December 20th, 1825.—Another year is past; and I am weary of this life.

And yet I cannot wish to leave it: whatever afflictions assail me here,

I cannot wish to go and leave my darling in this dark and wicked world

alone, without a friend to guide him through its weary mazes, to warn

him of its thousand snares, and guard him from the perils that beset

him on every hand. I am not well fitted to be his only companion, I

know; but there is no other to supply my place. I am too grave to

minister to his amusements and enter into his infantile sports as a

nurse or a mother ought to do, and often his bursts of gleeful

merriment trouble and alarm me; I see in them his father’s spirit and

temperament, and I tremble for the consequences; and too often damp the

innocent mirth I ought to share. That father, on the contrary, has no

weight of sadness on his mind; is troubled with no fears, no scruples

concerning his son’s future welfare; and at evenings especially, the

times when the child sees him the most and the oftenest, he is always

particularly jocund and open-hearted: ready to laugh and to jest with

anything or anybody but me, and I am particularly silent and sad:

therefore, of course, the child dotes upon his seemingly joyous

amusing, ever-indulgent papa, and will at any time gladly exchange my

company for his. This disturbs me greatly; not so much for the sake of

my son’s affection (though I do prize that highly, and though I feel it

is my right, and know I have done much to earn it) as for that

influence over him which, for his own advantage, I would strive to

purchase and retain, and which for very spite his father delights to

rob me of, and, from motives of mere idle egotism, is pleased to win to

himself; making no use of it but to torment me and ruin the child. My

only consolation is, that he spends comparatively little of his time at

home, and, during the months he passes in London or elsewhere, I have a

chance of recovering the ground I had lost, and overcoming with good

the evil he has wrought by his wilful mismanagement. But then it is a

bitter trial to behold him, on his return, doing his utmost to subvert

my labours and transform my innocent, affectionate, tractable darling

into a selfish, disobedient, and mischievous boy; thereby preparing the

soil for those vices he has so successfully cultivated in his own

perverted nature.



Happily, there were none of Arthur’s “friends” invited to Grassdale

last autumn: he took himself off to visit some of them instead. I wish

he would always do so, and I wish his friends were numerous and loving

enough to keep him amongst them all the year round. Mr. Hargrave,

considerably to my annoyance, did not go with him; but I think I have

done with that gentleman at last.



For seven or eight months he behaved so remarkably well, and managed so

skilfully too, that I was almost completely off my guard, and was

really beginning to look upon him as a friend, and even to treat him as

such, with certain prudent restrictions (which I deemed scarcely

necessary); when, presuming upon my unsuspecting kindness, he thought

he might venture to overstep the bounds of decent moderation and

propriety that had so long restrained him. It was on a pleasant evening

at the close of May: I was wandering in the park, and he, on seeing me

there as he rode past, made bold to enter and approach me, dismounting

and leaving his horse at the gate. This was the first time he had

ventured to come within its inclosure since I had been left alone,

without the sanction of his mother’s or sister’s company, or at least

the excuse of a message from them. But he managed to appear so calm and

easy, so respectful and self-possessed in his friendliness, that,

though a little surprised, I was neither alarmed nor offended at the

unusual liberty, and he walked with me under the ash-trees and by the

water-side, and talked, with considerable animation, good taste, and

intelligence, on many subjects, before I began to think about getting

rid of him. Then, after a pause, during which we both stood gazing on

the calm, blue water—I revolving in my mind the best means of politely

dismissing my companion, he, no doubt, pondering other matters equally

alien to the sweet sights and sounds that alone were present to his

senses,—he suddenly electrified me by beginning, in a peculiar tone,

low, soft, but perfectly distinct, to pour forth the most unequivocal

expressions of earnest and passionate love; pleading his cause with all

the bold yet artful eloquence he could summon to his aid. But I cut

short his appeal, and repulsed him so determinately, so decidedly, and

with such a mixture of scornful indignation, tempered with cool,

dispassionate sorrow and pity for his benighted mind, that he withdrew,

astonished, mortified, and discomforted; and, a few days after, I heard

that he had departed for London. He returned, however, in eight or nine

weeks, and did not entirely keep aloof from me, but comported himself

in so remarkable a manner that his quick-sighted sister could not fail

to notice the change.



