it is difficult to say 
whether the father or the daughter laughed and shouted the loudest. At 
length, however, the boisterous pastime terminated - suddenly, as might be 
expected: the little one was hurt, and began to cry; and the ungentle 
playfellow tossed it into its mother's lap, bidding her 'make all 
straight'. As happy to return to that gentle comforter as it had been to 
leave her, the child nestled in her arms, and hushed its cries in a moment; 
and, sinking its little weary head on her bosom, soon dropped asleep.
Meantime, Mr Hattersley strode up to the fire, and, interposing his height 
and breadth between us and it, stood, with arms akimbo, expanding his 
chest, and gazing round him as if the house and all its appurtenances and 
contents were his own undisputed possessions.
'Deuced bad weather this!' he began. 'There'll be no shooting today, I 
guess.' Then, suddenly lifting up his voice, he regaled us with a few bars 
of a rollicking song, which abruptly ceasing, he finished the tune with a 
whistle, and then continued - 'I say, Mrs Huntingdon, what a fine stud your 
husband has! - not large, but good. I've been looking at them a bit this 
morning; and upon my word, Black Bess, and Grey Tom, and that young Nimrod, 
are the finest animals I've seen for many a day!' Then followed a 
particular discussion of their various merits, succeeded by a sketch of the 
great things he intended to do in the horse-jockey line, when his old 
governor thought proper to quit the stage. 'Not that I wish him to close 
his accounts,' added he; 'the old Trojan is welcome to keep his books open 
as long as he pleases for me.'
'I hope so, indeed, Mr Hattersley.'
'Oh yes! It's only my way of talking. The event must come some time, and so 
I look to the bright side of it - that's the right plan, isn't it Mrs H.? 
What are you two doing here, by-the-bye - where's Lady Lowborough?'
'In the billiard-room.'
'What a splendid creature she is!' continued he, fixing his eyes on his 
wife, who changed colour, and looked more and more disconcerted as he 
proceeded. 'What a noble figure she has! and what magnificent black eyes; 
and what a fine spirit of her own; and what a tongue of her own, too, when 
she likes to use it - I perfectly adore her! But never mind, Milicent: I 
wouldn't have her for my wife - not if she'd a kingdom for her dowry! I'm 
better satisfied with the one I have. Now then! what do you look so sulky 
for? don't you believe me?'
'Yes, I believe you,' murmured she, in a tone of half-sad, half-sullen 
resignation, as she turned away to stroke the hair of her sleeping infant, 
that she had laid on the sofa beside her.
'Well then, what makes you so cross? Come here, Milly, and tell me why you 
can't be satisfied with my assurance.'
She went, and putting her little hand within his arm, looked up in his 
face, and said softly -
'What does it amount to, Ralph? Only to this, that though you admire 
Annabella so much, and for qualities that I don't possess, you would still 
rather have me than her for your wife, which merely proves that you don't 
think it necessary to love your wife; you are satisfied if she can keep 
your house, and take care of your child. But I'm not cross; I'm only sorry; 
for,' added she, in a low tremulous accent, withdrawing her hand from his 
arm, and bending her looks on the rug, 'if you don't love me, you don't, 
and it can't be helped.'
'Very true; but who told you I didn't. Did I say I loved Annabella?'
'You said you adored her.'
'True, but adoration isn't love. I adore Annabella, but I don't love her; 
and I love thee, Milicent, but I don't adore thee.' In proof of his 
affection, he clutched a handful of her light brown ringlets, and appeared 
to twist them unmercifully.
'Do you really, Ralph?' murmured she, with a faint smile beaming through 
her tears, just putting up her hand to his, in token that he pulled rather 
too hard.
'To be sure I do,' responded he; 'only you bother me rather, sometimes.'
'I bother you!' cried she in very natural surprise.
'Yes, you - but only by your exceeding goodness - when a boy has been 
eating raisins and sugar-plums all day, he longs for a squeeze of sour 
orange by way of a change. And did you never, Milly, observe the sands on 
the sea-shore: how nice and smooth they look, and how soft and easy they 
feel to the foot? But if you plod along for half an hour over this soft, 
easy carpet - giving way at every step, yielding the more the harder you 
press - you'll find it wearisome work, and be glad enough to come to a bit 
of good, firm rock, that won't budge an inch whether you stand, walk, or 
stamp upon it; and, though it be hard as the nether millstone, you'll find 
it the easier footing after all.'
'I know what you mean, Ralph, ' said she, nervously playing with her watch-
guard and tracing the figure on the rug with the point of her tiny foot. 'I 
know what you mean, but I thought you always liked to be yielded to; and I 
can't alter now.'
'I do like it,' replied he, bringing her to him by another tug at her hair. 
'You mustn't mind my talk, Milly. A man must have something to grumble 
about; and if he can't complain that his wife harries him to death with her 
perversity and ill-humour, he must complain that she wears him out with her 
kindness and gentleness.'
'But why complain at all, unless because you are tired and dissatisfied?'
'To excuse my own failings, to be sure. Do you think I'll bear all the 
burden of my sins on my own shoulders, as long as there's another ready to 
help me, with none of her own to carry?'
'There is no such one on earth,' said she, seriously; and then, taking his 
hand from her head, she kissed it with an air of genuine devotion, and 
tripped away to the door.
'What now?' said he. 'Where are you going?'
'To tidy my hair,' she answered, smiling through her disordered locks: 
'you've made it all come down.'
'Off with you then! An excellent little woman,' he remarked when she was 
gone, 'but a thought too soft - she almost melts in one's hands. I 
positively think I ill-use her sometimes when I've taken too much - but I 
can't help it, for she never complains, either at the time or after. I 
suppose she doesn't mind it.'
'I can enlighten you on that subject, Mr Hattersley,' said I: 'she does 
mind it; and some other things she minds still more, which yet you may 
never hear her complain of.'
'How do you know? does she complain to you?' demanded he, with a sudden 
spark of fury ready to burst into a flame if I should answer 'Yes.'
'No,' I replied; 'but I have known her longer and studied her more closely 
than you have done. And I can tell you, Mr Hattersley, that Milicent loves 
you more than you deserve, and that you have it in your power to make her 
very happy, instead of which you are her evil genius, and, I will venture 
to say, there is not a single day passes in which you do not inflict upon 
her some pang that you might spare her if you would.'
'Well, it's not my fault,' said he, gazing carelessly up at the ceiling and 
plunging his hands into his pockets: 'if my ongoings don't suit her, she 
should tell me so.'
'Is she not exactly the wife you wanted? Did you not tell Mr Huntingdon you 
must have one that would submit to anything without a murmur, and never 
blame you, whatever you did?'
'True, but we shouldn't always have what we want: it spoils the best of us, 
doesn't it? How can I help playing the deuce when I see it's all one to her 
whether I behave like a Christian or like a scoundrel such as nature made 
me? - and how can I help teasing her when she's so invitingly meek and mim 
- when she lies down like a spaniel at my feet and never so much as squeaks 
to tell me that's enough!'
'If you are a tyrant by nature, the temptation is strong, I allow; but no 
generous mind delights to oppress the weak, but rather to cherish and 
protect.'
'I don't oppress her; but it's so confounded flat to be always cherishing 
and protecting; and then how can I tell that I am oppressing her when she 
"melts away and makes no sign"? I sometimes think she has no feeling at 
all; and then I go on till she cries - and that satisfies me.'
 'Then you do delight to oppress her?'
'I don't, I tell you! - only when I'm in a bad humour - or a particularly 
good one, and want to afflict for the pleasure of comforting; or when she 
looks flat and wants shaking up a bit. And sometimes she provokes me by 
crying for nothing, and won't tell me what it's for; and then, I allow, it 
enrages me past bearing - especially when I'm not my own man.'
'As is no doubt generally the case on such occasions,' said I. 'But in 
future, Mr Hattersley, when you see her looking flat, or crying for 
"nothing" (as you call it), ascribe it all to yourself: be assured it is 
something you have done amiss, or your general misconduct, that distresses 
her.'
'I don't believe it. If it were, she should tell me so: I don't like that 
way of moping and fretting in silence, and saying nothing - it's not 
honest. How can she expect me to mend my ways at that rate?'
'Perhaps she gives you credit for having more sense than you possess, and 
deludes herself with the hope that you will one day see your own errors and 
repair them, if left to your own reflection.'
'None of your sneers, Mrs Huntingdon. I have the sense to see that I'm not 
always quite correct; but sometimes I think that's no great matter, as long 
as I injure nobody but myself -'
'It is a great matter,' interrupted I, 'both to yourself (as you will 
hereafter find to your cost) and to all connected with you - most 
especially your wife. But, indeed, it is nonsense to talk about injuring no 
one but yourself; it is impossible to injure yourself - especially by such 
acts as we allude to - without injuring hundreds, if not thousands, 
besides, in a greater or less degree, either by the evil you do or the good 
you leave undone.'
'And as I was saying,' continued he - 'or would have said if you hadn't 
taken me up so short - I sometimes think I should do better if I were 
joined to one that would always remind me when I was wrong, and give me a 
motive for doing good and eschewing evil by decidedly showing her approval 
of the one and disapproval of the other.'
'If you had no higher motive than the approval of your fellow-mortal, it 
would do you little good.'
'Well, but if I had a mate that would not always be yielding, and always 
equally kind, but that would have the spirit to stand at bay now and then, 
and honestly tell me her mind at all times - such a one as yourself, for 
instance. Now if I went on with you as I do with her when I'm in London, 
you'd make the house too hot to hold me at times, I'll be sworn.'
'You mistake me: I am no termagant.'
 'Well, all the better for that, for I can't stand contradiction - in a 
general way - and I'm as fond of my own will as another: only I think too 
much of it doesn't answer for any man.'
'Well, I would never contradict you without cause, but certainly I would 
always let you know what I thought of your conduct; and if you oppressed me 
in body, mind, or estate, you should at least have no reason to suppose "I 
didn't mind it".'
'I know that, my lady; and I think if my little wife were to follow the 
same plan, it would be better for us both.'
'I'll tell her.'
'No, no, let her be; there's much to be said on both sides - and, now I 
think upon it, Huntingdon often regrets that you are not more like her - 
scoundrelly dog that he is - and you see, after all, you can't reform him: 
he's ten times worse than I. He's afraid of you, to be sure - that is, he's 
always on his best behaviour in your presence - but -'
'I wonder what his worst behaviour is like, then?' I could not forbear 
observing.
'Why, to tell you the truth, it's very bad indeed - isn't it, Hargrave?' 
said he, addressing that gentleman, who had entered the room unperceived by 
me, for I was now standing near the fire with my back to the door. 'Isn't 
Huntingdon,' he continued, 'as great a reprobate as ever was d d?'
'His lady will not hear him censured with impunity,' replied Mr Hargrave, 
coming forward; 'but I must say, I thank God I am not such another.'
'Perhaps it would become you better,' said I, 'to look at what you are, and 
say, "God be merciful to me a sinner." '
'You are severe,' returned he, bowing slightly and drawing himself up with 
a proud yet injured air. Hattersley laughed, and clapped him on the 
shoulder. Moving from under his hand with a gesture of insulted dignity, Mr 
Hargrave took himself away to the other end of the rug.
'Isn't it a shame, Mrs Huntingdon?' cried his brother-in-law. 'I struck 
Walter Hargrave when I was drunk, the second night after we came, and he's 
turned a cold shoulder on me ever since; though I asked his pardon the very 
morning after it was done!'
'Your manner of asking it,' returned the other, 'and the clearness with 
which you remembered the whole transaction, showed you were not too drunk 
to be fully conscious of what you were about, and quite responsible for the 
deed.'
'You wanted to interfere between me and my wife,' grumbled Hattersley, 'and 
that is enough to provoke any man.'
'You justify it, then?' said his opponent, darting upon him a most 
vindictive glance.
'No, I tell you I wouldn't have done it if I hadn't been under excitement; 
and if you choose to bear malice for it after all the handsome things I've 
said, do so and be d d!'
'I would refrain from such language in a lady's presence, at least,' said 
Mr Hargrave, hiding his anger under a mask of disgust.
'What have I said?' returned Hattersley. 'Nothing but Heaven's truth - he 
will be damned, won't he, Mrs Huntingdon, if he doesn't forgive his 
brother's trespasses.'
'You ought to forgive him, Mr Hargrave, since he asks you,' said I.
'Do you say so? Then I will!' And, smiling almost frankly, he stepped 
forward and offered his hand. It was immediately clasped in that of his 
relative, and the reconciliation was apparently cordial on both sides.
'The affront,' continued Hargrave, turning to me, 'owed half its bitterness 
to the fact of its being offered in your presence; and since you bid me 
forgive it, I will, and forget it too.'
'I guess the best return I can make will be to take myself off,' muttered 
Hattersley, with a broad grin. His companion smiled, and he left the room. 
This put me on my guard. Mr Hargrave turned seriously to me, and earnestly 
began -
'Dear Mrs Huntingdon, how I have longed for, yet dreaded, this hour! Do not 
be alarmed,' he added, for my face was crimson with anger; 'I am not about 
to offend you with any useless entreaties or complaints. I am not going to 
presume to trouble you with the mention of my own feelings or your 
perfections, but I have something to reveal to you which you ought to know, 
and which, yet it pains me inexpressibly -'
'Then don't trouble yourself to reveal it!'
'But it is of importance -'
'If so, I shall hear it soon enough, especially if it is bad news, as you 
seem to consider it. At present I am going to take the children to the 
nursery.'
'But can't you ring and send them?'
'No; I want the exercise of a run to the top of the house. Come Arthur.'
'But you will return?'
'Not yet; don't wait.'
'Then when may I see you again?'
'At lunch,' said I, departing with little Helen in one arm and leading 
Arthur by the hand.
 He turned away muttering some sentence of impatient censure or complaint, 
in which 'heartless' was the only distinguishable word.
'What nonsense is this Mr Hargrave?' said I, pausing in the doorway. 'What 
do you mean?'
'Oh, nothing - I did not intend you should hear my soliloquy. But the fact 
is, Mrs Huntingdon, I have a disclosure to make - painful for me to offer 
as for you to hear - and I want you to give me a few minutes of your 
attention in private at any time and place you like to appoint. It is from 
no selfish motive that I ask it, and not for any cause that could alarm 
your super-human purity; therefore you need not kill me with that look of 
cold and pitiless disdain. I know too well the feelings with which the 
bearers of bad tidings are commonly regarded not to -'
'What is this wonderful piece of intelligence?' said I, impatiently 
interrupting him. 'If it is anything of real importance, speak it in three 
words before I go.'
'In three words I cannot. Send those children away and stay with me.'
'No; keep your bad tidings to yourself. I know it is something I don't want 
to hear, and something you would displease me by telling.'
'You have divined too truly, I fear; but still, since I know it, I feel it 
my duty to disclose it to you.'
'Oh, spare us both the infliction, and I will exonerate you from the duty. 
You have offered to tell; I have refused to hear: my ignorance will not be 
charged on you.'
'Be it so - you shall not hear it from me. But if the blow falls too 
suddenly upon you when it comes, remember I wished to soften it!'
I left him. I was determined his words should not alarm me. What could he 
of all men have to reveal that was of importance for me to hear? It was no 
doubt some exaggerated tale about my unfortunate husband that he wished to 
make the most of to serve his own bad purposes.
6th. - He has not alluded to this momentous mystery since, and I have seen 
no reason to repent of my unwillingness to hear it. The threatened blow has 
not been struck yet, and I do not greatly fear it. At present I am pleased 
with Arthur: he has not positively disgraced himself for upwards of a 
fortnight, and all this last week has been so moderate in his indulgence at 
table that I can perceive a marked difference in his general temper and 
appearance. Dare I hope this will continue?



Chapter 33

Seventh. Yes, I will hope! Tonight I heard Grimsby and Hattersley grumbling 
together about the inhospitality of their host. They did not know I was 
near, for I happened to be standing behind the curtain in the bow of the 
window, watching the moon rising over the clump of tall, dark elm-trees 
below the lawn, and wondering why Arthur was so sentimental as to stand 
without, leaning against the outer pillar of the portico, apparently 
watching it too.
'So, I suppose we've seen the last of our merry carousals in this house,' 
said Mr Hattersley; 'I thought his good fellowship wouldn't last long. 
But,' added he, laughing, 'I didn't expect it would meet its end this way. 
I rather thought our pretty hostess would be setting up her porcupine 
quills, and threatening to turn us out of the house if we didn't mind our 
manners.'
'You didn't foresee this, then?' answered Grimsby with a guttural chuckle. 
'But he'll change again when he's sick of her. If we come here a year or 
two hence, we shall have all our own way, you'll see.'
'I don't know,' replied the other: 'she's not the style of woman you soon 
tire of; but be that as it may, it's devilish provoking now that we can't 
be jolly, because he chooses to be on his good behaviour.'
'It's all these cursed women!' muttered Grimsby. 'They're the very bane of 
the world! They bring troubles and discomfort wherever they come, with 
their false, fair faces and their deceitful tongues.'
At this juncture I issued from my retreat, and smiling on Mr Grimsby as I 
passed, left the room and went out in search of Arthur. Having seen him 
bend his course towards the shrubbery, I followed him thither, and found 
him just entering the shadowy walk. I was so light of heart, so overflowing 
with affection, that I sprang upon him and clasped him in my arms. This 
startling conduct had a singular effect upon him: first, he muttered, 
'Bless you darling!' and returned my close embrace with a fervour like old 
times, and then he started, and, in a tone of absolute terror, exclaimed -
'Helen! What the devil is this?' and I saw, by the faint light gleaming 
through the overshadowing tree, that he was positively pale with the shock.
How strange that the instinctive impulse of affection should come first, 
and then the shock of the surprise! It shows, at least, that the affection 
is genuine: he is not sick of me yet.
'I startled you, Arthur,' said I, laughing in my glee. 'How nervous you 
are!' 'What the deuce did you do it for?' cried he, quite testily, 
extricating himself from my arms, and wiping his forehead with his 
handkerchief. 'Go back, Helen - go back directly! You'll get your death of 
cold!'
'I won't - till I've told you what I came for. They are blaming you, 
Arthur, for your temperance and sobriety, and I'm come to thank you for it. 
They say it is all "these cursed women", and that we are the bane of the 
world; but don't let them laugh or grumble you out of your good 
resolutions, or your affection for me.'
He laughed. I squeezed him in my arms again, and cried in tearful earnest -
'Do - do persevere! and I'll love you better than ever I did before!'
'Well, well, I will!' said he, hastily kissing me. 'There now, go. You mad 
creature, how could you come out in your light evening-dress this chill 
autumn night?'
'It is a glorious night,' said I.
'It is a night that will give you your death in another minute. Run away, 
do!'
'Do you see my death among those trees, Arthur?' said I, for he was gazing 
intently at the shrubs, as if he saw it coming, and I was reluctant to 
leave him, in my new-found happiness and revival of hope and love. But he 
grew angry at my delay; so I kissed him and ran back to the house.
I was in such a good-humour that night: Milicent told me I was the life of 
the party, and whispered she had never seen me so brilliant. Certainly, I 
talked enough for twenty, and smiled upon them all. Grimsby, Hattersley, 
Hargrave, Lady Lowborough - all shared my sisterly kindness. Grimsby stared 
and wondered; Hattersley laughed and jested (in spite of the little wine he 
had been suffered to imbibe), but still behaved as well as he knew how; 
Hargrave and Annabella, from different motives and in different ways, 
emulated me, and doubtless both surpassed me, the former in his discursive 
versatility and eloquence, the latter ;n boldness and animation at least. 
Milicent, delighted to see her husband, her brother, and her over-estimated 
friend acquitting themselves so well, was lively and gay too, in her quiet 
way. Even Lord Lowborough caught the general contagion: his dark, greenish 
eyes were lighted up beneath their moody brows; his sombre countenance was 
beautified by smiles; all traces of gloom, and proud or cold reserve had 
vanished for the time; and he astonished us all, not only by his general 
cheerfulness and animation, but by the positive flashes of true force and 
brilliance he emitted from time to time. Arthur did not talk much, but he 
laughed, and listened to the rest, and was in perfect good-humour, though 
not excited by wine. So that, altogether we made a very merry, innocent, 
and entertaining party.
9th. - Yesterday, when Rachel came to dress me for dinner, I saw that she 
had been crying. I wanted to know the cause of it, but she seemed reluctant 
to tell. Was she unwell? No. Had she heard bad news from her friends? No. 
Had any of the servants vexed her?
'Oh, no, ma'am!' she answered - 'it's not for myself.'
'What then, Rachel? Have you been reading novels?'
'Bless you, no!' said she with a sorrowful shake of the head; and then she 
sighed and continued, 'But to tell you the truth, ma'am, I don't like 
master's ways of going on.'
'What do you mean, Rachel? He's going on very properly - at present.'
'Well, ma'am, if you think so, it's right.'
And she went on dressing my hair in a hurried way, quite unlike her usual, 
calm, collected manner - murmuring, half to herself, she was sure it was 
beautiful hair, she 'could like to see 'em match it'. When it was done, she 
fondly stroked it, and gently patted my head.
'Is that affectionate ebullition intended for my hair or myself, nurse?' 
said I, laughingly turning round upon her; but a tear was even now in her 
eye.
'What do you mean, Rachel?' I exclaimed.
'Well, ma'am, I don't know - but if -'
'If what?'
'Well, if I was you, I wouldn't have that Lady Lowborough in the house 
another minute - not another minute I wouldn't!'
I was thunderstruck; but before I could recover from the shock sufficiently 
to demand an explanation, Milicent entered my room, as she frequently does 
when she is dressed before me; and she stayed with me till it was time to 
go down. She must have found me a very unsociable companion this time, for 
Rachel's last words rang in my ears. But still, I hoped - I trusted they 
had no foundation but in some idle rumour of the servants from what they 
had seen in Lady Lowborough's manner last month; or perhaps, from something 
that had passed between their master and her during her former visit. At 
dinner, I narrowly observed both her and Arthur, and saw nothing 
extraordinary in the conduct of either - nothing calculated to excite 
suspicion, except in distrustful minds, which mine was not, and therefore I 
would not suspect.
Almost immediately after dinner, Annabella went out with her husband to 
share his moonlight ramble, for it was a splendid evening like the last. Mr 
Hargrave entered the drawing-room a little before the others, and 
challenged me to a game of chess. He did it without any of that sad but 
proud humility he usually assumes in addressing me, unless he is excited 
with wine. I looked at his face to see if that was the case now. His eyes 
met mine keenly but steadily: there was something about him I did not 
understand, but he seemed sober enough. Not choosing to engage with him, I 
referred him to Milicent.
'She plays badly,' said he; 'I want to match my skill with yours. Come now! 
- you can't pretend you are reluctant to lay down your work - I know you 
never take it up except to pass an idle hour, when there is nothing better 
you can do.'
'But chess-players are so unsociable,' I objected; 'they are no company for 
any but themselves.'
'There is no one here but Milicent, and she -'
'Oh, I shall be delighted to watch you!' cried our mutual friend. 'Two such 
players - it will be quite a treat! I wonder which will conquer.'
I consented.
'Now, Mrs Huntingdon,' said Hargrave, as he arranged the men on the board, 
speaking distinctly, and with a peculiar emphasis, as if he had a double 
meaning to all his words, 'you are a good player - but I am a better: we 
shall have a long game and you will give me some trouble; but I can be as 
patient as you, and, in the end, I shall certainly win.' He fixed his eyes 
upon me with a glance I did not like - keen, crafty, bold, and almost 
impudent; already half triumphant in his anticipated success.
'I hope not, Mr Hargrave!' returned I, with vehemence that must have 
startled Milicent at least; but he only smiled and murmured -
'Time will show!'
We set to work; he, sufficiently interested in the game, but calm and 
fearless in the consciousness of superior skill; I, intensely eager to 
disappoint his expectations, for I considered this the type of a more 
serious contest - as I imagined he did - and I felt an almost superstitious 
dread of being beaten: at all events, I could ill endure that present 
success should add one tittle to his conscious power (his insolent self-
confidence, I ought to say), or encourage for a moment his dream of future 
conquest. His play was cautious and deep, but I struggled hard against him. 
For some time the combat was doubtful; at length, to my joy, the victory 
seemed inclining to my side: I had taken several of his best pieces, and 
manifestly baffled his projects. He put his hand to his brow and paused, in 
evident perplexity. I rejoiced in my advantage, but dared not glory in it 
yet. At length he lifted his head, and quietly making his move, looked at 
me and said, calmly -
'Now, you think you will win, don't you?'
'I hope so,' replied I, taking his pawn that he had pushed into the way of 
my bishop with so careless an air that I thought it was an oversight, but 
was not generous enough, under the circumstances, to direct his attention 
to it, and too heedless, at the moment, to foresee the after consequences 
of my move.
'It is those bishops that trouble me,' said he; 'but the bold knight can 
overleap the reverend gentleman,' taking my last bishop with his knight; 
'and now, those sacred persons once removed, I shall carry all before me.'
'Oh, Walter, how you talk!' cried Milicent; 'she has far more pieces than 
you still.'
'I intend to give you some trouble yet,' said I; 'and perhaps, sir, you 
will find yourself checkmated before you are aware. Look to your queen.'
The combat deepened. The game was a long one, and I did give him some 
trouble; but he was a better player than I.
'What keen gamesters you are!' said Mr Hattersley, who had now entered, and 
been watching us for some time. 'Why, Mrs Huntingdon, your hand trembles as 
if you had staked your all upon it! and Walter - you dog - you look as deep 
and cool as if you were certain of success, and as keen and cruel as if you 
would drain her heart's blood! But if I were you, I wouldn't beat her for 
very fear: she'll hate you if you do - she will, by Heaven! I see it in her 
eye.'
'Hold your tongue, will you?' said I - his talk distracted me, for I was 
driven to extremities. A few more moves, and I was inextricably entangled 
in the snare of my antagonist.
'Check,' cried he: I sought in agony some means of escape - 'mate!' he 
added quietly, but with evident delight. He had suspended the utterance of 
that last fatal syllable the better to enjoy my dismay. I was foolishly 
disconcerted by the event. Hattersley laughed; Milicent was troubled to see 
me so disturbed. Hargrave placed his hand on mine that rested on the table, 
and squeezing it with a firm but gentle pressure, murmured, 'Beaten - 
beaten!' but gazed into my face with a look where exultation was blended 
with an expression of ardour and tenderness yet more insulting.
'No, never, Mr Hargrave!' exclaimed I, quickly withdrawing my hand.
'Do you deny?' replied he, smilingly pointing to the board. 'No, no,' I 
answered, recollecting how strange my conduct must appear; 'you have beaten 
me in that game.'
'Will you try another, then?'
'No.'
'You acknowledge my superiority?'
'Yes - as a chess-player.'
I rose to resume my work.
'Where is Annabella?' said Hargrave gravely, after glancing round the room.
'Gone out with Lord Lowborough,' answered I, for he looked at me for a 
reply.
'And not yet returned!' he said seriously.
'I suppose not.'
'Where is Huntingdon?' looking round again.
'Gone out with Grimsby, as you know,' said Hattersley, suppressing a laugh, 
which broke forth as he concluded the sentence.
Why did he laugh? Why did Hargrave connect them thus together? Was it true, 
then? And was this the dreadful secret he had wished to reveal to me? I 
must know, and that quickly. I instantly rose and left the room to go in 
search of Rachel, and demand an explanation of her words; but Mr Hargrave 
followed me into the ante-room, and before I could open its outer door, 
gently laid his hand upon the lock.
'May I tell you something, Mrs Huntingdon?' said he, in a subdued tone, 
with serious downcast eyes.
'If it be anything worth hearing,' replied I, struggling to be composed, 
for I trembled in every limb.
He quietly pushed a chair towards me. I merely leant my hand upon it, and 
bid him go on.
'Do not be alarmed,' said he; 'what I wish to say is nothing in itself; and 
I will leave you to draw your own inferences from it. You say that 
Annabella is not yet returned?'
'Yes, yes - go on!' said I impatiently, for I feared my forced calmness 
would leave me before the end of his disclosure, whatever it might be.
'And you hear,' continued he, 'that Huntingdon is gone out with Grimsby?'
'Well?'
'I heard the latter say to your husband - or the man who calls himself so 
-'
'Go on, sir!'
He bowed submissively, and continued, 'I heard him say - "I shall manage 
it, you'll see! They're gone down by the water; I shall meet them there, 
and tell him I want a bit of talk with him about some things that we 
needn't trouble the lady with; and she'll say she can be walking back to 
the house: and then I shall apologise, you know, and all that, and tip her 
a wink to take the way of the shrubbery. I'll keep him talking there, about 
those matters I mentioned, and anything else I can think of, as long as I 
can, and then bring him round the other way, stopping to look at the trees, 
the fields, and anything else I can find to discourse of." ' Mr Hargrave 
paused, and looked at me.
Without a word of comment or further questioning, I rose, and darted from 
the room and out of the house. The torment of suspense was not to be 
endured: I would not suspect my husband falsely on this man's accusation, 
and I would not trust him unworthily - I must know the truth at once. I 
flew to the shrubbery. Scarcely had I reached it, when a sound of voices 
arrested my breathless speed.
'We have lingered too long; he will be back,' said Lady Lowborough's voice.
'Surely not, dearest,' was his reply; 'but you can run across the lawn, and 
get in as quietly as you can: I'll follow in a while.'
My knees trembled under me; my brain swam round: I was ready to faint. She 
must not see me thus. I shrunk among the bushes, and leant against the 
trunk of a tree to let her pass.
'Ah, Huntingdon!' said she reproachfully, pausing where I had stood with 
him the night before, 'it was here you kissed that woman! she looked back 
into the leafy shade.' Advancing thence, he answered, with a careless laugh 
-
'Well, dearest, I couldn't help it. You know I must keep straight with her 
as long as I can. Haven't I seen you kiss your dolt of a husband scores of 
times? - and do I ever complain?'
'But tell me, don't you love her still - a little?' said she, placing her 
hand on his arm, looking earnestly into his face - for I could see them 
plainly, the moon shining full upon them from between the branches of the 
tree that sheltered me.
'Not one bit, by all that's sacred!' he replied, kissing her glowing cheek.
'Good heavens, I must be gone!' cried she, suddenly breaking from him, and 
away she flew.
There he stood before me; but I had not strength to confront him now; my 
tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth, I was well-nigh sinking to the 
earth, and I almost wondered he did not hear the beating of my heart above 
the low sighing of the wind, and the fitful rustle of the falling leaves. 
My senses seemed to fail me, but still I saw his shadowy form pass before 
me, and through the rushing sound in my ears I distinctly heard him say, as 
he stood looking up the lawn -
'There goes the fool! Run, Annabella, run! There - in with you! Ah, he 
didn't see! That's right, Grimsby, keep him back!' And even his low laugh 
reached me as he walked away.
'God help me now!' I murmured, sinking on my knees among the damp weeds and 
brushwood that surrounded me, and looking up at the moonlit sky through the 
scant foliage above. It seemed all dim and quivering now to my darkened 
sight. My burning, bursting heart strove to pour forth its agony to God, 
but could not frame its anguish into prayer, until a gust of wind swept 
over me, which, while it scattered the dead leaves like blighted hopes 
around, cooled my forehead, and seemed a little to revive my sinking frame. 
Then, while I lifted up my soul in speechless, earnest supplication, some 
heavenly influence seemed to strengthen me within: I breathed more freely; 
my vision cleared; I saw distinctly the pure moon shining on, and the light 
clouds skimming the clear, dark sky; and then I saw the eternal stars 
twinkling down upon me; I knew their God was mine, and He was strong to 
save and swift to hear. 'I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee,' seemed 
whispered from above their myriad orbs. No, no; I felt He would not leave 
me comfortless: in spite of earth and hell, I should have strength for all 
my trials, and win a glorious rest at last!
Refreshed, invigorated, if not composed, I rose and returned to the house. 
Much of my new-born strength and courage forsook me, I confess, as I 
entered it, and shut out the fresh wind and the glorious sky: everything I 
saw and heard seemed to sicken my heart - the hall, the lamp, the 
staircase, the doors of the different apartments, the social sound of talk 
and laughter from the drawing-room. How could I bear my future life! In 
this house, among those people - O how could I endure to live! John just 
then entered the hall, and seeing me, told me he had been sent in search of 
me, adding that he had taken the tea, and master wished to know if I were 
coming.
'Ask Mrs Hattersley to be so kind as to make the tea, John,' said I. 'Say I 
am not well tonight, and wish to be excused.'
I retired into the large, empty dining-room, where all was silence and 
darkness, but for the soft sighing of the wind without, and the faint gleam 
of moonlight that pierced the blinds and curtains; and there I walked 
rapidly up and down, thinking of my bitter thoughts alone. How different 
was this from the evening of yesterday! That, it seems, was the last 
expiring flash of my life's happiness. Poor, blinded fool that I was, to be 
so happy! I could now see the reason of Arthur's strange reception of me in 
the shrubbery; the burst of kindness was for his paramour, the start of 
horror for his wife. Now, too, I could better understand the conversation 
between Hattersley and Grimsby; it was doubtless of his love for her they 
spoke, not for me.
I heard the drawing-room door open; a light quick step came out of the ante-
room, crossed the hall, and ascended the stairs. It was Milicent, poor 
Milicent, gone to see how I was - no one else cared for me; but still she 
was kind. I shed no tears before, but now they came, fast and free. Thus 
she did me good, without approaching me. Disappointed in her search, I 
heard her come down, more slowly than she had ascended. Would she come in 
there and find me out? No, she turned in the opposite direction and re-
entered the drawing-room. I was glad, for I knew not how to meet her or 
what to say. I wanted no confidante in my distress. I deserved none, and I 
wanted none. I had taken the burden upon myself; let me bear it alone.
As the usual hour of retirement approached, I dried my eyes, and tried to 
clear my voice and calm my mind. I must see Arthur tonight, and speak to 
him; but I would do it calmly: there should be no scene - nothing to 
complain or to boast of to his companions - nothing to laugh at with his 
lady-love. When the company were retiring to their chambers I gently opened 
the door, and just as he passed I beckoned him in.
'What's to do with you, Helen?' said he. 'Why couldn't you come to make tea 
for us? and what the deuce are you here for, in the dark! What ails you, 
young woman; you look like a ghost!' he continued, surveying me by the 
light of his candle.
'No matter,' I answered, 'to you; you have no longer any regard for me, it 
appears; and I have no longer any for you.'
'Hal-low! what the devil is this!' he muttered.
'I would leave you tomorrow,' continued I, 'and never again come under this 
roof, but for my child' - I paused a moment to steady my voice.
'What in the devil's name is this, Helen?' cried he. 'What can you be 
driving at?'
'You know perfectly well. Let us waste no time in useless explanation, but 
tell me, will you -'
He vehemently swore he knew nothing about it, and insisted upon hearing 
what poisonous old woman had been blackening his name, and what infamous 
lies I had been fool enough to believe.
'Spare yourself the trouble of forswearing yourself and racking your brains 
to stifle truth with falsehood,' I coldly replied. 'I have trusted to the 
testimony of no third person. I was in the shrubbery this evening, and I 
saw and heard for myself.'
This was enough. He uttered a suppressed exclamation of consternation and 
dismay, and muttering, 'I shall catch it now!' set down his candle on the 
nearest chair, and rearing his back against the wall, stood confronting me 
with folded arms.
'Well, what then?' said he, with the calm insolence of mingled 
shamelessness and desperation.
'Only this,' returned I: 'will you let me take our child and what remains 
of my fortune, and go?'
'Go where?'
'Anywhere, where he will be safe from your contaminating influence, and I 
shall be delivered from your presence, and you from mine.'
'No.'
'Will you let me have the child then, without the money?'
'No, nor yourself without the child. Do you think I'm going to be made the 
talk of the country for your fastidious caprices?'
'Then I must stay here, to be hated and despised. But henceforth we are 
husband and wife only in the name.'
'Very good.'
'I am your child's mother, and your housekeeper, nothing more. So you need 
not trouble yourself any longer to feign the love you cannot feel. I will 
exact no more heartless caresses from you, nor offer nor endure them 
either. I will not be mocked with the empty husk of conjugal endearments, 
when you have given the substance to another!'
'Very good, if you please. We will see who will tire first, my lady.'
'If I tire, it will be of living in the world with you: not of living 
without your mockery of love. When you tire of your sinful ways, and show 
yourself truly repentant, I will forgive you, and, perhaps, try to love you 
again, though that will be hard indeed.'
'Humph! and meantime you will go and talk me over to Mrs Hargrave, and 
write long letters to Aunt Maxwell to complain of the wicked wretch you 
have married?'
'I shall complain to no one. Hitherto I have struggled hard to hide your 
vices from every eye, and invest you with virtues you never possessed; but 
now you must look to yourself.'
I left him muttering bad language to himself, and went upstairs.
'You are poorly, ma'am,' said Rachel, surveying me with deep anxiety.
'It is too true, Rachel,' said I, answering her sad looks rather than her 
words. 'I knew it, or I wouldn't have mentioned such a thing.'
'But don't trouble yourself about it,' said I, kissing her pale, time-
wasted cheek; 'I can bear it better than you imagine.'
'Yes, you were always for "bearing". But if I was you I wouldn't bear it: 
I'd give way to it, and cry right hard! and I'd talk too, I just would - 
I'd let him know what it was to -'
'I have talked,' said I: 'I've said enough.'
'Then I'd cry,' persisted she. 'I wouldn't look so white and so calm, and 
burst my heart with keeping it in.'
'I have cried,' said I, smiling, in spite of my misery; 'and I am calm now, 
really, so don't discompose me again, nurse: let us say no more about it, 
and don't mention it to the servants. There, you may go now. Good night; 
and don't disturb your rest for me: I shall sleep well - if I can.'
Notwithstanding this resolution, I found my bed so intolerable that, before 
two o'clock, I rose, and lighting my candle by the rushlight that was still 
burning, I got my desk and sat down in my dressing-gown to recount the 
events of the past evening. It was better to be so occupied than to be 
lying in bed torturing my brain with recollections of the far past and 
anticipations of the dreadful future. I have found relief in describing the 
very circumstances that have destroyed my peace, as well as the little 
trivial details attendant upon their discovery. No sleep I could have got 
this night would have done so much towards composing my mind, and preparing 
me to meet the trials of the day - I fancy so, at least; and yet, when I 
cease writing, I find my head aches terribly; and when I look into the 
glass I am startled at my haggard, worn appearance.
Rachel has been to dress me, and says I have had a sad night of it, she can 
see. Milicent has just looked in to ask me how I was. I told her I was 
better, but, to excuse my appearance, admitted I had had a restless night. 
I wish this day were over! I shudder at the thoughts of going down to 
breakfast. How shall I encounter them all? Yet let me remember it is not I 
that am guilty: I have no cause to fear; and if they scorn me as the victim 
of their guilt, I can pity their folly and despise their scorn.



