On the eighth of April we went to London, on the eighth of May Ireturned, in obedience to Arthur's wish; very much against my own,because I left him behind. If he had come with me, I should havebeen very glad to get home again, for he led me such a round ofrestless dissipation while there, that, in that short space oftime, I was quite tired out. He seemed bent upon displaying me tohis friends and acquaintances in particular, and the public ingeneral, on every possible occasion, and to the greatest possibleadvantage. It was something to feel that he considered me a worthyobject of pride; but I paid dear for the gratification: for, inthe first place, to please him I had to violate my cherishedpredilections, my almost rooted principles in favour of a plain,dark, sober style of dress - I must sparkle in costly jewels anddeck myself out like a painted butterfly, just as I had, longsince, determined I would never do - and this was no triflingsacrifice; in the second place, I was continually straining tosatisfy his sanguine expectations and do honour to his choice by mygeneral conduct and deportment, and fearing to disappoint him bysome awkward misdemeanour, or some trait of inexperienced ignoranceabout the customs of society, especially when I acted the part ofhostess, which I was not unfrequently called upon to do; and, inthe third place, as I intimated before, I was wearied of the throngand bustle, the restless hurry and ceaseless change of a life soalien to all my previous habits. At last, he suddenly discoveredthat the London air did not agree with me, and I was languishingfor my country home, and must immediately return to Grassdale.

I laughingly assured him that the case was not so urgent as heappeared to think it, but I was quite willing to go home if he was.He replied that he should be obliged to remain a week or twolonger, as he had business that required his presence.

'Then I will stay with you,' said I.

'But I can't do with you, Helen,' was his answer: 'as long as youstay I shall attend to you and neglect my business.'

'But I won't let you,' I returned; 'now that I know you havebusiness to attend to, I shall insist upon your attending to it,and letting me alone; and, to tell the truth, I shall be glad of alittle rest. I can take my rides and walks in the Park as usual;and your business cannot occupy all your time: I shall see you atmeal-times, and in the evenings at least, and that will be betterthan being leagues away and never seeing you at all.'

'But, my love, I cannot let you stay. How can I settle my affairswhen I know that you are here, neglected -?'

'I shall not feel myself neglected: while you are doing your duty,Arthur, I shall never complain of neglect. If you had told mebefore, that you had anything to do, it would have been half donebefore this; and now you must make up for lost time by redoubledexertions. Tell me what it is; and I will be your taskmaster,instead of being a hindrance.'

'No, no,' persisted the impracticable creature; 'you must go home,Helen; I must have the satisfaction of knowing that you are safeand well, though far away. Your bright eyes are faded, and thattender, delicate bloom has quite deserted your cheek.'

'That is only with too much gaiety and fatigue.'

'It is not, I tell you; it is the London air: you are pining forthe fresh breezes of your country home, and you shall feel thembefore you are two days older. And remember your situation,dearest Helen; on your health, you know, depends the health, if notthe life, of our future hope.'

'Then you really wish to get rid of me?'

'Positively, I do; and I will take you down myself to Grassdale,and then return. I shall not be absent above a week or fortnightat most.'

'But if I must go, I will go alone: if you must stay, it isneedless to waste your time in the journey there and back.'

But he did not like the idea of sending me alone.

'Why, what helpless creature do you take me for,' I replied, 'thatyou cannot trust me to go a hundred miles in our own carriage, withour own footman and a maid to attend me? If you come with me Ishall assuredly keep you. But tell me, Arthur, what is thistiresome business; and why did you never mention it before?'

'It is only a little business with my lawyer,' said he; and he toldme something about a piece of property he wanted to sell, in orderto pay off a part of the incumbrances on his estate; but either theaccount was a little confused, or I was rather dull ofcomprehension, for I could not clearly understand how that shouldkeep him in town a fortnight after me. Still less can I nowcomprehend how it should keep him a month, for it is nearly thattime since I left him, and no signs of his return as yet. In everyletter he promises to be with me in a few days, and every timedeceives me, or deceives himself. His excuses are vague andinsufficient. I cannot doubt that he has got among his formercompanions again. Oh, why did I leave him! I wish - I dointensely wish he would return!

