August 25th. - I am now quite settled down to my usual routine ofsteady occupations and quiet amusements - tolerably contented andcheerful, but still looking forward to spring with the hope ofreturning to town, not for its gaieties and dissipations, but forthe chance of meeting Mr. Huntingdon once again; for still he isalways in my thoughts and in my dreams. In all my employments,whatever I do, or see, or hear, has an ultimate reference to him;whatever skill or knowledge I acquire is some day to be turned tohis advantage or amusement; whatever new beauties in nature or artI discover are to be depicted to meet his eye, or stored in mymemory to be told him at some future period. This, at least, isthe hope that I cherish, the fancy that lights me on my lonely way.It may be only an ignis fatuus, after all, but it can do no harm tofollow it with my eyes and rejoice in its lustre, as long as itdoes not lure me from the path I ought to keep; and I think it willnot, for I have thought deeply on my aunt's advice, and I seeclearly, now, the folly of throwing myself away on one that isunworthy of all the love I have to give, and incapable ofresponding to the best and deepest feelings of my inmost heart - soclearly, that even if I should see him again, and if he shouldremember me and love me still (which, alas! is too little probable,considering how he is situated, and by whom surrounded), and if heshould ask me to marry him - I am determined not to consent until Iknow for certain whether my aunt's opinion of him or mine isnearest the truth; for if mine is altogether wrong, it is not hethat I love; it is a creature of my own imagination. But I thinkit is not wrong - no, no - there is a secret something - an inwardinstinct that assures me I am right. There is essential goodnessin him; - and what delight to unfold it! If he has wandered, whatbliss to recall him! If he is now exposed to the baneful influenceof corrupting and wicked companions, what glory to deliver him fromthem! Oh! if I could but believe that Heaven has designed me forthis!

* * * * *

To-day is the first of September; but my uncle has ordered thegamekeeper to spare the partridges till the gentlemen come. 'Whatgentlemen?' I asked when I heard it. A small party he had invitedto shoot. His friend Mr. Wilmot was one, and my aunt's friend, Mr.Boarham, another. This struck me as terrible news at the moment;but all regret and apprehension vanished like a dream when I heardthat Mr. Huntingdon was actually to be a third! My aunt is greatlyagainst his coming, of course: she earnestly endeavoured todissuade my uncle from asking him; but he, laughing at herobjections, told her it was no use talking, for the mischief wasalready done: he had invited Huntingdon and his friend LordLowborough before we left London, and nothing now remained but tofix the day for their coming. So he is safe, and I am sure ofseeing him. I cannot express my joy. I find it very difficult toconceal it from my aunt; but I don't wish to trouble her with myfeelings till I know whether I ought to indulge them or not. If Ifind it my absolute duty to suppress them, they shall trouble noone but myself; and if I can really feel myself justified inindulging this attachment, I can dare anything, even the anger andgrief of my best friend, for its object - surely, I shall soonknow. But they are not coming till about the middle of the month.

We are to have two lady visitors also: Mr. Wilmot is to bring hisniece and her cousin Milicent. I suppose my aunt thinks the latterwill benefit me by her society, and the salutary example of hergentle deportment and lowly and tractable spirit; and the former Isuspect she intends as a species of counter-attraction to win Mr.Huntingdon's attention from me. I don't thank her for this; but Ishall be glad of Milicent's company: she is a sweet, good girl,and I wish I were like her - more like her, at least, than I am.

* * * * *

19th. - They are come. They came the day before yesterday. Thegentlemen are all gone out to shoot, and the ladies are with myaunt, at work in the drawing-room. I have retired to the library,for I am very unhappy, and I want to be alone. Books cannot divertme; so having opened my desk, I will try what may be done bydetailing the cause of my uneasiness. This paper will serveinstead of a confidential friend into whose ear I might pour forththe overflowings of my heart. It will not sympathise with mydistresses, but then it will not laugh at them, and, if I keep itclose, it cannot tell again; so it is, perhaps, the best friend Icould have for the purpose.

