CHAPTER 30 On the following morning I received a few lines from him myself, confirming Hargrave's intimations respecting his approaching return. And he did come next week, but in a condition of body and mind even worse than before. I did not, however, intend to pass over his derelictions this time without a remark. I found it would not do. But the first day he was weary with his journey, and I was glad to get him back. I would not upgrade him then, I would wait till to-morrow. Next morning he was weary still. I would wait a little longer. But at dinner, when, after breakfasting at twelve o'clock on a bottle of soda-water and a cup of strong coffee, and lunching at two on another bottle of soda-water mingled with brandy, he was finding fault with everything on the table, and declaring we must change our cook, I thought the time was come. It is the same cook as we had before you went, Arthur, said I. You were generally pretty well satisfied with her then. You must have been letting her get into slovenly habits then while I was away.  And he pettishly pushed away his plate, and lent back despairingly in his chair. I think it is you that are changed, not she, said I, but with utmost gentleness, for I did not wish to irritate him. It may be so, he replied carelessly, as he seized a tumbler of wine and water, flooding when he had tossed it off, for I have an infernal fire in my veins that all the waters of the ocean cannot quench. What kindled it, I was about to ask, but at that moment the butler entered and began to take away the things.  Benson in some surprise removed the cheese and did his best to affect a quiet and speedy clearance of the rest. But unfortunately there was a rumble in the carpet, caused by the hasty pushing back of his master's chair, at which he tripped and stumbled, causing a rather alarming concussion with the trayful of crockery in his hands. But no positive damage, save the fallen breaking of a soft terrain. But to my unspeakable shame and dismay Arthur turned furiously around upon him, and swore at him with savage coarseness. The poor man turned pale, and visibly trembled as he stooped to pick up the fragments. He couldn't help it, Arthur, said I. The carpet caught his foot, and there's no great harm done. Never mind the pieces now, Benson, you can clear them away afterwards. Glad to be released, Benson expeditiously set out the dessert and withdrew. What could you mean, Helen, by taking the servant's part against me? said Arthur, as soon as the door was closed, when you knew I was distracted. I did not know you were distracted, Arthur, and the poor man was quite frightened and hurt at your sudden explosion. Poor man indeed! Do you think I could stop to consider the feelings of an insensate brute like that, when my own nerves were racked and torn to pieces by his confounded blunders? I never heard you complain if your nerves before. And why should I have nerves as well as you? Oh, I don't dispute your claim to their possession, but I never complain of mine. No, how should you, when you never do anything to try them? Then why do you try yours, Arthur? Do you think I have nothing to do but stay at home and take care of myself like a woman?  You told me that you could, and would, too, and you promised. Come, come, Helen, don't begin with that nonsense now. I can't bear it. Can't bear what, to be reminded of the promises you have broken? Helen, you are cruel. If you knew how my heart throbbed and how every nerve thrilled through me while you spoke, you would spare me. You can pity the adult of a servant for breaking a dish, but you have no compassion for me when my head is split in two and all on fire with this consuming fever. He lent his head on his hand and side. I went to him and put my hand on his forehead. It was burning, indeed. Then come with me into the drawing-room, Arthur, and don't take any more wine.  How can that make you better? With some coaxing and persuasion I got him to leave the table. When the baby was brought I tried to amuse him with that, but poor little Arthur was cutting his teeth, and his father would not bear his complaints. Sentence of immediate banishment was passed upon him on the first indication of fretfulness, and because in the course of the evening I went to share his exile for a little while, I was reproached on my return for preparing my child to my husband. I found the latter reclining on the sofa just as I had left him. Well! exclaimed the injured man in a tone of pseudo-resignation. I thought I wouldn't send for you. I thought I'd just see how long it would please you to leave me alone. I have not been very long, have I, Arthur? I have not been an hour, I'm sure. Oh, of course, an hour is nothing to you, so pleasantly employed, but to me. It has not been pleasantly employed, interrupted I. I have been nursing our poor little baby, who is very far from well, and I could not leave him till I got him to sleep. Oh, to be sure you're overflowing with kindness and pity, for everything but me. And why should I pity you? What is the matter with you? Well, that passes everything, after all the wear and tear that I've had when I come home sick and weary, longing for comfort, and expecting to find attention and kindness, at least from my wife, she calmly asks what is the matter with me? There is nothing the matter with you, returned I, except what you have willfully brought upon yourself against my earnest exhortation and entreaty. Now Helen, said he emphatically, half rising from his recumbent posture, if you bother me with another word I'll ring the bell and order six bottles of wine, and by heaven I'll drink them dry before I stir from this place. I said no more, but sat down before the table and drew a book towards me. Do let me have quietness at least, continued he, if you deny me every other comfort. And sinking back into his former position, with an impatient expiration between a sigh and a groan, he languidly closed his eyes as if to sleep. What the book was that lay open on the table before me I cannot tell, for I never looked at it. With an elbow on each side of it and my hands clasped before my eyes I delivered myself up to silent weeping. But Arthur was not asleep. At the first slight sob he raised his head and looked round impatiently, trembling. What are you crying for, Helen? What the deuce is the matter now?   And do you think you can injure and degrade yourself, and I not feel it? Degrade myself, Helen? Yes, degrade. What have you been doing all this time? You'd better not ask, said he with a faint tell. And you had better not tell. But you cannot deny that you have degraded yourself miserably. You have shamefully wronged yourself body and soul, and me too, and I can't endure it quietly, and I won't. Well, don't squeeze my hands or frantically, and don't agitate me so for heaven's sake. Oh, Hatterstley, you were right. This woman will be the death of me with her keen feelings and her interesting force of character. There, there, do spare me a little. Arthur, you must repent, cried I, in a frenzy of desperation, throwing my arms around him and burying my face in his bosom. You shall say you are sorry for what you have done. Well, well, I am. You are not. You'll do it again. I shall never live to do it again if you treat me so savagely, replied he, pushing me from him. You've nearly squeezed the breath out of my body. He pressed his hand to his heart and looked really agitated and ill.  I'm almost ready to faint. I flew to get the required remedy. It seemed to revive him considerably.  If you knew all my girl, you'd say rather, what a wonder it is you can bear it so well as you do. I've lived more in these four months, Helen, than you have in the whole course of your existence, or will to the end of your days if they numbered a hundred years, so I must expect to pay for it in some shape. You will have to pay a higher price than you anticipate if you don't take care. There will be the total loss of your own health, and of my affection, too, if that is of any value to you. What? You're at that game of threatening me with the loss of your affection again, are you? I think it couldn't have been very genuine stuff to begin with if it's so easily demolished, if you don't mind my pretty tyrant.  She's quite a pattern to her sex, Helen. He had her with him in London all the season, and she was no trouble at all. He might amuse himself just as he pleased in regular bachelor style, and she never complained of neglect. He might come home at any hour of the night or morning, or not come home at all, be sullen, sober, or glorious drunk, and play the fool or their madman to his own heart's desire without any fear or botheration. She never gives him a word of reproach or complaint, do what he will. He says there's not such a jewel in all England, and swears he wouldn't take a kingdom for her. But he makes her life a curse to her. Not he. She has no will but his, and is always contented and happy as long as he is enjoying himself. In that case she is as great a fool as he is. But it is not so. I have several letters from her expressing the greatest anxiety about his proceedings, and complaining that you incite him to commit these extravagances, one especially in which she implores me to use my influence with you to get you away from London, and affirms that her husband never did such things before you came, and would certainly discontinue them as soon as you departed, and left him to the guidance of his own good sense. The detestable little traitor, give me the letter, and he shall see it as sure as I am a living man. No, he shall not see it without her consent, but if he did there is nothing there to anger him nor in any of the others. She never speaks a word against him. It is only anxiety for him that she expresses. She only alludes to his conduct in the most delicate terms, and makes every excuse for him that she can possibly think of, and as for her own misery I rather feel it than see it expressed in her letters. But she abuses me, and no doubt you helped her. No, I told her she overrated my influence with you, that I would gladly draw you away from the temptations of the town if I could, but had little hope of success, and that I thought she was wrong in supposing that you enticed Mr. Hattersley or anyone else into error. I had myself held the contrary opinion at one time, but I now believe that you mutually corrupted each other, and perhaps if she used a little gentle but serious remonstrance with her husband it might be of some service, as though he was more rough-hewn than mine I believed he was of a less impenetrable material.  