March 20th. - Having now got
rid of Mr. Huntingdon for a season,
my spirits begin to revive. He
left me early in February; and
the moment he was gone, I breathed
again, and felt my vital energy
return; not with the hope of
escape - he has taken care to
leave me no visible chance of
that - but with a determination
to make the best of existing
circumstances. Here was Arthur
left to me at last; and rousing
from my despondent apathy, I
exerted all my powers to eradicate
the weeds that had been fostered
in his infant mind, and sow again
the good seed they had rendered
unproductive. Thank heaven, it
is not a barren or a stony soil;
if weeds spring fast there, so
do better plants. His apprehensions
are more quick, his heart more
overflowing with affection than
ever his father's could have
been, and it is no hopeless task
to bend him to obedience and
win him to love and know his
own true friend, as long as there
is no one to counteract my efforts.
I had much trouble at first
in breaking him of those evil
habits his father had taught
him to acquire, but already that
difficulty is nearly vanquished
now: bad language seldom defiles
his mouth, and I have succeeded
in giving him an absolute disgust
for all intoxicating liquors,
which I hope not even his father
or his father's friends will
be able to overcome. He was inordinately
fond of them for so young a creature,
and, remembering my unfortunate
father as well as his, I dreaded
the consequences of such a taste.
But if I had stinted him, in
his usual quantity of wine, or
forbidden him to taste it altogether,
that would only have increased
his partiality for it, and made
him regard it as a greater treat
than ever. I therefore gave him
quite as much as his father was
accustomed to allow him; as much,
indeed, as he desired to have
- but into every glass I surreptitiously
introduced a small quantity of
tartar-emetic, just enough to
produce inevitable nausea and
depression without positive sickness.
Finding such disagreeable consequences
invariably to result from this
indulgence, he soon grew weary
of it, but the more he shrank
from the daily treat the more
I pressed it upon him, till his
reluctance was strengthened to
perfect abhorrence. When he was
thoroughly disgusted with every
kind of wine, I allowed him,
at his own request, to try brandy-and-water,
and then gin-and-water, for the
little toper was familiar with
them all, and I was determined
that all should be equally hateful
to him. This I have now effected;
and since he declares that the
taste, the smell, the sight of
any one of them is sufficient
to make him sick, I have given
up teasing him about them, except
now and then as objects of terror
in cases of misbehaviour. 'Arthur,
if you're not a good boy I shall
give you a glass of wine,' or
'Now, Arthur, if you say that
again you shall have some brandy-and-water,'
is as good as any other threat;
and once or twice, when he was
sick, I have obliged the poor
child to swallow a little wine-and-water
without the tartar-emetic, by
way of medicine; and this practice
I intend to continue for some
time to come; not that I think
it of any real service in a physical
sense, but because I am determined
to enlist all the powers of association
in my service; I wish this aversion
to be so deeply grounded in his
nature that nothing in after-life
may be able to overcome it.
Thus, I flatter myself, I shall
secure him from this one vice;
and for the rest, if on his father's
return I find reason to apprehend
that my good lessons will be
all destroyed - if Mr. Huntingdon
commence again the game of teaching
the child to hate and despise
his mother, and emulate his father's
wickedness - I will yet deliver
my son from his hands. I have
devised another scheme that might
be resorted to in such a case;
and if I could but obtain my
brother's consent and assistance,
I should not doubt of its success.
The old hall where he and I were
born, and where our mother died,
is not now inhabited, nor yet
quite sunk into decay, as I believe.
Now, if I could persuade him
to have one or two rooms made
habitable, and to let them to
me as a stranger, I might live
there, with my child, under an
assumed name, and still support
myself by my favourite art. He
should lend me the money to begin
with, and I would pay him back,
and live in lowly independence
and strict seclusion, for the
house stands in a lonely place,
and the neighbourhood is thinly
inhabited, and he himself should
negotiate the sale of my pictures
for me. I have arranged the whole
plan in my head: and all I want
is to persuade Frederick to be
of the same mind as myself. He
is coming to see me soon, and
then I will make the proposal
to him, having first enlightened
him upon my circumstances sufficiently
to excuse the project.
Already, I believe, he knows
much more of my situation than
I have told him. I can tell this
by the air of tender sadness
pervading his letters; and by
the fact of his so seldom mentioning
my husband, and generally evincing
a kind of covert bitterness when
he does refer to him; as well
as by the circumstance of his
never coming to see me when Mr.
