THE NEIGHBOUR AGAIN

December 20th, 1825.—Another year is past; and I am weary of this life. And yet, I cannot wish to leave it: whatever afflictions assail me here, I cannot wish to go and leave my darling in this dark and wicked world alone, without a friend to guide him through its weary mazes, to warn him of its thousand snares, and guard him from the perils that beset him on every hand. I am not well fitted to be his only companion, I know; but there is no other to supply my place. I am too grave to minister to his amusements and enter into his infantile sports as a nurse or a mother ought to do, and often his bursts of gleeful merriment trouble and alarm me; I see in them his father’s spirit and temperament, and I tremble for the consequences; and, too often, damp the innocent mirth I ought to share. That father on the contrary has no weight of sadness on his mind—is troubled with no fears, no scruples concerning his son’s future welfare; and at evenings especially, the times when the child sees him the most and the oftenest, he is always particularly jocund and open-hearted: ready to laugh and to jest with anything or anybody—but me—and I am particularly silent and sad: therefore, of course, the child dotes upon his seemingly joyous, amusing, ever indulgent papa, and will at any time gladly exchange my company for his. This disturbs me greatly; not so much for the sake of my son’s affection (though I do prize that highly, and though I feel it is my right, and know I have done much to earn it), as for that influence over him which, for his own advantage, I would strive to purchase and retain, and which for very spite his father delights to rob me of, and, from motives of mere idle egotism, is pleased to win to himself; making no use of it but to torment me, and ruin the child. My only consolation is, that he spends comparatively little of his time at home, and, during the months he passes in London or elsewhere, I have a chance of recovering the ground I had lost, and overcoming with good the evil he has wrought by his wilful mismanagement. But then it is a bitter trial to behold him, on his return, doing his utmost to subvert my labours and transform my innocent, affectionate, tractable darling into a selfish, disobedient, and mischievous boy; thereby preparing the soil for those vices he has so successfully cultivated in his own perverted nature.

Happily, there were none of Arthur’s “friends” invited to Grassdale last autumn: he took himself off to visit some of them instead. I wish he would always do so, and I wish his friends were numerous and loving enough to keep him amongst them all the year round. Mr. Hargrave, considerably to my annoyance, did not go with him; but I think I have done with that gentleman at last.

For seven or eight months, he behaved so remarkably well, and managed so skilfully too, that I was almost completely off my guard, and was really beginning to look upon him as a friend, and even to treat him as such, with certain prudent restrictions (which I deemed scarcely necessary); when, presuming upon my unsuspecting kindness, he thought he might venture to overstep the bounds of decent moderation and propriety that had so long retained him. It was on a pleasant evening at the close of May: I was wandering in the park, and he, on seeing me there as he rode past, made bold to enter and approach me, dismounting and leaving his horse at the gate. This was the first time he had ventured to come within its inclosure since I had been left alone, without the sanction of his mother’s or sister’s company, or at least the excuse of a message from them. But he managed to appear so calm and easy, so respectful and self-possessed in his friendliness, that, though a little surprised, I was neither alarmed nor offended at the unusual liberty, and he walked with me under the ash trees and by the water-side, and talked, with considerable animation, good taste, and intelligence, on many subjects, before I began to think about getting rid of him. Then, after a pause, during which we both stood gazing on the calm, blue water; I revolving in my mind the best means of politely dismissing my companion, he, no doubt, pondering other matters equally alien to the sweet sights and sounds that alone were present to his senses,—he suddenly electrified me by beginning, in a peculiar tone, low, soft, but perfectly distinct, to pour forth the most unequivocal expressions of earnest and passionate love; pleading his cause with all the bold yet artful eloquence he could summon to his aid. But I cut short his appeal, and repulsed him so determinately, so decidedly, and with such a mixture of scornful indignation tempered with cool, dispassionate sorrow and pity for his benighted mind, that he withdrew, astonished, mortified, and discomforted; and, a few days after, I heard that he had departed for London. He returned however in eight or nine weeks—and did not entirely keep aloof from me, but comported himself in so remarkable a manner that his quick-sighted sister could not fail to notice the change.

“What have you done to Walter, Mrs. Huntingdon?” said she one morning, when I had called at the Grove, and he had just left the room after exchanging a few words of the coldest civility. “He has been so extremely ceremonious and stately of late, I can’t imagine what it is all about, unless you have desperately offended him. Tell me what it is, that I may be your mediator, and make you friends again.”

“I have done nothing willingly to offend him,” said I. “If he is offended, he can best tell you himself what it is about.”

“I’ll ask him,” cried the giddy girl, springing up and putting her head out of the window; “he’s only in the garden—Walter!”

