Feb. 18, 1822. - Early this
morning Arthur mounted his hunter
and set off in high glee to meet
the - hounds. He will be away
all day, and so I will amuse
myself with my neglected diary,
if I can give that name to such
an irregular composition. It
is exactly four months since
I opened it last.
I am married now, and settled
down as Mrs. Huntingdon of Grassdale
Manor. I have had eight weeks'
experience of matrimony. And
do I regret the step I have taken?
No, though I must confess, in
my secret heart, that Arthur
is not what I thought him at
first, and if I had known him
in the beginning as thoroughly
as I do now, I probably never
should have loved him, and if
I loved him first, and then made
the discovery, I fear I should
have thought it my duty not to
have married him. To be sure
I might have known him, for every
one was willing enough to tell
me about him, and he himself
was no accomplished hypocrite,
but I was wilfully blind; and
now, instead of regretting that
I did not discern his full character
before I was indissolubly bound
to him, I am glad, for it has
saved me a great deal of battling
with my conscience, and a great
deal of consequent trouble and
pain; and, whatever I ought to
have done, my duty now is plainly
to love him and to cleave to
him, and this just tallies with
my inclination.
He is very fond of me, almost
too fond. I could do with less
caressing and more rationality.
I should like to be less of a
pet and more of a friend, if
I might choose; but I won't complain
of that: I am only afraid his
affection loses in depth where
it gains in ardour. I sometimes
liken it to a fire of dry twigs
and branches compared with one
of solid coal, very bright and
hot; but if it should burn itself
out and leave nothing but ashes
behind, what shall I do? But
it won't, it sha'n't, I am determined;
and surely I have power to keep
it alive. So let me dismiss that
thought at once. But Arthur is
selfish; I am constrained to
acknowledge that; and, indeed,
the admission gives me less pain
than might be expected, for,
since I love him so much, I can
easily forgive him for loving
himself: he likes to be pleased,
and it is my delight to please
him; and when I regret this tendency
of his, it is for his own sake,
not for mine.
The first instance he gave
was on the occasion of our bridal
tour. He wanted to hurry it over,
for all the continental scenes
were already familiar to him:
many had lost their interest
in his eyes, and others had never
had anything to lose. The consequence
was, that after a flying transit
through part of France and part
of Italy, I came back nearly
as ignorant as I went, having
made no acquaintance with persons
and manners, and very little
with things, my head swarming
with a motley confusion of objects
and scenes; some, it is true,
leaving a deeper and more pleasing
impression than others, but these
embittered by the recollection
that my emotions had not been
shared by my companion, but that,
on the contrary, when I had expressed
a particular interest in anything
that I saw or desired to see,
it had been displeasing to him,
inasmuch as it proved that I
could take delight in anything
disconnected with himself.
As for Paris, we only just
touched at that, and he would
not give me time to see one-tenth
of the beauties and interesting
objects of Rome. He wanted to
get me home, he said, to have
me all to himself, and to see
me safely installed as the mistress
of Grassdale Manor, just as single-minded,
as naive, and piquante as I was;
and as if I had been some frail
butterfly, he expressed himself
fearful of rubbing the silver
off my wings by bringing me into
contact with society, especially
that of Paris and Rome; and,
more-over, he did not scruple
to tell me that there were ladies
in both places that would tear
his eyes out if they happened
to meet him with me.
Of course I was vexed at all
this; but still it was less the
disappointment to myself that
annoyed me, than the disappointment
in him, and the trouble I was
at to frame excuses to my friends
for having seen and observed
so little, without imputing one
particle of blame to my companion.
But when we got home - to my
new, delightful home - I was
so happy and he was so kind that
I freely forgave him all; and
I was beginning to think my lot
too happy, and my husband actually
too good for me, if not too good
for this world, when, on the
second Sunday after our arrival,
he shocked and horrified me by
another instance of his unreasonable
exaction. We were walking home
from the morning service, for
it was a fine frosty day, and
as we are so near the church,
I had requested the carriage
should not be used.
'Helen,' said he, with unusual
gravity, 'I am not quite satisfied
with you.'
I desired to know what was
wrong.
'But will you promise to reform
if I tell you?'
'Yes, if I can, and without
offending a higher authority.'
'Ah! there it is, you see:
you don't love me with all your
heart.'
'I don't understand you, Arthur
(at least I hope I don't): pray
tell me what I have done or said
amiss.'
'It is nothing you have done
or said; it is something that
you are - you are too religious.
Now I like a woman to be religious,
and I think your piety one of
your greatest charms; but then,
like all other good things, it
may be carried too far. To my
thinking, a woman's religion
ought not to lessen her devotion
to her earthly lord. She should
have enough to purify and etherealise
her soul, but not enough to refine
away her heart, and raise her
above all human sympathies.'
'And am I above all human sympathies?'
said I.
