SOCIAL VIRTUES

March 20th, 1824. The dreaded time is come, and Arthur is gone, as I expected. This time he announced it his intention to make but a short stay in London, and pass over to the continent, where he should probably stay a few weeks; but I shall not expect him till after the lapse of many weeks: I now know that, with him, days signify weeks, and weeks months.

I was to have accompanied him, but, a little before the time arranged for our departure, he allowed—and even urged me, with an appearance of wonderful self-sacrifice, to go and see my unfortunate father, who is very ill, and my brother, who is very unhappy in consequence of both the illness and its cause, and whom I had not seen since the day our child was christened, when he stood sponsor along with Mr. Hargrave and my aunt. Not willing to impose upon my husband’s good-nature in thus allowing me to leave him, I made but a very short stay; but when I returned to Grassdale—he was gone.

He left a note to explain his so hasty departure, pretending that some sudden emergency had demanded his immediate presence in London, and rendered it impossible to await my return; adding that I had better not trouble myself to follow him, as he intended to make such a short stay, that it would hardly be worth while; and as, of course, he could travel alone at less than half the expense than if I accompanied him, it would perhaps be better to defer the excursion to another year, when he should have got our affairs into a rather more settled state, as he was now endeavouring to do.

Was it really so?—or was the whole a contrivance to ensure his going forth upon his pleasure-seeking excursion, without my presence to restrain him? It is painful to doubt the sincerity of those we love, but after so many proofs of falsity and utter disregard to principle how can I believe so improbable a story?

I have this one source of consolation left:—he had told me some time previously, that if ever he went to London or Paris again, he should observe more moderation in his indulgences than before, lest he should destroy his capacity for enjoyment altogether: he had no ambition to live to a prodigious old age, but he should like to have his share of life, and above all, to relish its pleasures to the last—to which end, he found it necessary to economize, for already, he feared, he was not so handsome a fellow as he had been, and young as he was, he had lately detected some grey hairs among his beloved chestnut locks; he suspected he was getting a trifle fatter too, than was quite desirable—but that was with good living and idleness; and for the rest, he trusted he was as strong and hearty as ever: only there was no saying what another such a season of unlimited madness and devilment, as the last, might not do towards bringing him down. Yes; he said this to me—with unblushing effrontery, and that same blythe, roguish twinkle of the eyes I once so loved to see, and that low, joyous laugh it used to warm my heart to hear.

Well! such considerations will doubtless have more weight with him than any that I could urge. We shall see what they can do towards his preservation, since no better hope remains.

July 30th.—He returned about three weeks ago, rather better in health, certainly, than before, but still worse in temper. And yet, perhaps, I am wrong: it is I that am less patient and forbearing. I am tired out with his injustice, his selfishness and hopeless depravity—I wish a milder word would do—; I am no angel and my corruption rises against it. My poor father died last week: Arthur was vexed to hear of it, because he saw that I was shocked and grieved, and he feared the circumstance would mar his comfort. When I spoke of ordering my mourning, he exclaimed—

“Oh, I hate black! But however, I suppose you must wear it awhile, for form’s sake; but I hope, Helen, you won’t think it your bounden duty to compose your face and manners into conformity with your funereal garb. Why should you sigh and groan, and I be made uncomfortable because an old gentleman in ——shire, a perfect stranger to us both, has thought proper to drink himself to death?—There now, I declare you’re crying! Well, it must be affectation.”

He would not hear of my attending the funeral, or going for a day or two, to cheer poor Frederick’s solitude. It was quite unnecessary, he said, and I was unreasonable to wish it. What was my father to me? I had never seen him, but once since I was a baby, and I well knew he had never cared a stiver about me;—and my brother too, was little better than a stranger. “Besides, dear Helen,” said he, embracing me with flattering fondness, “I cannot spare you for a single day.”

“Then how have you managed without me, these many days?” said I.

“Ah! then I was knocking about the world, now I am at home; and home without you, my household deity, would be intolerable.”

“Yes, as long as I am necessary to your comfort; but you did not say so before, when you urged me to leave you, in order that you might get away from your home without me,” retorted I; but before the words were well out of my mouth, I regretted having uttered them. It seemed so heavy a charge: if false, too gross an insult; if true, too humiliating a fact to be thus openly cast in his teeth. But I might have spared myself that momentary pang of self-reproach. The accusation awoke neither shame nor indignation in him: he attempted neither denial nor excuse, but only answered with a long, low, chuckling laugh as if he viewed the whole transaction as a clever, merry jest from beginning to end. Surely that man will make me dislike him at last!