Chapter 34

Evening. Breakfast passed well over; I was calm and cool throughout. I 
answered composedly all inquiries respecting my health; and whatever was 
unusual in my look or manner was generally attributed to the trifling 
indisposition that had occasioned my early retirement last night. But how 
am I to get over the ten or twelve days that must yet elapse before they 
go? Yet why so long for their departure? When they are gone, how shall I 
get through the months or years of my future life in company with that man 
- my greatest enemy? for none could injure me as he has done. Oh! when I 
think how fondly, how foolishly I have loved him, how madly I have trusted 
him, how constantly I have laboured, and studied, and prayed, and struggled 
for his advantage; and how cruelly he has trampled on my love, betrayed my 
trust, scorned my prayers and tears, and efforts for his preservation, 
crushed my hopes, destroyed my youth's best feelings, and doomed me to a 
life of hopeless misery - as far as man can do it - it is not enough to say 
that I no longer love my husband - I hate him! The word stares me in the 
face like a guilty confession, but it is true: I hate him - I hate him! But 
God have mercy on his miserable soul! and make him see and feel his guilt - 
I ask no other vengeance! if he could but fully know and truly feel my 
wrongs, I should be well avenged, and I could freely pardon all; but he is 
so lost, so hardened in his heartless depravity, that in this life I 
believe he never will. But it is useless dwelling on this theme: let me 
seek once more to dissipate reflection in the minor details of passing 
events.
Mr Hargrave has annoyed me all day long with his serious, sympathising, and 
(as he thinks) unobtrusive politeness. If it were more obtrusive it would 
trouble me less, for then I could snub him; but, as it is, he contrives to 
appear so really kind and thoughtful, that I cannot do so without rudeness 
and seeming ingratitude. I sometimes think I ought to give him credit for 
the good feeling he simulates so well; and then again, I think it is my 
duty to suspect him under the peculiar circumstances in which I am placed. 
His kindness may not all be feigned, but still, let not the purest impulse 
of gratitude to him induce me to forget myself; let me remember the game of 
chess, the expressions he used on the occasion, and those indescribable 
looks of his, that so justly roused my indignation, and I think I shall be 
safe enough. I have done well to record them so minutely.
I think he wishes to find an opportunity of speaking to me alone: he has 
seemed to be on the watch all day, but I have taken care to disappoint him; 
not that I fear anything he could say, but I have trouble enough without 
the addition of his insulting consolations, condolences, or whatever else 
he might attempt; and, for Milicent's sake, I do not wish to quarrel with 
him. He excused himself from going out to shoot with the other gentlemen in 
the morning, under the pretext of having letters to write; and instead of 
retiring for that purpose into the library, he sent for his desk into the 
morning-room, where I was seated with Milicent and Lady Lowborough. They 
had betaken themselves to their work; I, less to divert my mind than to 
deprecate conversation, had provided myself with a book. Milicent saw that 
I wished to be quiet, and accordingly let me alone. Annabella, doubtless, 
saw it too; but that was no reason why she should restrain her tongue, or 
curb her cheerful spirits: she accordingly chatted away, addressing herself 
almost exclusively to me, and with the utmost assurance and familiarity, 
growing the more animated and friendly, the colder and briefer my answers 
became. Mr Hargrave saw that I could ill endure it; and, looking up from 
his desk, he answered her questions and observations for me, as far as he 
could, and attempted to transfer her social attentions from me to himself; 
but it would not do. Perhaps, she thought I had a headache and could not 
bear to talk - at any rate, she saw that her loquacious vivacity annoyed 
me, as I could tell by the malicious pertinacity with which she persisted. 
But I checked it effectually, by putting into her hand the book I had been 
trying to read, on the fly - leaf of which I had hastily scribbled -
'I am too well acquainted with your character and conduct to feel any real 
friendship for you, and, as I am without your talent for dissimulation, I 
cannot assume the appearance of it. I must, therefore, beg that hereafter 
all familiar intercourse may cease between us, and if I still continue to 
treat you with civility, as if you were a woman worthy of consideration and 
respect, understand that it is out of regard for your cousin Milicent's 
feelings, not for yours.'
Upon perusing this, she turned scarlet, and bit her lip. Covertly tearing 
away the leaf, she crumpled it up and put it in the fire, and then employed 
herself in turning over the pages of the book, and, really or apparently, 
perusing its contents. In a little while Milicent announced it her 
intention to repair to the nursery, and asked if I would accompany her.
'Annabella will excuse us,' said she, 'she's busy reading.'
'No, I - won't,' cried Annabella, suddenly looking up, and throwing her 
book on the table. 'I want to speak to Helen a minute. You may go, 
Milicent, and she'll follow in a while.' (Milicent went.) 'Will you oblige 
me, Helen?' continued she.
Her impudence astounded me; but I complied, and followed her into the 
library. She closed the door, and walked up to the fire.
'Who told you this?' said she.
'No one: I am not incapable of seeing for myself.'
'Ah, you are suspicious!' cried she, smiling with a gleam of hope hitherto, 
there had been a kind of desperation in her hardihood; now she was 
evidently relieved. 'If I were suspicious,' I replied, 'I should have 
discovered your infamy long before. No, Lady Lowborough, I do not found my 
charge upon suspicion.'
'On what do you found it then?' said she, throwing herself into an arm-
chair, and stretching out her feet to the fender, with an obvious effort to 
appear composed.
'I enjoy a moonlight ramble as well as you,' I answered, steadily fixing my 
eyes upon her: 'and the shrubbery happens to be one of my favourite 
resorts.'
She coloured again, excessively, and remained silent, pressing her finger 
against her teeth, and gazing into the fire. I watched her a few moments 
with a feeling of malevolent gratification; then, moving towards the door, 
I calmly asked if she had anything more to say.
'Yes, yes!' cried she eagerly, starting up from her reclining posture. 'I 
want to know if you will tell Lord Lowborough?'
'Suppose I do?'
'Well, if you are disposed to publish the matter, I cannot dissuade you, of 
course - but there will be terrible work if you do - and if you don't, I 
shall think you the most generous of mortal beings - and if there is 
anything in the world I can do for you - anything short of ' she hesitated.
'Short of renouncing your guilty connexion with my husband, I suppose you 
mean,' said I.
She paused, in evident disconcertion and perplexity, mingled with anger she 
dared not show.
'I cannot renounce what is dearer than life,' she muttered, in a low, 
hurried tone. Then, suddenly raising her head and fixing her gleaming eyes 
upon me, she continued earnestly, 'But Helen - or Mrs Huntingdon, or 
whatever you would have me call you - will you tell him? If you are 
generous, here is a fitting opportunity for the exercise of your 
magnanimity: if you are proud, here am I - your rival - ready to 
acknowledge myself your debtor for an act of the most noble forbearance.'
'I shall not tell him.'
'You will not!' cried she delightedly. 'Accept my sincere thanks, then!'
She sprang up, and offered me her hand. I drew back.
'Give me no thanks; it is not for your sake that I refrain. Neither is it 
an act of any forbearance: I have no wish to publish your shame. I should 
be sorry to distress your husband with the knowledge of it.'
'And Milicent? will you tell her?' 'No, on the contrary I shall do my 
utmost to conceal it from her. I would not for much that she should know 
the infamy and disgrace of her relation!'
'You use hard words, Mrs Huntingdon - but I can pardon you.'
'And now, Lady Lowborough,' continued I, 'let me counsel you to leave this 
house as soon as possible. You must be aware that your continuance here is 
excessively disagreeable to me - not for Mr Huntingdon's sake,' said I, 
observing the dawn of a malicious smile of triumph on her face - 'You are 
welcome to him, if you like him, as far as I am concerned - but because it 
is painful to be always disguising my true sentiments respecting you, and 
straining to keep up an appearance of civility and respect towards one for 
whom I have not the most distant shadow of esteem; and because, if you 
stay, your conduct cannot possibly remain concealed much longer from the 
only two persons in the house who do not know it already. And, for your 
husband's sake, Annabella, and even for your own, I wish - I earnestly 
advise and entreat you to break off this unlawful connexion at once, and 
return to your duty while you may, before the dreadful consequences -'
'Yes, yes, of course,' said she, interrupting me with a gesture of 
impatience. 'But I cannot go, Helen, before the time appointed for our 
departure. What possible pretext could I frame for such a thing? Whether I 
proposed going back alone - which Lowborough would not hear of - or taking 
him with me, the very circumstance itself would be certain to excite 
suspicion - and when our visit is so nearly at an end too - little more 
than a week - surely, you can endure my presence so long! I will not annoy 
you with any more of my friendly impertinences.'
'Well, I have nothing more to say to you.'
'Have you mentioned this affair to Huntingdon?' asked she, as I was leaving 
the room.
'How dare you mention his name to me!' was the only answer I gave.
No words have passed between us since, but such as outward decency or pure 
necessity demanded.



Chapter 35

19th. In proportion as Lady Lowborough finds she has nothing to fear from 
me, and as the time of departure draws nigh, the more audacious and 
insolent she becomes. She does not scruple to speak to my husband with 
affectionate familiarity in my presence, when no one else is by, and is 
particularly fond of displaying her interest in his health and welfare, or 
in anything that concerns him, as if for the purpose of contrasting her 
kind solicitude with my cold indifference. And he rewards her by such 
smiles and glances, such whispered words, or boldly spoken insinuations, 
indicative of his sense of her goodness and my neglect, as makes the blood 
rush into my face, in spite of myself - for I would be utterly regardless 
of it all - deaf and blind to everything that passes between them, since 
the more I show myself sensible of their wickedness, the more she triumphs 
in her victory, and the more he flatters himself that I love him devotedly 
still, in spite of my pretended indifference. On such occasions I have 
sometimes been startled by a subtle, fiendish suggestion inciting me to 
show him the contrary by a seeming encouragement of Hargrave's advances; 
but such ideas are banished in a moment with horror and self-abasement; and 
then I hate him tenfold more than ever for having brought me to this! - God 
pardon me for it - and all my sinful thoughts! Instead of being humbled and 
purified by my afflictions, I feel that they are turning my nature into 
gall. This must be my fault as much as theirs that wrong me. No true 
Christian could cherish such bitter feelings as I do against him and her - 
especially the latter: him, I still feel that I could pardon - freely, 
gladly - on the slightest token of repentance; but she - words cannot utter 
my abhorrence. Reason forbids, but passion urges strongly; and I must pray 
and struggle long ere I subdue it.
It is well that she is leaving tomorrow, for I could not well endure her 
presence for another day. This morning, she rose earlier than usual. I 
found her in the room alone, when I went down to breakfast.
'Oh Helen! is it you?' said she, turning as I entered.
I gave an involuntary start back on seeing her, at which she uttered a 
short laugh, observing -
'I think we are both disappointed.'
I came forward and busied myself with the breakfast things.
'This is the last day I shall burden your hospitality,' said she, as she 
seated herself at the table. 'Ah, here comes one that will not rejoice at 
it!' she murmured, half to herself, as Arthur entered the room.
He shook hands with her and wished her good morning: then, looking lovingly 
in her face, and still retaining her hand in his, murmured pathetically -
'The last - last day!'
'Yes,' said she with some asperity; 'and I rose early to make the best of 
it - I have been here alone this half hour, and you, you lazy creature 
'Well, I thought I was early too,' said he - 'but,' dropping his voice 
almost to a whisper, 'you see we are not alone.'
'We never are,' returned she. But they were almost as good as alone, for I 
was now standing at the window, watching the clouds, and struggling to 
suppress my wrath.
Some more words passed between them, which, happily, I did not overhear; 
but Annabella had the audacity to come and place herself beside me, and 
even to put her hand upon my shoulder, and say softly -
'You need not grudge him to me, Helen, for I love him more than ever you 
could do.'
This put me beside myself. I took her hand and violently dashed it from me, 
with an expression of abhorrence and indignation that could not be 
suppressed. Startled, almost appalled, by this sudden outbreak, she 
recoiled in silence. I would have given way to my fury, and said more, but 
Arthur's low laugh recalled me to myself. I checked the half-uttered 
invective, and scornfully turned away, regretting that I had given him so 
much amusement. He was still laughing when Mr Hargrave made his appearance. 
How much of the scene he had witnessed I do not know, for the door was ajar 
when he entered. He greeted his host and his cousin both coldly, and me 
with a glance intended to express the deepest sympathy mingled with high 
admiration and esteem.
'How much allegiance do you owe to that man?' he asked below his breath, as 
he stood beside me at the window, affecting to be making observations on 
the weather.
'None,' I answered. And immediately returning to the table, I employed 
myself in making the tea. He followed, and would have entered into some 
kind of conversation with me, but the other guests were now beginning to 
assemble, and I took no more notice of him, except to give him his coffee.
After breakfast, determined to pass as little of the day as possible in 
company with Lady Lowborough, I quietly stole away from the company and 
retired to the library. Mr Hargrave followed me thither, under pretence of 
coming for a book; and first, turning to the shelves, he selected a volume; 
and then, quietly, but by no means timidly, approaching me, he stood beside 
me, resting his hand on the back of my chair, and said softly -
'And so you consider yourself free, at last?'
'Yes,' said I, without moving, or raising my eyes from my book - 'free to 
do anything but offend God and my conscience.'
There was a momentary pause.
'Very right,' said he; 'provided your conscience be not too morbidly 
tender, and your ideas of God not too erroneously severe; but can you 
suppose it would offend that benevolent Being to make the happiness of one 
who would die for yours? - to raise a devoted heart from purgatorial 
torments to a state of heavenly bliss, when you could do it without the 
slightest injury to yourself, or any other?'
This was spoken in a low, earnest, melting tone as he bent over me. I now 
raised my head; and steadily confronting his gaze, I answered calmly -
'Mr Hargrave, do you mean to insult me?'
He was not prepared for this. He paused a moment to recover the shock; 
then, drawing himself up and removing his hand from my chair, he answered, 
with proud sadness -
'That was not my intention.'
I just glanced towards the door, with a slight movement of the head, and 
then returned to my book. He immediately withdrew. This was better than if 
I had answered with more words, and in the passionate spirit to which my 
first impulse would have prompted. What a good thing it is to be able to 
command one's temper! I must labour to cultivate this inestimable quality: 
God only knows how often I shall need it in this rough, dark road that lies 
before me.
In the course of the morning, I drove over to the Grove with the two 
ladies, to give Milicent an opportunity for bidding farewell to her mother 
and sister. They persuaded her to stay with them the rest of the day, Mrs 
Hargrave promising to bring her back in the evening and remain till the 
party broke up on the morrow. Consequently, Lady Lowborough and I had the 
pleasure of returning tete-a-tete in the carriage together. For the first 
mile or two, we kept silence, I looking out of my window, and she leaning 
back in her corner. But I was not going to restrict myself to any 
particular position for her: when I was tired of leaning forward, with the 
cold, raw wind in my face, and surveying the russet hedges, and the damp, 
tangled grass of their banks, I gave it up, and leant back too. With her 
usual impudence, my companion then made some attempts to get up a 
conversation; but the monosyllables 'yes', or 'no', or 'humph', were the 
utmost her several remarks could elicit from me. At last, on her asking my 
opinion upon some immaterial point of discussion, I answered -
'Why do you wish to talk to me, Lady Lowborough? you must know what I think 
of you.'
'Well, if you will be so bitter against me,' replied she, 'I can't help it; 
but I'm not going to sulk for anybody.'
 Our short drive was now at an end. As soon as the carriage door was 
opened, she sprang out, and went down the park to meet the gentlemen, who 
were just returning from the woods. Of course I did not follow.
But I had not done with her impudence yet: after dinner I retired to the 
drawing-room, as usual, and she accompanied me, but I had the two children 
with me, and I gave them my whole attention, and determined to keep them 
till the gentlemen came, or till Milicent arrived with her mother. Little 
Helen, however, was soon tired of playing, and insisted upon going to 
sleep; and while I sat on the sofa with her on my knee, and Arthur seated 
beside me, gently playing with her soft flaxen hair - Lady Lowborough 
composedly came and placed herself on the other side.
'Tomorrow, Mrs Huntingdon,' said she, 'you will be delivered from my 
presence, which, no doubt, you will be very glad of - it is natural you 
should: but do you know I have rendered you a great service! Shall I tell 
you what it is?'
'I shall be glad to hear of any service you have rendered me,' said I, 
determined to be calm, for I knew by the tone of her voice she wanted to 
provoke me.
'Well,' resumed she, 'have you not observed the salutary change in Mr 
Huntingdon? Don't you see what a sober, temperate man he is become? You saw 
with regret the sad habits he was contracting, I know; and I know you did 
your utmost to deliver him from them - but without success, until I came to 
your assistance. I told him in few words that I could not bear to see him 
degrade himself so, and that I should cease to - no matter what I told him 
- but you see the reformation I have wrought; and you ought to thank me for 
it.'
I rose, and rang for the nurse.
'But I desire no thanks,' she continued; 'all the return I ask is, that you 
will take care of him when I am gone, and not, by harshness and neglect, 
drive him back to his old courses.'
I was almost sick with passion, but Rachel was now at the door: I pointed 
to the children, for I could not trust myself to speak: she took them away, 
and I followed.
'Will you, Helen?' continued the speaker.
I gave her a look that blighted the malicious smile on her face - or 
checked it, at least for a moment - and departed. In the anteroom I met Mr 
Hargrave. He saw I was in no humour to be spoken to, and suffered me to 
pass without a word; but when, after a few minutes' seclusion in the 
library, I had regained my composure, and was returning to join Mrs 
Hargrave and Milicent, whom I had just heard come downstairs and go into 
the drawing-room, I found him there still, lingering in the dimly-lighted 
apartment, and evidently waiting for me.
'Mrs Huntingdon,' said he as I passed, 'will you allow me one word?'
'What is it then? be quick if you please.'
'I offended you this morning; and I cannot live under your displeasure.'
'Then go, and sin no more,' replied I, turning away.
'No, no!' said he hastily, setting himself before me - 'Pardon me, but I 
must have your forgiveness. I leave you tomorrow, and I may not have an 
opportunity of speaking to you again. I was wrong to forget myself - and 
you, as I did; but let me implore you to forget and forgive my rash 
presumption, and think of me as if those words had never been spoken; for, 
believe me, I regret them deeply, and the loss of your esteem is too severe 
a penalty - I cannot bear it.'
'Forgetfulness is not to be purchased with a wish; and I cannot bestow my 
esteem on all who desire it, unless they deserve it too.'
'I shall think my life well spent in labouring to deserve it, if you will 
but pardon this offence - Will you?'
'Yes.'
'Yes! but that is coldly spoken. Give me your hand and I'll believe you. 
You won't? Then, Mrs Huntingdon, you do not forgive me!
'Yes - here it is, and my forgiveness with it: only - sin no more.'
He pressed my cold hand with sentimental fervour, but said nothing, and 
stood aside to let me pass into the room, where all the company were now 
assembled. Mr Grimsby was seated near the door: on seeing me enter, almost 
immediately followed by Hargrave, he leered at me, with a glance of 
intolerable significance, as I passed. I looked him in the face, till he 
sullenly turned away, if not ashamed, at least confounded for the moment. 
Meantime, Hattersley had seized Hargrave by the arm, and was whispering 
something in his ear - some coarse joke, no doubt, for the latter neither 
laughed nor spoke in answer, but turning from him with a slight curl of the 
lip, disengaged himself and went to his mother, who was telling Lord 
Lowborough how many reasons she had to be proud of her son.
Thank Heaven, they are all going tomorrow.



Chapter 36

December 20th, 1824. This is the third anniversary of our felicitous union. 
It is now two months since our guests left us to the enjoyment of each 
other's society; and I have had nine weeks' experience of this new phase of 
conjugal life - two persons living together, as master and mistress of the 
house, and father and mother of a winsome, merry little child, with the 
mutual understanding that there is no love, friendship, or sympathy between 
them. As far as in me lies, I endeavour to live peaceably with him: I treat 
him with unimpeachable civility, give up my convenience to his, wherever it 
may reasonably be done, and consult him in a business-like way on household 
affairs, deferring to his pleasure and judgement, even when I know the 
latter to be inferior to my own.
As for him: for the first week or two, he was peevish and low-fretting, I 
suppose, over his dear Annabella's departure - and particularly ill-
tempered to me: everything I did was wrong; I was cold-hearted, hard, 
insensate; my sour, pale face was perfectly repulsive; my voice made him 
shudder; he knew not how he could live through the winter with me, I should 
kill him by inches. Again I proposed a separation, but it would not do: he 
was not going to be the talk of all the old gossips in the neighbourhood; 
he would not have it said that he was such a brute his wife could not live 
with him; no; he must contrive to bear with me.
'I must contrive to bear with you, you mean, ' said I; 'for so long as I 
discharge my functions of steward and housekeeper, so conscientiously and 
well, without pay and without thanks, you cannot afford to part with me. I 
shall therefore remit these duties when my bondage becomes intolerable.' 
This threat, I thought, would serve to keep him in check, if anything 
would.
I believe he was much disappointed that I did not feel his offensive 
sayings more acutely, for when he had said anything particularly well 
calculated to hurt my feelings, he would stare me searchingly in the face, 
and then grumble against my 'marble heart', or my 'brutal insensibility'. 
If I had bitterly wept and deplored his lost affection, he would, perhaps, 
have condescended to pity me, and taken me into favour for a while, just to 
comfort his solitude and console him for the absence of his beloved 
Annabella, until he could meet her again, or some more fitting substitute. 
Thank Heaven, I am not so weak as that! I was infatuated once with a 
foolish, besotted affection, that clung to him in spite of his 
unworthiness, but it is fairly gone now - wholly crushed and withered away; 
and he has none but himself and his vices to thank for it.
At first (in compliance with his sweet lady's injunctions, I suppose), he 
abstained wonderfully well from seeking to solace his cares in wine; but at 
length he began to relax his virtuous efforts, and now and then exceeded a 
little, and still continues to do so - nay, sometimes, not a little. When 
he is under the exciting influence of these excesses, he sometimes fires up 
and attempts to play the brute; and then I take little pains to suppress my 
scorn and disgust; when he is under the depressing influence of the after 
consequences, he bemoans his sufferings and his errors, and charges them 
both upon me; he knows such indulgence injures his health, and does him 
more harm than good; but he says I drive him to it by my unnatural, 
unwomanly conduct; it will be the ruin of him in the end, but it is all my 
fault; and then I am roused to defend myself, sometimes, with bitter 
recrimination. This is a kind of injustice I cannot patiently endure. Have 
I not laboured long and hard to save him from this very vice? would I not 
labour still to deliver him from it, if I could? But could I do so by 
fawning upon him and caressing him when I know that he scorns me? Is it my 
fault that I have lost my influence with him, or that he has forfeited 
every claim to my regard? And should I seek a reconciliation with him, when 
I feel that I abhor him, and that he despises me? and while he continues 
still to correspond with Lady Lowborough, as I know he does? No, never, 
never, never! he may drink himself dead, but it is NOT my fault!
Yet I do my part to save him still: I give him to understand that drinking 
makes his eyes dull, and his face red and bloated; and that tends to render 
him imbecile in body and mind; and if Annabella were to see him as often as 
I do, she would speedily be disenchanted; and that she certainly will 
withdraw her favour from him, if he continues such courses. Such a mode of 
admonition wins only coarse abuse for me - and, indeed, I almost feel as if 
I deserved it, for I hate to use such arguments, but they sink into his 
stupefied heart, and make him pause, and ponder, and abstain, more than 
anything else I could say.
At present, I am enjoying a temporary relief from his presence: he is gone 
with Hargrave to join a distant hunt, and will probably not be back before 
tomorrow evening. How differently I used to feel his absence!
Mr Hargrave is still at the Grove. He and Arthur frequently meet to pursue 
their rural sports together: he often calls upon us here, and Arthur not 
unfrequently rides over to him. I do not think either of these soi-disant 
friends is overflowing with love for the other; but such intercourse serves 
to get the time on, and I am very willing it should continue, as it saves 
me some hours of discomfort in Arthur's society, and gives him some better 
employment than the sottish indulgence of his sensual appetites. The only 
objection I have to Mr Hargrave's being in the neighbourhood, is that the 
fear of meeting him at the Grove prevents me from seeing his sister so 
often as I otherwise should; for, of late, he has conducted himself towards 
me with such unerring propriety, that I have almost forgotten his former 
conduct. I suppose he is striving to 'win my esteem'. If he continue to act 
in this way, he may win it; but what then? The moment he attempts to demand 
anything more, he will lose it again.
February 10th. - It is a hard, embittering thing to have one's kind 
feelings and good intentions cast back in one's teeth. I was beginning to 
relent towards my wretched partner - to pity his forlorn, comfortless 
condition, unalleviated as it is by the consolations of intellectual 
resources and the answer of a good conscience towards God - and to think I 
ought to sacrifice my pride, and renew my efforts once again to make his 
home agreeable and lead him back to the path of virtue; not by false 
professions of love, and not by pretended remorse, but by mitigating my 
habitual coldness of manner, and commuting my frigid civility into kindness 
wherever an opportunity occurred; and not only was I beginning to think so, 
but I had already begun to act upon the thought - and what was the result? 
No answering spark of kindness - no awakening penitence, but an 
unappeasable ill-humour, and a spirit of tyrannous exaction that increased 
with indulgence, and a lurking gleam of self-complacent triumph, at every 
detection of relenting softness in my manner, that congealed me to marble 
again as often as it recurred; and this morning he finished the business: I 
think the petrifaction is so completely effected at last, that nothing can 
melt me again. Among his letters was one which he perused with symptoms of 
unusual gratification, and then threw it across the table to me, with the 
admonition -
'There! read that, and take a lesson by it!'
It was in the free, dashing hand of Lady Lowborough. I glanced at the first 
page; it seemed full of extravagant protestations of affection; impetuous 
longings for a speedy re-union; and impious defiance of God's mandates, and 
railings against His providence for having cast their lot asunder, and 
doomed them both to the hateful bondage of alliance with those they could 
not love. He gave a slight titter on seeing me change colour. I folded up 
the letter, rose, and returned it to him, with no remark, but -
'Thank you - I will take a lesson by it!'
My little Arthur was standing between his knees, delightedly playing with 
the bright, ruby ring on his finger. Urged by a sudden, imperative impulse 
to deliver my son from that contaminating influence, I caught him up in my 
arms and carried him with me out of the room. Not liking this abrupt 
removal, the child began to pout and cry. This was a new stab to my already 
tortured heart. I would not let him go; but, taking him with me into the 
library, I shut the door, and, kneeling on the floor beside him, I embraced 
him, kissed him, wept over him with passionate fondness. Rather frightened 
than consoled by this, he turned struggling from me and cried out aloud for 
his papa. I released him from my arms, and never were more bitter tears 
than those that now concealed him from my blinded, burning eyes. Hearing 
his cries the father came to the room. I instantly turned away lest he 
should see and misconstrue my emotion. He swore at me, and took the now 
pacified child away.
It is hard that my little darling should love him more than me; and that, 
when the well-being and culture of my son is all I have to live for, I 
should see my influence destroyed by one whose selfish affection is more 
injurious than the coldest indifference or the harshest tyranny could be. 
If I, for his good, deny him some trifling indulgence, he goes to his 
father, and the latter, in spite of his selfish indolence, will even give 
himself some trouble to meet the child's desires: if I attempt to curb his 
will, or look gravely on him for some act of childish disobedience, he 
knows his other parent will smile and take his part against me. Thus, not 
only have I the father's spirit in the son to contend against, the germs of 
his evil tendencies to search out and eradicate, and his corrupting 
intercourse and example in after-life to counteract, but already he 
counteracts my arduous labour for the child's advantage, destroys my 
influence over his tender mind, and robs me of his very love; I had no 
earthly hope but this, and he seems to take a diabolicall delight in 
tearing it away.
But it is wrong to despair; I will remember the counsel of the inspired 
writer to him 'that feareth the Lord and obeyeth the voice of his servant, 
that sitteth in darkness and hath no light; let him trust in the name of 
the Lord, and stay upon his God!'



Chapter 37

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



Chapter 38

December 20th, 1826. The fifth anniversary of my wedding day, and, I trust, 
the last I shall spend under this roof. My resolution is formed, my plan 
concocted, and already partly put in execution. My conscience does not 
blame me, but while the purpose ripens, let me beguile a few of these long 
winter evenings in stating the case for my own satisfaction - a dreary 
amusement enough, but having the air of a useful occupation, and being 
pursued as a task, it will suit me better than a lighter one.
In September, quiet Grassdale was again alive with a party of ladies and 
gentlemen (so called) consisting of the same individuals as those invited 
the year before last, with the addition of two or three others, among whom 
were Mrs Hargrave and her younger daughter. The gentlemen and Lady 
Lowborough were invited for the pleasure and convenience of the host, the 
other ladies, I suppose for the sake of appearances, and to keep me in 
check, and make me discreet and civil in my demeanour. But the ladies 
stayed only three weeks, the gentlemen, with two exceptions, above two 
months, for their hospitable entertainer was loath to part with them and be 
left alone with his bright intellect, his stainless conscience, and his 
loved and loving wife.
On the day of Lady Lowborough's arrival, I followed her into her chamber, 
and plainly told her that, if I found reason to believe that she still 
continued her criminal connexion with Mr Huntingdon, I should think it my 
absolute duty to inform her husband of the circumstance - or awaken his 
suspicions at least - however painful it might be, or however dreadful the 
consequences. She was startled at first by the declaration, so unexpected, 
and so determinately yet calmly delivered; but rallying in a moment, she 
coolly replied that if I saw anything at all reprehensible or suspicious in 
her conduct, she would freely give me leave to tell his lordship all about 
it. Willing to be satisfied with this, I left her; and certainly I saw 
nothing thenceforth particularly reprehensible or suspicious in her 
demeanour towards her host; but then I had the other guests to attend to, 
and I did not watch them narrowly - for, to confess the truth, I feared to 
see anything between them. I no longer regarded it as any concern of mine, 
and if it was my duty to enlighten Lord Lowborough, it was a painful duty, 
and I dreaded to be called to perform it.
But my fears were brought to an end, in a manner I had not anticipated. One 
evening, about a fortnight after the visitors' arrival, I had retired into 
the library to snatch a few minutes' respite from forced cheerfulness and 
wearisome discourse - for after so long a period of seclusion, dreary 
indeed as I had often found it, I could not always bear to be doing 
violence to my feelings, and goading my powers to talk, and smile and 
listen, and play the attentive hostess, or even the cheerful friend: I had 
just ensconced myself within the bow of the window, and was looking out 
upon the west w here the darkening hills rose sharply defined against the 
clear amber light of evening, that gradually blended and faded away into 
the pure, pale blue of the upper sky, where one bright star was shining 
through, as if to promise - 'When that dying light is gone, the world will 
not be left in darkness, and they who trust in God - whose minds are 
unbeclouded by the mists of unbelief and sin-are never wholly comfortless,' 
- when I heard a hurried step approaching, and Lord Lowborough entered - 
this room was still his favourite resort. He flung the door to with unusual 
violence, and cast his hat aside regardless where it fell. What could be 
the matter with him? His face was ghastly pale; his eyes were fixed upon 
the ground; his teeth clenched; his forehead glistened with the dews of 
agony. It was plain he knew his wrongs at last!
Unconscious of my presence, he began to pace the room in a state of fearful 
agitation, violently wringing his hands and uttering low groans and 
incoherent ejaculations. I made a movement to let him know that he was not 
alone; but he was too preoccupied to notice it. Perhaps, while his back was 
towards me, I might cross the room and slip away unobserved. I rose to make 
the attempt, but then he perceived me. He started and stood still a moment; 
then wiped his streaming forehead, and, advancing towards me, with a kind 
of unnatural composure, said in a deep, almost sepulchral tone -
'Mrs Huntingdon, I must leave you tomorrow.'
'Tomorrow!' I repeated. 'I do not ask the cause.'
'You know it then - and you can be so calm!' said he, surveying me with 
profound astonishment, not unmingled with a kind of resentful bitterness, 
as it appeared to me.
'I have so long been aware of ' I paused in time, and added, 'of my 
husband's character, that nothing shocks me.'
'But this - how long have you been aware of this?' demanded he, laying his 
clenched hand on the table beside him, and looking me keenly and fixedly in 
the face.
'Not long,' I answered.
'You knew it!' cried he, with bitter vehemence - 'and you did not tell me! 
You helped to deceive me!'
'My lord, I did not help to deceive you.'
'Then why did you not tell me?'
'Because I knew it would be painful to you - I hoped she would return to 
her duty, and then there would be no need to harrow your feelings with such 
-'
'O God! how long has this been going on? how long has it been, Mrs 
Huntingdon? - Tell me - I must know!' he exclaimed, with intense and 
fearful eagerness.
'Two years, I believe.'
'Great Heaven! and she has duped me all this time!' He turned away with a 
suppressed groan of agony, and paced the room again, in a paroxysm of 
renewed agitation. My heart smote me; but I would try to console him, 
though I knew not how to attempt it.
'She is a wicked woman,' I said. 'She has basely deceived and betrayed you. 
She is as little worthy of your regret as she was of your affection. Let 
her injure you no further; abstract yourself from her, and stand alone.'
'And you, madam,' said he sternly, arresting himself, and turning round 
upon me - 'you have injured me too, by this ungenerous concealment!'
There was a sudden revulsion in my feelings. Something rose within me, and 
urged me to resent this harsh return for my heartfelt sympathy, and defend 
myself with answering severity. Happily, I did not yield to the impulse. I 
saw his anguish as, suddenly smiting his forehead, he turned abruptly to 
the window, and, looking upward at the placid sky, murmured passionately, 
'O God, that I might die!' - and felt that to add one drop of bitterness to 
that already overflowing cup, would be ungenerous indeed. And yet, I fear 
there was more coldness than gentleness in the quiet tone of my reply -
'I might offer many excuses that some would admit to be valid, but I will 
not attempt to enumerate them -'
'I know them,' said he hastily, 'you would say that it was no business of 
yours - that I ought to have taken care of myself - that if my own 
blindness has led me into this pit of hell, I have no right to blame 
another for giving me credit for a larger amount of sagacity than I 
possessed -'
'I confess I was wrong,' continued I, without regarding this bitter 
interruption; 'but whether want of courage or mistaken kindness was the 
cause of my error, I think you blame me too severely. I told Lady 
Lowborough two weeks ago, the very hour she came, that I should certainly 
think it my duty to inform you if she continued to deceive you: she gave me 
full liberty to do so if I should see anything reprehensible or suspicious 
in her conduct - I have seen nothing; and I trusted she had altered her 
course.'
He continued gazing from the window while I spoke, and did not answer, but, 
stung by the recollections my words awakened, stamped his foot upon the 
floor, ground his teeth, and corrugated his brow, like one under the 
influence of acute physical pain.
'It was wrong - it was wrong!' he muttered at length. 'Nothing can excuse 
it - nothing can atone for it - nothing can recall those years of cursed 
credulity - nothing obliterate them! - nothing, nothing!' he repeated in a 
whisper whose despairing bitterness precluded all resentment.
'When I put the case to myself, I own it was wrong,' I answered; 'but I can 
only now regret that I did not see it in this light before, and that, as 
you say, nothing can recall the past.'
 Something in my voice or in the spirit of this answer seemed to alter his 
mood. Turning towards me, and attentively surveying my face by the dim 
light, he said, in a milder tone than he had yet employed -
'You, too, have suffered, I suppose.'
'I suffered much, at first.'
'When was that?'
'Two years ago; and two years hence you will be as calm as I am now - and 
far, far happier, I trust, for you are a man, and free to act as you 
please.'
Something like a smile, but a very bitter one, crossed his face for a 
moment.
'You have not been happy lately?' he said, with a kind of effort to regain 
composure, and a determination to waive the further discussion of his own 
calamity.
'Happy!' I repeated, almost provoked at such a question. 'Could I be so, 
with such a husband?'
'I have noticed a change in your appearance since the first years of your 
marriage,' pursued he: 'I observed it to that infernal demon,' he muttered 
between his teeth - 'and he said it was your own sour temper that was 
eating away your bloom: it was making you old and ugly before your time, 
and had already made his fireside as comfortless as a convent cell. You 
smile, Mrs Huntingdon - nothing moves you. I wish my nature were as calm as 
yours.'
'My nature was not originally calm,' said I. 'I have learned to appear so 
by dint of hard lessons and many repeated efforts.'
At this juncture Mr Hattersley burst into the room.
'Hallo, Lowborough!' he began - 'Oh! I beg your pardon,' he exclaimed on 
seeing me; 'I didn't know it was a tete-a-tete. Cheer up, man,' he 
continued, giving Lord Lowborough a thump on the back, which caused the 
latter to recoil from him with looks of ineffable disgust and irritation. 
'Come, I want to speak with you a bit.'
'Speak, then.'
'But I'm not sure it would be quite agreeable to the lady, what I have to 
say.'
'Then it would not be agreeable to me,' said his lordship, turning to leave 
the room.
'Yes, it would,' cried the other, following him into the hall. 'If you've 
the heart of a man it would be the very ticket for you. It's just this, my 
lad,' he continued, rather lowering his voice, but not enough to prevent me 
from hearing every word he said, though the half-closed door stood between 
us. 'I think you're an ill-used man - nay, now, don't flare up - I don't 
want to offend you: it's only my rough way of talking. I must speak right 
out, you know, or else not at all; and I'm come - stop now! let me explain 
- I'm come to offer you my services, for though Huntingdon is my friend, 
he's a devilish scamp, as we all know, and I'll be your friend for the 
nonce. I know what it is you want, to make matters straight: it's just to 
exchange a shot with him, and then you'll feel yourself all right again; 
and if an accident happens - why, that'll be all right too, I dare say, to 
a desperate fellow like you. Come now, give me your hand, and don't look so 
black upon it. Name time and place, and I'll manage the rest.'
'That,' answered the more low, deliberate voice of Lord Lowborough, 'is 
just the remedy my own heart - or the devil within it, suggested - to meet 
him, and not to part without blood. Whether I or he should fall - or both, 
it would be an inexpressible relief to me, if -'
'Just so! Well then -'
'No!' exclaimed his lordship, with deep, determined emphasis. 'Though I 
hate him from my heart, and should rejoice at any calamity that could 
befall him - I'll leave him to God; and though I abhor my own life, I'll 
leave that, too, to Him that gave it.'
'But you see in this case ' pleaded Hattersley.
'I'll not hear you!' exclaimed his companion, hastily turning away. 'Not 
another word! I've enough to do against the fiend within me.'
'Then you're a white-livered fool, and I wash my hands of you,' grumbled 
the tempter, as he swung himself round and departed.
'Right, right, Lord Lowborough,' cried I, darting out and clasping his 
burning hand, as he was moving away to the stairs. 'I begin to think the 
world is not worthy of you!'
Not understanding this sudden ebullition, he turned upon me with a stare of 
gloomy, bewildered amazement, that made me ashamed of the impulse to which 
I had yielded; but soon a more humanised expression dawned upon his 
countenance, and, before I could withdraw my hand, he pressed it kindly, 
while a gleam of genuine feeling flashed from his eyes as he murmured -'
'God help us both!'
'Amen!' responded I; and we parted.
I returned to the drawing-room, where, doubtless, my presence would be 
expected by most, desired by one or two. In the anteroom was Mr Hattersley, 
railing against Lord Lowborough's poltroonery before a select audience, 
viz., Mr Huntingdon, who was lounging against the table, exulting in his 
own treacherous villainy, and laughing his victim to scorn, and Mr Grimsby, 
standing by, quietly rubbing his hands, and chuckling with fiendish 
satisfaction.
In the drawing-room I found Lady Lowborough, evidently in no very enviable 
state of mind, and struggling hard to conceal her discomposure by an 
overstrained affectation of unusual cheerfulness and vivacity, very 
uncalled for under the circumstances, for she had herself given the company 
to understand that her husband had received unpleasant intelligence from 
home, which necessitated his immediate departure, and that he had suffered 
it so to bother his mind, that it had brought on a bilious headache, owing 
to which, and the preparations he judged necessary to hasten his departure, 
she believed they would not have the pleasure of seeing him tonight. 
However, she asserted, it u as only a business concern, and so she did not 
intend ∑t should trouble her. She was just saying this as I entered, and 
she darted upon me such a glance of hardihood and defiance as at once 
astonished and revolted me.
'But I am troubled,' continued she, 'and vexed too, for I think it my duty 
to accompany his lordship, and of course I am very sorry - to part with all 
my kind friends so unexpectedly and so soon.'
'And yet, Annabella,' said Esther, who was sitting beside her, 'I never saw 
you in better spirits in my life.'
'Precisely so, my love; because I wish to make the best of your society, 
since it appears this is to be the last night I am to enjoy it till Heaven 
knows when; and I wish to leave a good impression on you all,' - she 
glanced round, and seeing her aunt's eye fixed upon her, rather too 
scrutinizingly, as she probably thought, she started up and continued, 'to 
which end I'll give you a song - shall I, aunt? shall I, Mrs Huntingdon? 
shall I, ladies and gentlemen - all? Very well, I'll do my best to amuse 
you.'
She and Lord Lowborough occupied the apartments next to mine. I know not 
how she passed the night, but I lay awake the greater part of it listening 
to his heavy step pacing monotonously up and down his dressing-room, which 
was nearest my chamber. Once I heard him pause and throw something out of 
the window with a passionate ejaculation; and in the morning, after they 
were gone, a keen-bladed clasp-knife was found on the grass-plot below; a 
razor, likewise, was snapped in two and thrust deep into the cinders of the 
grate, but partially corroded by the decaying embers. So strong had been 
the temptation to end his miserable life, so determined his resolution to 
resist it.
My heart bled for him as I lay listening to that ceaseless tread. Hitherto 
I had thought too much of myself, too little of him: now I forgot my own 
afflictions, and thought only of his - of the ardent affection so miserably 
wasted, the fond faith so cruelly betrayed, the - no, I will not attempt to 
enumerate his wrongs - but I hated his wife and my husband more intensely 
than ever, and not for my sake, but for his.
They departed early in the morning, before any one else was down, except 
myself, and just as I was leaving my room, Lord Lowborough was descending 
to take his place in the carriage where his lady was already ensconced; and 
Arthur (or Mr Huntingdon as I prefer calling him, for the other is my 
child's name) had the gratuitous insolence to come out in his dressing-gown 
to bid his 'friend' good-bye.
'What, going already, Lowborough?' said he. 'Well, good morning.' He 
smilingly offered his hand.
I think the other would have knocked him down, had he not instinctively 
started back before that bony fist quivering with rage and clenched till 
the knuckles gleamed white and glistening through the skin. Looking upon 
him with a countenance livid with furious hate, Lord Lowborough muttered 
between his closed teeth a deadly execration he would not have uttered had 
he been calm enough to choose his words, and departed.
'I call that an unchristian spirit now,' said the villain. 'But I'd never 
give up an old friend for the sake of a wife. You may have mine if you 
like, and I call that handsome - I can do no more than offer restitution, 
can I?'
But Lowborough had gained the bottom of the stairs, and was now crossing 
the hall; and Mr Huntingdon, leaning over the banisters, called out, 'Give 
my love to Annabella! and I wish you both a happy journey,' and withdrew 
laughing to his chamber.
He subsequently expressed himself rather glad she was gone: 'she was so 
deuced imperious and exacting,' said he: 'now I shall be my own man again, 
and feel rather more at my ease.'