Huntingdon is at home. But he
has never openly expressed any
disapprobation of him or sympathy
for me; he has never asked any
questions, or said anything to
invite my confidence. Had he
done so, I should probably have
had but few concealments from
him. Perhaps he feels hurt at
my reserve. He is a strange being;
I wish we knew each other better.
He used to spend a month at Staningley
every year, before I was married;
but, since our father's death,
I have only seen him once, when
he came for a few days while
Mr. Huntingdon was away. He shall
stay many days this time, and
there shall be more candour and
cordiality between us than ever
there was before, since our early
childhood. My heart clings to
him more than ever; and my soul
is sick of solitude.
April 16th. - He is come and
gone. He would not stay above
a fortnight. The time passed
quickly, but very, very happily,
and it has done me good. I must
have a bad disposition, for my
misfortunes have soured and embittered
me exceedingly: I was beginning
insensibly to cherish very unamiable
feelings against my fellow-mortals,
the male part of them especially;
but it is a comfort to see there
is at least one among them worthy
to be trusted and esteemed; and
doubtless there are more, though
I have never known them, unless
I except poor Lord Lowborough,
and he was bad enough in his
day. But what would Frederick
have been, if he had lived in
the world, and mingled from his
childhood with such men as these
of my acquaintance? and what
will Arthur be, with all his
natural sweetness of disposition,
if I do not save him from that
world and those companions? I
mentioned my fears to Frederick,
and introduced the subject of
my plan of rescue on the evening
after his arrival, when I presented
my little son to his uncle.
'He is like you, Frederick,'
said I, 'in some of his moods:
I sometimes think he resembles
you more than his father; and
I am glad of it.'
'You flatter me, Helen,' replied
he, stroking the child's soft,
wavy locks.
'No, you will think it no compliment
when I tell you I would rather
have him to resemble Benson than
his father.'
He slightly elevated his eyebrows,
but said nothing.
'Do you know what sort of man
Mr. Huntingdon is?' said I.
'I think I have an idea.'
'Have you so clear an idea
that you can hear, without surprise
or disapproval, that I meditate
escaping with that child to some
secret asylum, where we can live
in peace, and never see him again?'
'Is it really so?'
'If you have not,' continued
I, 'I'll tell you something more
about him'; and I gave a sketch
of his general conduct, and a
more particular account of his
behaviour with regard to his
child, and explained my apprehensions
on the latter's account, and
my determination to deliver him
from his father's influence.
Frederick was exceedingly indignant
against Mr. Huntingdon, and very
much grieved for me; but still
he looked upon my project as
wild and impracticable. He deemed
my fears for Arthur disproportioned
to the circumstances, and opposed
so many objections to my plan,
and devised so many milder methods
for ameliorating my condition,
that I was obliged to enter into
further details to convince him
that my husband was utterly incorrigible,
and that nothing could persuade
him to give up his son, whatever
became of me, he being as fully
determined the child should not
leave him, as I was not to leave
the child; and that, in fact,
nothing would answer but this,
unless I fled the country, as
I had intended before. To obviate
that, he at length consented
to have one wing of the old hall
put into a habitable condition,
as a place of refuge against
a time of need; but hoped I would
not take advantage of it unless
circumstances should render it
really necessary, which I was
ready enough to promise: for
though, for my own sake, such
a hermitage appears like paradise
itself, compared with my present
situation, yet for my friends'
sakes, for Milicent and Esther,
my sisters in heart and affection,
for the poor tenants of Grassdale,
and, above all, for my aunt,
I will stay if I possibly can.
July 29th. - Mrs. Hargrave
and her daughter are come back
from London. Esther is full of
her first season in town; but
she is still heart-whole and
unengaged. Her mother sought
out an excellent match for her,
and even brought the gentleman
to lay his heart and fortune
at her feet; but Esther had the
audacity to refuse the noble
gifts. He was a man of good family
and large possessions, but the
naughty girl maintained he was
old as Adam, ugly as sin, and
hateful as - one who shall be
nameless.
'But, indeed, I had a hard
time of it,' said she: 'mamma
was very greatly disappointed
at the failure of her darling
project, and very, very angry
at my obstinate resistance to
her will, and is so still; but
I can't help it. And Walter,
too, is so seriously displeased
at my perversity and absurd caprice,
as he calls it, that I fear he
will never forgive me - I did
not think he could be so unkind
as he has lately shown himself.
But Milicent begged me not to
yield, and I'm sure, Mrs. Huntingdon,
if you had seen the man they
wanted to palm upon me, you would
have advised me not to take him
too.'
'I should have done so whether
I had seen him or not,' said
I; 'it is enough that you dislike
him.'