June 29th. - No Arthur yet; and for many days I have been lookingand longing in vain for a letter. His letters, when they come, arekind, if fair words and endearing epithets can give them a claim tothe title - but very short, and full of trivial excuses andpromises that I cannot trust; and yet how anxiously I look forwardto them I how eagerly I open and devour one of those little,hastily-scribbled returns for the three or four long letters,hitherto unanswered, he has had from me!

Oh, it is cruel to leave me so long alone! He knows I have no onebut Rachel to speak to, for we have no neighbours here, except theHargraves, whose residence I can dimly descry from these upperwindows embosomed among those low, woody hills beyond the Dale. Iwas glad when I learnt that Milicent was so near us; and hercompany would be a soothing solace to me now; but she is still intown with her mother; there is no one at the Grove but littleEsther and her French governess, for Walter is always away. I sawthat paragon of manly perfections in London: he seemed scarcely tomerit the eulogiums of his mother and sister, though he certainlyappeared more conversable and agreeable than Lord Lowborough, morecandid and high-minded than Mr. Grimsby, and more polished andgentlemanly than Mr. Hattersley, Arthur's only other friend whom hejudged fit to introduce to me. - Oh, Arthur, why won't you come?why won't you write to me at least? You talked about my health:how can you expect me to gather bloom and vigour here, pining insolitude and restless anxiety from day to day? - It would serve youright to come back and find my good looks entirely wasted away. Iwould beg my uncle and aunt, or my brother, to come and see me, butI do not like to complain of my loneliness to them, and indeedloneliness is the least of my sufferings. But what is he, doing -what is it that keeps him away? It is this ever-recurringquestion, and the horrible suggestions it raises, that distract me.

July 3rd. - My last bitter letter has wrung from him an answer atlast, and a rather longer one than usual; but still I don't knowwhat to make of it. He playfully abuses me for the gall andvinegar of my latest effusion, tells me I can have no conception ofthe multitudinous engagements that keep him away, but avers that,in spite of them all, he will assuredly be with me before the closeof next week; though it is impossible for a man so circumstanced ashe is to fix the precise day of his return: meantime he exhorts meto the exercise of patience, 'that first of woman's virtues,' anddesires me to remember the saying, 'Absence makes the heart growfonder,' and comfort myself with the assurance that the longer hestays away the better he shall love me when he returns; and till hedoes return, he begs I will continue to write to him constantly,for, though he is sometimes too idle and often too busy to answermy letters as they come, he likes to receive them daily; and if Ifulfil my threat of punishing his seeming neglect by ceasing towrite, he shall be so angry that he will do his utmost to forgetme. He adds this piece of intelligence respecting poor MilicentHargrave:

'Your little friend Milicent is likely, before long, to follow yourexample, and take upon her the yoke of matrimony in conjunctionwith a friend of mine. Hattersley, you know, has not yet fulfilledhis direful threat of throwing his precious person away on thefirst old maid that chose to evince a tenderness for him; but hestill preserves a resolute determination to see himself a marriedman before the year is out. "Only," said he to me, "I must havesomebody that will let me have my own way in everything - not likeyour wife, Huntingdon: she is a charming creature, but she looksas if she had a will of her own, and could play the vixen uponoccasion" (I thought "you're right there, man," but I didn't sayso). "I must have some good, quiet soul that will let me just dowhat I like and go where I like, keep at home or stay away, withouta word of reproach or complaint; for I can't do with beingbothered." "Well," said I, "I know somebody that will suit you toa tee, if you don't care for money, and that's Hargrave's sister,Milicent." He desired to be introduced to her forthwith, for hesaid he had plenty of the needful himself, or should have when hisold governor chose to quit the stage. So you see, Helen, I havemanaged pretty well, both for your friend and mine.'

