October 5th. - Esther Hargrave is getting a fine girl. She is notout of the school-room yet, but her mother frequently brings herover to call in the mornings when the gentlemen are out, andsometimes she spends an hour or two in company with her sister andme, and the children; and when we go to the Grove, I alwayscontrive to see her, and talk more to her than to any one else, forI am very much attached to my little friend, and so is she to me.I wonder what she can see to like in me though, for I am no longerthe happy, lively girl I used to be; but she has no other society,save that of her uncongenial mother, and her governess (asartificial and conventional a person as that prudent mother couldprocure to rectify the pupil's natural qualities), and, now andthen, her subdued, quiet sister. I often wonder what will be herlot in life, and so does she; but her speculations on the futureare full of buoyant hope; so were mine once. I shudder to think ofher being awakened, like me, to a sense of their delusive vanity.It seems as if I should feel her disappointment, even more deeplythan my own. I feel almost as if I were born for such a fate, butshe is so joyous and fresh, so light of heart and free of spirit,and so guileless and unsuspecting too. Oh, it would be cruel tomake her feel as I feel now, and know what I have known!

Her sister trembles for her too. Yesterday morning, one ofOctober's brightest, loveliest days, Milicent and I were in thegarden enjoying a brief half-hour together with our children, whileAnnabella was lying on the drawing-room sofa, deep in the last newnovel. We had been romping with the little creatures, almost asmerry and wild as themselves, and now paused in the shade of thetall copper beech, to recover breath and rectify our hair,disordered by the rough play and the frolicsome breeze, while theytoddled together along the broad, sunny walk; my Arthur supportingthe feebler steps of her little Helen, and sagaciously pointing outto her the brightest beauties of the border as they passed, withsemi-articulate prattle, that did as well for her as any other modeof discourse. From laughing at the pretty sight, we began to talkof the children's future life; and that made us thoughtful. Weboth relapsed into silent musing as we slowly proceeded up thewalk; and I suppose Milicent, by a train of associations, was ledto think of her sister.

'Helen,' said she, 'you often see Esther, don't you?'

'Not very often.'

'But you have more frequent opportunities of meeting her than Ihave; and she loves you, I know, and reverences you too: there isnobody's opinion she thinks so much of; and she says you have moresense than mamma.'

'That is because she is self-willed, and my opinions more generallycoincide with her own than your mamma's. But what then, Milicent?'

'Well, since you have so much influence with her, I wish you wouldseriously impress it upon her, never, on any account, or foranybody's persuasion, to marry for the sake of money, or rank, orestablishment, or any earthly thing, but true affection and well-grounded esteem.'

'There is no necessity for that,' said I, 'for we have had somediscourse on that subject already, and I assure you her ideas oflove and matrimony are as romantic as any one could desire.'

'But romantic notions will not do: I want her to have truenotions.'

'Very right: but in my judgment, what the world stigmatises asromantic, is often more nearly allied to the truth than is commonlysupposed; for, if the generous ideas of youth are too often over-clouded by the sordid views of after-life, that scarcely provesthem to be false.'

'Well, but if you think her ideas are what they ought to be,strengthen them, will you? and confirm them, as far as you can; forI had romantic notions once, and - I don't mean to say that Iregret my lot, for I am quite sure I don't, but - '

'I understand you,' said I; 'you are contented for yourself, butyou would not have your sister to suffer the same as you.'

'No - or worse. She might have far worse to suffer than I, for Iam really contented, Helen, though you mayn't think it: I speakthe solemn truth in saying that I would not exchange my husband forany man on earth, if I might do it by the plucking of this leaf.'

'Well, I believe you: now that you have him, you would notexchange him for another; but then you would gladly exchange someof his qualities for those of better men.'

'Yes: just as I would gladly exchange some of my own qualities forthose of better women; for neither he nor I are perfect, and Idesire his improvement as earnestly as my own. And he willimprove, don't you think so, Helen? he's only six-and-twenty yet.'

'He may,' I answered,

'He will, he WILL!' repeated she.

'Excuse the faintness of my acquiescence, Milicent, I would notdiscourage your hopes for the world, but mine have been so oftendisappointed, that I am become as cold and doubtful in myexpectations as the flattest of octogenarians.'

'And yet you do hope, still, even for Mr. Huntingdon?'

'I do, I confess, "even" for him; for it seems as if life and hopemust cease together. And is he so much worse, Milicent, than Mr.Hattersley?'

