Chapter Chapter 22 · Chapter XXII Traits of Friendship

. Chapter XXII Traits of Friendship

October 5th.—My cup of sweets is not unmingled: it is dashed with a

bitterness that I cannot hide from myself, disguise it as I will. I may

try to persuade myself that the sweetness overpowers it; I may call it

a pleasant aromatic flavour; but say what I will, it is still there,

and I cannot but taste it. I cannot shut my eyes to Arthur’s faults;

and the more I love him the more they trouble me. His very heart, that

I trusted so, is, I fear, less warm and generous than I thought it. At

least, he gave me a specimen of his character to-day that seemed to

merit a harder name than thoughtlessness. He and Lord Lowborough were

accompanying Annabella and me in a long, delightful ride; he was riding

by my side, as usual, and Annabella and Lord Lowborough were a little

before us, the latter bending towards his companion as if in tender and

confidential discourse.

“Those two will get the start of us, Helen, if we don’t look sharp,”

observed Huntingdon. “They’ll make a match of it, as sure as can be.

That Lowborough’s fairly besotted. But he’ll find himself in a fix when

he’s got her, I doubt.”

“And she’ll find _her_self in a fix when she’s got _him_,” said I, “if

what I’ve heard of him is true.”

“Not a bit of it. She knows what she’s about; but he, poor fool,

deludes himself with the notion that she’ll make him a good wife, and

because she has amused him with some rodomontade about despising rank

and wealth in matters of love and marriage, he flatters himself that

she’s devotedly attached to him; that she will not refuse him for his

poverty, and does not court him for his rank, but loves him for himself

alone.”

“But is not _he_ courting _her_ for her fortune?”

“No, not he. That was the first attraction, certainly; but now he has

quite lost sight of it: it never enters his calculations, except merely

as an essential without which, for the lady’s own sake, he could not

think of marrying her. No; he’s fairly in love. He thought he never

could be again, but he’s in for it once more. He was to have been

married before, some two or three years ago; but he lost his bride by

losing his fortune. He got into a bad way among us in London: he had an

unfortunate taste for gambling; and surely the fellow was born under an

unlucky star, for he always lost thrice where he gained once. That’s a

mode of self-torment I never was much addicted to. When I spend my

money I like to enjoy the full value of it: I see no fun in wasting it

on thieves and blacklegs; and as for _gaining_ money, hitherto I have

always had sufficient; it’s time enough to be clutching for more, I

think, when you begin to see the end of what you have. But I have

sometimes frequented the gaming-houses just to watch the on-goings of

those mad votaries of chance—a very interesting study, I assure you,

Helen, and sometimes very diverting: I’ve had many a laugh at the

boobies and bedlamites. Lowborough was quite infatuated—not willingly,

but of necessity,—he was always resolving to give it up, and always

breaking his resolutions. Every venture was the “just once more:” if he

gained a little, he hoped to gain a little more next time, and if he

lost, it would not do to leave off at that juncture; he must go on till

he had retrieved that last misfortune, at least: bad luck could not

last for ever; and every lucky hit was looked upon as the dawn of

better times, till experience proved the contrary. At length he grew

desperate, and we were daily on the look-out for a case of

_felo-de-se_—no great matter, some of us whispered, as his existence

had ceased to be an acquisition to our club. At last, however, he came

to a check. He made a large stake, which he determined should be the

last, whether he lost or won. He had often so determined before, to be

sure, and as often broken his determination; and so it was this time.

He lost; and while his antagonist smilingly swept away the stakes, he

turned chalky white, drew back in silence, and wiped his forehead. I

was present at the time; and while he stood with folded arms and eyes

fixed on the ground, I knew well enough what was passing in his mind.

“‘Is it to be the last, Lowborough?’ said I, stepping up to him.

“‘The last but ONE,’ he answered, with a grim smile; and then, rushing

back to the table, he struck his hand upon it, and, raising his voice

high above all the confusion of jingling coins and muttered oaths and

curses in the room, he swore a deep and solemn oath that, come what

would, THIS trial _should_ be the last, and imprecated unspeakable

curses on his head if ever he should shuffle a card or rattle a

dice-box again. He then doubled his former stake, and challenged any

one present to play against him. Grimsby instantly presented himself.

