 CHAPTER XXXIV I WAS CALM AND COOL THROUGHOUT. I answered composely all inquiries respecting my health, and whatever was unusually my look or manner was generally attributed to the truth in this position that had occasioned my early retirement last night. But how am I to yet 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 month or years of my future life in company with that man, my greatest enemy? For none could endure me as he has done. Oh, when I think how fondly, how foolishly I have loved him, how merely I have trusted him, how constantly I have labored and studied and prayed and struggled for his advantage, and how cruelly he has trembled on my love, betrothed my trust, scored my prayers and cheers 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 men 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 so lost, so hardened in his heartless depravity, that in this life I believe he never will. But it is useless dwelling on this team. 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 sympathizing and, as he thinks, inobtrusive politeness. If it were more obtrusive it would trouble me less. For then I could snuff him, but, as it is, he contrives to appear so really kind and thoughtful that I cannot do so without rudeness and seeming gratitude. 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 faint, 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 rouse my indignation, and I think I shall be safe enough. I have done well to record him so minutely. I think he wishes to find an opportunity to speak to me alone. He has seemed to be on watch all day, but I have taken care to disappoint him. Not that I fear anything he could say, but I have travelled enough without the addition of his insulting consolations, condolences or whatever else he might attempt. Even for Millicent's sake, I do not wish to quarrel with him. He excused himself from going out to shoot with the other gentleman in the morning, under the pretext of having let us to ride. And instead of retrying from that purpose into the library, he sent for his desk into the morning room, where I was seated with Millicent and Lady Loverall. They had yet taken themselves to their work. I, less to divert my mind than to deprecate conversation, I provided myself with the book. Millicent saw that I wished to be quiet, and accordingly let me alone. I, navela doubtless, saw it too. But that was no reason why she should restrain her tongue or cover her shield for her spirits. She accordingly shed it away, addressing herself most exclusively to me, and with utmost assurance and familiarity, growing, the more animated and friendly, the colder and briefer my answers became. Mr. Hargrave saw that I could heal and 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 the evict, or could not bear to talk, at any rate. She saw that her look was as a divacity annoyed me, as I could tell by the malicious pertinence at you with which she persisted. But I checked it effectively by putting it into her hand the book I had been trying to read, and fly away from which I had hastily scribbled. I am too eloquent to do their character and conduct to feel any real friend for you, and as I am without your talent for the simulation, I cannot assume the appearance of it. I must, therefore, beg that hereafter our 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 Millicent's feelings, not for yours. Up and perusing did she turn scarlet and beat her lip. Coveredly tearing away the leaf, she scrumpled it up and put it in fire, and then employed herself in turning over the pages of the book, and, really or apparently, perusing its contents. In a little while, Millicent announced she had 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 won't speak to Helen in a minute. You may go, Millicent, until following a while. Millicent went. Will you bludge 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. Ha! You are suspicious! Cried she, smiling, with a gleam of hope. A third to the air had been a kind of desperation in her ardy-wood. Now she was evidently relived. If I were suspicious, I replied, I should have discovered your infamy long before. No, Lady Loverall, I do not found my charge upon suspicion. On what you found it then? Said she, throwing herself into an armchair and stretching out her feet to the fender, with an obvious effort to appear composed. I enjoy human length ramble as well as you. I answered, steadily fixing my eyes upon her, and the fruity happens to be one of my favorite resorts. She colored again excessively and remained silent, pressing her finger against her cheeks and gazing into the fire. I watched her a few moments to the feeling of malevolent gratification. Then, moving towards the door, I calmly asked if she had anything more to say. Yes, yes. I tried she eagerly, starting up from a reclining posture. I want to know if you'll tell Lord Loverall. Suppose I do? Well, if you are disposed of published matter, I can attest you, Adieu, of course. But there'll 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 exited. Short of her renouncing her guilty connection with my husband, I suppose you mean, said I. She paused, in evident disconcerting and perplexity, mingled with anger she dare 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 Ellen, or Mrs. Huntingdon, or whatever you'd have me call you, would 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, rather pro-knowledge myself your adapter for an act of the most noble forbearance. I shall not tell him. He will not, cried she delightedly. With 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 in an act of any forbearance. I have no wish to publish your shame. I shall be sorry to distress your husband with knowledge of it. And Millicent? Would you tell her? No, in the country. I shall do my utmost to conceal it from her. I will not for much that you should know the infamy and disgrace of her relation. You use hard words, Mrs. Huntingdon, but I can pardon you. And now, Lady Loverall, continue I. Let me console you to leave this house as soon as possible. You must be aware that your continuous here is excessively disagreeable to me. Not for Mr. Huntingdon's sake, said I, observing the dawn of a malicious smile or trunf on our face. You are welcome to him, if you like him, as far as I am concerned. But because it is painful to be always disguised in my true sentiments respecting you, and stretching to keep up an appearance of civility and respect towards one for whom I have not the most distant share of esteem. And because, if you stay, your conduct cannot possibly remain concealed much longer for the only two persons in the house who do not know it already. Then, for your husband's sake, Annabella, and even for your own, I wish, I earnestly advise and intrude you to break off this unlawful connection at once, and return to your duty while you may, before the dreadful consequences. Yes, yes, of course, said she, interrupt me with the chest of impatience. But I cannot go, Ellen, before the time appointed for our departure. What possible pretext could I frame for such a thing? Where I propose, going back alone, which slope we all 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? Yes, 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 XXXV Nineteenth. In proportion, as Lady Loeber affines, 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. 