Chapter 39

My greatest source of uneasiness, in this time of trial, was my son, whom 
his father and his father's friends delighted to encourage in all the 
embryo vices a little child can show, and to instruct in all the evil 
habits he could acquire - in a word, to 'make a man of him' was one of 
their staple amusements; and I need say no more to justify my alarm on his 
account, and my determination to deliver him at any hazard from the hands 
of such instructors. I first attempted to keep him always with me or in the 
nursery, and gave Rachel particular injunctions never to let him come down 
to dessert as long as these 'gentlemen' stayed; but it was no use; these 
orders were immediately countermanded and overruled by his father; he was 
not going to have the little fellow moped to death between an old nurse and 
a cursed fool of a mother. So the little fellow came down every evening in 
spite of his cross mamma, and learned to tipple wine like papa, to swear 
like Mr Hattersley, and to have his own way like a man, and send mamma to 
the devil when she tried to prevent him. To see such things done with the 
roguish naivete of that pretty little child, and hear such things spoken by 
that small infantile voice, was as peculiarly piquant and irresistibly 
droll to them as it was inexpressibly distressing and painful to me; and 
when he had set the table in a roar he would look round delightedly upon 
them all, and add his shrill laugh to theirs. But if that beaming blue eye 
rested on me, its light would vanish for a moment, and he would say, in 
some concern - 'Mamma, why don't you laugh? Make her laugh, papa - she 
never will.'
Hence was I obliged to stay among these human brutes, watching an 
opportunity to get my child away from them, instead of leaving them 
immediately after the removal of the cloth, as I should always otherwise 
have done. He was never willing to go, and I frequently had to carry him 
away by force, for which he thought me very cruel and unjust; and sometimes 
his father would insist upon my letting him remain; and then I would leave 
him to his kind friends, and retire to indulge my bitterness and despair 
alone, or to rack my brains for a remedy to this great evil.
But here again I must do Mr Hargrave the justice to acknowledge that I 
never saw him laugh at the child's misdemeanours, nor heard him utter a 
word of encouragement to his aspirations after manly accomplishments. But 
when anything very extraordinary was said or done by the infant profligate, 
I noticed, at times, a peculiar expression in his face that I could neither 
interpret nor define - a slight twitching about the muscles of the mouth - 
a sudden flash in the eye, as he darted a sudden glance at the child and 
then at me: and then I could fancy there arose a gleam of hard, keen, 
sombre satisfaction in his countenance at the look of impotent wrath and 
anguish he was too certain to behold in mine. But on one occasion, when 
Arthur had been behaving particularly ill, and Mr Huntingdon and his guests 
had been particularly provoking and insulting to me in their encouragement 
of him, and I particularly anxious to get him out of the room, and on the 
very point of demeaning myself by a burst of uncontrollable passion - Mr 
Hargrave suddenly rose from his seat with an aspect of stern determination, 
lifted the child from his father's knee where he was sitting half tipsy, 
cocking his head and laughing at me, and execrating me with words he little 
knew the meaning of - handed him out of the room, and, setting him down in 
the hall, held the door open for me, gravely bowed as I withdrew, and 
closed it after me. I heard high words exchanged between him and his 
already half-inebriated host as I departed, leading away my bewildered and 
disconcerted boy.
But this should not continue: my child must not be abandoned to this 
corruption: better far that he should live in poverty and obscurity with a 
fugitive mother, than in luxury and affluence with such a father. These 
guests might not be with us long, but they would return again: and he, the 
most injurious of the whole, his child's worst enemy, would still remain. I 
could endure it for myself, but for my son it must be borne no longer: the 
world's opinion and the feelings of my friends must be alike unheeded here, 
at least, alike unable to deter me from my duty. But where should I find an 
asylum, and how obtain subsistence for us both? Oh, I would take my 
precious charge at early dawn, take the coach to M--, flee to the port of 
--, cross the Atlantic, and seek a quiet, humble home in New England, where 
I would support myself and him by the labour of my hands. The palette and 
the easel, my darling playmates once, must be my sober toil-fellows now. 
But was I sufficiently skilful as an artist to obtain my livelihood in a 
strange land, without friends and without recommendation? No; I must wait a 
little; I must labour hard to improve my talent, and to produce something 
worth while as a specimen of my powers, something to speak favourably for 
me, whether as an actual painter or a teacher. Brilliant success, of 
course, I did not look for, but some degree of security from positive 
failure was indispensable - I must not take my son to starve. And then I 
must have money for the journey, the passage, and some little to support us 
in our retreat in case I should be unsuccessful at first: and not too 
little either, for who could tell how long I might have to struggle with 
the indifference or neglect of others, or my own inexperience or inability 
to suit their tastes?
What should I do then? Apply to my brother and explain my circumstances and 
my resolves to him? No, no: even if I told him all my grievances, which I 
should be very reluctant to do, he would be certain to disapprove of the 
step: it would seem like madness to him, as it would to my uncle and aunt, 
or to Milicent. No; I must have patience and gather a hoard of my own. 
Rachel should be my only confidante - I thought I could persuade her into 
the scheme; and she should help me, first, to find out a picture-dealer in 
some distant town; then, through her means, I would privately sell what 
pictures I had on hand that would do for such a purpose, and some of those 
I should thereafter paint. Besides this, I would contrive to dispose of my 
jewels - not the family jewels, but the few I brought with me from home, 
and those my uncle gave me on my marriage. A few months' arduous toil might 
well be borne by me with such an end in view; and in the interim my son 
could not be much more injured than he was already.
Having formed this resolution, I immediately set to work to accomplish it. 
I might possibly have been induced to wax cool upon it afterwards, or 
perhaps to keep weighing the pros and cons in my mind till the latter 
overbalanced the former, and I was driven to relinquish the project 
altogether, or delay the execution of it to an indefinite period - had not 
something occurred to confirm me in that determination to which I still 
adhere, which I still think I did well to form, and shall do better to 
execute.
Since Lord Lowborough's departure, I had regarded the library as entirely 
my own, a secure retreat at all hours of the day. None of our gentlemen had 
the smallest pretensions to a literary taste except Mr Hargrave; and he, at 
present, was quite contented with the newspapers and periodicals of the 
day. And if, by any chance, he should look in here, I felt assured he would 
soon depart on seeing me, for, instead of becoming less cool and distant 
towards me, he had become decidedly more so since the departure of his 
mother and sisters, which was just what I wished. Here, then, I set up my 
easel, and here I worked at my canvas from daylight till dusk, with very 
little intermission saving when pure necessity, or my duties to little 
Arthur, called me away - for I still thought proper to devote some portion 
of every day exclusively to his instruction and amusement. But, contrary to 
my expectation, on the third morning, while I was thus employed, Mr 
Hargrave did look in, and did not immediately withdraw on seeing me. He 
apologised for his intrusion, and said he was only come for a book; but 
when he had got it, he condescended to cast a glance over my picture. Being 
a man of taste, he had something to say on this subject as well as another, 
and having modestly commented on it, without much encouragement from me, he 
proceeded to expatiate on the art in general. Receiving no encouragement in 
that either, he dropped it, but did not depart.
'You don't give us much of your company, Mrs Huntingdon,' observed he, 
after a brief pause, during which I went on coolly mixing and tempering my 
colours; 'and I cannot wonder at it, for you must be heartily sick of us 
all. I myself am so thoroughly ashamed of my companions, and so weary of 
their irrational conversation and pursuits - now that there is no one to 
humanise them and keep them in check, since you have justly abandoned us to 
our own devices - that I think I shall presently withdraw from amongst them 
- probably within this week - and I cannot suppose you will regret my 
departure.'
He paused. I did not answer.
'Probably,' he added, with a smile, 'your only regret on the subject will 
be, that I do not take all my companions along with me. I flatter myself, 
at times, that though among them, I am not of them; but it is natural that 
you should be glad to get rid of me. I may regret this, but I cannot blame 
you for it.'
'I shall not rejoice at your departure, for you can conduct yourself like a 
gentleman,' said I, thinking it but right to make some acknowledgement for 
his good behaviour, 'but I must confess I shall rejoice to bid adieu to the 
rest, inhospitable as it may appear.'
'No one can blame you for such an avowal,' replied he gravely; 'not even 
the gentlemen themselves, I imagine. I'll just tell you,' he continued, as 
if actuated by a sudden resolution, 'what was said last night in the dining-
room, after you left us - perhaps you will not mind it, as you're so very 
philosophical on certain points,' he added with a slight sneer. 'They were 
talking about Lord Lowborough and his delectable lady, the cause of whose 
sudden departure is no secret among them; and her character is so well 
known to them all, that, nearly related to me as she is, I could not 
attempt to defend it. Curse me,' he muttered, par parenthese, 'if I don't 
have vengeance for this! If the villain must disgrace the family, must he 
blazon it abroad to every low-bred knave of his acquaintance? I beg your 
pardon, Mrs Huntingdon. Well, they were talking of these things, and some 
of them remarked that, as she was separated from her husband, he might see 
her again when he pleased.
' "Thank you," said he; "I've had enough of her for the present: I'll not 
trouble to see her, unless she comes to me."
' "Then what do you mean to do, Huntingdon, when we're gone? " said Ralph 
Hattersley. "Do you mean to turn from the error of your ways, and be a good 
husband, a good father, and so forth - as I do, when I get shut of you and 
all these rollicking devils you call your friends? I think it's time; and 
your wife is fifty times too good for you, you know - "
'And he added some praise of you, which you would not thank me for 
repeating - nor him for uttering; proclaiming it aloud, as he did, without 
delicacy or discrimination, in an audience where it seemed profanation to 
utter your name - himself utterly incapable of understanding or 
appreciating your real excellences. Huntingdon, meanwhile, sat quietly 
drinking his wine, or looking smilingly into his glass and offering no 
interruption or reply, till Hattersley shouted out -
' "Do you hear me, man?"
' "Yes, go on," said he.
' "Nay, I've done," replied the other: "I only want to know if you intend 
to take my advice."
' "What advice?"
' "To turn over a new leaf, you double-dyed scoundrel," shouted Ralph, "and 
beg your wife's pardon, and be a good boy for the future."
' "My wife: what wife? I have no wife," replied Huntingdon, looking 
innocently up from his glass - "or if I have, look you, gentlemen, I value 
her so highly, that any one among you, that can fancy her, may have her and 
welcome - you may, by Jove, and my blessing into the bargain!"
'I-hem - someone asked if he really meant what he said, upon which, he 
solemnly swore he did, and no mistake. What do you think of that, Mrs 
Huntingdon?' asked Mr Hargrave, after a short pause, during which I had 
felt he was keenly examining my half-averted face.
'I say,' replied I calmly, 'that what he prizes so lightly, will not be 
long in his possession.'
'You cannot mean that you will break your heart and die for the detestable 
conduct of an infamous villain like that!'
'By no means: my heart is too thoroughly dried to be broken in a hurry, and 
I mean to live as long as I can.'
'Will you leave him then?'
'Yes.'
'When - and how?' asked he eagerly.
'When I am ready, and how I can manage it most effectually.'
'But your child?'
'My child goes with me.'
'He will not allow it.'
'I shall not ask him.'
'Ah, then, it is a secret flight you meditate! but with whom, Mrs 
Huntingdon?'
'With my son - and, possibly, his nurse.'
'Alone - and unprotected! But where can you go? what can you do? He will 
follow you and bring you back.'
'I have laid my plans too well for that. Let me once get clear of 
Grassdale, and I shall consider myself safe.'
Mr Hargrave advanced one step towards me, looked me in the face, and drew 
in his breath to speak; but that look, that heightened colour, that sudden 
sparkle of the eye, made my blood rise in wrath: I abruptly turned away 
and, snatching up my brush, began to dash away at my canvas with rather too 
much energy for the good of the picture.
'Mrs Huntingdon,' said he with bitter solemnity, 'you are cruel - cruel to 
me - cruel to yourself.'
'Mr Hargrave, remember your promise.'
'I must speak - my heart will burst if I don't! I have been silent long 
enough - and you must hear me!' cried he, boldly intercepting my retreat to 
the door. 'You tell me you owe no allegiance to your husband; he openly 
declares himself weary of you, and calmly gives you up to anybody that will 
take you; you are about to leave him; no one will believe that you go alone 
- all the world will say, "She has left him at last, and who can wonder at 
it? Few can blame her, fewer still can pity him; but who is the companion 
of her flight?" Thus you will have no credit for your virtue (if you call 
it such): even your best friends will not believe in it; because it is 
monstrous, and not to be credited - but by those who suffer, from the 
effects of it, such cruel torments that they know it to be indeed reality. 
But what can you do in the cold, rough world alone? you, a young and 
inexperienced woman, delicately nurtured, and utterly -'
'In a word, you would advise me to stay where I am,' interrupted I. 'Well, 
I'll see about it.'
'By all means, leave him!' cried he earnestly, 'but NOT alone! Helen! let 
me protect you!'
'Never! while Heaven spares my reason,' replied I, snatching away the hand 
he had presumed to seize and press between his own. But he was in for it 
now; he had fairly broken the barrier: he was completely roused, and 
determined to hazard all for victory.
'I must not be denied!' exclaimed he vehemently; and seizing both my hands, 
he held them very tight, but dropped upon his knee, and looked up in my 
face with a half-imploring, half-imperious gaze. 'You have no reason now: 
you are flying in the face of heaven's decrees. God has designed me to be 
your comfort and protector - I feel it - I know it as certainly as if a 
voice from heaven declared "Ye twain shall be one flesh" - and you spurn me 
from you -'
'Let me go, Mr Hargrave!' said I sternly. But he only tightened his grasp.
'Let me go!' I repeated, quivering with indignation.
His face was almost opposite the window as he knelt. With a slight start, I 
saw him glance towards it; and then a gleam of malicious triumph lit up his 
countenance. Looking over my shoulder, I beheld a shadow just retiring 
round the corner.
'That is Grimsby,' said he deliberately. 'He will report what he has seen 
to Huntingdon and all the rest, with such embellishments as he thinks 
proper. He has no love for you, Mrs Huntingdon - no reverence for your sex 
- no belief in virtue - no admiration for its image. He will give such a 
version of this story as will leave no doubt at all, about your character, 
in the minds of those who hear it. Your fair fame is gone; and nothing that 
I or you can say can ever retrieve it. But give me the power to protect 
you, and show me the villain that dares to insult!'
'No one has ever dared to insult me as you are doing now!' said I, at 
length releasing my hands, and recoiling from him.
'I do not insult you,' cried he: 'I worship you. You are my angel - my 
divinity! I lay my powers at your feet - and you must and shall accept 
them!' he exclaimed, impetuously starting to his feet - 'I will be your 
consoler and defender! and if your conscience upbraid you for it, say I 
overcame you, and you could not choose but yield!'
I never saw a man so terribly excited. He precipitated himself towards me. 
I snatched up my palette-knife and held it against him. This startled him: 
he stood and gazed at me in astonishment; I dare say I looked as fierce and 
resolute as he. I moved to the bell, and put my hand upon the cord. This 
tamed him still more. With a half-authoritative half-deprecating wave of 
the hand, he sought to deter me from ringing.
'Stand off, then!' said I - he stepped back - 'And listen to me. I don't 
like you,' I continued, as deliberately and emphatically as I could, to 
give the greater efficacy to my words; 'and if I were divorced from my 
husband - or if he were dead, I would not marry you. There now! I hope 
you're satisfied.'
His face grew blanched with anger.
'I am satisfied,' he replied, with bitter emphasis, 'that you are the most 
cold-hearted, unnatural, ungrateful woman I ever yet beheld!'
'Ungrateful, sir?'
'Ungrateful.'
'No, Mr Hargrave; I am not. For all the good you ever did me, or ever 
wished to do, I most sincerely thank you: for all the evil you have done 
me, and all you would have done, I pray God to pardon you, and make you of 
a better mind.'
Here the door was thrown open, and Messrs Huntingdon and Hattersley 
appeared without. The latter remained in the hall, busy with his ramrod and 
his gun; the former walked in, and stood with his back to the fire, 
surveying Mr Hargrave and me, particularly the former, with a smile of 
insupportable meaning, accompanied as it was by the impudence of his brazen 
brow, and the sly, malicious twinkle of his eye.
'Well, sir?' said Hargrave interrogatively, and with the air of one 
prepared to stand on the defensive.
'Well, sir,' returned his host.
'We want to know if you're at liberty to join us in a go at the pheasants, 
Walter,' interposed Hattersley from without. 'Come! there shall be nothing 
shot besides, except a puss or two; I'll vouch for that.'
Walter did not answer, but walked to the window to collect his faculties. 
Arthur uttered a low whistle, and followed him with his eyes. A slight 
flush of anger rose to Hargrave's cheek; but in a moment, he turned calmly 
round, and said carelessly -
'I came here to bid farewell to Mrs Huntingdon, and tell her I must go 
tomorrow.'
'Humph! You're mighty sudden in your resolution. What takes you off so 
soon, may I ask?'
'Business,' returned he, repelling the other's incredulous sneer with a 
glance of scornful defiance.
'Very good,' was the reply; and Hargrave walked away. Thereupon, Mr 
Huntingdon, gathering his coat-laps under his arms, and setting his 
shoulder against the mantelpiece, turned to me, and, addressing me in a low 
voice, scarcely above his breath, poured forth a volley of the vilest and 
grossest abuse it was possible for the imagination to conceive or the 
tongue to utter. I did not attempt to interrupt him; but my spirit kindled 
within me, and when he had done I replied -
'If your accusation were true, Mr Huntingdon, how dare you blame me?'
'She's hit it, by Jove!' cried Hattersley, rearing his gun against the 
wall; and, stepping into the room, he took his precious friend by the arm, 
and attempted to drag him away. 'Come, my lad,' he muttered; 'true or 
false, you've no right to blame her, you know - nor him either; after what 
you said last night. So come along.'
There was something implied here that I could not endure.
'Dare you suspect me, Mr Hattersley?' said I, almost beside myself with 
fury.
'Nay, nay, I suspect nobody. It's all right - it's all right. So come 
along, Huntingdon, you blackguard.'
'She can't deny it!' cried the gentleman thus addressed, grinning in 
mingled rage and triumph. 'She can't deny it if her life depended on it!' 
and muttering some more abusive language, he walked into the hall, and took 
up his hat and gun from the table.
'I scorn to justify myself to you!' said I. 'But you,' turning to 
Hattersley, 'if you presume to have any doubts on the subject, ask Mr 
Hargrave.'
At this, they simultaneously burst into a rude laugh that made my whole 
frame tingle to the fingers' ends.
'Where is he? I'll ask him myself!' said I, advancing towards them.
Suppressing a new burst of merriment, Hattersley pointed to the outer door. 
It was half open. His brother-in-law was standing on the front without.
'Mr Hargrave, will you please to step this way?' said I.
He turned and looked at me in grave surprise.
'Step this way, if you please!' I repeated, in so determined a manner that 
he could not, or did not choose to resist its authority. Somewhat 
reluctantly he ascended the steps and advanced a pace or two into the hall.
'And tell those gentlemen,' I continued - 'these men, whether or not I 
yielded to your solicitations.'
'I don't understand you, Mrs Huntingdon.'
'You do understand me, sir; and I charge you upon your honour as a 
gentleman (if you have any), to answer truly. Did I, or did I not?'
'No,' muttered he, turning away.
'Speak up, sir; they can't hear you. Did I grant your request?'
'You did not.'
'No, I'll be sworn she didn't,' said Hattersley, 'or he'd never look so 
black.'
'I'm willing to grant you the satisfaction of a gentleman, Huntingdon,' 
said Mr Hargrave, calmly addressing his host, but with a bitter sneer upon 
his countenance.
'Go to the deuce!' replied the latter, with an impatient jerk of his head. 
Hargrave withdrew with a look of cold disdain, saying -
'You know where to find me, should you feel disposed to send a friend.'
Muttered oaths and curses were all the answer this intimation obtained.
'Now, Huntingdon, you see!' said Hattersley, 'clear as the day.'
'I don't care what he sees,' said I, 'or what he imagines; but you, Mr 
Hattersley, when you hear my name belied and slandered, will you defend 
it?' 'I will.'
I instantly departed, and shut myself into the library. What could possess 
me to make such a request of such a man? I cannot tell, but drowning men 
catch at straws: they had driven me desperate between them; I hardly knew 
what I said. There was no other to preserve my name from being blackened 
and aspersed among this nest of boon companions, and through them, perhaps, 
into the world; and beside my abandoned wretch of a husband, the base, 
malignant Grimsby, and the false villain Hargrave, this boorish ruffian, 
coarse and brutal as he was, shone like a glow-worm in the dark, among its 
fellow-worms.
What a scene was this! Could I ever have imagined that I should be doomed 
to bear such insults under my own roof - to hear such things spoken in my 
presence - nay, spoken to me and of me - and by those who arrogated to 
themselves the name of gentlemen? And could I have imagined that I should 
have been able to endure it as calmly, and to repel their insults as firmly 
and as boldly as I had done? A hardness such as this, is taught by rough 
experience and despair alone.
Such thoughts as these chased one another through my mind, as I paced to 
and fro the room, and longed - oh, how I longed - to take my child and 
leave them now, without an hour's delay! But it could not be; there was 
work before me - hard work, that must be done.
'Then let me do it,' said I, 'and lose not a moment in vain repinings, and 
idle chafings against my fate, and those who influence it.'
And conquering my agitation with a powerful effort, I immediately resumed 
my task, and laboured hard all day.
Mr Hargrave did depart on the morrow; and I have never seen him since. The 
others stayed on for two or three weeks longer; but I kept aloof from them 
as much as possible, and still continued my labour, and have continued it, 
with almost unabated ardour, to the present day. I soon acquainted Rachel 
with my design, confiding all my motives and intentions to her ear, and, 
much to my agreeable surprise, found little difficulty in persuading her to 
enter into my views. She is a sober, cautious woman, but she so hates her 
master, and so loves her mistress and her nursling, that after several 
ejaculations, a few faint objections, and many tears and lamentations that 
I should be brought to such a pass, she applauded my resolution and 
consented to aid me with all her might - on one condition only - that she 
might share my exile: otherwise, she was utterly inexorable, regarding it 
as perfect madness for me and Arthur to go alone. With touching generosity, 
she modestly offered to aid me with her little hoard of savings, hoping I 
would 'excuse her for the liberty, but really, if I would do her the favour 
to accept it as a loan, she would be very happy'. Of course I could not 
think of such a thing; but now, thank Heaven, I have gathered a little 
hoard of my own, and my preparations are so far advanced, that I am looking 
forward to a speedy emancipation. Only let the stormy severity of this 
winter weather be somewhat abated, and then, some morning, Mr Huntingdon 
will come down to a solitary breakfast-table, and perhaps be clamouring 
through the house for his invisible wife and child, when they are some 
fifty miles on their way to the western world or it may be more, for we 
shall leave him hours before the dawn, and it is not probable he will 
discover the loss of both, until the day is far advanced.
I am fully alive to the evils that may and must result upon the step I am 
about to take; but I never waver in my resolution, because I never forget 
my son. It was only this morning - while I pursued my usual employment, he 
was sitting at my feet quietly playing with the shreds of canvas I had 
thrown upon the carpet - but his mind was otherwise occupied, for, in a 
while, he looked up wistfully in my face, and gravely asked -
'Mamma, why are you wicked?'
'Who told you I was wicked, love?'
'Rachel.'
'No, Arthur, Rachel never said so, I am certain.'
'Well, then, it was papa,' replied he thoughtfully. Then, after a 
reflective pause, he added, 'At least I'll tell you how it was I got to 
know: when I'm with papa, if I say mamma wants me, or mamma says I'm not to 
do something that he tells me to do - he always says, "Mamma be damned" - 
and Rachel says it's only wicked people that are damned. So, mamma, that's 
why I think you must be wicked - and I wish you wouldn't.'
'My dear child, I am not. Those are bad words, and wicked people often say 
them of others better than themselves. Those words cannot make people be 
damned, nor show that they deserve it. God will judge us by our own 
thoughts and deeds, not by what others say about us. And when you hear such 
words spoken, Arthur, remember never to repeat them: it is wicked to say 
such things of others, not to have them said against you.'
'Then it's papa that's wicked,' said he ruefully.
'Papa is wrong to say such things, and you will be very wrong to imitate 
him now that you know better.'
'What is imitate?' 'To do as he does.'
'Does he know better?'
'Perhaps he does; but that is nothing to you.'
'If he doesn't, you ought to tell him, mamma.'
'I have told him.'
The little moralist paused and pondered. I tried in vain to divert his mind 
from the subject.
'I'm sorry papa's wicked,' said he mournfully, at length, 'for I don't want 
him to go to hell.' And so saying he burst into tears.
I consoled him with the hope that perhaps his papa would alter and become 
good before he died - but is it not time to deliver him from such a parent?



Chapter 40

January 10th, 1827. While writing the above, yesterday evening, I sat in 
the drawing-room. Mr Huntingdon was present, but, as I thought, asleep on 
the sofa behind me. He had risen, however, unknown to me, and, actuated by 
some base spirit of curiosity, been looking over my shoulder for I know not 
how long; for when I had laid aside my pen, and was about to close the 
book, he suddenly placed his hand upon it, and saying - 'With your leave, 
my dear, I'll have a look at this,' forcibly wrested it from me, and, 
drawing a chair to the table, composedly sat down to examine it - turning 
back leaf after leaf to find an explanation of what he had read. Unluckily 
for me, he was more sober that night than he usually is at such an hour.
of course I did not leave him to pursue this occupation in quiet: I made 
several attempts to snatch the book from his hands, but he held it too 
firmly for that; I upbraided him in bitterness and scorn for his mean and 
dishonourable conduct, but that had no effect upon him; and, finally, I 
extinguished both the candles, but he only wheeled round to the fire, and 
raising a blaze sufficient for his purposes, calmly continued the 
investigation. I had serious thoughts of getting a pitcher of water and 
extinguishing that light too; but it was evident his curiosity was too 
keenly excited to be quenched by that, and the more I manifested my anxiety 
to baffle his scrutiny, the greater would be his determination to persist 
in it - besides, it was too late.
'It seems very interesting, love,' said he, lifting his head and turning to 
where I stood wringing my hands in silent rage and anguish; 'but it's 
rather long; I'll look at it some other time; and meanwhile, I'll trouble 
you for your keys, my dear.'
 'What keys?'
'The keys of your cabinet, desk, drawers, and whatever else you possess,' 
said he, rising and holding out his hand.
'I've not got them,' I replied. The key of my desk, in fact, was, at that 
moment, in the lock, and the others were attached to it.
'Then you must send for them,' said he; 'and if that old devil, Rachel, 
doesn't immediately deliver them up, she tramps bag and baggage tomorrow.'
'She doesn't know where they are,' I answered, quietly placing my hand upon 
them, and taking them from the desk, as I thought, unobserved. 'I know, but 
I shall not give them up without a reason.'
'And I know, too,' said he, suddenly seizing my closed hand and rudely 
abstracting them from it. He then took up one of the candles and relighted 
it by thrusting it into the fire. 'Now, then,' sneered he, 'we must have a 
confiscation of property. But, first, let us take a peep into the studio.'
And putting the keys into his pocket, he walked into the library. I 
followed, whether with the dim idea of preventing mischief, or only to know 
the worst, I can hardly tell. My painting materials were laid together on 
the corner table, ready for tomorrow's use, and only covered with a cloth. 
He soon spied them out, and putting down the candle, deliberately proceeded 
to cast them into the fire - palette, paints, bladders, pencils, brushes, 
varnish - I saw them all consumed - the palette-knives snapped in two - the 
oil and turpentine sent hissing and roaring up the chimney. He then rang 
the bell.
'Benson, take those things away,' said he, pointing to the easel, canvas, 
and stretcher; 'and tell the housemaid she may kindle the fire with them: 
your mistress won't want them any more.'
Benson paused aghast and looked at me.
'Take them away, Benson,' said I; and his master muttered an oath.
'And this and all, sir?' said the astonished servant, referring to the half-
finished picture.
'That and all,' replied the master; and the things were cleared away.
Mr Huntingdon then went upstairs. I did not attempt to follow him, but 
remained seated in the arm-chair, speechless, tearless, and almost 
motionless, till he returned about half-an-hour after, and walking up to 
me, held the candle in my face and peered into my eyes with looks and 
laughter too insulting to be borne. With a sudden stroke of my hand, I 
dashed the candle to the floor. 'Hal-lo!' muttered he, starting back - 
'She's the very devil for spite! Did ever any mortal see such eyes? - they 
shine in the dark like a cat. Oh, you're a sweet one!' - so saying, he 
gathered up the candle and the candlestick. The former being broken as well 
as extinguished, he rang for another.
'Benson, your mistress has broken the candle; bring another.'
'You expose yourself finely,' observed I as the man departed.
'I didn't say I'd broken it, did I?' returned he. He then threw my keys 
into my lap, saying - 'There! you'll find nothing gone but your money, and 
the jewels - and a few little trifles I thought it advisable to take into 
my possession, lest your mercantile spirit should be tempted to turn them 
into gold. I've left you a few sovereigns in your purse, which I expect to 
last you through the month - at all events, when you want more you will be 
so good as to give me an account of how that's spent. I shall put you upon 
a small monthly allowance, in future, for your own private expenses; and 
you needn't trouble yourself any more about my concerns; I shall look out 
for a steward, my dear; I won't expose you to the temptation. And as for 
the household matter, Mrs Greaves must be very particular in keeping her 
accounts: we must go upon an entirely new plan -'
'What great discovery have you made now, Mr Huntingdon? Have I attempted to 
defraud you?'
'Not in money matters, exactly, it seems, but it's best to keep out of the 
way of temptation.'
Here Benson entered with the candles, and there followed a brief interval 
of silence; I sitting still in my chair, and he standing with his back to 
the fire, silently triumphing in my despair.
'And so,' said he at length, 'you thought to disgrace me, did you, by 
running away and turning artist, and supporting yourself by the labour of 
your hands, forsooth? And you thought to rob me of my son too, and bring 
him up to be a dirty Yankee tradesman, or a low, beggarly painter?'
'Yes, to obviate his becoming such a gentleman as his father.'
'It's well you couldn't keep your own secret - ha, ha! It's well these 
women must be blabbing - if they haven't a friend to talk to, they must 
whisper their secrets to the fishes, or write them on the sand, or 
something; and it's well too I wasn't over full tonight, now I think of it, 
or I might have snoozed away and never dreamt of looking what my sweet lady 
was about - or I might have lacked the sense or the power to carry my point 
like a man, as I have done.'
Leaving him to his self-congratulations, I rose to secure my manuscript, 
for I now remembered it had been left upon the drawing-room table, and I 
determined, if possible, to save myself the humiliation of seeing it in his 
hands again. I could not bear the idea of his amusing himself over my 
secret thoughts and recollections; though, to be sure, he would find little 
good of himself therein indited, except in the former part - and oh, I 
would sooner burn it all than he should read what I had written when I was 
such a fool as to love him!
'And by-the-bye,' cried he as I was leaving the room, 'you'd better tell 
that old sneak of a nurse to keep out of my way for a day or two - I'd pay 
her her wages and send her packing tomorrow, but I know she'd do more 
mischief out of the house than in it.'
And as I departed, he went on cursing and abusing my faithful friend and 
servant with epithets I will not defile this paper with repeating. I went 
to her as soon as I had put away my book, and told her how our project was 
defeated. She was as much distressed and horrified as I was - and more so 
than I was that night, for I was partly stunned by the blow, and partly 
excited and supported against it by the bitterness of my wrath. But in the 
morning, when I woke without that cheering hope that had been my secret 
comfort and support so long, and all this day, when I have wandered about 
restless and objectless, shunning my husband, shrinking even from my child 
- knowing that I am unfit to be his teacher or companion, hoping nothing 
for his future life, and fervently wishing he had never been born - I felt 
the full extent of my calamity - and I feel it now. I know that day after 
day such feelings will return upon me: I am a slave - a prisoner - but that 
is nothing; if it were myself alone, I would not complain, but I am 
forbidden to rescue my son from ruin, and what was once my only 
consolation, is become the crowning source of my despair.
Have I no faith in God? I try to look to Him and raise my heart to heaven, 
but it will cleave to the dust: I can only say - 'He hath hedged me about, 
that I cannot get out: He hath made my chain heavy. He hath filled me with 
bitterness, He hath made me drunken with wormwood': I forget to add - 'But 
though He cause grief, yet will He have compassion according to the 
multitude of His mercies. For He doth not afflict willingly nor grieve the 
children of men.' I ought to think of this; and if there be nothing but 
sorrow for me in this world, what is the longest life of misery to a whole 
eternity of peace? And for my little Arthur - has he no friend but me? Who 
was it said, 'It is not the will of your Father which is in heaven that one 
of these little ones should perish'?