First, let me speak of his arrival - how I sat at my window, andwatched for nearly two hours, before his carriage entered the park-gates - for they all came before him, - and how deeply I wasdisappointed at every arrival, because it was not his. First cameMr. Wilmot and the ladies. When Milicent had got into her room, Iquitted my post a few minutes to look in upon her and have a littleprivate conversation, for she was now my intimate friend, severallong epistles having passed between us since our parting. Onreturning to my window, I beheld another carriage at the door. Wasit his? No; it was Mr. Boarham's plain dark chariot; and therestood he upon the steps, carefully superintending the dislodging ofhis various boxes and packages. What a collection! One would havethought he projected a visit of six months at least. Aconsiderable time after, came Lord Lowborough in his barouche. Ishe one of the profligate friends, I wonder? I should think not;for no one could call him a jolly companion, I'm sure, - and,besides, he appears too sober and gentlemanly in his demeanour tomerit such suspicions. He is a tall, thin, gloomy-looking man,apparently between thirty and forty, and of a somewhat sickly,careworn aspect.

At last, Mr. Huntingdon's light phaeton came bowling merrily up thelawn. I had but a transient glimpse of him: for the moment itstopped, he sprang out over the side on to the portico steps, anddisappeared into the house.

I now submitted to be dressed for dinner - a duty which Rachel hadbeen urging upon me for the last twenty minutes; and when thatimportant business was completed, I repaired to the drawing-room,where I found Mr. and Miss Wilmot and Milicent Hargrave alreadyassembled. Shortly after, Lord Lowborough entered, and then Mr.Boarham, who seemed quite willing to forget and forgive my formerconduct, and to hope that a little conciliation and steadyperseverance on his part might yet succeed in bringing me toreason. While I stood at the window, conversing with Milicent, hecame up to me, and was beginning to talk in nearly his usualstrain, when Mr. Huntingdon entered the room.

'How will he greet me, I wonder?' said my bounding heart; and,instead of advancing to meet him, I turned to the window to hide orsubdue my emotion. But having saluted his host and hostess, andthe rest of the company, he came to me, ardently squeezed my hand,and murmured he was glad to see me once again. At that momentdinner was announced: my aunt desired him to take Miss Hargraveinto the dining-room, and odious Mr. Wilmot, with unspeakablegrimaces, offered his arm to me; and I was condemned to sit betweenhimself and Mr. Boarham. But afterwards, when we were all againassembled in the drawing-room, I was indemnified for so muchsuffering by a few delightful minutes of conversation with Mr.Huntingdon.

In the course of the evening, Miss Wilmot was called upon to singand play for the amusement of the company, and I to exhibit mydrawings, and, though he likes music, and she is an accomplishedmusician, I think I am right in affirming, that he paid moreattention to my drawings than to her music.

So far so good; - but hearing him pronounce, sotto voce, but withpeculiar emphasis, concerning one of the pieces, 'This is betterthan all!' - I looked up, curious to see which it was, and, to myhorror, beheld him complacently gazing at the back of the picture:-it was his own face that I had sketched there and forgotten to rubout! To make matters worse, in the agony of the moment, Iattempted to snatch it from his hand; but he prevented me, andexclaiming, 'No - by George, I'll keep it!' placed it against hiswaistcoat and buttoned his coat upon it with a delighted chuckle.

Then, drawing a candle close to his elbow, he gathered all thedrawings to himself, as well what he had seen as the others, andmuttering, 'I must look at both sides now,' he eagerly commenced anexamination, which I watched, at first, with tolerable composure,in the confidence that his vanity would not be gratified by anyfurther discoveries; for, though I must plead guilty to havingdisfigured the backs of several with abortive attempts to delineatethat too fascinating physiognomy, I was sure that, with that oneunfortunate exception, I had carefully obliterated all suchwitnesses of my infatuation. But the pencil frequently leaves animpression upon cardboard that no amount of rubbing can efface.Such, it seems, was the case with most of these; and, I confess, Itrembled when I saw him holding them so close to the candle, andporing so intently over the seeming blanks; but still, I trusted,he would not be able to make out these dim traces to his ownsatisfaction. I was mistaken, however. Having ended his scrutiny,he quietly remarked, - 'I perceive the backs of young ladies'drawings, like the postscripts of their letters, are the mostimportant and interesting part of the concern.'

Then, leaning back in his chair, he reflected a few minutes insilence, complacently smiling to himself, and while I wasconcocting some cutting speech wherewith to check hisgratification, he rose, and passing over to where Annabella Wilmotsat vehemently coquetting with Lord Lowborough, seated himself onthe sofa beside her, and attached himself to her for the rest ofthe evening.

'So then,' thought I, 'he despises me, because he knows I lovehim.'