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 to-morrow, 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 away 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. She 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 a jar 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 Lobara, I quietly stole away from the company and retired to the library. Mr. Hargrave followed me thither, under pretense 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 Millicent 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 Lobura and I had the pleasure of returning tet-a-tet 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 lent back to. With her usual impudence, my companion then made some attempts to get up a conversation. But the monosyllables, yes, or no, or hump, 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 Lobura? 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 Millison arrived with her mother. All 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 Lobura composedly came, and placed herself on the other side. "'Tomorrow, Mrs. Huntington,' 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 this salutary change in Mr. Huntington? Don't you see what a sober, temperate man he has 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 anti-room 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 Millicent, 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 to-morrow, 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 laboring 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 fervor, 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 Hattertsley 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 Lobura how many reasons she had to be proud of her son. Thank heaven they are all going to-morrow. CHAPTER 36 OF THE TENANT OF WILD FELL HALL. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. December 20, 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. 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 him. As far as in me lies, I endeavor 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 judgment 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 as 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, unwombly 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 labored long and hard to save him from this very vice? Would I not labor 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 Lobra, as I know he does? No, never, never, never. He may drink himself dead, but it is not my fault. But 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 it 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 sois-dissons 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 satish indulgence of his sensual appetites. The only objection I have to Mr. Hargrave's being in the neighborhood 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 something 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, unalliviated 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 humor and a spirit of tearless 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 pettifaction 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 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 Lobara. I glanced at the first page. It seemed full of extravagant protestations of affection, impetuous longings for a speedy reunion, 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 color. 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 news-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-passified 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 afterlife to counteract, but already he counteracts my arduous labor 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 diabolical 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, but sitteth in darkness and hath no light. Let him trust in the name of the Lord, and stay upon his God. CHAPTER 37 THE NEIGHBOR AGAIN 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. Or, of course, the child dotes upon his seemingly joyous, amusing, ever-indulgent papa, and will at any time gladly exchange my company for his. This disturbs me greatly, not so much for the sake of my son's affection, though I do prize that highly, and though I feel it is my right, and know I have done much to earn it, as for that influence over him which, for his own advantage, I would strive to purchase and retain, and which for very spite his father delights to rob me of, and, from motives of mere idle egotism, is pleased to win to himself, making no use of it, but to torment me and ruin the child. My only consolation is that he spends comparatively little of his time at home, and, during the months he passes in London or elsewhere, I have a chance of recovering the ground I had lost, and overcoming with good the evil he has wrought by his willful 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 Grastale 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, gentlemen, at last. For seven or eight months he behaved so remarkably well, and managed so skillfully, 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 retained 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 waterside, and talked with considerable animation, good taste, and intelligence, on many subjects before I began to think about getting rid of him. Then, after a pause, during which we both stood gazing on the calm, blue water, I revolving in my mind the best means of politely dismissing my companion, he, no doubt, pondering other matters equally alien to the sweet sights and sounds that alone were present to his senses. He suddenly electrified me, by beginning, in a peculiar tone, low, soft, but perfectly distinct, to pour forth the most unequivocal expressions of earnest and passionate love, pleading his cause, with all the bold yet artful eloquence he could summon to his aid. Once 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, Mama, you said yourself—but the young lady was silenced by the uplifted finger of her Mama, 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 around 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 were talking about, replied he gravely. Indeed I don't, for I am 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 am going to leave it myself, said I, and immediately made my adieu. 