The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

ctober 5th.—My cup of sweets is not unmingled: it is dashed with a
bitterness that I cannot hide from myself, disguise it as I will. I may
try to persuade myself that the sweetness overpowers it; I may call it
a pleasant aromatic flavour; but say what I will, it is still there,
and I cannot but taste it. I cannot shut my eyes to Arthur’s faults;
and the more I love him the more they trouble me. His very heart, that
I trusted so, is, I fear, less warm and generous than I thought it. At
least, he gave me a specimen of his character to-day that seemed to
merit a harder name than thoughtlessness. He and Lord Lowborough were
accompanying Annabella and me in a long, delightful ride; he was riding
by my side, as usual, and Annabella and Lord Lowborough were a little
before us, the latter bending towards his companion as if in tender and
confidential discourse.

“Those two will get the start of us, Helen, if we don’t look sharp,”
observed Huntingdon. “They’ll make a match of it, as sure as can be.
That Lowborough’s fairly besotted. But he’ll find himself in a fix when
he’s got her, I doubt.”

“And she’ll find herself in a fix when she’s got him,” said I, “if
what I’ve heard of him is true.”

“Not a bit of it. She knows what she’s about; but he, poor fool,
deludes himself with the notion that she’ll make him a good wife, and
because she has amused him with some rodomontade about despising rank
and wealth in matters of love and marriage, he flatters himself that
she’s devotedly attached to him; that she will not refuse him for his
poverty, and does not court him for his rank, but loves him for himself
alone.”

“But is not he courting her for her fortune?”

“No, not he. That was the first attraction, certainly; but now he has
quite lost sight of it: it never enters his calculations, except merely
as an essential without which, for the lady’s own sake, he could not
think of marrying her. No; he’s fairly in love. He thought he never
could be again, but he’s in for it once more. He was to have been
married before, some two or three years ago; but he lost his bride by
losing his fortune. He got into a bad way among us in London: he had an
unfortunate taste for gambling; and surely the fellow was born under an
unlucky star, for he always lost thrice where he gained once. That’s a
mode of self-torment I never was much addicted to. When I spend my
money I like to enjoy the full value of it: I see no fun in wasting it
on thieves and blacklegs; and as for gaining money, hitherto I have
always had sufficient; it’s time enough to be clutching for more, I
think, when you begin to see the end of what you have. But I have
sometimes frequented the gaming-houses just to watch the on-goings of
those mad votaries of chance—a very interesting study, I assure you,
Helen, and sometimes very diverting: I’ve had many a laugh at the
boobies and bedlamites. Lowborough was quite infatuated—not willingly,
but of necessity,—he was always resolving to give it up, and always
breaking his resolutions. Every venture was the “just once more:” if he
gained a little, he hoped to gain a little more next time, and if he
lost, it would not do to leave off at that juncture; he must go on till
he had retrieved that last misfortune, at least: bad luck could not
last for ever; and every lucky hit was looked upon as the dawn of
better times, till experience proved the contrary. At length he grew
desperate, and we were daily on the look-out for a case of
felo-de-se—no great matter, some of us whispered, as his existence
had ceased to be an acquisition to our club. At last, however, he came
to a check. He made a large stake, which he determined should be the
last, whether he lost or won. He had often so determined before, to be
sure, and as often broken his determination; and so it was this time.
He lost; and while his antagonist smilingly swept away the stakes, he
turned chalky white, drew back in silence, and wiped his forehead. I
was present at the time; and while he stood with folded arms and eyes
fixed on the ground, I knew well enough what was passing in his mind.

“‘Is it to be the last, Lowborough?’ said I, stepping up to him.

“‘The last but ONE,’ he answered, with a grim smile; and then, rushing
back to the table, he struck his hand upon it, and, raising his voice
high above all the confusion of jingling coins and muttered oaths and
curses in the room, he swore a deep and solemn oath that, come what
would, THIS trial should be the last, and imprecated unspeakable
curses on his head if ever he should shuffle a card or rattle a
dice-box again. He then doubled his former stake, and challenged any
one present to play against him. Grimsby instantly presented himself.
Lowborough glared fiercely at him, for Grimsby was almost as celebrated
for his luck as he was for his ill-fortune. However, they fell to
work. But Grimsby had much skill and little scruple, and whether he
took advantage of the other’s trembling, blinded eagerness to deal
unfairly by him, I cannot undertake to say; but Lowborough lost again,
and fell dead sick.