“Sine as ye brew, my maiden fair,
Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill.”

Yes; and I will drink it to the very dregs: and none but myself shall know how bitter I find it!

August 20th.—We are shaken down again to about our usual position. Arthur has returned to nearly his former condition and habits; and I have found it my wisest plan to shut my eyes against the past and future, as far as he at least is concerned, and live only for the present; to love him when I can; to smile (if possible) when he smiles, be cheerful when he is cheerful, and pleased when he is agreeable; and when he is not, to try to make him so—and if that won’t answer, to bear with him, to excuse him, and forgive him, as well as I can, and restrain my own evil passions from aggravating his; and yet, while I thus yield and minister to his more harmless propensities to self-indulgence, to do all in my power to save him from the worse.

But we shall not be long alone together. I shall shortly be called upon to entertain the same select body of friends as we had the autumn before last, with the addition of Mr. Hattersley and, at my special request, his wife and child. I long to see Milicent—and her little girl too. The latter is now above a year old; she will be a charming playmate for my little Arthur.

September 30th.—Our guests have been here a week or two; but I have had no leisure to pass any comments upon them till now. I cannot get over my dislike to Lady Lowborough. It is not founded on mere personal pique; it is the woman herself that I dislike, because I so thoroughly disapprove of her. I always avoid her company as much as I can without violating the laws of hospitality; but when we do speak or converse together, it is with the utmost civility—even apparent cordiality on her part; but preserve me from such cordiality! It is like handling briar-roses and may-blossoms—bright enough to the eye, and outwardly soft to the touch, but you know there are thorns beneath, and every now and then you feel them too; and perhaps resent the injury by crushing them in till you have destroyed their power, though somewhat to the detriment of your own fingers.

Of late, however, I have seen nothing in her conduct towards Arthur to anger or alarm me. During the first few days I thought she seemed very solicitous to win his admiration. Her efforts were not unnoticed by him: I frequently saw him smiling to himself at her artful manœuvres: but, to his praise be it spoken, her shafts fell powerless by his side. Her most bewitching smiles, her haughtiest frowns were ever received with the same immutable, careless good-humour; till, finding he was indeed impenetrable, she suddenly remitted her efforts, and became, to all appearance, as perfectly indifferent as himself. Nor have I since witnessed any symptom of pique on his part, or renewed attempts at conquest upon hers.

This is as it should be; but Arthur never will let me be satisfied with him. I have never, for a single hour since I married him, known what it is to realize that sweet idea, “In quietness and confidence shall be your rest.” Those two detestable men Grimsby and Hattersley have destroyed all my labour against his love of wine. They encourage him daily to overstep the bounds of moderation, and, not unfrequently, to disgrace himself by positive excess. I shall not soon forget the second night after their arrival. Just as I had retired from the dining-room, with the ladies, before the door was closed upon us, Arthur exclaimed—

“Now then, my lads, what say you to a regular jollification?”

Milicent glanced at me with a half reproachful look, as if I could hinder it; but her countenance changed when she heard Hattersley’s voice shouting through door and wall:

“I’m your man! Send for more wine: here isn’t half enough!”

We had scarcely entered the drawing-room before we were joined by Lord Lowborough.

“What can induce you to come so soon?” exclaimed his lady, with a most ungracious air of dissatisfaction.

“You know I never drink, Annabella,” replied he, seriously.

“Well, but you might stay with them a little: it looks so silly to be always dangling after the women—I wonder you can!”

He reproached her with a look of mingled bitterness and surprise, and sinking into a chair, suppressed a heavy sigh, bit his pale lips, and fixed his eyes upon the floor.

“You did right to leave them, Lord Lowborough,” said I. “I trust you will always continue to honour us so early with your company. And if Annabella knew the value of true wisdom, and the misery of folly and—and intemperance, she would not talk such nonsense—even in jest.”

He raised his eyes while I spoke, and gravely turned them upon me with a half surprised, half abstracted look, and then bent them on his wife.

“At least,” said she, “I know the value of a warm heart and a bold, manly spirit!”