'Well, to give you my candid opinion, I think there is nocomparison between them. But you mustn't be offended, Helen, foryou know I always speak my mind, and you may speak yours too. Isha'n't care.'

'I am not offended, love; and my opinion is, that if there be acomparison made between the two, the difference, for the most part,is certainly in Hattersley's favour.'

Milicent's own heart told her how much it cost me to make thisacknowledgment; and, with a childlike impulse, she expressed hersympathy by suddenly kissing my cheek, without a word of reply, andthen turning quickly away, caught up her baby, and hid her face inits frock. How odd it is that we so often weep for each other'sdistresses, when we shed not a tear for our own! Her heart hadbeen full enough of her own sorrows, but it overflowed at the ideaof mine; and I, too, shed tears at the sight of her sympatheticemotion, though I had not wept for myself for many a week.

It was one rainy day last week; most of the company were killingtime in the billiard-room, but Milicent and I were with littleArthur and Helen in the library, and between our books, ourchildren, and each other, we expected to make out a very agreeablemorning. We had not been thus secluded above two hours, however,when Mr. Hattersley came in, attracted, I suppose, by the voice ofhis child, as he was crossing the hall, for he is prodigiously fondof her, and she of him.

He was redolent of the stables, where he had been regaling himselfwith the company of his fellow-creatures the horses ever sincebreakfast. But that was no matter to my little namesake; as soonas the colossal person of her father darkened the door, she uttereda shrill scream of delight, and, quitting her mother's side, rancrowing towards him, balancing her course with outstretched arms,and embracing his knee, threw back her head and laughed in hisface. He might well look smilingly down upon those small, fairfeatures, radiant with innocent mirth, those clear blue shiningeyes, and that soft flaxen hair cast back upon the little ivoryneck and shoulders. Did he not think how unworthy he was of such apossession? I fear no such idea crossed his mind. He caught herup, and there followed some minutes of very rough play, duringwhich it is difficult to say whether the father or the daughterlaughed and shouted the loudest. At length, however, theboisterous pastime terminated, suddenly, as might be expected: thelittle one was hurt, and began to cry; and the ungentle play-fellowtossed it into its mother's lap, bidding her 'make all straight.'As happy to return to that gentle comforter as it had been to leaveher, the child nestled in her arms, and hushed its cries in amoment; and sinking its little weary head on her bosom, soondropped asleep.

Meantime Mr. Hattersley strode up to the fire, and interposing hisheight and breadth between us and it, stood with arms akimbo,expanding his chest, and gazing round him as if the house and allits appurtenances and contents were his own undisputed possessions.

'Deuced bad weather this!' he began. 'There'll be no shooting to-day, I guess.' Then, suddenly lifting up his voice, he regaled uswith a few bars of a rollicking song, which abruptly ceasing, hefinished the tune with a whistle, and then continued:- 'I say, Mrs.Huntingdon, what a fine stud your husband has! not large, but good.I've been looking at them a bit this morning; and upon my word,Black Boss, and Grey Tom, and that young Nimrod are the finestanimals I've seen for many a day!' Then followed a particulardiscussion of their various merits, succeeded by a sketch of thegreat things he intended to do in the horse-jockey line, when hisold governor thought proper to quit the stage. 'Not that I wishhim to close his accounts,' added he: 'the old Trojan is welcometo keep his books open as long as he pleases for me.'

'I hope so, indeed, Mr. Hattersley.'

'Oh, yes! It's only my way of talking. The event must come sometime, and so I look to the bright side of it: that's the rightplan - isn't it, Mrs. H.? What are you two doing here? By-the-by,where's Lady Lowborough?'

'In the billiard-room.'

'What a splendid creature she is!' continued he, fixing his eyes onhis wife, who changed colour, and looked more and more disconcertedas he proceeded. 'What a noble figure she has; and whatmagnificent black eyes; and what a fine spirit of her own; and whata tongue of her own, too, when she likes to use it. I perfectlyadore her! But never mind, Milicent: I wouldn't have her for mywife, not if she'd a kingdom for her dowry! I'm better satisfiedwith the one I have. Now then! what do you look so sulky for?don't you believe me?'

'Yes, I believe you,' murmured she, in a tone of half sad, halfsullen resignation, as she turned away to stroke the hair of hersleeping infant, that she had laid on the sofa beside her.

'Well, then, what makes you so cross? Come here, Milly, and tellme why you can't be satisfied with my assurance.'