“‘You’d better try once more,’ said Grimsby, leaning across the table.
And then he winked at me.

“‘I’ve nothing to try with,’ said the poor devil, with a ghastly smile.

“‘Oh, Huntingdon will lend you what you want,’ said the other.

“‘No; you heard my oath,’ answered Lowborough, turning away in quiet
despair. And I took him by the arm and led him out.

“‘Is it to be the last, Lowborough?’ I asked, when I got him into the
street.

“‘The last,’ he answered, somewhat against my expectation. And I took
him home—that is, to our club—for he was as submissive as a child—and
plied him with brandy-and-water till he began to look rather
brighter—rather more alive, at least.

“‘Huntingdon, I’m ruined!’ said he, taking the third glass from my
hand—he had drunk the others in dead silence.

“‘Not you,’ said I. ‘You’ll find a man can live without his money as
merrily as a tortoise without its head, or a wasp without its body.’

“‘But I’m in debt,’ said he—‘deep in debt. And I can never, never get
out of it.’

“‘Well, what of that? Many a better man than you has lived and died in
debt; and they can’t put you in prison, you know, because you’re a
peer.’ And I handed him his fourth tumbler.

“‘But I hate to be in debt!’ he shouted. ‘I wasn’t born for it, and I
cannot bear it.’

“‘What can’t be cured must be endured,’ said I, beginning to mix the
fifth.

“‘And then, I’ve lost my Caroline.’ And he began to snivel then, for
the brandy had softened his heart.

“‘No matter,’ I answered, ‘there are more Carolines in the world than
one.’

“‘There’s only one for me,’ he replied, with a dolorous sigh. ‘And if
there were fifty more, who’s to get them, I wonder, without money?’

“‘Oh, somebody will take you for your title; and then you’ve your
family estate yet; that’s entailed, you know.’

“‘I wish to God I could sell it to pay my debts,’ he muttered.

“‘And then,’ said Grimsby, who had just come in, ‘you can try again,
you know. I would have more than one chance, if I were you. I’d never
stop here.’

“‘I won’t, I tell you!’ shouted he. And he started up, and left the
room—walking rather unsteadily, for the liquor had got into his head.
He was not so much used to it then, but after that he took to it kindly
to solace his cares.

“He kept his oath about gambling (not a little to the surprise of us
all), though Grimsby did his utmost to tempt him to break it, but now
he had got hold of another habit that bothered him nearly as much, for
he soon discovered that the demon of drink was as black as the demon of
play, and nearly as hard to get rid of—especially as his kind friends
did all they could to second the promptings of his own insatiable
cravings.”

“Then, they were demons themselves,” cried I, unable to contain my
indignation. “And you, Mr. Huntingdon, it seems, were the first to
tempt him.”

“Well, what could we do?” replied he, deprecatingly.—“We meant it in
kindness—we couldn’t bear to see the poor fellow so miserable:—and
besides, he was such a damper upon us, sitting there silent and glum,
when he was under the threefold influence—of the loss of his
sweetheart, the loss of his fortune, and the reaction of the lost
night’s debauch; whereas, when he had something in him, if he was not
merry himself, he was an unfailing source of merriment to us. Even
Grimsby could chuckle over his odd sayings: they delighted him far more
than my merry jests, or Hattersley’s riotous mirth. But one evening,
when we were sitting over our wine, after one of our club dinners, and
all had been hearty together,—Lowborough giving us mad toasts, and
hearing our wild songs, and bearing a hand in the applause, if he did
not help us to sing them himself,—he suddenly relapsed into silence,
sinking his head on his hand, and never lifting his glass to his
lips;—but this was nothing new; so we let him alone, and went on with
our jollification, till, suddenly raising his head, he interrupted us
in the middle of a roar of laughter by exclaiming,—

“Gentlemen, where is all this to end?—Will you just tell me that
now?—Where is it all to end?” He rose.