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 in two 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 play-fellows, 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 Lobara 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 Lobara 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 a man who could so infamously, so impiously forsake and injure one so transcendentally—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. Huntington, said he, smiling. You are only half a woman. Your nature must be half human, half angelic. Such goodness overaws 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 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 blessed, as that comes to, on this side of eternity. One thing I know, return 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. Huntington, 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. Dane 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. But 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, whether he had followed me. They need not know, he began, but before anything more could be said on either side, Esther and Arthur re-entered the room. The former glanced at Walter's flushed excited countenance, and then at mine, a little flushed and excited too, I daresay, though from far different causes. She must have thought we had been quarreling 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 perfusion over her face, she immediately began to talk about the garden and her little play-fellow, 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. For a 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, describing 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 the 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. At one mild, sun-shiny 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 style 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 rained 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 to April, since I first saw you, Mrs. Huntingdon. You may have forgotten the circumstances, 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 you 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 you gave it to your husband. When you found him utterly unworthy of the treasure you reclaimed it, and you will not pretend that you loved that sensual, earthly-minded, profligate so deeply, so devotedly, that you can never love another. I know that there are feelings in your nature that have never yet been called forth. I know, too, that in your present neglected lonely state you are, and must be, miserable. You have it in your power to raise two human beings from a state of actual suffering to such unspeakable beatitude, as only generous, noble, self-forgetting love can give. For you can love me, if you will. You may tell me that you scorn and detest me, but, since you have set me the example of plain speaking, I will answer that I do not believe you. But you will not do it. You choose, rather, to leave us miserable, and you coolly tell me it is the will of God that we should remain so. You may call this religion. But I call it wild fanaticism. There is another life, both for you and for me, said I. If it be the will of God that we should sow in tears now, it is only that we may reap in joy hereafter. It is His will that we should not injure others by the gratification of our own earthly passions, and you have a mother, and sisters, and friends, who would be seriously injured by your disgrace. And I too have friends whose peace of mind shall never be sacrificed to my enjoyment, or yours either, with my consent. And if I were alone in the world, I have still my God and my religion. And I would sooner die than disgrace my calling and break my faith with heaven to obtain a few brief years of false and fleeting happiness. Happiness sure to end in misery, even here, for myself or any other. There need be no disgrace, no misery or sacrifice in any quarter, persisted he. I do not ask you to leave your home or defy the world's opinion. But I need not repeat all his arguments. I refuted them to the best of my power. But that power was provokingly small, at the moment, for I was too much flurried with indignation and even shame, that he should thus dare to address me to retain sufficient command of thought and language to enable me adequately to contend against his powerful sophistries. Saying, however, that he could not be silenced by reason, and even covertly exalted 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 fervor 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 mentioned 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, labor 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 forever 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 XXXVII. CHAPTER XXXV. 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 grass-dale 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 Lobara 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 demeanor. 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 Lobara'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 connection 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 demeanor 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 Lobara 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 visitor's 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, where 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 Lobera entered, this room was still his favorite 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 do's 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, or 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 to-morrow. To-morrow, 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. I felt, like a criminal. 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. But then there would be no need to harrow your feelings with such— Oh, 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 farther. Abstract yourself from her, and stand alone. And you, madam,' said he sternly, arresting his walk 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, "'Oh 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 his 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 Lobara 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, for 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. Gazing 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. Suddenly 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, pursuit he. I observed it too, to that infernal demon he muttered between his teeth. And he said it was your own sour temper that was eating away your bloom. He 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. "'Hello, lobora,' he began. "'Oh, I beg your pardon,' he exclaimed on seeing me. I didn't know this was a tet-a-tet. Cheer up, man!' he continued, giving Lord Lobora 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—' "'I'll 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 daresay—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 Lobrah, is just the remedy my own heart—or the devil within it—suggested—to meet him, and not to sever 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 Lobrah!' 