Lowborough glared fiercely at him, for Grimsby was almost as celebrated

for his luck as _he_ was for his ill-fortune. However, they fell to

work. But Grimsby had much skill and little scruple, and whether he

took advantage of the other’s trembling, blinded eagerness to deal

unfairly by him, I cannot undertake to say; but Lowborough lost again,

and fell dead sick.

“‘You’d better try once more,’ said Grimsby, leaning across the table.

And then he winked at me.

“‘I’ve nothing to try with,’ said the poor devil, with a ghastly smile.

“‘Oh, Huntingdon will lend you what you want,’ said the other.

“‘No; you heard my oath,’ answered Lowborough, turning away in quiet

despair. And I took him by the arm and led him out.

“‘Is it to be the last, Lowborough?’ I asked, when I got him into the

street.

“‘The last,’ he answered, somewhat against my expectation. And I took

him home—that is, to our club—for he was as submissive as a child—and

plied him with brandy-and-water till he began to look rather

brighter—rather more alive, at least.

“‘Huntingdon, I’m ruined!’ said he, taking the third glass from my

hand—he had drunk the others in dead silence.

“‘Not you,’ said I. ‘You’ll find a man can live without his money as

merrily as a tortoise without its head, or a wasp without its body.’

“‘But I’m in debt,’ said he—‘deep in debt. And I can never, _never_ get

out of it.’

“‘Well, what of that? Many a better man than you has lived and died in

debt; and they can’t put you in prison, you know, because you’re a

peer.’ And I handed him his fourth tumbler.

“‘But I hate to be in debt!’ he shouted. ‘I wasn’t born for it, and I

cannot _bear_ it.’

“‘What can’t be cured must be endured,’ said I, beginning to mix the

fifth.

“‘And then, I’ve lost my Caroline.’ And he began to snivel then, for

the brandy had softened his heart.

“‘No matter,’ I answered, ‘there are more Carolines in the world than

one.’

“‘There’s only one for me,’ he replied, with a dolorous sigh. ‘And if

there were fifty more, who’s to get them, I wonder, without money?’

“‘Oh, somebody will take you for your title; and then you’ve your

family estate yet; that’s entailed, you know.’

“‘I wish to God I could sell it to pay my debts,’ he muttered.

“‘And then,’ said Grimsby, who had just come in, ‘you can _try again_,

you know. I _would_ have more than one chance, if I were you. I’d never

stop here.’

“‘I _won’t_, I tell you!’ shouted he. And he started up, and left the

room—walking rather unsteadily, for the liquor had got into his head.

He was not so much used to it then, but after that he took to it kindly

to solace his cares.

“He kept his oath about gambling (not a little to the surprise of us

all), though Grimsby did his utmost to tempt him to break it, but now

he had got hold of another habit that bothered him nearly as much, for

he soon discovered that the demon of drink was as black as the demon of

play, and nearly as hard to get rid of—especially as his kind friends

did all they could to second the promptings of his own insatiable

cravings.”

“Then, they were demons themselves,” cried I, unable to contain my

indignation. “And you, Mr. Huntingdon, it seems, were the first to

tempt him.”

“Well, what could we do?” replied he, deprecatingly.—“We meant it in

kindness—we couldn’t bear to see the poor fellow so miserable:—and

besides, he was such a damper upon us, sitting there silent and glum,

when he was under the threefold influence—of the loss of his

sweetheart, the loss of his fortune, and the reaction of the lost

night’s debauch; whereas, when he had something in him, if he was not

merry himself, he was an unfailing source of merriment to us. Even

Grimsby could chuckle over his odd sayings: they delighted him far more

than my merry jests, or Hattersley’s riotous mirth. But one evening,

when we were sitting over our wine, after one of our club dinners, and

all had been hearty together,—Lowborough giving us mad toasts, and

hearing our wild songs, and bearing a hand in the applause, if he did

not help us to sing them himself,—he suddenly relapsed into silence,

sinking his head on his hand, and never lifting his glass to his

lips;—but this was nothing new; so we let him alone, and went on with

our jollification, till, suddenly raising his head, he interrupted us

in the middle of a roar of laughter by exclaiming,—

“Gentlemen, where is all this to end?—Will you just tell me _that_

now?—Where is it all to end?” He rose.