“‘A speech, a speech!’ shouted we. ‘Hear, hear! Lowborough’s going to
give us a speech!’

“He waited calmly till the thunders of applause and jingling of glasses
had ceased, and then proceeded,—‘It’s only this, gentlemen,—that I
think we’d better go no further. We’d better stop while we can.’

“‘Just so!’ cried Hattersley—

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

“‘Exactly!’ replied his lordship, with the utmost gravity. ‘And if
you choose to visit the bottomless pit, I won’t go with you—we must
part company, for I swear I’ll not move another step towards it!—What’s
this?’ he said, taking up his glass of wine.

“‘Taste it,’ suggested I.

“‘This is hell broth!’ he exclaimed. ‘I renounce it for ever!’ And he
threw it out into the middle of the table.

“‘Fill again!’ said I, handing him the bottle—‘and let us drink to your
renunciation.’

“‘It’s rank poison,’ said he, grasping the bottle by the neck, ‘and I
forswear it! I’ve given up gambling, and I’ll give up this too.’ He was
on the point of deliberately pouring the whole contents of the bottle
on to the table, but Hargrave wrested it from him. ‘On you be the
curse, then!’ said he. And, backing from the room, he shouted,
‘Farewell, ye tempters!’ and vanished amid shouts of laughter and
applause.

“We expected him back among us the next day; but, to our surprise, the
place remained vacant: we saw nothing of him for a whole week; and we
really began to think he was going to keep his word. At last, one
evening, when we were most of us assembled together again, he entered,
silent and grim as a ghost, and would have quietly slipped into his
usual seat at my elbow, but we all rose to welcome him, and several
voices were raised to ask what he would have, and several hands were
busy with bottle and glass to serve him; but I knew a smoking tumbler
of brandy-and-water would comfort him best, and had nearly prepared it,
when he peevishly pushed it away, saying,—

“‘Do let me alone, Huntingdon! Do be quiet, all of you! I’m not come to
join you: I’m only come to be with you awhile, because I can’t bear my
own thoughts.’ And he folded his arms, and leant back in his chair; so
we let him be. But I left the glass by him; and, after awhile, Grimsby
directed my attention towards it, by a significant wink; and, on
turning my head, I saw it was drained to the bottom. He made me a sign
to replenish, and quietly pushed up the bottle. I willingly complied;
but Lowborough detected the pantomime, and, nettled at the intelligent
grins that were passing between us, snatched the glass from my hand,
dashed the contents of it in Grimsby’s face, threw the empty tumbler at
me, and then bolted from the room.”

“I hope he broke your head,” said I.

“No, love,” replied he, laughing immoderately at the recollection of
the whole affair; “he would have done so,—and perhaps, spoilt my face,
too, but, providentially, this forest of curls” (taking off his hat,
and showing his luxuriant chestnut locks) “saved my skull, and
prevented the glass from breaking, till it reached the table.”

“After that,” he continued, “Lowborough kept aloof from us a week or
two longer. I used to meet him occasionally in the town; and then, as I
was too good-natured to resent his unmannerly conduct, and he bore no
malice against me,—he was never unwilling to talk to me; on the
contrary, he would cling to me, and follow me anywhere but to the club,
and the gaming-houses, and such-like dangerous places of resort—he was
so weary of his own moping, melancholy mind. At last, I got him to come
in with me to the club, on condition that I would not tempt him to
drink; and, for some time, he continued to look in upon us pretty
regularly of an evening,—still abstaining, with wonderful perseverance,
from the ‘rank poison’ he had so bravely forsworn. But some of our
members protested against this conduct. They did not like to have him
sitting there like a skeleton at a feast, instead of contributing his
quota to the general amusement, casting a cloud over all, and watching,
with greedy eyes, every drop they carried to their lips—they vowed it
was not fair; and some of them maintained that he should either be
compelled to do as others did, or expelled from the society; and swore
that, next time he showed himself, they would tell him as much, and, if
he did not take the warning, proceed to active measures. However, I
befriended him on this occasion, and recommended them to let him be for
a while, intimating that, with a little patience on our parts, he would
soon come round again. But, to be sure, it was rather provoking; for,
though he refused to drink like an honest Christian, it was well known
to me that he kept a private bottle of laudanum about him, which he was
continually soaking at—or rather, holding off and on with, abstaining
one day and exceeding the next—just like the spirits.