Poor Milicent! But I cannot imagine she will ever be led to acceptsuch a suitor - one so repugnant to all her ideas of a man to behonoured and loved.

5th. - Alas! I was mistaken. I have got a long letter from herthis morning, telling me she is already engaged, and expects to bemarried before the close of the month.

'I hardly know what to say about it,' she writes, 'or what tothink. To tell you the truth, Helen, I don't like the thoughts ofit at all. If I am to be Mr. Hattersley's wife, I must try to lovehim; and I do try with all my might; but I have made very littleprogress yet; and the worst symptom of the case is, that thefurther he is from me the better I like him: he frightens me withhis abrupt manners and strange hectoring ways, and I dread thethoughts of marrying him. "Then why have you accepted him?" youwill ask; and I didn't know I had accepted him; but mamma tells meI have, and he seems to think so too. I certainly didn't mean todo so; but I did not like to give him a flat refusal, for fearmamma should be grieved and angry (for I knew she wished me tomarry him), and I wanted to talk to her first about it: So I gavehim what I thought was an evasive, half negative answer; but shesays it was as good as an acceptance, and he would think me verycapricious if I were to attempt to draw back - and indeed I was soconfused and frightened at the moment, I can hardly tell what Isaid. And next time I saw him, he accosted me in all confidence ashis affianced bride, and immediately began to settle matters withmamma. I had not courage to contradict them then, and how can I doit now? I cannot; they would think me mad. Besides, mamma is sodelighted with the idea of the match; she thinks she has managed sowell for me; and I cannot bear to disappoint her. I do objectsometimes, and tell her what I feel, but you don't know how shetalks. Mr. Hattersley, you know, is the son of a rich banker, andas Esther and I have no fortunes, and Walter very little, our dearmamma is very anxious to see us all well married, that is, unitedto rich partners. It is not my idea of being well married, but shemeans it all for the best. She says when I am safe off her handsit will be such a relief to her mind; and she assures me it will bea good thing for the family as well as for me. Even Walter ispleased at the prospect, and when I confessed my reluctance to him,he said it was all childish nonsense. Do you think it nonsense,Helen? I should not care if I could see any prospect of being ableto love and admire him, but I can't. There is nothing about him tohang one's esteem and affection upon; he is so diametricallyopposite to what I imagined my husband should be. Do write to me,and say all you can to encourage me. Don't attempt to dissuade me,for my fate is fixed: preparations for the important event arealready going on around me; and don't say a word against Mr.Hattersley, for I want to think well of him; and though I havespoken against him myself, it is for the last time: hereafter, Ishall never permit myself to utter a word in his dispraise, howeverhe may seem to deserve it; and whoever ventures to speakslightingly of the man I have promised to love, to honour, andobey, must expect my serious displeasure. After all, I think he isquite as good as Mr. Huntingdon, if not better; and yet you lovehim, and seem to be happy and contented; and perhaps I may manageas well. You must tell me, if you can, that Mr. Hattersley isbetter than he seems - that he is upright, honourable, and open-hearted - in fact, a perfect diamond in the rough. He may be allthis, but I don't know him. I know only the exterior, and what, Itrust, is the worst part of him.'

She concludes with 'Good-by, dear Helen. I am waiting anxiouslyfor your advice - but mind you let it be all on the right side.'

Alas! poor Milicent, what encouragement can I give you? or whatadvice - except that it is better to make a bold stand now, thoughat the expense of disappointing and angering both mother andbrother and lover, than to devote your whole life, hereafter, tomisery and vain regret?