And she pointed her words with a glance of triumph at me, which seemed to say, “And that is more than you do,” and a look of scorn at her husband, that entered into his soul. I was intensely exasperated; but it was not for me to reprove her, or, as it seemed, to express my sympathy with her husband without insulting his feelings. All I could do, to obey my inward impulse, was to hand him a cup of coffee, bringing it to him myself, and before I served either of the ladies, by way of balancing her contempt by my exceeding deference. He took it mechanically from my hand, with a slight inclination, and, next minute, rose and placed it untasted on the table, looking, not at it, but at her.

“Well, Annabella,” said he, in a deep and hollow tone, “since my presence is disagreeable to you, I will relieve you of it.”

“Are you going back to them, then?” said she, carelessly.

“No,” exclaimed he, with harsh and startling emphasis; “I will NOT go back to them! And I will never stay with them one moment longer than I think right, for you or any other tempter! But you needn’t mind that—I shall never trouble you again, by intruding my company upon you so unseasonably.”

He left the room, I heard the hall door open and shut, and immediately after, on putting aside the curtain, I saw him pacing down the park, in the comfortless gloom of the damp, cloudy twilight.

Such scenes as this are always disagreeable to witness. Our little party was completely silenced for a moment. Milicent played with her teaspoon, and looked confounded and uncomfortable. If Annabella felt any shame or uneasiness, she attempted to hide it by a short, reckless laugh, and calmly betook herself to her coffee.

“It would serve you right, Annabella,” said I at length, “if Lord Lowborough were to return to his old habits, which had so nearly effected his ruin, and which it cost him such an effort to break. You would then see cause to repent such conduct as this.”

“Not at all, my dear! I should not mind if his Lordship were to see fit to intoxicate himself every day: I should only the sooner be rid of him.”

“Oh, Annabella!” cried Milicent. “How can you say such wicked things! It would indeed be a just punishment, as far as you are concerned, if Providence should take you at your word, and make you feel what others feel that—” She paused as a sudden burst of loud talking and laughter reached us from the dining room, in which the voice of Hattersley was pre-eminently conspicuous, even to my unpractised ear.

“What you feel at this moment, I suppose?” said Lady Lowborough, with a malicious smile, fixing her eyes upon her cousin’s distressed countenance.

The latter offered no reply, but averted her face and brushed away a tear. At that moment the door opened and admitted Mr. Hargrave; just a little flushed, his dark eyes sparkling with unwonted vivacity.

“Oh, I’m glad you’re come, Walter!” cried his sister—“But I wish you could have got Ralph to come too.”

“Utterly impossible, dear Milicent,” replied he, gaily. “I had much ado to get away myself. Ralph attempted to keep me by violence; Huntingdon threatened me with the eternal loss of his friendship; and Grimsby, worse than all, endeavoured to make me ashamed of my virtue, by such galling sarcasms and innuendos as he knew would wound me the most. So you see, ladies, you ought to make me welcome when I have braved and suffered so much for the favour of your sweet society. He smilingly turned to me and bowed as he finished the sentence.

“Isn’t he handsome now Helen?” whispered Milicent, her sisterly pride overcoming, for the moment, all other considerations.

“He would be,” I returned, “if that brilliance of eye, and lip, and cheek were natural to him; but look again, a few hours hence.”

Here the gentleman took a seat near me at the table, and petitioned for a cup of coffee.

“I consider this an apt illustration of Heaven taken by storm,” said he, as I handed one to him. “I am in paradise now; but I have fought my way through flood and fire to win it. Ralph Hattersley’s last resource was to set his back against the door, and swear I should find no passage but through his body (a pretty substantial one too). Happily, however, that was not the only door, and I effected my escape by the side entrance, through the butler’s pantry, to the infinite amazement of Benson, who was cleaning the plate.”

Mr. Hargrave laughed, and so did his cousin; but his sister and I remained silent and grave.

“Pardon my levity, Mrs. Huntingdon,” murmured he, more seriously, as he raised his eyes to my face. “You are not used to these things: you suffer them to affect your delicate mind too sensibly. But I thought of you in the midst of those lawless roisterers; and I endeavoured to persuade Mr. Huntingdon to think of you too; but to no purpose: I fear he is fully determined to enjoy himself this night; and it will be no use keeping the coffee waiting for him or his companions: it will be much if they join us at tea. Meantime, I earnestly wish I could banish the thoughts of them from your mind—and my own too, for I hate to think of them—yes—even of my dear friend Huntingdon, when I consider the power he possesses over the happiness of one so immeasurably superior to himself, and the use he makes of it—I positively detest the man!”