“One night, however, during one of our orgies—one of our high
festivals, I mean—he glided in, like the ghost in ‘Macbeth,’ and seated
himself, as usual, a little back from the table, in the chair we always
placed for ‘the spectre,’ whether it chose to fill it or not. I saw by
his face that he was suffering from the effects of an overdose of his
insidious comforter; but nobody spoke to him, and he spoke to nobody. A
few sidelong glances, and a whispered observation, that ‘the ghost was
come,’ was all the notice he drew by his appearance, and we went on
with our merry carousals as before, till he startled us all by suddenly
drawing in his chair, and leaning forward with his elbows on the table,
and exclaiming with portentous solemnity,—

‘Well! it puzzles me what you can find to be so merry about. What you
see in life I don’t know—I see only the blackness of darkness, and a
fearful looking for of judgment and fiery indignation!’

“All the company simultaneously pushed up their glasses to him, and I
set them before him in a semicircle, and, tenderly patting him on the
back, bid him drink, and he would soon see as bright a prospect as any
of us; but he pushed them back, muttering,—

“‘Take them away! I won’t taste it, I tell you. I won’t—I won’t!’ So I
handed them down again to the owners; but I saw that he followed them
with a glare of hungry regret as they departed. Then he clasped his
hands before his eyes to shut out the sight, and two minutes after
lifted his head again, and said, in a hoarse but vehement whisper,—

“‘And yet I must! Huntingdon, get me a glass!’

“‘Take the bottle, man!’ said I, thrusting the brandy-bottle into his
hand—but stop, I’m telling too much,” muttered the narrator, startled
at the look I turned upon him. “But no matter,” he recklessly added,
and thus continued his relation: “In his desperate eagerness, he seized
the bottle and sucked away, till he suddenly dropped from his chair,
disappearing under the table amid a tempest of applause. The
consequence of this imprudence was something like an apoplectic fit,
followed by a rather severe brain fever—”

“And what did you think of yourself, sir?” said I, quickly.

“Of course, I was very penitent,” he replied. “I went to see him once
or twice—nay, twice or thrice—or by’r lady, some four times—and when he
got better, I tenderly brought him back to the fold.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I restored him to the bosom of the club, and compassionating
the feebleness of his health and extreme lowness of his spirits, I
recommended him to ‘take a little wine for his stomach’s sake,’ and,
when he was sufficiently re-established, to embrace the media-via,
ni-jamais-ni-toujours plan—not to kill himself like a fool, and not to
abstain like a ninny—in a word, to enjoy himself like a rational
creature, and do as I did; for, don’t think, Helen, that I’m a tippler;
I’m nothing at all of the kind, and never was, and never shall be. I
value my comfort far too much. I see that a man cannot give himself up
to drinking without being miserable one-half his days and mad the
other; besides, I like to enjoy my life at all sides and ends, which
cannot be done by one that suffers himself to be the slave of a single
propensity—and, moreover, drinking spoils one’s good looks,” he
concluded, with a most conceited smile that ought to have provoked me
more than it did.

“And did Lord Lowborough profit by your advice?” I asked.

“Why, yes, in a manner. For a while he managed very well; indeed, he
was a model of moderation and prudence—something too much so for the
tastes of our wild community; but, somehow, Lowborough had not the gift
of moderation: if he stumbled a little to one side, he must go down
before he could right himself: if he overshot the mark one night, the
effects of it rendered him so miserable the next day that he must
repeat the offence to mend it; and so on from day to day, till his
clamorous conscience brought him to a stand. And then, in his sober
moments, he so bothered his friends with his remorse, and his terrors
and woes, that they were obliged, in self-defence, to get him to drown
his sorrows in wine, or any more potent beverage that came to hand; and
when his first scruples of conscience were overcome, he would need no
more persuading, he would often grow desperate, and be as great a
blackguard as any of them could desire—but only to lament his own
unutterable wickedness and degradation the more when the fit was over.