“‘A speech, a speech!’ shouted we. ‘Hear, hear! Lowborough’s going to

give us a speech!’

“He waited calmly till the thunders of applause and jingling of glasses

had ceased, and then proceeded,—‘It’s only this, gentlemen,—that I

think we’d better go no further. We’d better stop while we can.’

“‘Just so!’ cried Hattersley—

‘Stop poor sinner, stop and think

Before you farther go,

No longer sport upon the brink

Of everlasting woe.’

“‘Exactly!’ replied his lordship, with the utmost gravity. ‘And if

_you_ choose to visit the bottomless pit, I won’t go with you—we must

part company, for I swear I’ll not move another step towards it!—What’s

this?’ he said, taking up his glass of wine.

“‘Taste it,’ suggested I.

“‘This is hell broth!’ he exclaimed. ‘I renounce it for ever!’ And he

threw it out into the middle of the table.

“‘Fill again!’ said I, handing him the bottle—‘and let us drink to your

renunciation.’

“‘It’s rank poison,’ said he, grasping the bottle by the neck, ‘and I

forswear it! I’ve given up gambling, and I’ll give up this too.’ He was

on the point of deliberately pouring the whole contents of the bottle

on to the table, but Hargrave wrested it from him. ‘On you be the

curse, then!’ said he. And, backing from the room, he shouted,

‘Farewell, ye tempters!’ and vanished amid shouts of laughter and

applause.

“We expected him back among us the next day; but, to our surprise, the

place remained vacant: we saw nothing of him for a whole week; and we

really began to think he was going to keep his word. At last, one

evening, when we were most of us assembled together again, he entered,

silent and grim as a ghost, and would have quietly slipped into his

usual seat at my elbow, but we all rose to welcome him, and several

voices were raised to ask what he would have, and several hands were

busy with bottle and glass to serve him; but I knew a smoking tumbler

of brandy-and-water would comfort him best, and had nearly prepared it,

when he peevishly pushed it away, saying,—

“‘Do let me alone, Huntingdon! Do be quiet, all of you! I’m not come to

join you: I’m only come to be with you awhile, because I can’t bear my

own thoughts.’ And he folded his arms, and leant back in his chair; so

we let him be. But I left the glass by him; and, after awhile, Grimsby

directed my attention towards it, by a significant wink; and, on

turning my head, I saw it was drained to the bottom. He made me a sign

to replenish, and quietly pushed up the bottle. I willingly complied;

but Lowborough detected the pantomime, and, nettled at the intelligent

grins that were passing between us, snatched the glass from my hand,

dashed the contents of it in Grimsby’s face, threw the empty tumbler at

me, and then bolted from the room.”

“I hope he broke your head,” said I.

“No, love,” replied he, laughing immoderately at the recollection of

the whole affair; “he would have done so,—and perhaps, spoilt my face,

too, but, providentially, this forest of curls” (taking off his hat,

and showing his luxuriant chestnut locks) “saved my skull, and

prevented the glass from breaking, till it reached the table.”