Chapter 41

March 20th. Having now got rid of Mr Huntingdon for a season, my spirits 
begin to revive. He left me early in February; and the moment he was gone, 
I breathed again, and felt my vital energy return; not with the hope of 
escape - he has taken care to leave me no visible chance of that - but with 
a determination to make the best of existing circumstances. Here was Arthur 
left to me at last; and rousing from my despondent apathy, I exerted all my 
powers to eradicate the weeds that had been fostered in his infant mind, 
and sow again the good seed they had rendered unproductive. Thank heaven, 
it is not a barren or a stony soil; if weeds spring fast there, so do 
better plants. His apprehensions are more quick, his heart more overflowing 
with affection than ever his father's could have been; and it is no 
hopeless task to bend him to obedience and win him to love and know his own 
true friend, as long as there is no one to counteract my efforts.
I had much trouble at first in breaking him off those evil habits his 
father had taught him to acquire, but already that difficulty is nearly 
vanquished now: bad language seldom defiles his mouth, and I have succeeded 
in giving him an absolute disgust of all intoxicating liquors, which I hope 
not even his father or his father's friends will be able to overcome. He 
was inordinately fond of them for so young a creature, and, remembering my 
unfortunate father as well as his, I dreaded the consequences of such a 
taste. But if I had stinted him in his usual quantity of wine, or forbidden 
him to taste it altogether, that would only have increased his partiality 
for it, and made him regard it as a greater treat than ever. I therefore 
gave him quite as much as his father was accustomed to allow him - as much, 
indeed, as he desired to have, but into every glass I surreptitiously 
introduced a small quantity of tartar-emetic - just enough to produce 
inevitable nausea and depression without positive sickness. Finding such 
disagreeable consequences invariably to result from this indulgence, he 
soon grew weary of it, but the more he shrank from the daily treat, the 
more I pressed it upon him, till his reluctance was strengthened to perfect 
abhorrence. When he was thoroughly disgusted with every kind of wine, I 
allowed him, at his own request, to try brandy and water, and then gin and 
water; for the little toper was familiar with them all, and I was 
determined that all should be equally hateful to him. This I have now 
effected; and since he declares that the taste, the smell, the sight of any 
one of them is sufficient to make him sick, I have given up teasing him 
about them, except now and then as objects of terror in cases of 
misbehaviour: 'Arthur, if you're not a good boy I shall give you a glass of 
wine,' or, 'Now, Arthur, if you say that again you shall have some brandy 
and water,' is as good as any other threat; and, once or twice, when he was 
sick, I have obliged the poor child to swallow a little wine and water 
without the tartaremetic, by way of medicine; and this practice I intend to 
continue for some time to come; not that I think it of any real service in 
a physical sense, but because I am determined to enlist all the powers of 
association in my service: I wish this aversion to be so deeply grounded in 
his nature that nothing in after life may be able to overcome it.
Thus, I flatter myself I shall secure him from this one vice; and for the 
rest, if on his father's return I find reason to apprehend that my good 
lessons will be all destroyed - if Mr Huntingdon commence again the game of 
teaching the child to hate and despise his mother and emulate his father's 
wickedness, I will yet deliver my son from his hands. I have devised 
another scheme that might be resorted to in such a case, and if I could but 
obtain my brother's consent and assistance, I should not doubt of its 
success. The old Hall where he and I were born, and where our mother died, 
is not now inhabited, nor yet quite sunk into decay, as I believe. Now if I 
could persuade him to have one or two rooms made habitable, and to let them 
to me as a stranger, I might live there, with my child, under an assumed 
name, and still support myself by my favourite art. He should lend me the 
money to begin with, and I would pay him back and live in lowly 
independence and strict seclusion, for the house stands in a lonely place, 
and the neighbourhood is thinly inhabited, and he himself should negotiate 
the sale of my pictures for me. I have arranged the whole plan in my head; 
and all I want, is to persuade Frederick to be of the same mind as myself. 
He is coming to see me soon, and then I will make the proposal to him, 
having first enlightened him upon my circumstances sufficiently to excuse 
the project.
Already, I believe, he knows much more of my situation than I have told 
him. I can tell this by the air of tender sadness pervading his letters; 
and by the fact of his so seldom mentioning my husband, and generally 
evincing a kind of covert bitterness when he does refer to him; as well as 
by the circumstance of his never coming to see me when Mr Huntingdon is at 
home. But he has never openly expressed any disapprobation of him or 
sympathy for me; he has never asked any questions, or said anything to 
invite my confidence. Had he done so, I should probably have had but few 
concealments from him. Perhaps he feels hurt at my reserve. He is a strange 
being - I wish we knew each other better. He used to spend a month at 
Staningley every year, before I was married; but, since our father's death, 
I have only seen him once, when he came for a few days while Mr Huntingdon 
was away. He shall stay many days this time, and there shall be more 
candour and cordiality between us than ever there was before, since our 
early childhood: my heart clings to him more than ever; and my soul is sick 
of solitude.
April 16th. - He is come and gone. He would not stay above a fortnight. The 
time passed quickly, but very, very happily, and it has done me good. I 
must have a bad disposition, for my misfortunes have soured and embittered 
me exceedingly: I was beginning insensibly to cherish very unamiable 
feelings against my fellow-mortals - the male part of them especially; but 
it is a comfort to see there is at least one among them worthy to be 
trusted and esteemed; and doubtless there are more, though I have never 
known them - unless I except poor Lord Lowborough, and he was bad enough in 
his day; but what would Frederick have been, if he had lived in the world, 
and mingled from his childhood with such men as these of my acquaintance? 
and what will Arthur be, with all his natural sweetness of disposition, if 
I do not save him from that world and those companions? I mentioned my 
fears to Frederick, and introduced the subject of my plan of rescue on the 
evening after his arrival, when I presented my little son to his uncle,
'He is like you, Frederick,' said I, 'in some of his moods: I sometimes 
think he resembles you more than his father; and I am glad of it.'
'You flatter me, Helen,' replied he, stroking the child's soft, wavy locks.
'No - you will think it no compliment when I tell you I would rather have 
him to resemble Benson than his father.'
He slightly elevated his eyebrows, but said nothing.
'Do you know what sort of man Mr Huntingdon is?' said I.
'I think I have an idea.'
'Have you so clear an idea that you can hear, without surprise or 
disapproval, that I meditate escaping with that child to some secret asylum 
where we can live in peace and never see him again?'
'Is it really so?'
'If you have not,' continued I, 'I'll tell you something more about him,' - 
and I gave a sketch of his general conduct, and a more particular account 
of his behaviour with regard to his child, explained my apprehensions on 
the latter's account, and my determination to deliver him from his father's 
influence.
Frederick was exceedingly indignant against Mr Huntingdon, and very much 
grieved for me; but still he looked upon my project as wild and 
impracticable; he deemed my fears for Arthur disproportioned to the 
circumstances, and opposed so many objections to my plans, and devised so 
many milder methods for ameliorating my condition, that I was obliged to 
enter into further details to convince him that my husband was utterly 
incorrigible, and that nothing could persuade him to give up his son, 
whatever became of me, he being as fully determined the child should not 
leave him, as I was not to leave the child; and that, in fact, nothing 
would answer but this, unless I fled the country, as I had intended before. 
To obviate that, he at length consented to have one wing of the old Hall 
put into a habitable condition, as a place of refuge against a time of 
need; but hoped I would not take advantage of it, unless circumstances 
should render it really necessary, which I was ready enough to promise; for 
though, for my own sake, such a hermitage appears like paradise itself, 
compared with my present situation, yet for my friends' sakes - for 
Milicent and Esther, my sisters in heart and affection, for the poor 
tenants of Grassdale, and above all for my aunt - I will stay if I possibly 
can.
July 29th. - Mrs Hargrave and her daughter are come back from London. 
Esther is full of her first season in town; but she is still heart - whole 
and unengaged. Her mother sought out an excellent match for her, and even 
brought the gentleman to lay his heart and fortune at her feet; but Esther 
had the audacity to refuse the noble gifts. He was a man of good family and 
large possessions, but the naughty girl maintained he was as old as Adam, 
ugly as sin, and hateful as one who shall be nameless.
'But, indeed, I had a hard time of it,' said she: 'mamma was very greatly 
disappointed at the failure of her darling project, and very, very angry at 
my obstinate resistance to her will, and is so still; but I can't help it. 
And Walter, too, is so seriously displeased at my perversity and absurd 
caprice, as he calls it, that I fear he will never forgive me - I did not 
think he could be so unkind as he has lately shown himself. But Milicent 
begged me not to yield, and I'm sure, Mrs Huntingdon, if you had seen the 
man they wanted to palm upon me, you would have advised me not to take him 
too.'
'I should have done so whether I had seen him or not,' said I. 'It is 
enough that you dislike him.'
'I knew you would say so; though mamma affirmed you would be quite shocked 
at my undutiful conduct - you can't imagine how she lectures me - I am 
disobedient and ungrateful; I am thwarting her wishes, wronging my brother, 
and making myself a burden on her hands - I sometimes fear she'll overcome 
me after all. I have a strong will, but so has she, and when she says such 
bitter things, it provokes me to such a pass that I feel inclined to do as 
she bids me, and then break my heart and say, "There, mamma, it's all your 
fault!" '
'Pray don't!' said I. 'Obedience from such a motive would be positive 
wickedness, and certain to bring the punishment it deserves. Stand firm, 
and your mamma will soon relinquish her persecution; and the gentleman 
himself will cease to pester you with his addresses if he finds them 
steadily rejected.'
'Oh, no! mamma will weary all about her before she tires herself with her 
exertions; and as for Mr Oldfield, she has given him to understand that I 
have refused his offer, not from any dislike of his person, but merely 
because I am giddy and young, and cannot at present reconcile myself to the 
thoughts of marriage under any circumstances: but, by next season, she has 
no doubt, I shall have more sense, and hopes my girlish fancies will be 
worn away. So she has brought me home, to school me into a proper sense of 
my duty, against the time comes round again - indeed, I believe she will 
not put herself to the expense of taking me up to London again, unless I 
surrender: she cannot afford to take me to town for pleasure and nonsense, 
she says, and it is not every rich gentleman that will consent to take me 
without a fortune, whatever exalted ideas I may have of my own 
attractions.'
'Well, Esther, I pity you; but still, I repeat, stand firm. You might as 
well sell yourself to slavery at once, as marry a man you dislike. If your 
mother and brother are unkind to you, you may leave them, but remember you 
are bound to your husband for life.'
'But I cannot leave them unless I get married, and I cannot get married if 
nobody sees me. I saw one or two gentlemen in London that I might have 
liked, but they were younger sons, and mamma would not let me get to know 
them - one especially, who I believe rather liked me, but she threw every 
possible obstacle in the way of our better acquaintance - wasn't it 
provoking?'
'I have no doubt you would feel it so, but it is possible that if you 
married him, you might have more reason to regret it hereafter, than if you 
married Mr Oldfield. When I tell you not to marry without love, I do not 
advise you to marry for love alone - there are many, many other things to 
be considered. Keep both heart and hand in your own possession, till you 
see good reason to part with them; and if such an occasion should never 
present itself, comfort your mind with this reflection - that, though in 
single life your joys may not be very many, your sorrows, at least, will 
not be more than you can bear. Marriage may change your circumstances for 
the better, but, in my private opinion, it is far more likely to produce a 
contrary result.'
 'So thinks Milicent; but allow me to say, I think otherwise. If I thought 
myself doomed to old maidenhood, I should cease to value my life. The 
thoughts of living on, year after year, at the Grove - a hanger - on upon 
mamma and Walter - a mere cumberer of the ground (now that I know in what 
light they would regard it), is perfectly intolerable - I would rather run 
away with the butler.'
'Your circumstances are peculiar, I allow; but have patience, love; do 
nothing rashly. Remember you are not yet nineteen, and many years are yet 
to pass before any one can set you down as an old maid: you cannot tell 
what providence may have in store for you. And meantime, remember you have 
a right to the protection and support of your mother and brother, however 
they may seem to grudge it.'
'You are so grave, Mrs Huntingdon,' said Esther, after a pause. 'When 
Milicent uttered the same discouraging sentiments concerning marriage, I 
asked if she was happy: she said she was; but I only half believed her; and 
now I must put the same question to you.'
'It is a very impertinent question,' laughed I, 'from a young girl to a 
married woman so many years her senior - and I shall not answer it.'
'Pardon me, dear madam,' said she, laughingly throwing herself into my 
arms, and kissing me with playful affection; but I felt a tear on my neck, 
as she dropped her head on my bosom and continued, with an odd mixture of 
sadness and levity, timidity and audacity - 'I know you are not so happy as 
I mean to be, for you spend half your life alone at Grassdale, while Mr 
Huntingdon goes about enjoying himself where and how he pleases - I shall 
expect my husband to have no pleasure but what he shares with me; and if 
his greatest pleasure of all is not the enjoyment of my company - why - it 
will be the worse for him - that's all.'
'If such are your expectations of matrimony, Esther, you must, indeed, be 
careful whom you marry - or rather, you must avoid it altogether.'



Chapter 42

September 1st. No Mr Huntingdon yet. Perhaps he will stay among his friends 
till Christmas; and then, next spring, he will be off again. If he continue 
this plan, I shall be able to stay at Grassdale well enough - that is, I 
shall be able to stay, and that is enough; even an occasional bevy of 
friends at the shooting season may be borne, if Arthur gets so firmly 
attached to me, so well established in good sense and principles before 
they come, that I shall be able, by reason and affection, to keep him pure 
from their contaminations. Vain hope, I fear! but still, till such a time 
of trial comes, I will forbear to think of my quiet asylum in the beloved 
old Hall.
Mr and Mrs Hattersley have been staying at the Grove a fortnight; and as Mr 
Hargrave is still absent, and the weather was remarkably fine, I never 
passed a day without seeing my two friends, Milicent and Esther, either 
there or here. On one occasion, when Mr Hattersley had driven them over to 
Grassdale in the phaeton, with little Helen and Ralph, and we were all 
enjoying ourselves in the garden - I had a few minutes' conversation with 
that gentleman, while the ladies were amusing themselves with the children.
'Do you want to hear anything of your husband, Mrs Huntingdon?' said he.
'No, unless you can tell me when to expect him home.'
'I can't. You don't want him, do you?' said he, with a broad grin.
'No.'
'Well, I think you're better without him, sure enough - for my part, I'm 
downright weary of him. I told him I'd leave him if he didn't mend his 
manners - and he wouldn't; so I left him - you see I'm a better man than 
you think me; and, what's more, I have serious thoughts of washing my hands 
of him entirely, and the whole set of 'em, and comporting myself from this 
day forward, with all decency and sobriety, as a Christian and the father 
of a family should do. What do you think of that?'
'It is a resolution you ought to have formed long ago.'
'Well, I'm not thirty yet; it isn't too late, is it?'
'No; it is never too late to reform, as long as you have the sense to 
desire it, and the strength to execute your purpose.'
'Well, to tell you the truth, I've thought of it often and often before, 
but he's such devilish good company is Huntingdon, after all - you can't 
imagine what a jovial good fellow he is when he's not fairly drunk, only 
just primed or half seas over - we all have a bit of liking for him at the 
bottom of our hearts, though we can't respect him.'
'But should you wish yourself to be like him?'
'No, I'd rather be like myself, bad as I am.'
'You can't continue as bad as you are without getting worse, and more 
brutalised every day - and therefore more like him.'
I could not help smiling at the comical, half-angry, half-confounded look 
he put on at this rather unusual mode of address.
'Never mind my plain speaking,' said I; 'it is from the best of motives. 
But, tell me, should you wish your sons to be like Mr Huntingdon - or even 
like yourself?'
'Hang it, no.'
'Should you wish your daughter to despise you - or, at least, to feel no 
vestige of respect for you, and no affection but what is mingled with the 
bitterest regret?'
'Oh, no! I couldn't stand that.'
'And, finally, should you wish your wife to be ready to sink into the earth 
when she hears you mentioned; and to loathe the very sound of your voice, 
and shudder at your approach?'
'She never will; she likes me all the same, whatever I do.'
'Impossible, Mr Hattersley! you mistake her quiet submission for 
affection.'
'Fire and fury -'
'Now don't burst into a tempest at that - I don't mean to say she does not 
love you - she does, I know, a great deal better than you deserve; but I am 
quite sure, that if you behave better, she will love you more, and if you 
behave worse, she will love you less and less, till all is lost in fear, 
aversion, and bitterness of soul, if not in secret hatred and contempt. 
But, dropping the subject of affection, should you wish to be the tyrant of 
her life - to take away all the sunshine from her existence, and make her 
thoroughly miserable?'
'Of course not; and I don't, and I'm not going to.'
'You have done more towards it than you suppose.'
'Pooh, pooh! she's not the susceptible, anxious, worriting creature you 
imagine; she's a little meek, peaceable, affectionate body; apt to be 
rather sulky at times, but quiet and cool in the main, and ready to take 
things as they come.'
'Think of what she was five years ago, when you married her, and what she 
is now.'
'I know - she was a little plump lassie then, with a pretty pink and white 
face: now she's a poor little bit of a creature, fading and melting away 
like a snow-wreath - but hang it! - that's not my fault.'
'What is the cause of it then? Not years, for she's only five-and-twenty.'
'It's her own delicate health, and - confound it, madam! what would you 
make of me? - and the children, to be sure, that worry her to death between 
them.'
'No, Mr Hattersley, the children give her more pleasure than pain: they are 
fine, well-dispositioned children -'
'I know they are - bless them!'
'Then why lay the blame on them? I'll tell you what it is: it's silent 
fretting and constant anxiety on your account, mingled, I suspect, with 
something of bodily fear on her own. When you behave well, she can only 
rejoice with trembling; she has no security, no confidence in your 
judgement of principles; but is continually dreading the close of such 
short-lived felicity; when you behave ill, her causes of terror and misery 
are more than any one can tell but herself. In patient endurance of evil, 
she forgets it is our duty to admonish our neighbours of their 
transgressions. Since you will mistake her silence for indifference, come 
with me, and I'll show you one or two of her letters - no breach of 
confidence, I hope, since you are her other half.'
He followed me into the library. I sought out and put into his hands two of 
Milicent's letters; one dated from London, and written during one of his 
wildest seasons of reckless dissipation; the other in the country during a 
lucid interval. The former was full of trouble and anguish; not accusing 
him, but deeply regretting his connexion with his profligate companions, 
abusing Mr Grimsby and others, insinuating bitter things against Mr 
Huntingdon, and most ingeniously throwing the blame of her husband's 
misconduct on to other men's shoulders. The latter was full of hope and 
joy, yet with a trembling consciousness that this happiness would not last; 
praising his goodness to the skies, but with an evident, though but half-
expressed wish, that it were based on a surer foundation than the natural 
impulses of the heart, and a half-prophetic dread of the fall of that house 
so founded on the sand - which fall had shortly after taken place, as 
Hattersley must have been conscious while he read.
Almost at the commencement of the first letter I had the unexpected 
pleasure of seeing him blush; but he immediately turned his back to me, and 
finished the perusal at the window. At the second, I saw him, once or 
twice, raise his hand, and hurriedly pass it across his face. Could it be 
to dash away a tear? When he had done, there was an interval spent in 
clearing his throat, and staring out of the window, and then, after 
whistling a few bars of a favourite air, he turned round, gave me back the 
letters, and silently shook me by the hand.
'I've been a cursed rascal, God knows,' said he, as he gave it a hearty 
squeeze, 'but you see if I don't make amends for it-d n me, if I don't!'
'Don't curse yourself, Mr Hattersley; if God had heard half your 
invocations of that kind, you would have been in hell long before now - and 
you cannot make amends for the past by doing your duty for the future, 
inasmuch as your duty is only what you owe to your Maker, and you cannot do 
more than fulfil it - another must make amends for your past delinquencies. 
If you intend to reform, invoke God's blessing, His mercy, and His aid; not 
His curse.'
'God help me, then - for I'm sure I need it - Where's Milicent?'
'She's there, just coming in with her sister.'
He stepped out at the glass door, and went to meet them. I followed at a 
little distance. Somewhat to his wife's astonishment, he lifted her off 
from the ground, and saluted her with a hearty kiss and a strong embrace; 
then, placing his two hands on her shoulders, he gave her, I suppose, a 
sketch of the great things he meant to do, for she suddenly threw her arms 
round him, and burst into tears, exclaiming -
'Do, do, Ralph - we shall be so happy! How very, very good you are!'
'Nay, not I,' said he, turning her round, and pushing her towards me. 
'Thank her; it's her doing.'
Milicent flew to thank me, overflowing with gratitude. I disclaimed all 
title to it, telling her her husband was predisposed to amendment before I 
added my mite of exhortation and encouragement, and that I had only done 
what she might - and ought to - have done herself.
'Oh, no!' cried she, 'I couldn't have influenced him, I'm sure, by anything 
that I could have said. I should only have bothered him by my clumsy 
efforts at persuasion, if I had made the attempt.'
'You never tried me, Milly,' said he.
Shortly after, they took their leave. They are now gone on a visit to 
Hattersley's father. After that, they will repair to their country home. I 
hope his good resolutions will not fall through, and poor Milicent will not 
be again disappointed. Her last letter was full of present bliss, and 
pleasing anticipations for the future; but no particular temptation has yet 
occurred to put his virtue to the test. Henceforth, however, she will 
doubtless be somewhat less timid and reserved, and he more kind and 
thoughtful. Surely, then, her hopes are not unfounded; and I have one 
bright spot, at least, whereon to rest my thoughts.



Chapter 43

October 10th. Mr Huntingdon returned about three weeks ago. His appearance, 
his demeanour and conversation, and my feelings with regard to him, I shall 
not trouble myself to describe. The day after his arrival, however, he 
surprised me by the announcement of an intention to procure a governess for 
little Arthur: I told him it was quite unnecessary, not to say ridiculous, 
at the present season: I thought I was fully competent to the task of 
teaching him myself - for some years to come, at least: the child's 
education was the only pleasure and business of my life; and since he had 
deprived me of every other occupation, he might surely leave me that.
He said I was not fit to teach children, or to be with them: I had already 
reduced the boy to little better than an automaton, I had broken his fine 
spirit with my rigid severity; and I should freeze all the sunshine out of 
his heart, and make him as gloomy an ascetic as myself, if I had the 
handling of him much longer. And poor Rachel, too, came in for her share of 
abuse, as usual; he cannot endure Rachel, because he knows she has a proper 
appreciation of him.
I calmly defended our several qualifications as nurse and governess, and 
still resisted the proposed addition to our family; but he cut me short by 
saying, it was no use bothering about the matter, for he had engaged a 
governess already, and she was coming next week; so that all I had to do 
was to get things ready for her reception. This was a rather startling 
piece of intelligence. I ventured to inquire her name and address, by whom 
she had been recommended, or how he had been led to make choice of her.
'She is a very estimable, pious young person,' said he; 'you needn't be 
afraid. Her name is Myers, I believe; and she was recommended to me by a 
respectable old dowager - a lady of high repute in the religious world. I 
have not seen her myself, and therefore cannot give you a particular 
account of her person and conversation, and so forth; but, if the old 
lady's eulogies are correct, you will find her to possess all desirable 
qualifications for her position - an inordinate love of children among the 
rest.'
All this was gravely and quietly spoken, but there was a laughing demon in 
his half-averted eye that boded no good I imagined. However, I thought of 
my asylum in --shire, and made no further objections.
When Miss Myers arrived, I was not prepared to give her a very cordial 
reception. Her appearance was not particularly calculated to produce a 
favourable impression at first sight, nor did her manners and subsequent 
conduct, in any degree, remove the prejudice I had already conceived 
against her. Her attainments were limited, her intellect noways above 
mediocrity. She had a fine voice, and could sing like a nightingale, and 
accompany herself sufficiently well on the piano; but these were her only 
accomplishments. There was a look of guile and subtlety in her face, a 
sound of it in her voice. She seemed afraid of me, and would start if I 
suddenly approached her. In her behaviour, she was respectful and 
complaisant, even to servility: she attempted to flatter and fawn upon me 
at first, but I soon checked that. Her fondness for her little pupil was 
overstrained, and I was obliged to remonstrate with her on the subject of 
over-indulgence and injudicious praise; but she could not gain his heart. 
Her piety consisted in an occasional heaving of sighs, and uplifting of 
eyes to the ceiling, and the utterance of a few cant phrases. She told me 
she was a clergyman's daughter, and had been left an orphan from her 
childhood, but had had the good fortune to obtain a situation in a very 
pious family; and then she spoke so gratefully of the kindness she had 
experienced from its different members, that I reproached myself for my 
uncharitable thoughts and unfriendly conduct, and relented for a time - but 
not for long; my causes of dislike were too rational, my suspicions too 
well founded for that; and I knew it was my duty to watch and scrutinise 
till those suspicions were either satisfactorily removed or confirmed.
I asked the name and residence of the kind and pious family. She mentioned 
a common name, and an unknown and distant place of abode, but told me they 
were now on the Continent, and their present address was unknown to her. I 
never saw her speak much to Mr Huntingdon; but he would frequently look 
into the schoolroom to see how little Arthur got on with his new companion, 
when I was not there. In the evening, she sat with us in the drawing-room, 
and would sing and play to amuse him - or us, as she pretended - and was 
very attentive to his wants, and watchful to anticipate them, though she 
only talked to me - indeed, he was seldom in a condition to be talked to. 
Had she been other than she was, I should have felt her presence a great 
relief to come between us thus, except, indeed, that I should have been 
thoroughly ashamed for any decent person to see him as he often was.
I did not mention my suspicions to Rachel; but she, having sojourned for 
half a century in this land of sin and sorrow, has learned to be suspicious 
herself. She told me from the first she was 'down of that new governess', 
and I soon found she watched her quite as narrowly as I did; and I was glad 
of it, for I longed to know the truth; the atmosphere of Grassdale seemed 
to stifle me, and I could only live by thinking of Wildfell Hall.
At last, one morning, she entered my chamber with such intelligence that my 
resolution was taken before she had ceased to speak. While she dressed me I 
explained to her my intentions and what assistance I should require from 
her, and told her which of my things she was to pack up, and what she was 
to leave behind for herself, as I had no other means of recompensing her 
for this sudden dismissal after her long and faithful service - a 
circumstance I most deeply regretted, but could not avoid.
'And what will you do, Rachel?' said I; 'will you go home, or seek another 
place?'
'I have no home, ma'am, but with you,' she replied; 'and if I leave you 
I'll never go into place again as long as I live.'
'But I can't afford to live like a lady, now,' returned I: 'I must be my 
own maid and my child's nurse.'
'What signifies?' replied she in some excitement. 'You'll want somebody to 
clean and wash, and cook, won't you? I can do all that; and never mind the 
wages - I've my bits o' savings yet, and if you wouldn't take me I should 
have to find my own board and lodging out of 'em somewhere, or else work 
among strangers - and it's what I'm not used to - so you can please 
yourself, ma'am.' Her voice quavered as she spoke, and the tears stood in 
her eyes.
'I should like it above all things, Rachel, and I'd give you such wages as 
I could afford - such as I should give to any servant - of all - work I 
might employ; but don't you see I should be dragging you down with me when 
you have done nothing to deserve it?'
'Oh, fiddle!' ejaculated she.
'And, besides, my future way of living will be so widely different to the 
past - so different to all you have been accustomed to -'
'Do you think, ma'am, I can't bear what my missis can? surely I'm not so 
proud and so dainty as that comes to - and my little master, too, God bless 
him!'
'But I'm young, Rachel; I shan't mind it; and Arthur is young too - it will 
be nothing to him.'
'Nor me either: I'm not so old but what I can stand hard fare and hard 
work, if it's only to help and comfort them as I've loved like my own 
bairns - for all I'm too old to bide the thoughts o' leaving 'em in trouble 
and danger, and going amongst strangers myself.'
'Then you shan't, Rachel!' cried I, embracing my faithful friend. 'We'll 
all go together, and you shall see how the new life suits you.'
'Bless you, honey!' cried she, affectionately returning my embrace. 'Only 
let us get shut of this wicked house, and we'll do right enough, you'll 
see.'
'So think I,' was my answer; and so that point was settled.
By that morning's post, I dispatched a few hasty lines to Frederick, 
beseeching him to prepare my asylum for my immediate reception - for I 
should probably come to claim it within a day after the receipt of that 
note - and telling him, in few words, the cause of my sudden resolution. I 
then wrote three letters of adieu: the first to Esther Hargrave, in which I 
told her that I found it impossible to stay any longer at Grassdale, or to 
leave my son under his father's protection; and, as it was of the last 
importance that our future abode should be unknown to him and his 
acquaintance, I should disclose it to no one but my brother, through the 
medium of whom I hoped still to correspond with my friends. I then gave her 
his address, exhorted her to write frequently, reiterated some of my former 
admonitions regarding her own concerns, and bade her a fond farewell.
The second was to Milicent; much to the same effect, but a little more 
confidential, as befitted our longer intimacy, and her greater experience 
and better acquaintance with my circumstances.
The third was to my aunt - a much more difficult and painful undertaking, 
and therefore I had left it to the last; but I must give her some 
explanation of that extraordinary step I had taken - and that quickly, for 
she and my uncle would no doubt hear of it within a day or two after my 
disappearance, as it was probable that Mr Huntingdon would speedily apply 
to them to what was become of me. At last, however, I told her I was 
sensible of my error: I did not complain of its punishment, and I was sorry 
to trouble my friends with its consequences; but in duty to my son, I must 
submit no longer; it was absolutely necessary that he should be delivered 
from his father's corrupting influence. I should not disclose my place of 
refuge even to her, in order that she and my uncle might be able, with 
truth, to deny all knowledge concerning it; but any communications 
addressed to me under cover to my brother would be certain to reach me. I 
hoped she and my uncle would pardon the step I had taken, for if they knew 
all, I was sure they would not blame me; and I trusted they would not 
afflict themselves on my account, for if I could only reach my retreat in 
safety and keep it unmolested, I should be very happy, but for the thoughts 
of them; and should be quite contented to spend my life in obscurity, 
devoting myself to the training up of my child, and teaching him to avoid 
the errors of both his parents.
These things were done yesterday: I have given two whole days to the 
preparation for our departure, that Frederick may have more time to prepare 
the rooms, and Rachel to pack up the things - for the latter task must be 
done with the utmost caution and secrecy, and there is no one but me to 
assist her: I can help to get the articles together, but I do not 
understand the art of stowing them into the boxes, so as to take up the 
smallest possible space; and there are her own things to do, as well as 
mine and Arthur's. I can ill afford to leave anything behind, since I have 
no money, except a few guineas in my purse; and besides, as Rachel 
observed, whatever I left would most likely become the property of Miss 
Myers, and I should not relish that.
But what trouble I have had throughout these two days struggling to appear 
calm and collected - to meet him and her as usual, when I was obliged to 
meet them, and forcing myself to leave my little Arthur in her hands for 
hours together! But I trust these trials are now over: I have laid him in 
my bed for better security, and never more, I trust, shall his innocent 
lips be defiled by their contaminating kisses, or his young ears polluted 
by their words. But shall we escape in safety? Oh, that the morning were 
come, and we were on our way at least! This evening, when I had given 
Rachel all the assistance I could, and had nothing left me but to wait, and 
wish and tremble, I became so greatly agitated, that I knew not what to do. 
I went down to dinner, but I could not force myself to eat. Mr Huntingdon 
remarked the circumstance.
'What's to do with you now?' said he, when the removal of the second course 
gave him time to look about him.
'I am not well,' I replied: 'I think I must lie down a little - you won't 
miss me much!'
'Not the least: if you leave your chair, it'll do just as well - better a 
trifle,' he muttered, as I left the room, 'for I can fancy somebody else 
fills it.'
'Somebody else may fill it tomorrow,' I thought - but did not say. 'There! 
I've seen the last of you, I hope,' I muttered as I closed the door upon 
him.
Rachel urged me to seek repose, at once, to recruit my strength for 
tomorrow's journey, as we must be gone before the dawn, but in my present 
state of nervous excitement that was entirely out of the question. It was 
equally out of the question to sit, or wander about my room, counting the 
hours and the minutes between me and the appointed time of action, 
straining my ears and trembling at every sound, lest someone should 
discover and betray us after all. I took up a book and tried to read. My 
eyes wandered over the pages, but it was impossible to bind my thoughts to 
their contents. Why not have recourse to the old expedient, and add this 
last event to my chronicle? I opened its pages once more, and wrote the 
above account - with difficulty, at first, but gradually my mind became 
more calm and steady. Thus several hours have passed away: the time is 
drawing near; and now my eyes feel heavy, and my frame exhausted: I will 
commend my cause to God, and then lie down and gain an hour or two of 
sleep; and then! -
Little Arthur sleeps soundly. All the house is still: there can be no one 
watching. The boxes were all corded by Benson, and quietly conveyed down 
the back stairs after dusk, and sent away in a cart to the M-- coach-
office. The name upon the cards was Mrs Graham, which appellation I mean 
henceforth to adopt. My mother's maiden name was Graham, and therefore I 
fancy I have some claim to it, and prefer it to any other, except my own, 
which I dare not resume.



Chapter 44

October 24th. Thank heaven, I am free and safe at last! Early we rose, 
swiftly and quietly dressed, slowly and stealthily descended to the hall, 
where Benson stood ready with a light to open the door and fasten it after 
us. We were obliged to let one man into our secret on account of the boxes, 
etc. All the servants were but too well acquainted with their master's 
conduct, and either Benson or John would have been willing to serve me, but 
as the former was more staid and elderly, and a crony of Rachel's besides, 
I of course directed her to make choice of him as her assistant and 
confidant on the occasion, as far as necessity demanded. I only hope he may 
not be brought into trouble thereby, and only wish I could reward him for 
the perilous service he was so ready to undertake. I slipped two guineas 
into his hand, by way of remembrance, as he stood in the doorway, holding 
the candle to light our departure, with a tear in his honest grey eye and a 
host of good wishes depicted on his solemn countenance. Alas! I could offer 
no more: I had barely sufficient remaining for the probable expenses of the 
journey.
What trembling joy it was when the little wicket closed behind us as we 
issued from the park! Then, for one moment, I paused, to inhale one draught 
of that cool, bracing air, and venture one look back upon the house. All 
was dark and still: no light glimmered in the windows; no wreath of smoke 
obscured the stars that sparkled above it in the frosty sky. As I bade 
farewell for ever to that place, the scene of so much guilt and misery, I 
felt glad that I had not left it before, for now there was no doubt about 
the propriety of such a step - no shadow of remorse for him I left behind: 
there was nothing to disturb my joy but the fear of detection; and every 
step removed us further from the chance of that.
We had left Grassdale many miles behind us, before the round, red sun arose 
to welcome our deliverance, and if any inhabitant of its vicinity had 
chanced to see us, then, as we bowled along on the top of the coach, I 
scarcely think they would have suspected our identity. As I intend to be 
taken for a widow I thought it advisable to enter my new abode in mourning: 
I was therefore attired in a plain black silk dress and mantle, a black 
veil (which I kept carefully over my face for the first twenty or thirty 
miles of the journey), and a black silk bonnet, which I had been 
constrained to borrow of Rachel for want of such an article myself - it was 
not in the newest fashion, of course; but none the worse for that, under 
present circumstances. Arthur was clad in his plainest clothes, and wrapped 
in a coarse woollen shawl; and Rachel was muffled in a grey cloak and hood 
that had seen better days, and gave her more the appearance of an ordinary 
though decent old woman, than of a lady's maid.
Oh, what delight it was to be thus seated aloft, rumbling along the broad, 
sunshiny road, with the fresh morning breeze in my face, surrounded by an 
unknown country all smiling - cheerfully, gloriously smiling in the yellow 
lustre of those early beams - with my darling child in my arms, almost as 
happy as myself, and my faithful friend beside me; a prison and despair 
behind me, receding further, further back at every clatter of the horse's 
feet - and liberty and hope before! I could hardly refrain from praising 
God aloud for my deliverance, or astonishing my fellow-passengers by some 
surprising outburst of hilarity.
But the journey was a very long one, and we were all weary enough before 
the close of it. It was far into the night when we reached the town of --, 
and still we were seven miles from our journey's end; and there was no more 
coaching - nor any conveyance - to be had, except a common cart - and that 
with the greatest difficulty, for half the town was in bed. And a dreary 
ride we had of it that last stage of the journey, cold and weary as we 
were; sitting on our boxes, with nothing to cling to, nothing to lean 
against, slowly dragged and cruelly shaken over the rough, hilly roads. But 
Arthur was asleep in Rachel's lap, and between us we managed pretty well to 
shield him from the cold night air.
At last we began to ascend a terribly steep and stony lane, which, in spite 
of the darkness, Rachel said she remembered well: she had often walked 
there with me in her arms, and little thought to come again so many years 
after, under such circumstances as the present. Arthur being now awakened 
by the jolting and the stoppages, we all got out and walked. We had not far 
to go; but what if Frederick should not have received my letter? or if he 
should not have had time to prepare the rooms for our reception; and we 
should find them all dark, damp, and comfortless; destitute of food, fire, 
and furniture, after all our toil?
At length the grim, dark pile appeared before us. The lane conducted us 
round by the back way. We entered the desolate court, and in breathless 
anxiety surveyed the ruinous mass. Was it all blackness and desolation? No; 
one faint red glimmer cheered us from a window where the lattice was in 
good repair. The door was fastened, but after due knocking and waiting, and 
some parleying with a voice from an upper window, we were admitted, by an 
old woman who had been commissioned to air and keep the house till our 
arrival, into a tolerably snug little apartment, formerly the scullery of 
the mansion, which Frederick had now fitted up as a kitchen. Here she 
procured us a light, roused the fire to a cheerful blaze, and soon prepared 
a simple repast for our refreshment; while we disencumbered ourselves of 
our travelling gear, and took a hasty survey of our new abode. Besides the 
kitchen there were two bedrooms, a good-sized parlour, and another smaller 
one, which I destined for my studio, all well aired and seemingly in good 
repair, but only partly furnished with a few old articles, chiefly of 
ponderous black oak - the veritable ones that had been there before, and 
which had been kept as antiquarian relics in my brother's present 
residence, and now, in all haste, transported back again.
The old woman brought my supper and Arthur's into the parlour, and told me, 
with all due formality, that 'The master desired his compliments to Mrs 
Graham, and he had prepared the rooms as well as he could upon so short a 
notice, but he would do himself the pleasure of calling upon her tomorrow, 
to receive her further commands.'
I was glad to ascend the stern-looking stone staircase, and lie down in the 
gloomy old-fashioned bed, beside my little Arthur. He was asleep in a 
minute; but, weary as I was, my excited feelings and restless cogitations 
kept me awake till dawn began to struggle with the darkness; but sleep was 
sweet and refreshing when it came, and the waking was delightful beyond 
expression. It was little Arthur that roused me, with his gentle kisses: He 
was here, then - safely clasped in my arms, and many leagues away from his 
unworthy father! Broad daylight illumined the apartment, for the sun was 
high in heaven, though obscured by rolling masses of autumnal vapour.
The scene, indeed, was not remarkably cheerful in itself, either within or 
without. The large bare room, with its grim old furniture, the narrow, 
latticed windows, revealing the dull, grey sky above and the desolate 
wilderness below, where the dark stone walls and iron gate, the rank growth 
of grass and weeds, and the hardy evergreens of preternatural forms, alone 
remained to tell that there had been once a garden - and the bleak and 
barren fields beyond might have struck me as gloomy enough at another time, 
but now each separate object seemed to echo back my own exhilarating sense 
of hope and freedom: indefinite dreams of the far past and bright 
anticipations of the future seemed to greet me at every turn. I should 
rejoice with more security, to be sure, had the broad sea rolled between my 
present and my former homes, but surely in this lonely spot I might remain 
unknown; and then, I had my brother here to cheer my solitude with his 
occasional visits.
He came that morning; and I have had several interviews with him alone; but 
he is obliged to be very cautious when and how he comes; not even his 
servants or his best friends must know of his visits to Wildfell - except 
on such occasions as a landlord might be expected to call upon a stranger 
tenant - lest suspicion should be excited against me, whether of the truth 
or of some slanderous falsehood.
I have now been here nearly a fortnight, and, but for one disturbing care, 
the haunting dread of discovery, I am comfortably settled in my new home: 
Frederick has supplied me with all requisite furniture and painting 
materials: Rachel has sold most of my clothes for me, in a distant town, 
and procured me a wardrobe more suitable to my present position: I have a 
second-hand piano, and a tolerably well-stocked bookcase in my parlour; and 
my other room has assumed quite a professional, business-like appearance 
already. I am working hard to repay my brother for all his expenses on my 
account; not that there is the slightest necessity for anything of the 
kind, but it pleases me to do so: I shall have so much more pleasure in my 
labour, my earnings, my frugal fare, and household economy, when I know 
that I am paying my way honestly, and that what little I possess is 
legitimately all my own; and that no one suffers for my folly - in a 
pecuniary way at least. I shall make him take the last penny I owe him, if 
I can possibly effect it without offending him too deeply. I have a few 
pictures already done, for I told Rachel to pack up all I had; and she 
executed her commission but too well, for among the rest, she put up a 
portrait of Mr Huntingdon that I had painted in the first year of my 
marriage. It struck me with dismay, at the moment, when I took it from the 
box and beheld those eyes fixed upon me in their mocking mirth, as if 
exulting, still, in his power to control my fate, and deriding my efforts 
to escape.
How widely different had been my feelings in painting that portrait to what 
they now were in looking upon it! How I had studied and toiled to produce 
something, as I thought, worthy of the original! what mingled pleasure and 
dissatisfaction I had had in the result of my labours! - pleasure for the 
likeness I had caught; dissatisfaction, because I had not made it handsome 
enough. Now, I see no beauty in it - nothing pleasing in any part of its 
expression; and yet it is far handsomer and far more agreeable - far less 
repulsive I should rather say - than he is now; for these six years have 
wrought almost as great a change upon himself as on my feelings regarding 
him. The frame, however, is handsome enough; it will serve for another 
painting. The picture itself I have not destroyed, as I had first intended; 
I have put it aside; not, I think, from any lurking tenderness for the 
memory of past affection, nor yet to remind me of my former folly, but 
chiefly that I may compare my son's features and countenance with this, as 
he grow s up, and thus be enabled to judge how much or how little he 
resembles his father - if I may be allowed to keep him with me still, and 
never to behold that father's face again - a blessing I hardly dare to 
reckon upon.
It seems Mr Huntingdon is making every exertion to discover the place of my 
retreat. He has been in person to Staningley, seeking redress for his 
grievances - expecting to hear of his victims, if not to find them there - 
and has told so many lies, and with such unblushing coolness, that my uncle 
more than half believes him, and strongly advocates my going back to him 
and being friends again; but my aunt knows better, she is too cool and 
cautious, and too well acquainted with both my husband's character and my 
own to be imposed upon by any specious falsehoods the former could invent. 
But he does not want me back; he wants my child; and gives my friends to 
understand that if I prefer living apart from him, he will indulge the whim 
and let me do so unmolested, and even settle a reasonable allowance on me, 
provided I will immediately deliver up his son. But, Heaven help me! I am 
not going to sell my child for gold, though it were to save both him and me 
from starving: it would be better that he should die with me, than that he 
should live with his father.
Frederick showed me a letter he had received from that gentleman, full of 
cool impudence such as would astonish any one who did not know him, but 
such as, I am convinced, none would know better how to answer than my 
brother. He gave me no account of his reply, except to tell me that he had 
not acknowledged his acquaintance with my place of refuge, but rather left 
it to be inferred that it was quite unknown to him, by saying it was 
useless to apply to him, or any other of my relations, for information on 
the subject, as it appeared I had been driven to such extremity, that I had 
concealed my retreat even from my best friends; but that if he had known 
it, or should at any time be made aware of it, most certainly Mr Huntingdon 
would be the last person to whom he should communicate the intelligence; 
and that he need not trouble himself to bargain for the child, for he 
(Frederick) fancied he knew enough of his sister to enable him to declare, 
that wherever she might be, or however situated, no consideration would 
induce her to deliver him up.
30th. - Alas! my kind neighbours will not let me alone. By some means they 
have ferreted me out, and I have had to sustain visits from three different 
families, all more or less bent upon discovering who and what I am, whence 
I came, and why I have chosen such a home as this. Their society is 
unnecessary to me, to say the least, and their curiosity annoys and alarms 
me: if I gratify it, it may lead to the ruin of my son, and if I am too 
mysterious, it will only excite their suspicions, invite conjecture, and 
rouse them to greater exertions - and perhaps by the means of spreading my 
fame from parish to parish, till it reach the ears of someone who will 
carry it to the lord of Grassdale Manor.
I shall be expected to return their calls, but if, upon inquiry, I find 
that any of them live too far away for Arthur to accompany me, they must 
expect in vain for a while, for I cannot bear to leave him, unless it be to 
go to church; and I have not attempted that yet, for - it may be foolish 
weakness, but I am under such constant dread of his being snatched away, 
that I am never easy when he is not by my side; and I fear these nervous 
terrors would so entirely disturb my devotions, that I should obtain no 
benefit from the attendance. I mean, however, to make the experiment next 
Sunday, and oblige myself to leave him in charge of Rachel for a few hours. 
It will be a hard task, but surely no imprudence; and the vicar has been to 
scold me for my neglect of the ordinances of religion. I had no sufficient 
excuse to offer, and I promised, if all were well, he should see me in my 
pew next Sunday; for I do not wish to be set down as an infidel; and, 
besides, I know I should derive great comfort and benefit from an 
occasional attendance at public worship, if I could only have faith and 
fortitude to compose my thoughts in conformity with the solemn occasion, 
and forbid them to be for ever dwelling on my absent child, and on the 
dreadful possibility of finding him gone when I return; and surely God in 
His mercy will preserve me from so severe a trial: for my child's own sake, 
if not for mine, He will not suffer him to be torn away.
November 3rd. - I have made some further acquaintance with my neighbours. 
The fine gentleman, and beau of the parish and its vicinity (in his own 
estimation, at least), is a young...
Here it ended. The rest was torn away. How cruel - just when she was going 
to mention me! for I could not doubt it was your humble servant she was 
about to mention, though not very favourably of course - I could tell that, 
as well by those few words as by the recollection of her whole aspect and 
demeanour towards me in the commencement of our acquaintance. Well! I could 
readily forgive her prejudice against me, and her hard thoughts of our sex 
in general, when I saw to what brilliant specimens her experience had been 
limited.
Respecting me, however, she had long since seen her error, and perhaps 
fallen into another in the opposite extreme; for if, at first, her opinion 
of me had been lower than I deserved, I was convinced that now my deserts 
were lower than her opinion; and if the former part of this continuation 
had been torn away to avoid wounding my feelings, perhaps the latter 
portion had been removed for fear of ministering too much to my self-
conceit. At any rate, I would have given much to have seen it all - to have 
witnessed the gradual friendship for me - and whatever warmer feeling she 
might have - to have seen how much of love there was in her regard, and how 
it had grown upon her in spite of her virtuous resolutions and strenuous 
exertions to - but no, I had no right to see it: all this was too sacred 
for any eyes but her own, and she had done well to keep it from me.



