CHAPTER XLI
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.'