And the reflection made me so miserable I knew not what to do.Milicent came and began to admire my drawings, and make remarksupon them; but I could not talk to her - I could talk to no one,and, upon the introduction of tea, I took advantage of the opendoor and the slight diversion caused by its entrance to slip out -for I was sure I could not take any - and take refuge in thelibrary. My aunt sent Thomas in quest of me, to ask if I were notcoming to tea; but I bade him say I should not take any to-night,and, happily, she was too much occupied with her guests to make anyfurther inquiries at the time.

As most of the company had travelled far that day, they retiredearly to rest; and having heard them all, as I thought, go up-stairs, I ventured out, to get my candlestick from the drawing-roomsideboard. But Mr. Huntingdon had lingered behind the rest. Hewas just at the foot of the stairs when I opened the door, andhearing my step in the hall - though I could hardly hear it myself- he instantly turned back.

'Helen, is that you?' said he. 'Why did you run away from us?'

'Good-night, Mr. Huntingdon,' said I, coldly, not choosing toanswer the question. And I turned away to enter the drawing-room.

'But you'll shake hands, won't you?' said he, placing himself inthe doorway before me. And he seized my hand and held it, muchagainst my will.

'Let me go, Mr. Huntingdon,' said I. 'I want to get a candle.'

'The candle will keep,' returned he.

I made a desperate effort to free my hand from his grasp.

'Why are you in such a hurry to leave me, Helen?' he said, with asmile of the most provoking self-sufficiency. 'You don't hate me,you know.'

'Yes, I do - at this moment.'

'Not you. It is Annabella Wilmot you hate, not me.'

'I have nothing to do with Annabella Wilmot,' said I, burning withindignation.

'But I have, you know,' returned he, with peculiar emphasis.

'That is nothing to me, sir,' I retorted.

'Is it nothing to you, Helen? Will you swear it? Will you?'

'No I won't, Mr. Huntingdon! and I will go,' cried I, not knowingwhether to laugh, or to cry, or to break out into a tempest offury.

'Go, then, you vixen!' he said; but the instant he released my handhe had the audacity to put his arm round my neck, and kiss me.

Trembling with anger and agitation, and I don't know what besides,I broke away, and got my candle, and rushed up-stairs to my room.He would not have done so but for that hateful picture. And therehe had it still in his possession, an eternal monument to his prideand my humiliation.

It was but little sleep I got that night, and in the morning I roseperplexed and troubled with the thoughts of meeting him atbreakfast. I knew not how it was to be done. An assumption ofdignified, cold indifference would hardly do, after what he knew ofmy devotion - to his face, at least. Yet something must be done tocheck his presumption - I would not submit to be tyrannised over bythose bright, laughing eyes. And, accordingly, I received hischeerful morning salutation as calmly and coldly as my aunt couldhave wished, and defeated with brief answers his one or twoattempts to draw me into conversation, while I comported myselfwith unusual cheerfulness and complaisance towards every othermember of the party, especially Annabella Wilmot, and even heruncle and Mr. Boarham were treated with an extra amount of civilityon the occasion, not from any motives of coquetry, but just to showhim that my particular coolness and reserve arose from no generalill-humour or depression of spirits.

He was not, however, to be repelled by such acting as this. He didnot talk much to me, but when he did speak it was with a degree offreedom and openness, and kindliness too, that plainly seemed tointimate he knew his words were music to my ears; and when hislooks met mine it was with a smile - presumptuous, it might be -but oh! so sweet, so bright, so genial, that I could not possiblyretain my anger; every vestige of displeasure soon melted awaybeneath it like morning clouds before the summer sun.

Soon after breakfast all the gentlemen save one, with boyisheagerness, set out on their expedition against the haplesspartridges; my uncle and Mr. Wilmot on their shooting ponies, Mr.Huntingdon and Lord Lowborough on their legs: the one exceptionbeing Mr. Boarham, who, in consideration of the rain that hadfallen during the night, thought it prudent to remain behind alittle and join them in a while when the sun had dried the grass.And he favoured us all with a long and minute disquisition upon theevils and dangers attendant upon damp feet, delivered with the mostimperturbable gravity, amid the jeers and laughter of Mr.Huntingdon and my uncle, who, leaving the prudent sportsman toentertain the ladies with his medical discussions, sallied forthwith their guns, bending their steps to the stables first, to havea look at the horses and let out the dogs.

