March 25th. - Arthur is getting tired - not of me, I trust, but ofthe idle, quiet life he leads - and no wonder, for he has so fewsources of amusement: he never reads anything but newspapers andsporting magazines; and when he sees me occupied with a book, hewon't let me rest till I close it. In fine weather he generallymanages to get through the time pretty well, but on rainy days, ofwhich we have had a good many of late, it is quite painful towitness his ennui. I do all I can to amuse him, but it isimpossible to get him to feel interested in what I most like totalk about, while, on the other hand, he likes to talk about thingsthat cannot interest me - or even that annoy me - and these pleasehim - the most of all: for his favourite amusement is to sit orloll beside me on the sofa, and tell me stories of his formeramours, always turning upon the ruin of some confiding girl or thecozening of some unsuspecting husband; and when I express my horrorand indignation, he lays it all to the charge of jealousy, andlaughs till the tears run down his cheeks. I used to fly intopassions or melt into tears at first, but seeing that his delightincreased in proportion to my anger and agitation, I have sinceendeavoured to suppress my feelings and receive his revelations inthe silence of calm contempt; but still he reads the inwardstruggle in my face, and misconstrues my bitterness of soul for hisunworthiness into the pangs of wounded jealousy; and when he hassufficiently diverted himself with that, or fears my displeasurewill become too serious for his comfort, he tries to kiss andsoothe me into smiles again - never were his caresses so littlewelcome as then! This is double selfishness displayed to me and tothe victims of his former love. There are times when, with amomentary pang - a flash of wild dismay, I ask myself, 'Helen, whathave you done?' But I rebuke the inward questioner, and repel theobtrusive thoughts that crowd upon me; for were he ten times assensual and impenetrable to good and lofty thoughts, I well know Ihave no right to complain. And I don't and won't complain. I doand will love him still; and I do not and will not regret that Ihave linked my fate with his.

April 4th. - We have had a downright quarrel. The particulars areas follows: Arthur had told me, at different intervals, the wholestory of his intrigue with Lady F-, which I would not believebefore. It was some consolation, however, to find that in thisinstance the lady had been more to blame than he, for he was veryyoung at the time, and she had decidedly made the first advances,if what he said was true. I hated her for it, for it seemed as ifshe had chiefly contributed to his corruption; and when he wasbeginning to talk about her the other day, I begged he would notmention her, for I detested the very sound of her name.

'Not because you loved her, Arthur, mind, but because she injuredyou and deceived her husband, and was altogether a very abominablewoman, whom you ought to be ashamed to mention.'

But he defended her by saying that she had a doting old husband,whom it was impossible to love.

'Then why did she marry him?' said I.

'For his money,' was the reply.

'Then that was another crime, and her solemn promise to love andhonour him was another, that only increased the enormity of thelast.'

'You are too severe upon the poor lady,' laughed he. 'But nevermind, Helen, I don't care for her now; and I never loved any ofthem half as much as I do you, so you needn't fear to be forsakenlike them.'

'If you had told me these things before, Arthur, I never shouldhave given you the chance.'

'Wouldn't you, my darling?'

'Most certainly not!'

He laughed incredulously.

'I wish I could convince you of it now!' cried I, starting up frombeside him: and for the first time in my life, and I hope thelast, I wished I had not married him.

'Helen,' said he, more gravely, 'do you know that if I believed younow I should be very angry? but thank heaven I don't. Though youstand there with your white face and flashing eyes, looking at melike a very tigress, I know the heart within you perhaps a triflebetter than you know it yourself.'

Without another word I left the room and locked myself up in my ownchamber. In about half an hour he came to the door, and first hetried the handle, then he knocked.

'Won't you let me in, Helen?' said he.

'No; you have displeased me,' I replied, 'and I don't want to seeyour face or hear your voice again till the morning.'

He paused a moment as if dumfounded or uncertain how to answer sucha speech, and then turned and walked away. This was only an hourafter dinner: I knew he would find it very dull to sit alone allthe evening; and this considerably softened my resentment, thoughit did not make me relent. I was determined to show him that myheart was not his slave, and I could live without him if I chose;and I sat down and wrote a long letter to my aunt, of coursetelling her nothing of all this. Soon after ten o'clock I heardhim come up again, but he passed my door and went straight to hisown dressing-room, where he shut himself in for the night.

I was rather anxious to see how he would meet me in the morning,and not a little disappointed to behold him enter the breakfast-room with a careless smile.

'Are you cross still, Helen?' said he, approaching as if to saluteme. I coldly turned to the table, and began to pour out thecoffee, observing that he was rather late.

He uttered a low whistle and sauntered away to the window, where hestood for some minutes looking out upon the pleasing prospect ofsullen grey clouds, streaming rain, soaking lawn, and drippingleafless trees, and muttering execrations on the weather, and thensat down to breakfast. While taking his coffee he muttered it was'd-d cold.'

'You should not have left it so long,' said I.