According to your own account, said I, my evil counsel has had but little effect upon her, and as to abuse and aspersions we are both of us far too deeply ashamed of the errors and vices of our other halves, to make them the common subject of our correspondence. Friends as we are we would willingly keep your failings to ourselves, even from ourselves if we could, unless by knowing them we could deliver you from them. Well, well, don't worry me about them, you'll never affect any good by that. Have patience with me, and bear with my languor and crossness a little while, till I get this cursed low fever out of my veins, and then you'll find me cheerful and kind as ever. Why can't you be gentle and good as you were last time? I'm sure I was very grateful for it. And what good did your gratitude do? I deluded myself with the idea that you were ashamed of your transgressions, and hoped you would never repeat them again, but now you have left me nothing to hope. My case is quite desperate, is it, a very blessed consideration if it will only secure me from the pain and worry of my dear anxious wife's efforts to convert me, and her from the toil and trouble of such exertions, and her sweet face and silver accents from the ruinous effects of the same. A burst of passion is a fine rousing thing upon occasion, Helen, and a flood of tears is marvelously affecting, but when indulged too often they are both deust-plaggy things for spoiling one's beauty and tiring out one's friends. Thenceforth I restrained my tears and passions as much as I could. I spared him my exhortations and fruitless efforts at conversation, too, for I saw it was all in vain. God might awaken that heart, supine and stupefied with self-indulgence, and remove the film of central darkness from his eyes, but I could not. His injustice and ill humor towards his inferiors, who could not defend themselves, I still resented and withstood. But when I alone was their object, as was frequently the case, I endured it with calm forbearance, except at times when my temper, worn out by repeated annoyances, or stung to distraction by some new instance of irrationality, gave way in spite of myself, and exposed me to the imputations of fierceness, cruelty, and impatience. I attended carefully to his wants and amusements, but not I own, with the same devoted fondness as before, because I could not feel it, besides, I had now another claimant on my time and care, my ailing infant, for whose sake I frequently braved and suffered the reproaches and complaints of his unreasonably exacting father. But Arthur is not naturally a peevish or irritable man, so far from it, that there was something almost ludicrous in the incongruity of his adventitious fretfulness and nervous irritability, rather calculated to excite laughter than anger, if it were not for the intensely painful considerations attendant upon those symptoms of a disordered frame, and his temper gradually improved, as his bodily health was restored, which was much sooner than would have been the case but for my strenuous exertions, for there was still one thing about him that I did not give up in despair, and one effort for his preservation that I would not remit. His appetite for the stimulus of wine had increased upon him, as I had too well foreseen. It was now something more to him than a necessary to social enjoyment. It was an important source of enjoyment in itself. In this time of weakness and depression he would have made it his medicine and support, his comforter, his recreation, and his friend, and thereby sunk deeper and deeper, and bound himself down forever in the bathos where into he had fallen. But I determined this should never be, as long as I had any influence left, and though I could not prevent him from taking more than was good for him, still by incessant perseverance, by kindness and firmness and vigilance, by coaxing and daring and determination, I succeeded in preserving him from absolute bondage to that detestable propensity so insidious in its advances, so inexorable in its tyranny, so disastrous in its effects. And here I must not forget that I am not a little indebted to his friend, Mr. Hargrave. About that time he frequently called at Grassdale and often dined with us, on which occasions I fear Arthur would willingly have cast prudence and decorum to the winds and made a night of it as often as his friend would have consented to join him in that exalted pastime. And if the latter had chosen to comply he might, in a night or two, have ruined the labour of weeks, and overthrown with a touch the frail bulwark which had cost me such trouble and toil to construct. I was so fearful of this at first that I humbled myself to intimate to him, in private, my apprehensions of Arthur's proneness to these excesses, and to express a hope that he would not encourage it. He was pleased with this mark of confidence, and certainly did not betray it. On that and every subsequent occasion his presence served rather as a check upon his host, than an incitement to further acts of intemperance. And he always succeeded in bringing him from the dining-room in good time, an intolerably good condition, for if Arthur disregarded such intimations as, well, I must not detain you from your lady, or we must not forget that Mrs. Huntington is alone, he would insist upon leaving the table himself to join me, and his host, however unwillingly, was obliged to follow. Hence I learned to welcome Mr. Hargrave as a real friend to the family, a harmless companion for Arthur, to cheer his spirits and preserve him from the tedium of absolute idleness and a total isolation from all society but mine, and a useful ally to me. I could not but feel grateful to him under such circumstances, and I did not scruple to acknowledge my obligation on the first convenient opportunity, yet, as I did so, my heart whispered all was not right, and brought a glow to my face, which he heightened by his steady, serious gaze, while, by his manner of receiving these acknowledgments, he more than doubled my misgivings. His high delight at being able to serve me was chastened by sympathy for me, and commiseration for himself, about I know not what, for I would not stay to inquire, or suffer him to unburden his sorrows to me. His size and intimations of suppressed affliction seemed to come from a full heart, but either he must contrive to retain them within it, or breathe them forth in other ears than mine, there was enough of confidence between us already. It seemed wrong that there should exist a secret understanding between my husband's friend and me, unknown to him, of which he was the object. But my afterthought was, if it is wrong, surely Arthur's is the fault, not mine. And indeed I know not whether at the time it was not for him, rather than myself, that I blushed, for since he and I are one, I so identify myself with him, that I feel his degradation, his failings and transgressions, as my own. I blush for him, I fear for him, I repent for him, weep, pray, and feel for him as for myself. But I cannot act for him, and hence I must be, and I am, debased, contaminated by the union, both in my own eyes and in the actual truths. I am so determined to love him, so intensely anxious to excuse his errors, that I am continually dwelling upon them, and laboring to extenuate the loosest of his principles in the worst of his practices, till I am familiarized with vice and almost a partaker in his sins. Things that formerly shocked and disgusted me now seem only natural. I know them to be wrong, because reason and God's word declare them to be so. But I am gradually losing that instinctive horror and repulsion which were given me by nature, or instilled into me by the precepts and example of my aunt. Perhaps then I was too severe in my judgments, for I abhorred the sinner as well as the sin. Now I flatter myself, I am more charitable and considerate. But am I not becoming more indifferent and insensate too? Fool that I was to dream that I had strength and purity enough to save myself and him. Such vain presumption would be rightly served if I should perish with him in the gulf from which I sought to save him. Yet God preserved me from it, and him too. Yes, poor Arthur, I will still hope and pray for you, and though I write as if you were some abandoned wretch past hope and past reprieve, it is only my anxious fears, my strong desires that make me do so, one who loved you less would be less bitter, less dissatisfied. His conduct has of late been what the world calls irreproachable, but then I know his heart is still unchanged, and I know that spring is approaching and deeply dread the consequences. As he began to recover the tone and vigor of his exhausted frame, and with it something of his former impatience of retirement and repose, I suggested a short residence by the seaside, for his recreation and further restoration, and for the benefit of our little one as well. But no, watering places were so intolerably dull, besides he had been invited by one of his friends to spend a month or two in Scotland for the better recreation of grouse shooting and deer stalking, and had promised to go. Then you will leave me again, Arthur? said I. Yes, dearest, but only to love you the better when I come back, and make up for all past offenses and shortcomings, and you needn't fear me this time, there are no temptations on the mountains. And during my absence you may pay a visit to Steningley if you like, your uncle and aunt have been long wanting us to go there, you know, but somehow there's such a repulsion between the good lady and me that I never could bring myself up to the scratch. About the third week in August, Arthur set out for Scotland, and Mr. Hargrave accompanied him thither to my private satisfaction. Shortly after, I, with little Arthur and Rachel, went to Steningley, my dear old home, which, as well as my dear old friends, its inhabitants, I saw again with mingled feelings of pleasure and pain, so intimately blended, that I could scarcely distinguish the one from the other, or tell to which to attribute the various tears and smiles and sighs awakened by those old familiar scenes and tones and faces. Arthur did not come home till several weeks after my return to Grastale, but I did not feel so anxious about him now, to think of him engaged in active sports among the wild hills of Scotland, was very different from knowing him to be immersed amid the corruptions and temptations of London. His letters now, though neither long nor lover-like, were more regular than ever they had been before, and when he did return to my great joy, instead of being worse than when he went, he was more cheerful and vigorous and better in every respect. Since that time I have had little cause to complain. He still has an unfortunate predilection for the pleasures of the table against which I have to struggle and watch, but he has begun to notice his boy, and that is an increasing source of amusement to him within doors.  