“After that,” he continued, “Lowborough kept aloof from us a week or

two longer. I used to meet him occasionally in the town; and then, as I

was too good-natured to resent his unmannerly conduct, and he bore no

malice against me,—he was never unwilling to talk to me; on the

contrary, he would cling to me, and follow me anywhere but to the club,

and the gaming-houses, and such-like dangerous places of resort—he was

so weary of his own moping, melancholy mind. At last, I got him to come

in with me to the club, on condition that I would not tempt him to

drink; and, for some time, he continued to look in upon us pretty

regularly of an evening,—still abstaining, with wonderful perseverance,

from the ‘rank poison’ he had so bravely forsworn. But some of our

members protested against this conduct. They did not like to have him

sitting there like a skeleton at a feast, instead of contributing his

quota to the general amusement, casting a cloud over all, and watching,

with greedy eyes, every drop they carried to their lips—they vowed it

was not fair; and some of them maintained that he should either be

compelled to do as others did, or expelled from the society; and swore

that, next time he showed himself, they would tell him as much, and, if

he did not take the warning, proceed to active measures. However, I

befriended him on this occasion, and recommended them to let him be for

a while, intimating that, with a little patience on our parts, he would

soon come round again. But, to be sure, it _was_ rather provoking; for,

though he refused to drink like an honest Christian, it was well known

to me that he kept a private bottle of laudanum about him, which he was

continually soaking at—or rather, holding off and on with, abstaining

one day and exceeding the next—just like the spirits.

“One night, however, during one of our orgies—one of our high

festivals, I mean—he glided in, like the ghost in ‘Macbeth,’ and seated

himself, as usual, a little back from the table, in the chair we always

placed for ‘the spectre,’ whether it chose to fill it or not. I saw by

his face that he was suffering from the effects of an overdose of his

insidious comforter; but nobody spoke to him, and he spoke to nobody. A

few sidelong glances, and a whispered observation, that ‘the ghost was

come,’ was all the notice he drew by his appearance, and we went on

with our merry carousals as before, till he startled us all by suddenly

drawing in his chair, and leaning forward with his elbows on the table,

and exclaiming with portentous solemnity,—

‘Well! it puzzles me what you can find to be so merry about. What _you_

see in life I don’t know—_I_ see only the blackness of darkness, and a

fearful looking for of judgment and fiery indignation!’

“All the company simultaneously pushed up their glasses to him, and I

set them before him in a semicircle, and, tenderly patting him on the

back, bid him drink, and he would soon see as bright a prospect as any

of us; but he pushed them back, muttering,—

“‘Take them away! I won’t taste it, I tell you. I won’t—I won’t!’ So I

handed them down again to the owners; but I saw that he followed them

with a glare of hungry regret as they departed. Then he clasped his

hands before his eyes to shut out the sight, and two minutes after

lifted his head again, and said, in a hoarse but vehement whisper,—

“‘And yet I must! Huntingdon, get me a glass!’

“‘Take the bottle, man!’ said I, thrusting the brandy-bottle into his

hand—but stop, I’m telling too much,” muttered the narrator, startled

at the look I turned upon him. “But no matter,” he recklessly added,

and thus continued his relation: “In his desperate eagerness, he seized

the bottle and sucked away, till he suddenly dropped from his chair,

disappearing under the table amid a tempest of applause. The

consequence of this imprudence was something like an apoplectic fit,

followed by a rather severe brain fever—”

“And what did you think of _yourself_, sir?” said I, quickly.

“Of course, I was very penitent,” he replied. “I went to see him once

or twice—nay, twice or thrice—or by’r lady, some four times—and when he

got better, I tenderly brought him back to the fold.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I restored him to the bosom of the club, and compassionating

the feebleness of his health and extreme lowness of his spirits, I

recommended him to ‘take a little wine for his stomach’s sake,’ and,

when he was sufficiently re-established, to embrace the media-via,

ni-jamais-ni-toujours plan—not to kill himself like a fool, and not to

abstain like a ninny—in a word, to enjoy himself like a rational

creature, and do as I did; for, don’t think, Helen, that I’m a tippler;

I’m nothing at all of the kind, and never was, and never shall be. I

value my comfort far too much. I see that a man cannot give himself up

to drinking without being miserable one-half his days and mad the

other; besides, I like to enjoy my life at all sides and ends, which

cannot be done by one that suffers himself to be the slave of a single

propensity—and, moreover, drinking spoils one’s good looks,” he

concluded, with a most conceited smile that ought to have provoked me

more than it did.

“And did Lord Lowborough profit by your advice?” I asked.