He made no answer, and the meal was concluded in silence. It was arelief to both when the letter-bag was brought in. It containedupon examination a newspaper and one or two letters for him, and acouple of letters for me, which he tossed across the table withouta remark. One was from my brother, the other from MilicentHargrave, who is now in London with her mother. His, I think, werebusiness letters, and apparently not much to his mind, for hecrushed them into his pocket with some muttered expletives that Ishould have reproved him for at any other time. The paper he setbefore him, and pretended to be deeply absorbed in its contentsduring the remainder of breakfast, and a considerable time after.

The reading and answering of my letters, and the direction ofhousehold concerns, afforded me ample employment for the morning:after lunch I got my drawing, and from dinner till bed-time I read.Meanwhile, poor Arthur was sadly at a loss for something to amusehim or to occupy his time. He wanted to appear as busy and asunconcerned as I did. Had the weather at all permitted, he woulddoubtless have ordered his horse and set off to some distantregion, no matter where, immediately after breakfast, and notreturned till night: had there been a lady anywhere within reach,of any age between fifteen and forty-five, he would have soughtrevenge and found employment in getting up, or trying to get up, adesperate flirtation with her; but being, to my privatesatisfaction, entirely cut off from both these sources ofdiversion, his sufferings were truly deplorable. When he had doneyawning over his paper and scribbling short answers to his shorterletters, he spent the remainder of the morning and the whole of theafternoon in fidgeting about from room to room, watching theclouds, cursing the rain, alternately petting and teasing andabusing his dogs, sometimes lounging on the sofa with a book thathe could not force himself to read, and very often fixedly gazingat me when he thought I did not perceive it, with the vain hope ofdetecting some traces of tears, or some tokens of remorsefulanguish in my face. But I managed to preserve an undisturbedthough grave serenity throughout the day. I was not really angry:I felt for him all the time, and longed to be reconciled; but Idetermined he should make the first advances, or at least show somesigns of an humble and contrite spirit first; for, if I began, itwould only minister to his self-conceit, increase his arrogance,and quite destroy the lesson I wanted to give him.

He made a long stay in the dining-room after dinner, and, I fear,took an unusual quantity of wine, but not enough to loosen histongue: for when he came in and found me quietly occupied with mybook, too busy to lift my head on his entrance, he merely murmuredan expression of suppressed disapprobation, and, shutting the doorwith a bang, went and stretched himself at full length on the sofa,and composed himself to sleep. But his favourite cocker, Dash,that had been lying at my feet, took the liberty of jumping uponhim and beginning to lick his face. He struck it off with a smartblow, and the poor dog squeaked and ran cowering back to me. Whenhe woke up, about half an hour after, he called it to him again,but Dash only looked sheepish and wagged the tip of his tail. Hecalled again more sharply, but Dash only clung the closer to me,and licked my hand, as if imploring protection. Enraged at this,his master snatched up a heavy book and hurled it at his head. Thepoor dog set up a piteous outcry, and ran to the door. I let himout, and then quietly took up the book.

'Give that book to me,' said Arthur, in no very courteous tone. Igave it to him.

'Why did you let the dog out?' he asked; 'you knew I wanted him.'

'By what token?' I replied; 'by your throwing the book at him? butperhaps it was intended for me?'

'No; but I see you've got a taste of it,' said he, looking at myhand, that had also been struck, and was rather severely grazed.

I returned to my reading, and he endeavoured to occupy himself inthe same manner; but in a little while, after several portentousyawns, he pronounced his book to be 'cursed trash,' and threw it onthe table. Then followed eight or ten minutes of silence, duringthe greater part of which, I believe, he was staring at me. Atlast his patience was tired out.

'What is that book, Helen?' he exclaimed.

I told him.

'Is it interesting?'

'Yes, very.'

I went on reading, or pretending to read, at least - I cannot saythere was much communication between my eyes and my brain; for,while the former ran over the pages, the latter was earnestlywondering when Arthur would speak next, and what he would say, andwhat I should answer. But he did not speak again till I rose tomake the tea, and then it was only to say he should not take any.He continued lounging on the sofa, and alternately closing his eyesand looking at his watch and at me, till bed-time, when I rose, andtook my candle and retired.

'Helen!' cried he, the moment I had left the room. I turned back,and stood awaiting his commands.

'What do you want, Arthur?' I said at length.

'Nothing,' replied he. 'Go!'

I went, but hearing him mutter something as I was closing the door,I turned again. It sounded very like 'confounded slut,' but I wasquite willing it should be something else.

'Were you speaking, Arthur?' I asked.

'No,' was the answer, and I shut the door and departed. I sawnothing more of him till the following morning at breakfast, whenhe came down a full hour after the usual time.

'You're very late,' was my morning's salutation.

'You needn't have waited for me,' was his; and he walked up to thewindow again. It was just such weather as yesterday.