Saturday, 13th. - The week is over, and he is not come. All thesweet summer is passing away without one breath of pleasure to meor benefit to him. And I had all along been looking forward tothis season with the fond, delusive hope that we should enjoy it sosweetly together; and that, with God's help and my exertions, itwould be the means of elevating his mind, and refining his taste toa due appreciation of the salutary and pure delights of nature, andpeace, and holy love. But now - at evening, when I see the roundred sun sink quietly down behind those woody hills, leaving themsleeping in a warm, red, golden haze, I only think another lovelyday is lost to him and me; and at morning, when roused by theflutter and chirp of the sparrows, and the gleeful twitter of theswallows - all intent upon feeding their young, and full of lifeand joy in their own little frames - I open the window to inhalethe balmy, soul-reviving air, and look out upon the lovelylandscape, laughing in dew and sunshine - I too often shame thatglorious scene with tears of thankless misery, because he cannotfeel its freshening influence; and when I wander in the ancientwoods, and meet the little wild flowers smiling in my path, or sitin the shadow of our noble ash-trees by the water-side, with theirbranches gently swaying in the light summer breeze that murmursthrough their feathery foliage - my ears full of that low musicmingled with the dreamy hum of insects, my eyes abstractedly gazingon the glassy surface of the little lake before me, with the treesthat crowd about its bank, some gracefully bending to kiss itswaters, some rearing their stately heads high above, but stretchingtheir wide arms over its margin, all faithfully mirrored far, fardown in its glassy depth - though sometimes the images arepartially broken by the sport of aquatic insects, and sometimes,for a moment, the whole is shivered into trembling fragments by atransient breeze that sweeps the surface too roughly - still I haveno pleasure; for the greater the happiness that nature sets beforeme, the more I lament that he is not here to taste it: the greaterthe bliss we might enjoy together, the more I feel our presentwretchedness apart (yes, ours; he must be wretched, though he maynot know it); and the more my senses are pleased, the more my heartis oppressed; for he keeps it with him confined amid the dust andsmoke of London - perhaps shut up within the walls of his ownabominable club.

But most of all, at night, when I enter my lonely chamber, and lookout upon the summer moon, 'sweet regent of the sky,' floating aboveme in the 'black blue vault of heaven,' shedding a flood of silverradiance over park, and wood, and water, so pure, so peaceful, sodivine - and think, Where is he now? - what is he doing at thismoment? wholly unconscious of this heavenly scene - perhapsrevelling with his boon companions, perhaps - God help me, it istoo - too much!

23rd. - Thank heaven, he is come at last! But how altered! flushedand feverish, listless and languid, his beauty strangelydiminished, his vigour and vivacity quite departed. I have notupbraided him by word or look; I have not even asked him what hehas been doing. I have not the heart to do it, for I think he isashamed of himself-he must be so indeed, and such inquiries couldnot fail to be painful to both. My forbearance pleases him -touches him even, I am inclined to think. He says he is glad to behome again, and God knows how glad I am to get him back, even as heis. He lies on the sofa, nearly all day long; and I play and singto him for hours together. I write his letters for him, and gethim everything he wants; and sometimes I read to him, and sometimesI talk, and sometimes only sit by him and soothe him with silentcaresses. I know he does not deserve it; and I fear I am spoilinghim; but this once, I will forgive him, freely and entirely. Iwill shame him into virtue if I can, and I will never let him leaveme again.

He is pleased with my attentions - it may be, grateful for them.He likes to have me near him: and though he is peevish and testywith his servants and his dogs, he is gentle and kind to me. Whathe would be, if I did not so watchfully anticipate his wants, andso carefully avoid, or immediately desist from doing anything thathas a tendency to irritate or disturb him, with however littlereason, I cannot tell. How intensely I wish he were worthy of allthis care! Last night, as I sat beside him, with his head in mylap, passing my fingers through his beautiful curls, this thoughtmade my eyes overflow with sorrowful tears - as it often does; butthis time, a tear fell on his face and made him look up. Hesmiled, but not insultingly.

'Dear Helen!' he said - 'why do you cry? you know that I love you'(and he pressed my hand to his feverish lips), 'and what more couldyou desire?'