Chapter 45

Well, Halford, what do you think of all this? and while you read it, did 
you ever picture to yourself what my feelings would probably be during its 
perusal? Most likely not; but I am not going to descant upon them now: I 
will only make this acknowledgement, little honourable as it may be to 
human nature, and especially to myself: that the former half of the 
narrative was, to me, more painful than the latter; not that I was at all 
insensible to Mrs Huntingdon's wrongs or unmoved by her sufferings, but, I 
must confess, I felt a kind of selfish gratification in watching her 
husband's gradual decline in her good graces, and seeing how completely he 
extinguished all her affection at last. The effect of the whole, however, 
in spite of all my sympathy for her, and my fury against him, was to 
relieve my mind of an intolerable burden, and fill my heart with joy, as if 
some friend had roused me from a dreadful nightmare.
It was now near eight o'clock in the morning, for my candle had expired in 
the midst of my perusal, leaving me no alternative but to get another, at 
the expense of alarming the house, or to go to bed and wait the return of 
daylight. On my mother's account, I chose the latter; but how willingly I 
sought my pillow, and how much sleep it brought me, I leave you to imagine.
At the first appearance of dawn, I rose, and brought the manuscript to the 
window, but it was impossible to read it yet. I devoted half-an-hour to 
dressing, and then returned to it again. Now, with a little difflculty, I 
could manage; and with intense and eager interest, I devoured the remainder 
of its contents. When it was ended, and my transient regret at its abrupt 
conclusion was over, I opened the window and put out my head to catch the 
cooling breeze, and imbibe deep draughts of the pure morning air. A 
splendid morning it was; the half-frozen dew lay thick on the grass, the 
swallows were twittering round me, the rooks cawing, and cows lowing in the 
distance; and early frost and summer sunshine mingled their sweetness in 
the air. But I did not think of that; a confusion of countless thoughts and 
varied emotions crowded upon me while I gazed abstractedly on the lovely 
face of nature. Soon, however, this chaos of thoughts and passions cleared 
away, giving place to two distinct emotions; joy unspeakable that my adored 
Helen was all I wished to think her - that through the noisome vapours of 
the world's aspersions and my own fancied convictions, her character shone 
bright, and clear, and stainless as that sun I could not bear to look on; 
and shame and deep remorse for my own conduct.
Immediately after breakfast, I hurried over to Wildfell Hall. Rachel had 
risen many degrees in my estimation since yesterday. I was ready to greet 
her quite as an old friend; but every kindly impulse was checked by the 
look of cold distrust she cast upon me on opening the door. The old virgin 
had constituted herself the guardian of her lady's honour, I supposed, and 
doubtless she saw in me another Mr Hargrave, only the more dangerous in 
being more esteemed and trusted by her mistress.
'Missis can't see any one today, sir - she's poorly,' said she, in answer 
to my inquiry for Mrs Graham.
'But I must see her, Rachel,' said I, placing my hand on the door to 
prevent its being shut against me.
'Indeed, sir, you can't,' replied she, settling her countenance in still 
more iron frigidity than before. 'Be so good as to announce me.'
'It's no manner of use, Mr Markham; she's poorly, I tell you.'
Just in time to prevent me from committing the impropriety of taking the 
citadel by storm, and pushing forward unannounced, an inner door opened, 
and little Arthur appeared with his frolicsome playfellow, the dog. He 
seized my hand between both his, and smilingly drew me forward.
''Mamma says you're to come in, Mr Markham,' said he, 'and I am to go out 
and play with Rover.'
Rachel retired with a sigh, and I stepped into the parlour and shut the 
door. There, before the fireplace, stood the tall, graceful figure, wasted 
with many sorrows. I cast the manuscript on the table, and looked in her 
face. Anxious and pale, it was turned towards me; her clear, dark eyes were 
fixed on mine with a gaze so intensely earnest that they bound me like a 
spell.
'Have you looked it over?' she murmured. The spell was broken.
'I've read it through,' said I, advancing into the room - 'and I want to 
know if you'll forgive me - if you can forgive me?'
She did not answer, but her eyes glistened, and a faint red mantled on her 
lip and cheek. As I approached, she abruptly turned away, and went to the 
window. It was not in anger, I was well assured, but only to conceal or 
control her emotion. I therefore ventured to follow and stand beside her 
there - but not to speak. She gave me her hand, without turning her head, 
and murmured in a voice she strove in vain to steady -
'Can you forgive me?'
It might be deemed a breach of trust, I thought, to convey that lily hand 
to my lips, so I only gently pressed it between my own, and smilingly 
replied -
'I hardly can. You should have told me this before. It shows a want of 
confidence -'
'Oh, no,' cried she, eagerly interrupting me, 'it was not that! It was no 
want of confidence in you; but if I had told you anything of my history, I 
must have told you all, in order to excuse my conduct; and I might well 
shrink from such a disclosure, till necessity obliged me to make it. But 
you forgive me? I have done very, very wrong, I know; but, as usual, I have 
reaped the bitter fruits of my own error - and must reap them to the end.'
Bitter, indeed, was the tone of anguish, repressed by resolute firmness, in 
which this was spoken. Now, I raised her hand to my lips, and fervently 
kissed it again and again; for tears prevented any other reply. She 
suffered these wild caresses without resistance or resentment: then, 
suddenly turning from me, she paced twice or thrice through the room. I 
knew by the contraction of her brow, the tight compression of her lips, and 
wringing of her hands, that meantime a violent conflict between reason and 
passion was silently passing within. At length she paused before the empty 
fireplace, and turning to me, said calmly - if that might be called 
calmness, which was so evidently the result of a violent effort -
'Now, Gilbert, you must leave me - not this moment, but soon - and you must 
never come again.'
'Never again, Helen? just when I love you more than ever!'
'For that very reason, if it be so, we should not meet again. I thought 
this interview was necessary - at least, I persuaded myself it was so - 
that we might severally ask and receive each other's pardon for the past; 
but there can be no excuse for another. I shall leave this place, as soon 
as I have means to seek another asylum; but our intercourse must end here.'
'End here!' echoed I; and approaching the high, carved chimney-piece, I 
leant my hand against its heavy mouldings, and dropped my forehead upon it 
in silent, sullen despondency.
'You must not come again,' continued she. There was a slight tremor in her 
voice, but I thought her whole manner was provokingly composed, considering 
the dreadful sentence she pronounced. 'You must know why I tell you so,' 
she resumed; 'and you must see that it is better to part at once: if it be 
hard to say adieu for ever, you ought to help me.' She paused. I did not 
answer. 'Will you promise not to come? If you won't, and if you do come 
here again, you will drive me away before I know where to find another 
place of refuge - or how to seek it.'
'Helen,' said I, turning impatiently towards her, 'I cannot discuss the 
matter of eternal separation, calmly and dispassionately as you can do. It 
is no question of mere expedience with me; it is a question of life and 
death!'
She was silent. Her pale lips quivered, and her fingers trembled with 
agitation, as she nervously entwined them in the hair chain to which was 
appended her small gold watch - the only thing of value she had permitted 
herself to keep. I had said an unjust and cruel thing; but I must needs 
follow it up with something worse.
'But, Helen!' I began in a soft, low tone, not daring to raise my eyes to 
her face - 'that man is not your husband: in the sight of Heaven he has 
forfeited all claim to - ' She seized my arm with a grasp of startling 
energy.
'Gilbert, don't!' she cried, in a tone that would have pierced a heart of 
adamant. 'For God's sake, don't you attempt these arguments! No fiend could 
torture me like this!' 'I won't, I won't!' said I, gently laying my hand on 
hers; almost as much alarmed at her vehemence, as ashamed of my own 
misconduct.
'Instead of acting like a true friend,' continued she, breaking from me, 
and throwing herself into the old arm-chair - 'and helping me with all your 
might - or rather taking your own part in the struggle of right against 
passion - you leave all the burden to me; and not satisfied with that, you 
do your utmost to fight against me - when you know that I ' she paused, and 
hid her face in her handkerchief.
'Forgive me, Helen!' pleaded I, 'I will never utter another word on the 
subject. But may we not still meet as friends?'
'It will not do,' she replied, mournfully shaking her head; and then she 
raised her eyes to mine, with a mildly reproachful look that seemed to say, 
'You must know that as well as I.'
'Then what must we do?' cried I passionately. But immediately I added in a 
quieter tone - 'I'll do whatever you desire; only don't say that this 
meeting is to be our last.'
'And why not? Don't you know that every time we meet, the thoughts of the 
final parting will become more painful? Don't you feel that every interview 
makes us dearer to each other than the last?'
The utterance of this last question was hurried and low, and the downcast 
eyes and burning blush too plainly showed that she, at least, had felt it. 
It was scarcely prudent to make such an admission, or to add - as she 
presently did - 'I have power to bid you go, now: another time it might be 
different,' - but I was not base enough to attempt to take advantage of her 
candour.
'But we may write,' I timidly suggested - 'you will not deny me that 
consolation?'
'We can hear of each other through my brother.'
'Your brother!' A pang of remorse and shame shot through me. She had not 
heard of the injury he had sustained at my hands; and I had not the courage 
to tell her. 'Your brother will not help us,' I said: 'he would have all 
communion between us to be entirely at an end.'
'And he would be right, I suppose. As a friend of both, he would wish us 
both well; and every friend would tell us it was our interest, as well as 
our duty, to forget each other, though we might not see it ourselves. But 
don't be afraid, Gilbert,' she added, smiling sadly at my manifest 
discomposure, 'there is little chance of my forgetting you. But I did not 
mean that Frederick should be the means of transmitting messages between 
us, only that each might know, through him, of the other's welfare; and 
more than this ought not to be; for you are young, Gilbert, and you ought 
to marry - and will some time, though you may think it impossible now: and 
though I hardly can say I wish you to forget me, I know it is right that 
you should, both for your own happiness, and that of your future wife; and 
therefore I must and will wish it,' she added resolutely.
'And you are young too, Helen,' I boldly replied, 'and when that profligate 
scoundrel has run through his career, you will give your hand to me - I'll 
wait till then.'
But she would not leave me this support. Independently of the moral evil of 
basing our hopes upon the death of another, who, if unfit for this world, 
was at least no less so for the next, and whose amelioration would thus 
become our bane and his greatest transgression our greatest benefit - she 
maintained it to be madness: many men of Mr Huntingdon's habits had lived 
to a ripe though miserable old age; 'and if I,' said she, 'am young in 
years I am old in sorrow; but even if trouble should fail to kill me before 
vice destroys him, think, if he reached but fifty years or so, would you 
wait twenty or fifteen - in vague uncertainty and suspense - through all 
the prime of youth and manhood - and marry at last a woman faded and worn 
as I shall be - without ever having seen me from this day to that? You 
would not,' she continued, interrupting my earnest protestations of 
unfailing constancy - 'or if you would you should not. Trust me, Gilbert; 
in this matter I know better than you. You think me cold and stony-hearted, 
and you may, but -'
'I don't, Helen.'
'Well, never mind; you might if you would - but I have not spent my 
solitude in utter idleness, and I am not speaking now from the impulse of 
the moment as you do: I have thought of all these matters again and again; 
I have argued these questions with myself, and pondered well our past, and 
present, and future career; and, believe me, I have come to the right 
conclusion at last. Trust my words rather than your own feelings, now, and 
in a few years you will see that I was right - though at present I hardly 
can see it myself,' she murmured with a sigh, as she rested her head on her 
hand. 'And don't argue against me any more: all you can say has been 
already said by my own heart and refuted by my reason. It was hard enough 
to combat these suggestions as they were whispered within me; in your mouth 
they are ten times worse, and if you knew how much they pain me you would 
cease at once, I know. If you knew my present feelings, you would even try 
to relieve them at the expense of your own.'
'I will go - in a minute, if that can relieve you - and NEVER return!' said 
I, with bitter emphasis. 'But, if we may ever meet, and never hope to meet 
again, is it a crime to exchange our thoughts by letter? May not kindred 
spirits meet, and mingle in communion, whatever be the fate and 
circumstances of their earthly tenements?'
'They may, they may!' cried she, with a momentary burst of glad enthusiasm. 
'I thought of that too, Gilbert, but I feared to mention it, because I 
feared you would not understand my views upon the subject - I fear it even 
now - I fear any kind friend would tell us we are both deluding ourselves 
with the idea of keeping up a spiritual intercourse without hope or 
prospect of anything further - without fostering vain regrets and hurtful 
aspirations, and feeding thoughts that should be sternly and pitilessly 
left to perish of inanition -'
'Never mind our kind friends: if they can part our bodies, it is enough; in 
God's name, let them not sunder our souls!' cried I, in terror lest she 
should deem it her duty to deny us this last remaining consolation.
'But no letters can pass between us here,' said she, 'without giving fresh 
food for scandal; and when I departed, I had intended that my new abode 
should be unknown to you as to the rest of the world; not that I should 
doubt your word if you promised not to visit me, but I thought you would be 
more tranquil in your own mind if you knew you could not do it; and likely 
to find less difflculty in abstracting yourself from me if you could not 
picture my situation to your mind. But listen,' said she, smilingly putting 
up her finger to check my impatient reply: 'in six months you shall hear 
from Frederick precisely where I am; and if you still retain your wish to 
write to me, and think you can maintain a correspondence all thought, all 
spirit - such as disembodied souls or unimpassioned friends, at least, 
might hold - write, and I will answer you.'
'Six months!'
'Yes, to give your present ardour time to cool, and try the truth and 
constancy of your soul's love for mine. And now, enough has been said 
between us. Why can't we part at once?' exclaimed she almost wildly, after 
a moment's pause, as she suddenly rose from her chair with her hands 
resolutely clasped together. I thought it was my duty to go without delay; 
and I approached and half extended my hand as if to take leave - she 
grasped it in silence. But this thought of final separation was too 
intolerable: it seemed to squeeze the blood out of my heart; and my feet 
were glued to the floor. 'And must we never meet again?' I murmured, in the 
anguish of my soul.
'We shall meet in heaven. Let us think of that,' said she in a tone of 
desperate calmness; but her eyes glittered wildly, and her face was deadly 
pale.
'But not as we are now,' I could not help replying. 'It gives me little 
consolation to think I shall next behold you as a disembodied spirit, or an 
altered being, with a frame perfect and glorious, but not like this! - and 
a heart, perhaps, entirely estranged from me.'
'No, Gilbert, there is perfect love in heaven!'
'So perfect, I suppose, that it soars above distinctions, and you will have 
no closer sympathy with me than with any one of the ten thousand angels and 
the innumerable multitude of happy spirits round us.'
'Whatever I am, you will be the same, and, therefore, cannot possibly 
regret it; and whatever the change may be, we know it must be for the 
better.'
'But if I am to be so changed that I shall cease to adore you with my whole 
heart and soul, and love you beyond every other creature, I shall not be 
myself; and, though, if ever I win heaven at all, I must, I know, be 
infinitely better and happier than I am now, my earthly nature cannot 
rejoice in the anticipation of such beatitude, from which itself and its 
chief joy must be excluded.'
'Is your love all earthly then?'
'No, but I am supposing we shall have no more intimate communion with each 
other, than with the rest.'
'If so, it will be because we love them more and not each other less. 
Increase of love brings increase of happiness, when it is mutual, and pure 
as that will be.'
'But can you, Helen, contemplate with delight this prospect of losing me in 
a sea of glory?'
'I own I cannot; but we know that it will be so; and I do know that to 
regret the exchange of earthly pleasures for the joys of heaven, is as if 
the grovelling caterpillar should lament that it must one day quit the 
nibbled leaf to soar aloft and flutter through the air, roving at will from 
flower to flower, sipping sweet honey from their cups, or basking in their 
sunny petals. If these little creatures knew how great a change awaited 
them, no doubt they would regret it; but would not all such sorrow be 
misplaced? And if that illustration will not move you, here is another: We 
are children now; we feel as children, and we understand as children; and 
when we are told that men and women do not play with toys, and that our 
companions will one day weary of the trivial sports and occupations that 
interest them and us so deeply now, we cannot help being saddened at the 
thoughts of such an alteration, because we cannot conceive that as we grow 
up, our own minds will become so enlarged and elevated that we ourselves 
shall then regard as trifling those objects and pursuits we now so fondly 
cherish, and that, though our companions will no longer join us in those 
childish pastimes, they will drink with us at other fountains of delight, 
and mingle their souls with ours in higher aims and nobler occupations 
beyond our present comprehension, but not less deeply relished or less 
truly good for that, while yet both we and they remain essentially the same 
individuals as before. But Gilbert, can you really derive no consolation 
from the thought that we may meet together where there is no more pain and 
sorrow, no more striving against sin, and struggling of the spirit against 
the flesh; where both will behold the same glorious truths, and drink 
exalted and supreme felicity from the same fountain of light and goodness - 
that Being whom both will worship with the same intensity of holy ardour, 
and where poor and happy creatures both will love with the same divine 
affection? If you cannot, never write to me!'
'Helen, I can! if faith would never fail.'
 'Now, then,' exclaimed she, 'while this hope is strong within us -'
'We will part,' cried I. 'You shall not have the pain of another effort to 
dismiss me: I will go at once; but -'
I did not put my request in words: she understood it instinctively, and 
this time she yielded too - or rather, there was nothing so deliberate as 
requesting or yielding in the matter: there was a sudden impulse that 
neither could resist. One moment I stood and looked into her face, the next 
I held her to my heart, and we seemed to grow together in a close embrace 
from which no physical or mental force could rend us. A whispered 'God 
bless you!' and 'Go - go!' was all she said; but while she spoke, she held 
me so fast that, without violence, I could not have obeyed her. At length, 
however, by some heroic effort, we tore ourselves apart, and I rushed from 
the house.
I have a confused remembrance of seeing little Arthur running up the garden 
walk to meet me, and of bolting over the wall to avoid him - and 
subsequently running down the steep fields, clearing the stone fences and 
hedges as they came in my way, till I got completely out of sight of the 
old Hall and down to the bottom of the hill and then of long hours spent in 
bitter tears and lamentations, and melancholy musings in the lonely valley, 
with the eternal music in my ears, of the west wind rushing through the 
over-shadowing trees, and the brook babbling and gurgling along its stony 
bed - my eyes, for the most part, vacantly fixed on the deep, checkered 
shades restlessly playing over the bright sunny grass at my feet, where now 
and then a withered leaf or two would come dancing to share the revelry, 
but my heart was away up the hill in that dark room where she was weeping 
desolate and alone - she whom I was not to comfort, not to see again, till 
years or suffering had overcome us both, and torn our spirits from their 
perishing abodes of clay.
There was little business done that day, you may be sure. The farm was 
abandoned to the labourers, and the labourers were left to their own 
devices. But one duty must be attended to: I had not forgotten my assault 
upon Frederick Lawrence; and I must see him to apologise for the unhappy 
deed. I would fain have put it off till the morrow; but what if he should 
denounce me to his sister in the meantime? No, no, I must ask his pardon 
today, and entreat him to be lenient in his accusation, if the revelation 
must be made. I deferred it, however, till the evening, when my spirits 
were more composed, and when - oh, wonderful perversity of human nature! - 
some faint germs of indefinite hopes were beginning to rise in my mind; not 
that I intended to cherish them after all that had been said on the 
subject, but there they must lie for awhile, uncrushed though not 
encouraged, till I had learnt to live without them.
Arrived at Woodford, the young squire's abode, I found no little difflculty 
in obtaining admission to his presence. The servant that opened the door 
told me his master was very ill, and seemed to think it doubtful whether he 
would be able to see me. I was not going to be balked, however. I waited 
calmly in the hall to be announced, but inwardly determined to take no 
denial. The message was such as I expected - a polite intimation that Mr 
Lawrence could see no one; he was feverish and must not be disturbed.
'I shall not disturb him long,' said I; 'but I must see him for a moment: 
it is on business of importance that I wish to speak to him.'
'I'll tell him, sir,' said the man. And I advanced further into the hall 
and followed him nearly to the door of the apartment where his master was - 
for it seemed he was not in bed. The answer returned was that Mr Lawrence 
hoped I would be so good as to leave a message or a note with the servant, 
as he could attend to no business at present.
'He may as well see me as you,' said I; and, stepping past the astonished 
footman, I boldly rapped at the door, entered, and closed it behind me. The 
room was spacious and handsomely furnished - very comfortably, too, for a 
bachelor. A clear, red fire was burning in the polished grate: a 
superannuated greyhound, given up to idleness and good living, lay basking 
before it on the thick, soft rug, on one corner of which, beside the sofa, 
sat a smart young springer, looking wistfully up in its master's face; 
perhaps, asking permission to share his couch, or, it might be, only 
soliciting a caress from his hand or a kind word from his lips. The invalid 
himself looked very interesting as he lay reclining there, in his elegant 
dressing-gown, with a silk handkerchief bound across his temples. His 
usually pale face was flushed and feverish; his eyes were half-closed, 
until he became sensible of my presence - and then he opened them wide 
enough; one hand was thrown listlessly over the back of the sofa, and held 
a small volume with which, apparently, he had been vainly attempting to 
beguile the weary hours. He dropped it, however, in his start of indignant 
surprise as I advanced into the room and stood before him on the rug. He 
raised himself on his pillows, and gazed upon me with equal degrees of 
nervous horror, anger, and amazement depicted on his countenance.
'Mr Markham, I scarcely expected this!' he said; and the blood left his 
cheek as he spoke.
'I know you didn't,' answered I; 'but be quiet a minute, and I'll tell you 
what I came for.' Unthinkingly I advanced a step or two nearer. He winced 
at my approach, with an expression of aversion and instinctive physical 
fear anything but conciliatory to my feelings. I stepped back, however.
'Make your story a short one,' said he, putting his hand on the small 
silver bell that stood on the table beside him - 'or I shall be obliged to 
call for assistance. I am in no state to bear your brutalities now, or your 
presence either.' And in truth the moisture started from his pores and 
stood on his pale forehead like dew.
Such a reception was hardly calculated to diminish the difficulties of my 
unenviable task. It must be performed, however, in some fashion: and so I 
plunged into it at once, and floundered through it as I could.
'The truth is, Lawrence,' said I, 'I have not acted quite correctly towards 
you of late - especially on this last occasion; and I'm come to - in short, 
to express my regret for what has been done, and to beg your pardon. If you 
don't choose to grant it,' I added hastily, not liking the aspect of his 
face, 'it's no matter - only, I've done my duty - that's all.'
'It's easily done,' replied he, with a faint smile, bordering on a sneer: 
'to abuse your friend and knock him on the head, without any assignable 
cause, and then tell him the deed was not quite correct, but it's no matter 
whether he pardons it or not.'
'I forgot to tell you that it was in consequence of a mistake,' muttered I. 
'I should have made a very handsome apology, but you provoked me so 
confoundedly with your Well, I suppose it's my fault. The fact is, I didn't 
know that you were Mrs Graham's brother, and I saw and heard some things 
respecting your conduct towards her, which were calculated to awaken 
unpleasant suspicions, that, allow me to say, a little candour and 
confidence on your part might have removed; and at last, I chanced to 
overhear a part of a conversation between you and her that made me think I 
had a right to hate you.'
'And how came you to know that I was her brother?' asked he in some 
anxiety.
'She told me herself. She told me all. She knew I might be trusted. But you 
needn't disturb yourself about that, Mr Lawrence, for I've seen the last of 
her!'
'The last! is she gone then?'
'No, but she has bid adieu to me: and I have promised never to go near that 
house again while she inhabits it.' I could have groaned aloud at the 
bitter thoughts awakened by this turn in the discourse. But I only clenched 
my hands and stamped my foot upon the rug. My companion, however, was 
evidently relieved.
'You have done right!' he said, in a tone of unqualified approbation, while 
his face brightened into almost a sunny expression. 'And as for the 
mistake, I am sorry for both our sakes that it should have occurred. 
Perhaps you can forgive my want of candour, and, remember, as some partial 
mitigation of the offence, how little encouragement to friendly confidence 
you have given me of late.'
'Yes, yes, I remember it all: nobody can blame me more than I blame myself 
in my own heart - at any rate, nobody can regret more sincerely than I do 
the result of my brutality, as you rightly term it.'
'Never mind that,' said he, faintly smiling; 'let us forget all unpleasant 
words on both sides, as well as deeds, and consign to oblivion everything 
that we have cause to regret. Have you any objection to take my hand - or 
you'd rather not?' It trembled through weakness, as he held it out, and 
dropped before I had time to catch it and give it a hearty squeeze, which 
he had not the strength to return.
'How dry and burning your hand is, Lawrence,' said I. 'You are really ill, 
and I have made you worse by all this talk.'
'Oh, it is nothing: only a cold got by the rain.'
 'My doing, too.'
'Never mind that - but tell me, did you mention this affair to my sister?'
'To confess the truth, I had not the courage to do so; but when you tell 
her, will you just say that I deeply regret it, and -'
'Oh, never fear! I shall say nothing against you, as long as you keep your 
good resolution of remaining aloof from her. She has not heard of my 
illness then, that you are aware of?'
'I think not.'
'I'm glad of that, for I have been all this time tormenting myself with the 
fear that somebody would tell her I was dying, or desperately ill, and she 
would be either distressing herself on account of her inability to hear 
from me or do me any good, or perhaps committing the madness of coming to 
see me. I must contrive to let her know something about it, if I can,' 
continued he reflectively, 'or she will be hearing some such story. Many 
would be glad to tell her such news, just to see how she would take it; and 
then she might expose herself to fresh scandal.'
'I wish I had told her,' said I. 'If it were not for my promise, I would 
tell her now.'
'By no means! I am not dreaming of that; but if I were to write a short 
note, now - not mentioning you, Markham, but just giving a slight account 
of my illness, by way of excuse for my not coming to see her, and to put 
her on her guard against any exaggerated reports she may hear - and address 
it in a disguised hand - would you do me the favour to slip it into the 
post-office as you pass? for I dare not trust any of the servants in such a 
case.'
Most willingly I consented, and immediately brought him his desk. There was 
little need to disguise his hand, for the poor fellow seemed to have 
considerable difficulty in writing at all, so as to be legible. When the 
note was done, I thought it time to retire, and took leave after asking if 
there was anything in the world I could do for him, little or great, in the 
way of alleviating his sufferings, and repairing the injury I had done.
'No,' said he; 'you have already done much towards it; you have done more 
for me than the most skilful physician could do; for you have relieved my 
mind of two great burdens - anxiety on my sister's account, and deep regret 
upon your own, for I do believe these two sources of torment have had more 
effect in working me up into a fever than anything else; and I am persuaded 
I shall soon recover now. There is one more thing you can do for me, and 
that is, come and see me now and then - for you see I am very lonely here, 
and I promise your entrance shall not be disputed again.'
 I engaged to do so, and departed with a cordial pressure of the hand. I 
posted the letter on my w ay home, most manfully resisting the temptation 
of dropping in a word for myself at the same time.



Chapter 46

I Felt strongly tempted, at times, to enlighten my mother and sister on the 
real character and circumstances of the persecuted tenant of Wildfell Hall, 
and at first I greatly regretted having omitted to ask that lady's 
permission to do so; but, on due reflection, I considered that if it were 
known to them, it could not long remain a secret to the Millwards and 
Wilsons, and such was my present appreciation of Eliza Millward's 
disposition, that, if once she got a clue to the story, I should fear she 
would soon find means to enlighten Mr Huntingdon upon the place of his 
wife's retreat. I would therefore wait patiently till these weary six 
months were over, and then, when the fugitive had found another home, and I 
was permitted to write to her, I would beg to be allowed to clear her name 
from these vile calumnies: at present I must content myself with simply 
asserting that I knew them to be false, and would prove it some day, to the 
shame of those who slandered her. I don't think anybody believed me, but 
everybody soon learned to avoid insinuating a word against her, or even 
mentioning her name in my presence. They thought I was so madly infatuated 
by the seductions of that unhappy lady that I was determined to support her 
in the very face of reason; and meantime I grew insupportably morose and 
misanthropical from the idea that every one I met was harbouring unworthy 
thoughts of the supposed Mrs Graham, and would express them if he dared. My 
poor mother was quite distressed about me; but I couldn't help it - at 
least I thought I could not, though sometimes I felt a pang of remorse for 
my undutiful conduct to her, and made an effort to amend, attended with 
some partial success; and indeed I was generally more humanised in my 
demeanour to her than to any one else, Mr Lawrence excepted. Rose and 
Fergus usually shunned my presence; and it was well they did, for I was not 
fit company for them, nor they for me, under the present circumstances.
Mrs Huntingdon did not leave Wildfell Hall till above two months after our 
farewell interview. During that time she never appeared at church, and I 
never went near the house: I only knew she was still there by her brother's 
brief answers to my many and varied inquiries respecting her. I was a very 
constant and attentive visitor to him throughout the whole period of his 
illness and convalescence; not only from the interest I took in his 
recovery, and my desire to cheer him up and make the utmost possible amends 
for my former 'brutality', but from my growing attachment to himself, and 
the increasing pleasure I found in his society - partly from his increased 
cordiality to me, but chiefly on account of his close connexion, both in 
blood and in affection, with my adored Helen. I loved him for it better 
than I liked to express; and I took a secret delight in pressing those 
slender white fingers, so marvellously like her own, considering he was not 
a woman, and in watching the passing changes in his fair pale features, and 
observing the intonations of his voice, detecting resemblances which I 
wondered had never struck me before. He provoked me at times, indeed, by 
his evident reluctance to talk to me about his sister, though I did not 
question the friendliness of his motives in wishing to discourage my 
remembrance of her.
His recovery was not quite so rapid as he had expected it to be: he was not 
able to mount his pony till a fortnight after the date of our 
reconciliation; and the first use he made of his returning strength, was to 
ride over by night to Wildfell Hall, to see his sister. It was a hazardous 
enterprise both for him and for her, but he thought it necessary to consult 
with her on the subject of her projected departure, if not to calm her 
apprehensions respecting his health, and the worst result was a slight 
relapse of his illness, for no one knew of the visit but the inmates of the 
old Hall, except myself; and I believe it had not been his intention to 
mention it to me, for when I came to see him the next day, and observed he 
was not so well as he ought to have been, he merely said he had caught cold 
by being out too late in the evening.
'You'll never be able to see your sister, if you don't take care of 
yourself,' said I, a little provoked at the circumstance on her account, 
instead of commiserating him.
'I've seen her already,' said he quietly.
'You've seen her?' cried I, in astonishment.
'Yes.' And then he told me what considerations had impelled him to make the 
venture, and with what precautions he had made it.
'And how was she?' I eagerly asked.
'As usual,' was the brief though sad reply.
'As usual - that is, far from happy and far from strong.'
'She is not positively ill,' returned he; 'and she will recover her spirits 
in a while, I have no doubt - but so many trials have been almost too much 
for her. How threatening those clouds look,' continued he, turning towards 
the window. 'We shall have thunder showers before night, I imagine, and 
they are just in the midst of stacking my corn. Have you got yours all in 
yet?'
'No. And Lawrence, did she - did your sister mention me?'
'She asked if I had seen you lately.'
'And what else did she say?'
'I cannot tell you all she said,' replied he, with a slight smile, 'for we 
talked a good deal, though my stay was but short; but our conversation was 
chiefly on the subject of her intended departure, which I begged her to 
delay till I was better able to assist her in her search after another 
home.'
'But did she say no more about me?'
'She did not say much about you, Markham. I should not have encouraged her 
to do so, had she been inclined; but happily she was not: she only asked a 
few questions concerning you, and seemed satisfied with my brief answers, 
wherein she showed herself wiser than her friend; and I may tell you, too, 
that she seemed to be far more anxious lest you should think too much of 
her, than lest you should forget her.'
'She was right.'
'But I fear your anxiety is quite the other way respecting her.'
'No, it is not: I wish her to be happy; but I don't wish her to forget me 
altogether. She knows it is impossible that I should forget her; and she is 
right to wish me not to remember her too well. I should not desire her to 
regret me too deeply; but I can scarcely imagine she will make herself very 
unhappy about me, because I know I am not worthy of it, except in my 
appreciation of her.'
'You are neither of you worthy of a broken heart - nor of all the sighs, 
and tears, and sorrowful thoughts that have been, and I fear will be, 
wasted upon you both; but, at present, each has a more exalted opinion of 
the other than, I fear, he or she deserves; and my sister's feelings are 
naturally full as keen as yours, and I believe more constant; but she has 
the good sense and fortitude to strive against them in this particular; and 
I trust she will not rest till she has entirely weaned her thoughts ' he 
hesitated.
'From me,' said I.
'And I wish you would make the like exertions,' continued he.
'Did she tell you that that was her intention?'
'No; the question was not broached between us: there was no necessity for 
it, for I had no doubt that such was her determination.'
'To forget me?'
'Yes, Markham! Why not?' 'Oh! well,' was my only audible reply; but I 
internally answered - 'No, Lawrence, you're wrong there, she is not 
determined to forget me. It would be wrong to forget one so deeply and 
fondly devoted to her, who can so thoroughly appreciate her excellences, 
and sympathise with all her thoughts, as I can do, and it would be wrong in 
me to forget so excellent and divine a piece of God's creation as she, when 
I have once so truly loved and known her.' But I said no more to him on 
that subject. I instantly started a new topic of conversation, and soon 
took leave of my companion, with a feeling of less cordiality towards him 
than usual. Perhaps I had no right to be annoyed at him, but I was so 
nevertheless.
In little more than a week after this, I met him returning from a visit to 
the Wilsons; and I now resolved to do him a good turn, though at the 
expense of his feelings, and, perhaps, at the risk of incurring that 
displeasure which is so commonly the reward of those who give disagreeable 
information, or tender their advice unasked. In this, believe me, I was 
actuated by no motives of revenge for the occasional annoyances I had 
lately sustained from him - nor yet by any feeling of malevolent enmity 
towards Miss Wilson, but purely by the fact that I could not endure that 
such a woman should be Mrs Huntingdon's sister, and that, as well for his 
own sake as for hers, I could not bear to think of his being deceived into 
a union with one so unworthy of him, and so utterly unfitted to be the 
partner of his quiet home, and the companion of his life. He had had 
uncomfortable suspicions on that 'head himself, I imagined; but such was 
his inexperience, and such were the lady's powers of attraction, and her 
skill in bringing them to bear upon his young imagination, that they had 
not disturbed him long, and I believe the only effectual causes of the 
vacillating indecision that had preserved him hitherto from making an 
actual declaration of love, was the consideration of her connexions, and 
especially of her mother, whom he could not abide. Had they lived at a 
distance, he might have surmounted the objection, but within two or three 
miles of Woodford, it was really no light matter.
'You've been to call on the Wilsons, Lawrence,' said I, as I walked beside 
his pony.
'Yes,' replied he, slightly averting his face: 'I thought it but civil to 
take the first opportunity of returning their kind attentions, since they 
have been so very particular and constant in their inquiries throughout the 
whole course of my illness.'
'It's all Miss Wilson's doing.'
'And if it is,' returned he, with a very perceptible blush, 'is that any 
reason why I should not make a suitable acknowledgement?' 'It is a reason 
why you should not make the acknowledgement she looks for.'
'Let us drop that subject if you please,' said he, in evident displeasure.
'No, Lawrence, with your leave we'll continue it a while longer; and I'll 
tell you something, now we're about it, which you may believe or not as you 
choose - only please to remember that it is not my custom to speak falsely, 
and that in this case, I can have no motive for misrepresenting the truth 
-'
'Well, Markham! what now?'
'Miss Wilson hates your sister. It may be natural enough that, in her 
ignorance of the relationship, she should feel some degree of enmity 
against her, but no good or amiable woman would be capable of evincing that 
bitter, cold-blooded, designing malice towards a fancied rival that I have 
observed in her.'
'Markham!!'
'Yes - and it is my belief that Eliza Millward and she, if not the very 
originators of the slanderous reports that have been propagated, were 
designedly the encouragers and chief disseminators of them. She was not 
desirous to mix up your name in the matter, of course, but her delight was, 
and still is, to blacken your sister's character to the utmost of her 
power, without risking too greatly the exposure of her own malevolence!'
'I cannot believe it,' interrupted my companion, his face burning with 
indignation.
'Well, as I cannot prove it, I must content myself with asserting that it 
is so to the best of my belief; but as you would not willingly marry Miss 
Wilson if it were so, you will do well to be cautious, till you have proved 
it to be otherwise.'
'I never told you, Markham, that I intended to marry Miss Wilson,' said he 
proudly.
'No, but whether you do or not, she intends to marry you.'
'Did she tell you so?'
'No, but -'
'Then you have no right to make such an assertion respecting her.' He 
slightly quickened his pony's pace, but I laid my hand on its mane, 
determined he should not leave me yet.
'Wait a moment, Lawrence, and let me explain myself; and don't be so very - 
I don't know what to call it - inaccessible as you are. I know what you 
think of Jane Wilson; and I believe I know how far you are mistaken in your 
opinion: you think she is singularly charming, elegant, sensible, and 
refined: you are not aware that she is selfish, cold-hearted, ambitious, 
artful, shallow-minded 'Enough, Markham, enough.'
'No; let me finish: you don't know that if you married her, your home would 
be rayless and comfortless; and it would break your heart at last to find 
yourself united to one so wholly incapable of sharing your tastes, 
feelings, and ideas - so utterly destitute of sensibility, good feeling, 
and true nobility of soul.'
'Have you done?' asked my companion quietly.
'Yes; I know you hate me for my impertinence, but I don't care f it only 
conduces to preserve you from that fatal mistake.'
'Well!' returned he, with a rather wintry smile - 'I'm glad you have 
overcome or forgotten your own afflictions, so far as to be able to study 
so deeply the affairs of others, and trouble your head, so unnecessarily, 
about the fancied or possible calamities of their future life.'
We parted - somewhat coldly again; but still we did not cease to be 
friends; and my well-meant warning, though it might have been more 
judiciously delivered, as well as more thankfully received, was not wholly 
unproductive of the desired effect: his visit to the Wilsons was not 
repeated, and though, in our subsequent interviews, he never mentioned her 
name to me, nor I to him - I have reason to believe he pondered my words in 
his mind, eagerly though covertly sought information respecting the fair 
lady from other quarters, secretly compared my character of her with what 
he had himself observed and what he heard from others, and finally came to 
the conclusion that, all things considered, she had much better remain Miss 
Wilson of Ryecote Farm, than be transmuted into Mrs Lawrence of Woodford 
Hall. I believe, too, that he soon learned to contemplate with secret 
amazement his former predilection, and to congratulate himself on the lucky 
escape he had made; but he never confessed it to me, or hinted one word of 
acknowledgement for the part I had had in his deliverance - but this was 
not surprising to any one that knew him as I did.
As for Jane Wilson, she, of course, was disappointed and embittered by the 
sudden cold neglect and ultimate desertion of her former admirer. Had I 
done wrong to blight her cherished hopes? I think not; and certainly my 
conscience has never accused me, from that day to this, of any evil design 
in the matter.