“At last, one day when he and I were alone together, after pondering
awhile in one of his gloomy, abstracted moods, with his arms folded and
his head sunk on his breast, he suddenly woke up, and vehemently
grasping my arm, said,—

“‘Huntingdon, this won’t do! I’m resolved to have done with it.’

“‘What, are you going to shoot yourself?’ said I.

“‘No; I’m going to reform.’

“‘Oh, that’s nothing new! You’ve been going to reform these twelve
months and more.’

“‘Yes, but you wouldn’t let me; and I was such a fool I couldn’t live
without you. But now I see what it is that keeps me back, and what’s
wanted to save me; and I’d compass sea and land to get it—only I’m
afraid there’s no chance.’ And he sighed as if his heart would break.

“‘What is it, Lowborough?’ said I, thinking he was fairly cracked at
last.

“‘A wife,’ he answered; ‘for I can’t live alone, because my own mind
distracts me, and I can’t live with you, because you take the devil’s
part against me.’

“‘Who—I?’

“‘Yes—all of you do—and you more than any of them, you know. But if I
could get a wife, with fortune enough to pay off my debts and set me
straight in the world—’

“‘To be sure,’ said I.

“‘And sweetness and goodness enough,’ he continued, ‘to make home
tolerable, and to reconcile me to myself, I think I should do yet. I
shall never be in love again, that’s certain; but perhaps that would be
no great matter, it would enable me to choose with my eyes open—and I
should make a good husband in spite of it; but could any one be in love
with me?—that’s the question. With your good looks and powers of
fascination’ (he was pleased to say), ‘I might hope; but as it is,
Huntingdon, do you think anybody would take me—ruined and wretched as
I am?’

“‘Yes, certainly.’

“‘Who?’

“‘Why, any neglected old maid, fast sinking in despair, would be
delighted to—’

“‘No, no,’ said he—‘it must be somebody that I can love.’

“‘Why, you just said you never could be in love again!’

“‘Well, love is not the word—but somebody that I can like. I’ll search
all England through, at all events!’ he cried, with a sudden burst of
hope, or desperation. ‘Succeed or fail, it will be better than rushing
headlong to destruction at that d—d club: so farewell to it and you.
Whenever I meet you on honest ground or under a Christian roof, I shall
be glad to see you; but never more shall you entice me to that devil’s
den!’

“This was shameful language, but I shook hands with him, and we parted.
He kept his word; and from that time forward he has been a pattern of
propriety, as far as I can tell; but till lately I have not had very
much to do with him. He occasionally sought my company, but as
frequently shrunk from it, fearing lest I should wile him back to
destruction, and I found his not very entertaining, especially as he
sometimes attempted to awaken my conscience and draw me from the
perdition he considered himself to have escaped; but when I did happen
to meet him, I seldom failed to ask after the progress of his
matrimonial efforts and researches, and, in general, he could give me
but a poor account. The mothers were repelled by his empty coffers and
his reputation for gambling, and the daughters by his cloudy brow and
melancholy temper—besides, he didn’t understand them; he wanted the
spirit and assurance to carry his point.