Not desirous of sharing Mr. Boarham's company for the whole of themorning, I betook myself to the library, and there brought forth myeasel and began to paint. The easel and the painting apparatuswould serve as an excuse for abandoning the drawing-room if my auntshould come to complain of the desertion, and besides I wanted tofinish the picture. It was one I had taken great pains with, and Iintended it to be my masterpiece, though it was somewhatpresumptuous in the design. By the bright azure of the sky, and bythe warm and brilliant lights and deep long shadows, I hadendeavoured to convey the idea of a sunny morning. I had venturedto give more of the bright verdure of spring or early summer to thegrass and foliage than is commonly attempted in painting. Thescene represented was an open glade in a wood. A group of darkScotch firs was introduced in the middle distance to relieve theprevailing freshness of the rest; but in the foreground was part ofthe gnarled trunk and of the spreading boughs of a large forest-tree, whose foliage was of a brilliant golden green - not goldenfrom autumnal mellowness, but from the sunshine and the veryimmaturity of the scarce expanded leaves. Upon this bough, thatstood out in bold relief against the sombre firs, were seated anamorous pair of turtle doves, whose soft sad-coloured plumageafforded a contrast of another nature; and beneath it a young girlwas kneeling on the daisy-spangled turf, with head thrown back andmasses of fair hair falling on her shoulders, her hands clasped,lips parted, and eyes intently gazing upward in pleased yet earnestcontemplation of those feathered lovers - too deeply absorbed ineach other to notice her.

I had scarcely settled to my work, which, however, wanted but a fewtouches to the finishing, when the sportsmen passed the window ontheir return from the stables. It was partly open, and Mr.Huntingdon must have seen me as he went by, for in half a minute hecame back, and setting his gun against the wall, threw up the sashand sprang in, and set himself before my picture.

'Very pretty, i'faith,' said he, after attentively regarding it fora few seconds; 'and a very fitting study for a young lady. Springjust opening into summer - morning just approaching noon - girlhoodjust ripening into womanhood, and hope just verging on fruition.She's a sweet creature! but why didn't you make her black hair?'

'I thought light hair would suit her better. You see I have madeher blue-eyed and plump, and fair and rosy.'

'Upon my word - a very Hebe! I should fall in love with her if Ihadn't the artist before me. Sweet innocent! she's thinking therewill come a time when she will be wooed and won like that prettyhen-dove by as fond and fervent a lover; and she's thinking howpleasant it will be, and how tender and faithful he will find her.'

'And perhaps,' suggested I, 'how tender and faithful she shall findhim.'

'Perhaps, for there is no limit to the wild extravagance of Hope'simaginings at such an age.'

'Do you call that, then, one of her wild, extravagant delusions?'

'No; my heart tells me it is not. I might have thought so once,but now, I say, give me the girl I love, and I will swear eternalconstancy to her and her alone, through summer and winter, throughyouth and age, and life and death! if age and death must come.'

He spoke this in such serious earnest that my heart bounded withdelight; but the minute after he changed his tone, and asked, witha significant smile, if I had 'any more portraits.'

'No,' replied I, reddening with confusion and wrath.

But my portfolio was on the table: he took it up, and coolly satdown to examine its contents.

'Mr. Huntingdon, those are my unfinished sketches,' cried I, 'and Inever let any one see them.'

And I placed my hand on the portfolio to wrest it from him, but hemaintained his hold, assuring me that he 'liked unfinished sketchesof all things.'

'But I hate them to be seen,' returned I. 'I can't let you haveit, indeed!'

'Let me have its bowels then,' said he; and just as I wrenched theportfolio from his hand, he deftly abstracted the greater part ofits contents, and after turning them over a moment he cried out, -'Bless my stars, here's another;' and slipped a small oval of ivorypaper into his waistcoat pocket - a complete miniature portraitthat I had sketched with such tolerable success as to be induced tocolour it with great pains and care. But I was determined heshould not keep it.

'Mr. Huntingdon,' cried I, 'I insist upon having that back! It ismine, and you have no right to take it. Give it me directly - I'llnever forgive you if you don't!'

But the more vehemently I insisted, the more he aggravated mydistress by his insulting, gleeful laugh. At length, however, herestored it to me, saying, - 'Well, well, since you value it somuch, I'll not deprive you of it.'

To show him how I valued it, I tore it in two and threw it into thefire. He was not prepared for this. His merriment suddenlyceasing, he stared in mute amazement at the consuming treasure; andthen, with a careless 'Humph! I'll go and shoot now,' he turned onhis heel and vacated the apartment by the window as he came, andsetting on his hat with an air, took up his gun and walked away,whistling as he went - and leaving me not too much agitated tofinish my picture, for I was glad, at the moment, that I had vexedhim.