'Only, Arthur, that you would love yourself as truly and asfaithfully as you are loved by me.'

'That would be hard, indeed!' he replied, tenderly squeezing myhand.

August 24th. - Arthur is himself again, as lusty and reckless, aslight of heart and head as ever, and as restless and hard to amuseas a spoilt child, and almost as full of mischief too, especiallywhen wet weather keeps him within doors. I wish he had somethingto do, some useful trade, or profession, or employment - anythingto occupy his head or his hands for a few hours a day, and give himsomething besides his own pleasure to think about. If he wouldplay the country gentleman and attend to the farm - but that heknows nothing about, and won't give his mind to consider, - or ifhe would take up with some literary study, or learn to draw or toplay - as he is so fond of music, I often try to persuade him tolearn the piano, but he is far too idle for such an undertaking:he has no more idea of exerting himself to overcome obstacles thanhe has of restraining his natural appetites; and these two thingsare the ruin of him. I lay them both to the charge of his harshyet careless father, and his madly indulgent mother. - If ever I ama mother I will zealously strive against this crime of over-indulgence. I can hardly give it a milder name when I think of theevils it brings.

Happily, it will soon be the shooting season, and then, if theweather permit, he will find occupation enough in the pursuit anddestruction of the partridges and pheasants: we have no grouse, orhe might have been similarly occupied at this moment, instead oflying under the acacia-tree pulling poor Dash's ears. But he saysit is dull work shooting alone; he must have a friend or two tohelp him.

'Let them be tolerably decent then, Arthur,' said I. The word'friend' in his mouth makes me shudder: I know it was some of his'friends' that induced him to stay behind me in London, and kepthim away so long: indeed, from what he has unguardedly told me, orhinted from time to time, I cannot doubt that he frequently showedthem my letters, to let them see how fondly his wife watched overhis interests, and how keenly she regretted his absence; and thatthey induced him to remain week after week, and to plunge into allmanner of excesses, to avoid being laughed at for a wife-riddenfool, and, perhaps, to show how far he could venture to go withoutdanger of shaking the fond creature's devoted attachment. It is ahateful idea, but I cannot believe it is a false one.

'Well,' replied he, 'I thought of Lord Lowborough for one; butthere is no possibility of getting him without his better half, ourmutual friend, Annabella; so we must ask them both. You're notafraid of her, are you, Helen?' he asked, with a mischievoustwinkle in his eyes.

'Of course not,' I answered: 'why should I? And who besides?'

'Hargrave for one. He will be glad to come, though his own placeis so near, for he has little enough land of his own to shoot over,and we can extend our depredations into it, if we like; and he isthoroughly respectable, you know, Helen - quite a lady's man: andI think, Grimsby for another: he's a decent, quiet fellow enough.You'll not object to Grimsby?'

'I hate him: but, however, if you wish it, I'll try to endure hispresence for a while.'

'All a prejudice, Helen, a mere woman's antipathy.'

'No; I have solid grounds for my dislike. And is that all?'

'Why, yes, I think so. Hattersley will be too busy billing andcooing, with his bride to have much time to spare for guns and dogsat present,' he replied. And that reminds me, that I have hadseveral letters from Milicent since her marriage, and that sheeither is, or pretends to be, quite reconciled to her lot. Sheprofesses to have discovered numberless virtues and perfections inher husband, some of which, I fear, less partial eyes would fail todistinguish, though they sought them carefully with tears; and nowthat she is accustomed to his loud voice, and abrupt, uncourteousmanners, she affirms she finds no difficulty in loving him as awife should do, and begs I will burn that letter wherein she spokeso unadvisedly against him. So that I trust she may yet be happy;but, if she is, it will be entirely the reward of her own goodnessof heart; for had she chosen to consider herself the victim offate, or of her mother's worldly wisdom, she might have beenthoroughly miserable; and if, for duty's sake, she had not madeevery effort to love her husband, she would, doubtless, have hatedhim to the end of her days.