CHAPTER XXIX
Those were four miserable months, alternating between intense
anxiety, despair, and indignation, pity for him and pity for
myself. And yet, through all, I was not wholly comfortless: I had
my darling, sinless, inoffensive little one to console me; but even
this consolation was embittered by the constantly-recurring
thought, 'How shall I teach him hereafter to respect his father,
and yet to avoid his example?'
But I remembered that I had brought all these afflictions, in a
manner wilfully, upon myself; and I determined to bear them without
a murmur. At the same time I resolved not to give myself up to
misery for the transgressions of another, and endeavoured to divert
myself as much as I could; and besides the companionship of my
child, and my dear, faithful Rachel, who evidently guessed my
sorrows and felt for them, though she was too discreet to allude to
them, I had my books and pencil, my domestic affairs, and the
welfare and comfort of Arthur's poor tenants and labourers to
attend to: and I sometimes sought and obtained amusement in the
company of my young friend Esther Hargrave: occasionally I rode
over to see her, and once or twice I had her to spend the day with
me at the Manor. Mrs. Hargrave did not visit London that season:
having no daughter to marry, she thought it as well to stay at home
and economise; and, for a wonder, Walter came down to join her in
the beginning of June, and stayed till near the close of August.
The first time I saw him was on a sweet, warm evening, when I was
sauntering in the park with little Arthur and Rachel, who is head-
nurse and lady's-maid in one - for, with my secluded life and
tolerably active habits, I require but little attendance, and as
she had nursed me and coveted to nurse my child, and was moreover
so very trustworthy, I preferred committing the important charge to
her, with a young nursery-maid under her directions, to engaging
any one else: besides, it saves money; and since I have made
acquaintance with Arthur's affairs, I have learnt to regard that as
no trifling recommendation; for, by my own desire, nearly the whole
of the income of my fortune is devoted, for years to come, to the
paying off of his debts, and the money he contrives to squander
away in London is incomprehensible. But to return to Mr. Hargrave.
I was standing with Rachel beside the water, amusing the laughing
baby in her arms with a twig of willow laden with golden catkins,
when, greatly to my surprise, he entered the park, mounted on his
costly black hunter, and crossed over the grass to meet me. He
saluted me with a very fine compliment, delicately worded, and
modestly delivered withal, which he had doubtless concocted as he
rode along. He told me he had brought a message from his mother,
who, as he was riding that way, had desired him to call at the
Manor and beg the pleasure of my company to a friendly family
dinner to-morrow.
'There is no one to meet but ourselves,' said he; 'but Esther is
very anxious to see you; and my mother fears you will feel solitary
in this great house so much alone, and wishes she could persuade
you to give her the pleasure of your company more frequently, and
make yourself at home in our more humble dwelling, till Mr.
Huntingdon's return shall render this a little more conducive to
your comfort.'
'She is very kind,' I answered, 'but I am not alone, you see; - and
those whose time is fully occupied seldom complain of solitude.'
'Will you not come to-morrow, then? She will be sadly disappointed
if you refuse.'
I did not relish being thus compassionated for my loneliness; but,
however, I promised to come.
'What a sweet evening this is!' observed he, looking round upon the
sunny park, with its imposing swell and slope, its placid water,
and majestic clumps of trees. 'And what a paradise you live in!'
'It is a lovely evening,' answered I; and I sighed to think how
little I had felt its loveliness, and how little of a paradise
sweet Grassdale was to me - how still less to the voluntary exile
from its scenes. Whether Mr. Hargrave divined my thoughts, I
cannot tell, but, with a half-hesitating, sympathising seriousness
of tone and manner, he asked if I had lately heard from Mr.
Huntingdon.
'Not lately,' I replied.
'I thought not,' he muttered, as if to himself, looking
thoughtfully on the ground.
'Are you not lately returned from London?' I asked.
'Only yesterday.'
'And did you see him there?'
'Yes - I saw him.'
'Was he well?'
'Yes - that is,' said he, with increasing hesitation and an
appearance of suppressed indignation, 'he was as well as - as he
deserved to be, but under circumstances I should have deemed
incredible for a man so favoured as he is.' He here looked up and
pointed the sentence with a serious bow to me. I suppose my face
was crimson.
'Pardon me, Mrs. Huntingdon,' he continued, 'but I cannot suppress
my indignation when I behold such infatuated blindness and
perversion of taste; - but, perhaps, you are not aware - ' He
paused.
'I am aware of nothing, sir - except that he delays his coming
longer than I expected; and if, at present, he prefers the society
of his friends to that of his wife, and the dissipations of the
town to the quiet of country life, I suppose I have those friends
to thank for it. Their tastes and occupations are similar to his,
and I don't see why his conduct should awaken either their
indignation or surprise.'
'You wrong me cruelly,' answered he. 'I have shared but little of
Mr. Huntingdon's society for the last few weeks; and as for his
tastes and occupations, they are quite beyond me - lonely wanderer
as I am. Where I have but sipped and tasted, he drains the cup to
the dregs; and if ever for a moment I have sought to drown the
voice of reflection in madness and folly, or if I have wasted too
much of my time and talents among reckless and dissipated
companions, God knows I would gladly renounce them entirely and for
ever, if I had but half the blessings that man so thanklessly casts
behind his back - but half the inducements to virtue and domestic,
orderly habits that he despises - but such a home, and such a
partner to share it! It is infamous!' he muttered, between his
teeth. 'And don't think, Mrs. Huntingdon,' he added aloud, 'that I
could be guilty of inciting him to persevere in his present
pursuits: on the contrary, I have remonstrated with him again and
again; I have frequently expressed my surprise at his conduct, and
reminded him of his duties and his privileges - but to no purpose;
he only - '
'Enough, Mr. Hargrave; you ought to be aware that whatever my
husband's faults may be, it can only aggravate the evil for me to
hear them from a stranger's lips.'
