transcript

Speaker 1:
[00:02] Good evening, welcome to the Just Sleep Podcast. I'm Taesha, your host. Every week, I will read you an old story to help you relax of the stressful day behind you and drift off to sleep. Occasionally, we will run ads in order to cover the costs of the production of the podcast. Rest assured, there will be no ads during or after the story. If you prefer an ad-free and intro-free show, you can join Just Sleep Premium. Visit justsleeppodcast.com/support for more information. A shout out to Meadow Lake Arts, who said, When I wake in the morning and realize I missed the end of a story and have to go back and listen while actually awake, you've done your job very well. Thank you for your message and thank you for the support. If you'd like to support the podcast, you can buy me a coffee at buymeacoffee.com/justsleeppod. And if you want another way of supporting the show, you can share it with a friend. Tonight, I'm continuing the story, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. So lie down, close your eyes, and let me read you a story. July 3rd. My last bitter letter has rung from him an answer at last, and a rather longer one than usual. But still, I don't know what to make of it. He playfully abuses me for the gall and vinegar of my latest effusion. Tells me I can have no conception of the multitudinous engagements that keep him away, but averts that, in spite of them all, he will assuredly be with me before the close of next week, though it is impossible for a man so circumstanced as he is to fix the precise day of his return. Meantime, he exhorts me to the exercise of patience, that first of women's virtues, and desires me to remember the saying, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and comfort myself with the assurance that the longer he stays away, the better he shall love me when he returns. Until he does return, he begs I will continue to write him constantly, for though he is sometimes too idle and often too busy to answer my letters as they come, he likes to receive them daily. And, if I fulfill my threat of punishing his seeming neglect, I ceasing to write. He shall be so angry that he will do his utmost to forget me. He adds this piece of intelligence respecting poor Millicent Hargrave. Your little friend Millicent is likely, before long, to follow your example, and take upon her the yoke of matrimony in conjunction with a friend of mine. Hattously, you know, has not yet fulfilled his direful threat of throwing his precious person away on the first old maid that choose to evince a tenderness for him. But he still preserves a resolute determination to see himself a married man before the year is out. Only, said he to me, I must have somebody that will let me have my own way in everything, not like your wife, Huntington. She's a charming creature, but she looks as if she had a will of her own, and could play the vixen upon occasion. I thought, you're right there, man. But I didn't say so. I must have some good, quiet soul that will let me just do what I like, and go where I like, keep it home or stay away, without a word of reproach or complaint, for I can't do with being bothered. Well, said I, I know somebody that will suit you to a tea if you don't care for money, and that's Hargrave's sister, Millicent. He desired to be introduced to her forthwith, for he said he had plenty of the needful himself, or should have when his old governor chose to quit the stage. So you see, Helen, I've managed pretty well both of your friend and mine. Poor Millicent, but I cannot imagine she will ever be led to accept such a suitor, once so repugnant to all her ideas of a man to be honored and loved. Fifth, alas, I was mistaken. I've got a long letter from her this morning, telling me she is already engaged, and expects to be married before the close of the month. I hardly know what to say about it, she writes, or what to think. To tell you the truth, Helen, I don't like the thoughts of it at all. If I am to be Mr. Hattesley's wife, I must try to love him, and I do try with all my might. But I have made very little progress yet, and the worst symptom of the case is that the further he is from me, the better I like him. He frightens me with his abrupt manners and strange, hectoring ways, and I dread the thoughts of marrying him. Then, why have you accepted him, you will ask? And I didn't know I had accepted him, but Mamma tells me I have, and he seems to think so too. I certainly didn't mean to do so, but I did not like to give him a flat refusal for fear Mamma should be grieved and angry, for I knew she wished me to marry him, and I wanted to talk to her first about it. So I gave him what I thought was an evasive half-negative answer, but she says it was good as an acceptance, and that he would think me very capricious if I were to attempt to draw back. And indeed, I was so confused and frightened at the moment, I can hardly tell what I said. And next time I saw him, he accosted me in all confidence as his affianced bride, and immediately began to settle matters with Mamma. I had not courage to contradict them then, and how can I do it now? I cannot, they would think me mad. Besides, Mamma is so delighted with