But it is now January, spring is approaching, and I repeat, I dread the consequences of its arrival. That sweet season I once so joyously welcomed as the time of hope and gladness awakens now far other anticipations by its return. come and Arthur is gone as I expected. This time he announced it his intention to make but a short stay in London and pass over to the Continent, where he should probably stay a few weeks, but I shall not expect him till after the lapse of many weeks. I know now that with him days signify weeks and weeks, months. July 30th. He returned about three weeks ago rather better in health certainly than before, but still worse in temper, and yet perhaps I am wrong. It is I that am less patient and forebearing. I am tired out with his injustice, his selfishness, and hopeless depravity. I wish a milder word would do. I am no angel, and my corruption rises against it. My poor father died last week. Arthur was vexed to hear of it, because he saw that I was shocked and grieved, and he feared the circumstance would mar his comfort. When I spoke of ordering my mourning, he exclaimed, oh, I hate black, but however I suppose you must wear it a while for form's sake. But I hope, Helen, you won't think at your bad in duty to compose your face and manners into conformity with your funereal garb. Why should you sigh and groan, and I be made uncomfortable, because an old gentleman in shire, a perfect stranger to us both, has sought proper to drink himself to death? There now I declare your crying, why it must be effectation. He would not hear of my attending the funeral, or going for a day or two to cheer poor Frederick's solitude. It was quite unnecessary, he said, and I was unreasonable to wish it. What was my father to me? I had never seen him, but once since I was a baby. And I well knew he never cared a stiver about me, and my brother, too, was little better than a stranger. Besides, dear Helen, said he, embracing me with flattering fondness, I cannot spare you for a single day. Then how have you managed without me these many days, said I? Ah, then I was knocking about the world, now I am at home. And home without you, my household deity, would be intolerable. Yes, as long as I am necessary to your comfort, but you did not say so before when you urged me to leave you in order that you might get away from your home without me, retorted I. But before the words were well out of my mouth I regretted having uttered them. It seemed so heavy a charge, if false, to gross an insult, if true, to humiliating effect to be thus openly cast in his teeth. But I might have spared myself that momentary pang of self-approach. The accusation awoke neither shame nor indignation in him. He attempted neither denial nor excuse, but only answered with a long, low, chuckling laugh, as if he viewed the whole transaction as a clever, merry jest from beginning to end. Surely that man will make me dislike him, at last. Sign as you brew, my fair maiden, keep mind that ye mon drink the yield. Yes, and I drink it to the very dregs, and none but myself shall know how bitter I find it. 20 August. We are shaken down again to our usual position. Arthur has returned to nearly his former condition and habits, and I have found it my wisest plan to shut my eyes against the past and future, as far as he at least is concerned, and live only for the present, to love him when I can, to smile if possible when he smiles, be cheerful when he is cheerful and pleased when he is agreeable, and when he is not, to try to make him so, and if that won't answer to bear with him, to excuse him, and forgive him as well as I can, and restrain my own evil passions from aggravating his, and yet, while I thus yield and minister to his more harmless propensities to self-indulgence, to do all in my power to save him from the worse. But we shall not be long alone together, I shall shortly be called upon to entertain the same select body of friends as we had the autumn before last, with the addition of Mr. Hattersley, and at my special request his wife and child. I long to see Millicent and her little girl, too. The latter is now above a year old. She will be a charming playmate for my little Arthur. September 30th. Our guests have been here a week or two, but I have had no leisure to pass any comments upon them till now. I cannot get over my dislike to Lady Lowborough. It is not founded on mere personal peak. It is the woman herself that I dislike, because I so thoroughly disapprove of her. I always avoid her company as much as I can without violating the laws of hospitality, but when we do speak or converse together, it is with the utmost civility, even apparent cordiality on her part. But preserve me from such cordiality. It is like handling briar roses and mayblossoms, bright enough to the eye and outwardly soft to the touch, but you know there are thorns beneath, and every now and then you feel them, too, and perhaps resent the injury by crushing them in till you have destroyed their power, though somewhat to the detriment of your own fingers. Of late, however, I have seen nothing in her conduct towards Arthur to anger or alarm me. During the first few days I thought she seemed very solicitous to win his admiration. Her efforts were not unnoticed by him. I frequently saw him smiling to himself at her artful maneuvers. But to his praise be it spoken, her shafts fell powerless by his side. Her most bewitching smiles, her haughtiest frowns, were ever received with the same immutable, careless good humor. Till finding he was indeed impenetrable she suddenly remitted her efforts and became to all appearance as perfectly indifferent as himself. Nor have I since witnessed any symptom of peak on his part or renewed attempts at conquest upon hers. This is as it should be, but Arthur never will let me be satisfied with him. I have never, for a single hour since I married him, known what it is to realize that sweet idea, in quietness and confidence, shall be your rest. Those two detestable men, Grimsby and Hattersley, have destroyed all my labor against his love of wine. They encourage him daily to overstep the bounds of moderation and not infrequently to disgrace himself by positive excess. I shall not soon forget the second night after their arrival, just as I had retired from the dining-room with the ladies, before the door was closed upon us, Arthur exclaimed. Now then, my lads, what say you to a regular jollification? Millicent glanced at me with a half-reproachful look, as if I could hinder it, but her countenance changed when she heard Hattersley's voice shouting through door and wall, I'm your man, send for more wine, here isn't half enough. We had scarcely entered the drawing-room before we were joined by Lord Lowborough. What can induce you to come so soon, exclaimed his lady, with a most ungracious air of dissatisfaction? You know I never drink, Annabella, replied he seriously. Well, but you might stay with them a little. It looks so silly to always be dangling after the women. I wonder you can. He reproached her with a look of mingled bitterness and surprise, and sinking into a chair suppressed a heavy sigh, bit his pale lips, and fixed his eyes upon the floor. You did right to leave them, Lord Lowborough, said I. I trust you will always continue to honor us so early with your company, and if Annabella knew the value of true wisdom and the misery of folly and an intemperance, she would not talk such nonsense, even in jest. He raised his eyes while I spoke, and gravely turned them upon me, with a half-surprised, half-abstracted look, and then bent them on his wife. At least, said she, I know the value of a warm heart, and a bold manly spirit. Well, Annabella, said he in a deep and hollow tone, since my presence is disagreeable to you, I will relieve you of it. Are you going back to them, then? said she carelessly. No, exclaimed he with harsh and startling emphasis, I will not go back to them. I will never stay with them one moment longer than I think right, for you are any other tempter, but you needn't mind, I shall never trouble you again by intruding my company upon you so unseasonably. He left the room. I heard the hall door open and shut, and immediately after, unputting aside the curtain, I saw him pacing down the park in the comfortless gloom of the damp cloudy twilight. It would serve you right, Annabella, said I, at length, if Lord Lorborough were to return to his old habits, which had so nearly affected his ruin, and which it cost him such an effort to break, you would then see cause to repent such conduct as this. Not at all, my dear, I should not mind if his lordship were to see fit to intoxicate himself every day, I should only the sooner be rid of him. Oh, Annabella, cried Millicent, how can you say such wicked things? It would indeed be a just punishment as far as you are concerned, if providence should take you at your word, and make you feel what others feel that—she paused as a sudden burst of loud talking and laughter reached us from the dining room, in which the voice of Hattersley was preeminently conspicuous, even to my unpracticed ear.  The latter offered no reply, but averted her face and brushed away a tear. At that moment the door opened and admitted Mr. Hargrave, just a little flushed, his dark eyes sparkling with unwanted vivacity. Oh, I'm so glad you've come, Walter! cried his sister, but I wish you could have got Ralph to come, too. Utterly impossible, dear Millicent, replied he gaily, if I had much ado to get away myself, Ralph attempted to keep me by violence, Huntington threatened me with the eternal loss of his friendship, and Grimsby, worse than all, endeavored to make me ashamed of my virtue by such galling sarcasms and innuendos as he knew would wound me the most.  He smilingly turned to me and bowed as he finished the sentence. Isn't he handsome now, Helen? whispered Millicent, her sisterly pride overcoming for the moment all other considerations. He would be, I returned, if that brilliance of eye and lip and cheek were natural to him, but look again a few hours hence. Here the gentleman took a seat near me at the table and petitioned for a cup of coffee. I consider this an apt illustration of heaven taken by storm, said he, as I handed one to him. I am in paradise now, but I have fought my way through flood and fire to win it. Ralph Hattersley's last resource was to set his back against the door and swear I would find no passage but through his body, a pretty substantial one, too. Happily, however, that was not the only door, and I affected my escape by the side entrance through the butler's pantry to the infinite amazement of Benson who was cleaning the plate. Mr. Hardgrave laughed, and so did his cousin, but his sister and I remained silent and grave. Pardon my levity, Mrs. Huntington, murmured he more seriously, as he raised his eyes to my face. You are not used to these things.  But I thought of you in the midst of those lawless roisterers, and I endeavored to persuade Mr. Hunterden to think of you too, but to no purpose. I fear he is fully determined to enjoy himself this night, and it will be no use keeping the coffee waiting for him or his companions. It will be much if they join us at tea. Meanwhile, I earnestly wish I could banish the thoughts of them from your mind, and my own too, for I hate to think of them. Yes, even if my dear friend Huntington, when I consider the power he possesses, over the happiness of one so immeasurably superior to himself, and the use he makes of it, I positively detest the man. You had better not say so to me, then, said I. Bad as he is, he is part of myself, and you cannot abuse him without offending me. Pardon me, then, for I would sooner die than offend you, but let us say no more of him for the present, if you please. At last they came, but not till after ten, when tea, which had been delayed for more than half an hour, was nearly over. Much as I had longed for their coming, my heart failed me at the riotous uproar of their approach, and Millicent turned pale, and almost started from her seat, as Mr. Hatter-Slee burst into the room with a clamorous volley of osse in his mouth, which Hargrave endeavored to check by entreating him to remember the ladies. Ah, you do well to remind me of the ladies you dastardly deserter, cried he, shaking his formidable fist at his brother-in-law. If it were not for them, you well know I demolished you in the twinkling of an eye, and give your body to the fowls of heaven and the lilies of the fields. Then, planting a chair by Lady Loburl's side, he stationed himself in it, and began to talk to her with a mixture of absurdity and impudence that seemed rather to amuse than to offend her, though she affected to resent his insolence, and to keep him at bay with sallies of smart and spirited repartee. Meanwhile, Mr. Grimsby seated himself by me, in the chair vacated by Hargrave as they entered, and gravely stated that he would thank me for a cup of tea. And Arthur placed himself beside poor Millicent, confidentially pushing his head into her face, and drawing in closer to her as she shrank away from him. He was not so noisy as Hatter-Slee, but his face was exceedingly flushed. He laughed incessantly, and while I blushed for all I saw and heard of him, I was glad that he chose to talk to his companion in so low a tone that no one could hear what he said but herself. What fools they are, drawled