'Oh, this confounded rain!' he muttered. But, after studiouslyregarding it for a minute or two, a bright idea, seemed to strikehim, for he suddenly exclaimed, 'But I know what I'll do!' and thenreturned and took his seat at the table. The letter-bag wasalready there, waiting to be opened. He unlocked it and examinedthe contents, but said nothing about them.

'Is there anything for me?' I asked.

'No.'

He opened the newspaper and began to read.

'You'd better take your coffee,' suggested I; 'it will be coldagain.'

'You may go,' said he, 'if you've done; I don't want you.'

I rose and withdrew to the next room, wondering if we were to haveanother such miserable day as yesterday, and wishing intensely foran end of these mutually inflicted torments. Shortly after I heardhim ring the bell and give some orders about his wardrobe thatsounded as if he meditated a long journey. He then sent for thecoachman, and I heard something about the carriage and the horses,and London, and seven o'clock to-morrow morning, that startled anddisturbed me not a little.

'I must not let him go to London, whatever comes of it,' said I tomyself; 'he will run into all kinds of mischief, and I shall be thecause of it. But the question is, How am I to alter his purpose?Well, I will wait awhile, and see if he mentions it.'

I waited most anxiously, from hour to hour; but not a word wasspoken, on that or any other subject, to me. He whistled andtalked to his dogs, and wandered from room to room, much the sameas on the previous day. At last I began to think I must introducethe subject myself, and was pondering how to bring it about, whenJohn unwittingly came to my relief with the following message fromthe coachman:

'Please, sir, Richard says one of the horses has got a very badcold, and he thinks, sir, if you could make it convenient to go theday after to-morrow, instead of to-morrow, he could physic it to-day, so as - '

'Confound his impudence!' interjected the master.

'Please, sir, he says it would be a deal better if you could,'persisted John, 'for he hopes there'll be a change in the weathershortly, and he says it's not likely, when a horse is so bad with acold, and physicked and all - '

'Devil take the horse!' cried the gentleman. 'Well, tell him I'llthink about it,' he added, after a moment's reflection. He cast asearching glance at me, as the servant withdrew, expecting to seesome token of deep astonishment and alarm; but, being previouslyprepared, I preserved an aspect of stoical indifference. Hiscountenance fell as he met my steady gaze, and he turned away invery obvious disappointment, and walked up to the fire-place, wherehe stood in an attitude of undisguised dejection, leaning againstthe chimney-piece with his forehead sunk upon his arm.

'Where do you want to go, Arthur?' said I.

'To London,' replied he, gravely.

'What for?' I asked.

'Because I cannot be happy here.'

'Why not?'

'Because my wife doesn't love me.'

'She would love you with all her heart, if you deserved it.'

'What must I do to deserve it?'

This seemed humble and earnest enough; and I was so much affected,between sorrow and joy, that I was obliged to pause a few secondsbefore I could steady my voice to reply.

'If she gives you her heart,' said I, 'you must take it,thankfully, and use it well, and not pull it in pieces, and laughin her face, because she cannot snatch it away.'

He now turned round, and stood facing me, with his back to thefire. 'Come, then, Helen, are you going to be a good girl?' saidhe.

This sounded rather too arrogant, and the smile that accompanied itdid not please me. I therefore hesitated to reply. Perhaps myformer answer had implied too much: he had heard my voice falter,and might have seen me brush away a tear.

'Are you going to forgive me, Helen?' he resumed, more humbly.

'Are you penitent?' I replied, stepping up to him and smiling inhis face.

'Heart-broken!' he answered, with a rueful countenance, yet with amerry smile just lurking within his eyes and about the corners ofhis mouth; but this could not repulse me, and I flew into his arms.He fervently embraced me, and though I shed a torrent of tears, Ithink I never was happier in my life than at that moment.

'Then you won't go to London, Arthur?' I said, when the firsttransport of tears and kisses had subsided.

'No, love, - unless you will go with me.'

'I will, gladly,' I answered, 'if you think the change will amuseyou, and if you will put off the journey till next week.'

He readily consented, but said there was no need of muchpreparation, as he should not be for staying long, for he did notwish me to be Londonized, and to lose my country freshness andoriginality by too much intercourse with the ladies of the world.I thought this folly; but I did not wish to contradict him now: Imerely said that I was of very domestic habits, as he well knew,and had no particular wish to mingle with the world.

So we are to go to London on Monday, the day after to-morrow. Itis now four days since the termination of our quarrel, and I amsure it has done us both good: it has made me like Arthur a greatdeal better, and made him behave a great deal better to me. He hasnever once attempted to annoy me since, by the most distantallusion to Lady F-, or any of those disagreeable reminiscences ofhis former life. I wish I could blot them from my memory, or elseget him to regard such matters in the same light as I do. Well! itis something, however, to have made him see that they are not fitsubjects for a conjugal jest. He may see further some time. Iwill put no limits to my hopes; and, in spite of my aunt'sforebodings and my own unspoken fears, I trust we shall be happyyet.