Chapter 47

One morning, about the beginning of November, while I was inditing some 
business letters, shortly after breakfast, Eliza Millward came to call upon 
my sister. Rose had neither the discrimination nor the virulence to regard 
the little demon as I did, and they still preserved their former intimacy. 
At the moment of her arrival, however, there was no one in the room but 
Fergus and myself, my mother and sister being both of them absent, 'on 
household cares intent'; but I was not going to lay myself out for her 
amusement, whoever else might so incline: I merely honoured her with a 
careless salutation and a few words of course, and then went on with my 
writing, leaving my brother to be more polite if he chose. But she wanted 
to tease me.
'What a pleasure it is to find you at home, Mr Markham!' said she, with a 
disingenuously malicious smile. 'I so seldom see you now, for you never 
come to the vicarage. Papa is quite offended I can tell you,' she added 
playfully, looking into my face with an impertinent laugh, as she seated 
herself, half beside and half before my desk, off the corner of the table.
'I have had a good deal to do of late,' said I, without looking up from my 
letter.
'Have you indeed! Somebody said you had been strangely neglecting your 
business these last few months.'
'Somebody said wrong, for, these last two months especially, I have been 
particularly plodding and diligent.'
'Ah! Well, there's nothing like active employment, I suppose, to console 
the afflicted; and, excuse me, Mr Markham, but you look so very far from 
well, and have been, by all accounts, so moody and thoughtful of late-I 
could almost think you have some secret care preying on your spirits. 
Formerly,' said she timidly, 'I could have ventured to ask you what it was, 
and what I could do to comfort you: I dare not do it now.'
'You're very kind, Miss Eliza. When I think you can do anything to comfort 
me, I'll make bold to tell you.'
'Pray do! I suppose I mayn't guess what it is that troubles you?'
'There's no necessity, for I'll tell you plainly. The thing that troubles 
me the most at present, is a young lady sitting at my elbow, and preventing 
me from finishing my letter, and, thereafter, repairing to my daily 
business.'
Before she could reply to this ungallant speech, Rose entered the room; and 
Miss Eliza rising to greet her, they both seated themselves near the fire, 
where that idle lad, Fergus, was standing, leaning his shoulder against the 
corner of the chimney-piece, with his legs crossed and his hands in his 
breeches-pockets. 'Now, Rose, I'll tell you a piece of news - I hope you've 
not heard it before, for good, bad, or indifferent, one always likes to be 
the first to tell - It's about that sad Mrs Graham -'
'Hush - sh - sh!' whispered Fergus, in a tone of solemn import. 'We never 
mention her; her name is never heard.' And glancing up, I caught him with 
his eye askance on me, and his finger pointing to his forehead; then, 
winking at the young lady with a doleful shake of the head, he whispered - 
'A monomania - but don't mention it - all right but that.'
'I should be sorry to injure any one's feelings,' returned she, speaking 
below her breath; 'another time, perhaps.'
'Speak out, Miss Eliza!' said I, not deigning to notice the other's 
buffooneries, 'you needn't fear to say anything in my presence.'
'Well,' answered she, 'perhaps you know already that Mrs Graham's husband 
is not really dead, and that she had run away from him?' I started, and 
felt my face glow; but I bent it over my letter, and went on folding it up 
as she proceeded. 'But perhaps you did not know that she is now gone back 
to him again, and that a perfect reconciliation has taken place between 
them? Only think,' she continued, turning to the confounded Rose, 'what a 
fool the man must be!'
'And who gave you this piece of intelligence, Miss Eliza?' said I, 
interrupting my sister's exclamations.
'I had it from a very authentic source, sir.'
'From whom, may I ask?'
'From one of the servants at Woodford.'
'Oh! I was not aware that you were on such intimate terms with Mr 
Lawrence's household.'
'It was not from the man himself, that I heard it; but he told it in 
confidence to our maid Sarah, and Sarah told it to me.'
'In confidence, I suppose; and you tell it in confidence to us; but I can 
tell you that it is but a lame story after all, and scarcely one half of it 
true.'
While I spoke, I completed the sealing and direction of my letters, with a 
somewhat unsteady hand, in spite of all my efforts to retain composure, and 
in spite of my firm conviction that the story was a lame one - that the 
supposed Mrs Graham most certainly had not voluntarily gone back to her 
husband, or dreamt of a reconciliation. Most likely, she was gone away, and 
the tale-bearing servant, not knowing what was become of her, had 
conjectured that such was the case, and our fair visitor had detailed it as 
a certainty, delighted with such an opportunity of tormenting me. But it 
was possible - barely possible, that someone might have betrayed her, and 
she had been taken away by force. Determined to know the worst, I hastily 
pocketed my two letters, and muttering something about being too late for 
the post, left the room, rushed into the yard, and vociferously called for 
my horse. No one being there, I dragged him out of the stable myself, 
strapped the saddle on to his back and the bridle on to his head, mounted, 
and speedily galloped away to Woodford. I found its owner pensively 
strolling in the grounds.
'Is your sister gone?' were my first words as I grasped his hand, instead 
of the usual inquiry after his health.
'Yes, she's gone,' was his answer, so calmly spoken, that my terror was at 
once removed.
'I suppose I mayn't know where she is?' said I, as I dismounted and 
relinquished my horse to the gardener, who, being the only servant within 
call, had been summoned by his master, from his employment of raking up the 
dead leaves on the lawn, to take him to the stables.
My companion gravely took my arm, and leading me away to the garden, thus 
answered my question -
'She is at Grassdale Manor, in --shire.'
'Where?' cried I, with a convulsive start.
'At Grassdale Manor.'
'How was it?' I gasped. 'Who betrayed her?'
'She went of her own accord.'
'Impossible, Lawrence! She could not be so frantic!' exclaimed I, 
vehemently grasping his arm, as if to force him to unsay those hateful 
words.
'She did,' persisted he, in the same grave collected manner as before; 'and 
not without reason,' he continued, gently disengaging himself from my 
grasp: 'Mr Huntingdon is ill.'
'And so she went to nurse him?'
'Yes.'
'Fool!' I could not help exclaiming - and Lawrence looked up with a rather 
reproachful glance. 'Is he dying, then?'
'I think not, Markham.'
'And how many more nurses has he? how many ladies are there besides, to 
take care of him?'
'None! he was alone, or she would not have gone.'
'Oh, confound it! this is intolerable!'
'What is? that he should be alone?'
I attempted no reply, for I was not sure that this circumstance did not 
partly conduce to my distraction. I therefore continued to pace the walk in 
silent anguish, with my hand pressed to my forehead; then suddenly pausing 
and turning to my companion, I impatiently exclaimed -
'Why did she take this infatuated step? What fiend persuaded her to it?'
'Nothing persuaded her but her own sense of duty.'
'Humbug!'
'I was half inclined to say so myself, Markham, at first. I assure you it 
was not by my advice that she went, for I detest that man as fervently as 
you can do except, indeed, that his reformation would give me much greater 
pleasure than his death; but all I did was to inform her of the 
circumstance of his illness (the consequence of a fall from his horse in 
hunting), and to tell her that that unhappy person, Miss Myers, had left 
him some time ago.'
'It was ill done! Now, when he finds the convenience of her presence, he 
will make all manner of lying speeches and false, fair promises for the 
future, and she will believe him, and then her condition will be ten times 
worse and ten times more irremediable than before.'
'There does not appear to be much ground for such apprehensions at 
present,' said he, producing a letter from his pocket: 'from the account I 
received this morning, I should say -'
It was her writing! By an irresistible impulse, I held out my hand, and the 
words - 'Let me see it,' involuntarily passed my lips. He was evidently 
reluctant to grant the request, but while he hesitated, I snatched it from 
his hand. Recollecting myself, however, the minute after, I offered to 
restore it.
'Here, take it,' said I, 'if you don't want me to read it.'
'No,' replied he, 'you may read it if you like.'
I read it, and so may you.

Grassdale, November 4th.
'Dear Frederick - I know you will be anxious to hear from me, and I will 
tell you all I can. Mr Huntingdon is very ill, but not dying, or in any 
immediate danger; and he is rather better at present than he was when I 
came. I found the house in sad confusion: Mrs Greaves, Benson, every decent 
servant had left, and those that were come to supply their places were a 
negligent, disorderly set, to say no worse - I must change them again, if I 
stay. A professional nurse, a grim, hard old woman, had been hired to 
attend the wretched invalid. He suffers much, and has no fortitude to bear 
him through. The immediate injuries he sustained from the accident, 
however, were not very severe, and would, as the doctor says, have been but 
trifling to a man of temperate habits, but with him it is very different. 
On the night of my arrival, when I first entered his room, he was lying in 
a kind of half delirium. He did not notice me till I spoke, and then he 
mistook me for another.
' "Is it you, Alice, come again?" he murmured. "What did you leave me for?"
' "It is I, Arthur - it is Helen, your wife," I replied.
' "My wife!" said he, with a start. "For heaven's sake, don't mention her! 
I have none. Devil take her," he cried, a moment after, "and you too! What 
did you do it for?"
'I said no more; but observing that he kept gazing towards the foot of the 
bed, I went and sat there, placing the light so as to shine full upon me, 
for I thought he might be dying, and I wanted him to know me. For a long 
time he lay silently looking upon me, first with a vacant stare, then with 
a fixed gaze of strange growing intensity. At last he startled me by 
suddenly raising himself on his elbow and demanding in a horrified whisper, 
with his eyes still fixed upon me - "Who is it?"
' "It is Helen Huntingdon," said I, quietly rising at the same time, and 
removing to a less conspicuous position.
' "I must be going mad," cried he, "or something - delirious perhaps; but 
leave me, whoever you are - I can't bear that white face, and those eyes; 
for God's sake go, and send me somebody else, that doesn't look like that!"
'I went at once, and sent the hired nurse; but next morning I ventured to 
enter his chamber again; and, taking the nurse's place by his bedside, I 
watched him and waited on him for several hours, showing myself as little 
as possible, and only speaking when necessary, and then not above my 
breath. At first he addressed me as the nurse, but, on my crossing the room 
to draw up the window-blinds, in obedience to his directions, he said -
' "No, it isn't nurse; it's Alice. Stay with me do! that old hag will be 
the death of me."
' "I mean to stay with you," said I. And after that he would call me Alice, 
or some other name almost equally repugnant to my feelings. I forced myself 
to endure it for a while, fearing a contradiction might disturb him too 
much, but when, having asked for a glass of water, while I held it to his 
lips, he murmured, "Thanks, dearest!" I could not help distinctly observing 
- "You would not say so if you knew me," intending to follow that up with 
another declaration of my identity, but he merely muttered an incoherent 
reply, so I dropped it again, till some time after, when, as I was bathing 
his forehead and temples with vinegar and water to relieve the heat and 
pain in his head, he observed - after looking earnestly upon me for some 
minutes - "I have such strange fancies - I can't get rid of them, and they 
won't let me rest; and the most singular and pertinacious of them all is 
your face and voice; they seem just like hers. I could swear at this 
moment, that she was by my side."
' "She is," said I.
' "That seems comfortable," continued he, without noticing my words; "and 
while you do it, the other fancies fade away - but this only strengthens. 
Go on - go on, till it vanishes too. I can't stand such a mania as this; it 
would kill me!"
' "It never will vanish," said I distinctly, "for it is the truth."
' "The truth!" he cried, starting as if an asp had stung him. "You don't 
mean to say that you are really she?"
' "I do; but you needn't shrink away from me, as if I were your greatest 
enemy: I am come to take care of you, and do what none of them would do."
' "For God's sake, don't torment me now!" cried he in pitiable agitation; 
and then he began to mutter bitter curses against me, or the evil fortune 
that had brought me there; while I put down the sponge and basin, and 
resumed my seat at the bed-side.
' "Where are they?" said he - "have they all left me - servants and all?"
' "There are servants within call if you want them; but you had better lie 
down now and be quiet: none of them could or would attend you as carefully 
as I shall do."
' "I can't understand it at all," said he, in bewildered perplexity. "Was 
it a dream that " and he covered his eyes with his hands, as if trying to 
unravel the mystery.
' "No, Arthur, it was not a dream, that your conduct was such as to oblige 
me to leave you; but I heard that you were ill and alone, and I am come 
back to nurse you. You need not fear to trust me: tell me all your wants, 
and I will try to satisfy them. There is no one else to care for you; and I 
shall not upbraid you now."
' "Oh! I see," said he, with a bitter smile, "it's an act of Christian 
charity, whereby you hope to gain a higher seat in heaven for yourself, and 
scoop a deeper pit in hell for me."
' "No; I came to offer you that comfort and assistance your situation 
required; and if I could benefit your soul as well as your body, and awaken 
some sense of contrition and "
' "Oh, yes; if you could overwhelm me with remorse and confusion of face, 
now's the time. What have you done with my son?"
' "He is well, and you may see him some time if you will compose yourself, 
but not now."
' "Where is he?"
' "He is safe." ' "Is he here?"
' "Wherever he is, you will not see him till you have promised to leave him 
entirely under my care and protection, and to let me take him away whenever 
and wherever I please, if I should hereafter judge it necessary to remove 
him again. But we will talk of that tomorrow: you must be quiet now."
' "No, let me see him now. I promise, if it must be so."
' "No -'
' "I swear it, as God is in heaven! Now then, let me see him.'
' "But I cannot trust your oaths and promises; I must have a written 
agreement, and you must sign it in presence of a witness - but not today, 
tomorrow."
' "No, today - now," persisted he: and he was in such a state of feverish 
excitement, and so bent upon the immediate gratification of his wish, that 
I thought it better to grant it at once, as I saw he would not rest till I 
did. But I was determined my son's interest should not be forgotten: and 
having clearly written out the promise I wished Mr Huntingdon to give upon 
a slip of paper, I deliberately read it over to him, and made him sign it 
in the presence of Rachel. He begged I would not insist upon this: it was a 
useless exposure of my want of faith in his word to the servant. I told him 
I was sorry, but since he had forfeited my confidence, he must take the 
consequence. He next pleaded inability to hold the pen. "Then we must wait 
until you can hold it," said I. Upon which he said he would try; but then 
he could not see to write. I placed my finger where the signature was to 
be, and told him he might write his name in the dark, if he only knew where 
to put it. But he had not power to form the letters. "In that case, you 
must be too ill to see the child," said I; and finding me inexorable, he at 
length managed to ratify the agreement; and I bade Rachel send the boy.
'All this may strike you as harsh, but I felt I must not lose my present 
advantage, and my son's future welfare should not be sacrificed to any 
mistaken tenderness for this man's feelings. Little Arthur had not 
forgotten his father, but thirteen months of absence, during which he had 
seldom been permitted to hear a word about him, or hardly to whisper his 
name, had rendered him somewhat shy; and when he was ushered into the 
darkened room where the sick man lay, so altered from his former self, with 
fiercely- flushed face and wildly-gleaming eyes - he instinctively clung to 
me, and stood looking on his father with a countenance expressive of far 
more awe than pleasure.
' "Come here, Arthur," said the latter, extending his hand towards him. The 
child went, and timidly touched that burning hand, but almost started in 
alarm, when his father suddenly clutched his arm and drew him nearer to his 
side.
' "Do you know me?" asked Mr Huntingdon, intently perusing his features.
' "Yes."
' "Who am I?"
' "Papa."
' "Are you glad to see me?"
' "Yes."
' "You're not!" replied the disappointed parent, relaxing his hold, and 
darting a vindictive glance at me.
'Arthur, thus released, crept back to me, and put his hand in mine. His 
father swore I had made the child hate him, and abused and cursed me 
bitterly. The instant he began I sent our son out of the room; and when he 
paused to breathe, I calmly assured him that he was entirely mistaken; I 
had never once attempted to prejudice his child against him.
' "I did indeed desire him to forget you," I said, "and especially to 
forget the lessons you taught him; and for that cause, and to lessen the 
danger of discovery, I own I have generally discouraged his inclination to 
talk about you; but no one can blame me for that, I think."
'The invalid only replied by groaning aloud, and rolling his head on a 
pillow in a paroxysm of impatience.
' "I am in hell, already!" cried he. "This cursed thirst is burning my 
heart to ashes! Will nobody "
'Before he could finish the sentence, I had poured out a glass of some 
acidulated, cooling drink that was on the table, and brought it to him. He 
drank greedily, but muttered, as I took away the glass -
' "I suppose you're heaping coals of fire on my head - you think."
'Not noticing this speech, I asked if there was anything else I could do 
for him.
' "Yes; I'll give you another opportunity of showing your Christian 
magnanimity," sneered he: "set my pillow straight - and these confounded 
bedclothes." I did so. "There - now get me another glass of that slop." I 
complied. "This is delightful! isn't it?" said he, with a malicious grin, 
as I held it to his lips - "you never hoped for such a glorious 
opportunity?"
' "Now, shall I stay with you?" said I, as I replaced the glass on the 
table - "or will you be more quiet if I go and send the nurse?"
' "Oh, yes, you're woundrous gentle and obliging! But you've driven me mad 
with it all!" responded he, with an impatient toss.
' "I'll leave you, then," said I; and I withdrew, and did not trouble him 
with my presence again that day, except for a minute or two at a time, just 
to see how he was and what he wanted.
'Next morning, the doctor ordered him to be bled; and after that, he was 
more subdued and tranquil. I passed half the day in his room at different 
intervals. My presence did not appear to agitate or irritate him as before, 
and he accepted my services quietly, without any bitter remarks - indeed he 
scarcely spoke at all, except to make known his wants, and hardly then. But 
on the morrow - that is, today - in proportion as he recovered from the 
state of exhaustion and stupefaction - his ill-nature appeared to revive.
' "Oh, this sweet revenge!" cried he, when I had been doing all I could to 
make him comfortable and to remedy the carelessness of his nurse. "And you 
can enjoy it with such a quiet conscience too, because it's all in the way 
of duty."
' "It is well for me that I am doing my duty," said I, with a bitterness I 
could not suppress, "for it is the only comfort I have; and the 
satisfaction of my own conscience, it seems, is the only reward I need look 
for!"
'He looked rather surprised at the earnestness of my manner.
' "What reward did you look for?" he asked.
' "You will think me a liar if I tell you - but I did hope to benefit you: 
as well to better your mind as to alleviate your present sufferings; but it 
appears I am to do neither - your own bad spirit will not let me. As far as 
you are concerned, I have sacrificed my own feelings, and all the little 
earthly comfort that was left me, to no purpose: and every little thing I 
do for you is ascribed to self-righteous malice and refined revenge!"
' "It's all very fine, I dare say," said he, eyeing me with stupid 
amazement; "and of course I ought to be melted to tears of penitence and 
admiration at the sight of so much generosity and superhuman goodness - but 
you see I can't manage it. However, pray do me all the good you can, if you 
do really find any pleasure in it; for you perceive I am almost as 
miserable just now as you need wish to see me. Since you came, I confess, I 
have had better attendance than before, for these wretches neglected me 
shamefully, and all my old friends seem to have fairly forsaken me. I've 
had a dreadful time of it, I assure you: I sometimes thought I should have 
died - do you think there's any chance?"
' "There's always a chance of death; and it is always well to live with 
such a chance in view."
' "Yes, yes - but do you think there's any likelihood that this illness 
will have a fatal termination?" ' "I cannot tell; but, supposing it should, 
how are you prepared to meet the event?"
' "Why, the doctor told me I wasn't to think about it, for I was sure to 
get better, if I stuck to his regimen and prescriptions."
' "I hope you may, Arthur; but neither the doctor nor I can speak with 
certainty in such a case; there is internal injury, and it is difficult to 
know to what extent."
' "There now! you want to scare me to death."
' "No; but I don't want to lull you to false security. If a consciousness 
of the uncertainty of life can dispose you to serious and useful thoughts, 
I would not deprive you of the benefit of such reflections, whether you do 
eventually recover or not. Does the idea of death appal you very much?"
' "It's just the only thing I can't bear to think of; so if you've any -"
' "But it must come some time," interrupted I; "and if it be years hence, 
it will as certainly overtake you as if it came today - and no doubt be as 
unwelcome then as now, unless you "
' "Oh, hang it! don't torment me with your preachments now, unless you want 
to kill me outright - I can't stand it, I tell you, I've sufferings enough 
without that. If you think there's danger, save me from it; and then, in 
gratitude, I'll hear whatever you like to say."
'I accordingly dropped the unwelcome topic. And now, Frederick, I think I 
may bring my letter to a close. From these details you may form your own 
judgement of the state of my patient, and of my own position and future 
prospects. Let me hear from you soon, and I will write again to tell you 
how we get on; but now that my presence is tolerated, and even required, in 
the sick-room, I shall have but little time to spare between my husband and 
my son - for I must not entirely neglect the latter: it would not do to 
keep him always with Rachel, and I dare not leave him for a moment with any 
of the other servants, or suffer him to be alone, lest he should meet them. 
If his father get worse, I shall ask Esther Hargrave to take charge of him 
for a time, till I have re-organised the household at least; but I greatly 
prefer keeping him under my own eye.
'I find myself in rather a singular position; I am exerting my utmost 
endeavours to promote the recovery and reformation of my husband, and if I 
succeed, what shall I do? My duty, of course - but how? - No matter; I can 
perform the task that is before me now, and God will give me strength to do 
whatever He requires hereafter. Good-bye, dear Frederick,
'Helen Huntingdon.'
'What do you think of it?' said Lawrence, as I silently refolded the 
letter.
'It seems to me,' returned I, 'that she is casting her pearls before swine. 
May they be satisfied with trampling them under their feet, and not turn 
again and rend her! But I shall say no more against her: I see that she was 
actuated by the best and noblest motives in what she has done; and if the 
act is not a wise one, may Heaven protect her from its consequences! May I 
keep this letter, Lawrence? - you see she has never once mentioned me 
throughout - or made the most distant allusion to me; therefore, there can 
be no impropriety or harm in it.'
'And, therefore, why should you wish to keep it?'
'Were not these characters written by her hand? and were not these words 
conceived in her mind, and many of them spoken by her lips?'
'Well,' said he. And so I kept it; otherwise, Halford, you could never have 
become so thoroughly acquainted with its contents.
'And when you write,' said I, 'will you have the goodness to ask her if I 
may be permitted to enlighten my mother and sister on her real history and 
circumstances, just so far as is necessary to make the neighbourhood 
sensible of the shameful injustice they have done her? I want no tender 
messages, but just ask her that, and tell her it is the greatest favour she 
could do me; and tell her - no, nothing more. You see I know the address, 
and I might write to her myself, but I am so virtuous as to refrain.'
'Well, I'll do this for you, Markham.'
'And as soon as you receive an answer, you'll let me know?'
'If all be well, I'll come myself and tell you immediately."



Chapter 48

Five or six days after this, Mr Lawrence paid us the honour of a call; and 
when he and I were alone together - which I contrived as soon as possible, 
by bringing him out to look at my cornstacks - he showed me another letter 
from his sister. This one he was quite willing to submit to my longing 
gaze; he thought, I suppose, it would do me good. The only answer it gave 
to my message was this:
'Mr Markham is at liberty to make such revelations concerning me as he 
judges necessary. He will know that I should wish but little to be said on 
the subject. I hope he is well; but tell him he must not think of me.'
 I can give you a few extracts from the rest of the letter, for I was 
permitted to keep this also - perhaps, as an antidote to all pernicious 
hopes and fancies.
'He is decidedly better, but very low from the depressing effects of his 
severe illness and the strict regimen he is obliged to observe - so 
opposite to all his previous habits. It is deplorable to see how completely 
his past life has degenerated his once noble constitution, and vitiated the 
whole system of his organisation. But the doctor says he may now be 
considered out of danger, if he will only continue to observe the necessary 
restrictions. Some stimulating cordials he must have, but they should be 
judiciously diluted and sparingly used; and I find it very difficult to 
keep him to this. At first, his extreme dread of death rendered the task an 
easy one; but in proportion as he feels his acute suffering abating, and 
sees the danger receding, the more intractable he becomes. Now, also, his 
appetite for food is beginning to return; and here, too, his long habits of 
self-indulgence are greatly against him. I watch and restrain him as well 
as I can, and often get bitterly abused for my rigid severity; and 
sometimes he contrives to elude my vigilance, and sometimes acts in 
opposition to my will. But now he is so completely reconciled to my 
attendance in general that he is never satisfied when I am not by his side. 
I am obliged to be a little stiff with him sometimes, or he would make a 
complete slave of me; and I know it would be unpardonable weakness to give 
up all other interests for him. I have the servants to overlook, and my 
little Arthur to attend to - and my own health too, all of which would be 
entirely neglected were I to satisfy his exorbitant demands. I do not 
generally sit up at night, for I think the nurse who has made it her 
business, is better qualified for such undertakings than I am; but still, 
an unbroken night's rest is what I but seldom enjoy, and never can venture 
to reckon upon; for my patient makes no scruple of calling me up at any 
hour when his wants or his fancies require my presence. But he is 
manifestly afraid of my displeasure; and if at one time he tries my 
patience by his unreasonable exactions, and fretful complaints and 
reproaches, at another he depresses me by his abject submission and 
deprecatory self-abasement when he fears he has gone too far. But all this 
I can readily pardon; I know it is chiefly the result of his enfeebled 
frame and disordered nerves - what annoys me the most, is his occasional 
attempts at affectionate fondness that I can neither credit nor return; not 
that I hate him: his sufferings and my own laborious care have given him 
some claim to my regard - to my affection even, if he would only be quiet 
and sincere, and content to let things remain as they are; but the more he 
tries to conciliate me, the more I shrink from him and the future.
' "Helen, what do you mean to do when I get well?" he asked this morning. 
"Will you run away again?"
' "It entirely depends upon your own conduct."
' "Oh, I'll be very good."
' "But if I find it necessary to leave you, Arthur, I shall not 'run away': 
you know I have your own promise that I may go whenever I please, and take 
my son with me."
' "Oh, but you shall have no cause." And then followed a variety of 
professions, which I rather coldly checked.
' "Will you not forgive me then?" said he.
' "Yes - I have forgiven you; but I know you cannot love me as you once did 
- and I should be very sorry if you were to, for I could not pretend to 
return it; so let us drop the subject, and never recur to it again. By what 
I have done for you, you may judge of what I will do - if it be not 
incompatible with the higher duty I owe to my son (higher, because he never 
forfeited his claims, and because I hope to do more good to him than I can 
ever do to you); and if you wish me to feel kindly towards you, it is 
deeds, not words, which must purchase my affection and esteem."
'His sole reply to this was a slight grimace, and a scarcely perceptible 
shrug. Alas, unhappy man! words, with him, are so much cheaper than deeds; 
it was as if I had said, "Pounds, not pence, must buy the article you 
want." And then he sighed a querulous, half-commiserating sigh, as if in 
pure regret that he, the loved and courted of so many worshippers, should 
be now abandoned to the mercy of a harsh, exacting, cold-hearted woman like 
that, and even glad of what kindness she chose to bestow.
' "It's a pity, isn't it?" said I; and whether I rightly divined his 
musings or not, the observation chimed in with his thoughts, for he 
answered - "It can't be helped," with a rueful smile at my penetration.
'I have seen Esther Hargrave twice. She is a charming creature, but her 
blithe spirit is almost broken, and her sweet temper almost spoiled, by the 
still unremitting persecutions of her mother in behalf of her rejected 
suitor - not violent, but wearisome and unremitting like a continual 
dropping. The unnatural parent seems determined to make her daughter's life 
a burden, if she will not yield to her desires.
' "Mamma does all she can," said she, "to make me feel myself a burden and 
encumbrance to the family, and the most ungrateful, selfish, and undutiful 
daughter that ever was born; and Walter, too, is as stern and cold and 
haughty as if he hated me outright. I believe I should have yielded at once 
if I had known from the beginning how much resistance would have cost me; 
but now, for very obstinacy's sake, I will stand out!"
' "A bad motive for a rood resolve," I answered. "But, however, I know you 
have better motives, really, for your perseverance: and I counsel you to 
keep them still in view."
' "Trust me I will. I threaten mamma sometimes, that I'll run away, and 
disgrace the family by earning my own livelihood, if she torments me any 
more; and then that frightens her a little. But I will do it, in good 
earnest, if they don't mind."
' "Be quiet and patient awhile," said I, "and better times will come."
'Poor girl! I wish somebody that was worthy to possess her would come and 
take her away - don't you, Frederick?'
If the perusal of this letter filled me with dismay for Helen's future life 
and mine, there was one great source of consolation: it was now in my power 
to clear her name from every foul aspersion. The Milkyards and the Wilsons 
should see with their own eyes the bright sun bursting from the cloud - and 
they should be scorched and dazzled by its beams; and my own friends too 
should see it - they whose suspicions had been such gall and wormwood to my 
soul. To effect this, I had only to drop the seed into the ground, and it 
would soon become a stately, branching herb: a few words to my mother and 
sister, I knew, would suffice to spread the news throughout the whole 
neighbourhood, without any further exertion on my part.
Rose was delighted; and as soon as I had told her all I thought proper - 
which was all I affected to know - she flew with alacrity to put on her 
bonnet and shawl, and hasten to carry the glad tidings to the Millwards and 
Wilsons - glad tidings, I suspect, to none but herself and Mary Milkyard - 
that steady, sensible girl, whose sterling worth has been so quickly 
perceived and duly valued by the supposed Mrs Graham, in spite of her plain 
outside; and who, on her part, had been better able to see and appreciate 
that lady's true character and qualities than the brightest genius among 
them.
As I may never have occasion to mention her again, I may as well tell you 
here, that she was at this time privately engaged to Richard Wilson - a 
secret, I believe, to every one but themselves.
That worthy student was now at Cambridge, where his most exemplary conduct 
and his diligent perseverance in the pursuit of learning carried him safely 
through, and eventually brought him with hard-earned honours, and an 
untarnished reputation, to the close of his collegiate career. In due time, 
he became Mr Millward's first and only curate - for that gentleman's 
declining years forced him at last to acknowledge that the duties of his 
extensive parish were a little too much for those vaunted energies which he 
was wont to boast over his younger and less active brethren of the cloth. 
This was what the patient, faithful lovers had privately planned, and 
quietly waited for years ago; and in due time they were united, to the 
astonishment of the little world they lived in, that had long since 
declared them both born to single blessedness; affirming it impossible that 
the pale, retiring bookworm should ever summon courage to seek a wife, or 
be able to obtain one if he did, and equally impossible that the plain 
looking, plain dealing, unattractive, unconciliating Miss Millward should 
ever find a husband.
They still continued to live at the vicarage, the lady dividing her time 
between her father, her husband, and their poor parishioners - and 
subsequently her rising family; and now that the Reverend Michael Millward 
has been gathered to his fathers, full of years and honours, the Reverend 
Richard Wilson has succeeded him to the vicarage of Lindenhope, greatly to 
the satisfaction of its inhabitants, who had so long tried and fully proved 
his merits, and those of his excellent and well-loved partner.
If you are interested in the after-fate of that lady's sister, I can only 
tell you - what perhaps you have heard from another quarter - that some 
twelve or thirteen years ago she relieved the happy couple of her presence 
by marrying a wealthy tradesman of L--; and I don't envy him his bargain. I 
fear she leads him a rather uncomfortable life, though, happily, he is too 
dull to perceive the extent of his misfortune. I have little enough to do 
with her myself: we have not met for many years; but, I am well assured, 
she has not yet forgotten or forgiven either her former lover, or the lady 
whose superior qualities first opened his eyes to the folly of his boyish 
attachment.
As for Richard Wilson's sister, she, having been wholly unable to re-
capture Mr Lawrence, or obtain any partner rich and elegant enough to suit 
her ideas of what the husband of Jane Wilson ought to be, is yet in single 
blessedness. Shortly after the death of her mother, she withdrew the light 
of her presence from Ryecote Farm, finding it impossible any longer to 
endure the rough manners and unsophisticated habits of her honest brother 
Robert and his worthy wife, or the idea of being identified with such 
vulgar people in the eyes of the world - and took lodgings in , the county 
town, where she lived, and still lives, I suppose, in a kind of 
closefisted, cold, uncomfortable gentility, doing no good to others, and 
but little to herself; spending her days in fancy work and scandal; 
referring frequently to her 'brother, the vicar', and her 'sister, the 
vicar's lady', but never to her brother, the farmer, and her sister, the 
farmer's wife; seeing as much company as she can without too much expense, 
but loving no one and beloved by none - a cold-hearted, supercilious, 
keenly insidious, censorious old maid.