the idea of the match, she thinks she has managed so well for me, and I cannot bear to disappoint her. I do reject sometimes and tell her what I feel, but you don't know how she talks. Mr. Hattlesley, you know, is the son of a rich banker, and as Esther and I have no fortunes, and Walter very little, our dear Mamma is very anxious to see us all well married, that is, united to rich partners. It is not my idea of being well married, but she means it all for the best. She says when I'm safe off her hands, it will be such a relief to her mind, and she assures me it will be a good thing for the family as well as for me. Even Walter is pleased at the prospect. And when I confessed my reluctance to him, he said it was all childish nonsense. Do you think it nonsense, Helen? I should not care if I could see any prospect of being able to love and admire him, but I can't. There's nothing about him to hang one's esteem and affection upon. He's so diametrically opposite to what I imagined my husband should be. Do write me and say all you can to encourage me. Don't attempt to dissuade me for my fate is fixed. Preparations for the important event are already going on around me. And don't say a word against Mr. Hattesley. If I want to think well of him, and though I have spoken against him myself, it is for the last time. Hereafter I shall never permit myself to utter a word in his disdain. However, he may seem to deserve it. And whoever ventures to speak slightly of the man I have promised to love, to honor and obey, must expect my serious displeasure. After all, I think he is quite as good as Mr. Huntington, if not better. And yet you love him, and seem to be happy and contented. And perhaps I may manage as well. You must tell me if you can that Mr. Hattesley is better than he seems, that he is upright, honorable, and open-hearted, in fact a perfect diamond in the rough. He may be all this, but I don't know him. I know only the exterior and what I trust is the worst part of him. She concludes with, Goodbye, dear Helen, I'm waiting anxiously for your advice, but mind you, let it be all on the right side. Alas, poor Millicent, what encouragement can I give you or what advice? Accept that it is better to make a bold stand now, though at the expense of disappointing and angering both mother and brother and lover, and to devote your whole life hereafter to misery and vain regret. Saturday, 13th The week is over, and he has not come. All the sweet summer is passing away without one breath of pleasure to me or benefit to him. And I had all along been looking forward to this season with the fond, delusive hope that we should enjoy it so sweetly together, and that, with God's help and my exertions, it would be the means of elevating his mind and refining his taste to a due appreciation of the salutary and pure delights of nature and peace and holy love. But now, at evening, when I see the round red sun sink quietly down behind those witty hills, leaving them sleeping in a warm red golden haze, I only think another lovely day is lost to him and me. And at morning, when roused by the flutter and chirp of the sparrows and the gleeful twitter of the swallows, all intent upon feeding their young, and full of life and joy in their own little frames, I open the window to inhale the balmy, so reviving air and look out upon the lovely landscape, laughing in dew and sunshine. I too often shame that glorious scene with tears of thankless misery, because he cannot feel its freshening influence. And when I wander in the ancient woods, and meet the little wild flowers smiling in my path, or sit in the shadow of our noble ash trees by the waterside, with their branches swaying gently in the light summer breeze, that murmurs through their feathery foliage, my ears full of that low music mingled with the dreamy hum of insects, my eyes abstractedly gazing on the glassy surface of the little lake before me, with the trees that crowd around its bank, some gracefully bending to kiss its waters, some rearing their stately heads high above, but stretching their wide arms over its margin, all faithfully mirrored far, far down in its glassy depth, though sometimes the images are partially broken by the sport of aquatic insects, and sometimes, for a moment, the whole is shivered into trembling fragments by a transient breeze that sweeps the surface too roughly. Still, I have no pleasure. For the greater the happiness the nature sets before me, the more I lament that he is nought here to taste it. The greater the bliss we might enjoy together, the more I feel our present wretchedness apart. Yes, ours. He must be wretched, though he may not know it. And the more my senses are pleased, the more my heart is oppressed, for he keeps it with him confined amid the dust and the smoke of London, perhaps shut up within the walls of his own abominable club. But most of all, at night, when I enter my lonely chamber, I look out upon the summer moon, sweet regent of the sky, floating above me in the black-blue vault of heaven, shedding a flood of silver radiance over park and wood and water, so pure, so peaceful, so divine, and think, where is he now? What is he doing at this moment? Only unconscious of this heavenly