“No, no, Esther! you will seriously displease me if you do; and I shall leave you immediately, and not come again for months—perhaps years.”

“Did you call, Esther?” said her brother, approaching the window from without.

“Yes; I wanted to ask you—”

“Good morning, Esther,” said I, taking her hand and giving it a severe squeeze.

“To ask you,” continued she, “to get me a rose for Mrs. Huntingdon.” He departed. “Mrs. Huntingdon,” she exclaimed, turning to me and still holding me fast by the hand, “I’m quite shocked at you—you’re just as angry, and distant, and cold as he is: and I’m determined you shall be as good friends as ever, before you go.”

“Esther, how can you be so rude!” cried Mrs. Hargrave, who was seated gravely knitting in her easy chair. “Surely, you never will learn to conduct yourself like a lady!”

“Well mamma, you said, yourself—” But the young lady was silenced by the uplifted finger of her mamma, accompanied with a very stern shake of the head.

“Isn’t she cross?” whispered she to me; but, before I could add my share of reproof, Mr. Hargrave reappeared at the window with a beautiful moss rose in his hand.

“Here, Esther, I’ve brought you the rose,” said he, extending it towards her.

“Give it her yourself, you blockhead!” cried she, recoiling with a spring from between us.

“Mrs. Huntingdon would rather receive it from you,” replied he in a very serious tone, but lowering his voice that his mother might not hear. His sister took the rose and gave it to me.

“My brother’s compliments, Mrs. Huntingdon, and he hopes you and he will come to a better understanding by and by.—Will that do, Walter?” added the saucy girl, turning to him and putting her arm round his neck, as he stood leaning upon the sill of the window—“or should I have said that you are sorry you were so touchy? or that you hope she will pardon your offence?”

“You silly girl! you don’t know what you are talking about,” replied he gravely.

“Indeed I don’t; for I’m quite in the dark.”

“Now Esther,” interposed Mrs. Hargrave, who, if equally benighted on the subject of our estrangement, saw at least that her daughter was behaving very improperly, “I must insist upon your leaving the room!”

“Pray don’t, Mrs. Hargrave, for I’m going to leave it myself,” said I, and immediately made my adieux.

About a week after, Mr. Hargrave brought his sister to see me. He conducted himself, at first, with his usual cold, distant, half-stately, half-melancholy, altogether injured air; but Esther made no remark upon it this time; she had evidently been schooled into better manners. She talked to me, and laughed and romped with little Arthur, her loved and loving playmate. He, somewhat to my discomfort, enticed her from the room to have a run in the hall; and, thence, into the garden. I got up to stir the fire. Mr. Hargrave asked if I felt cold, and shut the door—a very unseasonable piece of officiousness, for I had meditated following the noisy playfellows, if they did not speedily return. He then took the liberty of walking up to the fire himself, and asking me if I were aware that Mr. Huntingdon was now at the seat of Lord Lowborough, and likely to continue there some time.

“No; but it’s no matter,” I answered carelessly; and if my cheek glowed like fire, it was rather at the question than the information it conveyed.

“You don’t object to it?” he said.

“Not at all, if Lord Lowborough likes his company.”

“You have no love left for him, then?”

“Not the least.”

“I knew that—I knew you were too high-minded and pure in your own nature to continue to regard one so utterly false and polluted, with any feelings but those of indignation and scornful abhorrence!”

“Is he not your friend?” said I, turning my eyes from the fire to his face, with perhaps a slight touch of those feelings he assigned to another.

“He was,” replied he, with the same calm gravity as before, “but do not wrong me by supposing that I could continue my friendship and esteem to a man who could so infamously—so impiously forsake and injure one so transcendently—well, I won’t speak of it. But tell me, do you never think of revenge?”

“Revenge! No—what good would that do?—it would make him no better, and me no happier.”

“I don’t know how to talk to you, Mrs. Huntingdon,” said he smiling; “you are only half a woman—your nature must be half human, half angelic. Such goodness overawes me; I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Then sir, I fear you must be very much worse than you should be, if I, a mere ordinary mortal, am by your own confession, so vastly your superior;—and since there exists so little sympathy between us, I think we had better each look out for some more congenial companion.” And forthwith moving to the window, I began to look out for my little son and his gay young friend.

“No, I am the ordinary mortal, I maintain,” replied Mr. Hargrave. “I will not allow myself to be worse than my fellows; but you Madame—I equally maintain there is nobody like you. But are you happy?” he asked in a serious tone.

“As happy as some others, I suppose.”

“Are you as happy as you desire to be?”

“No one is so blest as that comes to, on this side eternity.”

“One thing I know,” returned he, with a deep, sad sigh; “you are immeasurably happier than I am.”

