The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
by Anne Bronte
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman
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by Anne Bronte

AUTHOR'S PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

While I acknowledge the success of the present work to have been
greater than I anticipated, and the praises it has elicited from a
few kind critics to have been greater than it deserved, I must also
admit that from some other quarters it has been censured with an
asperity which I was as little prepared to expect, and which my
judgment, as well as my feelings, assures me is more bitter than
just. It is scarcely the province of an author to refute the
arguments of his censors and vindicate his own productions; but I
may be allowed to make here a few observations with which I would
have prefaced the first edition, had I foreseen the necessity of
such precautions against the misapprehensions of those who would
read it with a prejudiced mind or be content to judge it by a hasty
glance.

My object in writing the following pages was not simply to amuse
the Reader; neither was it to gratify my own taste, nor yet to
ingratiate myself with the Press and the Public: I wished to tell
the truth, for truth always conveys its own moral to those who are
able to receive it. But as the priceless treasure too frequently
hides at the bottom of a well, it needs some courage to dive for
it, especially as he that does so will be likely to incur more
scorn and obloquy for the mud and water into which he has ventured
to plunge, than thanks for the jewel he procures; as, in like
manner, she who undertakes the cleansing of a careless bachelor's
apartment will be liable to more abuse for the dust she raises than
commendation for the clearance she effects. Let it not be
imagined, however, that I consider myself competent to reform the
errors and abuses of society, but only that I would fain contribute
my humble quota towards so good an aim; and if I can gain the
public ear at all, I would rather whisper a few wholesome truths
therein than much soft nonsense.

As the story of 'Agnes Grey' was accused of extravagant over-
colouring in those very parts that were carefully copied from the
life, with a most scrupulous avoidance of all exaggeration, so, in
the present work, I find myself censured for depicting CON AMORE,
with 'a morbid love of the coarse, if not of the brutal,' those
scenes which, I will venture to say, have not been more painful for
the most fastidious of my critics to read than they were for me to
describe. I may have gone too far; in which case I shall be
careful not to trouble myself or my readers in the same way again;
but when we have to do with vice and vicious characters, I maintain
it is better to depict them as they really are than as they would
wish to appear. To represent a bad thing in its least offensive
light is, doubtless, the most agreeable course for a writer of
fiction to pursue; but is it the most honest, or the safest? Is it
better to reveal the snares and pitfalls of life to the young and
thoughtless traveller, or to cover them with branches and flowers?
Oh, reader! if there were less of this delicate concealment of
facts - this whispering, 'Peace, peace,' when there is no peace,
there would be less of sin and misery to the young of both sexes
who are left to wring their bitter knowledge from experience.

I would not be understood to suppose that the proceedings of the
unhappy scapegrace, with his few profligate companions I have here
introduced, are a specimen of the common practices of society - the
case is an extreme one, as I trusted none would fail to perceive;
but I know that such characters do exist, and if I have warned one
rash youth from following in their steps, or prevented one
thoughtless girl from falling into the very natural error of my
heroine, the book has not been written in vain. But, at the same
time, if any honest reader shall have derived more pain than
pleasure from its perusal, and have closed the last volume with a
disagreeable impression on his mind, I humbly crave his pardon, for
such was far from my intention; and I will endeavour to do better
another time, for I love to give innocent pleasure. Yet, be it
understood, I shall not limit my ambition to this - or even to
producing 'a perfect work of art': time and talents so spent, I
should consider wasted and misapplied. Such humble talents as God
has given me I will endeavour to put to their greatest use; if I am
able to amuse, I will try to benefit too; and when I feel it my
duty to speak an unpalatable truth, with the help of God, I WILL
speak it, though it be to the prejudice of my name and to the
detriment of my reader's immediate pleasure as well as my own.

One word more, and I have done. Respecting the author's identity,
I would have it to he distinctly understood that Acton Bell is
neither Currer nor Ellis Bell, and therefore let not his faults be
attributed to them. As to whether the name be real or fictitious,
it cannot greatly signify to those who know him only by his works.
As little, I should think, can it matter whether the writer so
designated is a man, or a woman, as one or two of my critics
profess to have discovered. I take the imputation in good part, as
a compliment to the just delineation of my female characters; and
though I am bound to attribute much of the severity of my censors
to this suspicion, I make no effort to refute it, because, in my
own mind, I am satisfied that if a book is a good one, it is so
whatever the sex of the author may be. All novels are, or should
be, written for both men and women to read, and I am at a loss to
conceive how a man should permit himself to write anything that
would be really disgraceful to a woman, or why a woman should be
censured for writing anything that would be proper and becoming for
a man.

JULY 22nd, 1848.