“What have you done to Walter, Mrs. Huntingdon?” said she one morning,

when I had called at the Grove, and he had just left the room after

exchanging a few words of the coldest civility. “He has been so

extremely ceremonious and stately of late, I can’t imagine what it is

all about, unless you have desperately offended him. Tell me what it

is, that I may be your mediator, and make you friends again.”



“I have done nothing willingly to offend him,” said I. “If he is

offended, he can best tell you himself what it is about.”



“I’ll ask him,” cried the giddy girl, springing up and putting her head

out of the window: “he’s only in the garden—Walter!”



“No, no, Esther! you will seriously displease me if you do; and I shall

leave you immediately, and not come again for months—perhaps years.”



“Did you call, Esther?” said her brother, approaching the window from

without.



“Yes; I wanted to ask you—”



“Good-morning, Esther,” said I, taking her hand and giving it a severe

squeeze.



“To ask you,” continued she, “to get me a rose for Mrs. Huntingdon.” He

departed. “Mrs. Huntingdon,” she exclaimed, turning to me and still

holding me fast by the hand, “I’m quite shocked at you—you’re just as

angry, and distant, and cold as he is: and I’m determined you shall be

as good friends as ever before you go.”



“Esther, how can you be so rude!” cried Mrs. Hargrave, who was seated

gravely knitting in her easy-chair. “Surely, you never _will_ learn to

conduct yourself like a lady!”



“Well, mamma, you said yourself—” But the young lady was silenced by

the uplifted finger of her mamma, accompanied with a very stern shake

of the head.



“Isn’t she cross?” whispered she to me; but, before I could add my

share of reproof, Mr. Hargrave reappeared at the window with a

beautiful moss-rose in his hand.



“Here, Esther, I’ve brought you the rose,” said he, extending it

towards her.



“Give it her yourself, you blockhead!” cried she, recoiling with a

spring from between us.



“Mrs. Huntingdon would rather receive it from you,” replied he, in a

very serious tone, but lowering his voice that his mother might not

hear. His sister took the rose and gave it to me.



“My brother’s compliments, Mrs. Huntingdon, and he hopes you and he

will come to a better understanding by-and-by. Will that do, Walter?”

added the saucy girl, turning to him and putting her arm round his

neck, as he stood leaning upon the sill of the window—“or should I have

said that you are sorry you were so touchy? or that you hope she will

pardon your offence?”



“You silly girl! you don’t know what you are talking about,” replied he

gravely.



“Indeed I don’t: for I’m quite in the dark!”



“Now, Esther,” interposed Mrs. Hargrave, who, if equally benighted on

the subject of our estrangement, saw at least that her daughter was

behaving very improperly, “I must insist upon your leaving the room!”



“Pray don’t, Mrs. Hargrave, for I’m going to leave it myself,” said I,

and immediately made my adieux.



About a week after Mr. Hargrave brought his sister to see me. He

conducted himself, at first, with his usual cold, distant,

half-stately, half-melancholy, altogether injured air; but Esther made

no remark upon it this time: she had evidently been schooled into

better manners. She talked to me, and laughed and romped with little

Arthur, her loved and loving playmate. He, somewhat to my discomfort,

enticed her from the room to have a run in the hall, and thence into

the garden. I got up to stir the fire. Mr. Hargrave asked if I felt

cold, and shut the door—a very unseasonable piece of officiousness, for

I had meditated following the noisy playfellows if they did not

speedily return. He then took the liberty of walking up to the fire

himself, and asking me if I were aware that Mr. Huntingdon was now at

the seat of Lord Lowborough, and likely to continue there some time.