“I am very sorry for you, then,” I could not help replying.

“Are you indeed?—No—for if you were, you would be glad to relieve me.”

“And so I should, if I could do so, without injuring myself or any other.”

“And can you suppose that I should wish you to injure yourself?—No; on the contrary, it is your own happiness I long for more than mine. You are miserable now, Mrs. Huntingdon,” continued he, looking me boldly in the face. “You do not complain, but I see—and feel—and know that you are miserable—and must remain so, as long as you keep those walls of impenetrable ice about your still warm and palpitating heart;—and I am miserable too. Deign to smile on me, and I am happy: trust me, and you shall be happy also, for if you are a woman, I can make you so—and I will do it in spite of yourself!” he muttered between his teeth, “and as for others, the question is between ourselves alone: you cannot injure your husband, you know; and no one else has any concern in the matter.”

“I have a son, Mr. Hargrave, and you have a mother,” said I, retiring from the window, whither he had followed me.

“They need not know,” he began, but before anything more could be said on either side, Esther and Arthur re-entered the room. The former glanced at Walter’s flushed, excited countenance, and then at mine—a little flushed and excited too, I dare say, though from far different causes. She must have thought we had been quarrelling desperately, and was evidently perplexed and disturbed at the circumstance; but she was too polite, or too much afraid of her brother’s anger to refer to it. She seated herself on the sofa, and putting back her bright, golden ringlets, that were scattered in wild profusion over her face, she immediately began to talk about the garden and her little playfellow, and continued to chatter away in her usual strain till her brother summoned her to depart.

“If I have spoken too warmly, forgive me,” he murmured on taking his leave, “or I shall never forgive myself.”

Esther smiled and glanced at me: I merely bowed, and her countenance fell. She thought it a poor return for Walter’s generous concession, and was disappointed in her friend. Poor child, she little knows the world she lives in!

Mr. Hargrave had not an opportunity of meeting me again in private for several weeks after this; but when he did meet me, there was less of pride and more of touching melancholy in his manner than before. Oh, how he annoyed me! I was obliged, at last almost entirely to remit my visits to the Grove, at the expence of deeply offending Mrs. Hargrave and seriously afflicting poor Esther, who really values my society—for want of better, and who ought not to suffer for the fault of her brother. But that indefatigable foe was not yet vanquished: he seemed to be always on the watch. I frequently saw him riding lingeringly past the premises, looking searchingly round him as he went—or if I did not, Rachel did. That sharp-sighted woman soon guessed how matters stood between us, and descrying the enemy’s movements from her elevation at the nursery window, she would give me a quiet intimation, if she saw me preparing for a walk when she had reason to believe he was about, or to think it likely that he would meet or overtake me in the way I meant to traverse. I would then defer my ramble, or confine myself for that day to the park and gardens—or if the proposed excursion was a matter of importance, such as a visit to the sick or afflicted, I would take Rachel with me, and then I was never molested.

But one mild, sunshiny day, early in November, I had ventured forth alone, to visit the village school and a few of the poor tenants, and on my return, I was alarmed at the clatter of a horse’s feet behind me approaching at a rapid, steady trot. There was no stile or gap at hand, by which I could escape into the fields: so I walked quietly on, saying to myself—

“It may not be he after all; and if it is, and if he do annoy me—it shall be for the last time—I am determined, if there be power in words and looks against cool impudence and mawkish sentimentality so inexhaustible as his.”

The horse soon overtook me, and was reined up close beside me. It was Mr. Hargrave. He greeted me with a smile intended to be soft and melancholy, but his triumphant satisfaction at having caught me at last, so shone through, that it was quite a failure. After briefly answering his salutation and inquiring after the ladies at the Grove, I turned away and walked on; but he followed, and kept his horse at my side: it was evident he intended to be my companion all the way.

“Well! I don’t much care. If you want another rebuff, take it—and welcome,” was my inward remark. “Now sir, what next?”

This question, though unspoken, was not long unanswered: after a few passing observations upon indifferent subjects, he began, in solemn tones, the following appeal to my humanity:—

“It will be four years next April since I first saw you, Mrs. Huntingdon,—you may have forgotten the circumstance, but I never can—I admired you then, most deeply, but I dared not love you: in the following autumn, I saw so much of your perfections that I could not fail to love you, though I dared not shew it. For upwards of three years, I have endured a perfect martyrdom. From the anguish of suppressed emotions, intense and fruitless longings, silent sorrow, crushed hopes, and trampled affections,—I have suffered more than I can tell, or you imagine—and you were the cause of it—and not, altogether, the innocent cause. My youth is wasting away; my prospects are darkened; my life is a desolate blank; I have no rest day or night: I am become a burden to myself and others;—and you might save me by a word—a glance, and will not do it.—Is this right?”