THE TENANT OF WILDFELL HALL

CHAPTER I

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 side-board, 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
meadowlands.'

'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 have been bursting with it ever since.
You know it was reported 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-by,' 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 slily 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 -
in 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 incased 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 II

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 posturing 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 gate-posts) was a garden, - once stocked with such hard 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 legions
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 his 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 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 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 aversion 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-
E-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 daresay, 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 III

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 civilized 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 or
other she was uneasy at the child's position.

'Arthur,' said she, 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 fifth 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 daresay 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 daresay 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
say; - 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 to 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 hothouse,
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 argument 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 merest 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 to-morrow! - 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 bit
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 IV

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 common-place 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 me 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 daresay 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 wine-
glass, 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 remembrance, 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 now.'

'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 got 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 V

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, &c.; 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 Linden-hope 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 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 above 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 some one 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 '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 VI

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 mature
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 baulked 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
superintending 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
dexterously 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 represss 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 under-tone, 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 teapot
and muffin warm upon the hobs, 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 daresay 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 liked 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 VII

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 hill-side, 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 fire-place, 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 you; for some of us have nothing better to do
than to talk 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 pony-
carriage, 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 midday 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
pony-carriage, 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 seamews 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-by - I don't know whether I have told
you before, but they were 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, &c.;, 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 is 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 hand 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 to-morrow - 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 intrust him to me,
by-the-by,' 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 judgment 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 judgment 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
completed, 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 driver's seat to Rose; and I
persuaded Eliza to take the latter'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 VIII

Six weeks had passed away. It was a splendid morning about 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 hay-field, and was working away myself, in the
midst of them, in my shirt-sleeves, 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 till 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 - oh! 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,' &c.;, &c.;

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 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 IX

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
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 slily 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 might 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 were 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 anyone 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 in 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 would 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 connection 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 some one 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 can 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 great 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 more 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 some one 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 of 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 ladylike and agreeable.'

'I thought her somewhat frigid and rather supercilious in her
manner to-day.'

'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-E-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 some one 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 wrathful 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 fiercer 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 X

When all were gone, I learnt 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 scandal-
mongers 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 flash 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 XI

You must suppose about three weeks passed 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 innuendoes, and by what I hear others say, that I knew
what they think.'

'Well, then, I won't go to-day, 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
its 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 the 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 gave 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 XII

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 a 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 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
me to the enjoyment of your company and conversation, when all
hopes of closer 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, - 'To-morrow, 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 if she were more composed
than when we parted; - and if I found her still in deep distress,
perhaps I might venture 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 some one 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 safe 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. O 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 torment 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 briers - 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 XIII

'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 anyone 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,'
&c.;

'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 to-day 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 conversable 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 to-morrow, 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 corn-field 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 XIV

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, rapt 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 more tangible cause of offence, before I opened
the floodgates 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 his 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 about him - and there it
was for him, quietly browsing on the road-side.

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.

Mr. 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 some one 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 connection 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
villainous 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 flies 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 to-morrow,' said my mother.

'Or to-day,' 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 to-morrow. 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
himself 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 XV

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

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

'Wants me, Arthur?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

I accompanied her through the gap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And her pale lips quivered with agitation.

'Why not, may I ask?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I remained, awaiting her further commands.

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

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

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

'How long is it since you saw him?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

'What proof, sir?'

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

'I do.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'How can you ask it, Helen?'

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XVI

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

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

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

'Yes, aunt, often.'

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

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

'Why so?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'I know it is so,' persisted I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Worse than ever,' I replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She sternly shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Helen!'

'What did my uncle say?'

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

'Did he say obliging offer?'

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

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

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

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

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

'No.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'But I have thoughts of it.'

'Or that you desire a further acquaintance.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'You really think so?'

'I do.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XVII

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

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

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

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

'No, they are Miss Hargrave's.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'You know I detest them both.'

'And me?'

'I have no reason to detest you.'

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

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

'Sweet angel, I adore you! I - '

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

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

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

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

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

'No.'

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

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

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

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

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

'I am so now.'

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

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

'Yes, aunt.'

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

'Yes; but my reason - '

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

'Yes; but - '

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Is he a man of principle?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'But still you think it may be truth?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Then I will save him from them.'

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

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

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

CHAPTER XVIII

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

* * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'The candle will keep,' returned he.

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

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

'Yes, I do - at this moment.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I could not answer at the moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Indeed, sir - '

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

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

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

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

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

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

'I wish you would go!' I replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Well, I would lay down life - '

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'It is true,' interrupted I.

'Then how could you permit -?'

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

CHAPTER XX

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 incumbrances 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 to-day, 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 mother's, 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 judgment - 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 judgment 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 the 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 to 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 to-morrow.
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 roast: 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.