“You had better not say so to me, then,” said I; “for, bad as he is, he is part of myself, and you cannot abuse him without offending me.”

“Pardon me, then, for I would sooner die than offend you.—But let us say no more of him for the present if you please.”

He then entirely changed the subject of discourse, and exerting all his powers to entertain our little circle, conversed on different topics with more than his usual brilliance and fluency, addressing himself, sometimes, exclusively to me, sometimes to the whole trio of ladies. Annabella cheerfully bore her part in the conversation; but I was sick at heart,—especially when loud bursts of laughter and incoherent songs, pealing through the triple doors of hall and ante-room, startled my ear and pierced my aching temples;—and Milicent partly shared my feelings; so that, to us, the evening appeared a very long one, in spite of Hargrave’s apparently good-natured exertions to give it a contrary effect.

At last, they came; but not till after ten, when tea, which had been delayed for more than half an hour, was nearly over. Much as I had longed for their coming, my heart failed me at the riotous uproar of their approach; and Milicent turned pale and almost started from her seat as Mr. Hattersley burst into the room with a clamorous volley of oaths in his mouth, which Hargrave endeavoured to check by entreating him to remember the ladies.

“Ah! you do well to remind me of the ladies, you dastardly deserter,” cried he, shaking his formidable fist at his brother-in-law; “if it were not for them, you well know, I’d demolish you in the twinkling of an eye, and give your body to the fowls of Heaven and the lilies of the field!” Then, planting a chair by Lady Lowborough’s side, he stationed himself in it, and began to talk to her, with a mixture of absurdity and rascally impudence that seemed rather to amuse than to offend her; though she affected to resent his insolence, and to keep him at bay with sallies of smart and spirited repartee.

Meantime, Mr. Grimsby seated himself by me, in the chair vacated by Hargrave as they entered, and gravely stated that he would thank me for a cup of tea: and Arthur placed himself beside poor Milicent, confidentially pushing his head into her face, and drawing in closer to her as she shrunk away from him. He was not so noisy as Hattersley, but his face was exceedingly flushed, he laughed incessantly, and while I blushed for all I saw and heard of him, I was glad that he chose to talk to his companion in so low a tone that no one could hear what he said but herself. It must have been intolerable nonsense at best, for she looked excessively annoyed, and first went red in the face, then indignantly pushed back her chair, and finally took refuge behind me on the sofa. Arthur’s sole intention seemed to have been to produce some such disagreeable effects: he laughed immoderately on finding he had driven her away—drawing in his chair to the table, he leant his folded arms upon it, and delivered himself up to a paroxysm of weak, low, foolish laughter. When he was tired of this exercise he lifted his head and called aloud to Hattersley, and there ensued a clamorous contest between them about I know not what.

“What fools they are!” drawled Mr. Grimsby, who had been talking away, at my elbow, with sententious gravity all the time; but I had been too much absorbed in contemplating the deplorable state of the other two—especially Arthur—to attend to him.

“Did you ever hear such nonsense as they talk, Mrs. Huntingdon?” he continued. “I’m quite ashamed of them for my part: they can’t take so much as a bottle between them without its getting into their heads—”

“You are pouring the cream into your saucer, Mr. Grimsby.”

“Ah! yes, I see, but we’re almost in darkness here. Hargrave, snuff those candles, will you?”

“They’re wax; they don’t require snuffing,” said I.

“ ‘The light of the body is the eye,’ ” observed Hargrave, with a sarcastic smile. “ ‘If thine eye be single thy whole body shall be full of light.’ ”

Grimsby repulsed him with a solemn wave of the hand, and then, turning to me, continued, with the same drawling tones, and strange uncertainty of utterance and heavy gravity of aspect as before, “But as I was saying, Mrs. Huntingdon,—they have no head at all: they can’t take half a bottle without being affected some way; whereas I—well, I’ve taken three times as much as they have to-night, and you see I’m perfectly steady. Now that may strike you as very singular, but I think I can explain it:—you see their brains—I mention no names, but you’ll understand to whom I allude—their brains are light to begin with, and the fumes of the fermented liquor render them lighter still, and produce an entire light-headedness, or giddiness, resulting in intoxication; whereas my brains being composed of more solid materials will absorb a considerable quantity of this alcoholic vapour without the production of any sensible result—”

“I think you will find a sensible result produced on that tea,” interrupted Mr. Hargrave, “by the quantity of sugar you have put into it. Instead of your usual complement of one lump you have put in six.”