Mr. Grimsby, who had been talking away at my elbow with sentitious gravity all the time, but I had been too much absorbed in contemplating the deplorable state of the other two, especially Arthur, to attend to him. Did you ever hear such nonsense as they talked, Mrs. Huntington? He continued, I'm quite ashamed of them for my part. They can't take so much as a bottle between them, without getting it into their heads. You are pouring the cream into your saucer, Mr. Grimsby. Ah, yes I see, but we're almost in darkness here. Hargrave snuffed those candles, will you? There, wax, they don't require snuffing, said I. The light of the body is in the eye, observed Hargrave, with a sarcastic smile. If thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light. Grimsby repulsed him with a solemn wave of the hand, and then turning to me continued, with the same drawing tones and strange uncertainty of utterance and heavy gravity of aspect as before. But as I was saying, Mrs. Huntington, they have no head at all. They can't take half a bottle of wine without being affected some way, whereas I, well, I've taken three times as much as they have tonight, and you see, I'm perfectly steady. Now that may strike you as very singular, but I think I can explain it. You see their brains, I mention no names, but you'll understand to whom I elude, their brains are light to begin with, and the fumes of the fermented liquor render them lighter still, and produce an entire light-headedness or giddiness resulting in intoxication, whereas my brains, being composed of more solid materials, will absorb a considerable quantity of this alcoholic vapor without the production of any sensible result. I think you will find a sensible result produced on that tea interrupted Mr. Hargrave by the quantity of sugar you have put into it, instead of your usual complement of one lump you have put in six. Have I so, replied the philosopher, diving with his spoon into the cup, and bringing up several half-dissolved pieces in confirmation of the assertion? I perceive. Thus, madam, you see the evil of absence of mind, of thinking too much while engaged in the common concerns of life. Now, if I had my wits about me, like ordinary men, instead of within me like the philosopher, I should not have spoiled this cup of tea and been constrained to trouble you for another. That is the sugar-base in Mr. Grimsby. Now you have spoiled the sugar, too, and I'll thank you to ring for some more, for here is Lord Loweborough at last, and I hope his lordship will condescended sit down with us, such as we are, and allow me to give him some tea. His lordship gravely bowed an answer to my appeal, but said nothing. Meantime, heart-gray volunteered to ring for the sugar, while Grimsby lamented his mistake, and attempted to prove that it was owing to the shadow of the urn and the badness of the lights. Lord Loweborough had entered a minute or two before, unobserved by any one but me, and had been standing before the door grimly surveying the company. He now stepped up to Annabella, who sat with her back towards him, with Hattersley still beside her, though now not attending to her, being occupied and vociferously abusing and bullying his host. Well, Annabella, said her husband, as he lent over the back of her chair. Which of these three bold, manly spirits would you have me to resemble? Boy, heaven and earth, you shall resemble us all, cried Hattersley, starting up and rudely seizing him by the arm. Hello, Huntington, he shouted. I've got him. Come, man, and help me. And dam me if I don't make him drunk before I let him go. He shall make up for all past delinquencies as sure as I am a living soul. There followed a disgraceful contest, Lord Loburrow in desperate earnest, and pale with anger, silently struggling to release himself from the powerful madman that was striving to drag him from the room. I attempted to urge Arthur to interfere in behalf of his outraged guest, but he could do nothing but laugh. Huntington, you fool, come and help me, can't you? cried Hattersley, himself somewhat weakened by his excesses. I'm wishing you Godspeed, Hattersley, cried Arthur, and aiding you with my prayers. I can't do anything else of my life dependent on it. I'm quite used up. Oh, and leaning back in his seat, he clapped his hands on his sides and groaned aloud. Annabella, give me a candle, said Loburrow, whose antagonist had now got him around the waist, and was endeavouring to root him from the doorpost to which he madly clung with all the energy of desperation. I shall take no part in your rude sports, replied the lady coldly drawing back. I wonder you can expect it. But I snatched up a candle and brought it to him. He took it and held the flame to Hattersley's hands till, roaring like a wild beast, the latter unclasped them and let him go. He vanished, I suppose, to his own apartment, for nothing more was seen of him till the morning. Swearing and cursing like a maniac, Hattersley threw himself onto the ottoman beside the window. The door being now free, Millicent attempted to make her escape from the scene of her husband's disgrace, but he called her back and insisted upon her coming to him. What do you want, Ralph? murmured she, reluctantly approaching him.  What are you crying for, Millicent? Tell me. I am not crying.   I am not crying now, pleaded she. But you have been, and just this minute, too, and I will know what for. Come now, you shall tell me. Do let me alone, Ralph. Remember, we are not at home. No matter, you shall answer my question, exclaimed her tormentor, and he attempted to extort the confession by shaking her, and remorselessly crushing her slight arms in the grip of his powerful fingers. Don't let him treat your sister in that way, said I to Mr. Hargrave. Come now, Hattersley. I can't allow that, said the gentleman, stepping up to the ill-assorted couple. Let my sister alone, if you please. And he made an attempt to unclass the Ruffian's fingers from her arm, but was suddenly driven backward and nearly laid upon the floor by a violent blow on the chest accompanied by the Admonition. Take that for your insolence, and learn to interfere between me and mine again. If you were not drunk, I'd have satisfaction for that, gassed Hargrave, white and breathless, as much from passion as from the immediate effects of the blow. Go to that devil, responded his brother-in-law. Now, Millicent, tell me what you are crying for. I'll tell you some other time, murmured she, when we are alone. Tell me now, said he, with another shake in a squeeze that made her draw in her breath and bite her lip. To suppress a cry of pain. I'll tell you, Mr. Hatter's Lee, said I. She was crying from pure shame and humiliation for you, because she could not bear to see you conduct yourself so disgracefully.  It was not that. Was it, Millicent? She was silent. Come, speak up, child. I can't tell now, sob she. But you can say yes or no, as well as I can't tell. Come. Yes. She whispered, hanging her head and blushing at the awful acknowledgment. Curks you for an important hussy, then, cried he. Throwing her from him was such violence that she fell on her side. But she was up again before either I or her brother could come to her assistance, and made the best of her way out of the room and, I suppose, upstairs without loss of time. The next object of assault was Arthur, who sat opposite and had no doubt, richly enjoyed the whole scene.  Oh, Hattersley, cried he, wiping his swimming eyes, you'll be the death of me. Yes, I will, but not as you suppose. I'll have the heart out of your body, man, if you irritate me with any more of that imbecile laughter. What, are you at it yet? There, see if that'll settle you, cried Hattersley, snatching up a footstool and hurling it at the head of his host. But he, as well, as missed his aim, and the latter still sat, collapsed and quaking with feeble laughter, with tears running down his face, a deplorable spectacle, indeed. Hattersley tried cursing and swearing, but it would not do. He then took a number of books from the table beside him, and threw them one by one at the object of his wrath, but Arthur only laughed the more, and finally, Hattersley rushed upon him in a frenzy, and seizing him by the shoulders gave him a violent shaking, under which he laughed and shrieked alarmingly. But I saw no more. I thought I had witnessed enough of my husband's degradation, and leaving Annabella and the rest to follow when they pleased, I withdrew, but not to bed. Dismissing Rachel to her rest, I walked up and down my room in an agony of misery for what had been done, and suspense, not knowing what might further happen, or how or when that unhappy creature would come up to bed. At last he came, slowly and stumblingly ascending the stairs, supported by Grimsby and Hattersley, who neither of them walked quite steadily themselves, but were both laughing and joking at him, and making noise enough for all the servants to hear.  I will write no more about that. Such disgraceful scenes, or nearly such, have been repeated more than once. I don't say much to Arthur about it, for, if I did, it would do more harm than good. But I let him know that I intensely disliked such exhibitions, and each time he has promised they should never again be repeated. But I fear he is losing the little self-command and self-respect he once possessed. Formerly he would have been ashamed to act thus, at least before any other witnesses than his boon companions, or such as they. His friend Hargrave, with a prudence and self-government that I envy for him, never disgraces himself by taking more than sufficient to render him a little elevated, and is always the first to leave the table, after Lord Lowborough, who, wiser still, perseveres in vacating the dining-room immediately after us. But never once, since Annabella offended him so deeply, has he entered the drawing-room before the rest, always spending the interim in the library, which I take care to have lighted for his accommodation, or on fine moolent nights and roaming about the grounds. But I think she regrets her misconduct, for she has never repeated it since, and of late she has comported herself with wonderful propriety towards him, treating him with more uniform kindness and consideration than ever I have observed her to do before. I date the time of this improvement from the period when she ceased to hope and strive for Arthur's admiration. October 5th Esther Highgrave is getting a fine girl. She's not out of the school-room yet, but her mother frequently brings her over to call in the mornings when the gentlemen are out, and sometimes she spends an hour or two in company with her sister and me and the children. And when you go to the grove, I always contrive to see her, and talk more to her than to anyone else, for I am very much attached to my little friend, and so is she to me. I wonder what she can see to like in me, though, for I am no longer the happy, lively girl I used to be, but she has no other society save that of her uncongenial mother under governance, as artificial and conventional person as that prudent mother could procure to ratify the people's natural qualities, and, now and then, her subdued, quiet sister. I often wonder what will be her lot in life, and so does she, but her speculations on the future are full of buoyant hope, so are mine ones. I shudder to think of her being awakened, like me, to a sense of their exclusive vanity. It seems as if I should feel her disappointment, even more deeply than my own. I feel almost as if I were born for such a fate, but she's so joyous and fresh, so light of heart and free of spirit, and so guileless and unsuspecting too. Oh, it would be cruel to make her feel as I feel now, and know what I have known. Her sister trembles for her too. Yesterday morning, one of October's brightest, loveliest days, Millicent and I were in the garden enjoying a brief half-hour together with our children, while Annabella was lying on the throwing-room sofa, deep in the last new novel. We had been romping with little preachers, almost as merry and wild as themselves, and now paused in shade of tall copper beach, to recover breath and red-fire hair, zordered by the rough play and frolics and breeze, while they totaled together along the broad sunny walk. My Arthur supported fewer steps of her little Ellen, and sagaciously pointing out to her the brightest beauties of the border as they passed, with semi-archiculate pretle that did as well for her as any other mode of discourse. From laughing at pretty sight, we began to talk of the children's future life, and that made us thoughtful. We both relapsed into silent, amusing as we slowly proceeded up the walk, and I suppose Millicent, by a train of associations, was left to think of her sister. Ellen, said she, You often see Arthur, don't you? Not very often. But you have more frequent opportunities of meeting her than I have.  