“No; but it’s no matter,” I answered carelessly; and if my cheek glowed

like fire, it was rather at the question than the information it

conveyed.



“You don’t object to it?” he said.



“Not at all, if Lord Lowborough likes his company.”



“You have no love left for him, then?”



“Not the least.”



“I knew that—I knew you were too high-minded and pure in your own

nature to continue to regard one so utterly false and polluted with any

feelings but those of indignation and scornful abhorrence!”



“Is he not your friend?” said I, turning my eyes from the fire to his

face, with perhaps a slight touch of those feelings he assigned to

another.



“He _was_,” replied he, with the same calm gravity as before; “but do

not wrong me by supposing that I could continue my friendship and

esteem to a man who could so infamously, so impiously forsake and

injure one so transcendently—well, I won’t speak of it. But tell me, do

you never think of revenge?”



“Revenge! No—what good would that do?—it would make him no better, and

me no happier.”



“I don’t know how to talk to you, Mrs. Huntingdon,” said he, smiling;

“you are only half a woman—your nature must be half human, half

angelic. Such goodness overawes me; I don’t know what to make of it.”



“Then, sir, I fear you must be very much worse than you should be, if

I, a mere ordinary mortal, am, by your own confession, so vastly your

superior; and since there exists so little sympathy between us, I think

we had better each look out for some more congenial companion.” And

forthwith moving to the window, I began to look out for my little son

and his gay young friend.



“No, _I_ am the ordinary mortal, I maintain,” replied Mr. Hargrave. “I

will not allow myself to be worse than my fellows; but _you_, Madam—I

equally maintain there is nobody like you. But are you happy?” he asked

in a serious tone.



“As happy as some others, I suppose.”



“Are you as happy as you desire to be?”



“No one is so blest as that comes to on this side of eternity.”



“One thing I know,” returned he, with a deep sad sigh; “you are

immeasurably happier than I am.”



“I am very sorry for you, then,” I could not help replying.



“Are you, _indeed?_ No, for if you were you would be glad to relieve

me.”



“And so I should if I could do so without injuring myself or any

other.”



“And can you suppose that I should wish you to injure yourself? No: on

the contrary, it is your own happiness I long for more than mine. You

are miserable now, Mrs. Huntingdon,” continued he, looking me boldly in

the face. “You do not complain, but I see—and feel—and know that you

are miserable—and must remain so as long as you keep those walls of

impenetrable ice about your still warm and palpitating heart; and I am

miserable, too. Deign to smile on me and I am happy: trust me, and you

shall be happy also, for if you _are_ a woman I can make you so—and I

_will_ do it in spite of yourself!” he muttered between his teeth; “and

as for others, the question is between ourselves alone: you cannot

injure your husband, you know, and no one else has any concern in the

matter.”



“I have a son, Mr. Hargrave, and you have a mother,” said I, retiring

from the window, whither he had followed me.



“They need not know,” he began; but before anything more could be said

on either side, Esther and Arthur re-entered the room. The former

glanced at Walter’s flushed, excited countenance, and then at mine—a

little flushed and excited too, I daresay, though from far different

causes. She must have thought we had been quarrelling desperately, and

was evidently perplexed and disturbed at the circumstance; but she was

too polite or too much afraid of her brother’s anger to refer to it.

She seated herself on the sofa, and putting back her bright, golden

ringlets, that were scattered in wild profusion over her face, she

immediately began to talk about the garden and her little playfellow,

and continued to chatter away in her usual strain till her brother

summoned her to depart.



“If I have spoken too warmly, forgive me,” he murmured on taking his

leave, “or I shall never forgive myself.” Esther smiled and glanced at

me: I merely bowed, and her countenance fell. She thought it a poor

return for Walter’s generous concession, and was disappointed in her

friend. Poor child, she little knows the world she lives in!