“Why, yes, in a manner. For a while he managed very well; indeed, he

was a model of moderation and prudence—something too much so for the

tastes of our wild community; but, somehow, Lowborough had not the gift

of moderation: if he stumbled a little to one side, he must go down

before he could right himself: if he overshot the mark one night, the

effects of it rendered him so miserable the next day that he must

repeat the offence to mend it; and so on from day to day, till his

clamorous conscience brought him to a stand. And then, in his sober

moments, he so bothered his friends with his remorse, and his terrors

and woes, that they were obliged, in self-defence, to get him to drown

his sorrows in wine, or any more potent beverage that came to hand; and

when his first scruples of conscience were overcome, he would need no

more persuading, he would often grow desperate, and be as great a

blackguard as any of them could desire—but only to lament his own

unutterable wickedness and degradation the more when the fit was over.

“At last, one day when he and I were alone together, after pondering

awhile in one of his gloomy, abstracted moods, with his arms folded and

his head sunk on his breast, he suddenly woke up, and vehemently

grasping my arm, said,—

“‘Huntingdon, this won’t do! I’m resolved to have done with it.’

“‘What, are you going to shoot yourself?’ said I.

“‘No; I’m going to reform.’

“‘Oh, _that’s_ nothing new! You’ve been going to reform these twelve

months and more.’

“‘Yes, but you wouldn’t let me; and I was such a fool I couldn’t live

without you. But now I see what it is that keeps me back, and what’s

wanted to save me; and I’d compass sea and land to get it—only I’m

afraid there’s no chance.’ And he sighed as if his heart would break.

“‘What is it, Lowborough?’ said I, thinking he was fairly cracked at

last.

“‘A wife,’ he answered; ‘for I can’t live alone, because my own mind

distracts me, and I can’t live with you, because you take the devil’s

part against me.’

“‘Who—I?’

“‘Yes—all of you do—and you more than any of them, you know. But if I

could get a wife, with fortune enough to pay off my debts and set me

straight in the world—’

“‘To be sure,’ said I.

“‘And sweetness and goodness enough,’ he continued, ‘to make home

tolerable, and to reconcile me to myself, I think I should do yet. I

shall never be in love again, that’s certain; but perhaps that would be

no great matter, it would enable me to choose with my eyes open—and I

should make a good husband in spite of it; but could any one be in love

with _me?_—that’s the question. With _your_ good looks and powers of

fascination’ (he was pleased to say), ‘I might hope; but as it is,

Huntingdon, do you think _any_body would take me—ruined and wretched as

I am?’

“‘Yes, certainly.’

“‘Who?’

“‘Why, any neglected old maid, fast sinking in despair, would be

delighted to—’

“‘No, no,’ said he—‘it must be somebody that I can love.’

“‘Why, you just said you never could be in love again!’

“‘Well, love is not the word—but somebody that I can like. I’ll search

all England through, at all events!’ he cried, with a sudden burst of

hope, or desperation. ‘Succeed or fail, it will be better than rushing

headlong to destruction at that d—d club: so farewell to it and you.

Whenever I meet you on honest ground or under a Christian roof, I shall

be glad to see you; but never more shall you entice me to that _devil’s

den!_’

“This was shameful language, but I shook hands with him, and we parted.

He kept his word; and from that time forward he has been a pattern of

propriety, as far as I can tell; but till lately I have not had very

much to do with him. He occasionally sought my company, but as

frequently shrunk from it, fearing lest I should wile him back to

destruction, and I found his not very entertaining, especially as he

sometimes attempted to awaken my conscience and draw me from the

perdition he considered himself to have escaped; but when I did happen

to meet him, I seldom failed to ask after the progress of his

matrimonial efforts and researches, and, in general, he could give me

but a poor account. The mothers were repelled by his empty coffers and

his reputation for gambling, and the daughters by his cloudy brow and

melancholy temper—besides, he didn’t understand them; he wanted the

spirit and assurance to carry his point.