She went, and putting her little hand within his arm, looked up inhis face, and said softly, -

'What does it amount to, Ralph? Only to this, that though youadmire Annabella so much, and for qualities that I don't possess,you would still rather have me than her for your wife, which merelyproves that you don't think it necessary to love your wife; you aresatisfied if she can keep your house, and take care of your child.But I'm not cross; I'm only sorry; for,' added she, in a low,tremulous accent, withdrawing her hand from his arm, and bendingher looks on the rug, 'if you don't love me, you don't, and itcan't be helped.'

'Very true; but who told you I didn't? Did I say I lovedAnnabella?'

'You said you adored her.'

'True, but adoration isn't love. I adore Annabella, but I don'tlove her; and I love thee, Milicent, but I don't adore thee.' Inproof of his affection, he clutched a handful of her light brownringlets, and appeared to twist them unmercifully.

'Do you really, Ralph?' murmured she, with a faint smile beamingthrough her tears, just putting up her hand to his, in token thathe pulled rather too hard.

'To be sure I do,' responded he: 'only you bother me rather,sometimes.'

'I bother you!' cried she, in very natural surprise.

'Yes, you - but only by your exceeding goodness. When a boy hasbeen eating raisins and sugar-plums all day, he longs for a squeezeof sour orange by way of a change. And did you never, Milly,observe the sands on the sea-shore; how nice and smooth they look,and how soft and easy they feel to the foot? But if you plodalong, for half an hour, over this soft, easy carpet - giving wayat every step, yielding the more the harder you press, - you'llfind it rather wearisome work, and be glad enough to come to a bitof good, firm rock, that won't budge an inch whether you stand,walk, or stamp upon it; and, though it be hard as the nethermillstone, you'll find it the easier footing after all.'

'I know what you mean, Ralph,' said she, nervously playing with herwatchguard and tracing the figure on the rug with the point of hertiny foot - 'I know what you mean: but I thought you always likedto be yielded to, and I can't alter now.'

'I do like it,' replied he, bringing her to him by another tug ather hair. 'You mustn't mind my talk, Milly. A man must havesomething to grumble about; and if he can't complain that his wifeharries him to death with her perversity and ill-humour, he mustcomplain that she wears him out with her kindness and gentleness.'

'But why complain at all, unless because you are tired anddissatisfied?'

'To excuse my own failings, to be sure. Do you think I'll bear allthe burden of my sins on my own shoulders, as long as there'sanother ready to help me, with none of her own to carry?'

'There is no such one on earth,' said she seriously; and then,taking his hand from her head, she kissed it with an air of genuinedevotion, and tripped away to the door.

'What now?' said he. 'Where are you going?'

'To tidy my hair,' she answered, smiling through her disorderedlocks; 'you've made it all come down.'

'Off with you then! - An excellent little woman,' he remarked whenshe was gone, 'but a thought too soft - she almost melts in one'shands. I positively think I ill-use her sometimes, when I've takentoo much - but I can't help it, for she never complains, either atthe time or after. I suppose she doesn't mind it.'

'I can enlighten you on that subject, Mr. Hattersley,' said I:'she does mind it; and some other things she minds still more,which yet you may never hear her complain of.'

'How do you know? - does she complain to you?' demanded he, with asudden spark of fury ready to burst into a flame if I should answer"yes."

'No,' I replied; 'but I have known her longer and studied her moreclosely than you have done. - And I can tell you, Mr. Hattersley,that Milicent loves you more than you deserve, and that you have itin your power to make her very happy, instead of which you are herevil genius, and, I will venture to say, there is not a single daypasses in which you do not inflict upon her some pang that youmight spare her if you would.'

'Well - it's not my fault,' said he, gazing carelessly up at theceiling and plunging his hands into his pockets: 'if my ongoingsdon't suit her, she should tell me so.'

'Is she not exactly the wife you wanted? Did you not tell Mr.Huntingdon you must have one that would submit to anything withouta murmur, and never blame you, whatever you did?'

'True, but we shouldn't always have what we want: it spoils thebest of us, doesn't it? How can I help playing the deuce when Isee it's all one to her whether I behave like a Christian or like ascoundrel, such as nature made me? and how can I help teasing herwhen she's so invitingly meek and mim, when she lies down like aspaniel at my feet and never so much as squeaks to tell me that'senough?'