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 humanized 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 ante-room was Mr. Hattersley, railing against Lord Lobrah's paltrunary, before a select audience—Viz, Mr. Huntingdon, who was lounging against the table, exalting 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. At the glance I gave them in passing, Hattersley stopped short in his animadversions, and stared like a bull-calf. Grimsby glowered upon me with a leer of malignant ferocity, and my husband muttered a course and brutal malediction. In the drawing-room I found Lady Lobrah 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 billious 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 to-night. However, she asserted, it was only a business concern, and so she did not intend it should trouble her. She was just saying this as I entered, and she darted upon me such a glance of hardy-hood 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 around, 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. Huntington? Shall I, ladies and gentlemen all? Very well. I'll do my best to amuse you. She and Lord Lobara 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 into and thrust deep into the cinders of the great, 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. That man, I thought, is an object of scorn to his friends and the nice-judging world. The false wife and the treacherous friend who have wronged him are not so despised and degraded as he, and his refusal to avenge his wrongs has removed him yet farther beyond the range of sympathy, and blackened his name with a deeper disgrace. He knows this, and it doubles his burden of woe. He sees the injustice of it, but he cannot bear up against it. He lacks that sustaining power of self-esteem which leads a man, exulting in his own integrity, to defy the malice of producing foes and give them scorn for scorn, or, better still, which raises him above earth's foul and turbulent vapors, to repose in heaven's eternal sunshine. He knows that God is just, but cannot see his justice now. He knows this life is short, and yet death seems insufferably far away. He believes there is a future state, but so absorbing is the agony of this that he cannot realize its rapturous repose. He can but bow his head to the storm and cling, blindly, despairingly, to what he knows to be right. Like the shipwrecked mariner cleaving to a raft, blinded, deafened, bewildered, he feels the waves sweep over him, and sees no prospect of escape, and yet he knows he has no hope but this. And still, while life and sense remain, concentrates all his energies to keep it. Oh, that I had a friend's right to comfort him, and tell him that I never esteemed him so highly as I do this night. They departed early in the morning before anyone else was down, except myself, and just as I was leaving my room, Lord Lobara 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, Lobara? 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 Lobara 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 un-Christian 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 Lobara had gained to 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 deused, imperious, and exacting, said he. Now I shall be my own man again, and feel rather more at my ease. I know nothing more of Lord Lobara's subsequent proceedings but what I have heard from Millicent, who, though she is ignorant of the cause of his separation from her cousin, hasn't formed me that such is the case, that they keep entirely separate establishments, that she leads a gay, dashing life in town and country, while he lives in strict seclusion at his old castle in the north. There are two children, both of whom he keeps under his own protection. The son and heir is a promising child, nearly the age of my Arthur, and no doubt a source of some hope and comfort to his father. But the other, a little girl between one and two, with blue eyes and light auburn hair, he probably keeps from conscientious motives alone, thinking it wrong to abandon her to the teaching and example of such a woman as her mother. That mother never loved children, and has so little natural affection for her own, that I question whether she will not regard it as a relief to be thus entirely separated from them, and delivered from the trouble and responsibility of their charge. But many days after the departure of Lord and Lady Lobara, the rest of the ladies withdrew the light of their presence from Grastale. Perhaps they might have stayed longer, but neither host nor hostess pressed them to prolong their visit. In fact the former showed too plainly that he should be glad to get rid of them. And Mrs. Hargrave retired with her daughters and her grandchildren—there are three of them now—to the grove. But the gentlemen remained. Mr. Huntingdon, as I intimated before, was determined to keep them as long as he could, and being thus delivered from restraint, they gave a loose to all their innate madness, folly, and brutality, and made the house night after night one scene of riot, uproar, and confusion. Who among them behaved the worst? Or who the best? I cannot distinctly say. For from the moment I discovered how things would be, I formed the resolution of retreating upstairs, or locking myself into the library the instant I withdrew from the dining-room, and not coming near them again till breakfast. But this I must say for Mr. Hargrave, that from all I could see of him, he was a model of decency, sobriety, and gentlemanly manners, in comparison with the rest. He did not join the party till a week or ten days after the arrival of the other guests, for he was still on the Continent when they came, and I cherished the hope that he would not accept the invitation. Not that he did, however, but his conduct towards me, for the first few weeks, was exactly what I should have wished it to be—perfectly civil and respectful, without any affectation of despondency or dejection, and sufficiently distant without haughtiness, or any of such remarkable stiffness or iciness of demeanor, as might be calculated to disturb or puzzle his sister, or call forth the investigation of his mother.