“I left him at it when I went to the continent; and on my return, at

the year’s end, I found him still a disconsolate bachelor—though,

certainly, looking somewhat less like an unblest exile from the tomb

than before. The young ladies had ceased to be afraid of him, and were

beginning to think him quite interesting; but the mammas were still

unrelenting. It was about this time, Helen, that my good angel brought

me into conjunction with you; and then I had eyes and ears for nobody

else. But, meantime, Lowborough became acquainted with our charming

friend, Miss Wilmot—through the intervention of _his_ good angel, no

doubt he would tell you, though he did not dare to fix his hopes on one

so courted and admired, till after they were brought into closer

contact here at Staningley, and she, in the absence of her other

admirers, indubitably courted his notice and held out every

encouragement to his timid advances. Then, indeed, he began to hope for

a dawn of brighter days; and if, for a while, I darkened his prospects

by standing between him and his sun—and so nearly plunged him again

into the abyss of despair—it only intensified his ardour and

strengthened his hopes when I chose to abandon the field in the pursuit

of a brighter treasure. In a word, as I told you, he is fairly

besotted. At first, he could dimly perceive her faults, and they gave

him considerable uneasiness; but now his passion and her art together

have blinded him to everything but her perfections and his amazing good

fortune. Last night he came to me brimful of his new-found felicity:

“‘Huntingdon, I am not a castaway!’ said he, seizing my hand and

squeezing it like a vice. ‘There is happiness in store for me yet—even

in this life—she loves me!’

“‘Indeed!’ said I. ‘Has she told you so?’

“‘No, but I can no longer doubt it. Do you not see how pointedly kind

and affectionate she is? And she knows the utmost extent of my poverty,

and cares nothing about it! She knows all the folly and all the

wickedness of my former life, and is not afraid to trust me—and my rank

and title are no allurements to her; for them she utterly disregards.

She is the most generous, high-minded being that can be conceived of.

She will save me, body and soul, from destruction. Already, she has

ennobled me in my own estimation, and made me three times better,

wiser, greater than I was. Oh! if I had but known her before, how much

degradation and misery I should have been spared! But what have I done

to deserve so magnificent a creature?’

“And the cream of the jest,” continued Mr. Huntingdon, laughing, “is,

that the artful minx loves nothing about him but his title and

pedigree, and ‘that delightful old family seat.’”

“How do you know?” said I.

“She told me so herself; she said, ‘As for the man himself, I

thoroughly despise him; but then, I suppose, it is time to be making my

choice, and if I waited for some one capable of eliciting my esteem and

affection, I should have to pass my life in single blessedness, for I

detest you all!’ Ha, ha! I suspect she was wrong there; but, however,

it is evident she has no love for _him_, poor fellow.”

“Then you ought to tell him so.”

“What! and spoil all her plans and prospects, poor girl? No, no: that

would be a breach of confidence, wouldn’t it, Helen? Ha, ha! Besides,

it would break his heart.” And he laughed again.

“Well, Mr. Huntingdon, I don’t know what you see so amazingly diverting

in the matter; I see nothing to laugh at.”

“I’m laughing at _you_, just now, love,” said he, redoubling his

machinations.

And leaving him to enjoy his merriment alone, I touched Ruby with the

whip, and cantered on to rejoin our companions; for we had been walking

our horses all this time, and were consequently a long way behind.

Arthur was soon at my side again; but not disposed to talk to him, I

broke into a gallop. He did the same; and we did not slacken our pace

till we came up with Miss Wilmot and Lord Lowborough, which was within

half a mile of the park-gates. I avoided all further conversation with

him till we came to the end of our ride, when I meant to jump off my

horse and vanish into the house, before he could offer his assistance;

but while I was disengaging my habit from the crutch, he lifted me off,

and held me by both hands, asserting that he would not let me go till I

had forgiven him.

“I have nothing to forgive,” said I. “You have not injured _me_.”

“No, darling—God forbid that I should! but you are angry because it was

to me that Annabella confessed her lack of esteem for her lover.”

“No, Arthur, it is not _that_ that displeases me: it is the whole

system of your conduct towards your friend, and if you wish me to

forget it, go now, and tell him what sort of a woman it is that he

adores so madly, and on whom he has hung his hopes of future

happiness.”

“I tell you, Helen, it would break his heart—it would be the death of

him—besides being a scandalous trick to poor Annabella. There is no

help for him now; he is past praying for. Besides, she may keep up the

deception to the end of the chapter; and then he will be just as happy

in the illusion as if it were reality; or perhaps he will only discover

his mistake when he has ceased to love her; and if not, it is much

better that the truth should dawn gradually upon him. So now, my angel,

I hope I have made out a clear case, and fully convinced you that I

cannot make the atonement you require. What other requisition have you

to make? Speak, and I will gladly obey.”