'Am I then a stranger?' said he in a sorrowful tone. 'I am your
nearest neighbour, your son's godfather, and your husband's friend;
may I not be yours also?'
'Intimate acquaintance must precede real friendship; I know but
little of you, Mr. Hargrave, except from report.'
'Have you then forgotten the six or seven weeks I spent under your
roof last autumn? I have not forgotten them. And I know enough of
you, Mrs. Huntingdon, to think that your husband is the most
enviable man in the world, and I should be the next if you would
deem me worthy of your friendship.'
'If you knew more of me, you would not think it, or if you did you
would not say it, and expect me to be flattered by the compliment.'
I stepped backward as I spoke. He saw that I wished the
conversation to end; and immediately taking the hint, he gravely
bowed, wished me good-evening, and turned his horse towards the
road. He appeared grieved and hurt at my unkind reception of his
sympathising overtures. I was not sure that I had done right in
speaking so harshly to him; but, at the time, I had felt irritated
- almost insulted by his conduct; it seemed as if he was presuming
upon the absence and neglect of my husband, and insinuating even
more than the truth against him.
Rachel had moved on, during our conversation, to some yards'
distance. He rode up to her, and asked to see the child. He took
it carefully into his arms, looked upon it with an almost paternal
smile, and I heard him say, as I approached, -
'And this, too, he has forsaken!'
He then tenderly kissed it, and restored it to the gratified nurse.
'Are you fond of children, Mr. Hargrave?' said I, a little softened
towards him.
'Not in general,' he replied, 'but that is such a sweet child, and
so like its mother,' he added in a lower tone.
'You are mistaken there; it is its father it resembles.'
'Am I not right, nurse?' said he, appealing to Rachel.
'I think, sir, there's a bit of both,' she replied.
He departed; and Rachel pronounced him a very nice gentleman. I
had still my doubts on the subject.
In the course of the following six weeks I met him several times,
but always, save once, in company with his mother, or his sister,
or both. When I called on them, he always happened to be at home,
and, when they called on me, it was always he that drove them over
in the phaeton. His mother, evidently, was quite delighted with
his dutiful attentions and newly-acquired domestic habits.
The time that I met him alone was on a bright, but not oppressively
hot day, in the beginning of July: I had taken little Arthur into
the wood that skirts the park, and there seated him on the moss-
cushioned roots of an old oak; and, having gathered a handful of
bluebells and wild-roses, I was kneeling before him, and presenting
them, one by one, to the grasp of his tiny fingers; enjoying the
heavenly beauty of the flowers, through the medium of his smiling
eyes: forgetting, for the moment, all my cares, laughing at his
gleeful laughter, and delighting myself with his delight, - when a
shadow suddenly eclipsed the little space of sunshine on the grass
before us; and looking up, I beheld Walter Hargrave standing and
gazing upon us.
'Excuse me, Mrs. Huntingdon,' said he, 'but I was spell-bound; I
had neither the power to come forward and interrupt you, nor to
withdraw from the contemplation of such a scene. How vigorous my
little godson grows! and how merry he is this morning!' He
approached the child, and stooped to take his hand; but, on seeing
that his caresses were likely to produce tears and lamentations,
instead of a reciprocation of friendly demonstrations, he prudently
drew back.
'What a pleasure and comfort that little creature must be to you,
Mrs. Huntingdon!' he observed, with a touch of sadness in his
intonation, as he admiringly contemplated the infant.
'It is,' replied I; and then I asked after his mother and sister.
He politely answered my inquiries, and then returned again to the
subject I wished to avoid; though with a degree of timidity that
witnessed his fear to offend.
'You have not heard from Huntingdon lately?' he said.
'Not this week,' I replied. Not these three weeks, I might have
said.
'I had a letter from him this morning. I wish it were such a one
as I could show to his lady.' He half drew from his waistcoat-
pocket a letter with Arthur's still beloved hand on the address,
scowled at it, and put it back again, adding - 'But he tells me he
is about to return next week.'
'He tells me so every time he writes.'
'Indeed! well, it is like him. But to me he always avowed it his
intention to stay till the present month.'
It struck me like a blow, this proof of premeditated transgression
and systematic disregard of truth.
'It is only of a piece with the rest of his conduct,' observed Mr.
Hargrave, thoughtfully regarding me, and reading, I suppose, my
feelings in my face.
'Then he is really coming next week?' said I, after a pause.
'You may rely upon it, if the assurance can give you any pleasure.
And is it possible, Mrs. Huntingdon, that you can rejoice at his
return?' he exclaimed, attentively perusing my features again.
'Of course, Mr. Hargrave; is he not my husband?'
'Oh, Huntingdon; you know not what you slight!' he passionately
murmured.
I took up my baby, and, wishing him good-morning, departed, to
indulge my thoughts unscrutinized, within the sanctum of my home.
And was I glad? Yes, delighted; though I was angered by Arthur's
conduct, and though I felt that he had wronged me, and was
determined he should feel it too.