scene, perhaps reveling with his boon companions, perhaps. God help me. It is too, too much. Twenty third. Thank heaven, she has come at last. How altered, flushed and feverish, listless and languid. His beauty strangely diminished. His vigor and vivacity quite departed. I have not abraded him by word or look. I have not even asked him what he has been doing. I have not the heart to do it. For I think he's ashamed of himself. He must be so indeed, and such inquiries cannot fail to be painful to both. My forbearance pleases him, touches him even. I'm inclined to think. He says he's glad to be home again, and God knows how glad I am to get him back even as he is. He lies on the sofa nearly all day long, and I play and sing to him for hours together. I write his letters for him and get him everything he wants, and sometimes I read to him and sometimes I talk, and sometimes only sit by him and soothe him with silent caresses. I know he does not deserve it, and I fear I am spoiling him, but this once I will forgive him freely and entirely. I will shame him into virtue if I can, and I will never let him leave me again. He's pleased with my attentions, and may be grateful for them. He likes to have me near him, and though he is peevish and testy with his servants and his dogs, he's gentle and kind to me. What would he be if I did not so watchfully anticipate his wants, and so carefully avoid or immediately desist from doing anything that has a tendency to irritate or disturb him, with however little reason I cannot tell? How intensely I wish he were worthy of all this care. Last night as I sat beside him with his head in my lap, passing my fingers through his beautiful curls, this thought made my eyes overflow with sorrowful tears as it often does. But this time a tear fell on his face and made him look up. He smiled, but not insultingly. Dear Helen, he said, why do you cry? You know that I love you. And he pressed my hand to his feverish lips. And what more could you desire? Only, Arthur, that you would love yourself as truly and as faithfully as you are loved by me. That would be hard indeed, he replied tenderly, squeezing my hand. August 24th. Arthur is himself again, as lusty and reckless, as light of heart and head as ever, and as restless and hard to amuse as a spoiled child, and almost as full as mischief too, especially when wet weather keeps him within doors. I wish he had something to do, some useful trade or profession or employment, anything to occupy his head or his hands for a few hours a day, and give him something besides his own pleasure to think about. If he would play The Country Gentleman and attend to the farm, but that he knows nothing about and wouldn't give his mind to consider. Or if he would take up with some literary study or learn to draw or to play, as he is so fond of music. I often try to persuade him to learn the piano, but he is far too idle for such an undertaking. He has no more idea of exerting himself to overcome obstacles than he has of restraining his natural appetites, and these two things are the ruin of him. I lay them both to the charge of his harsh yet careless father and his madly indulgent mother. If ever I am a mother, I will zealously strive against this crime of overindulgence. I can hardly give it a milder name when I think of the evils it brings. Happily, it will soon be the shooting season, and then, if the weather permit, we will find occupation enough in the pursuit and destruction of the partridges and pheasants. We have no grouse. Or, he might have been similarly occupied at this moment instead of lying under the acacia tree pulling poor Dash's ears. But he says it is dull work shooting alone. He must have a friend or two to help him. Let them be tolerably decent than Arthur, said I. The word friend in his mouth makes me shudder. I know it was some of his friends that induced him to stay behind me in London and kept him away so long. Indeed, from what he has unguardedly told me or hinted from time to time, I cannot doubt that he frequently showed them my letters. I let them see how fondly his wife watched over his interests and how keenly she regretted his absence, and that they induced him to remain week after week and to plunge into all manner of excesses to avoid being laughed at for a wife-ridden fool, and perhaps to show how far he could venture to go without danger of shaking the fond creature's devoted attachment. It is a hateful idea, but I cannot believe it is a false one. Well, replied he, I thought of Lord Lobera for one, but there is no possibility of getting him without his better half, our mutual friend Annabella, so we must ask them both. You're not afraid of her, are you, Helen? he asked, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Of course not, I answered. Why should I? and who besides? Hargrave, for one, he'll be glad to come, though his own place is so near, where he has little enough land of his own to shoot over, and we can extend our depredations into it if we like. And he is thoroughly respectable, you know, Helen, quite a ladies' man. And I think Grimsby for another, he's a decent quiet fellow enough, you'll not object to Grimsby. I hate him, but however if you wish it, I'll