“Have I so?” replied the philosopher, diving with his spoon into the cup and bringing up several half-dissolved pieces in confirmation of the assertion. “Um! I perceive. Thus, Madam, you see the evil of absence of mind—of thinking too much while engaged in the common concerns of life. Now if I had my wits about me, like ordinary men, instead of within me like a philosopher, I should not have spoiled this cup of tea, and been constrained to trouble you for another.—With your permission, I’ll turn this into the slop-basin.”

“That is the sugar-basin, Mr. Grimsby. Now you have spoiled the sugar too; and I’ll thank you to ring for some more—for here is Lord Lowborough, at last; and I hope his lordship will condescend to sit down with us, such as we are, and allow me to give him some tea.”

His lordship gravely bowed in answer to my appeal, but said nothing. Meantime, Hargrave volunteered to ring for the sugar, while Grimsby lamented his mistake, and attempted to prove that it was owing to the shadow of the urn and the badness of the lights.

Lord Lowborough had entered a minute or two before, unobserved by any one but me, and been standing before the door, grimly surveying the company. He now stepped up to Annabella, who sat with her back towards him, with Hattersley still beside her, though not now attending to her, being occupied in vociferously abusing and bullying his host.

“Well, Annabella,” said her husband, as he leant over the back of her chair, “which of these three ‘bold, manly spirits’ would you have me to resemble?”

“By Heaven and earth, you shall resemble us all!” cried Hattersley, starting up and rudely seizing him by the arm. “Hallo Huntingdon!” he shouted—“I’ve got him! Come, man, and help me! And d—n me body and soul if I don’t make him blind drunk before I let him go! He shall make up for all past delinquencies as sure as I’m a living soul!”

There followed a disgraceful contest; Lord Lowborough, in desperate earnest, and pale with anger, silently struggling to release himself from the powerful madman that was striving to drag him from the room. I attempted to urge Arthur to interfere in behalf of his outraged guest, but he could do nothing but laugh.

“Huntingdon, you fool, come and help me, can’t you!” cried Hattersley, himself somewhat weakened by his excesses.

“I’m wishing you God-speed, Hattersley,” cried Arthur, “and aiding you with my prayers: I can’t do anything else if my life depended on it! I’m quite used up. Oh, ho!” and leaning back in his seat, he clapped his hands on his sides and groaned aloud.

“Annabella, give me a candle!” said Lowborough whose antagonist had now got him round the waist and was endeavouring to root him from the door-post to which he madly clung with all the energy of desperation.

“I shall take no part in your rude sports!” replied the lady, coldly drawing back, “I wonder you can expect it.”

But I snatched up a candle and brought it to him. He took it and held the flame to Hattersley’s hands till, roaring like a wild beast, the latter unclasped them and let him go. He vanished, I suppose to his own apartment, for nothing more was seen of him till the morning. Swearing and cursing like a maniac, Hattersley threw himself on to the ottoman beside the window. The door being now free, Milicent attempted to make her escape from the scene of her husband’s disgrace; but he called her back, and insisted upon her coming to him.

“What do you want Ralph?” murmured she, reluctantly approaching him.

“I want to know what’s the matter with you,” said he, pulling her on to his knee like a child. “What are you crying for Milicent?—Tell me!”

“I’m not crying.”

“You are,” persisted he, rudely pulling her hands from her face. “How dare you tell such a lie?”

“I’m not crying now,” pleaded she.

“But you have been—and just this minute too; and I will know what for. Come now, you shall tell me!”

“Do let me alone Ralph! remember we are not at home.”

“No matter: you shall answer my question!” exclaimed her tormentor; and he attempted to extort the confession by shaking her and remorselessly crushing her slight arms in the gripe of his powerful fingers.

“Don’t let him treat your sister in that way,” said I to Mr. Hargrave.