Chapter 49

Though Mr Lawrence's health was now quite re-established, my visits to 
Woodford were as unremitting as ever; though often less protracted than 
before. We seldom talked about Mrs Huntingdon; but yet we never met without 
mentioning her, for I never sought his company but with the hope of hearing 
something about her, and he never sought mine at all, because he saw me 
often enough without. But I always began to talk of other things, and 
waited first to see if he would introduce the subject. If he did not, I 
would casually ask, 'Have you heard from your sister lately?' If he said 
'No,' the matter was dropped: if he said 'Yes,' I would venture to inquire, 
'How is she?' but never 'How is her husband?' though I might be burning to 
know; because I had not the hypocrisy to profess any anxiety for his 
recovery, and I had not the face to express any desire for a contrary 
result. Had I any such desire? I fear I must plead guilty; but since you 
have heard my confession, you must hear my justification as well - a few of 
the excuses, at least, wherewith I sought to pacify my own accusing 
conscience.
In the first place, you see his life did harm to others, and evidently no 
good to himself; and' though I wished it to terminate, I would not have 
hastened its close, if, by the lifting of a finger, I could have done so, 
or if a spirit had whispered in my ear that a single effort of the will 
would be enough - unless, indeed, I had the power to exchange him for some 
other victim of the grave, whose life might be of service to his race, and 
whose death would be lamented by his friends. But was there any harm in 
wishing that, among the many thousands whose souls would certainly be 
required of them before the year was over, this wretched mortal might be 
one? I thought not; and therefore I wished with all my heart that it might 
please Heaven to remove him to a better world, or if that might not be, 
still, to take him out of this; for if he were unfit to answer the summons 
now, after a warning sickness, and with such an angel by his side, it 
seemed but too certain that he never would be - that, on the contrary, 
returning health would bring returning lust and villainy, and as he grew 
more certain of recovery, more accustomed to her generous goodness, his 
feelings would become more callous, his heart more flinty and impervious to 
her persuasive arguments - but God knew best. Meantime, however, I could 
not but be anxious for the result of His decrees; knowing, as I did, that 
(leaving myself entirely out of the question) however Helen might feel 
interested in her husband's welfare, however she might deplore his fate, 
still while he lived she must be miserable.
A fortnight passed away, and my inquiries were always answered in the 
negative. At length a welcome 'yes' drew from me the second question. 
Lawrence divined my anxious thoughts, and appreciated my reserve. I feared, 
at first, he was going to torture me by unsatisfactory replies, and either 
leave me quite in the dark concerning what I wanted to know, or force me to 
drag the information out of him, morsel by morsel, by direct inquiries - 
'and serve you right,' you will say; but he was more merciful; and in a 
little while, he put his sister's letter into my hand. I silently read it, 
and restored it to him without comment or remark. This mode of procedure 
suited him so well, that thereafter he always pursued the plan of showing 
me her letters at once, when I inquired after her, if there were any to 
show - it was so much less trouble than to tell me their contents; and I 
received such confidences so quietly and discreetly that he was never 
induced to discontinue them.
But I devoured those precious letters with my eyes, and never let them go 
till their contents were stamped upon my mind; and when I got home, the 
most important passages were entered in my diary among the remarkable 
events of the day.
The first of these communications brought intelligence of a serious relapse 
in Mr Huntingdon's illness, entirely the result of his own infatuation in 
persisting in the indulgence of his appetite for stimulating drink. In vain 
had she remonstrated, in vain she had mingled his wine with water: her 
arguments and entreaties were a nuisance, her interference was an insult so 
intolerable, that, at length, on finding she had covertly diluted the pale 
port that was brought him, he threw the bottle out of the window, swearing 
he would not be cheated like a baby, ordered the butler, on pain of instant 
dismissal, to bring a bottle of the strongest wine in the cellar, and 
affirming that he should have been well long ago if he had been let to have 
his own way, but she wanted to keep him weak in order that she might have 
him under her thumb - but by the Lord Harry, he would have no more humbug - 
seized a glass in one hand, and a bottle in the other, and never rested 
till he had drunk it dry. Alarming symptoms were the immediate result of 
his 'imprudence', as she mildly termed it - symptoms which had rather 
increased than diminished since; and this was the cause of her delay in 
writing to her brother. Every former feature of his malady had returned 
with augmented virulence; the slight external wound, half healed, had 
broken out afresh; internal inflammation had taken place, which might 
terminate fatally if not soon removed. Of course, the wretched sufferer's 
temper was not improved by his calamity - in fact, I suspect it was well-
nigh insupportable, though his kind nurse did not complain; but she said 
she had been obliged at last to give her son in charge of Esther Hargrave, 
as her presence was so constantly required in the sick room that she could 
not possibly attend to him herself; and though the child had begged to be 
allowed to continue with her there, and to help her to nurse his papa, and 
though she had no doubt he would have been very good and quiet - she could 
not think of subjecting his young and tender feelings to the sight of so 
much suffering, or of allowing him to witness his father's impatience or 
hear the dreadful language he was wont to use in his paroxysms of pain or 
irritation.
'The latter,' continued she, 'most deeply regrets the step that has 
occasioned his relapse - but, as usual, he throws the blame upon me. If I 
had reasoned with him like a rational creature, he says, it never would 
have happened; but to be treated like a baby or a fool, was enough to put 
any man past his patience, and drive him to assert his independence even at 
the sacrifice of his own interest - he forgets how often I had reasoned him 
"past his patience" before. He appears to be sensible of his danger; but 
nothing can induce him to behold it in the proper light. The other night 
while I was waiting on him, and just as I had brought him a draught to 
assuage his burning thirst - he observed, with a return of his former 
sarcastic bitterness -
' "Yes, you're mighty attentive now! I suppose there's nothing you wouldn't 
do for me now?"
' "You know," said I, a little surprised at his manner, "that I am willing 
to do anything I can to relieve you."
' "Yes, now, my immaculate angel; but when once you have secured your 
reward, and find yourself safe in heaven, and me howling in hell-fire, 
catch you lifting a finger to serve me then! No, you'll look complacently 
on, and not so much as dip the tip of your finger in water to cool my 
tongue!"
' "If so, it will be because of the great gulf over which I cannot pass; 
and if I could look complacently on in such a case, it would be only from 
the assurance that you were being purified from your sins, and fitted to 
enjoy the happiness I felt. But are you determined, Arthur, that I shall 
not meet you in heaven?"
' "Humph! What should I do there, I should like to know?"
' "Indeed, I cannot tell; and I fear it is too certain that your tastes and 
feelings must be widely altered before you can have any enjoyment there. 
But do you prefer sinking, without an effort, into the state of torment you 
picture to yourself?"
' "Oh, it's all a fable," said he contemptuously.
' "Are you sure, Arthur? are you quite sure? Because if there is any doubt, 
and if you should find yourself mistaken after all, when it is too late to 
turn "
' "It would be rather awkward to be sure," said he: "but don't bother me 
now - I'm not going to die yet. I can't and won't," he added vehemently, as 
if suddenly struck with the appalling aspect of that terrible event. 
"Helen, you must save me!" And he earnestly seized my hand, and looked into 
my face with such imploring eagerness that my heart bled for him, and I 
could not speak for tears."
The next letter brought intelligence that the malady was fast increasing; 
and the poor sufferer's horror of death was still more distressing than his 
impatience of bodily pain. All his friends had not forsaken him, for Mr 
Hattersley, hearing of his danger, had come to see him from his distant 
home in the north. His wife had accompanied him, as much for the pleasure 
of seeing her dear friend from whom she had been parted so long, as to 
visit her mother and sister.
Mrs Huntingdon expressed herself glad to see Milicent once more, and 
pleased to behold her so happy and well. 'She is now at the Grove,' 
continued the letter, 'but she often calls to see me. Mr Hattersley spends 
much of his time at Arthur's bedside. With more good feeling than I gave 
him credit for, he evinces considerable sympathy for his unhappy friend, 
and is far more willing than able to comfort him. Sometimes he tries to 
joke and laugh with him, but that will not do: sometimes he endeavours to 
cheer him with talk about old times; and this at one time may serve to 
divert the sufferer from his own sad thoughts; at another, it will only 
plunge him into deeper melancholy than before; and then Hattersley is 
confounded, and knows not what to say - unless it be a timid suggestion 
that the clergyman might be sent for. But Arthur will never consent to 
that: he knows he has rejected the clergyman's well-meant admonitions with 
scoffing levity at other times, and cannot dream of turning to him for 
consolation now.
'Mr Hattersley sometimes offers his services instead of mine, but Arthur 
will not let me go: that strange whim increases as his strength declines - 
the fancy to have me always by his side. I hardly ever leave him, except to 
go into the next room, where I sometimes snatch an hour or so of sleep when 
he is quiet; but even then, the door is left ajar that he may know me to be 
within call. I am with him now, while I write; and I fear my occupation 
annoys him; though I frequently break off to attend to him, and though Mr 
Hattersley is also by his side. That gentleman came, as he said, to beg a 
holiday for me, that I might have a run in the park, this fine, frosty 
morning, with Milicent, and Esther, and little Arthur, whom he had driven 
over to see me. Our poor invalid evidently felt it a heartless proposition, 
and would have felt it still more heartless in me to accede to it. I 
therefore said I would only go and speak to them a minute, and then come 
back. I did but exchange a few words with them, just outside the portico - 
inhaling the fresh, bracing air as I stood - and then, resisting the 
earnest and eloquent entreaties of all three to stay a little longer, and 
join them in a walk round the garden, I tore myself away and returned to my 
patient. I had not been absent five minutes, but he reproached me bitterly 
for my levity and neglect. His friend espoused my cause -
' "Nay, nay, Huntingdon," said he, "you're too hard upon her - she must 
have food and sleep, and a mouthful of fresh air now and then, or she can't 
stand it, I tell you. Look at her, man, she's worn to a shadow already."
' "What are her sufferings to mine?" said the poor invalid. "You don't 
grudge me these attentions, do you, Helen?"
' "No, Arthur, if I could really serve you by them. I would give my life to 
save you, if I might."
' "Would you, indeed? No?"
' "Most willingly, I would."
' "Ah! that's because you think yourself more fit to die!"
'There was a painful pause. He was evidently plunged in gloomy reflections, 
but while I pondered for something to say, that might benefit without 
alarming him, Hattersley, whose mind had been pursuing almost the same 
course, broke silence with -
' "I say, Huntingdon, I would send for a parson of some sort. If you didn't 
like the vicar, you know, you could have his curate or somebody else."
' "No; none of them can benefit me if she can't," was the answer. And the 
tears gushed from his eyes as he earnestly exclaimed - "Oh, Helen, if I had 
listened to you, it never would have come to this! And if I had heard you 
long ago - Oh, God! how different it would have been!"
' "Hear me now, then, Arthur," said I, gently pressing his hand.
' "It's too late, now," said he despondingly. And after that another 
paroxysm of pain came on; and then his mind began to wander, and we feared 
his death was approaching; but an opiate was administered, his sufferings 
began to abate, he gradually became more composed, and at length sank into 
a kind of slumber. He has been quieter since; and now Hattersley has left 
him, expressing a hope that he shall find him better when he calls 
tomorrow.
' "Perhaps I may recover," he replied, "who knows? - this may have been the 
crisis. What do you think, Helen?"
'Unwilling to depress him, I gave the most cheering answer I could, but 
still recommended him to prepare for the possibility of what I inly feared 
was but too certain. But he was determined to hope. Shortly after, he 
relapsed into a kind of doze - but now he groans again.
'There is a sudden change. Suddenly he called me to his side, with such a 
strange excited manner that I feared he was delirious - but he was not. 
"That was the crisis, Helen!" said he delightedly - "I had an infernal pain 
here - it is quite gone now; I never was so easy since the fall - Quite 
gone, by heaven!" and he clasped and kissed my hand in the very fulness of 
his heart; but, finding I did not participate his joy, he quickly flung it 
from him, and bitterly cursed my coldness and insensibility. How could I 
reply? Kneeling beside him, I took his hand and fondly pressed it to my 
lips - for the first time since our separation - and told him as well as 
tears would let me speak, that it was not that that kept me silent; it was 
the fear that this sudden cessation of pain was not so favourable a symptom 
as he supposed. I immediately sent for the doctor. We are now anxiously 
awaiting him: I will tell you what he says. There is still the same freedom 
from pain - the same deadness to all sensation where the suffering was most 
acute.
'My worst fears are realised - mortification has commenced. The doctor has 
told him there is no hope - no words can describe his anguish. I can write 
no more.'
The next was still more distressing in the tenor of its contents. The 
sufferer was fast approaching dissolution - dragged almost to the verge of 
that awful chasm he trembled to contemplate, from which no agony of prayers 
or tears could save him. Nothing could comfort him now; Hattersley's rough 
attempts at consolation were utterly in vain. The world was nothing to him: 
life and all its interests, its petty cares and transient pleasures, were a 
cruel mockery. To talk of the past, was to torture him with vain remorse; 
to refer to the future, was to increase his anguish; and yet to be silent, 
was to leave him a prey to his own regrets and apprehensions. Often he 
dwelt with shuddering minuteness on the fate of his perishing clay - the 
slow, piecemeal dissolution already invading his frame; the shroud, the 
coffin, the dark, lonely grave, and all the horrors of corruption.
'If I try,' said his afflicted wife, 'to divert him from these things - to 
raise his thoughts to higher themes, it is no better: "Worse and worse!" he 
groans. "If there be really life beyond the tomb and judgement after death, 
how can I face it?" I cannot do him any good; he will neither be 
enlightened, nor roused, nor comforted by anything I say; and yet he clings 
to me with unrelenting pertinacity - with a kind of childish desperation, 
as if I could save him from the fate he dreads. He keeps me night and day 
beside him. He is holding my left hand now, while I write; he has held it 
thus for hours: sometimes clutching my arm with violence - the big drops 
starting from his forehead, at the thoughts of what he sees, or thinks he 
sees before him. If I withdraw my hand for a moment, it distresses him -
' "Stay with me, Helen," he says; "let me hold you so: it seems as if harm 
could not reach me while you are here. But death will come - it is coming 
now - fast, fast! - and - Oh, if I could believe there was nothing after!"
' "Don't try to believe it, Arthur; there is joy and glory after, if you 
will but try to reach it!"
' "What, for me?" he said, with something like a laugh. "Are we not to be 
judged according to the deeds done in the body? Where's the use of a 
probationary existence, if a man may spend it as he pleases, just contrary 
to God's decrees, and then go to heaven with the best - if the vilest 
sinner may win the reward of the holiest saint, by merely saying, 'I 
repent'?"
' "But if you sincerely repent - "
' "I can't repent; I only fear."
' "You only regret the past for its consequences to yourself?"
' "Just so - except that I'm sorry to have wronged you, Nell, because 
you're so good to me."
' "Think of the goodness of God, and you cannot but be grieved to have 
offended Him." ' "What is God - I cannot see Him or hear Him? - God is only 
an idea."
' "God is Infinite Wisdom, and Power, and Goodness - and LOVE; but if this 
idea is too vast for your human faculties - if your mind loses itself in 
its overwhelming infinitude, fix it on Him who condescended to take our 
nature upon Him, who was raised to heaven even in His glorified human body, 
in whom the fulness of the Godhead shines."
'But he only shook his head and sighed. Then, in another paroxysm of 
shuddering horror, he tightened his grasp on my hand and arm, and groaning 
and lamenting, still clung to me with that wild, desperate earnestness so 
harrowing to my soul, because I know I cannot help him. I did my best to 
soothe and comfort him.
' "Death is so terrible," he cried, "I cannot bear it! You don't know, 
Helen - you can't imagine what it is, because you haven't it before you; 
and when I'm buried, you'll return to your old ways and be as happy as 
ever, and all the world will go on just as busy and merry as if I had never 
been; while I " He burst into tears.
' "You needn't let that distress you," I said; "we shall all follow you 
soon enough."
' "I wish to God I could take you with me now!" he exclaimed, "you should 
plead for me."
' "No man can deliver his brother, nor make agreement unto God for him, " I 
replied: "it cost more to redeem their souls - it cost the blood of an 
incarnate God, perfect and sinless in Himself, to redeem us from the 
bondage of the evil one: let Him plead for you."
'But I seem to speak in vain. He does not now, as formerly, laugh these 
blessed truths to scorn: but still he cannot trust, or will not comprehend 
them. He cannot linger long. He suffers dreadfully, and so do those that 
wait upon him - but I will not harass you with further details: I have said 
enough, I think, to convince you that I did well to go to him.'
Poor, poor Helen! dreadful indeed her trials must have been! And I could do 
nothing to lessen them - nay, it almost seemed as if I had brought them 
upon her myself, by my own secret desires; and whether I looked at her 
husband's sufferings or her own, it seemed almost like a judgement upon 
myself for having so cherished such a wish.
The next day but one there came another letter. That too was put into my 
hands without a remark, and these are its contents -

December 5th.
'He is gone at last. I sat beside him all night, with my hand fast locked 
in his, watching the changes of his features and listening to his failing 
breath. He had been silent a long time, and I thought he would never speak 
again, when he murmured, faintly but distinctly -
' "Pray for me, Helen!"
' "I do pray for you - every hour and every minute, Arthur; but you must 
pray for yourself."
'His lips moved, but emitted no sound: then his looks became unsettled; 
and, from the incoherent half-uttered words that escaped him from time to 
time, supposing him to be now unconscious, I gently disengaged my hand from 
his, intending to steal away for a breath of air, for I was almost ready to 
faint; but a convulsive movement of the fingers, and a faintly whispered 
"Don't leave me!" immediately recalled me: I took his hand again, and held 
it till he was no more - and then I fainted: it was not grief; it was 
exhaustion, that, till then, I had been enabled successfully to combat. Oh, 
Frederick! none can imagine the miseries, bodily and mental, of that death-
bed! How could I endure to think that that poor trembling soul was hurried 
away to everlasting torment? it would drive me mad! But, thank God, I have 
hope - not only from a vague dependence on the possibility that penitence 
and pardon might have reached him at the last, but from the blessed 
confidence that, through whatever purging fires the erring spirit may be 
doomed to pass - whatever fate awaits it, still, it is not lost, and God, 
who hateth nothing that He hath made, will bless it in the end!
'His body will be consigned on Thursday to that dark grave he so much 
dreaded; but the coffin must be closed as soon as possible. If you will 
attend the funeral come quickly, for I need help.
'Helen Huntingdon.'



Chapter 50

On reading this, I had no reason to disguise my joy and hope from Frederick 
Lawrence, for I had none to be ashamed of. I felt no joy but that his 
sister was at length released from her afflictive, overwhelming toil - no 
hope but that she would in time recover from the effects of it, and be 
suffered to rest in peace and quietness, at least, for the remainder of her 
life. I experienced a painful commiseration for her unhappy husband (though 
fully aware that he had brought every particle of his sufferings upon 
himself, and but too well deserved them all), and a profound sympathy for 
her own afflictions, and deep anxiety for the consequences of those 
harassing cares, those dreadful vigils, that incessant and deleterious 
confinement beside a living corpse - for I was persuaded she had not hinted 
half the sufferings she had had to endure.
'You will go to her, Lawrence?' said I, as I put the letter into his hand.
'Yes, immediately.'
'That's right! I'll leave you, then, to prepare for your departure.'
'I've done that already, while you were reading the letter, and before you 
came; and the carriage is now coming round to the door.'
Inly approving his promptitude, I bade him good morning, and withdrew. He 
gave me a searching glance as we pressed each other's hands at parting; but 
whatever he sought in my countenance, he saw there nothing but the most 
becoming gravity - it might be, mingled with a little sternness in 
momentary resentment at what I suspected to be passing in his mind.
Had I forgotten my own prospects, my ardent love, my pertinacious hopes? It 
seemed like sacrilege to revert to them now, but I had not forgotten them. 
It was, however, with a gloomy sense of the darkness of those prospects, 
the fallacy of those hopes, and the vanity of that affection, that I 
reflected on those things as I remounted my horse and slowly journeyed 
homewards. Mrs Huntingdon was free now; it was no longer a crime to think 
of her - but did she ever think of me? - not now - of course it was not to 
be expected - but would she, when this shock was over? In all the course of 
her correspondence with her brother (our mutual friend, as she herself had 
called him), she had never mentioned me but once and that was from 
necessity. This, alone, afforded strong presumption that I was already 
forgotten; yet this was not the worst: it might have been her sense of duty 
that had kept her silent, she might be only trying to forget; but in 
addition to this, I had a gloomy conviction that the awful realities she 
had seen and felt, her reconciliation with the man she had once loved, his 
dreadful sufferings and death, must eventually efface from her mind all 
traces of her passing love for me. She might recover from these horrors so 
far as to be restored to her former health, her tranquillity, her 
cheerfulness even - but never to those feelings which would appear to her, 
henceforth, as a fleeting fancy, a vain, illusive dream; especially as 
there was no one to remind her of my existence - no means of assuring her 
of my fervent constancy, now that we were so far apart, and delicacy 
forbade me to see her or write to her, for months to come at least. And how 
could I engage her brother in my behalf? how could I break that icy crust 
of shy reserve? Perhaps he would disapprove of my attachment now, as highly 
as before; perhaps he would think me too poor - too lowly born, to match 
with his sister? Yes, there was another barrier: doubtless there was a wide 
distinction between the rank and circumstances of Mrs Huntingdon, the lady 
of Grassdale Manor, and those of Mrs Graham the artist, the tenant of 
Wildfell Hall; and it might be deemed presumption in me to offer my hand to 
the former - by the world, by her friends - if not by herself - a penalty I 
might brave, if I were certain she loved me; but otherwise, how could I? 
And, finally, her deceased husband, with his usual selfishness, might have 
so constructed his will as to place restrictions upon her marrying again. 
So that you see I had reasons enough for despair if I chose to indulge it.
Nevertheless, it was with no small degree of impatience that I looked 
forward to Mr Lawrence's return from Grassdale - impatience that increased 
in proportion as his absence was prolonged. He stayed away some ten or 
twelve days. All very right that he should remain to comfort and help his 
sister, but he might have written to tell me how she was - or at least to 
tell me when to expect his return; for he might have known I was suffering 
tortures of anxiety for her, and uncertainty for my own future prospects. 
And when he did return, all he told me about her was, that she had been 
greatly exhausted and worn by her unremitting exertions in behalf of that 
man who had been the scourge of her life, and had dragged her with him 
nearly to the portals of the grave, and was still much shaken and depressed 
by his melancholy end and the circumstances attendant upon it; but no word 
in reference to me - no intimation that my name had ever passed her lips, 
or ever been spoken in her presence. To be sure, I asked no questions on 
the subject: I could not bring my mind to do so, believing, as I did, that 
Lawrence was indeed averse to the idea of my union with his sister.
I saw that he expected to be further questioned concerning his visit, and I 
saw too, with the keen perception of awakened jealousy, or alarmed self-
esteem - or by whatever name I ought to call it - that he rather shrank 
from that impending scrutiny, and was no less pleased than surprised to 
find it did not come. Of course, I was burning with anger, but pride 
obliged me to suppress my feelings, and preserve a smooth face - or at 
least a stoic calmness - throughout the interview. It was well it did, for, 
reviewing the matter in my sober judgement, I must say it would have been 
highly absurd and improper to have quarrelled with him on such an occasion: 
I must confess too that I wronged him in my heart: the truth was, he liked 
me very well, but he was fully aware that a union between Mrs Huntingdon 
and me would be what the world calls a mesalliance; and it was not in his 
nature to set the world at defiance; especially in such a case as this, for 
its dread laugh, or ill-opinion, would be far more terrible to him directed 
against his sister than himself. Had he believed that a union was necessary 
to the happiness of both, or of either, or had he known how fervently I 
loved her, he would have acted differently; but seeing me so calm and cool, 
he would not for the world disturb my philosophy; and though refraining 
entirely from any active opposition to the match, he would yet do nothing 
to bring it about, and would much rather take the part of prudence, in 
aiding us to overcome our mutual predilections, than that of feeling, to 
encourage them. 'And he was in the right of it,' you will say. Perhaps he 
was - at any rate, I had no business to feel so bitterly against him as I 
did; but I could not then regard the matter in such a moderate light; and, 
after a brief conversation upon indifferent topics, I went away, suffering 
all the pangs of wounded pride and injured friendship, in addition to those 
resulting from the fear that I was indeed forgotten, and the knowledge that 
she I loved was alone and afflicted, suffering from injured health and 
dejected spirits, and I was forbidden to console or assist her - forbidden 
even to assure her of my sympathy, for the transmission of any such message 
through Mr Lawrence was now completely out of the question.
But what should I do? I would wait, and see if she would notice me, which 
of course she would not, unless by some kind message entrusted to her 
brother, that, in all probability, he would not deliver, and then - 
dreadful thought! - she would think me cooled and changed for not returning 
it, or, perhaps, he had already given her to understand that I had ceased 
to think of her. I would wait, however, till the six months after our 
parting were fairly passed (which would be about the close of February), 
and then I would send her a letter modestly reminding her of her former 
permission to write to her at the close of that period, and hoping I might 
avail myself of it, at least to express my heartfelt sorrow for her late 
afflictions, my just appreciation of her generous conduct, and my hope that 
her health was now completely re-established, and that she would, some 
time, be permitted to enjoy those blessings of a peaceful happy life, which 
had been denied her so long, but which none could more truly be said to 
merit than herself - adding a few words of kind remembrance to my little 
friend Arthur, with a hope that he had not forgotten me, and, perhaps, a 
few more in reference to bygone times, to the delightful hours I had passed 
in her society, and my unfading recollection of them, which was the salt 
and solace of my life, and a hope that her recent troubles had not entirely 
banished me from her mind. If she did not answer this, of course I should 
write no more: if she did (as surely she would, in some fashion), my future 
proceedings should be regulated by her reply.
Ten weeks was long to wait in such a miserable state of uncertainty, but 
courage! it must be endured; and meantime I would continue to see Lawrence 
now and then, though not so often as before, and I would still pursue my 
habitual inquiries after his sister, if he had lately heard from her, and 
how she was, and nothing more.
I did so, and the answers I received were always provokingly limited to the 
letter of the inquiry: she was much as usual: she made no complaints, but 
the tone of her last letter evinced great depression of mind: she said she 
was better: and, finally, she said she was well, and very busy with her 
son's education, and with the management of her late husband's property, 
and the regulation of his affairs. The rascal had never told me how that 
property was disposed, or whether Mr Huntingdon had died intestate or not; 
and I would sooner die than ask him, lest he should misconstrue into 
covetousness my desire to know. He never offered to show me his sister's 
letters now, and I never hinted a wish to see them. February, however, was 
approaching; December was past; January, at length, was almost over - a few 
more weeks, and then, certain despair or renewal of hope would put an end 
to this long agony of suspense.
But alas! it was just about that time she was called to sustain another 
blow in the death of her uncle, a worthless old fellow enough in himself, I 
dare say, but he had always shown more kindness and affection to her than 
to any other creature, and she had always been accustomed to regard him as 
a parent. She was with him when he died, and had assisted her aunt to nurse 
him during the last stage of his illness. Her brother went to Staningley to 
attend the funeral, and told me, upon his return, that she was still there, 
endeavouring to cheer her aunt with her presence, and likely to remain some 
time. This was bad news for me, for while she continued there I could not 
write to her, as I did not know the address, and would not ask it of him. 
But week followed week, and every time I inquired about her she was still 
at Staningley.
'Where is Staningley?' I asked at last.
'In --shire,' was the brief reply; and there was something so cold and dry 
in the manner of it, that I was effectually deterred from requesting a more 
definite account.
'When will she return to Grassdale?' was my next question. 'I don't know.'
'Confound it!' I muttered.
'Why, Markham?' asked my companion, with an air of innocent surprise. But I 
did not deign to answer him, save by a look of silent sullen contempt, at 
which he turned away, and contemplated the carpet with a slight smile, half 
pensive, half amused; but quickly looking up, he began to talk of other 
subjects, trying to draw me into a cheerful and friendly conversation, but 
I was too much irritated to discourse with him, and soon took leave.
You see Lawrence and I somehow could not manage to get on very well 
together. The fact is, I believe, we were both of us a little too touchy. 
It is a troublesome thing, Halford, this susceptibility to affronts where 
none are intended. I am no martyr to it now, as you can bear me witness: I 
have learned to be merry and wise, to be more easy with myself and more 
indulgent to my neighbours, and I can afford to laugh at both Lawrence and 
you.
Partly from accident, partly from wilful negligence on my part (for I was 
really beginning to dislike him), several weeks elapsed before I saw my 
friend again. When we did meet, it was he that sought me out. One bright 
morning, early in June, he came into the field where I was just commencing 
my hay harvest.
'It is long since I saw you, Markham,' said he, after the first few words 
had passed between us. 'Do you never mean to come to Woodford again?'
'I called once, and you were out.'
'I was sorry, but that was long since; I hoped you would call again, and 
now I have called, and you were out, which you generally are, or I would do 
myself the pleasure of calling more frequently; but being determined to see 
you this time, I have left my pony in the lane, and come over hedge and 
ditch to join you; for I am about to leave Woodford for a while, and may 
not have the pleasure of seeing you again for a month or two.'
'Where are you going?'
'To Grassdale first,' said he, with a half-smile he would willingly have 
suppressed if he could.
'To Grassdale! Is she there, then?'
'Yes, but in a day or two she will leave it to accompany Mrs Maxwell to F - 
for the benefit of the sea air, and I shall go with them.' (F was at that 
time a quiet but respectable wateringplace: it is considerably more 
frequented now.)
Lawrence seemed to expect me to take advantage of this circumstance to 
entrust him with some sort of a message to his sister; and I believe he 
would have undertaken to deliver it without any material objections, if I 
had had the sense to ask him, though of course he would not offer to do so, 
if I was content to let it alone. But I could not bring myself to make the 
request; and it was not till after he was gone, that I saw how fair an 
opportunity I had lost; and then, indeed, I deeply regretted my stupidity 
and my foolish pride, but it was now too late to remedy the evil.
He did not return till towards the latter end of August. He wrote to me 
twice or thrice from F - , but his letters were most provokingly 
unsatisfactory, dealing in generalities or in trifles that I cared nothing 
about, or replete with fancies and reflections equally unwelcome to me at 
the time, saying next to nothing about his sister, and little more about 
himself. I would wait, however, till he came back; perhaps I could get 
something more out of him then. At all events, I would not write to her 
now, while she was with him and her aunt, who doubtless would be still more 
hostile to my presumptuous aspirations than himself. When she was returned 
to the silence and solitude of her own home it would be my fittest 
opportunity.
When Lawrence came, however, he was as reserved as ever on the subject of 
my keen anxiety. He told me that his sister had derived considerable 
benefit from her stay at F , that her son was quite well, and - alas! that 
both of them were gone with Mrs Maxwell, back to Staningley, and there they 
stayed at least three months. But instead of boring you with my chagrin, my 
expectations and disappointments, my fluctuations of dull despondency and 
flickering hope, my varying resolutions, now to drop it, and now to 
persevere - now to make a bold push, and now to let things pass and 
patiently abide my time - I will employ myself in settling the business of 
one or two of the characters, introduced in the course of this narrative, 
whom I may not have occasion to mention again.
Some time before Mr Huntingdon's death, Lady Lowborough eloped with another 
gallant to the Continent, where, having lived awhile in reckless gaiety and 
dissipation, they quarrelled and parted. She went dashing on for a season, 
but years came and money went: she sunk, at length, in difficulty and debt, 
disgrace and misery; and died at last, as I have heard, in penury, neglect, 
and utter wretchedness. But this might be only a report: she may be living 
yet for anything I or any of her relatives or former acquaintances can 
tell; for they have all lost sight of her long years ago, and would as 
thoroughly forget her if they could. Her husband, however, upon this second 
misdemeanour, immediately sought and obtained a divorce, and, not long 
after, married again. It was well he did, for Lord Lowborough, morose and 
moody as he seemed, was not the man for a bachelor's life. No public 
interests, no ambitious projects, or active pursuits - or ties of 
friendship even (if he had had any friends), could compensate to him for 
the absence of domestic comforts and endearments. He had a son and a 
nominal daughter, it is true, but they too painfully reminded him of their 
mother, and the unfortunate little Annabella was a source of perpetual 
bitterness to his soul. He had obliged himself to treat her with paternal 
kindness: he had forced himself not to hate her, and even, perhaps, to feel 
some degree of kindly regard for her, at last, in return for her artless 
and unsuspecting attachment to himself; but the bitterness of his self-
condemnation for his inward feelings towards that innocent being, his 
constant struggles to subdue the evil promptings of his nature (for it was 
not a generous one), though partly guessed at by those who knew him, could 
be known to God and his own heart alone; so also was the hardness of his 
conflicts with the temptation to return to the vice of his youth, and seek 
oblivion for past calamities, and deadness to the present misery of a 
blighted heart, a joyless, friendless life, and a morbidly disconsolate 
mind, by yielding again to that insidious foe to health, and sense, and 
virtue, which had so deplorably enslaved and degraded him before.
The second object of his choice was widely different from the first. Some 
wondered at his taste; some even ridiculed it - but in this their folly was 
more apparent than his. The lady was about his own age - i.e., between 
thirty and forty - remarkable neither for beauty, nor wealth, nor brilliant 
accomplishments; nor any other thing that I ever heard of, except genuine 
good sense, unswerving integrity, active piety, warm-hearted benevolence, 
and a fund of cheerful spirits. These qualities, however, as you may 
readily imagine, combined to render her an excellent mother to the 
children, and an invaluable wife to his lordship. He, with his usual self-
depreciation, thought her a world too good for him, and while he wondered 
at the kindness of Providence in conferring such a gift upon him, and even 
at her taste in preferring him to other men, he did his best to reciprocate 
the good she did him, and so far succeeded, that she was, and I believe 
still is, one of the happiest and fondest wives in England; and all who 
question the good taste of either partner, may be thankful if their 
respective selections afford them half the genuine satisfaction in the end, 
or repay their preference with affection half as lasting and sincere.
If you are at all interested in the fate of that low scoundrel, Grimsby, I 
can only tell you that he went from bad to worse, sinking from bathos to 
bathos of vice and villainy, consorting only with the worst members of his 
club and the lowest dregs of society - happily for the rest of the world - 
and at last met his end in a drunken brawl, from the hands, it is said, of 
some brother scoundrel he had cheated at play.
As for Mr Hattersley, he had never wholly forgotten his resolution to 'come 
out from among them', and behave like a man and a Christian, and the last 
illness and death of his once jolly friend Huntingdon so deeply and 
seriously impressed him with the evil of their former practices, that he 
never needed another lesson of the kind. Avoiding the temptations of the 
town, he continued to pass his life in the country, immersed in the usual 
pursuits of a hearty, active, country gentleman; his occupations being 
those of farming, and breeding horses and cattle, diversified with a little 
hunting and shooting, and enlivened by the occasional companionship of his 
friends (better friends than those of his youth), and the society of his 
happy little wife (now cheerful and confiding as heart could wish), and his 
fine family of stalwart sons and blooming daughters. His father, the 
banker, having died some years ago and left him all his riches, he has now 
full scope for the exercise of his prevailing tastes, and I need not tell 
you that Ralph Hattersley, Esq., is celebrated throughout the country for 
his noble breed of horses.



Chapter 51

We will now turn to a certain still, cold, cloudy afternoon about the 
commencement of December, when the first fall of snow lay thinly scattered 
over the blighted fields and frozen roads, or stored more thickly in the 
hollows of the deep cart-ruts and footsteps of men and horses impressed in 
the now petrified mire of last month's drenching rains. I remember it well, 
for I was walking home from the vicarage, with no less remarkable a 
personage than Miss Eliza Millward by my side. I had been to call upon her 
father - a sacrifice to civility undertaken entirely to please my mother, 
not myself, for I hated to go near the house; not merely on account of my 
antipathy to the once so bewitching Eliza, but because I had not half 
forgiven the old gentleman himself for his ill-opinion of Mrs Huntingdon; 
for though now constrained to acknowledge himself mistaken in his former 
judgement, he still maintained that she had done wrong to leave her 
husband; it was a violation of her sacred duties as a wife, and a tempting 
of Providence by laying herself open to temptation; and nothing short of 
bodily ill-usage (and that of no trifling nature) could excuse such a step 
- nor even that, for in such a case she ought to appeal to the laws for 
protection. But it was not of him I intended to speak; it was of his 
daughter Eliza. Just as I was taking leave of the vicar, she entered the 
room, ready equipped for a walk.
'I was just coming to see your sister, Mr Markham,' said she; 'and so, if 
you have no objection, I'll accompany you home. I like company when I'm 
walking out - don't you?'
'Yes, when it's agreeable.'
'That of course,' rejoined the young lady, smiling archly. So we proceeded 
together.
'Shall I find Rose at home, do you think?' said she, as we closed the 
garden gate, and set our faces towards Linden-car.
'I believe so.'
'I trust I shall, for I've a little bit of news for her - if you haven't 
forestalled me?'
'I?'
'Yes: do you know what Mr Lawrence has gone for?' She looked up anxiously 
for my reply.
'Is he gone?' said I; and her face brightened.
'Ah! then he hasn't told you about his sister?'
'What of her?' I demanded, in terror lest some evil should have befallen 
her.
'Oh, Mr Markham, how you blush!' cried she, with a tormenting laugh. 'Ha, 
ha, you have not forgotten her yet! But you had better be quick about it, I 
can tell you, for - alas, alas! - she's going to be married next Thursday!'
'No, Miss Eliza! that's false.'
'Do you charge me with a falsehood, sir?'
'You are misinformed.'
'Am I? Do you know better then?'
'I think I do.'
'What makes you look so pale then?' said she, smiling with delight at my 
emotion. 'Is it anger at poor me for telling such a fib? Well, I only "tell 
the tale as 'twas told me": I don't vouch for the truth of it; but at the 
same time, I don't see what reason Sarah should have for deceiving me, or 
her informant for deceiving her; and that was what she told me the footman 
told her: that Mrs Huntingdon was going to be married on Thursday, and Mr 
Lawrence was going to the wedding. She did tell me the name of the 
gentleman, but I've forgotten that. Perhaps you can assist me to remember 
it. Is there not someone that lives near - or frequently visits the 
neighbourhood, that has long been attached to her? a Mr - oh dear! - Mr -'
'Hargrave?' suggested I, with a bitter smile.
'You're right!' cried she, 'that was the very name.'
'Impossible, Miss Eliza!' I exclaimed, in a tone that made her start.
'Well, you know, that's what they told me,' said she, composedly staring me 
in the face. And then she broke out into a long shrill laugh that put me to 
my wits' end with fury.
'Really you must excuse me,' cried she: 'I know it's very rude, but ha, ha, 
ha! - did you think to marry her yourself? Dear, dear, what a pity! ha, ha, 
ha! - Gracious, Mr Markham! are you going to faint? O mercy! shall I call 
this man? Here, Jacob - ' But checking the word on her lips, I seized her 
arm and gave it, I think, a pretty severe squeeze, for she shrank into 
herself with a faint cry of pain or terror; but the spirit within her was 
not subdued: instantly rallying, she continued, with well-feigned concern -
'What can I do for you? Will you have some water - some brandy? I dare say 
they have some in the public-house down there, if you'll let me run.'
'Have done with this nonsense!' cried I sternly. She looked confounded - 
almost frightened again, for a moment. 'You know I hate such jests,' I 
continued.
'Jests indeed! I wasn't jesting!'
'You were laughing, at all events; and I don't like to be laughed at,' 
returned I, making violent efforts to speak with proper dignity and 
composure, and to say nothing but what was coherent and sensible. 'And 
since you are in such a merry mood, Miss Eliza, you must be good enough 
company for yourself; and therefore I shall leave you to finish your walk 
alone - for, now I think of it, I have business elsewhere; so good 
evening.'
With that I left her (smothering her malicious laughter) and turned aside 
into the fields, springing up the bank, and pushing through the nearest gap 
in the hedge. Determined at once to prove the truth - or rather the 
falsehood - of her story, I hastened to Woodford as fast as my legs could 
carry me - first, veering round by a circuitous course, but the moment I 
was out of sight of my fair tormentor, cutting away across the country, 
just as a bird might fly - over pasture-land and fallow, and stubble and 
lane-clearing hedges and ditches, and hurdles, till I came to the young 
squire's gates. Never till now had I known the full fervour of my love - 
the full strength of my hopes, not wholly crushed even in my hours of 
deepest despondency, always tenaciously clinging to the thought that one 
day she might be mine - or if not that, at least something of my memory, 
some slight remembrance of our friendship and our love would be for ever 
cherished in her heart. I marched up to the door, determined, if I saw the 
master, to question him boldly concerning his sister, to wait and hesitate 
no longer, but cast false delicacy and stupid pride behind my back, and 
know my fate at once.
'Is Mr Lawrence at home?' I eagerly asked of the servant that opened the 
door.
'No, sir, master went yesterday,' replied he, looking very alert.
'Went where?'
'To Grassdale, sir - wasn't you aware, sir? He's very close, is master,' 
said the fellow, with a foolish, simpering grin. 'I suppose, sir -'
But I turned and left him, without waiting to hear what he supposed. I was 
not going to stand there to expose my tortured feelings to the insolent 
laughter and impertinent curiosity of a fellow like that.
But what was to be done now? Could it be possible that she had left me for 
that man? I could not believe it. Me she might forsake, but not to give 
herself to him! Well, I would know the truth - to no concerns of daily life 
could I attend while this tempest of doubt and dread, of jealousy and rage, 
distracted me. I would take the morning coach from L-- (the evening one 
would be already gone), and fly to Grassdale - I must be there before the 
marriage. And why? Because a thought struck me that perhaps I might prevent 
it - that if I did not, she and I might both lament it to the latest moment 
of our lives. It struck me that someone might have belied me to her: 
perhaps her brother - yes, no doubt her brother had persuaded her that I 
was false and faithless, and taking advantage of her natural indignation, 
and perhaps her desponding carelessness about her future life, had urged 
her, artfully, cruelly on to this other marriage in order to secure her 
from me. If this was the case, and if she should only discover her mistake 
when too late to repair it - to what a life of misery and vain regret might 
she be doomed as well as me! and what remorse for me, to think my foolish 
scruples had induced it all! Oh, I must see her - she must know my truth 
even if I told it at the church door! I might pass for a madman or an 
impertinent fool even she might be offended at such an interruption, or at 
least might tell me it was now too late - but if I could save her! if she 
might be mine - it was too rapturous a thought!
Winged by this hope, and goaded by these fears, I hurried homewards to 
prepare for my departure on the morrow. I told my mother that urgent 
business which admitted no delay, but which I could not then explain, 
called me away.
My deep anxiety and serious pre-occupation could not be concealed from her 
maternal eyes; and I had much ado to calm her apprehensions of some 
disastrous mystery.
That night there came a heavy fall of snow, which so retarded the progress 
of the coaches on the following day, that I was almost driven to 
distraction. I travelled all night, of course, for this was Wednesday: 
tomorrow morning, doubtless, the marriage would take place. But the night 
was long and dark: the snow heavily clogged the wheels and balled the 
horses' feet; the animals were consumedly lazy; the coachmen most execrably 
cautious; the passengers confoundedly apathetic in their supine 
indifference to the rate of our progression. Instead of assisting me to 
bully the several coachmen and urge them forward, they merely stared and 
grinned at my impatience: one fellow even ventured to rally me upon it - 
but I silenced him with a look that quelled him for the rest of the 
journey; and when, at the last stage, I would have taken the reins into my 
own hands, they all with one accord opposed it.
It was broad daylight when we entered M-- and drew up at the 'Rose and 
Crown'. I alighted and called aloud for a postchaise to Grassdale. There 
was none to be had: the only one in the town was under repair. 'A gig then 
- a fly - car - anything - only be quick!' There was a gig, but not a horse 
to spare. I sent into the town to seek one; but they were such an 
intolerable time about it that I could wait no longer: I thought my own 
feet could carry me sooner; and bidding them send the conveyance after me, 
if it were ready within an hour, I set off as fast as I could walk. The 
distance was little more than six miles, but the road was strange, and I 
had to keep stopping to inquire my way - hallooing to carters and 
clodhoppers, and frequently invading the cottages, for there were few 
people abroad that winter's morning - sometimes knocking up the lazy people 
from their beds, for where so little work was to be done, perhaps so little 
food and fire to be had, they cared not to curtail their slumbers. I had no 
time to think of them, however; aching with weariness and desperation, I 
hurried on. The gig did not overtake me: and it was well I had not waited 
for it - vexatious, rather, that I had been fool enough to wait so long.
At length, however, I entered the neighbourhood of Grassdale. I approached 
the little rural church - but lo! there stood a train of carriages before 
it - it needed not the white favours bedecking the servants and horses, nor 
the merry voices of the village idlers assembled to witness the show, to 
apprise me that there was a wedding within. I ran in among them, demanding, 
with breathless eagerness, had the ceremony long commenced? They only gaped 
and stared. In my desperation, I pushed past them, and was about to enter 
the churchyard gate, when a group of ragged urchins, that had been hanging 
like bees to the windows, suddenly dropped off and made a rush for the 
porch, vociferating in the uncouth dialect of their country something which 
signified, 'It's over - they're coming out!'
If Eliza Millward had seen me then, she might indeed have been delighted. I 
grasped the gate - post for support, and stood intently gazing towards the 
door to take my last look on my soul's delight, my first on that detested 
mortal who had torn her from my heart, and doomed her, I was certain, to a 
life of misery and hollow, vain repining - for what happiness could she 
enjoy with him? I did not wish to shock her with my presence now, but I had 
not power to move away. Forth came the bride and bridegroom. Him I saw not; 
I had eyes for none but her. A long veil shrouded half her graceful form, 
but did not hide it; I could see that, while she carried her head erect, 
her eyes were bent upon the ground, and her face and neck were suffused 
with a crimson blush; but every feature was radiant with smiles, and 
gleaming through the misty whiteness of her veil were clusters of golden 
ringlets! Oh, heavens! it was not my Helen! The first glimpse made me start 
- but my eyes were darkened with exhaustion and despair - dare I trust 
them? Yes - it is not she! It was a younger, slighter, rosier beauty - 
lovely, indeed, but with far less dignity and depth of soul - without that 
indefinable grace, that keenly spiritual yet gentle charm, that ineffable 
power to attract and subjugate the heart - my heart at least. I looked at 
the bridegroom - it was Frederick Lawrence! I wiped away the cold drops 
that were trickling down my forehead, and stepped back as he approached; 
but his eyes fell upon me, and he knew me, altered as my appearance must 
have been.
'Is that you, Markham?' said he, startled and confounded at the apparition 
- perhaps, too, at the wildness of my looks.
'Yes, Lawrence - is that you?' I mustered the presence of mind to reply.
He smiled and coloured, as if half-proud and half-ashamed of his identity; 
and if he had reason to be proud of the sweet lady on his arm, he had no 
less cause to be ashamed of having concealed his good fortune so long.
'Allow me to introduce you to my bride,' said he, endeavouring to hide his 
embarrassment by an assumption of careless gaiety. 'Esther, this is Mr 
Markham; my friend Markham, Mrs Lawrence, late Miss Hargrave.'
I bowed to the bride, and vehemently wrung the bridegroom's hand.
,. A
'Why did you not tell me of this?' I said reproachfully, pretending a 
resentment I did not feel (for in truth I was almost wild with joy to find 
myself so happily mistaken, and overflowing with affection to him for this 
and for the base injustice I felt that I had done him in my mind - he might 
have wronged me, but not to that extent; and as I had hated him like a 
demon for the last forty hours, the reaction from such a feeling was so 
great that I could pardon all offences for the moment - and love him in 
spite of them too).
'I did tell you,' said he, with an air of guilty confusion; 'you received 
my letter?'
'What letter?'
'The one announcing my intended marriage.'
'I never received the most distant hint of such an intention.'
'It must have crossed you on your way then - it should have reached you 
yesterday morning - it was rather late, I acknowledge. But what brought you 
here then, if you received no information?'
It was now my turn to be confounded; but the young lady, who had been 
busily patting the snow with her foot during our short sotto voce colloquy, 
very opportunely came to my assistance by pinching her companion's arm and 
whispering a suggestion that his friend should be invited to step into the 
carriage and go with them; it being scarcely agreeable to stand there among 
so many gazers, and keeping their friends waiting into the bargain.
'And so cold as it is too!' said he, glancing with dismay at her slight 
drapery, and immediately handing her into the carriage. 'Markham, will you 
come? We are going to Paris, but we can drop you anywhere between this and 
Dover.'
'No, thank you. Good-bye - I needn't wish you a pleasant journey; but I 
shall expect a very handsome apology, some time, mind, and scores of 
letters, before we meet again.'
He shook my hand, and hastened to take his place beside his lady. This was 
no time or place for explanation or discourse: we had already stood long 
enough to excite the wonder of the village sight-seers and perhaps the 
wrath of the attendant bridal party; though, of course, all this passed in 
a much shorter time than I have taken to relate, or even than you will take 
to read it. I stood beside the carriage, and, the window being down, I saw 
my happy friend fondly encircle his companion's waist with his arm, while 
she rested her glowing cheek on his shoulder, looking the very 
impersonation of loving, trusting bliss. In the interval between the 
footman's closing the door and taking his place behind, she raised her 
smiling brown eyes to his face, observing, playfully -
O^ I
'I fear you must think me very insensible, Frederick: I know it is the 
custom for ladies to cry on these occasions, but I couldn't squeeze a tear 
for my life.'
He only answered with a kiss, and pressed her still closer to his bosom.
'But what is this?' he murmured. 'Why, Esther, you're crying now!'
'Oh, it's nothing - it's only too much happiness - and the wish,' sobbed 
she, 'that our dear Helen were as happy as ourselves.'
'Bless you for that wish!' I inwardly responded as the carriage rolled away 
- 'and Heaven grant it be not wholly vain!'
I thought a cloud had suddenly darkened her husband's face as she spoke. 
What did he think? Could he grudge such happiness to his dear sister and 
his friend as he now felt himself? At such a moment it was impossible. The 
contrast between her fate and his must darken his bliss for a time. 
Perhaps, too, he thought of me: perhaps he regretted the part he had had in 
preventing our union, by omitting to help us, if not by actually plotting 
against us - I exonerated him from that charge, now, and deeply lamented my 
former ungenerous suspicions; but he had wronged us, still - I hoped, I 
trusted that he had. He had not attempted to check the course of our love 
by actually damming up the streams in their passage, but he had passively 
watched the two currents wandering through life's arid wilderness, 
declining to clear away the obstructions that divided them, and secretly 
hoping that both would lose themselves in the sand before they could be 
joined in one. And meantime he had been quietly proceeding with his own 
affairs: perhaps his heart and head had been so full of his fair lady that 
he had had but little thought to spare for others. Doubtless he had made 
his first acquaintance with her - his first intimate acquaintance at least 
- during his three months' sojourn at F , for I now recollected that he had 
once casually let fall an intimation that his aunt and sister had a young 
friend staying with them at the time, and this accounted for at least one-
half his silence about all transactions there. Now, too, I saw a reason for 
many little things that had slightly puzzled me before; among the rest, for 
sundry departures from Woodford, and absences more or less prolonged, for 
which he never satisfactorily accounted, and concerning which he hated to 
be questioned on his return. Well might the servant say his master was 
'very close'. But why this strange reserve to me? Partly, from that 
remarkable idiosyncrasy to which I have before alluded; partly, perhaps, 
from tenderness to my feelings, or fear to disturb my philosophy by 
touching upon the infectious theme of love.