try to endure his presence for a while. All a prejudice, Helen, a mere woman's antipathy. No, I have solid grounds for my dislike. And is that all? Why yes, I think so. How to sleep would be too busy billing and cooing with his bride to have much time to spare for guns and dogs at present, he replied. And that reminds me that I have had several letters from Millicent since her marriage, and that she is either or pretends to be quite reconciled to her lot. She professes to have discovered numberless virtues and perfections in her husband, some of which I fear less partial eyes would fail to distinguish, though they sought them carefully with tears. And now that she is accustomed to his loud voice and abrupt uncourteous manners, she affirms she finds no difficulty in loving him as a wife should do, and begs I will burn that letter wherein she spoke so unadvisably against him, so that I trust she may yet be happy, but if she is, it would be entirely the reward of her own goodness of heart. Or had she chosen to consider herself a victim of fate, or of her mother's worldly wisdom, she might have been thoroughly miserable, and if for duty's sake she had not made every effort to love her husband, she would doubtless have hated him to the end of her days. Chapter 26 September 23 Our guests arrived about three weeks ago. Lord and Lady Lobera have now been married above eight months, and I will do the lady the credit to say that her husband is quite an altered man. His looks, his spirits, and his temper are all perceptibly changed for the better since I last saw him. But there is room for improvement still. He is not always cheerful nor always contented, and she often complains of his ill humor, which, however, of all persons, she ought to be the last to accuse him of, as he never displays it against her, except for such conduct as would provoke a saint. She adores her still, and would go to the world's end to please her. She knows her power, and she uses it too. But while knowing that to weedle and coax is safer than to command, she judiciously tempers her despotism with flattery and blandishments enough to make him deem himself a favoured and a happy man. But she has a way of tormenting him, in which I am a fellow sufferer, or might be, if I choose to regard myself as such. This is by openly, but not too glaringly, coqueting with Mr. Huntington, who is quite willing to be her partner in the game. But I don't care for it, because with him I know there's nothing but personal vanity, and a mischievous desire to excite my jealousy, and perhaps to torment his friend. And she, no doubt, is actuated by much the same motives, only there's more of malice and less of playfulness in her maneuvers. It is obviously therefore my interest to disappoint them both, as far as I'm concerned, by preserving a cheerful, undisturbed serenity throughout, and accordingly I endeavor to show the fullest confidence of my husband, and the greatest indifference to the arts of my attractive guest. I've never reproached the former but once, and that was for laughing at Lord Lober's depressed and anxious countenance one evening, when they had both been particularly provoking. And then indeed I said a good deal on the subject, and rebuked him sternly enough. But he only laughed and said, You can feel for him, Helen, can't you? I can feel for anyone that is unjustly treated, I replied, and I can feel for those that injure them, too. Why, Helen, you are as jealous as he is, cried he, laughing still more. And I found it impossible to convince him of his mistake. So from that time I have carefully refrained from any notice of the subject whatever, and left Lord Lober to take care of himself. He either has not the sense or the power to follow my example, though he does try to conceal his uneasiness as well as he can. But still, it will appear on his face, and his ill humor will peep out at intervals, though not in the expression of open resentment, they never go far enough for that. But I confess I do feel jealous at times, most painfully, bitterly so, when she sings and plays to him, and he hangs over the instrument and dwells upon her voice with no affected interest. But then I know he's really delighted, and I have no power to awaken similar fervor. I can amuse and please him with my simple songs, but not delight him thus. Twenty-eighth Yesterday, we all went to the Grove, Mr. Hargrave's much neglected home. His mother frequently asks us over that she may have the pleasure of her dear Walter's company, and this time she had invited us to a dinner party, and got together as many of the country gentry as were within reach to meet us. The entertainment was very well got up, but I could not help thinking about the cost of it all the time. I don't like Mrs. Hargrave. She is a hard, pretentious, worldly-minded woman. She has money enough to live very comfortably if she only knew how to use it judiciously, and had taught her son to do the same. But she is ever straining to keep up appearances with that despicable pride that shuns the semblance of poverty as of a shameful crime. She grinds her dependents, pinches her servants, and deprives even her daughters and herself of the real comforts of life, because