“I left him at it when I went to the continent; and on my return, at
the year’s end, I found him still a disconsolate bachelor—though,
certainly, looking somewhat less like an unblest exile from the tomb
than before. The young ladies had ceased to be afraid of him, and were
beginning to think him quite interesting; but the mammas were still
unrelenting. It was about this time, Helen, that my good angel brought
me into conjunction with you; and then I had eyes and ears for nobody
else. But, meantime, Lowborough became acquainted with our charming
friend, Miss Wilmot—through the intervention of his good angel, no
doubt he would tell you, though he did not dare to fix his hopes on one
so courted and admired, till after they were brought into closer
contact here at Staningley, and she, in the absence of her other
admirers, indubitably courted his notice and held out every
encouragement to his timid advances. Then, indeed, he began to hope for
a dawn of brighter days; and if, for a while, I darkened his prospects
by standing between him and his sun—and so nearly plunged him again
into the abyss of despair—it only intensified his ardour and
strengthened his hopes when I chose to abandon the field in the pursuit
of a brighter treasure. In a word, as I told you, he is fairly
besotted. At first, he could dimly perceive her faults, and they gave
him considerable uneasiness; but now his passion and her art together
have blinded him to everything but her perfections and his amazing good
fortune. Last night he came to me brimful of his new-found felicity:

“‘Huntingdon, I am not a castaway!’ said he, seizing my hand and
squeezing it like a vice. ‘There is happiness in store for me yet—even
in this life—she loves me!’

“‘Indeed!’ said I. ‘Has she told you so?’

“‘No, but I can no longer doubt it. Do you not see how pointedly kind
and affectionate she is? And she knows the utmost extent of my poverty,
and cares nothing about it! She knows all the folly and all the
wickedness of my former life, and is not afraid to trust me—and my rank
and title are no allurements to her; for them she utterly disregards.
She is the most generous, high-minded being that can be conceived of.
She will save me, body and soul, from destruction. Already, she has
ennobled me in my own estimation, and made me three times better,
wiser, greater than I was. Oh! if I had but known her before, how much
degradation and misery I should have been spared! But what have I done
to deserve so magnificent a creature?’

“And the cream of the jest,” continued Mr. Huntingdon, laughing, “is,
that the artful minx loves nothing about him but his title and
pedigree, and ‘that delightful old family seat.’”

“How do you know?” said I.

“She told me so herself; she said, ‘As for the man himself, I
thoroughly despise him; but then, I suppose, it is time to be making my
choice, and if I waited for some one capable of eliciting my esteem and
affection, I should have to pass my life in single blessedness, for I
detest you all!’ Ha, ha! I suspect she was wrong there; but, however,
it is evident she has no love for him, poor fellow.”

“Then you ought to tell him so.”

“What! and spoil all her plans and prospects, poor girl? No, no: that
would be a breach of confidence, wouldn’t it, Helen? Ha, ha! Besides,
it would break his heart.” And he laughed again.

“Well, Mr. Huntingdon, I don’t know what you see so amazingly diverting
in the matter; I see nothing to laugh at.”

“I’m laughing at you, just now, love,” said he, redoubling his
machinations.

And leaving him to enjoy his merriment alone, I touched Ruby with the
whip, and cantered on to rejoin our companions; for we had been walking
our horses all this time, and were consequently a long way behind.
Arthur was soon at my side again; but not disposed to talk to him, I
broke into a gallop. He did the same; and we did not slacken our pace
till we came up with Miss Wilmot and Lord Lowborough, which was within
half a mile of the park-gates. I avoided all further conversation with
him till we came to the end of our ride, when I meant to jump off my
horse and vanish into the house, before he could offer his assistance;
but while I was disengaging my habit from the crutch, he lifted me off,
and held me by both hands, asserting that he would not let me go till I
had forgiven him.

“I have nothing to forgive,” said I. “You have not injured me.”

“No, darling—God forbid that I should! but you are angry because it was
to me that Annabella confessed her lack of esteem for her lover.”

“No, Arthur, it is not that that displeases me: it is the whole
system of your conduct towards your friend, and if you wish me to
forget it, go now, and tell him what sort of a woman it is that he
adores so madly, and on whom he has hung his hopes of future
happiness.”

“I tell you, Helen, it would break his heart—it would be the death of
him—besides being a scandalous trick to poor Annabella. There is no
help for him now; he is past praying for. Besides, she may keep up the
deception to the end of the chapter; and then he will be just as happy
in the illusion as if it were reality; or perhaps he will only discover
his mistake when he has ceased to love her; and if not, it is much
better that the truth should dawn gradually upon him. So now, my angel,
I hope I have made out a clear case, and fully convinced you that I
cannot make the atonement you require. What other requisition have you
to make? Speak, and I will gladly obey.”