Chapter 52

The tardy gig had overtaken me at last. I entered it, and bade the man who 
brought it drive to Grassdale Manor - I was too busy with my own thoughts 
to care to drive it myself. I would see Mrs Huntingdon - there could be no 
impropriety in that now that her husband had been dead above a year - and 
by her indifference or her joy at my unexpected arrival, I could soon tell 
whether her heart was truly mine. But my companion, a loquacious, forward 
fellow, was not disposed to leave me to the indulgence of my private 
cogitations.
'There they go!' said he, as the carriages filed away before us. 'There'll 
be brave doings on yonder today, as what come tomorra. Know anything of 
that family, sir? or you're a stranger in these parts?'
'I know them by report.'
'Humph! There's the best of 'em gone, anyhow. And I suppose the old missis 
is agoing to leave after this stir's gotten overed, and take herself off, 
somewhere, to live on her bit of a jointure; and the young 'un - at least 
the new 'un (she's none so very young) is coming down to live at the 
Grove.'
'Is Mr Hargrave married, then?'
'Ay, sir, a few months since. He should a been wed afore to a widow lady, 
but they couldn't agree over the money: she'd a rare long purse, and Mr 
Hargrave wanted it all to his-self; but she wouldn't let it go, and so then 
they fell out. This one isn't quite as rich - nor as handsome either, but 
she hasn't been married before. She's very plain, they say, and getting on 
to forty or past, and so, you know, if she didn't jump at this opportunity, 
she thought she'd never get a better. I guess she thought such a handsome 
young husband was worth all 'at ever she had, and he might take it and 
welcome; but I lay she'll rue her bargain afore long. They say she begins 
already to see 'at he isn't not altogether that nice, generous, perlite, 
delightful gentleman 'at she thought him afore marriage - he begins a being 
careless, and masterful already. Ay, and she'll find him harder and 
carelesser nor she thinks on.'
'You seem to be well acquainted with him,' I observed.
'I am, sir; I've known him since he was quite a young gentleman; and a 
proud 'un he was, and a wilful. I was servant yonder for several years; but 
I couldn't stand their niggardly ways - she got even longer and worse did 
missis, with her nipping and screwing, and watching and grudging; so I 
thought I'd find another place.'
'Are we not near the house?' said I, interrupting him.
'Yes, sir; yond's the park.'
My heart sank within me to behold that stately mansion in the midst of its 
expansive grounds - the park as beautiful now, in its wintry garb, as it 
could be in its summer glory: the majestic sweep, the undulating swell and 
fall, displayed to full advantage in that robe of dazzling purity, 
stainless and printless - save one long, winding track left by the trooping 
deer - the stately timber - trees with their heavy laden branches gleaming 
white against the dull, grey sky; the deep encircling woods; the broad 
expanse of water sleeping in frozen quiet; and the weeping ash and willow 
drooping their snow-clad boughs above it - all presented a picture striking 
indeed, and pleasing to an unencumbered mind, but by no means encouraging 
to me. There was one comfort, however - all this was entailed upon little 
Arthur, and could not under any circumstances, strictly speaking, be his 
mother's. But how was she situated! Overcoming with a sudden effort my 
repugnance to mention her name to my garrulous companion, I asked him if he 
knew whether her late husband had left a will, and how the property had 
been disposed of. Oh, yes, he knew all about it; and I was quickly informed 
that to her had been left the full control and management of the estate 
during her son's minority, besides the absolute, unconditional possession 
of her own fortune (but I knew that her father had not given her much), and 
the small additional sum that had been settled upon her before marriage.
Before the close of the explanation, we drew up at the park gates. Now for 
the trial - if I should find her within - but alas! she might be still at 
Staningley: her brother had given me no intimation to the contrary. I 
inquired at the porter's lodge if Mrs Huntingdon were at home. No, she was 
with her aunt in --shire, but was expected to return before Christmas. She 
usually spent most of her time at Staningley, only coming to Grassdale 
occasionally, when the management of affairs, or the interest of her 
tenants and dependants, required her presence.
'Near what town is Staningley situated?' I asked. The requisite information 
was soon obtained. 'Now then, my man, give me the reins, and we'll return 
to M--. I must have some breakfast at the "Rose and Crown", and then away 
to Staningley by the first coach for --.'
At M-- I had time before the coach started to replenish my forces with a 
hearty breakfast, and to obtain the refreshment of my usual morning's 
ablutions, and the amelioration of some slight change in my toilet - and 
also to dispatch a short note to my mother (excellent son that I was) to 
assure her that I was still in existence, and to excuse my non-appearance 
at the expected time. It was a long journey to Staningley for those slow 
travelling days; but I did not deny myself needful refreshment on the road, 
nor even a night's rest at a wayside inn; choosing rather to brook a little 
delay than to present myself worn, wild, and weather-beaten before my 
mistress and her aunt, who would be astonished enough to see me without 
that. Next morning, therefore, I not only fortified myself with as 
substantial a breakfast as my excited feelings would allow me to swallow, 
but I bestowed a little more than usual time and care upon my toilet; and, 
furnished with a change of linen from my small carpet-bag, well brushed 
clothes, well polished boots, and neat new gloves, I mounted 'The 
Lightning', and resumed my journey. I had nearly two stages yet before me, 
but the coach, I was informed, passed through the neighbourhood of 
Staningley, and, having desired to be set down as near the Hall as 
possible, I had nothing to do but to sit with folded arms and speculate 
upon the coming hour.
It was a clear, frosty morning. The very fact of sitting exalted aloft, 
surveying the snowy landscape, and sweet, sunny sky, inhaling the pure, 
bracing air, and crunching away over the crisp, frozen snow, was 
exhilarating enough in itself; but add to this the idea of to what goal I 
was hastening, and whom I expected to meet, and you may have some faint 
conception of my frame of mind at the time - only a faint one, though, for 
my heart swelled with unspeakable delight, and my spirits rose almost to 
madness, in spite of my prudent endeavours to bind them down to a 
reasonable platitude by thinking of the undeniable difference between 
Helen's rank and mine; of all that she had passed through since our 
parting; of her long, unbroken silence; and, above all, of her cool, 
cautious aunt, whose counsels she would doubtless be careful not to slight 
again. These considerations made my heart flutter with anxiety, and my 
chest heave with impatience to get the crisis over, but they could not dim 
her image in my mind, or mar the vivid recollection of what had been said 
and felt between us - or destroy the keen anticipation of what was to be - 
in fact, I could not realise their terrors now. Towards the close of the 
journey, however, a couple of my fellow-passengers kindly came to my 
assistance, and brought me low enough.
'Fine land this,' said one of them, pointing with his umbrella to the wide 
fields on the right, conspicuous for their compact hedgerows, deep, well-
cut ditches, and fine timber-trees, growing sometimes on the borders, 
sometimes in the midst of the enclosure; 'very fine land, if you saw it in 
the summer or spring.'
'Ay,' responded the other - a gruff, elderly man, with a drab greatcoat 
buttoned up to the chin and a cotton umbrella between his knees. 'It's old 
Maxwell's, I suppose?'
'It was his, sir, but he's dead now, you're aware, and has left it all to 
his niece.'
'All?'
'Every rood of it - and the mansion-house and all - every hatom of his 
worldly goods! - except just a trifle, by way of remembrance, to his nephew 
down in --shire and an annuity to his wife.'
'It's strange, sir.'
'It is, sir. And she wasn't his own niece neither; but he had no near 
relations of his own - none but a nephew he'd quarrelled with - and he 
always had a partiality for this one. And then his wife advised him to it, 
they say; she'd brought most of the property, and it was her wish that this 
lady should have it.'
'Humph! she'll be a fine catch for somebody.'
'She will so. She's a widow, but quite young yet, and uncommon handsome - a 
fortune of her own, besides, and only one child - and she's nursing a fine 
estate for him in. There'll be lots to speak for her! - 'fraid there's no 
chance for uz - (facetiously jogging me with his elbow, as well as his 
companion) - ha, ha, ha! No offence, sir, I hope?' (to me) 'Ahem! - I 
should think she'll marry none but a nobleman, myself. Look ye, sir,' 
resumed he, turning to his other neighbour, and pointing past me with his 
umbrella, 'that's the hall - grand park, you see - and all them woods - 
plenty of timber there, and lots of game - hallo! what now?'
This exclamation was occasioned by the sudden stoppage of the coach at the 
park gates.
'Gen'leman for Staningley Hall?' cried the coachman; and I rose and threw 
my carpet-bag on to the ground, preparatory to dropping myself down after 
it.
'Sickly, sir?' asked my talkative neighbour, staring me in the face (I dare 
say it was white enough).
'No. Here, coachman.'
'Thank'ee, sir. All right!'
The coachman pocketed his fee and drove away, leaving me not walking up the 
park, but pacing to and fro before its gates, with folded arms and eyes 
fixed upon the ground - an overwhelming force of images, thoughts, 
impressions crowding on my mind, and nothing tangibly distinct but this: My 
love had been cherished in vain; my hope was gone for ever; I must tear 
myself away at once, and banish or suppress all thoughts of her like the 
remembrance of a wild, mad dream. Gladly would I have lingered round the 
place for hours, in the hope of catching, at least, one distant glimpse of 
her before I went, but it must not be: I must not suffer her to see me; for 
what could have brought me hither but the hope of reviving her attachment, 
with a view, hereafter, to obtain her hand? And could I bear that she 
should think me capable of such a thing? - of presuming upon the 
acquaintance - the love if you will - accidentally contracted, or rather 
forced upon her against her will, when she was an unknown fugitive, toiling 
for her own support, apparently without fortune, family, or connexions - to 
come upon her now, when she was reinstated in her proper sphere, and claim 
a share in her prosperity, which, had it never failed her, would most 
certainly have kept her unknown to me for ever? and this too when we had 
parted sixteen months ago, and she had expressly forbidden me to hope for a 
reunion in this world - and never sent me a line or a message from that day 
to this? No! The very idea was intolerable.
And even if she should have a lingering affection for me still, ought I to 
disturb her peace by awakening those feelings? to subject her to the 
struggles of conflicting duty and inclination - to whichsoever side the 
latter might allure, or the former imperatively call her - whether she 
should deem it her duty to risk the slights and censures of the world, the 
sorrow and displeasure of those she loved, for a romantic idea of truth and 
constancy to me, or to sacrifice her individual wishes to the feelings of 
her friends and her own sense of prudence and the fitness of things? No - 
and I would not! I would go at once, and she should never know that I had 
approached the place of her abode; for though I might disclaim all idea of 
ever aspiring to her hand, or even of soliciting a place in her friendly 
regard, her peace should not be broken by my presence, nor her heart 
afflicted by the sight of my fidelity.
'Adieu then, dear Helen, for ever! For ever adieu!'
So said I - and yet I could not tear myself away. I moved a few paces, and 
then looked back, for one last view of her stately home, that I might have 
its outward form, at least, impressed upon my mind as indelibly as her own 
image, which, alas! I must not see again - then walked a few steps further; 
and then, lost in melancholy musings, paused again and leant my back 
against a rough old tree that grew beside the road.



Chapter 53

While standing thus, absorbed in my gloomy reverie, a gentleman's carriage 
came round the corner of the road. I did not look at it; and had it rolled 
quietly by me, I should not have remembered the fact of its appearance at 
all; but a tiny voice from within it roused me by exclaiming - 'Mamma, 
mamma, here's Mr Markham!'
I did not hear the reply, but presently the same voice answered -
'It is, indeed, mamma - look for yourself.'
I did not raise my eyes, but I suppose mamma looked, for a clear, melodious 
voice, whose tones thrilled through my nerves, exclaimed -
'Oh, aunt, here's Mr Markham - Arthur's friend! Stop, Richard!'
There was such evidence of joyous though suppressed excitement in the 
utterance of those few words - especially that tremulous 'Oh, aunt' - that 
it threw me almost off my guard. The carriage stopped immediately, and I 
looked up and met the eye of a pale, grave, elderly lady surveying me from 
the open window. She bowed and so did I, and then she withdrew her head, 
while Arthur screamed to the footman to let him out; but before that 
functionary could descend from his box, a hand was silently put forth from 
the carriage window. I knew that hand, though a black glove concealed its 
delicate whiteness and half its fair proportions, and quickly seizing it, I 
pressed it in my own - ardently for a moment, but instantly recollecting 
myself, I dropped it, and it was immediately withdrawn.
'Were you coming to see us, or only passing by?' asked the low voice of its 
owner, who, I felt, was attentively surveying my countenance from behind 
the thick, black veil which, with the shadowing panels, entirely concealed 
her own from me.
'I - I came to see the place,' faltered I.
'The place,' repeated she, in a tone which betokened more displeasure or 
disappointment than surprise.
'Will you not enter it then?'
'If you wish it.'
'Can you doubt?'
'Yes, yes! he must enter,' cried Arthur, running round from the other door; 
and seizing my hand in both his, he shook it heartily.
'Do you remember me, sir?' said he.
'Yes, full well, my little man, altered though you are,' replied I, 
surveying the comparatively tall, slim young gentleman with his mother's 
image visibly stamped upon his fair, intelligent features, in spite of the 
blue eyes beaming with gladness, and the bright locks clustering beneath 
his cap.
'Am I not grown?' said he, stretching himself up to his full height.
'Grown! three inches, upon my word!'
'I was seven last birthday,' was the proud rejoinder. 'In seven years more 
I shall be as tall as you, nearly.'
'Arthur,' said his mother, 'tell him to come in. Go on, Richard.' There was 
a touch of sadness as well as coldness in her voice, but I knew not to what 
to ascribe it. The carriage drove on and entered the gates before us. My 
little companion led me up the park, discoursing merrily all the way. 
Arrived at the hall door, I paused on the steps and looked round me, 
waiting to recover my composure, if possible or, at any rate, to remember 
my new - formed resolutions and the principles on which they were founded; 
and it was not till Arthur had been for some time gently pulling my coat, 
and repeating his invitations to enter, that I at length consented to 
accompany him into the apartment where the ladies awaited us.
Helen eyed me as I entered with a kind of gentle, serious scrutiny, and 
politely asked after Mrs Markham and Rose. I respectfully answered her 
inquiries. Mrs Maxwell begged me to be seated, observing it was rather 
cold, but she supposed I had not travelled far that morning.
'Not quite twenty miles,' I answered.
'Not on foot?'
'No, madam, by coach.'
'Here's Rachel, sir,' said Arthur, the only truly happy one amongst us, 
directing my attention to that worthy individual, who had just entered to 
take her mistress's things. She vouchsafed me an almost friendly smile of 
recognition - a favour that demanded, at least, a civil salutation on my 
part, which was accordingly and respectfully returned - she had seen the 
error of her former estimation of my character.
When Helen was divested of her lugubrious bonnet and veil, her heavy winter 
cloak, etc., she looked so like herself that I knew not how to bear it. I 
was particularly glad to see her beautiful black hair unstinted still and 
unconcealed in its glossy luxuriance.
'Mamma has left off her widow's cap in honour of uncle's marriage,' 
observed Arthur, reading my looks with a child's mingled simplicity and 
quickness of observation. Mamma looked grave, and Mrs Maxwell shook her 
head. 'And Aunt Maxwell is never going to leave off hers,' persisted the 
naughty boy; but when he saw that his pertness was seriously displeasing 
and painful to his aunt, he went and silently put his arm round her neck, 
kissed her cheek, and withdrew to the recess of one of the great bay- 
windows, where he quietly amused himself with his dog while Mrs Maxwell 
gravely discussed with me the interesting topics of the weather, the 
season, and the roads. I considered her presence very useful as a check 
upon my natural impulses - an antidote to those emotions of tumultuous 
excitement which would otherwise have carried me away against my reason and 
my will, but just then I felt the restraint almost intolerable, and I had 
the greatest difficulty in forcing myself to attend to her remarks and 
answer them with ordinary politeness; for I was sensible that Helen was 
standing within a few feet of me beside the fire. I dared not look at her, 
but I felt her eye was upon me, and from one hasty, furtive glance I 
thought her cheek was slightly flushed, and that her fingers, as she played 
with her watch-chain, were agitated with that restless, trembling motion 
which betokens high excitement.
'Tell me,' said she, availing herself of the first pause in the attempted 
conversation between her aunt and me, and speaking fast and low, with her 
eyes bent on the gold chain - for I now ventured another glance - 'Tell me 
how you all are at Lindenhope - has nothing happened since I left you?'
'I believe not.'
'Nobody dead? nobody married?'
'No.'
'Or - or expecting to marry? No old ties dissolved or new ones formed? No 
old friends forgotten or supplanted?'
She dropped her voice so low in the last sentence that no one could have 
caught the concluding words but myself, and at the same time turned her 
eyes upon me with a dawning smile, most sweetly melancholy, and a look of 
timid though keen inquiry that made my cheeks tingle with inexpressible 
emotions.
'I believe not,' I answered - 'Certainly not, if others are as little 
changed as I.' Her face glowed in sympathy with mine.
'And you really did not mean to call?' she exclaimed.
'I feared to intrude.'
'To intrude!' cried she, with an impatient gesture. 'What' - but as if 
suddenly recollecting her aunt's presence, she checked herself, and, 
turning to that lady, continued - 'Why, aunt, this man is my brother's 
close friend, and was my own intimate acquaintance (for a few short months 
at least), and professed a great attachment to my boy - and when he passes 
the house, so many scores of miles from his home, he declines to look in 
for fear of intruding!'
'Mr Markham is over modest,' observed Mrs Maxwell.
'Over ceremonious rather,' said her niece - 'over - well, it's no matter.' 
And turning from me, she seated herself in a chair beside the table, and, 
pulling a book to her by the cover, began to turn over the leaves in an 
energetic kind of abstraction.
'If I had known,' said I, 'that you would have honoured me by remembering 
me as an intimate acquaintance, I most likely should not have denied myself 
the pleasure of calling upon you, but I thought you had forgotten me long 
ago.'
'You judged of others by yourself,' muttered she without raising her eyes 
from the book, but reddening as she spoke, and hastily turning over a dozen 
leaves at once.
There was a pause, of which Arthur thought he might venture to avail 
himself to introduce his handsome young setter, and show me how wonderfully 
it was grown and improved, and to ask after the welfare of its father 
Sancho. Mrs Maxwell then withdrew to take off her things. Helen immediately 
pushed the book from her, and after silently surveying her son, his friend, 
and his dog for a few moments, she dismissed the former from the room under 
the pretence of wishing him to fetch his last new book to show me. The 
child obeyed with alacrity; but I continued caressing the dog. The silence 
might have lasted till its master's return had it depended on me to break 
it, but, in half a minute or less, my hostess impatiently rose, and, taking 
her former station on the rug between me and the chimney corner, earnestly 
exclaimed-
'Gilbert, what is the matter with you? why are you so changed? It is a very 
indiscreet question, I know,' she hastened to add: 'perhaps a very rude one 
- don't answer it if you think so - but I hate mysteries and concealments.'
'I am not changed, Helen - unfortunately I am as keen and passionate as 
ever - it is not I, it is circumstances that are changed.'
'What circumstances? Do tell me!' Her cheek was blanched with the very 
anguish of anxiety - could it be with the fear that I had rashly pledged my 
faith to another?
'I'll tell you at once,' said I. 'I will confess that I came here for the 
purpose of seeing you (not without some monitory misgivings at my own 
presumption, and fears that I should be as little welcome as expected when 
I came), but I did not know that this estate was yours, until enlightened 
on the subject of your inheritance by the conversation of two fellow-
passengers in the last stage of my journey; and then I saw at once the 
folly of the hopes I had cherished and the madness of retaining them a 
moment longer; and though I alighted at your gates I determined not to 
enter within them; I lingered a few minutes to see the place, but was fully 
resolved to return to M-- without seeing its mistress.'
'And if my aunt and I had not been just returning from our morning drive, I 
should have seen and heard no more of you?'
'I thought it would be better for both that we should not meet,' replied I, 
as calmly as I could, but not daring to speak above my breath, from 
conscious inability to steady my voice, and not daring to look in her face 
lest my firmness should forsake me altogether: 'I thought an interview 
would only disturb your peace and madden me. But I am glad, now, of this 
opportunity of seeing you once more and knowing that you have not forgotten 
me, and of assuring you that I shall never cease to remember you.'
There was a moment's pause. Mrs Huntingdon moved away, and stood in the 
recess of the window. Did she regard this as an intimation that modesty 
alone prevented me from asking her hand? and was she considering how to 
repulse me with the smallest injury to my feelings? Before I could speak to 
relieve her from such a perplexity, she broke the silence herself by 
suddenly turning towards me and observing -
'You might have had such an opportunity before - as far, I mean, as regards 
assuring me of your kindly recollections, and yourself of mine, if you had 
written to me.'
'I would have done so, but I did not know your address, and did not like to 
ask your brother, because I thought he would object to my writing - but 
this would not have deterred me for a moment, if I could have ventured to 
believe that you expected to hear from me, or even wasted a thought upon 
your unhappy friend; but your silence naturally led me to conclude myself 
forgotten.'
'Did you expect me to write to you, then?'
'No, Helen - Mrs Huntingdon,' said I, blushing at the implied imputation, 
'certainly not; but if you had sent me a message through your brother, or 
even asked him about me now and then -'
'I did ask about you frequently. I was not going to do more,' continued 
she, smiling, 'so long as you continued to restrict yourself to a few 
polite inquiries about my health.'
'Your brother never told me that you had mentioned my name.'
'Did you ever ask him?'
'No; for I saw he did not wish to be questioned about you, or to afford the 
slightest encouragement or assistance to my too obstinate attachment.' 
Helen did not reply. 'And he was perfectly right,' added I. But she 
remained in silence, looking out upon the snowy lawn. 'Oh, I will relieve 
her of my presence,' thought I; and immediately I rose and advanced to take 
leave, with a most heroic resolution - but pride was at the bottom of it, 
or it could not have carried me through.
'Are you going already?' said she, taking the hand I offered, and not 
immediately letting it go.
'Why should I stay any longer?'
'Wait till Arthur comes, at least.'
Only too glad to obey, I stood and leant against the opposite side of the 
window.
'You told me you were not changed,' said my companion: 'you are - very much 
so.'
'No, Mrs Huntingdon, I only ought to be.'
'Do you mean to maintain that you have the same regard for me that you had 
when last we met?'
'I have; but it would be wrong to talk of it now.'
'It was wrong to talk of it then, Gilbert; it would not now - unless to do 
so would be to violate the truth.'
I was too much agitated to speak; but, without waiting for an answer, she 
turned away her glistening eye and crimson cheek, and threw up the window 
and looked out, whether to calm her own excited feelings or to relieve her 
embarrassment, or only to pluck that beautiful half-blown Christmas rose 
that grew upon the little shrub without, just peeping from the snow that 
had hitherto, no doubt, defended it from the frost, and was now melting 
away in the sun. Pluck it, however, she did, and having gently dashed the 
glittering powder from its leaves, approached it to her lips and said -
'This rose is not so fragrant as a summer flower, but it has stood through 
hardships none of them could bear: the cold rain of winter has sufficed to 
nourish it, and its faint sun to warm it; the bleak winds have not blanched 
it or broken its stem, and the keen frost has not blighted it. Look, 
Gilbert, it is still fresh and blooming as a flower can be, with the cold 
snow even now on its petals. Will you have it?'
I held out my hand: I dared not speak lest my emotion should overmaster me. 
She laid the rose across my palm, but I scarcely closed my fingers upon it, 
so deeply was I absorbed in thinking what might be the meaning of her 
words, and what I ought to do or say upon the occasion; whether to give way 
to my feelings or restrain them still. Misconstruing this hesitation into 
indifference - or reluctance even - to accept her gift, Helen suddenly 
snatched it from my hand, threw it out on to the snow, shut down the window 
with an emphasis, and withdrew to the fire.
'Helen! what means this?' I cried, electrified at this startling change in 
her demeanour.
'You did not understand my gift,' said she - 'or, what is worse, you 
despised it: I'm sorry I gave it you; but since I did make such a mistake, 
the only remedy I could think of was to take it away.'
'You misunderstand me, cruelly,' I replied, and in a minute I had opened 
the window again, leaped out, picked up the flower, brought it in, and 
presented it to her, imploring her to give it me again, and I would keep it 
for ever for her sake, and prize it more highly than anything in the world 
I possessed.
'And will this content you?' said she, as she took it in her hand.
'It shall,' I answered.
'There, then; take it.'
I pressed it earnestly to my lips, and put it in my bosom, Mrs Huntingdon 
looking on with a half-sarcastic smile.
'Now, are you going?' said she.
'I will if - if I must.'
'You are changed,' persisted she - 'you are grown either very proud or very 
indifferent.'
'I am neither, Helen - Mrs Huntingdon. If you could see my heart -'
'You must be one - if not both. And why Mrs Huntingdon? why not Helen, as 
before?'
'Helen, then - dear Helen!' I murmured. I was in an agony of mingled love, 
hope, delight, uncertainty, and suspense.
'The rose I gave you was an emblem of my heart,' said she; 'would you take 
it away and leave me here alone?'
'Would you give me your hand too, if I asked it?'
'Have I not said enough?' she answered, with a most enchanting smile. I 
snatched her hand, and would have fervently kissed it, but suddenly checked 
myself and said -
'But have you considered the consequences?'
'Hardly, I think, or I should not have offered myself to one too proud to 
take me, or too indifferent to make his affection outweigh my worldly 
goods.'
Stupid blockhead that I was! I trembled to clasp her in my arms, hut dared 
not believe in so much joy, and yet restrained myself to say -
'But if you should repent?'
'It would be your fault,' she replied: 'I never shall, unless you bitterly 
disappoint me. If you have not sufficient confidence in my affection to 
believe this, let me alone.'
'My darling angel - my own Helen,' cried I, now passionately kissing the 
hand I still retained, and throwing my left arm around her, 'you never 
shall repent if it depend on me alone. But have you thought of your aunt?' 
I trembled for the answer, and clasped her closer to my heart in the 
instinctive dread of losing my new-found treasure.
'My aunt must not know of it yet,' said she. 'She would think it a rash, 
wild step, because she could not imagine how well I know you: but she must 
know you herself, and learn to like you. You must leave us now, after 
lunch, and come again in spring, and make a longer stay, and cultivate her 
acquaintance, and I know you will like each other.'
'And then you will be mine,' said I, printing a kiss upon her lips, and 
another, and another; for I was as daring and impetuous now as I had been 
backward and constrained before.
'No - in another year,' replied she, gently disengaging herself from my 
embrace, but still fondly clasping my hand.
'Another year! O Helen, I could not wait so long!'
'Where is your fidelity?'
'I mean I could not endure the misery of so long a separation.'
'It would not be a separation: we will write every day; my spirit shall be 
always with you, and sometimes you shall see me with your bodily eye. I 
will not be such a hypocrite as to pretend that I desire to wait so long 
myself, but as my marriage is to please myself alone, I ought to consult my 
friends about the time of it.'
'Your friends will disapprove.'
'They will not greatly disapprove, dear Gilbert,' said she, earnestly 
kissing my hand; 'they cannot, when they know you, or, if they could, they 
would not be true friends - I should not care for their estrangement. Now 
are you satisfied?' She looked up in my face with a smile of ineffable 
tenderness.
'Can I be otherwise, with your love? And you do love me, Helen?' said I, 
not doubting the fact, but wishing to hear it confirmed by her own 
acknowledgement.
'If you loved as I do,' she earnestly replied, 'you would not have so 
nearly lost me - these scruples of false delicacy and pride would never 
thus have troubled you - you would have seen that the greatest worldly 
distinctions and discrepancies of rank, birth, and fortune are as dust in 
the balance compared with the unity of accordant thoughts and feelings, and 
truly loving, sympathising hearts and souls.'
'But this is too much happiness,' said I, embracing her again; 'I have not 
deserved it, Helen - I dare not believe in such felicity: and the longer I 
have to wait, the greater will be my dread that something will intervene to 
snatch you from me - and think, a thousand things may happen in a year! I 
shall be in one long fever of restless terror and impatience all the time. 
And besides, winter is such a dreary season.'
'I thought so too,' replied she gravely: 'I would not be married in winter 
- in December, at least,' she added, with a shudder - for in that month had 
occurred both the ill-starred marriage that had bound her to her former 
husband and the terrible death that released her - 'and therefore I said 
another year, in spring.'
'Next spring?'
'No, no - next autumn, perhaps.'
'Summer, then.'
'Well, the close of summer. There now! be satisfied.'
While she was speaking, Arthur re-entered the room - good boy for keeping 
out so long.
'Mamma, I couldn't find the book in either of the places you told me to 
look for it' (there was a conscious something in mamma's smile that seemed 
to say, 'No, dear, I knew you could not'), 'but Rachel got it for me at 
last. Look, Mr Markham, a natural history with all kinds of birds and 
beasts in it, and the reading as nice as the pictures!'
In great good-humour, I sat down to examine the book, and drew the little 
fellow between my knees. Had he come a minute before, I should have 
received him less graciously, but now I affectionately stroked his curling 
locks, and even kissed his ivory forehead: he was my own Helen's son, and 
therefore mine; and as such I have ever since regarded him. That pretty 
child is now a fine young man: he has realised his mother's brightest 
expectations, and is at present residing in Grassdale Manor with his young 
wife, the merry little Helen Hattersley of yore.
I had not looked through half the book before Mrs Maxwell appeared to 
invite me into the other room to lunch. That lady's cool, distant manners 
rather chilled me at first; but I did my best to propitiate her, and not 
entirely without success, I think, even in that first short visit; for when 
I talked cheerfully to her, she gradually became more kind and cordial, and 
when I departed she bade me a gracious adieu, hoping ere long to have the 
pleasure of seeing me again.
'But you must not go till you have seen the conservatory, my aunt's winter 
garden,' said Helen, as I advanced to take leave of her, with as much 
philosophy and self-command as I could summon to my aid.
I gladly availed myself of such a respite, and followed her into a large 
and beautiful conservatory, plentifully furnished with flowers considering 
the season - but, of course, I had little attention to spare for them. It 
was not, however, for any tender colloquy that my companion had brought me 
there -
'My aunt is particularly fond of flowers,' she observed, 'and she is fond 
of Staningley too: I brought you here to offer a petition in her behalf, 
that this may be her home as long as she lives, and - if it be not our home 
likewise - that I may often see her and be with her; for I fear she will be 
sorry to lose me; and though she leads a retired and contemplative life, 
she is apt to get low-spirited if left too much alone.'
'By all means, dearest Helen! do what you will with your own. I should not 
dream of wishing your aunt to leave the place under any circumstances; and 
we will live either here or elsewhere as you and she may determine, and you 
shall see her as often as you like. I know she must be pained to part with 
you, and I am willing to make any reparation in my power. I love her for 
your sake, and her happiness shall be as dear to me as that of my own 
mother.'
'Thank you, darling! you shall have a kiss for that. Good-bye. There now - 
there, Gilbert - let me go - here's Arthur, don't astonish his infantile 
brain with your madness.'
But it is time to bring my narrative to a close - any one but you would say 
I had made it too long already; but for your satisfaction, I will add a few 
words more; because I know you will have a fellow feeling for the old lady, 
and will wish to know the last of her history. I did come again in spring, 
and, agreeably to Helen's injunctions, did my best to cultivate her 
acquaintance. She received me very kindly, having been, doubtless, already 
prepared to think highly of my character by her niece's too favourable 
report. I turned my best side out, of course, and we got along marvellously 
well together. When my ambitious intentions were made known to her, she 
took it more sensibly than I had ventured to hope. Her only remark on the 
subject, in my hearing, was -
'And so, Mr Markham, you are going to rob me of my niece, I understand. 
Well! I hope God will prosper your union, and make my dear girl happy at 
last. Could she have been contented to remain single, I own I should have 
been better satisfied; but if she must marry again, I know of no one, now 
living and of a suitable age, to whom I would more willingly resign her 
than yourself, or who would be more likely to appreciate her worth and make 
her truly happy, as far as I can tell.'
Of course I was delighted with the compliment, and hoped to show her that 
she was not mistaken in her favourable judgement.
'I have, however, one request to offer,' continued she. 'It seems I am 
still to look on Staningley as my home: I wish you to make it yours 
likewise, for Helen is attached to the place and to me - as I am to her. 
There are painful associations connected with Grassdale, which she cannot 
easily overcome; and I shall not molest you with my company or interference 
here: I am a very quiet person, and shall keep my own apartments, and 
attend to my own concerns, and only see you now and then.'
Of course I most readily consented to this; and we lived in the greatest 
harmony with our dear aunt until the day of her death, which melancholy 
event took place a few years after - melancholy, not to herself (for it 
came quietly upon her, and she was glad to reach her journey's end), but 
only to the few loving friends and grateful dependants she left behind.
To return, however, to my own affairs: I was married in summer, on a 
glorious August morning. It took the whole eight months, and all Helen's 
kindness and goodness to boot, to overcome my mother's prejudices against 
my bride - elect, and to reconcile her to the idea of my leaving Linden 
Grange and living so far away. Yet she was gratified at her son's good 
fortune after all, and proudly attributed it all to his own superior merits 
and endowments. I bequeathed the farm to Fergus, with better hopes of its 
prosperity than I should have had a year ago under similar circumstances; 
for he had lately fallen in love with the vicar of L--'s eldest daughter, a 
lady whose superiority had roused his latent virtues, and stimulated him to 
the must surprising exertions, not only to gain her affection and esteem, 
and to obtain a fortune sufficient to aspire to her hand, but to render 
himself worthy of her, in his own eyes, as well as in those of her parents; 
and in the end he was successful, as you already know. As for myself, I 
need not tell you how happily my Helen and I have lived together, and how 
blessed we still are in each other's society, and in the promising young 
scions that are growing up about us. We are just now looking forward to the 
advent of you and Rose, for the time of your annual visit draws nigh, when 
you must leave your dusty, smoky, noisy, toiling, striving city for a 
season of invigorating relaxation and social retirement with us. Till then, 
farewell,
	Gilbert Markham.

Staningly,June 10th, 1847.