she will not consent to yield to the palm and outward show to those who have three times her wealth. And above all, because she is determined her cherished son shall be enabled to hold up his head with the highest gentleman in the land. This same son I imagine is a man of expensive habits, no reckless spendthrift, and no abandoned sensualist, but one who likes to have everything handsome about him, and to go to a certain length in youthful indulgences, not so much to gratify his own tastes as to maintain his reputation as a man of fashion in the world, and a respectable fellow among his own lawless companions. While he is too selfish to consider how many comforts might be obtained for his fond mother and sisters, with the money he thus wastes upon himself. As long as they can contrive to make a respectable appearance once a year when they come to town, he gives himself little concern about their private stintings and struggles at home. This is a harsh judgment to form of dare, noble-minded, generous-hearted Walter, but I fear it is too just. Mrs. Hargrave's anxiety to make good matches for her daughters is partly the cause, and partly the result of these errors. By making a figure in the world and showing them off to advantage, she hopes to obtain better chances for them, and by thus living beyond her legitimate means and lavishing so much on their brother, she renders them portionless and makes them burdens on her hands. Poor Millicent, I fear, has already fallen a sacrifice to the maneuverings of this mistaken mother, who congratulates herself on having so satisfactorily discharged her maternal duty and hopes to do as well for Esther. But Esther is a child as yet, a little merry romp of fourteen, as honest-hearted and as guileless and simple as her sister, but with a fearless spirit of her own. But I fancy, her mother will find some difficulty and bending to her purposes. Chapter 27 October 9 It was on the night of the 4th, a little after tea, that Annabella had been singing and playing with Arthur as usual at her side. She had ended her song, but still she sat at the instrument, and he stood leaning on the back of her chair, conversing in scarcely audible tones, with his face in very close proximity with hers. I looked at Lord Lorbrough. He was at the other end of the room, talking with Mrs. Hargraves and Grimsby, but I saw him dart towards his lady and his host, a quick impatient glance, expressive of intense disquietude at which Grimsby smiled. Determined to interrupt the tete-a-tete, I rose and selecting a piece of music from the music stand, stepped up to the piano intending to ask the lady to play it. But I stood transfixed and speechless on seeing her seated there, listening, with what seemed an exultant smile in her flushed face, to his soft murmurings, with her hand quietly surrendered to his clasp. The blood rushed first to my heart and then to my head, but there was more than this. Almost at the moment of my approach, he cast a hurried glance over his shoulder towards the other occupants of the room, and then ardently pressed the unresisting hand to his lips. On raising his eyes, he beheld me and dropped them again, confounded and dismayed. She saw me too and confronted me with a look of hard defiance. I laid the music on the piano and retired. I felt ill, but I did not leave the room. Happily, it was getting late and could not be long before the company dispersed. I went to the fire and let my head against a chimney piece. In a minute or two, someone asked me if I felt unwell. I did not answer. Indeed, at the time, I knew not what was said, but I mechanically looked up and saw Mr. Hargrave standing beside me on the rug. Shall I get you a glass of wine? said he. No, thank you, I replied, and turning from him, I looked round. Lady Loeber was beside her husband, bending over him as he sat with her hand on his shoulder, softly talking and smiling in his face, and Arthur was at the table turning over a book of engravings. I seated myself in the nearest chair, and Mr. Hargrave, finding his services were not desired, judiciously withdrew. Shortly after the company broke up, and as the guests were retiring to their rooms, Arthur approached me, smiling with the unmost assurance. Are you very angry, Helen? murmured he. This is no jest, Arthur, said I seriously, but as calmly as I could. Unless you think it a jest, you'll lose my affection forever. What? So bitter, he exclaimed laughingly, clasping my hand between both his. But I snatched it away in England nation, almost in disgust, where he was obviously affected with wine. That I must go down on my knees, said he, and kneeling before me with clasped hands, uplifted in mock humiliation, he continued imploringly. Forgive me, Helen, dear Helen, forgive me, and I'll never do it again. And burying his face in his handkerchief, he affected to sob aloud. Leaving him thus employed, I took my candle, and slipping quietly from the room, hastened upstairs as fast as I could. But he soon discovered that I had left him, and rushing up after me, caught me in his arms just as I entered the chamber, and was about to shut the door in his face. No, no, by heaven, you shan't escape me so, he cried. Then alarmed