When I returned to the drawing-room, I found Mr. Boarham hadventured to follow his comrades to the field; and shortly afterlunch, to which they did not think of returning, I volunteered toaccompany the ladies in a walk, and show Annabella and Milicent thebeauties of the country. We took a long ramble, and re-entered thepark just as the sportsmen were returning from their expedition.Toil-spent and travel-stained, the main body of them crossed overthe grass to avoid us, but Mr. Huntingdon, all spattered andsplashed as he was, and stained with the blood of his prey - to theno small offence of my aunt's strict sense of propriety - came outof his way to meet us, with cheerful smiles and words for all butme, and placing himself between Annabella Wilmot and myself, walkedup the road and began to relate the various exploits and disastersof the day, in a manner that would have convulsed me with laughterif I had been on good terms with him; but he addressed himselfentirely to Annabella, and I, of course, left all the laughter andall the badinage to her, and affecting the utmost indifference towhatever passed between them, walked along a few paces apart, andlooking every way but theirs, while my aunt and Milicent wentbefore, linked arm in arm and gravely discoursing together. Atlength Mr. Huntingdon turned to me, and addressing me in aconfidential whisper, said, - 'Helen, why did you burn my picture?'

'Because I wished to destroy it,' I answered, with an asperity itis useless now to lament.

'Oh, very good!' was the reply; 'if you don't value me, I must turnto somebody that will.'

I thought it was partly in jest - a half-playful mixture of mockresignation and pretended indifference: but immediately he resumedhis place beside Miss Wilmot, and from that hour to this - duringall that evening, and all the next day, and the next, and the next,and all this morning (the 22nd), he has never given me one kindword or one pleasant look - never spoken to me, but from purenecessity - never glanced towards me but with a cold, unfriendlylook I thought him quite incapable of assuming.

My aunt observes the change, and though she has not inquired thecause or made any remark to me on the subject, I see it gives herpleasure. Miss Wilmot observes it, too, and triumphantly ascribesit to her own superior charms and blandishments; but I am trulymiserable - more so than I like to acknowledge to myself. Priderefuses to aid me. It has brought me into the scrape, and will nothelp me out of it.

He meant no harm - it was only his joyous, playful spirit; and I,by my acrimonious resentment - so serious, so disproportioned tothe offence - have so wounded his feelings, so deeply offended him,that I fear he will never forgive me - and all for a mere jest! Hethinks I dislike him, and he must continue to think so. I mustlose him for ever, and Annabella may win him, and triumph as shewill.

But it is not my loss nor her triumph that I deplore so greatly asthe wreck of my fond hopes for his advantage, and her unworthinessof his affection, and the injury he will do himself by trusting hishappiness to her. She does not love him: she thinks only ofherself. She cannot appreciate the good that is in him: she willneither see it, nor value it, nor cherish it. She will neitherdeplore his faults nor attempt their amendment, but ratheraggravate them by her own. And I doubt whether she will notdeceive him after all. I see she is playing double between him andLord Lowborough, and while she amuses herself with the livelyHuntingdon, she tries her utmost to enslave his moody friend; andshould she succeed in bringing both to her feet, the fascinatingcommoner will have but little chance against the lordly peer. Ifhe observes her artful by-play, it gives him no uneasiness, butrather adds new zest to his diversion by opposing a stimulatingcheck to his otherwise too easy conquest.

Messrs. Wilmot and Boarham have severally taken occasion by hisneglect of me to renew their advances; and if I were like Annabellaand some others I should take advantage of their perseverance toendeavour to pique him into a revival of affection; but, justiceand honesty apart, I could not bear to do it. I am annoyed enoughby their present persecutions without encouraging them further; andeven if I did it would have precious little effect upon him. Hesees me suffering under the condescending attentions and prosaicdiscourses of the one, and the repulsive obtrusions of the other,without so much as a shadow of commiseration for me, or resentmentagainst my tormentors. He never could have loved me, or he wouldnot have resigned me so willingly, and he would not go on talkingto everybody else so cheerfully as he does - laughing and jestingwith Lord Lowborough and my uncle, teasing Milicent Hargrave, andflirting with Annabella Wilmot - as if nothing were on his mind.Oh! why can't I hate him? I must be infatuated, or I should scornto regret him as I do. But I must rally all the powers I haveremaining, and try to tear him from my heart. There goes thedinner-bell, and here comes my aunt to scold me for sitting here atmy desk all day, instead of staying with the company: wish thecompany were - gone.