There is nobody's opinion she thinks so much of, and she says you have more sense than Mama. That is because she is self-willed, and my opinion is more generally coincided with her own than your Mama's. But what then, Millicent? Well, since you have so much influence with her, I wish you to just impress it upon her, never on any account or for anybody's persuasion, to marry for the sake of money, or rank, or establishment, or any earthly thing, but true affection and well-grounded esteem. There is no necessity of that, said I. For we have had some discourse on that subject already, and I assure you her ideas of love and matrimony are as romantic as anyone could desire. But romantic notions will not do. I want her to have true notions. Very right. But in my judgment, what role stigmatizes as romantic is often more merely alienated to truth than is commonly supposed. For if the generous ideas of use are too often overcloseted by the suited views of afterlife, that scarcely proves them to be false. Well, but if you think her ideas are what they are to be, strengthen them, will you? And confirm them, as far as you can. For I have romantic notions once, and I don't mean to say that I regret my lot, for I am quite sure I don't, but I understand you, said I.  No, or worse. She might have far worse to suffer than I, for I am really contented, Alan. Do you mean, think it? I speak solemn truth in saying that I will not exchange my husband for any man on earth if I might do it by the plugging it with his leaf. Well, I believe you. And now that you have him, you will not exchange him for another. But then you would gladly exchange some of his qualities for those of better men. Yes, just as I would gladly exchange some of my own qualities for those of better women, for neither he nor I are perfect, and I desire his improvement as earnestly as my own. And he will improve, don't you think so, Alan? He is only six and twenty yet. He may, I answered. He will, he will, repeated she. Excuse the fairness of my acquaintance, Millicent. I will not discourage your hopes for the world, but mine have been so often disappointed that I have become as cold and doubtful in my expectations as the flattest of octogenarians. And yet you do hope still, even for Mr. Huntington. I do, I confess, even for him. For it seems as if life and hope must cease together. And is it so much worse, Millicent, than Mr. Hatterstley? Well, to give you my candid opinion, I think there is no comparison between them. But you mustn't be offended, Alan, for you know I always speak my mind, and you may speak yours too. I shan't care. I am not offended, love. And my opinion is that if there be a comparison made between the two, the difference for the most part is certainly in Hatterstley's favor. Millicent's own hard shoulder, how much it costs me to make this acknowledgement.  How hard it is that we so often weep for each other's stresses when we shed not a tear for our own. Her heart had been full enough of her own sorrows, but it overflowed the idea of mine, and I too shed tears outside of her sympathetic emotion, though I had not wept for myself for many a week. It was one rainy day last week. Most of the company were killing time in the billiard room, but Millicent and I were with little Arthur and Alan in the library, and between our books, our children and each other, we expected to make out a very agreeable mourning. We had not been thus excluded above two hours, however, when Mr. Hatterstley came in, attracted I suppose, by the voice of his child, as he was crossing the hall, for he is patriciously fond of her and she of him. He was red-lent of the stables, where he had been regaling himself with company of his fellow creatures, the horses, ever since breakfast.  He might well look smiling down upon those small, fair features, radiant with innocent mirth, those clear blue shining eyes, and that soft flexing air cast back upon little, ivory neck and shoulders. Did he not think how unearthly he was of such a possession? I fear no such idea crossed his mind. He cut her up, and there followed a minute of very rough play, during which it is difficult to say whether the father or the daughter laughed and shouted loudest. At last, however, the boys through his past time terminated, suddenly, as might be expected, the little one was heard and began to cry, and the ungentle play fell toss it into his mother's lap, within her, make all straight. As happy to return to that gentle comforter, as it had been to leave her, the child nestled in her arms, and hushed his cries in a moment, and, seeking its little wary head on her bosom, soon dropped asleep. Meantime, Mr. Hathousley strode up to the fire, and, interposing his hate and breath between us and it, stood with arms akimbo, expanding his chest, and gazing around him as if the house and all its appartenances and contents were his own undisputed possessions. Just bad weathered this, he began. There will be no shooting today, I guess. Then, suddenly lifting up his voice, he regaled us with a few parts of a rollicking song, which, abruptly seizing, he finished it tune with the whistle, and then continued. I say, Mrs. Huntington, what a fine stud your husband has! Not large, but good! I've been looking at them a bit this morning, and up on my words, Black Boss and Great Tom, and that young Nimrod are the finest animals I've seen for many a day. Then followed a particular discussion of their various merits, succeeded by a sketch of the great things he intended to do in the horse-chalky line, when his old governor thought proper to quit stage. Not that I wish him to close his accounts, added he. The old Trojan is welcome to keep his books open as long as he pleases for me. I hope so indeed, Mr. Hatterley. Oh, yes, it's only my way of talking. The event must come sometime, and so I look to the bright side of it. That's the right plan, isn't it, Mrs. H? What are you two doing here? But why, where's Lady Lowbrow? In the billard room.  Continued he, fixing his eyes on his wife, who changed color, and looked more and more disconcerted as he proceeded. What a noble figure she has, and what magnificent black eyes, and but a fine spirit of her own. And what a tongue of her own, too, when she likes to use it. I perfectly adore her. But never mind, Millicent. I wouldn't have her for my wife, not if she had a kingdom for a dowry. I'm better satisfied with one I have. Now then, why do you look so sulky for? Don't you believe me? Yes, I believe you. Murmurchi, in a tune of half sad, half so in resignation, as she turned away to stroke the hair of her sleeping infant, that she had laid on the sofa beside her. Well then, what makes you so cross? Come here, Millie, and tell me why you can't be satisfied with my assurance.  Only to this that, though you admire Annabella so much, and for qualities that I don't possess, you would still rather have me than her for your wife, which merely proves that you don't think it necessary to love your wife.  But I'm not cross. I'm only sorry. For, Annabella, in a low, tremulous accent, withdrawing her hand from his arm and bedding her looks on the rug. If you don't love me, you don't, and it can be helped. Very true. But who told you I didn't? Did I say I loved Annabella? You said you adore her? True, but adoration isn't love. I adore Annabella, but I don't love her. And I love thee, Millicent, but I don't adore thee. In proof of his affection, he clutched a handful of her light brown ringlets and appeared to twist them unmercifully. Do you really, Ralph? Mama Chee, with a faint smile beaming through her tears, just putting up her hand to ease and choking that he pulled rather too hard. To be sure I do, responded he.  I bother you, cried Chee, in very natural surprise. Yes, you, but only by her exceeding goodness. When a boy has been eating raisins and sugar plums all day, he longs for a squeeze of sore orange by way of a change. And did you never, Millie, observed sands and seashore, how nice and smooth they look, and how soft and easy they feel to the foot. But if you plot along for half an hour over the soft, easy carpet, giving way at every step, yielding the more harder you press, you'll find it rather worrisome work and be glad enough to come to a bit of good firm rug that won't budge an inch whether you stand, walk, or stamp up on it. And, though it be hard as nether millstone, you'll find it easier footing after all. I know what you mean, Ralph, said Chee, nervously playing with her watchguard and tracing figure on the rug with the point of her tiny foot. I know what you mean, but I thought you always liked to be yelled to, and I can't alter now. I do like it, replied he, bringing her to him by another chug of their hair. You must mind my talk, Millie.  