'If you are a tyrant by nature, the temptation is strong, I allow;but no generous mind delights to oppress the weak, but rather tocherish and protect.'

'I don't oppress her; but it's so confounded flat to be alwayscherishing and protecting; and then, how can I tell that I amoppressing her when she "melts away and makes no sign"? Isometimes think she has no feeling at all; and then I go on tillshe cries, and that satisfies me.'

'Then you do delight to oppress her?'

'I don't, I tell you! only when I'm in a bad humour, or aparticularly good one, and want to afflict for the pleasure ofcomforting; or when she looks flat and wants shaking up a bit. Andsometimes she provokes me by crying for nothing, and won't tell mewhat it's for; and then, I allow, it enrages me past bearing,especially when I'm not my own man.'

'As is no doubt generally the case on such occasions,' said I.'But in future, Mr. Hattersley, when you see her looking flat, orcrying for "nothing" (as you call it), ascribe it all to yourself:be assured it is something you have done amiss, or your generalmisconduct, that distresses her.'

'I don't believe it. If it were, she should tell me so: I don'tlike that way of moping and fretting in silence, and sayingnothing: it's not honest. How can she expect me to mend my waysat that rate?'

'Perhaps she gives you credit for having more sense than youpossess, and deludes herself with the hope that you will one daysee your own errors and repair them, if left to your ownreflection.'

'None of your sneers, Mrs. Huntingdon. I have the sense to seethat I'm not always quite correct, but sometimes I think that's nogreat matter, as long as I injure nobody but myself - '

'It is a great matter,' interrupted I, 'both to yourself (as youwill hereafter find to your cost) and to all connected with you,most especially your wife. But, indeed, it is nonsense to talkabout injuring no one but yourself: it is impossible to injureyourself, especially by such acts as we allude to, without injuringhundreds, if not thousands, besides, in a greater or less, degree,either by the evil you do or the good you leave undone.'

'And as I was saying,' continued he, 'or would have said if youhadn't taken me up so short, I sometimes think I should do betterif I were joined to one that would always remind me when I waswrong, and give me a motive for doing good and eschewing evil, bydecidedly showing her approval of the one and disapproval of theother.'

'If you had no higher motive than the approval of your fellow-mortal, it would do you little good.'

'Well, but if I had a mate that would not always be yielding, andalways equally kind, but that would have the spirit to stand at baynow and then, and honestly tell me her mind at all times, such aone as yourself for instance. Now, if I went on with you as I dowith her when I'm in London, you'd make the house too hot to holdme at times, I'll be sworn.'

'You mistake me: I'm no termagant.'

'Well, all the better for that, for I can't stand contradiction, ina general way, and I'm as fond of my own will as another; only Ithink too much of it doesn't answer for any man.'

'Well, I would never contradict you without a cause, but certainlyI would always let you know what I thought of your conduct; and ifyou oppressed me, in body, mind, or estate, you should at leasthave no reason to suppose "I didn't mind it."'

'I know that, my lady; and I think if my little wife were to followthe same plan, it would be better for us both.'

'I'll tell her.'

'No, no, let her be; there's much to be said on both sides, and,now I think upon it, Huntingdon often regrets that you are not morelike her, scoundrelly dog that he is, and you see, after all, youcan't reform him: he's ten times worse than I. He's afraid ofyou, to be sure; that is, he's always on his best behaviour in yourpresence - but - '

'I wonder what his worst behaviour is like, then?' I could notforbear observing.

'Why, to tell you the truth, it's very bad indeed - isn't it,Hargrave?' said he, addressing that gentleman, who had entered theroom unperceived by me, for I was now standing near the fire, withmy back to the door. 'Isn't Huntingdon,' he continued, 'as great areprobate as ever was d-d?'

'His lady will not hear him censured with impunity,' replied Mr.Hargrave, coming forward; 'but I must say, I thank God I am notsuch another.'

'Perhaps it would become you better,' said I, 'to look at what youare, and say, "God be merciful to me a sinner."'

'You are severe,' returned he, bowing slightly and drawing himselfup with a proud yet injured air. Hattersley laughed, and clappedhim on the shoulder. Moving from under his hand with a gesture ofinsulted dignity, Mr. Hargrave took himself away to the other endof the rug.

'Isn't it a shame, Mrs. Huntingdon?' cried his brother-in-law; 'Istruck Walter Hargrave when I was drunk, the second night after wecame, and he's turned a cold shoulder on me ever since; though Iasked his pardon the very morning after it was done!'