'No, darling; but you are making
more progress towards that saintly
condition than I like; for all
these two hours I have been thinking
of you and wanting to catch your
eye, and you were so absorbed
in your devotions that you had
not even a glance to spare for
me - I declare it is enough to
make one jealous of one's Maker
- which is very wrong, you know;
so don't excite such wicked passions
again, for my soul's sake.'
'I will give my whole heart
and soul to my Maker if I can,'
I answered, 'and not one atom
more of it to you than He allows.
What are you, sir, that you should
set yourself up as a god, and
presume to dispute possession
of my heart with Him to whom
I owe all I have and all I am,
every blessing I ever did or
ever can enjoy - and yourself
among the rest - if you are a
blessing, which I am half inclined
to doubt.'
'Don't be so hard upon me,
Helen; and don't pinch my arm
so: you are squeezing your fingers
into the bone.'
'Arthur,' continued I, relaxing
my hold of his arm, 'you don't
love me half as much as I do
you; and yet, if you loved me
far less than you do, I would
not complain, provided you loved
your Maker more. I should rejoice
to see you at any time so deeply
absorbed in your devotions that
you had not a single thought
to spare for me. But, indeed,
I should lose nothing by the
change, for the more you loved
your God the more deep and pure
and true would be your love to
me.'
At this he only laughed and
kissed my hand, calling me a
sweet enthusiast. Then taking
off his hat, he added: 'But look
here, Helen - what can a man
do with such a head as this?'
The head looked right enough,
but when he placed my hand on
the top of it, it sunk in a bed
of curls, rather alarmingly low,
especially in the middle.
'You see I was not made to
be a saint,' said he, laughing,
'If God meant me to be religious,
why didn't He give me a proper
organ of veneration?'
'You
are like the
servant,' I
replied, 'who,
instead of
employing
his one talent in his master's
service, restored it to him unimproved,
alleging, as an excuse, that
he knew him "to be a hard man,
reaping where he had not sown,
and gathering where he had not
strawed." Of him to whom less
is given, less will be required,
but our utmost exertions are
required of us all. You are not
without the capacity of veneration,
and faith and hope, and conscience
and reason, and every other requisite
to a Christian's character, if
you choose to employ them; but
all our talents increase in the
using, and every faculty, both
good and bad, strengthens by
exercise: therefore, if you choose
to use the bad, or those which
tend to evil, till they become
your masters, and neglect the
good till they dwindle away,
you have only yourself to blame.
But you have talents, Arthur
- natural endowments both of
heart and mind and temper, such
as many a better Christian would
be glad to possess, if you would
only employ them in God's service.
I should never expect to see
you a devotee, but it is quite
possible to be a good Christian
without ceasing to be a happy,
merry-hearted man.'
'You
speak like
an oracle,
Helen, and
all you say
is indisputably
true; but listen here: I am hungry,
and I see before me a good substantial
dinner; I am told that if I abstain
from this to-day I shall have
a sumptuous feast to-morrow,
consisting of all manner of dainties
and delicacies. Now, in the first
place, I should be loth to wait
till to-morrow when I have the
means of appeasing my hunger
already before me: in the second
place, the solid viands of to-day
are more to my taste than the
dainties that are promised me;
in the third place, I don't see
to-morrow's banquet, and how
can I tell that it is not all
a fable, got up by the greasy-faced
fellow that is advising me to
abstain in order that he may
have all the good victuals to
himself? in the fourth place,
this table must be spread for
somebody, and, as Solomon says, "Who
can eat, or who else can hasten
hereunto more than I?" and finally,
with your leave, I'll sit down
and satisfy my cravings of to-day,
and leave to-morrow to shift
for itself - who knows but what
I may secure both this and that?'
'But you are not required to
abstain from the substantial
dinner of to-day: you are only
advised to partake of these coarser
viands in such moderation as
not to incapacitate you from
enjoying the choicer banquet
of to-morrow. If, regardless
of that counsel, you choose to
make a beast of yourself now,
and over-eat and over-drink yourself
till you turn the good victuals
into poison, who is to blame
if, hereafter, while you are
suffering the torments of yesterday's
gluttony and drunkenness, you
see more temperate men sitting
down to enjoy themselves at that
splendid entertainment which
you are unable to taste?'
'Most
true, my patron
saint; but
again, our
friend Solomon
says, "There is nothing better
for a man than to eat and to
drink, and to be merry."'
'And
again,' returned
I, 'he says, "Rejoice, O young man,
in thy youth; and walk in the
ways of thine heart, and in the
sight of thine eyes: but know
thou, that for all these things
God will bring thee into judgment."'
'Well, but, Helen, I'm sure
I've been very good these last
few weeks. What have you seen
amiss in me, and what would you
have me to do?'
'Nothing more than you do,
Arthur: your actions are all
right so far; but I would have
your thoughts changed; I would
have you to fortify yourself
against temptation, and not to
call evil good, and good evil;
I should wish you to think more
deeply, to look further, and
aim higher than you do.'
|