“In the first place, I don’t believe you,” answered I: “in the second, if you will be such a fool, I can’t hinder it.”

“If you affect,” replied he earnestly, “to regard as folly, the best, the strongest, the most godlike impulses of our nature,—I don’t believe you—I know you are not the heartless, icy being you pretend to be—you had a heart once, and you gave it to your husband. When you found him utterly unworthy of the treasure you reclaimed it;—and you will not pretend that you loved that sensual, earthly minded profligate so deeply, so devotedly that you can never love another?—I know that there are feelings in your nature that have never yet been called forth—I know, too, that in your present neglected, lonely state you are, and must be miserable. You have it in your power to raise two human beings from a state of actual suffering to such unspeakable beatitude as only generous, noble self-forgetting love can give (for you can love me if you will; you may tell me that you scorn and detest me, but—since you have set me the example of plain speaking—I will answer that I do not believe you!), but you will not do it! you choose rather to leave us miserable; and you coolly tell me it is the will of God that we should remain so. You may call this religion, but I call it wild fanaticism!”

“There is another life both for you and for me,” said I. “If it be the will of God that we should sow in tears, now, it is only that we may reap in joy, hereafter. It is His will that we should not injure others by the gratification of our own earthly passions; and you have a mother, and sisters, and friends, who would be seriously injured by your disgrace; and I too have friends, whose peace of mind shall never be sacrificed to my enjoyment—or yours either, with my consent—and if I were alone in the world, I have still my God and my religion, and I would sooner die than disgrace my calling and break my faith with Heaven to obtain a few brief years of false and fleeting happiness—happiness sure to end in misery, even here—for myself or any other!”

“There need be no disgrace—no misery or sacrifice in any quarter,” persisted he. “I do not ask you to leave your home or defy the world’s opinion.”—But I need not repeat all his arguments. I refuted them to the best of my power; but that power was provokingly small, at the moment, for I was too much flurried with indignation—and even shame—that he should thus dare to address me, to retain sufficient command of thought and language to enable me adequately to contend against his powerful sophistries. Finding, however, that he could not be silenced by reason, and even covertly exulted in his seeming advantage, and ventured to deride those assertions I had not the coolness to prove, I changed my course and tried another plan.

“Do you really love me?” said I seriously, pausing and looking him calmly in the face.

“Do I love you!” cried he.

“Truly?” I demanded.

His countenance brightened; he thought his triumph was at hand. He commenced a passionate protestation of the truth and fervour of his attachment which I cut short by another question:—

“But is it not a selfish love?—have you enough disinterested affection to enable you to sacrifice your own pleasure to mine?”

“I would give my life to serve you.”

“I don’t want your life—but have you enough real sympathy for my afflictions to induce you to make an effort to relieve them, at the risk of a little discomfort to yourself?”

“Try me, and see!”

“If you have—never mention this subject again. You cannot recur to it in any way, without doubling the weight of those sufferings you so feelingly deplore. I have nothing left me but the solace of a good conscience and a hopeful trust in Heaven, and you labour continually to rob me of these. If you persist, I must regard you as my deadliest foe.”

“But hear me a moment—”

“No, sir! you said you would give your life to serve me: I only ask your silence on one particular point. I have spoken plainly; and what I say I mean. If you torment me in this way any more, I must conclude that your protestations are entirely false, and that you hate me in your heart as fervently as you profess to love me!”

He bit his lip and bent his eyes upon the ground in silence for a while.

“Then I must leave you,” said he at length, looking steadily upon me, as if with the last hope of detecting some token of irrepressible anguish or dismay awakened by those solemn words. “I must leave you. I cannot live here, and be for ever silent on the all-absorbing subject of my thoughts and wishes.”

“Formerly, I believe, you spent but little of your time at home,” I answered: “it will do you no harm to absent yourself again, for a while—if that be really necessary.”

“If that be really possible,” he muttered—“and can you bid me go so coolly? Do you really wish it?”

“Most certainly I do. If you cannot see me without tormenting me as you have lately done, I would gladly say farewell and never see you more.”

He made no answer, but, bending from his horse, held out his hand towards me. I looked up at his face, and saw, therein, such a look of genuine agony of soul that, whether bitter disappointment, or wounded pride, or lingering love, or burning wrath were uppermost, I could not hesitate to put my hand in his as frankly as if I bade a friend farewell. He grasped it very hard, and immediately put spurs to his horse and galloped away. Very soon after, I learned that he was gone to Paris, where he still is, and the longer he stays there the better for me.

I thank God for this deliverance!

[END OF VOLUME II.]