“I have none but this,” said I, as gravely as before: “that, in future,
you will never make a jest of the sufferings of others, and always use
your influence with your friends for their own advantage against their
evil propensities, instead of seconding their evil propensities against
themselves.”

“I will do my utmost,” said he, “to remember and perform the
injunctions of my angel monitress;” and after kissing both my gloved
hands, he let me go.

When I entered my room, I was surprised to see Annabella Wilmot
standing before my toilet-table, composedly surveying her features in
the glass, with one hand flirting her gold-mounted whip, and the other
holding up her long habit.

“She certainly is a magnificent creature!” thought I, as I beheld
that tall, finely developed figure, and the reflection of the handsome
face in the mirror before me, with the glossy dark hair, slightly and
not ungracefully disordered by the breezy ride, the rich brown
complexion glowing with exercise, and the black eyes sparkling with
unwonted brilliance. On perceiving me, she turned round, exclaiming,
with a laugh that savoured more of malice than of mirth,—

“Why, Helen! what have you been doing so long? I came to tell you my
good fortune,” she continued, regardless of Rachel’s presence. “Lord
Lowborough has proposed, and I have been graciously pleased to accept
him. Don’t you envy me, dear?”

“No, love,” said I—“or him either,” I mentally added. “And do you like
him, Annabella?”

“Like him! yes, to be sure—over head and ears in love!”

“Well, I hope you’ll make him a good wife.”

“Thank you, my dear! And what besides do you hope?”

“I hope you will both love each other, and both be happy.”

“Thanks; and I hope you will make a very good wife to Mr.
Huntingdon!” said she, with a queenly bow, and retired.

“Oh, Miss! how could you say so to her!” cried Rachel.

“Say what?” replied I.

“Why, that you hoped she would make him a good wife. I never heard such
a thing!”

“Because I do hope it, or rather, I wish it; she’s almost past hope.”

“Well,” said she, “I’m sure I hope he’ll make her a good husband.
They tell queer things about him downstairs. They were saying—”

“I know, Rachel. I’ve heard all about him; but he’s reformed now. And
they have no business to tell tales about their masters.”

“No, mum—or else, they have said some things about Mr. Huntingdon
too.”

“I won’t hear them, Rachel; they tell lies.”

“Yes, mum,” said she, quietly, as she went on arranging my hair.

“Do you believe them, Rachel?” I asked, after a short pause.

“No, Miss, not all. You know when a lot of servants gets together they
like to talk about their betters; and some, for a bit of swagger, likes
to make it appear as though they knew more than they do, and to throw
out hints and things just to astonish the others. But I think, if I was
you, Miss Helen, I’d look very well before I leaped. I do believe a
young lady can’t be too careful who she marries.”

“Of course not,” said I; “but be quick, will you, Rachel? I want to be
dressed.”

And, indeed, I was anxious to be rid of the good woman, for I was in
such a melancholy frame I could hardly keep the tears out of my eyes
while she dressed me. It was not for Lord Lowborough—it was not for
Annabella—it was not for myself—it was for Arthur Huntingdon that they
rose.

* * * * *

13th.—They are gone, and he is gone. We are to be parted for more than
two months, above ten weeks! a long, long time to live and not to see
him. But he has promised to write often, and made me promise to write
still oftener, because he will be busy settling his affairs, and I
shall have nothing better to do. Well, I think I shall always have
plenty to say. But oh! for the time when we shall be always together,
and can exchange our thoughts without the intervention of these cold
go-betweens, pen, ink, and paper!

* * * * *

22nd.—I have had several letters from Arthur already. They are not
long, but passing sweet, and just like himself, full of ardent
affection, and playful lively humour; but there is always a but in
this imperfect world, and I do wish he would sometimes be serious. I
cannot get him to write or speak in real, solid earnest. I don’t much
mind it now, but if it be always so, what shall I do with the serious
part of myself?