But why complain at all, unless because you are tired and dissatisfied? Do excuse my own failings, to be sure. Do you think I'll bear all the burden of my sins on my own shoulders, as long as there's another ready to help me with none of her own to carry? There is no such one on earth, said Chee seriously, and then, taking his hand from her head, she kissed it with an air of genuine devotion and tricked away to the door. What now? said he. Where are you going? To check me my hair, she answered, small towards Zudor's locks. You've made it all come down. Off with you, then. An excellently little woman, he remarked when she was gone. But a thought too soft. She almost melts in one's hands. I positively think I ill-use her sometimes, when I've taken too much. But I can't help it, for she never complains, either at the time or after. I suppose she doesn't mind it. I can enlighten you on that subject, Mr. Hatterly. Said I. She does mind it, and some other things she minds still more, which she yet you may never hear her complain of. What you know, does she complain to you? Demanded he, with a sudden spark of fury ready to burst into a flame, if I should answer, yes. No, I replied. But I have known her longer and studied her more closely than you have done. And I can tell you, Mr. Hatterly, that Melisand loves you more than you deserve, and that you have it in your power to make her very happy, instead of which you are her evil genius, and, I will venture to say, there is not a single day passes in which you'd nothing fleet up in her champagne that you might spare if you would. Well, it's not my fault. Said he, gazing carelessly up, sealing and pulling his hand into his pockets. If my ongoings don't suit her, she should tell me so. It's not exactly the wife you wanted. Did you not tell Mr. Huntingdon you must have one that would submit to anything without a murmur, and never blame you whatever you did? True, but we shouldn't always have what we want. It's supposed the best of us, doesn't it? How can I help blamed these, when I see it's all one to her whether I behave like a Christian or like a scoundrel, such as nature made me? And how can I help teasing her when she's so invitingly meek and meme, when she lies down like a spaniel at my feet and never so much as quicks to tell me that's enough? If you are a talent by nature, the temptation is strong, I allow, but no generous mind lies to oppress the weak, but rather to cherish and protect. I don't oppress her, but it's so confounded flat to be all this cherishing and projecting. And then, how can I tell that I'm oppressing her when she melts away and makes no sign? I sometimes think she has no feeling at all, and then I go on till she cries and that satisfies me. Then you do the lies to oppress her. I don't, I tell you. Only when I'm in a bad humor, or a particularly good one, and want to afflict for the pleasure of comforting, or when she looks flat and wants shaking up a bit. And sometimes she provokes me by crying for nothing, and won't tell me what's it for. And then I allow, it enrages me past bearing, especially when I'm not my own man. As is no doubt generally the case on such occasions, said I. But in future, Mr. Hattersley, when you see her looking flat or crying for nothing, as you call it, ascribe it all to yourself. Be assured it is something we have done amiss, or a general misconduct that stresses her. I don't believe it. If it were, she should tell me so. I don't like that way of moping and threatening in silence, and saying nothing. It's not honest. How can she expect me to mend my ways at that rate? Perhaps she gives you credit for having more sense than you possess, and loses herself with the hope that you will one day see your own errors and repair them, if left to your own inflection. None of your snures, Mrs. Huntington. I have the sense to see that I'm not always quite correct, but sometimes I think that's no great matter, as long as I injure nobody but myself. It is a great matter, interrupted I, both to yourself, as you will hereafter find your cost, and to all connect with you, most especially your wife. But indeed, it is not just to talk about injuring no one but yourself. It is impossible to injure yourself, specially by such acts as we allude to, without injuring hundreds, if not thousands, besides, in a greater or less degree, either by the evil you do, or to go, do, live, and then. And, as I was saying, continued he, or would have said if we hadn't taken me up so short. I sometimes think I should have better if I were joined to one that would always remind me when I was wrong, and give me a motive for doing good and exeuing evil, but silently showing her approval of the one and disapproval of the other. If you had no higher motive than you probably were fellow mortal, it would do you little good. Well, but if I had a mate that would not always be yielding, and always equally kind, but that would have spirit-standed way now and then, and honestly tell me your mind at all times such a one as yourself, for instance. Now, if I went on with you, as I do with her, when I'm in London, you'd make the house too hot to hold me at times, I'll be sworn. You mistake me, I'm no term again. Well, I'll do better for that, for I can't stand contradiction in a general way, and I must fonder my own will as another. Only I think too much of it doesn't answer for any man. Well, I would never contradict you without your cause, but certainly I would always let you know what I thought of your conduct, and if you pressed me, in body, mind, or estate, you should at least have no reason to suppose I didn't mind it. I know that, my lady, and I think if my little wife were to follow the same plan, it'd be better for both of us. I'll tell her. No, no, let her be. There's much to be said on both sides, and now I think upon it, hunting and often regressed that you are not more like her, scoundrel it dogs that he is, and you see, after all, you can't reform him. He's ten times worse than I. He's afraid of you, to be sure. That is, he's always on his best behavior in your presence, but I wonder what his worst behavior is like then. I could not forbid observing. Why, to tell you the truth, it's very bad indeed. Isn't it, Hargrave? Said he, addressing the gentleman, who had entered the room unprocived by me, for I was now standing near to fire with my back to the door. Isn't hunting done? He continued, but the greater reprobate as ever was did. His lady will not hear him censor with impunity. Replied Mr. Hargrave, coming forward, but I must say, I thank God I am not such another. Perhaps it would become you better, said I, to look at what you are and say, God be merciful to me, a sinner. You are severe. Return he, bowing slightly and drawing himself up with a proud yet injured hair. Actors we laughed, and clapped him on the shoulder. Moving from under its hand to the chest of insulted dignity, Mr. Hargrave took himself away to the other end of the rug. Isn't it a shame, Mrs. Huntingdon? Cried his brother-in-law. I struck Walter Hargrave when I was drunk, the second night after he came, and he has turned a cold shoulder on me ever since, though I asked his pardon very morning after it was done. Your manner of asking it returned the other, and the clearness, with which you remember the old transaction, showed you were not too drunk to be fully conscious of what you were about, and quite responsible for the deed. You wanted to interfere between me and my wife, grumbled heartlessly, and that is enough to provoke any man. You justify it, then, said his opponent, darting up on him a most vindictive glance. No, I'd tell you I wouldn't have done it if I hadn't been under excitement, and if you choose to bear malice for it after all the handsome things I've said, do so, and be damned. I would refrain from such language in a lady's presence, at least, said Mr. Hargrave, hitting his anger under a mask of disgust. What have I said? Returned attirelessly. Nothing but heaven's truth. He'll be damned, won't he, Mrs. Huntingdon, if he doesn't forgive his brother's trespasses. You ought to forgive him, Mr. Hargrave, since he asks you, said I. Do you say so? Then I will. And, smelling almost frankly, he stacked forward and offered his hand. It was immediately clasped in that of his relative, and the reconciliation was apparent at the court on both sides. The front, continued Hargrave, turning to me. Oh, have its business to the fact that it's being offered in your presence, and since you bid me forgive it, I will. And forget it too. I guess the best return I can make will be to take myself off, muttered attirelessly with a broad grim. His companion smiled, and he left the room. This put me on my guard. Mr. Hargrave turned serious to me, and earnestly began. Dear Mrs. Huntingdon, how I have longed for yet dreaded this hour. Do not be alarmed, he added, for my face was crimson with anger.  I'm not going to presume to trouble you with mentions of my own feelings on your perfections, but I have something to reveal to you which you ought to know, and which, yet, it pains me inexpressibly. Then don't trouble yourself to reveal it. But it is of importance. If so, I shall hear it soon enough, especially if it is bad news, as you seem to consider it. At present I'm going to take children to the nursery. But can't you ring and send them? No, I want exercise of a wand to top the house. Come, Arthur. But you will return. Not yet. Don't wait. Then when may I see you again? At lunch, said I, departing with little Ellen in one harm and leading Arthur by the hand. He turned away, muttering some sentence of impatient censure or complaint, in which, heartless, was only a distinguishable word. What nonsense is this, Mr. Hargrave, said I, posing in the doorway. What do you mean? Oh, nothing. I did not intend you should hear my soliloquy. But fact is, Mrs. Huntington, I have a disclosure to make, painfully for me to offer as for you to hear. And I want you to give me a few minutes of your attention in private, at any time and place you like to appoint.  Therefore, you need not kill me that look of cold and pitiless disdain. I know two old feelings with which the barriers of bad tidings are commonly regarded, not two. What is this wonderful piece of intelligence? Said I, impatiently interrupting him. If it is anything of real importance, speak it in three words before I go. In three words I cannot. Send those children away and stay with me. No, keep your bad tidings to yourself. I know it is something I don't want to hear, and something you would displease me by telling. You have divine to truly I fear. But still, since I know it, I feel it my duty to disclose it to you. Oh, spare us both the inflection, and I will exonerate you from the duty. You have offered to tell, I refuse to hear. My ignorance will not be charged on you. Be it so, you shall not hear it from me. But if the blowfall too suddenly up on you when it comes, remember I wished to soften it. I left him. I was determined his words should not alarm me. What could he, of all men, have to reveal what was of importance for me to hear? It was no doubt some exaggerated tale about my unfortunate husband that he wished to make the most of to serve his own bad purposes. Sixth He has not alluded to these momentous mystery scenes, and I have seen no reason to repent of my unwillings to hear it. The threatened blow has not been struck yet, and I do not quickly fear it. At present I am pleased with Arthur. He has not positively disgraced himself for our ports over fortnight, and all this last week has been so very moderate in this indulgence at Sable that I can perceive a marked difference in his general temper and appearance, that I hope this will continue. End of Chapter 32 Chapter 33 As the Tenant of Wildfell Hall This is a Librebox recording. All Librebox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librebox.org Recording by Ana Svesi Monde, Portugal The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte Chapter 33 Seventh Yes, I will hope. Tonight I heard creams being utterly crumbling together about the inospeciality of their host. They did not know I was near, for I happened to be standing behind the curtain in the bowed window, watching the moon rising over the clump of tall dark elm trees below the lawn, and wondering why Arthur is so sentimental as to stand without, leaning against the outer pillar of the portico, apparently watching it too. So I suppose we've seen the last of our merry carousels in this house, said Mr. Hatterstley. I thought this good fellowship wouldn't last long, but added he, laughing. I didn't expect it would meet its ends this way. I rather thought our pretty hostess would be setting up her percupine quills and threatening to turn us out of the house if we didn't mind our manners. You didn't foresee this, then? Answer the creams, be, with a good old chuckle.  