at my agitation, he begged me not to put myself in such a passion, telling me I was white in the face, and should hurt myself if I did so. Let me go then, I murmured, and immediately he released me, and it was well he did, for I was really in a passion. I sank into the easy chair and endeavored to compose myself for I wanted to speak to him calmly. He stood beside me, but did not venture to touch me or to speak for a few seconds. Then, approaching a little narrower, he dropped on one knee. Not in mock humility, but to bring himself nearer my level. And leaning his hand on the arm of the chair, he began in a low voice. It is all nonsense, Helen, a jest, a mere nothing, not worth a thought. Will you never learn? He continued more boldly. That you have nothing to fear from me? That I love you wholly and entirely? Or if, he added with a lurking smile, I ever give a thought to another, you may well spare it. But those fancies are here and gone like a flash of lightning, while my love for you burns on steadily and forever like the sun. You little exorbitant tyrant. Well, not that. Be quiet a moment, will you, Arthur? Said I. And listen to me. I don't think I'm in a jealous fury. I'm perfectly calm. Feel my hand. And I gravely extended it towards him, but closed it upon his with an energy that seemed to disprove the assertion and made him smile. You needn't smile, sir, said I, still tightening my grasp and looking steadfastly on him till he almost quailed before me. You may think it all very fine, Mr. Huntington, to amuse yourself with rousing my jealousy. But take care you don't rouse my hate instead. And when you have once extinguished my love, you will find it no easy matter to kindle it again. Well, Helen, I won't repeat the offense. But I meant nothing by it, I assure you. I had taken too much wine and was scarcely myself at the time. You often take too much, and that is another practice I detest. She looked up, astonished at my warmth. Yes, I continued, I never mentioned it before, because I was ashamed to do so. But now I'll tell you that it distresses me and may disgust me if you go on and suffer the habit to grow upon you, as it will if you don't check it in time. But the whole system of your conduct, a lady lower is not referrable to wine. This night you knew perfectly well what you were doing. Well, I'm sorry for it, replied he, with more stalkingness than contrition. What more would you have? You're sorry that I saw you, no doubt, I answered coldly. If you had not seen me, he muttered, facing his eyes on the carpet, it would have done no harm. My heart felt ready to burst, but I resolutely swallowed back my emotion and answered calmly. You think not? No, replied he boldly. After all, what have I done? It's nothing. Except as you choose to make it a subject of accusation and distress. What would Lord Loebere, your friend, think if he knew all? Or what would you yourself think if he or another had acted the same part to me throughout as you have to Annabella? I would blow his brains out. Well then, Arthur, how can you call it nothing? An offence for which you would think yourself justified in blowing another man's brains out? Is it nothing to trifle with your friend's feelings and mine to endeavor to steal a woman's affections from her husband, what he values more than his gold, and therefore what is more dishonest to take? Are the marriage vows a jest? And is it nothing to make it your sport to break them and to tempt another to do the same? Can I love a man that does such things and coolly maintains it is nothing? You are breaking your marriage vows yourself, said he, indignantly rising and pacing to and fro. You promised to honor and obey me, and now you attempt to hectare over me and threaten and accuse me and call me worse than a hiring man. If it were not for your situation, Helen, I would not submit to it so tamely. I won't be dictated to by a woman, though she may be my wife. What will you do then? Will you go on till I hate you, and then accuse me of breaking my vows? He was silent a moment and then replied, You never will hate me. Returning and resuming his former position at my feet, he repeated more vehemently, You cannot hate me as long as I love you. But how can I believe that you love me if you continue to act in this way? Just imagine yourself in my place. Would you think I loved you if I did so? Would you believe my protestations and honor and trust me under such circumstances? The cases are different, he replied. It is a woman's nature to be constant, to love one and one only, blindly, tenderly and forever. Bless them, dear creatures. And you, above them all. But you must have some commiseration for us, Helen. You must give us a little more license, for as Shakespeare has it, however we do praises ourselves, our fancies are more giddy and un-firm, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and won than women's are. Do you mean by that that your fancies are lost to me and won by Lady Lober? No. Heaven is my witness that I think her mere dust and ashes in comparison with you, and shall continue to think so, unless you drive me from you by too much severity. She is a daughter of earth. You're an angel of heaven. Only be not too