'I
knew you would
say so; though
mamma affirmed you would be quite
shocked at my undutiful conduct.
You can't imagine how she lectures
me: I am disobedient and ungrateful;
I am thwarting her wishes, wronging
my brother, and making myself
a burden on her hands. I sometimes
fear she'll overcome me after
all. I have a strong will, but
so has she, and when she says
such bitter things, it provokes
me to such a pass that I feel
inclined to do as she bids me,
and then break my heart and say, "There,
mamma, it's all your fault!"'
'Pray don't!' said I. 'Obedience
from such a motive would be positive
wickedness, and certain to bring
the punishment it deserves. Stand
firm, and your mamma will soon
relinquish her persecution; and
the gentleman himself will cease
to pester you with his addresses
if he finds them steadily rejected.'
'Oh, no! mamma will weary all
about her before she tires herself
with her exertions; and as for
Mr. Oldfield, she has given him
to understand that I have refused
his offer, not from any dislike
of his person, but merely because
I am giddy and young, and cannot
at present reconcile myself to
the thoughts of marriage under
any circumstances: but by next
season, she has no doubt, I shall
have more sense, and hopes my
girlish fancies will be worn
away. So she has brought me home,
to school me into a proper sense
of my duty, against the time
comes round again. Indeed, I
believe she will not put herself
to the expense of taking me up
to London again, unless I surrender:
she cannot afford to take me
to town for pleasure and nonsense,
she says, and it is not every
rich gentleman that will consent
to take me without a fortune,
whatever exalted ideas I may
have of my own attractions.'
'Well, Esther, I pity you;
but still, I repeat, stand firm.
You might as well sell yourself
to slavery at once, as marry
a man you dislike. If your mother
and brother are unkind to you,
you may leave them, but remember
you are bound to your husband
for life.'
'But I cannot leave them unless
I get married, and I cannot get
married if nobody sees me. I
saw one or two gentlemen in London
that I might have liked, but
they were younger sons, and mamma
would not let me get to know
them - one especially, who I
believe rather liked me - but
she threw every possible obstacle
in the way of our better acquaintance.
Wasn't it provoking?'
'I have no doubt you would
feel it so, but it is possible
that if you married him, you
might have more reason to regret
it hereafter than if you married
Mr. Oldfield. When I tell you
not to marry without love, I
do not advise you to marry for
love alone: there are many, many
other things to be considered.
Keep both heart and hand in your
own possession, till you see
good reason to part with them;
and if such an occasion should
never present itself, comfort
your mind with this reflection,
that though in single life your
joys may not be very many, your
sorrows, at least, will not be
more than you can bear. Marriage
may change your circumstances
for the better, but, in my private
opinion, it is far more likely
to produce a contrary result.'
'So thinks Milicent; but allow
me to say I think otherwise.
If I thought myself doomed to
old-maidenhood, I should cease
to value my life. The thoughts
of living on, year after year,
at the Grove - a hanger-on upon
mamma and Walter, a mere cumberer
of the ground (now that I know
in what light they would regard
it), is perfectly intolerable;
I would rather run away with
the butler.'
'Your circumstances are peculiar,
I allow; but have patience, love;
do nothing rashly. Remember you
are not yet nineteen, and many
years are yet to pass before
any one can set you down as an
old maid: you cannot tell what
Providence may have in store
for you. And meantime, remember
you have a right to the protection
and support of your mother and
brother, however they may seem
to grudge it.'
'You are so grave, Mrs. Huntingdon,'
said Esther, after a pause. 'When
Milicent uttered the same discouraging
sentiments concerning marriage,
I asked if she was happy: she
said she was; but I only half
believed her; and now I must
put the same question to you.'
'It is a very impertinent question,'
laughed I, 'from a young girl
to a married woman so many years
her senior, and I shall not answer
it.'
'Pardon me, dear madam,' said
she, laughingly throwing herself
into my arms, and kissing me
with playful affection; but I
felt a tear on my neck, as she
dropped her head on my bosom
and continued, with an odd mixture
of sadness and levity, timidity
and audacity, - 'I know you are
not so happy as I mean to be,
for you spend half your life
alone at Grassdale, while Mr.
Huntingdon goes about enjoying
himself where and how he pleases.
I shall expect my husband to
have no pleasures but what he
shares with me; and if his greatest
pleasure of all is not the enjoyment
of my company, why, it will be
the worse for him, that's all.'
'If such are your expectations
of matrimony, Esther, you must,
indeed, be careful whom you marry
- or rather, you must avoid it
altogether.'
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