“I have none but this,” said I, as gravely as before: “that, in future,

you will never make a jest of the sufferings of others, and always use

your influence with your friends for their own advantage against their

evil propensities, instead of seconding their evil propensities against

themselves.”

“I will do my utmost,” said he, “to remember and perform the

injunctions of my angel monitress;” and after kissing both my gloved

hands, he let me go.

When I entered my room, I was surprised to see Annabella Wilmot

standing before my toilet-table, composedly surveying her features in

the glass, with one hand flirting her gold-mounted whip, and the other

holding up her long habit.

“She certainly _is_ a magnificent creature!” thought I, as I beheld

that tall, finely developed figure, and the reflection of the handsome

face in the mirror before me, with the glossy dark hair, slightly and

not ungracefully disordered by the breezy ride, the rich brown

complexion glowing with exercise, and the black eyes sparkling with

unwonted brilliance. On perceiving me, she turned round, exclaiming,

with a laugh that savoured more of malice than of mirth,—

“Why, Helen! what _have_ you been doing so long? I came to tell you my

good fortune,” she continued, regardless of Rachel’s presence. “Lord

Lowborough has proposed, and I have been graciously pleased to accept

him. Don’t you envy me, dear?”

“No, love,” said I—“or him either,” I mentally added. “And do you like

him, Annabella?”

“Like him! yes, to be sure—over head and ears in love!”

“Well, I hope you’ll make him a good wife.”

“Thank you, my dear! And what besides do you hope?”

“I hope you will both love each other, and both be happy.”

“Thanks; and I hope you will make a _very_ good wife to Mr.

Huntingdon!” said she, with a queenly bow, and retired.

“Oh, Miss! how could you say so to her!” cried Rachel.

“Say what?” replied I.

“Why, that you hoped she would make him a good wife. I never heard such

a thing!”

“Because I do hope it, or rather, I wish it; she’s almost past hope.”

“Well,” said she, “I’m sure I hope he’ll make _her_ a good husband.

They tell queer things about him downstairs. They were saying—”

“I know, Rachel. I’ve heard all about him; but he’s reformed now. And

they have no business to tell tales about their masters.”

“No, mum—or else, they _have_ said some things about Mr. Huntingdon

too.”

“I won’t hear them, Rachel; they tell lies.”

“Yes, mum,” said she, quietly, as she went on arranging my hair.

“Do _you_ believe them, Rachel?” I asked, after a short pause.

“No, Miss, not all. You know when a lot of servants gets together they

like to talk about their betters; and some, for a bit of swagger, likes

to make it appear as though they knew more than they do, and to throw

out hints and things just to astonish the others. But I think, if I was

you, Miss Helen, I’d look _very_ well before I leaped. I do believe a

young lady can’t be too careful who she marries.”

“Of course not,” said I; “but be quick, will you, Rachel? I want to be

dressed.”

And, indeed, I was anxious to be rid of the good woman, for I was in

such a melancholy frame I could hardly keep the tears out of my eyes

while she dressed me. It was not for Lord Lowborough—it was not for

Annabella—it was not for myself—it was for Arthur Huntingdon that they

rose.

* * * * *

13th.—They are gone, and he is gone. We are to be parted for more than

two months, above ten weeks! a long, long time to live and not to see

him. But he has promised to write often, and made me promise to write

still oftener, because he will be busy settling his affairs, and I

shall have nothing better to do. Well, I think I shall always have

plenty to say. But oh! for the time when we shall be always together,

and can exchange our thoughts without the intervention of these cold

go-betweens, pen, ink, and paper!

* * * * *

22nd.—I have had several letters from Arthur already. They are not

long, but passing sweet, and just like himself, full of ardent

affection, and playful lively humour; but there is always a _but_ in

this imperfect world, and I do wish he would _sometimes_ be serious. I

cannot get him to write or speak in real, solid earnest. I don’t much

mind it now, but if it be always so, what shall I do with the serious

part of myself?