If we can hear a year or two ends, we shall have all our own way. You'll see. I don't know. Rupai the other. She's not style of woman you son tire of, but be that as it may. It's tablish provoking now that we can be jolly, because she chooses to be on his good behavior. It's all these cursed women, muttered creams, be. They're the very bane of the world. They bring trouble and discomfort wherever they come, with their false, fair faces and their deceitful tongues. At this conjoctored, I issued from my retreat, and smiling on Mr. Grymsby as I passed, left the room and went out in search of Arthur. Having seen him bend his core-stored shrubbery, I followed him tither, and found him just entering the shadowy walk. I was so light of height, so overflowing with affection, that I sprung upon him and clasped him in my arms. This startling conduct had a singular effect upon him. First, he murmured, Bless you, darling, and returned my close imbrance with a fervor like old times, and then he started, and, in a tone of absolute terror, exclaimed, Alan, what devil is this? And I saw, by the faint light gleaming through the overshadowing tree, that he was positively pale with shock. How strong that instinctive impulse of affection should come first, and then the shock of surprise. It shows at least that the affection is genuine. He is not sick of me yet. I startled you, Arthur, said I, laughing in my glee. How nervous you are! What dust you do it for? Cryed he, quite testily, extrucating himself from my arms, and wiping his forehead with his handkerchief.  You'll get your death of cold. I won't, till I've told you what I came for. They are blaming you, Arthur, for your temperance and sobriety, and I've come to thank you for it. They say it's all these curious women, and that we are the pain of the world.  He laughed, I squeezed him in my arms again, and cried in cheerful earnest. Do, do persevere, and I love you better than ever I did before. Well, well, I will, said he, easily kissing me. There, now, go, you mad creature. How could you come out in your light, even dressed as chill autumn night? It is a glorious night, said I. It is a night that will give you our death in another minute. Run away, do. Do you see my death among those trees, Arthur? Said I, for he was gazing intently at shrubs, as if he saw it coming, and I was reluctant to leave him, in my newfound happiness and revival of hope and love. But he grew angry at my delay, so I kissed him and ran back to the house. I was in such a good humor that night. Milicine told me I was the life of the party, and whispered she had never seen me so brilliant. Certainly, I talked enough for twenty, and smiled upon them all. Grimsby, Aethersley, Hargriff, Lady Loverall, all shared my sisterly kindness. Grimsby stared and wondered, how does he laughed and gested, in spite of the little wine he had been so far to imbibe. But still, behaved as well as he was, but still, behaved as well as he knew how. Hargriff and Annabella, from different motives and in different ways, emulated me, and, doubtless, both surpassed me, the former in his discursive versatility and eloquence, the latter in boldness and animation at least. Milicine, delighted to see her husband, her brother, and her overestimed friend acquitting themselves so well, was lovely and gay too, in her quiet way. Even Lord Loverall got general contagion. His dark, greenish eyes were lighted up beneath their moody brows. His sombre countenance was beautified by smiles. All traits of gloom and proud or cold reserve had vanished for the time. And he astonished us all, not only by his general cheerfulness and animation, but by the positive flashes of true force and brilliance he emitted from time to time. Arthur did not talk much, but he left and listened to the rest and was in perfect good humor, though not excited by wine, so that, altogether, we made the very merry, innocent, and entertaining party. 9. Yesterday, when Rachel came to dress me for dinner, I thought that she had been crying. I wanted to know the cause of it, but she seemed reluctant to tell, was she unwell? No, had she heard bad news from her friends? No, had any observance vexed her? Oh no, ma'am, she answered, it's not for myself. What then, Rachel, have you been reading novels? Bless you, no, said she, with the sorrowful shake of the head, and then she sighed and continued. But tell the truth, ma'am, I don't like master's ways of going on. What do you mean, Rachel? He's going on very properly at present. Well, ma'am, if you think so, we try it. And she went on dressing my hair in a hurried way, quite unlike her usually called collected manner, murmuring half to herself, she was sure it was beautiful hair. She could like to see and match it. When she was done, she fondly stroked it and gently patted my head. Is that affectionate evolution intended for my hair or myself, nurse? Said I, laughingly turning round up on her, but a tear was even now in her eye. What do you mean, Rachel? I exclaimed. Well, ma'am, I don't know, but if… If what? Well, if I was you, I wouldn't have that lady low-barrow in the house another minute. Not another minute, I wouldn't. I was thunderstruck, but before I could recover from the shock sufficiently to demand an explanation, Millicent entered my room, as she frequently does when she's dressed before me, and she stayed with me till it was time to go down. She must have found me a very unsociable companion this time, for Rachel's last words rang in my ears. But still, I hoped. I trusted they had no foundation, but in some idle rumored servants from Atty had seen a lady low-barrow's manner last month, or perhaps from something that had passed between their master and her during a former visit. At dinner, I narrowly observed both her and Arthur, and saw nothing extraordinary in the conduct of either. Nothing calculated the excite suspicion, except in distrustful minds, which mine was not, and therefore I would not suspect. Almost immediately after dinner, any well went out to their house when cherries monolight trembled, for it was a splendid evening like last. Mr. Hargrave entered the drawing room a little before the others, and challenged me to a game of chess. He did it without any dead sad but proud humility usually assumes in dressing me, unless he is excited with wine. I looked at his face to see if that was the case now. His eyes met mine keenly, but steadily. There was something about him I did not understand, but he seemed sober enough. Not choosing to engage with him, I referred him to me listened. She plays badly, said he. I want to match my skills with yours.  I know you never take it up except to pass an idle hour, when there is nothing better you can do. But test players are so unsuscibable, I objected. They are no company for any but themselves. There is no one here but Melissa, and then she. Oh, I shall be delighted to add to. cried our mutual friend. To such players it will be quite a treat. I wonder which will conquer. I consented. Now Mrs. Huntingdon said Hargrave, as he arranged men on the board, speaking distantly and with a peculiar emphasis, as if he had a double meaning to all his words. You are a good player, but I'm a better. We shall have a long game, and you'll give me some trouble. But I can be as patient as you, and in the end I shall certainly win. He fixed his eyes upon me with the glance I did not like, keen, crafty, bold, and almost impudent. Already half triumphant in his anticipated success. I hope not, Mr. Hargrave. Return I, with vehemence that must have startled me lessened at least. Behold his smile and murmured. Time will show. We said to work. It's sufficiently interesting game, but Coleman fearless in the consciousness of superior skill. I, intensely eager to the point of the expectations, for I consider this the type of a more serious contest, as I imagine he did, and I felt an almost superstitious dread as being beaten. At all events, I could ill endure that present success should add one chiddle to his conscious power. His insolent self-confidence, I ought to say. Our incurrent for a moment is dream a future conquest. His play is cautious and deep, but I struggle hard against him. For some time, the combat was doubtful. At last, to my joy, the victory seemed inclining to my side. I had taken several of his best pieces, and manifestly baffled his project. He put his hand to his brow and paused, in evident perplexity. I rejoiced in my advantage, but they're not glorying in it yet. At length, he lifted his head and, quietly making his move, looked at me and said calmly, Now you think you'll win, don't you? I hope so. I replied, taking his pawns that he had pushed into the way of my bishop, with so careless an air that I thought it was an oversight. But was not generous enough, under circumstances, to direct his attention to it, and too aimless at the moment to foresee the after consequences of my move. It is those bishops that trouble me, said he. But bold night can overlive the reverent gentleman. Taking my last bishop with his knight. And now, those sacred persons once removed, I shall carry all before me. Oh, Walter, how you talk! Cryed me listen. She has far more pieces than you still. I intend to give you some trouble yet, said I. And perhaps, sir, you'll find yourself checkmated before you are aware. Look to your queen. The combat deepened. The game was a long one, and I did give him some trouble. But he was a better player than I. What king, games players you are! Said Mr. Hatterly, who had now entered and been watching us for some time. Why, Mrs. Huntingdon, your hand trembled as if you had stacked your all up on it.  But if I were you, I wouldn't beat her, for very fear.  Two will by heaven, I see it in your eye. Hold your tongue, will you? Said I. His talk distracted me, for I was driven to extremities. A few more moves, and I was inextricably entangled in the snare of my antagonist. Check, cried he. I saw it in agony some means of escape. Mate. He added, quietly, but with evident light. He had suspended the utterance of that last fatal syllable, the better to conjoin my dismay. I was foolishly disconcerted by the event. Hatterly left. Militant was troubled to see me so disturbed. Hargrave placed his hand on mine that rested on the table, and squeezing it with the firm but gentle pressure murmured. Bitten. Bitten. And gazed into my face with a look where his rotation was splendid, with an expression of ardour and tenderness yet more insulting. No. Never, Mr. Hargrave. Exclaimed I. Quickly withdrawing my hand. Do you deny? Ruled by the he, smilingly pointing to the board. No. No. I answered, recollecting how strange my conduct must appear. You have beaten me in that game. Will you try another, then? No. You know it's my superiority. Yes, as a chess player. I rose to resume my work. Where is Annabella? Said Hargrave gravely, after glancing around the room. Gone out with Lord Hallorboral answered I, for he looked at me for reply. I have not yet returned, he said seriously. I suppose not. Where is Huntingdon? Looking round again. Gone out with Grimsby, as you know. Said utterly, suppressing a laugh which broke forth as he concluded sentence. Why did he laugh? Why did Hargrave connect him thus together? Was it true, then? And was this the dreadful secret he had wished to reveal to me? I must know when that quickly. I instantly rose and left the room to go and search the racial, and demand an explanation of her words. But Mr. Hargrave followed me into the enter-room, and before I could open its outer door, gently lay this end up and lock. May I tell you something, Mrs. Huntingdon? Said he, in a subdued tone with serious downcast eyes. If it be anything worth hearing, replied I, strong to be composed, for I trembled in every limb. He quietly pushed a chair towards me.  