“Come now, Hattersley, I can’t allow that,” said that gentleman, stepping up to the ill-assorted couple. “You let my sister alone, if you please.” And he made an effort to unclasp the ruffian’s fingers from her arm, but was suddenly driven backward and nearly laid upon the floor by a violent blow in the chest accompanied with the admonition,

“Take that for your insolence!—and learn not to interfere between me and mine again.”

“If you were not beastly drunk, I’d have satisfaction for that!” gasped Hargrave, white and breathless as much from passion as from the immediate effects of the blow.

“Go to the devil!” responded his brother-in-law. “Now Milicent, tell me what you were crying for.”

“I’ll tell you some other time,” murmured she, “when we are alone.”

“Tell me now!” said he with another shake and a squeeze that made her draw in her breath and bite her lip to suppress a cry of pain.

“I’ll tell you, Mr. Hattersley,” said I. “She was crying from pure shame and humiliation for you; because she could not bear to see you conduct yourself so disgracefully.”

“Confound you, Madam!” muttered he, with a stare of stupid amazement at my “impudence,” “It was not that—was it Milicent?”

She was silent.

“Come, speak up child!”

“I can’t tell now,” sobbed she.

“But you can say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ as well as ‘I can’t tell’—Come!”

“Yes,” she whispered, hanging her head and blushing at the awful acknowledgement.

“Curse you for an impertinent huzzy then!” cried he, throwing her from him with such violence that she fell on her side; but she was up again before either I or her brother could come to her assistance, and made the best of her way out of the room and, I suppose, up stairs, without loss of time.

The next object of assault was Arthur, who sat opposite, and had no doubt richly enjoyed the whole scene.

“Now Huntingdon,” exclaimed his irascible friend, “I WILL NOT have you sitting there and laughing like an idiot!”

“Oh, Hattersley!” cried he, wiping his swimming eyes—“you’ll be the death of me.”

“Yes I will, but not as you suppose: I’ll have the heart out of your body, man, if you irritate me with any more of that imbecile laughter!—What! are you at it yet?—There! see if that’ll settle you!” cried Hattersley, snatching up a footstool and hurling it at the head of his host; but he missed his aim and the latter still sat collapsed and quaking with feeble laughter, with the tears running down his face; a deplorable spectacle indeed.

Hattersley tried cursing and swearing, but it would not do; he then took a number of books from the table beside him and threw them, one by one, at the object of his wrath, but Arthur only laughed the more; and, finally, Hattersley rushed upon him in a phrensy, and, seizing him by the shoulders, gave him a violent shaking, under which he laughed and shrieked alarmingly. But I saw no more: I thought I had witnessed enough of my husband’s degradation; and, leaving Annabella and the rest to follow when they pleased, I withdrew—but not to bed. Dismissing Rachel to her rest, I walked up and down my room, in an agony of misery, for what had been done, and suspense, not knowing what might further happen or how or when that unhappy creature would come up to bed.

At last he came, slowly and stumblingly, ascending the stairs, supported by Grimsby and Hattersley, who neither of them walked quite steadily themselves, but were both laughing and joking at him, and making noise enough for all the servants to hear. He himself was no longer laughing now, but sick and stupid—I will write no more about that.

Such disgraceful scenes (or nearly such) have been repeated more than once. I don’t say much to Arthur about it, for if I did, it would do more harm than good; but I let him know that I intensely dislike such exhibitions; and each time he has promised they should never again be repeated; but I fear he is losing the little self-command and self-respect he once possessed: formerly, he would have been ashamed to act thus—at least, before any other witnesses than his boon companions, or such as they. His friend Hargrave, with a prudence and self-government that I envy for him, never disgraces himself by taking more than sufficient to render him a little “elevated,” and is always the first to leave the table, after Lord Lowborough, who, wiser still, perseveres in vacating the dining-room immediately after us; but never once, since Annabella offended him so deeply, has he entered the drawing-room before the rest; always spending the interim in the library, which I take care to have lighted for his accommodation—or, on fine moonlight nights, in roaming about the grounds. But I think she regrets her misconduct, for she has never repeated it since, and of late she has comported herself with wonderful propriety towards him, treating him with more uniform kindness and consideration than ever I have observed her to do before. I date the time of this improvement from the period when she ceased to hope and strive for Arthur’s admiration.