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 upbraid 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. It is
enough to poison one, eating
such a disgusting mess!' And
he pettishly pushed away his
plate, and leant back despairingly
in his chair.
'I think it is you that are
changed, not she,' said I, but
with the 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, adding, 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.
'Be quick, Benson; do have
done with that infernal clatter!'
cried his master. 'And don't
bring the cheese, unless you
want to make me sick outright!'
Benson, in some surprise, removed
the cheese, and did his best
to effect a quiet and speedy
clearance of the rest; but, unfortunately,
there was a rumple 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 fall and breaking
of a sauce tureen; 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! and 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
of your nerves before.'
'And why shouldn't 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 to stay at home and
take care of myself like a woman?'
'Is it impossible, then, to
take care of yourself like a
man when you go abroad? 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 a dolt
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 leant his head on his hand,
and sighed. 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: you have
taken several glasses since dinner,
and eaten next to nothing all
the day. 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 could 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 preferring
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 wilfully 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
exclaiming, 'What are you crying
for, Helen? What the deuce is
the matter now?'
'I'm crying for you, Arthur,'
I replied, speedily drying my
tears; and starting up, I threw
myself on my knees before him,
and clasping his nerveless hand
between my own, continued: 'Don't
you know that you are a part
of myself? 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 smile.
'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 hand
so frantically, and don't agitate
me so, for heaven's sake! Oh,
Hattersley! 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.
'Now get me a glass of wine,'
said he, 'to remedy what you've
done, you she tiger! I'm almost
ready to faint.'
I flew to get the required
remedy. It seemed to revive him
considerably.
'What a shame it is,' said
I, as I took the empty glass
from his hand, 'for a strong
young man like you to reduce
yourself to such a state!'
'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, you'll make me regret
my choice in good earnest, and
envy my friend Hattersley his
meek little wife: 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 the 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 those 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'm 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 over-rated
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
any one else into error. I had
myself held the contrary opinion
at one time, but I now believed
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.'
'And so that is the way you
go on - heartening each other
up to mutiny, and abusing each
other's partners, and throwing
out implications against your
own, to the mutual gratification
of both!'
'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 effect
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
marvellously affecting, but,
when indulged too often, they
are both deuced plaguy 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 conversion
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 sensual
darkness from his eyes, but I
could not. His injustice and
ill-humour 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 this 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 an
accessory 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 for ever
in the bathos whereinto 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 it
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, and in tolerably 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.
Huntingdon 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
those 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 sighs 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 after-thought 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 truth.
I am so determined to love him,
so intensely anxious to excuse
his errors, that I am continually
dwelling upon them, and labouring
to extenuate the loosest of his
principles and the worst of his
practices, till I am familiarised
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
preserve 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 vigour of his exhausted
frame, and with it something
of his former impatience of retirement
and repose, I suggested a short
residence by the sea-side, 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 promise
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
offences and short-comings; 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 Staningley,
if you like: your uncle and aunt
have long been 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 Staningley,
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 Grassdale; 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 loverlike, 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,
while his fox-hunting and coursing
are a sufficient occupation for
him without, when the ground
is not hardened by frost; so
that he is not wholly dependent
on me for entertainment. 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.
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