austere in your divinity, and remember that I am a poor, fallible mortal. Come now, Helen. Won't you forgive me? He said, gently taking my hand and looking up with an innocent smile. If I do, you will repeat the offense. I swear by, don't swear. I'll believe your word as well as your oath. I wish I could have confidence in either. Trust me then, Helen. Only trust and pardon me this once and you shall see. Come. I'm in hell's torments till you speak the word. I did not speak it, but I put my hand on his shoulder and kissed his forehead, and then burst into tears. He embraced me tenderly, and we have been good friends ever since. He has been decently temperate at table and well conducted towards Lady Loughborough. The first day he held himself aloof from her as far as he could without any flagrant breach of hospitality. Since that, he has been friendly and civil, but nothing more in my presence at least. Nor I think at any other time, for she seems haughty and displeased, and Lord Loughborough is manifestly more cheerful and more cordial towards his host than before. But I shall be glad when they are gone, for I have so much little love for Annabella that it is quite a task to be civil to her, and as she is the only woman here besides myself, we are unnecessarily thrown so much together. Next time Mrs. Hargrave calls, I shall hail her advent as quite a relief. I have a good mind to ask Arthur's leave to invite the old lady to stay with us till our guests depart. I think I will. She will take it as a kind attention, and though I have little relish for her society, she will be truly welcome as a third to stand between Lady Lober and me. The first time the latter and I were alone together, after that unhappy evening, was an hour or two after breakfast on the following day when the gentlemen were gone out, after the usual time spent in the writing of letters, the reading of newspapers and desultory conversation. We sat silent for two or three minutes. She was busy with her work, and I was running over the columns of a paper from which I had extracted all the pith some twenty minutes before. It was a moment of painful embarrassment to me, and I thought it must be infinitely more so to her, but it seems I was mistaken. She was the first to speak, and smiling with the coolest assurance, she began. Your husband was married last night, Helen. Is he often so? My blood boiled in my face, but it was better she should seem to attribute his conduct to this than to anything else. No, replied I, and never will be so again, I trust. You gave him a curtain lecture, did you? No, but I told him I disliked such conduct, and he promised me not to repeat it. But he looked rather subdued this morning, she continued. And you, Helen, you've been weeping, I see. That's our grand resource, you know. But doesn't it make your eyes spart, and do you always find it to answer? I never cry for effect, nor can I conceive how anyone can. Well, I don't know. I never had occasion to try it, but I think if Loeber were to commit such improprieties, I'd make him cry. I don't wonder you're being angry, for I'm sure I'd give my husband a lesson he would not soon forget for a lighter offence than that. But then, he never will do anything of the kind, for I keep him in too good order for that. Are you sure you don't arrogate too much of the credit to yourself? Lord Loeber was quite as remarkable for his abstemiousness for some time before you married him, as he is now, I have heard. Oh, about the wine, you mean? Yes, he's safe enough for that. And as to looking askance to another woman, he's safe enough for that too, while I live, for he worships the very ground I tread on. Indeed. And are you sure you deserve it? Well, as to that, I can't say. You know, we're all fallible creatures, Helen. We none of us deserve to be worshiped. But are you sure your darling Huntington deserves all the love you give to him? I knew not how to answer this. I was burning with anger, but I suppressed all outward manifestations of it and only bit my lip and pretended to arrange my work. At any rate, you see when she, pursuing her advantage, you can console yourself with the assurance that you are worthy of all the love he gives you. You flatter me, said I, but at least I can try to be worthy of it. And then I turned the conversation. Chapter 28 December 25th Last Christmas I was a bride with a heart overflowing with present bliss and full of ardent hopes of the future, though not unmingled with foreboding fears. Now I'm a wife. My bliss is sobered, but not destroyed. My hopes diminished, but not departed. My fears increased, but not yet thoroughly confirmed. And thank heaven, I'm a mother, too. God has sent me a soul to educate for heaven and give me a new and calmer bliss and stronger hopes to comfort me. December 25th, 1823. Another year is gone. My little Arthur lives and thrives. He's healthy, but not robust, full of gentle playfulness and vivacity, already affectionate, unsusceptible of passions and emotions. It'll be long ere he can find words to express. He has won his father's heart at last, and now my constant terror is, lest he should be ruined by that father's thoughtless indulgence. But I must beware of my own