'Your manner of asking it,' returned the other, 'and the clearnesswith which you remembered the whole transaction, showed you werenot too drunk to be fully conscious of what you were about, andquite responsible for the deed.'

'You wanted to interfere between me and my wife,' grumbledHattersley, 'and that is enough to provoke any man.'

'You justify it, then?' said his opponent, darting upon him a mostvindictive glance.

'No, I tell you I wouldn't have done it if I hadn't been underexcitement; and if you choose to bear malice for it after all thehandsome things I've said, do so and be d-d!'

'I would refrain from such language in a lady's presence, atleast,' said Mr. Hargrave, hiding his anger under a mask ofdisgust.

'What have I said?' returned Hattersley: 'nothing but heaven'struth. He will be damned, won't he, Mrs. Huntingdon, if he doesn'tforgive his brother's trespasses?'

'You ought to forgive him, Mr. Hargrave, since he asks you,' saidI.

'Do you say so? Then I will!' And, smiling almost frankly, hestepped forward and offered his hand. It was immediately claspedin that of his relative, and the reconciliation was apparentlycordial on both sides.

'The affront,' continued Hargrave, turning to me, 'owed half itsbitterness to the fact of its being offered in your presence; andsince you bid me forgive it, I will, and forget it too.'

'I guess the best return I can make will be to take myself off,'muttered Hattersley, with a broad grin. His companion smiled, andhe left the room. This put me on my guard. Mr. Hargrave turnedseriously to me, and earnestly began, -

'Dear Mrs. Huntingdon, how I have longed for, yet dreaded, thishour! Do not be alarmed,' he added, for my face was crimson withanger: 'I am not about to offend you with any useless entreatiesor complaints. I am not going to presume to trouble you with themention of my own feelings or your perfections, but I havesomething to reveal to you which you ought to know, and which, yet,it pains me inexpressibly - '

'Then don't trouble yourself to reveal it!'

'But it is of importance - '

'If so I shall hear it soon enough, especially if it is bad news,as you seem to consider it. At present I am going to take thechildren to the nursery.'

'But can't you ring and send them?'

'No; I want the exercise of a run to the top of the house. Come,Arthur.'

'But you will return?'

'Not yet; don't wait.'

'Then when may I see you again?'

'At lunch,' said I, departing with little Helen in one arm andleading Arthur by the hand.

He turned away, muttering some sentence of impatient censure orcomplaint, in which 'heartless' was the only distinguishable word.

'What nonsense is this, Mr. Hargrave?' said I, pausing in thedoorway. 'What do you mean?'

'Oh, nothing; I did not intend you should hear my soliloquy. Butthe fact is, Mrs. Huntingdon, I have a disclosure to make, painfulfor me to offer as for you to hear; and I want you to give me a fewminutes of your attention in private at any time and place you liketo appoint. It is from no selfish motive that I ask it, and notfor any cause that could alarm your superhuman purity: thereforeyou need not kill me with that look of cold and pitiless disdain.I know too well the feelings with which the bearers of bad tidingsare commonly regarded not to - '

'What is this wonderful piece of intelligence?' said I, impatientlyinterrupting him. 'If it is anything of real importance, speak itin three words before I go.'

'In three words I cannot. Send those children away and stay withme.'

'No; keep your bad tidings to yourself. I know it is something Idon't want to hear, and something you would displease me bytelling.'

'You have divined too truly, I fear; but still, since I know it, Ifeel it my duty to disclose it to you.'

'Oh, spare us both the infliction, and I will exonerate you fromthe duty. You have offered to tell; I have refused to hear: myignorance will not be charged on you.'

'Be it so: you shall not hear it from me. But if the blow falltoo suddenly upon you when it comes, remember I wished to softenit!'

I left him. I was determined his words should not alarm me. Whatcould he, of all men, have to reveal that was of importance for meto hear? It was no doubt some exaggerated tale about myunfortunate husband that he wished to make the most of to serve hisown bad purposes.

6th. - He has not alluded to this momentous mystery since, and Ihave seen no reason to repent of my unwillingness to hear it. Thethreatened blow has not been struck yet, and I do not greatly fearit. At present I am pleased with Arthur: he has not positivelydisgraced himself for upwards of a fortnight, and all this lastweek has been so very moderate in his indulgence at table that Ican perceive a marked difference in his general temper andappearance. Dare I hope this will continue?