Do not be alarmed, said he. What I wish to say is nothing in itself, and I will leave you to draw your own interferences from it. You say that Annabelle is not yet returned. Yes, yes, go on. Said I, impatiently, for I feared my forced calmness would leave me before the end of his disclosure, whatever it might be. And you hear, continued he, that Huntingdon is gone out at Grimsby. Well, I heard later say to your husband, or the man who calls himself so, go on, sir. He vowed submissively and continued. I heard him say, I shall manage it, you'll see. They're grown down by the water. I shall meet them there and tell him I want to be to talk with him about some things that we need in troubled lady will. And she'll say she can be walking back to the house. And then I shall apologize, you know, and all that, and keep her a wink to take the way of the shrubbery. I can't be talking there about those mirrors I mentioned and anything else I can think of as long as I can, and then bring him round the other way, stopping to look at the trees, the fields, and anything else I can find to discursive. Mr. Hargrave paused and looked at me. Without the words of comment or further questioning, I rose and darted from the room and out of the house. Determined of suspense was not to be endured. I would not suspect my husband falsely on this man's accusation, and I would not trust him unworstily. I must know the truest ones. I flew to the shrubbery. Scarcely had I reached it, when a sound of voice was aroused at my breathless peep. We have lingered too long. He would be back, said Lady Lorberrow's voice. Surely not, dearest, was his reply. But you can run across the lawn and get in as quietly as you can. I'll follow you in a while. My knees trembled under me. My brain swung round. I was ready to faint. She must not see me thus. I shrunk among bushes, and leaned against the trunk of a tree to let her pass. Ah, hunting done, said she reproachfully, opposing where I had stood with him the night before. It was here you kissed that woman. She looked back into the leafy shape. Advancing then, he answered with a careless laugh. Well, dearest, I couldn't help it. You know I must keep straight at her as long as I can. Even though I've seen you kiss your adult of a husband's course of times, and do I ever complain? But tell me, don't you ever still, a little? Said she, passing her hand on his arm, looking earnestly in his face. For I could see them, plainly, the moon shining full upon them from between the branches of the tree that sheltered me. Not one bit by all that sacred. He replied, kissing her glowing cheek. Good heavens, I must be gone. Cried she, suddenly breaking from him and the way she flew. There he stood before me. But I had no strength to confront him now. My tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth. I was well night sinking to the earth, and I almost wondered he'd not hear the beating in my heart above the low sightings of the wind and the fistful rustled falling leaves. My senses seemed to fail me, but still I saw his shadowy form pass before me, and through the rushing sounds in my ears I distinctly heard him say as he stood looking up the lawn.  Run on a velo, run. There, in with you. Ah, he didn't see. That's right, Grimsby. Keep him back. And even his low laugh reached me as he walked away. God help me now. I murmured, sinking on my knees among the damp weeds and brushwood that surrounded me and looking up at moonlit sky through the scant foliage above. It seemed all dim and quivering now to my darkened sight. My burning, bursting heart strove to pour forth its agony to God but could not frame his anguish into prayer. Until a gust of wind swept over me, which, while its scatters led leaves, like blighted hopes around, cooled my forehead and seemed a little to revive my sinking frame. Then, while I lifted up my soul in speechless, earnest application, some heavenly influence seemed to strengthen me within. I breathed more freely, my vision clear. I saw distinctly the pure moon shining on and life clouds skimming the clear, dark sky. And then I saw the eternal stars twinking down up on me. I knew that God was mine and he was strong to save and swift to hear. I'll never leave thee nor forsake thee. Seemed whisper from above their myriad orbs. No, no, I felt he would not leave me comfortless. In spite of earth and hell, I should have strength for all my trials and win a glorious rest at last. Refreshed, invigorated, if not composed, I rose and returned to the house. Much of my newborn strength and courage forsook me, I confess, as I entered it, and shut out fresh wind and glorious sky. Everything I saw and heard seemed to stick in my heart. The hall, the lamp, the staircase, the doors of the different apartments, social sound of chalk and laughter from the drawing room. How could I bear my future life, in this house, among those people? Oh, how could I endure to live? John just then entered the hall and, seeing me, told me he had been sent in search of me, adding that he had taken in the tea, and master wished to know if I were coming. Ask Mrs. Hartley to be so kindest to make the tea, John, said I. Say I'm not well tonight and wish to be excused. I returned to the large, empty dining room, where all was silence and darkness, but for soft sighting of the wind without, and faint glimmer moonlight that pierced the blinds and curtains. And there I walked rapidly up and down, thinking of my bitter thoughts alone. How different was this from the evening of yesterday? That, it seems, was the last expiring flash of my life's happiness. Poor, blinded fume that I was to be so happy. I could not see the reason of Arthur's strange reception of me in the strawberry. The burst of kindness was for his paramour, the start of horror for his wife. Now, too, I could better understand the conversation between Arthur Lee and Grimsby. It was doubtless of his love for her they spoke, not for me. I heard the drawing-room door open. A light-quick step came out of the empty room, crossed hall, and ascended stairs. It was Millicent, poor Millicent, going to see how I was. No one else cared for me, but she still was kind. I shed no tears before, but now they came, fast and free. Thus she did me good, without approaching me.  Would she come in there and find me out? No, she turned in the opposite direction and re-entered the drawing-room. I was glad, for I knew not how to meet her or what to say. I wanted no confidence in my distress. I deserved none, and I wanted none. I had taken the burden upon myself. Let me bear it alone. As usual hour of retirement approached, I dried my eyes and tried to clear my voice and call my mind. I must see Arthur tonight and speak to him, but I will do it calmly. There should be no seam, nothing to complain or to boost off to his companions, nothing to laugh at with his lady love. When the company were retiring to their chamber, I gently opened the door, and just as he passed, beckoned him in. What to do, you do, Ellen, said he. Why couldn't you come to make tea for us? And what juice are you here for in the dark? What hails you, young women?  He continued, serving me by the light of his candle. No matter, I answered to you. You have no longer any regard for me, it appears, and I have no longer any for you. Hello, what the devil is this? He muttered. I would leave you tomorrow, continued I. And never again come under this roof, but from my child. I paused the moment to steady my voice. What in the devil's name is this, Ellen? cried he. What can you be driving at? You know perfectly well. Let us waste no time in useless explanation, but tell me, will you?  Spare yourself the trouble of force swearing yourself and wrecking your brains to stifle truth with falsehood. I called the reply. I have trusted a testimony of no third person. I was in trouble this evening, and I saw unheard for myself. This was enough. He uttered a suppressed exclamation of consternation and dismay, and muttering. I shall catch it now. Set down his candle on Neri's chair, and rearing his back against wall, suit confronting me with folded arms. Well, what then? Said he, with calm insolent of mingled shamelessness and aspiration.  Go where? Anywhere, where he will be safe from your contaminating influence, and I shall be delivered from your presence, and you for mine. No.  No, no yourself without the child. Do you think I am going to be made talk of the country for your fastidious caprices? Then I must say here, to be hated and despised, but henceforth we are husband and wife only in the name. Very good. I am your child's mother, and your housekeeper, nothing more, so you need not trouble yourself any longer to find love you cannot feel. I will exact no more heartless cares from you, nor offer nor endure them either. I will not be mocked with empty hopes of conjugal endurements, when you have given substance to another. Very good, if you please. We shall see will tire first, my lady. If I tire, it will be of living in the world with you, not of living without your mockery of love. When you tire of your sinful ways, and tire yourself truly repentant, I will forgive you and, perhaps, try to love you again. Though that will be hard indeed. Huh. And meanwhile, you will go and talk me over to Mrs. Hargrave, and write long letters to Aunt Maxwell to complain of the wicked brats you have married. I shall complain to no one. If dirty, I have struggled hard to hide your vices from every eye, and invest you with virtues you never possessed, but now you must look to yourself. I left him motoring bad language to himself, and went upstairs. You are poorly ma'am, said Rachel, survive me with deep anxiety. It is too true, Rachel, said I, answering her sad looks rather than her words. I knew it, or I wouldn't have mentioned such a thing. But don't you trouble yourself about it, said I, kissing her pale, time wasted cheek. I can bear it better than you imagine. Yes, you were always for bearing, but if I was you, I wouldn't bear it. I'd give way to it, and cry it right hard. And I'd talk, too. I just would, and let him know what I was, too. I have talked, said I. I've said enough. Then I'd cry, persisted she. I wouldn't look so white and so calm, and roast my heart with keeping it in. I have cried, said I, smiling, in spite of my misery. And I am calm now, really. So don't discompose me again, nurse. Let it say no more about it, and don't mention it to the servants. There, you may go now. Good night, and don't disturb your rest for me. I shall sleep well, if I can. Notwithstanding this resolution, I found my bed so intolerable that, before two o'clock, I rose, and lighting my candle by the rush light that was still burning, I got my desk and sat down in my dressing-gown to account to events of the best evening. It was better to be so occupied than to be lying to bed, torturing my brain with recollections of the far past and inspirations of the dreadful future. I have found relief in describing the various circumstances that have destroyed my peace, as well as the little trivial details attended upon their discovery. No sleep I could have got this night, would have done so much towards composing my mind and preparing me to meet the trials of the day. I fancy so, at least. And yet, when I see his writing, I find my head aches terribly, but when I look into the glass, I'm startled at my haggard, worn appearance. Racial has been to dress me, and says I have had a sad night of it, she can't see. Milson does just look in to ask me how I was. I told her how was better, but to excuse my appearance, admitted I had had the restless night. I wish this day were over. I shudder at thoughts of going down to breakfast. How shall I encounter them all? Yet, let me remember, it's not I that am guilty. I have no cause to fear, and if they scorn me as victim of their guilt, I can pity their fault and spice their scorn. End of chapter 33