Mr. Hargrave had not an opportunity of meeting me again in private for

several weeks after this; but when he did meet me there was less of

pride and more of touching melancholy in his manner than before. Oh,

_how_ he annoyed me! I was obliged at last almost entirely to remit my

visits to the Grove, at the expense of deeply offending Mrs. Hargrave

and seriously afflicting poor Esther, who really values my society for

want of better, and who ought not to suffer for the fault of her

brother. But that indefatigable foe was not yet vanquished: he seemed

to be always on the watch. I frequently saw him riding lingeringly past

the premises, looking searchingly round him as he went—or, if _I_ did

not, Rachel did. That sharp-sighted woman soon guessed how matters

stood between us, and descrying the enemy’s movements from her

elevation at the nursery-window, she would give me a quiet intimation

if she saw me preparing for a walk when she had reason to believe he

was about, or to think it likely that he would meet or overtake me in

the way I meant to traverse. I would then defer my ramble, or confine

myself for that day to the park and gardens, or, if the proposed

excursion was a matter of importance, such as a visit to the sick or

afflicted, I would take Rachel with me, and then I was never molested.



But one mild, sunshiny day, early in November, I had ventured forth

alone to visit the village school and a few of the poor tenants, and on

my return I was alarmed at the clatter of a horse’s feet behind me,

approaching at a rapid, steady trot. There was no stile or gap at hand

by which I could escape into the fields, so I walked quietly on, saying

to myself, “It may not be he after all; and if it is, and if he _do_

annoy me, it shall be for the last time, I am determined, if there be

power in words and looks against cool impudence and mawkish

sentimentality so inexhaustible as his.”



The horse soon overtook me, and was reined up close beside me. It _was_

Mr. Hargrave. He greeted me with a smile intended to be soft and

melancholy, but his triumphant satisfaction at having caught me at last

so shone through that it was quite a failure. After briefly answering

his salutation and inquiring after the ladies at the Grove, I turned

away and walked on; but he followed and kept his horse at my side: it

was evident he intended to be my companion all the way.



“Well! I don’t much care. If you want another rebuff, take it—and

welcome,” was my inward remark. “Now, sir, what next?”



This question, though unspoken, was not long unanswered; after a few

passing observations upon indifferent subjects, he began in solemn

tones the following appeal to my humanity:—



“It will be four years next April since I first saw you, Mrs.

Huntingdon—_you_ may have forgotten the circumstance, but _I_ never

can. I admired you then most deeply, but I dared not love you. In the

following autumn I saw so much of your perfections that I could not

fail to love you, though I dared not show it. For upwards of three

years I have endured a perfect martyrdom. From the anguish of

suppressed emotions, intense and fruitless longings, silent sorrow,

crushed hopes, and trampled affections, I have suffered more than I can

tell, or you imagine—and you were the cause of it, and not altogether

the innocent cause. My youth is wasting away; my prospects are

darkened; my life is a desolate blank; I have no rest day or night: I

am become a burden to myself and others, and you might save me by a

word—a glance, and will not do it—is this right?”



“In the first place, _I_ don’t believe _you_,” answered I; “in the

second, if you will be such a fool, I can’t hinder it.”



“If you affect,” replied he, earnestly, “to regard as folly the best,

the strongest, the most godlike impulses of our nature, I don’t believe

you. I know you are not the heartless, icy being you pretend to be—you

had a heart once, and gave it to your husband. When you found him

utterly unworthy of the treasure, you reclaimed it; and you will not

_pretend_ that you loved that sensual, earthly-minded profligate so

deeply, so devotedly, that you can never love another? I know that

there are feelings in your nature that have never yet been called

forth; I know, too, that in your present neglected lonely state you are

and _must_ be miserable. You have it in your power to raise two human

beings from a state of actual suffering to such unspeakable beatitude

as only generous, noble, self-forgetting love can give (for you _can_

love me if you will); you may tell me that you scorn and detest me,

but, since you have set me the example of plain speaking, I will answer

that _I do not believe you!_ But you will not do it! you choose rather

to leave us miserable; and you coolly tell me it is the will of God

that we should remain so. _You_ may call this religion, but _I_ call it

wild fanaticism!”