weakness, too, for I never knew till now how strong a parent's temptations to spoil an only child. I have need of consolation of my son, for, to this silent paper I may confess it, I have but little in my husband. I love him still, and he loves me in his own way. But oh how different from the love I could have given and once had hoped to receive! How little real sympathy there exists between us! How many of my thoughts and feelings are gloomily cloistered within my own mind! How much of my higher and better self is indeed unmarried, doomed either to harden and sour in the sunless shade of solitude, or to quite degenerate and fall away for lack of nutriment in this unwholesome soil! But, I repeat, I have no right to complain. Only let me state the truth, some of the truth at least, and see hereafter if any darker truths will blot these pages. We have now been full two years united. The romance of our attachment must be worn away. Surely, I have now got down to the lowest gradation of Arthur's affection and discovered all the evils of his nature. If there be any further change, it must be for the better, as we become still more accustomed to each other. Surely, we will find no lower depth than this. And if so, I can bear it well, as well at least, as I have borne it hitherto. Arthur's not what is commonly called a bad man. He has many good qualities, but he is a man without self-restraint or lofty aspirations, a lover of pleasure, given up to animal enjoyments. He is not a bad husband, but his notions of matrimonial duties and comforts are not my notions. Judging from appearances, his idea of a wife is a thing to love one devotedly, and to stay at home to wait upon her husband, and amuse him and administer to his comfort in every possible way, while he chooses to stay with her. And when he is absent, to attend to his interests, domestic or otherwise, and patiently wait his return, no matter how he may be occupied in the meantime. Early in spring, he announced his intention of going to London. His affairs there demanded his attendance, he said, and he could refuse it no longer. He expressed his regret at having to leave me, but hoped I would amuse myself with a baby till he returned. But why leave me, I said? I can go with you, I can be ready at any time. He would not take that child to town. Yes, why not? The thing was absurd. The mayor of town would be certain to disagree with him. With me as a nurse, the late hours and London habits would not suit me under such circumstances, and altogether he assured me that it would be excessively troublesome, injurious and unsafe. I overruled his objections as well as I could, for I trembled at the thoughts of his going alone, and would sacrifice almost anything for myself, much even for my child, to prevent it. But at length he told me plainly and somewhat testily that he could not do with me. He was worn out with the baby's restless nights and must have some repose. I proposed separate apartments, but it would not do. The truth is, Arthur, I said at last, you're weary of my company and determined not to have me with you. You might as well have said so at once. He denied it, but I immediately left the room and flew to the nursery to hide my feelings if I could not soothe them there. I was too much hurt to express any further dissatisfaction with his plans, or at all to refer to the subject again, except for the necessary arrangements concerning his departure and the conduct of affairs during his absence till the day before he went. When I earnestly exhorted him to take care of himself and keep out of the way of temptation, he laughed at my anxiety, but assured me there was no cause for it and promised to attend to my advice. I suppose it is no use asking you to fix a day for your return, I said. Why no, I hardly can under the circumstances. But be assured, love, I shall not be long away. I don't wish to keep your prisoner at home, I replied. I shall not grumble that you're staying whole months away, if you can be happy so long without me, provided I knew you were safe. But I don't like the idea of your being there among your friends, as you call them. Ho, ho, you silly girl, do you think I can't take care of myself? You didn't last time, but this time, Arthur, I added earnestly, show me that you can and teach me that I need not fear to trust you. He promised to fear, but in such a manner as we seek to sue the child. And did he keep his promise? No. And henceforth I can never trust his word. Bitter, bitter confession. Tears blind me while I write. It was early in March that he went, and he did not return till July. This time, he did not trouble himself to make excuses as before, and his letters were less frequent and shorter and less affectionate, especially after the first few weeks. They came slower and slower, and more terse and careless every time. But still, when I omitted writing, he complained of my neglect. When I wrote sternly and coldly, as I confess I frequently did at the last, he blamed my harshness and said it was enough to scare him from his home. When I tried mild persuasion, he was a little more gentle in his replies and promised to return. But I had learnt at last to disregard his promises. Good night.