“There is another life both for you and for me,” said I. “If it be the

will of God that we should sow in tears now, it is only that we may

reap in joy hereafter. It is His will that we should not injure others

by the gratification of our own earthly passions; and you have a

mother, and sisters, and friends who would be seriously injured by your

disgrace; and I, too, have friends, whose peace of mind shall never be

sacrificed to my enjoyment, or yours either, with my consent; and if I

were alone in the world, I have still my God and my religion, and I

would sooner die than disgrace my calling and break my faith with

heaven to obtain a few brief years of false and fleeting

happiness—happiness sure to end in misery even here—for myself or any

other!”



“There need be no disgrace, no misery or sacrifice in any quarter,”

persisted he. “I do not ask you to leave your home or defy the world’s

opinion.” But I need not repeat all his arguments. I refuted them to

the best of my power; but that power was provokingly small, at the

moment, for I was too much flurried with indignation—and even

shame—that he should thus dare to address me, to retain sufficient

command of thought and language to enable me adequately to contend

against his powerful sophistries. Finding, however, that he could not

be silenced by reason, and even covertly exulted in his seeming

advantage, and ventured to deride those assertions I had not the

coolness to prove, I changed my course and tried another plan.



“Do you really love me?” said I, seriously, pausing and looking him

calmly in the face.



“Do I love you!” cried he.



“_Truly?_” I demanded.



His countenance brightened; he thought his triumph was at hand. He

commenced a passionate protestation of the truth and fervour of his

attachment, which I cut short by another question:—



“But is it not a selfish love? Have you enough disinterested affection

to enable you to sacrifice your own pleasure to mine?”



“I would give my life to serve you.”



“I don’t want your life; but have you enough real sympathy for my

afflictions to induce you to make an effort to relieve them, at the

risk of a little discomfort to yourself?”



“Try me, and see.”



“If you have, _never mention this subject again_. You cannot recur to

it in any way without doubling the weight of those sufferings you so

feelingly deplore. I have nothing left me but the solace of a good

conscience and a hopeful trust in heaven, and you labour continually to

rob me of these. If you persist, I must regard you as my deadliest

foe.”



“But hear me a moment—”



“No, sir! You said you would give your life to serve me; I only ask

your _silence_ on one particular point. I have spoken plainly; and what

I say I mean. If you torment me in this way any more, I must conclude

that your protestations are entirely false, and that you hate me in

your heart as fervently as you profess to love me!”



He bit his lip, and bent his eyes upon the ground in silence for a

while.



“Then I must leave you,” said he at length, looking steadily upon me,

as if with the last hope of detecting some token of irrepressible

anguish or dismay awakened by those solemn words. “I must leave you. I

cannot live here, and be for ever silent on the all-absorbing subject

of my thoughts and wishes.”



“Formerly, I believe, you spent but little of your time at home,” I

answered; “it will do you no harm to absent yourself again, for a

while—if that be really necessary.”



“If that be really _possible_,” he muttered; “and can you bid me go so

coolly? Do you really wish it?”



“Most certainly I do. If you cannot see me without tormenting me as you

have lately done, I would gladly say farewell and never see you more.”



He made no answer, but, bending from his horse, held out his hand

towards me. I looked up at his face, and saw therein such a look of

genuine agony of soul, that, whether bitter disappointment, or wounded

pride, or lingering love, or burning wrath were uppermost, I could not

hesitate to put my hand in his as frankly as if I bade a friend

farewell. He grasped it very hard, and immediately put spurs to his

horse and galloped away. Very soon after, I learned that he was gone to

Paris, where he still is; and the longer he stays there the better for

me.



I thank God for this deliverance!